accent that was scarce in achromatic Edinburgh. “No worries, it happens,” I said, adding, in jest: “You do
know that people of colour become invisible after sunset, right?”
The illiberal joke resonated with him and melted geography and time inside his small taxi in an instant. His
chestnut coloured face, chiselled, and adorned with a large nose fractured near the bridge, opened up to a
hearty smile. “How does one pronounce your name brother,” he asked: “Is it Amitangshu?”
A sandal and shoes inside a bus carrying
university students that was blown up in Kabul
in June (AFP/Getty)He was spot on, avoiding the hard T which, in the Anglo-Saxon world, cleaves my name into two
unpronounceable parts. It was easy for him, he said. He was from Fiji and had many Indian friends, listing
out a few – Prakash, Sunil, Rajesh – as evidence to his claim. The journey from the Rorschach inkblot of a
Pacific island nation – home to perpetual summers – to a squally and grey Edinburgh was as hard for him as
it was for me, though reports of a scorched Delhi were taking the sheen off my homesickness.
Almost 12 years ago, Noa had enlisted in the British army, the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, leaving behind
sunshine, family and poverty. Like the Nepali Gurkhas, Fijians too join the British Army in the hope of a
better life. With every passing year, fewer young Britishers enlist for armed service, and more from the
former colonies, who have poverty, and not wealth, in common.
War was employment, with benefits which included permanent resident status in the UK. To live in the
promised land, the poor have to shed blood – their own and that of others. For Noa, remnants of his Pacific
life started to fade in Afghanistan, the dusty hot winds slowly scrubbing away memories of chalk white
beaches of Suva. “I cannot explain to you, but I wish I had not seen what I did.”
He spent two years in Afghanistan, most of it in the battle-scarred Helmand province, latticed with opium
fields and pockmarked with shelled villages where the dead stalked the living.
“In Fiji, we would take a cow, kill it and put slabs of meat on a grill. We would sit around the grill and soak
in that smell. That was the smell of a good life, you know. And then, when I was in Afghanistan, I smelt
burning human flesh. I just didn’t know how to react, you know? My world was upside down. It’s been 10
years, but I can’t get that smell out of my nose”.
I just didn’t know how to react, you know? My world was upside down. It’s been 10 years but I can’t get
that smell out of my nose