THE CARPET WEAVERS

The cow had died. Mohammed's parents had nothing left to sell. And so with tears, they sold their eldest child, for food, for salt, for clothing. Mohammed was the joy of their heart, but there were others to feed, and he would learn a good trade in the city. One day he would return, perhaps, a rich man to lift them from their poverty.

Mohammed's parents dressed him in his best clothes, the wedding clothes they had put aside at his birth. First they took him to the wide river. They took away his working cloth and vest, and bathed him slowly in the moving waters. The sun dried him as they walked back to the village, leaving his old life with the water. It was gathering dusk as they dressed him. First they put leggings to his waist, close-cut for a youth about to enter the life of a man, and patterned gold of the sun on green earth. Next they clothed him about with a coat cut to reach almost to his knees from the high circle of his neck. It was fine-patterned cloth they put on him, interlocking castles of shifting colour and sheen. Mohammed looked sideways through eyes directed solemnly ahead and saw elephants, nose to tail, where castles should be. On his head they placed a crown, like the castle's turret. And Mohammed tried hard not to squirm with the unaccustomed feel of brocaded cloth, as there was no shirt to complete his dress.

Mohammed's parents looked at him proudly, and looked at him sadly. Poor as they were, they would have starved rather than sell his fine clothes. His father wished there were sandals to match the fine clothes. His mother wished he were bigger to fill out the fine clothes, which drowned his small form. His bride had been chosen when he was born and they were to have been married when he reached the age of ten. But Mohammed was only five years old.

The sun was dying when they left the village. Soon it was dark night. They walked slowly on the still baked earth, their way lit by moon and stars reflecting brightness on the earth. They walked through the night, the parents and the child. When the child seemed drowsy, they stopped. When he woke, they walked on. Several times they stopped and waited for sleep to pass him by. But the sun was not yet fully awake when they reached the railway line. With light dawning at their back, they followed the line to a water tower and there waited quietly.

As the sun rose, they saw smoke rising, billows of black and then white from the line's horizon. Then, as the great monster approached, they heard its rhythm, thundering along the line, and the ground groaned beneath it. They remained beneath the water tower and closed their eyes to the screech of brakes and the shuddering of the track.

There was silence and they opened their eyes. A man with a stick descended to the lower step of the train, large, fat, Pasha. And there halted. The parents reached up their hands to receive the money he handed down, and pushed the boy up onto the step he was too small to reach by himself. Pasha indicated to the boy that he should enter the carriage to the right and await his return, while he himself disappeared into the carriage to the left. Mohammed entered the baggage car, sat down among the boxes and waited. Mohammed's parents walked slowly back to their village.

In the city, Mohammed had to run to keep up with the man dressed in silk as he rode in his rickshaw, his stick beside him. The narrow, dirty streets were clogged with people and merchandise. Luckily, he was no longer wearing his wedding clothes. For the man, Pasha, had stripped them from him before they left the train. He had taken them away, leaving Mohammed a working cloth to wear. He ran more easily, unencumbered.

At last the rickshaw stopped in front of a carpet seller's shop. The alley was full of carpet sellers, each one shouting at passers by, attempting to drag them as customers into the open-fronted shop if they were so rash as to stop or admire the workmanship of the wares spilling out onto the street. From the dark interior came the shouts of barter, complaints, protests. But the sounds were soft where Pasha stood. As Mohammed approached, Pasha abruptly walked into the shop. Mohammed followed. A labyrinth it seemed, full of the rhythm of the train rattling along the track. Pasha's stick fell into step with the rhythm until he stopped at last in a dark, musty room. An attempt had been made to improve the light with oil lamps fixed to the large wooden frames that filled the room. Each was a carpet loom, at which sat two or three children, while men with sticks circulated around the room. Luckily, they were as thin as the children, or they would never have managed to squeeze between the looms. As Pasha entered, the looms stilled and a strange hush filled the air. One of the men approached him. Pasha waved him towards Mohammed, turned and left. Immediately the rattle of the looms began again.

Mohammed had never seen a loom before. The man threaded his way through to a loom that was larger than most in the room but was worked by only two boys. Mohammed followed. He understood that he was to join the boys and sat down on the bench beside them. It was they who explained everything to him.

The bench stood immediately before the front beam of the loom. Many, many threads were attached to the beam, so many that it seemed that a piece of white cloth was stretched there. But when the elder boy ran his fingers across the cloth, black streaks appeared. Mohammed copied him. It was like running his finger across the strings of a harp. Mohammed had seen a harp. A man with a harp had once visited his village, had even let Mohammed finger the strings and make that running, trilling, rippling sound he had never forgotten. But these strings produced no sound.

The elder boy motioned him to move back from the strings. The other boy dived beneath them. Suddenly with a sharp clatter, the strings sprang apart. Some strings arched high, some bent low, leaving a tunnel between them. A wooden boat attached by thread to the cloth strings sailed through the gap. The clatter rang out again, the threads parted again and the boat sailed back. Mohammed understood that this was what made the rattling rhythm and was not surprised to see the boat sail back once more. But then it stopped. The younger boy reappeared and took his place on the bench. The two boys beat the new thread into the carpet already worked. They beat hard with a long, toothed stick like a giant's comb. Mohammed, understanding, soon joined in. Then they showed him how to make knots around the threads.

They gave him a ball of blue wool, tightly spun. The younger boy took a red ball and a stick. Deftly he wove the wool in and out of two threads and around the stick, in and out of the next two threads and around the stick. When he judged that he had made enough knots, he removed the stick leaving little loops of wool sticking up. He returned the stick to the loops and passed a knife along it. The loops sprang free and he waved the stick in the air triumphantly. The elder boy then guided Mohammed's fingers to the making of loops round a stick, the cutting of the loops and the freeing of the stick. Together the three boys worked coloured knots around every thread along the loom. Mohammed had learned to make patterns of colour in the carpet.

With every thread looped and knotted, the younger boy again disappeared beneath them. The threads clattered and the tunnel opened between them. This time, the elder boy led Mohammed to the right side of the loom, at one end of the tunnel. He himself returned to the opposite side, picked up the boat and threw it through the tunnel at Mohammed. The boat fell to the floor and the boys laughed in delight at Mohammed's confusion. But they quickly remembered it was not a game they were playing, as their laughter attracted a man with a stick much larger than the gauge they used to make their loops. Before he reached them, Mohammed had picked up the boat, the threads clattered open to make a new tunnel and he threw the boat back through it. Mohammed had learned to weave.

Mohammed and his companions, Asif and Imran, played their rhythmic dance on the loom every day, through summer and winter. The threads were so fine that Mohammed, although the youngest, could hardly distinguish them by sight and had to rely on his fingers. But even Asif, the eldest, was small and deft in his movements. Gradually, they built up the pattern of their carpet with the different coloured wools, holding each row of knots in place with several binding rows from the boat. Every night, they crept beneath the warp roof of the loom to sleep. They slept beneath the growing carpet and the unworked warp threads, which seemed to them as the dark night above them growing into day. But when day came, as come it must, they continued with their work in the darkened room, following their pattern from its end to its beginning, as it had been given to them. And when the carpet was complete, there was a strong sense of satisfaction and achievement that bound the boys together. Through summer and winter, they made many carpets.

"Luckily," said Asif, "they feed us so little that we don't grow too big. For what will happen to us when we grow to big to weave?" Mohammed thought about that for many days. He was always hungry, and he knew his friends were too. He thought it was perhaps more important to eat than to weave.

The next time a man with a stick came to collect their rice bowls in the middle of the day, Mohammed was prepared. He hung on to his bowl and asked for more. The man stared at him in disbelief. "I want some more rice," said Mohammed. The silence in the room was very deep. The men were shocked, the children frightened.

Gradually, the men collected around Mohammed and the boys backed away. The air was thick with breathing and sweating and fear. Mohammed was surrounded. Two of the men whipped him round and held his arms while two more slashed at the back of his legs with their sticks. Holding him up so that he couldn't fall, although careful of his fingers, they slashed and slashed. Finally, they had had enough. They dropped him, laughing, picked up his bowl and left him lying on the floor. None of the boys dared speak to him and went back to their work. Mohammed had made no sound or cry during the beating. He uttered no cry as he lay on the floor. But when he at last managed to pull himself up to the bench, Asif and Imran helped him up and took on most of the burden of the weaving for the rest of the day.

The next day, when a man with a stick and a sneer on his face came to collect their rice bowls in the middle of the day, Mohammed was prepared. He hung on to his bowl and asked for more. Again the men beat him, more savagely yet careful not to go too far. The last time they had killed a boy, it had not gone well with them. It was easier to find men to beat boys than to train a good weaver. Asif and Imran helped him up again. They had not spoken about what had happened the day before. They had been too shocked. But when Mohammed asked again for more, knowing what would happen, they began to feel proud of him. And that pride gave them courage.

The next day, when a man with a stick and worry on his face came to collect their rice bowls in the middle of the day, Mohammed was prepared. He hung on to his bowl and asked for more. The man, apprehensive, looked for support, but it was Mohammed who gained it. This time the other boys too were prepared. First Asif and Imran, then slowly all the boys in the room moved silently from their places to surround and protect Mohammed. The men had almost seemed to expect such defiance. They sensed the mood of the many, who were now a group. Where before the boys had been children alone, each fearful for himself, now they belonged to each other. The men did not dare move.

Eventually, one man stole out of the room. The children noticed his going, but were not afraid. They simply waited. Almost stealthily, Pasha entered the room. He looked at the children and met their eyes, moving slowly from one to another. Then he laughed, a big, loud laugh, a jovial, good-humoured laugh. "So you want some more, do you?" he said at last. "And why should you not!" He turned. With a large flourish of his stick, which he then swept suddenly, frighteningly to the ground, he spat out the single syllable, "Rice!" And bludgeoned his way out through the gathering of astonished men. The children ate more that day, and every day.

Mohammed reached the age of ten, the age at which he was to be married. He asked for his wedding clothes. The overseers had more respect for him than before. He had become the acknowledged leader of the boys, although nothing about him or his behaviour had changed. Nonetheless, the request was absurd. The man laughed out loud and walked away, shaking his head. The next day, Mohammed again asked for his wedding clothes. This time the man did not laugh but raised his stick and shouted at Mohammed. But the group was with him at once, silently moving into place to protect him. The man glanced from one to another, not daring to leave his gaze long in one place. Angry, suspicious, fearful, he flung away. But he did not return with the clothes. The next day, Mohammed again asked for his wedding clothes. The man was prepared. He told Mohammed that slaves were not allowed to marry, that he should stop wasting everybody's time and patience and get on with his work. If he did not, the consequences would be terrible, for him and all the other boys.

"I am no slave" replied Mohammed. "Nobody owns me. Nobody can ever own me. If it is my wish to marry, as my parents wished me to marry, then nobody shall deny me. I shall honour my parents' wishes." The group had moved into place.

There was a great silence. The overseers gathered around the group, ugly and threatening. The air was thick with their fear, the fear of those who do wrong. The boys stood silent and strong.

When into the room there came bustle, complaints, protests, Pasha there in the thick of it. He was flustered, fluttering about a strongly striding woman with a nose like a horse, who seemed almost to ignore him as she addressed her demands to the small bespectacled clerk waving papers in front of her. The strident sounds snorting from her nose made no sense, but when she bared her teeth the laugh was shrill and frightening.

"Inexcusable, inexcusable that work should be delayed," babbled Pasha, tapping his stick compulsively on the ground.. "Tell her, tell her."

The woman stopped and stared at the group of boys surrounded by men with sticks, like a castle besieged.

"Tell her. Very sorry, very sorry, my good friend." Pasha had his back to the boys as he bowed and scraped his way into the good graces of his customer.

"She wants to know what's going on, master," said the little man.

As Pasha turned, Mohammed's voice rang out clear. "Would you be so kind as to bring me my wedding clothes. I have reached the age at which my parents wished me to marry." The overseers turned to Pasha, bewildered. "Bring them," he said, in a low voice. As one of the men left the room, Pasha tried to usher the strange woman out. But she was clearly intrigued and had no intention of leaving. Though the most of the men had slipped away, the boys remained in what was clearly a defensive formation. Everyone waited, the boys, the men in the background, Pasha, the interpreter, the woman. Eventually, the man returned with the clothes that had been stripped from Mohammed so long ago. Surrounded by his guard, Mohammed once more put on the clothes his parents had put aside for him when he was born.

First he put leggings to his waist, close-cut for a youth about to enter the life of a man, and patterned gold of the sun on green earth. Next he clothed himself about with a coat cut to reach almost to his knees from the high circle of his neck. It was fine-patterned cloth he put on, interlocking castles of shifting colour and sheen. Mohammed looked sideways through eyes directed solemnly ahead and still saw elephants, nose to tail, where castles should be. On his head he placed a crown, like the castle's turret.

The woman approached him, circled him, felt the brocaded cloth of his coat and snorted.

"She wants to know what is going on," said the little man.

"I'm going to be married," said Mohammed. "Tell her."

The little man looked at Pasha. "Tell her," he shrugged contemptuously. He was leaning, as though defeated, on his stick.

The little man produced something like the harsh sounds of the woman. She eyed Mohammed strangely, but with admiration. Again she spoke to the little man.

The little man glanced apprehensively at Pasha, before speaking hurriedly.

"She thinks you are too young to be married. She wants you to come with her, to go to school before you are married.

Mohammed had heard of the schools of the city. He would have liked to go to school. But he had first to honour his parents' wishes. The woman tried to persuade him to go with her, but he was determined.

And so the woman waited outside the village while Mohammed walked in his wedding clothes to his parents' home. The sun was dying when he returned, wearing his working cloth and vest.

"My parents are happy," he said to the woman, "that I should go with you to school. I shall be married when I return."

He climbed into the large white car, which bellowed like an elephant as it came to life and gathered speed towards the city. It was soon dark night, but the lights of the city drew the car towards it.

Mohammed was to go to school in America. He would fly in a great white bird to New York City, where the woman would be waiting for him. But it took many months to gather all the necessary papers for him to go. During these months, he returned to his parents' home to help his father, a sandalmaker. He walked every day to the wide river, carrying leather to be bathed and softened in its waters.

It was a brilliant, hot day as Mohammed was reflecting by the river, waiting for it to do its work, when he saw slowly through the mirage two figures approaching. Their shapes danced in the heat, so that he could not recognise them until they were almost upon him. Then he saw clearly the smiles of Asif and Imran, and ran to greet them. Once again, the three boys worked together, beating the leather and carrying it back to the sandalmaker, Mohammed's father. But now they played when the work was done. And as they played, they talked.

"What will it be like, this America, this brave new world of yours?" wondered Imran. "Do they weave carpets there?"

"I shall find this out," answered Mohammed.

"How will you go to school, if they do not speak our language?" worried Asif.

"I shall learn the language they themselves speak," answered Mohammed.

"Are you not afraid, to go into the west where the sun dies each day?"

"The sun always returns here to the east."

"But you will not return. You will forget us in the sleep of night. You will stay fast with the dying day."

"I will return with the sun, here to the east."

Asif and Imran remained several days with their friend. During the day they worked. At night, they talked.

"The workshop is greatly changed since you left," said Asif. "There are no more young ones and not so many looms. The light comes in during the day and we no longer sleep under the carpets. We have our own home and we eat good food. But best of all, we never see Pasha or the men with sticks."

At the river, there was little time and too much heat to talk. But all three saw the stormcloud approaching, like a great black bird out of the eastern mountains, its wings tinged red with dust. Vultures gathered in the blood red clouds making their way to Mohammed's home. The boys pulled the leather from the river and ran.

When they neared Mohammed's home they slowed to a standstill. Surrounding his home stood Pasha and the men with sticks. But as the boys watched, there emerged from his home an unknown man, very tall, very well dressed in white silk brocade. Mohammed's parents followed, bowing. The man looked at Pasha, who melted away. He looked at Mohammed with his friends. "Come with me," he said.

Mohammed went to school in America. He flew in a great white bird to New York City, where the woman was waiting for him. It had taken many months to gather all the necessary papers for him to go. During these months, he had returned to his parents' home to help his father, a sandalmaker. When at last he entered the school gates, he was wearing brand new American clothes. First he put on full, flannel trousers, caught at the waist with a belt. Then, above a shirt and school tie, he put on a dark school blazer, blue and emblazoned with a crest of the phoenix rising in gold and red. On his head he placed a boater, like the straw hats of Panama. Last of all, he put brogues on his feet. Stiff from bull's hide, they enclosed and hurt his feet. The woman, his foster mother, studied his appearance and found it good.

They entered through the gates together. The woman would not allow him to follow her; Mohammed would not allow her to hold his hand. He listened to the strange sounds all around him, like horses snorting, elephants bellowing and trumpeting, blowing their horns. They entered the cold halls, with the clattering of feet, and reached the principal's office. Mohammed stood while the woman and the principal spoke loudly together, their voices weaving in and out of each other, occasionally touching. It was a wide room, panelled in wood with a few books in a glass case. The curtains, though undrawn, showed embroidered and heavy. Mohammed would have like to inspect them and their weave. Perhaps they would teach him to create such complex brocade. But he thought perhaps there were too many colours. His eyes turned to the carpet, that bore the broad oaken desk. It was soft and plush, but completely without colour. As Mohammed's eyes registered the shock, the door opened and in walked two boys dressed exactly as himself, smiling

Everyone smiled. The Principal smiled as he shook Mohammed's hand. The woman smiled as she shook his hand. The boys smiled as they each shook his hand and then led him out into the cold corridor again. And so Mohammed smiled too.

He would be an exemplary student. First he would study the strange noises the people used for words. Then he would study numbers in all their different combinations and eternal beauty. Finally, he would study the elements of the world in all its flux. He would be a scientist, perhaps a doctor to understand the wonder of the human body, perhaps a physicist to understand the wonder of the universe. But he would yet have to discover the spirit of the world.

The two boys would help him. First they showed him the dormitories, each room identical with its bed, desk, wardrobe and colourless carpet. Mohammed's room still had the garish pop posters of the previous occupant. He felt abashed at their leering postures and averted his eyes until he was alone and could take the posters down. And then he felt suddenly very lonely. He was trapped within these empty walls and the greyness and the loudness that surrounded him. His eyes understood no more than his ears and he wept hot tears to be at home again.

The boys returned, laughing, took his hat from his head and threw it to each other like a boomerang that could not return, then sat down beside him one on each side. The one on the right returned his hat. "Wil-bur," he said and repeated it, "Wil-bur." His voice was loud but low. He pointed at his throat and said again "Wil-bur," then clapped his arm over Mohammed's shoulder and said another word, faintly familiar. He repeated it, this time pointing at Mohammed's nose: "Ha-a-md," he said. The boy on the left joined in. "Mha-a-m, mha-a-m," he said, pointing at Mohammed's stomach, then pointed at his own. "O-tiss," he said and repeated it, "O-tiss." "Wilbur, Mohammed, Otis." Mohammed finally recognised his own name, and learned those of his companions.

Wilbur and Otis taught him everything they could. Soon the sounds they made no longer sounded strange and became words instead of noises. He learned to listen and to speak, to read and to write. He learned to take full part in his classes. Wilbur and Otis thought he was ready to learn basketball and so, one night, they took him to a match.

Mohammed had never heard so much noise. It assaulted him from every side: drums and trumpets, shouting and singing, and the constant crashing and buzzing and blurring of movement as thousands of people pressed through tunnels and corridors to reach their brightly lit goal - a vast hall, terraced with seating rising to the rooftop. And far below in the centre, marching girls twisting and twirling, shrieking and squealing, pink and sugary, paraded the scene. Microphones blared with the noise and blasted his ears till they rang. Spotlights blazed and dazzled his eyes with the sharpness of pins till they stung. "What is this?" he said. "Sport," said Wilbur.

Mohammed could not see the game. He saw only the swaying of the crowd, rising and falling, red-faced, excited, eating and drinking, crestfallen, fighting. He heard only the baying of the crowd, their hopes and disappointments, their challenges and arguments, their passions. And above all, as a raucous descant, screeched the microphone. He looked at Wilbur's distorted face, he heard Otis' shrill screams and whooping delight. And felt sick.

He closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands as doors to shut out the noise. He tried to remember the market place at home. This too was noisy, but it was open to the air and the voices were as songbirds singing. He remembered the workshop, but that had been warm as well as dark, with the rhythmic clatter of wooden looms like a heartbeat pulsing and the gentle hum of conversation.

A great shout rose all around him. He was dragged to his feet with the crowd, opened his eyes and heard himself shouting with Wilbur and Otis and all his neighbours. He had no words, just a scream in his throat; he shouted and shouted and shouted until Wilbur pulled him down into his seat, panting. There he sat trembling, as he felt suddenly very cold. Otis hugged him. "Great game!" he cried, his face red, sweaty and beaming.

Mohammed was silent all the way back to school. When at last he was alone in his room, he sat quietly a long time on the bed and at last resolved never to go to another match.

Wilbur and Otis found it difficult to understand his reluctance to go where he would belong to a crowd, but they tried none the less to teach him the ways of his new world. They often dragged him laughing into one of their dorms to play him the latest disc and even attempted to teach him to dance. But when Mohammed asked to be shown the steps and movements, they shook their heads in disbelief. "There are no steps," said Wilbur. "You just move." "How?" asked Mohammed. "Like me," said Wilbur, as he jumped and twisted and waggled his arms in the air while the CD thumped from wall to wall. Mohammed tried to copy each jump and twist, but was always too late and forgot to waggle his arms until after he had twisted. Wilbur and Otis collapsed helpless in laughter on the bed. "But what does it mean?" asked Mohammed in defeat. "It doesn't mean anything," said Wilbur. "How could it?" But he saw Mohammed's confusion and thought he must mean the words of the song, although Mohammed was asking the meaning of the dance. He changed the disc to a rap hit. "Come on," he said, "I'll teach it you," and sounded out the words of hate untunefully, tone for tone. "No," cried Mohammed. "No, no!" He rushed to the machine and turned it off. "How can you say such bad things, and about your mother! I cannot repeat such things. I cannot hear such things!" "But it doesn't mean anything," said Wilbur. Otis agreed. "It's not really about your mother or anyone's mother. It doesn't mean anything. It's not real." Wilbur and Otis were perplexed. Mohammed was perplexed. He went back to his room.

The school had a tutorial system, which meant that each pupil was assigned to an individual teacher who would help and guide him. Mohammed was always very quiet when he met his tutor. He did not quite understand what was expected of him and hoped that the tutor would explain. But he only asked if Mohammed had any problems, if there was anything he could not understand. Mohammed decided that perhaps the tutor would explain this meaningless music.

"Why do they shout instead of singing?" he asked. "Why do they shout insults that would shame a camel and say it means nothing? If it means nothing, why do they say it?"

"You take it too seriously," said the tutor. "It's just entertainment, kids having fun. Don't you like to have fun?"

"Yes," replied Mohammed warmly. "I like to play with my friends and talk to them and have fun with them. But I do not insult them. That would show disrespect. I wish to respect my friends, not hate them."

"But you wouldn't use these words to anyone who wasn't your friend. That's how you show he is your friend. That's how you show your friendship, your respect if you like."

"Then how should I express my hatred for an enemy?"

"Mohammed," said the tutor, "I hope you have no enemies here. Aren't you happy? Do you have a girlfriend?"

Mohammed sat suddenly rigid. "I am to be married when I return to my home." He spoke in a low voice, for he was shocked at the intrusion of the tutor.

"Mohammed," said the tutor. "I am in the position of a father to you, or rather a friend, a friend who has more experience of the world."

He got up, quickly crossed the space between them and put his arm around Mohammed's shoulders. Mohammed stiffened.

"I know you come from a different culture," said the tutor, "but you will soon learn our ways. Everyone has problems coming to terms with their sexuality in adolescence. It's normal. You don't have to be ashamed. You can tell me anything. I want to be your brother."

Mohammed rose and removed himself from the tutor's embrace.

"I think you mean well, but I have only one father and my brothers are younger than I."

Mohammed left the tutor's room as quickly as he could and went back to his own. He was disturbed by the result of his attempt, but none the less he pondered what had happened over many days. Neither Wilbur nor Otis had come to see him after his failure to learn to dance. He wondered if perhaps they were offended. He had thought the tutor too friendly, where he had expected authority. Perhaps his friends had thought him not friendly enough. He knocked on Otis' door. There was no reply. He knocked on Wilbur's door.

"Hi," said Wilbur, "where you been? I'm behind with my math. Do you know what the hell this means?" He thrust a paper at Mohammed, who understood the problem at a glance.

"This is chemistry," he said.

"Yeah, I know. But they're calculations and that means math."

"All you have to do is remember to add the weight of solid to the weight of water in order to get the weight of the solution," explained Mohammed. "Your calculations are wrong because you've used the figure for the water when you need the figure for the solution."

"Oh right, I get it. Thanks a million." Wilbur grinned. "I've had enough of math anyway." He slid onto the bed. "Sit down, why don'tcha? How y'a doin'?"

"Fine," answered Mohammed. "Where's Otis?"

"Forget him," said Wilbur with a snort of contempt. "He's got a girlfriend. We'll see him again when they split up."

"Oh," replied Mohammed, a little puzzled. There was a pause, when neither of them said anything. Mohammed broke the silence.

"I've been thinking about my home," he began.

"Oh yeah, said Wilbur. "What's it like?"

"Hot, very hot. During the day, it is too hot to do anything at this time of year. When I am at my father's home, I walk each morning three miles to the river to soak the leather in the running water. I must do this before the sun is high, because in the full heat I cannot walk. Then I wait until the sun begins to fall from its height, when I can return home. In this waiting time, I make rope. If my friends are with me, we talk and play in the shade of tall trees. Their scent is sweet in the stillness of the air. That for me is happiness."

"You should get your folks to send you a photograph to show us," said Wilbur.

"How can you photograph a scent?" wondered Mohammed. "And where would my parents get a camera?"

"You're a funny guy," said Wilbur, putting his arm casually around his shoulder. Mohammed thought he should perhaps return the gesture and so put his arm around Wilbur. Wilbur froze for an instant, then sprang to his feet.

"I think you'd better go," he said. "I've got to finish my math."

Mohammed retreated to his room in confusion. Everyone, he realised, was kind and helpful to him, but also distant. Their familiarity was an illusion. When he tried to get closer to them, they backed away. The space between them began to seem a terrible gulf - dark, empty, cold. He imagined them to be puppets with invisible strings and fixed, waxen expressions, their movements awkward and clumsy like the mechanical toys he saw in shop windows. He must go home.

Here, everything was so mixed up. He did not know who was friend who was teacher, who was man who was woman, who was old who was young. They all behaved the same, wore the same clothes. There seemed no pattern or purpose to their lives. Their words and actions seemed like the colours that they wore, put together without thought and out of place against the shapeless grey of concrete. For all his youth, Mohammed was a professional weaver; colours were his medium. At home, the earth was red and everyone was reassuringly like him, and placeable: this one a merchant, that one a perfume seller, a rickshaw-runner, a beggar. Here was chaos. He must go home.

Yet he could not go home. Gradually he learned to exclude the strident edges of electric sound booming from adjacent rooms as he concentrated on his studies. He learned not to be confused by the behaviour of those around him, nor confuse them by his own. The secrets of the universe seemed to unfold in elegant formulae, translated into three or even four dimensions. It was as though a flower opened its petals for him alone.

And gradually, his strange, gentle, gentlemanly behaviour began to have effect on others, as he walked a stranger among them, as he followed his own way, the way he had learnt from his parents. To students and teachers alike, he was an outlandish creature, a caricature of formality in his dress and behaviour. But when they spoke to him, they found themselves imitating his speech and his gestures. Sometimes they even borrowed some aspect of his manner amongst themselves and wore their formal school clothes without trying to pretend they were casual or spoke formally to each other. But always, unless he were present, it was self-consciously performed.

But gradually also, the ways of others began to have an affect on him. In the refectory one day, he decided to try a sandwich containing crab meat. He had never tried seafood before, as his parents' home was far from the sea. Almost immediately, he felt violently ill. He rushed from his place at table, seeking out his room as fast as he could. Wilbur followed him, out of the refectory and into his room, his private space.

"You OK?" he asked.

"I'm OK," replied Mohammed. "I don't feel well. I just want to be alone."

Wilbur understood immediately his need to be alone and left without rancour. But Mohammed understood that he had turned away his friend, that now, truly, it was time to go home.

He had been an exemplary student. First he had studied the strange noises people used for words. Then he had studied numbers in all their different combinations and eternal beauty. Finally, he had studied the elements of the world in all its flux. But he realised he had yet to discover the spirit of the world. It was time to go home

The woman, his foster mother, was distraught that he should leave her and abandon his studies. Throughout his time at the school he had rarely seen her, but she considered him her protégé and had expected him to go on to college. She tried to persuade him to stay, but he was determined.

"It is time," he said, "that I was married. If I wait longer, my wedding clothes will no longer fit." Mohammed was fifteen years old.

The woman, his foster mother, pressed upon him many presents, but he took with him only one thing when he returned to his parents' home, a fine new bicycle.

It was red like fire, like the earth of his homeland, like the fabulous horses of the steppe. When he applied the brakes, he was reining in his steed, which reared on the back wheel, straining to gallop into the wild to rescue a princess or raise a siege. On his red horse, Mohammed could soar over any obstacle, could outstrip the wind, could reach the four corners of the world. North, south, east, west, which way should he go? Around he span and then the shot rang out. Around and around he went spinning as the shot rang out. Around and around he went spinning to the ground as the shot rang out and his blood spilled red as his horse, and his blood spilled red to the ground. And men with sticks and a man with a stick smoking gathered like vultures around him. And the red sun was dying as he fell.

The stormcloud approached, like a great black bird out of the eastern mountains, its wings tinged red with dust. The blood red clouds, full to overflowing, made their way to where Mohammed lay. His mother walked slowly towards him, attended by his bride and his sister. Pasha and the men with sticks made way for her, like the red sea parting. She looked at her son where he lay, then raised her voice to the heavens in lamentation. Her voice rose high, a throbbing, rhythmic cry of loss and resignation. At first, she sang alone, as she sang of Mohammed's boyhood. His sister joined her, to sing of his brotherhood. His bride sang lowest, to counter his lost fatherhood. Each pointing the other, they sang until the heavens wept in sympathy. The stormcloud opened to drown the land and the red sea closed over Pasha and the men with sticks.

"Bicycles are for children," said the voice. "You must put aside childish things."

"It is more than a bicycle. It is my friend. It is my freedom."

When he awoke his bicycle was gone, but he did not seem to mind. He was walking within a tunnel of blinding white light, but his eyes were not blinded. They were open and saw clearly at the end of the passage the small globe of gold that grew as he walked towards it. He approached ever nearer the gold until it enclosed him within it and he found himself walking within a walled garden, dressed in his wedding clothes.

Everywhere were sweet-smelling flowers, streams giving music to the ears and trees bowing for shade. Beneath their branches there reclined numberless guests, enjoying hospitality. The guests too were finely dressed in brocades and silks and muslins, the many colours shading and contrasting as in a picture. There were low tables beside the couches, laden with all manner of fruit and sweet confections: fresh and candied pears, apples covered with toffee, chocolate oranges and sweet grapes. Beside the fruit, there were finely-wrought pitchers of wine, each of beaten gold and bearing in a frieze a story of the men of the world. And gathered around each pitcher there was a circle of golden cups, each bearing the story of the women of the world. As he walked, all his senses were gathered into his eyes. He saw all this; he saw smells and sounds, he saw tastes and textures, and a man in white brocade serving his guests. Among them he saw his parents and his foster mother. He saw Asif and Imran, Wilbur and Otis. And he saw the men with sticks and Pasha with the stick smoking. All were at ease and he was at ease with them.

But he had no desire to eat and so walked on, beyond the banquet and the guests. On he walked until he came to where three women sat weaving at a single loom. Their clothes were plain and nondescript, a dark blue cloth lit only by points of light, which drew him to them. Each seemed exactly the same and yet somehow different, as it were three sisters or mother, wife and child. Their loom stood upright on the red earth. The warp threads hung down from heaven to the red earth, each one bearing a weight, so that the weaving of pictures began at the top. The women were weaving the story of the boy, in wool and in silk. They had reached the bottom and were weaving his arrival in the walled garden. And he sat with them.

Each had many balls of coloured wool, tightly spun. One took a golden ball and a stick. Deftly she wove the wool in and out of the threads and around the stick. When she had finished, she passed a knife along it. The loops sprang free. Together the three women made knots around every thread along the loom. With every thread looped and knotted, each woman slipped down from the high seat and moved to one side of the loom. The first woman stood to the right of the weaving, the second to the left. Together they lifted the weights attached to each warp thread, one after another, alternately, to make passage for the third. Passing before her, lifting the threads in waves as the Red Sea parting, they made passage for their companion. She bowed before them, picked up a white butterfly made of thread that hung from the weaving and, bowing still, trailed it with her through the tunnel they made for her. As she passed through, the threads sang like harp strings. And the passage closed behind her, holding her thread. So, like gossamer, the butterfly held the coloured knots of the boy's life in place.

Three women

Sit

At a single loom

Weaving their colours

Fate-spun

Beside them a boy

His life taking form

As he watches