1.3 Island of Thora

A lot of these islands were run by ‘social clubs’ and most stratagem of offence and defence carried out in accord with fanditha practices that strongly inflicted on these island people and their belief system.

When he came out of the gate carrying his little torch, he caught a gibbous moon on the rise between the clouds and a dense scent of jasmine in his nostrils. Muaz spread to test his seventeen-year-old spirit that night as they say girls were easy to approach on the islands. It was dark from head to tail of Irshad Lane. He flicked his light on the treetops, a beam that could hit the clouds. Nobody in the islands would have seen a flashlight so small and yet so powerful. It was all very quiet.

He turned by the corner and caught a silhouette of a girl who ran across from one gate to another. There he began to understand the presence of plentiful girls in the rope-woven perches behind the low boundary walls. During a festive season, boatloads of travellers toured to other islands. Particularly, this big island was flooded by holidaymakers from the capital. This island of Thora – a mile long and a mile in width, lying in Ari Atoll, forty-two miles from the capital of Malé – was the main source of watermelons to the country with largescale plantation, so he heard. An island with a thousand people in population and three hundred dwellings.

As he approached the end of the road, he caught the smell of paint. And he came across someone he knew under a lonely post by the mosque wall with a single bulb hanging on it that spread an orangish glow on the sand.

“Ashwar! Do you smell paint?” he asked.

“Yeah, I can smell it. Folks are setting up a stage for the concert,” replied his friend.

“Where?”

“In front of the island office.”

“Can you take me there?”

“I’m not going there,” desisted this tall man with a stocky build.

“Why?”

“Girls are called from Sunlight Club and Moonlight Club. I am against the concert. I keep saying we have two different gigs. This side of the road is Moonlight Club and that side of the road is Sunlight Club,” he pointed to the northern half.

“What is the problem?”

“It’s Multi-Ibre. He conceded with katib and took our girls to their show. We have thirty girls in our batch and they have only sixteen. We have the football ground. We could have arranged a better show.”

“What is this road?”

“We are standing at the junction of Giruva Magu and Sirat Magu. This Sirat Magu cut straight from end to end of the island, leads that way to the island office.”

“Is my place down that way?”

“Yes, down Giruva Magu,” said Ashwar.

“Well, Ashwar, let’s go see the girls!”

“They are not there!” he sighed, “Well, since you insist, I will take you there.”

They entered the dark half of Sirat Magu leading towards the office. Muaz could see a light under the cover of breadfruit leaves and trees. He switched on his pocket torch.

“Where did you get that?” cried Ashwar.

“This is a flashlight I bought in Malé.”

“It’s a damn good light!”

“Yeah, it is a tiny powerful bulb in it and a single alkaline battery of 1.5 volt.”

“Will you give that to me?” demanded Ashwar.

“Let’s see! Remind me when I leave.”

They reached the clearing at the end of the road, the island office to their left and the stage in front facing the beach some yards away. There were folks busy with preparations, painting and nailing boards. Four big bulbs of 200W lit by the nooks and more lanterns engulfed the space.

They sat down for a moment and observed from an isolated location. Some folks gabbled and cackled for the newcomer was with the wrong party. Muaz could hint nothing. He saw no sign of the band boys or the wooden boxes of instruments.

Suddenly a girl cried out, “Madiri!” and she came stumbling into the bright light, “Mom is calling you. She says dinner is getting cold.”

“Madiri!” sniggered Ashwar who knew not about his nickname but the girl heard all about it.

They retreated to his house and he went straight in through the green gate which was in truth a back gate. Muaz sat down and dined alone. He was halfway through his plate when a sudden downpour slammed on the roof. At the same time, the faint light in the house went out as the generator was switched off sharp at eleven. When he crossed the lawn holding a washing basin over his head, he sprinted in three inches of floodwater.

That night it rained heavily. He prepared for bed. It was dark and mosquitos biting his legs. That moment a girl entered his room holding a kerosene oil lamp and dawdled by the table to light it up. And when it lit up like a fiery orangish glow, his eyes narrowed on the girl who stood completely soaked in a little night frock. A glimmer that hit the whitewashed walls of the little room reflected on her backside that in turn lit in a specular manner to bring out the undertones of a healthy figure with fair skin and broad shoulders. Then she lit a mosquito candle and placed on the floor, reached for the lamp and diminished the light by altering its wick – the shadow of the girl hung on the wall. She turned to face him briefly crumpling the night frock in her crotch.

He stared at the shadowy figure with round tits in the deafening sound of rain platter. The girl dropped her chin on a shoulder and stepped out of the door in a hassled manner.

Meanwhile, the members of The Pink Sharks and their sound boy picked their mates and lodged at Kimbili House, behind the playground. It was a big house, again in the old-fashioned way, six rooms in a row and linked through interconnecting doors. So, they had to pass door after door to reach the innermost quarters.

Mannan produced a lot of beautiful melodies in the 70’s and recorded many hit songs. Formerly, he was with The Olympians – every Saturday night they put up a show at the Olympus Theatre.

For one thing they were loaded with spirit. In the aftermath, they retired to their rooms. Their keyboardist, Mad, was in the deepest room. Mannan next. All engaged with their girls and it rained. An hour later, Mad knocked on Mannan’s door.

Mannan could hardly hear, “What is it now?”

“I want to take a leak!”

“Piss on the wall!”

“Open up! It’s not me, she needs Number Two!”

His girl needed a toilet. Mannan opened the door with his girl who wrapped a sarong behind him. She wore golden hair – to be explained later. And then they tapped on the drummer’s door. He stuck his stick out.

Then unlocked the bassist with his girl and still another guitarist with a dancer called Gulish. And finally, their sound boy grooming a girlish-looking lad.

Mad’s girl ran madly out of the house towards a gifili located in the backyard and in the falling rain.