These richly imagined tales, by turns playful and dark, and shot through with magic, depict the lives of East African Ismailis, a Muslim community with origins in India and a history of upheaval and dislocation. Set variously in Canada and East Africa, these stories portray characters caught between home and exile, between what is real and what is imagined, what is lost and what is found. A baby with wings, a disappeared life savings, a pearl diver’s magical secrets—in each story, what is cursed is also blessed, and redemption, when it comes, will take your breath away.

Reminiscent of the stories of Singer and O. Henry, Baby Khaki's Wings is an unforgettable reading experience and the mark of a singularly new and luminous literary talent.

The Weight of Pearls

Due to the war, the community had to wait years upon years before they could physically see their Imam again and properly celebrate his Diamond Jubilee. When the war ended in 1945, they anxiously waited for word. A full year later, a telegram with the news finally arrived! The community in Tanganyika could not believe their good fortune—the Imam had chosen only two places in the entire world, Bombay and Dar es Salaam, to celebrate the sixty years of his benevolent rule as spiritual father. The Diamond Jubilee celebrations would give them a chance to mark his leadership by weighing him against diamonds.

As soon as they received the auspicious news, the community in Dar es Salaam broke out in grand celebrations with nightly programs of dandia-raas and food in the courtyard of the jamatkhana. The entire R.K. Jiwa family joined the celebrations: Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa, their second son, Nizar, all five of their daughters, both sets of grandparents, all the uncles, aunties, cousin-brothers, cousin-sisters, and so on. Only Shamshu, the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa, kept his distance. He preferred to watch the celebrations rather than participate because he found crowds to be overwhelming. Even as a little boy, he would recoil from the intense noise in the Jiwa household. Noise and the excesses of the outer world, in general, seemed to disturb the balance inside Shamshu’s body. He preferred to find a safe corner in the house and read fairy tales and rhymes or create little stories in his head. At night, he would sometimes slip outside to stare at the sky or shine a flashlight into it hoping to create a small pin of light on the dark canvas.

Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa noticed Shamshu’s oddities, but hoped (and prayed) that in time he would grow out of them. Eventually, though, they gave up hope, because even now, at the age of sixteen, he had not improved at all. Thank God I have another son, Mr. Jiwa thought. Shamshu hardly noticed his parents’ disapproval; he was accustomed to not fitting in—not only at home but also at school and jamatkhana. For the most part, Shamshu didn’t mind; it was only once in a while that he felt lonely, as if he were a fish in its own bowl. But no one else was interested in the same things he was, so what choice did he have? He had to be true to himself.

Shamshu leaned over the railing from the library high above the jamatkhana courtyard and watched the celebrations below: troops of volunteers in smart grey uniforms stood behind tables stacked with trays of white cake; barrels overflowed with pink sherbet chock full of takmaria; gaggles of children darted through the rows of people playing dandia or around the women playing raasra who had to pull up their colourful saris when the circle turned to a frantic beat. Fascinated by the women’s feet, Shamshu bent farther over the railing. Stepstepclapturnclap. The sound of the women’s feet resonated with his breathing and soon, he felt as if his body was spinning like the skirt of a whirling dervish. In moments like this Shamshu was able to tune everything else so that he felt like his body, mind, and soul had been fused together—as if a scale had been re-balanced inside him, the needle coming to rest at zero, giving him a great sense of peace and calm.

Fatima Noorani, Nizar’s classmate, tapped Shamshu on his shoulder. He turned in surprise.

“Your mother’s looking for you.” Fatima twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger.

“Huh?”

“Your mother asked me to come and get you. See.” She pointed below to a woman in a peacock-blue sari.

Shamshu looked down to see his mother waving at him; she motioned for him to come down. Shamshu nodded, but he was disappointed that his thoughts had been disturbed.

Fatima pointed to the book under Shamshu’s arm. “Oh, so you must be the one who keeps signing out all the Rumi?”

Shamshu didn’t say anything; he was surprised by her question. It was as if he had been wading in a river when suddenly he found himself at its mouth, gushing into the ocean.

“Return it soon. I want to sign it out.” Fatima pushed her glasses up the ridge of her nose with a finger.

Shamshu stretched his arm out, the book in the palm of his hand.

“No, silly. I don’t mean now. Finish it first.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had it for too long.”

“Okay. But why don’t you take my Nasir-i Khusraw? His poetry is very beautiful too. You know this book?” Fatima held up the poet’s Divan.

Shamshu shrugged, a little embarrassed that he hadn’t even heard of this poet.

“‘The exoteric of revelation is like brackish water, but the esoteric like pearls for the wise. Pearls and jewels are to be found on the sea-bed, look for the pearl-diver instead of running on the shore.’” Fatima smiled as she handed him the book. “He’s Ismaili, you know.”

Fatima’s voice seeped through Shamshu’s body like a sweet nectar and rendered him speechless. She was suddenly so beautiful to him that he could barely look at her; he took the book from her and quickly turned his gaze down.

Soon after the diamond jubilee was announced, a campaign was initiated within the jamat to raise the necessary funds for the diamonds. Council members visited businesses and requested donations. People gave what they could, grateful for the opportunity to pay homage to their Imam, who deserved their affection and gratitude for his great generosity and wisdom. Some people, like Mr. Jiwa, gave karores, thousands and thousands of shillings, and then in jamatkhana, when they read out his name and the amount he had donated (making many turn toward him with admiration and envy), Mr. Jiwa looked down and tried his best not to appear too pleased.

In an effort to emulate his father, a pillar in the community, Nizar decided to initiate a collection amongst the boys at school. Mr. Jiwa and Councillor Sahib were especially pleased when, after the list of initial donors was read, Nizar told them of the boys’ collection.

Councillor Sahib tipped his head in the direction of Nizar and then said to Mr. Jiwa, “You’ve got a smart one there, Bhai.” He then shook his head in awe and patted Mr. Jiwa’s shoulder with exaggerated effort.

“True indeed.” Mr. Jiwa winked and then tossed Nizar’s hair. There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever: he would make Nizar the sole heir to the business one day. God only knows, Shamshu would drive the company into the ground. “Hear that?” Mr. Jiwa asked Shamshu, who happened to be standing next to him. “See what a good example your brother is setting, hanh?”

Shamshu nodded, more out of habit than anything else. He was busy rolling a line of poetry in his mouth like a piece of candy. Don’t pretend to be a candle, be a moth.

At school the next day, Nizar asked the boys to meet him outside, where he gathered them in a circle and announced his plans.

“Where do you think we’re going to get the money, hanh?” asked Mussabhoy as he dipped his fingers into a greasy paper cone of chips.

Nizar snatched away Mussabhoy’s chips. “Where the hell did you get the money for these, Fatso?”

“Eh, give them back!”

Latif shrugged. “Jiwa, he’s got a good point, no? Where are we going to get the money?”

Shaking his head, Nizar turned to Latif. “Stay out of it, Latif. Who asked you anything?”

Mussabhoy reached up on his tiptoes, clamouring, once again, for his chips. “Give them back, otherwise I’ll tell the prefect.”

Nizar raised the paper cone higher above his head. “Tell the prefect, will you? Oh, and who do you think he’ll believe, Fatso? A Jiwa or a tub of ghee, hanh?” He threw the cone down; chips scattered everywhere. “Come on, Fatso.” Nizar waved Mussabhoy forward. “Want to make something of it?”

The other boys laughed and cheered Nizar on. “Jiwa! Jiwa! Jiwa!”

Shamshu stood at the outer edge of the circle as his brother pounded Mussabhoy. He turned his gaze up to the sky. It was so clear that it looked like a vast blue pool and in its reflection, Shamshu could see the Indian Ocean, filled with schools of fish and other creatures of the sea: whales, dolphins, seals, and mermaids. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He rushed to the boys, pushing them apart, and entered their circle.

“Pearls!” he said, loudly and clearly.

Nizar had Mussabhoy pinned to the ground, his fingers wrapped around his opponent’s fleshy neck. “Have all the lunatics been let out today?” Nizar looked at the boys. “And to think we have the same mother, the same father.”

Shamshu felt an unusual surge of confidence rise from his belly; he ignored Nizar. “Oyster Bay! That’s the answer.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Can’t you bloody well see I’m in the middle of something?” Nizar kept his gaze fixed on his brother and gave Mussabhoy another slap. Mussabhoy wailed; Nizar cupped his hand over the boy’s mouth.

“Oyster Bay!” Shamshu jumped up and down. “Don’t you see? We don’t need money. We can dive for pearls. We can give the Imam pearls.”

Nizar climbed off Mussabhoy and walked to his brother. The other boys exchanged glances, some even raised their eyebrows. They liked Shamshu’s idea, but no one dared interfere.

Nizar stared at his brother. “Well, well, well. What a bloody coincidence—exactly what I was thinking. Did you read my mind or something?” Nizar tapped Shamshu on the head, then winked at the other boys. “Plus we’ll make it a competition. Whoever gets the most pearls will gift it to the Imam at the Diamond Jubilee. What a good idea, hanh?”

“Yes! A fine idea,” several boys responded. They all clapped and chanted, “Hip-hip-hooray.” They knew that despite his hot temper, Nizar loved a good and fair challenge and that victory was open to all. Most of them were avid divers. They would often dive for fistfuls of sand—with Nizar usually emerging the winner. But this time the stakes would be higher—not only would they have to find oysters with pearls (such fun!), but this would also provide them with a chance to do something for the Imam.

Shamshu did not mind that Nizar took credit for his idea. In fact he barely noticed that had happened. What bothered him was making the collection of pearls a competition. Why was that necessary? Why did it matter how much each person collected when it was all being done for the same purpose? To motivate people, to make sure they did their share? But wasn’t the common goal enough? A goal that was greater than any individual accomplishment? Wasn’t that the most important thing—what they all did together, rather than what they did individually? Besides, Shamshu had noticed, competition sometimes bred too much ambition, often putting things out of balance by singling out one person, who was crowned the winner, while the rest were thrown into one heap, all deemed losers. Not that it mattered, but Shamshu was certain he would never win—he was not built for athletics like Nizar. In fact, he usually only sat on the beach and watched the boys jump in and out of the water like flying fish. But it was the idea of finding a pearl, the search for a pearl, that shimmered in Shamshu’s mind and spurred him on.

Word about the pearl competition spread quickly throughout the school, generating a fever of excitement, so that practically all the boys signed up right away. Fatima wanted to sign up as well, but Nizar adamantly refused.

“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s for boys only.”

“Are you scared that I’ll beat you? I’m an excellent swimmer, you know.”

Nizar and the boys laughed.

“I can see that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh yes, I’m so scared.” Nizar turned around, bent over, and pointed to his backside. “Look, I’ve even wet my pants!”

All the boys except Shamshu burst out in laughter. Fatima scowled at Nizar, then turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm. “Tell you what, girl. Why not be our timekeeper?”

Fatima tried to pull her arm away, but Nizar maintained his grip. “Plus, it would be a very nice bonus,” Nizar winked, “to see you in your swimming costume. Come on, what do you say?”

Fatima pulled harder and as she broke free, her glasses slipped down her nose. “Idiot!” She scanned the circle of boys. “All of you—idiots!” She pushed her glasses back up with a finger and then wiggled her nose to adjust them into place. Fatima was about to leave when she noticed Shamshu, who was standing outside the circle. “Except you, Shamshu.” She smiled at him. “How do you like Nasir-i Khusraw?”

Shamshu felt a surge of energy rise inside him like a wave, but it fell just as quickly when the boys began to tease him. You going to marry her, Shamshuji, are you?

Fatima marched over to Shamshu. “Don’t listen to them! They’re hooligans.”

The boys continued their tirade. Think you can get it up for a girl like her? Maybe she’s a real beauty under those Coke-bottle glasses, hanh?

Fatima took Shamshu by the elbow. “They’re not like us,” she whispered, and then led him away.

"Anar Ali paints a loving and rich portrait of the Ismaili community in transition from East Africa to Canada. Her stories combine the realism of a Rohinton Mistry with the whimsy of a Barbara Gowdy: a baby grows wings and flies, a family flees Idi Amin’s Uganda, a pearl diver discovers a secret world under the sea, an old woman deals with her son’s lifelong coma in a Calgary hospital. A dazzling debut by a writer whose next book I can't wait to read."
—Shyam Selvadurai

"Ali relentlessly charts the ways in which the anger triggered by various forms of subjugation can be converted into almost unnoticed patterns of household tyranny...
—Books in Canada

"[She] never allows her stories to surrender the whiff of contingency that is the hallmark of any good tale. They unfold as the palimpsestic traces of worlds that are better evoked than summarised."
—Books in Canada

"...an often comic sense of celebration..."
—Books in Canada

"Ali’s ability to mix shrewd insight with profound empathy enables her to register her characters’ faults without the rush to easy judgment..."
—Books in Canada