Sikh
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Sheba recognized Anjit immediately and pulled him inside.

“Quickly,” she said. “Into the storeroom. You need to stay out of sight.”

“They are searching the houses,” Anjit said, the fear dripping from his voice. “They are looking for blood. Nothing I say can stop them. They are crazed. They have killed my parents. Just because they think they look like terrorists.”

His turban had already been pulled to one side, and looked ready to fall off.

“We cannot hide you,” Sheba said. Looking up at Gabriella she said: “We will need to disguise him.”

“The turban has to go,” said Gabby. “And take off those eyeglasses. And the beard. And what is that?”

The turban was already off and the women could see the knotted cloth underneath it.

“That is Kesh”, said Anjit. “I am a Sikh, not a Muslim, but the crowd don’t care. As a good Sikh I do not cut my hair or my beard.”

“Take it off, that Kesh thing” Sheba directed.

Anjit pulled off the cloth and extracted his Kangha, the small wooden comb. His hair untwisted itself and tumbled down.

“You may have to be a bad Sikh,” said Sheba. “We will need to get rid of the beard, but I think you can keep that hair. You have a lot of it.” She looked at it in amazement.

“It would sadden me to lose what little beard I have,” said Anjit. “But I must survive this.”

Despite being 22 years old, Anjit’s beard was not significant. It was fairly long on the chin, and the moustache was not so bad, but on the cheeks it was wispy and more like a teenager.

“What are you thinking?” Gabby asked her colleague.

“This is a beauty salon, Girl,” Sheba exclaimed. “How are we gonna hide a man in a beauty salon? With hair like that, we don’t need to. We’re gonna pull off that beard and pretty him up some, and he’s gonna pass for a customer.”

Anjit interrupted: “You have rescued me, and I will do as you suggest, but I do not think that I could pretend to be female.”

“You don’t have to say anything or do anything,” said Sheba. “We gonna put you in a chair, maybe put a moisturizing mask on your face, and you just sit and smile.”

“We need to lighten the skin tone,” said Gabby. “You’ve come to the right place. We do a lot of skin lightening treatments here.”

“Not that we advertise that, mind you,” said Sheba, suddenly protective of her African heritage. “It’s more for my friend Chica sisters.” She was smiling in the crisis. Anjit could not.

“We should work fast,” said Gabby. “The mob will be on us soon.”

“Go next door and find our new girl something to wear,” said Sheba. “Take off your pants, Angie. Let’s look at those legs.”

The name “Angie” seemed entirely appropriate. She knew Anjit because his parents ran the corner store, but she had never really spoken to him. She liked his parents. Their death saddened her more than she expected.

“Those are good legs for a girl,” said Gabby, noting the absence of calf muscle. “Take that hair off up to the thigh and I will get him a dress and some shoes.” She was using a ribbon to measure his foot. And then she was off and out of the shop.

“Is that wax hot?” Sheba asked. She was moving quickly, belying her considerable size. She moved Anjit to the padded bench to go to work. “Shirt off too,” she instructed. This is going to be a full body wax. I am not sure what Gabby is gonna bring for you to wear. Best to remove all traces.”

She put a towel under his head and pulled the hair over it. It was the full hair of a young boy, or girl. With time the hair under a turban would thin. Many Sikhs experienced hair loss with wearing the turban later in life, but for now Anjit had long and thick hair. He used a little oil to keep the volume contained.

Anjit winced as the hot wax was applied to his legs. He suggested: “Perhaps we could just cover my face with a towel and I could keep the beard? It is important to my faith.”

“Now you listen,” she said, scoldingly. “They pull that towel away and there you are, a raghead, we gonna get killed alongside you. You want that on your conscience? No? The beard is going. I am going to wax that too. I got the clippers and razors but they are out front in view of the window. So you just hush now, while I do what I do. And what you got here?” She pulled at his underwear.

“That is my Kachera,” Anjit explained. “Traditional underclothes. And I have the Kara on my wrist and the Kirpan around my neck.”

“Okay, so you can keep the bangle, but that around your neck you need to take off,” she said. “I thought it was a cross, but now I am looking at it, is that a knife?”

“It should be,” Anjit said. “By tradition Sikhs carry a real sword, a small one, but this is just symbolic. The shape of a sword.”

“Take it off,” said Sheba. “But first …”

The first wax strip was torn from Anjit’s flesh and he gritted his teeth. More was to follow.

Gabby came back in. She carried a bag with some clothes. A padded bra, figure enhancing panties, a patterned dress and some shoes. She whispered: “The mob is only 3 doors down. We need to get Angie dressed in these and to the hair-wash station. Quickly.”

Anjit’s face was still inflamed when they leant him back, but they covered his face with cream. Some on his legs and bare arms too, to hide the effect of recent waxing.

The door opened. First through it was Dwayne McGovern. No surprises for Sheba there. Poor white trash. A trouble-maker. But local. She had dressed his injured knee years before. He knew her.

“Sheba,” he said. “We are looking for the ragheads. Have you seen any?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“We have to search your place,” he said, pointing two followers to the back room. “Where are all of your customers?”

“Your damn mob chased them off,” said Sheba. “When they heard the disturbance they all cancelled on me. I was gonna shut the doors, but for Angie here. She’s getting the works and she’s been in our appointment book for 2 weeks, so she’s here and she’s staying. Just her and Gabby and me.”

Gabby was working on Anjit’s long dark hair. It never would have crossed these boys’ minds that this could have been other than a girl, with hair like that.

“We got seventeen blocks circled,” explained Dwayne. “Lincoln Avenue across Manley Street and back along the Southern Circle Road. They are all here somewhere. We got 8 already. We will go through every house today, and then we are cordoning off the whole area. Nobody leaves. We will go through everyplace again tomorrow if we don’t find the rest. You got a place upstairs, right?”

“You know I live above my shop,” said Sheba, hands on hips.

“Take us up there,” Dwayne directed.

Sheba glowered at him. She said: “Where are the police while all this shit is going down?”

“They’re gonna leave us to it,” said Dwayne. “A lot of police died in that attack. The ragheads won’t have no friends in the police. They have given JP Hosey free run to find those motherfuckers and kill them dead.”

Sheba shrugged her shoulders. It was clear that the world had gone crazy. JP Hosey was the local African American gangster, and was a known criminal. But he was powerful enough to be in contact with high-ranking police, so it was no big surprise to Sheba. She left Gabby washing Anjit’s hair while she took the ruffians upstairs.

“Just in case you do need to say something, how high can your voice go?” Gabby asked Anjit.

He tried some tones and after following direction, they both felt they had something workable. When Sheba re-entered the shop without the posse, Anjit greeted her: “Hello., I’m Angela Smith, people call me Angie.”

“Very good,” said Sheba. “But best to stay quiet. And, we need to consider how we can get you past a cordon. We need to ramp up this disguise. We can start with a dark chocolate brown. Then we need to work on those eyebrows.”

“I cannot see very well without my glasses,” said Anjit.

“They are clearly male glasses,” said Gaby. “We need to get you something else. Or maybe contact lenses? Have you got any?”

“No,” he said. “But I have a prescription in my wallet. It is a common prescription. But I have never filled it. I am just used to glasses I suppose.”

“Give it to me and I will see what I can do,” said Gaby. Within a moment she was on the phone. She turned to Anjit and Sheba and asked: “What about green tinted lenses?”

There was more noise on the street and a young man entered the shop. It was Gaby’s nephew Roberto.

“They have killed Mr. and Mrs. Hadad,” he said, breathlessly. “The police have not even turned up. There are other problems in other parts of the city. Anybody Middle Eastern is being targeted. It’s like a warzone out there.”

“We’re staying here, but would you be able to go to the drugstore and pick up so contact lenses, Robbie?” Gabby reached into her purse but Anjit took her hand.

He cleared his throat before saying, in his new feminine voice: “I have money. I can pay. Please. You have done so much.”

Robbie took the money and left.

“You’ll have to have a bag to put that wallet in,” said Sheba. “In fact, that wallet has to be hidden, with the ID and cards and all. Just carry some cash and lipstick and stuff. Nothing to identify you until we can come up with something.”

“I need to get out of the city completely,” said Anjit.

“That won’t happen anytime soon,” said Sheba. “We are surrounded and they are checking every home and block. If you are to walk away it is gonna have to be as Angie. And not for a while neither. We have to wait for things to calm down a little.”

“You can stay with me for a few days,” said Gabby. I agree with Sheba. Not for a day or two. Let things settle down a little. By the time we finish with you, you won’t look foreign.”

“Lucky you don’t have an accent,” observed Sheba.

I was born in this country,” said Anjit. “I am an American like you.”

Before Gabby wrapped his washed hair in a towel she trimmed the ends to the same length. She checked the face mask. It had just been to disguise him, but it seemed to have worked wonders on his skin. It was lighter too. She reapplied it, this time covering the neck and chest too.

Putting some women’s’ magazines in Anjit’s lap, she said: “You best read up. This is womanhood. I’m not sure how long you may need to keep this up.”

Gabby was brushing out Anjit’s hair when minutes the door cashed open and two black men entered. One checked walked in first, checking that only women were in the room. The second man was JP Hosey, local kingpin and (by all accounts so far) the leader of the vigilantes.

He was tall and good looking. His skin was not very dark and his hair was wavy more than crinkly, cut short on the back and sides, but longer on top and parted on the side.

He nodded with familiarilty to Sheba, but his eyes fixed on Gabby’s beautiful client.

“Well now,” he said. “Ain’t you an exotic looking creature. Now tell me, are you one of those raghead bitches.”

“My name is Angela,” explained Anjit in the lilting high but husky voice he had already developed well. “My parents are Brazillian, not Middle Eastern.”

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it,” said JP. “But I suggest that you might be mistaken for one of the enemy. You might need protection. Or at least somebody to stand up for you.”

“I can’t pay,” said Anjit. “My handbag has been taken with my ID and all my money …”

“You hush now, Girl” said JP. “You stand with me and I will look after you.”

Anjit started to worry. The last thing that he needed was to be with this man. He would kill him as soon as he found out his secret. So he spluttered: “It’s not necessary. Sheba and Gabby are helping me while I have my hair done. When it’s quiet I can head home.”

“So where’s home?” he asked.

Anjit had handled things well to this point, but now he realized he was in trouble. His own home was above the shop where the bodies of his parents still lay. He said: “I’m from across town. I only came over here because Gabby is my cousin.”

“Well that settles it,” said JP. “I am the only guy who can get you across town.” He held out his hand to help her rise from the chair. Anjit took it, daintily. What else could he do?

After the door closed behind them, Sheba said to Gabby: “At least we tried.” They both burst into tears.

1 YEAR LATER

The door opened and a young woman entered the beauty shop. Her dark hair was arranged loosely on the top of her head, and her face was made up expertly. She wore red silk as if she was born in it. To Sheba she looked like she should be walking out of a beauty shop, not in to one.

“Hello Sheba,” the young woman said, her husky voice vaguely recognizable.

“Angie?” asked Sheba. “Could that be you? Alive and well?”

“It’s me,” came the reply, accompanied with a little feminine twirl to show herself off.

Gabby was first to run up and embrace her, saying: “I can’t believe it. How could you survive?”

Angie sat down, and crossed her legs. She was wearing expensive heels.

She told her story: “Well, by the time JP discovered the truth about me, I was already his woman. Everybody could see that he was attached to me. He could not just throw me out - he was just too embarrassed to tell anybody that he had fallen for a guy dressed as a girl. He went cool for a while, just keeping me in his apartment, until he decided what to do to me. So I had some time to decide how much I was prepared to do in order to survive. As It turns out, he quite likes anal sex, so that is something I could give, or rather take.”

“You poor thing,” said Gabby.

“No need to feel sorry for me,” said Angie with a smile. “It turns out I quite like it too, maybe almost as much as he does.”

“Can you get away from him, Sugar?” asked Sheba.

“There’s no going back now,” said Angie. “Two months ago I gave him my testicles as a symbol of my commitment to him.”

“You what?” Both women stared at her.

“I had my balls removed and I gave them to him in a jar. He was thrilled. I have looked at going on to have my penis turned into a vagina too, but for now he is happy to use what I have.” Angie sighed and looked at the ceiling dreamily.

“So you … you and JP … the toughest guy in the neighbourhood, are like, boyfriend and girlfriend?” Sheba was genuinely surprised.

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” said Angie. “I remember the day I came in here. It was a very sad day. It was the day that my parents were murdered. It was the day that everything that they had built in this country was destroyed. But it was also the day that I became a woman. A strong and beautiful woman, who can please her man, and get what she needs. And I have you two to thank for that. For making me beautiful.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Sheba with a broad smile on her face. “That’s just what we do.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2019