Taxi

The girl looked at the damp palm that offered her back her change. 'Keep it!' she told Amir, with barely hidden disgust, and slammed the car door.

As he drove away, Amir wiped his brow with his already sweat sodden handkerchief. It was not yet lunchtime. The sun glared down at him, finding its way through all the dust. It arrowed in sharp, unrelenting rays into his taxi, shooting at him through spaces between the towering buildings, over the billboards, and slyly reflecting at him off the multitude of shiny surfaces all around. Everything seemed to have a shiny surface in this city, even the people.

He sighed, and thought of home. Never did he miss home as much as in the summers, and it surprised him that despite surviving sixteen summers in this still-foreign land, the pangs were as sharp and painful as his first.

And always, the same question: Was this really worth it?

His son was far away in another foreign land pursuing a higher education. The brash young man was a far cry from the two-year-old Amir had left behind. He was someone Amir barely knew. A stranger. A stranger he could barely relate to. Things would have been different, he was sure, had he not left so early and been away so long. They would have been different.

But the choice had been family, or money. Family, or money for family. Amir had not been discontented with his own life, but he knew his son would need more. His son would want more. At least he had been right about something. At least Amir had made money. He himself did not need much, so saving had been easy. And he was proud of his son, who everyone told him was exceedingly intelligent. He could be anything he wanted. Why he wanted to study to be a musician Amir did not understand. Had he sweat and pined all this time for a son who made a living - a bare living - playing an instrument. He had struggled, so that his son would not have to, and here his son was intent on choosing a life of struggle. He had insisted that Aman at least major in something useful. Another thorn in their fragile relationship.

It was Sunday, and Aman would be calling him soon. He partly looked forward to, and partly dreaded these brief conversations. Already he was clenching his teeth, and biting back the words he knew would antagonize his son. But really? A musician...?

* * * *

Aman glanced at his watch and gulped down the last of his Dutch courage. It was almost time for THE CALL. He hailed a taxi to quicken his journey to campus, where he called his father, and then mother, once a week. His mother, at least, would be eagerly waiting. Ready and willing to soothe his frazzled nerves. There was a reason he called his father, and not her, first.

He could make the call from any phone booth, but the boisterous students all around at the campus gave him an odd air of comfort. And he was less likely to make a scene, to shout and yell himself breathless, as he was always tempted to do when speaking to his father. So far he had always managed to contain himself. Just barely. But it was getting harder to control, and easier to just explode. Especially now that his dreams were within reach.

He jumped into the taxi, and barked out the address. His fists were clenched, a reflex foretelling of the verbal battle he was about to engage in. How could he make his father understand? He was not selfless enough to give up his dreams and live the life his father wanted. He was not strong enough to live with that dissatisfaction. He knew his father had made harsh choices, but had he not made them so that he, Aman, would have his own choices? They would never see eye to eye. He knew that.

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of an unfamiliar building. 'It's the wrong block!' he told the driver with obvious annoyance. Not wanting to sit there a moment longer, he jumped out of the car, and threw some money into the open palm that waited.

Stupid illiterate fool.