David Friedman Award Recipient
Bones of Before
AMAN SINGH WAS MADE OF GOLD.
The nurse said he was an angel, with ten little toes and ten little fingers. He was a beautiful baby boy, skin a golden mixture of heritage and pride. His ancestors were strewn on battlefields and brought up in a world of death and enslavement; crimson blood spilled onto earthy battlefields for him to be raised in a world of white. The shackles of before are removed from his name as the nurse wipes him down and wraps him up in a white blanket, cloaking him in what is right, before handing him to his mother. Her weary brown eyes wash over his caramel skin, his button nose, and closed lips with adoration. She brushes her lips against the skin of his forehead when his father arrives.
His father is a man of his word. He is a man of six foot three, who bears the beatings of prejudice and racism with his head held high and his turban held higher. His beard is combed and neatly set as he strides in, his footsteps commanding and strong for someone who works three jobs to support his family. He settles at his wife’s side, the nurses clearing out as the couple looks down at the young boy. As the door clicks shut, silence coats them as they take in the miracle before them. The miracle of life.
In their hands, they hold more than a single life. He is an amalgamation of warriors, saviors, and fighters, sealed and branded with the name of Aman.
His father raises his tiny fist in his own, brushing the fingers that will write their way to a higher class of life. Pulling the Karo out of his pocket, he slips it onto Aman’s wrist, pressing a kiss to the blood that rushes under the skin, beneath the circular steel band of metal. Raising his gaze to his wife, he takes in the tiredness and the fear.
The fear of another soul that must bear the brunt of the words of the ignorant; one who must face the world with its whitewashed masses and its God-fearing leaders. And so she whispers into the cool air,
“Ek Onkar.”
Not the word printed onto the notes that run the world.
Not the one that commands the country and its every move.
There is only one God, the one who is above and loves unconditionally, no matter what creed, caste, or religion.
AMAN SINGH WAS MADE OF QUESTIONS.
He pants as he hides behind the school. His back meets the brick wall and the grooves dig into his spine, but he doesn’t bother to move. He has run too long from his past and future to bother about his well-being in the present.
He feels sick as he sees his rumaal in tatters in his hands. His mother warned him as she tied the cloth over his head, covering his braided long locks with the fabric of his religion. She told him of the boys with knives for words, that they would dig a groove into his faith, trying to dislodge it from the firm place within his heart. She told him, “Ek Onkar, and he will protect you,” that God could heal the wounds of the bravest soldiers and that Aman was the bravest of them all. Aman was a fighter, and his battle was every day; breathing and living with his golden skin and covered hair was his eternal war.
But she didn’t tell him of the hands that would grab and pull. That would rip and tear at the fabric on his head. That would yank the neatly combed hair down to his back and laugh at his demise. How they would jeer and taunt him for his “girl” length hair, for his strange head attire and jewelry that adorned his right wrist.
They weren’t taught from their fathers about the everlasting love the steel band signified, or how the cloth on his head was worn by his ancestors who fought for everything that his family believed in, for the air he breathes and the food he eats. They were taught of those who are great and those who are different, fear instilled into their hearts from the day they were born, just like Aman.
They don’t know a thing.
And neither does Aman.
With his back pressed against the brick wall and his pride in tatters in his hands, he doesn’t know anything anymore.
When he gets home, he stays silent as his mother curses the boys who harmed him. He doesn’t understand why she would say such words when she stays up late tailoring their mothers’ country-club clothes, her fingers calloused from the pricks of the needle.
He doesn’t know why his father seethes silently at the table when he presents his ripped rumaal. He doesn’t understand why he would leave the table and lock himself in his study, his mother tongue igniting the air as he shouts at them. Because he knows that on parents’ night, they will all whisper about his strong Eastern accent, laughing at the way he lingers on his “r” and skips over the “v.”
Aman doesn’t know anything as he stands in front of his bathroom mirror. His eyes meet the ones in the reflection, full of eight years of fire. He only knows that in this world, to stay alive he must appease the others. So, he lifts the scissors he stole from the drawer and raises them to his hair.
And when the first lock falls to the floor, the others soon follow, and he doesn’t know if there is only one God.
Or if there is a God at all.
AMAN SINGH WAS MADE OF BEAUTY.
The girls flock around him, sinking their claws into his tanned arms, smearing their fake tan on his caramel complexion. The boys envy him; with his broad shoulders and lean figure, he cuts a sharp form as he races down the field, skin glowing under the heat as he tucks the ball into his side, thick muscles straining with tension. He ditches three letters for the ease of others, his new identity represented by an “A,” the beginning of his new life.
“Ugh, A, I wish I had hair as thick as yours. It’s gorgeous!” Natalie mutters, her fingers combing through his shoulder-length hair. It’s longer now, grown out to a state where it’s longer than others but not too long as to be strange. Because being different is the worst fate in this God-forsaken world. His head lies in the girl’s lap, her long fingers playing with the hair. He rolls his eyes at the comment, setting down the book he was reading. He chooses to close his eyes, the gentle stroking and massaging of his head reminding him of when he was younger. It reminds him of the way his mother would set him down before her, oil in one hand and a fine-toothed comb in the other. Tenderly, she would brush out the knots, her talented fingers wrapping the hair into a plait, an art that has been passed down through many generations.
A smile teases his lips as he remembers. Natalie’s actions cause him to relax further into her lap. She moves her hand from his head to his face, the aqua on the back of her nail standing out against her pale skin. Lifting it up, she presses her rose-stained lips to his. He allows his eyelids to flutter open; he sees a halo of blonde framing her heart-shaped, pale face. He lifts off of her, cupping her jaw as he strokes her cheek tenderly.
“I can’t come ‘round tonight,” he says, watching carefully as her lips begin to turn down at the edges, “family arrangement.”
She sighs heavily, moving out of his grasp, “Why don’t you invite me ‘ro—”
“Natalie . . .” he says, wrapping a hand around her wrist and pulling her back towards him.
“I know, you can’t. I just wish that we could . . . ugh your family is so backward!” she cries out and he tenses around her.
“Shit, I’m sorry. A, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, hands going to his neck to pull him back and closer. Their foreheads press against each other, and she lifts up onto her tiptoes to kiss him.
Soft lips slide against the chapped edges of his, the warmth of her tongue poking out to slip into his mouth. He breathes her in, the warmth she provides making him respond to her. There are no butterflies, no fireworks igniting in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he is content with the situation and the girl in his arms. Her arms slide down his front, playing with his belt as she presses closer to his front.
He pulls away, chest heaving with ragged breath. Emotionally and physically, he is far from her as he steps away. His hand drags through his roots, and he pulls on the ends before turning away, his words carried away by the wind.
“I have to go,” he mutters, and then leaves without a goodbye.
AMAN SINGH WAS MADE OF FIRE.
His hand cracks down on his desk, his head shaking as he opens his mouth. “Segregation isn’t the way to move forward, it’s moving backward at least a century,” he cries out loud, now rising to his feet. The lecture hall seems dwarfed by his stature; his tweed jacket and tortoise shell glasses age him beyond his twenty-five years.
“Well obviously something must be done for our own safety, otherwise they are free to kill civilians,” the boy opposite him scoffs. Aman feels his lip curl into a sneer, fists clenching by his side. He is about to respond when someone else cuts in beforehand.
“It’s perception; you perceive the situation to be one of aggression, that they are against you. They believe it is one of oppression. The root of the problem isn’t nuclear warfare concentrated on a place that holds more innocent civilians than criminals. The root of the problem is our own society.”
The class ends, and Aman finds himself approaching the voice. He wears a black denim jacket, and his hair sticks up as he drags his hand wearily through it. By the time Aman catches up, he has a cigarette firmly in the corner of his lips and his head bowed down to his phone. When he sees Aman, he breaks out into a grin, throwing his cigarette onto the ground and stubbing it out with his shoe. Sliding his palm against his thigh, he stretches it out toward him and smiles sheepishly.
“That guy was an absolute dickhead.” His introductory statement takes Aman by surprise, but as he slips his hand into the strangers, he finds the strength and warmth it emanates more surprising. He laughs as they shake hands before returning them to the safety of their respective jean pockets.
“Nick.” He grins as he slides his phone into his pocket and gives his undivided attention to Aman. The boy falters—in university he didn’t need to reinvent himself; people took the time to learn the soft “A” at the beginning of his name.
“Aman.” He settles, and he watches as Nick tests his name by breathing it out. It sounds wonderful falling from his lips, the soft hum of the “N” at the end of his naming vibrating through him.
Nick gestures to the side, and they begin walking through the campus side by side.
Slowly their friendship evolves, their seats in World Relations became closer and closer, until Nick and Aman sat beside one another. They’d debate together, voices united as they speak, points trailing and linking to one another until the pair overruled the discussion. Notes are traded (with Nick’s particularly detailed drawing of a penis sketched into the corner whenever the “dickhead” from the first lecture spoke).
It’s a Friday in the autumn term; orange stains the leaves and drags them to the ground around them. Aman wraps up a scarf around his neck tightly, longing for the warm chai that his mother would make for him. Nick fumbles with his hat and pulls it down to cover his ears.
“It must be hard for you, listening to all that bull,” Nick suddenly says as they cross the road to a coffee shop, but Aman simply furrows his brows.
“Why would it be particularly hard for me?” He asks, the double meaning not missed by Nick who snorts before reverting back to seriousness.
“You know because you’re . . .” he trails off, and Aman’s lips form an “O” in realization.
“I’m not Muslim, Nick, but my stance isn’t because of religion. It’s because of my humanity.”
NICK ROSTER WAS MADE OF ICE.
He sits in Aman’s two-bedroom apartment, grumbling at the “crappy New York City weather.” Aman laughs from the kitchen, while he overlooks the bubbling pot on the stove. It’s second nature for him as he places cardamom and clove into the pot, the water sizzling and spitting as he pours in milk.
He returns to his best friend, placing the mug into his hands, before collapsing heavily onto the sofa.
“Ew, I’ll pass,” Nick states, wrinkling his nose at the foreign smell. Aman rolls his eyes as he grabs the remote and flicks through the channels.
“Shut up, you pussy, and drink it.” Aman turns to see Nick yanking his beanie over his head before taking a tentative sip. His initial distaste was replaced by a small smile.
Nick is cut from shards of ice, freezing to touch as Aman brushes against his skin. He is stubborn as he attempts to leave the apartment, but Aman stops him and reminds him that he’ll just get more ill. He is the opposite of the warmth that Aman provides with his hospitality and the blankets.
“Cheers,” he manages to call out from the cocoon of blankets and pillows, as Aman straightens up from the electric heater he had just put on.
“Get some sleep, you idiot,” Aman says affectionately. He heads towards the door, stopping briefly to send a soft look toward his best friend, before returning to his own room.
Their lives become more entwined, paths crossing and meeting until they practically walk side by side. Nick lies on his sofa, ginger hair messy on his freckled forehead as he frowns. He faces the window where snow falls thickly outside. The first term of their third year is nearly over, and the campus is full of mistletoe and Christmas trees, the seasonal glow casting a warmth within the students.
“I hate winter,” Nick grumbles, his feet resting on the portable heater that he has come to love so dearly.
“You hate the cold,” Aman says, his glasses fogging up as he eats his noodles from their plastic container.
“Same thing, ain’t it?” Aman simply rolls his eyes, pulling the corner of the blanket from Nick’s grasp and curling into it. They huddle together as the small TV on the coffee table begins the show. As one episode turns to two and two turns to six, Nick eventually has his head resting against Aman’s shoulder, and their thighs press against each other.
Nick Roster may be made of ice, but his skin is warm to the touch. Aman frowns as he tries to concentrate on the show, but his focus reverts back to the redhead beside him.
The way Nick’s soft hair tickles the crook of his neck.
The way his body curves into his side.
The way his soft sighs brush against his skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of his arms.
The episode ends, and Aman couldn’t be happier. Because he doesn’t understand why the mere feel of Nick’s body against his awakens more feelings within him than all the girls that he’d ever been with, their bodies under his control. He thinks of the coil in his stomach, rusting due to its lack of use, and how right now it’s pulled tighter than ever before.
Aman shrugs his shoulder, gently trying to pry himself away. But he doesn’t realize just how close they are.
Or that when Nick would look up, his green-flecked eyes would flicker from his screen, the emeralds glowing brighter than any jewel. His light breaths would hit his chin, fanning over his bronze complexion and flushing his cheeks the same rosy color of his lips.
Their eyes are on one another, running over the slopes of the other’s nose and the lines of their jaws. That’s until Nick stretches out to put a tentative hand to his jaw. Then he presses his lips to Aman’s.
AMAN SINGH WAS MADE OF MISTAKES.
Nick’s lips are warm, unlike his fingertips that slide into his hair. Each caress sends a shiver down his body, until his knuckles are white as he clenches his fist.
He doesn’t want to react.
He doesn’t want to give into the way Nick’s nose brushes and eyelashes flutter against his skin. He doesn’t want to melt under the gentle caress that he feels at his waist, as he is readjusted to face Nick fully.
But he can’t help it. He can’t help the way his lips part to let Nick into his mouth; his tongue languidly strokes his own. Somehow his hand has settled on Nick’s waist, fingers splayed out on the small of his back whilst his thumb strokes the front of his stomach. Another hand rises to his hair, the ginger locks so soft, and he almost moans at the feel. The strands are like silk beneath his fingers, engulfing them as they trail up the back of his head.
All too soon, they are parting and Aman wants to reach out and pull him back, but realizes he is the one who is retreating.
“W—we shouldn’t have . . . Fuck—I shouldn’t have—” Aman rambles, his hand flying to his hair that had been previously doted on by the boy before him, but right now, they were being tugged, hard enough to rip it out of his skull. He is scrambling to his feet, the blanket they were sharing flying to the floor.
Nick says his name, and Aman feels his heart rip, the tendons snapping at the despair in his voice. “Aman, stop,” he whispers as Aman tugs at his hair and scrubs his lips with the back of his hand. The light bruising left by Nick is replaced by a self-inflicted darker shade, the hue likening to the one formed when knuckles bury deep into skin.
“Aman, please,” Nick pleads, standing up as well, one hand placed onto Aman’s shoulder and the other on his neck. Nick’s forehead rests against his, and he inhales deeply. When he opens his eyes, Nick sees Aman’s wide eyes before him.
Wide with fear.
So, he brushes their lips against each other once more, before heading out of the door.
And that was when Aman Singh understood the pain of love.
He visits home, and his parents gush over his grades, worry over his weight and love his soul. But he feels like an outcast because the same lips that brushed against his mother’s cheeks were pressed against his best friend’s. Yet to Aman, both seem right. So he ignores it, reverting his concentration to the tiles in the bathroom that his father was too frail to fix. He helps his mother wash the dishes, and when he heads into a supermarket to grab some milk, he ignores the look a woman gives as they both pause under the mistletoe.
Aman thinks he made a mistake, and that it could be rectified with redemption and praying for forgiveness.
His hands are clasped together as he bows down, his head covered, and his fingers slide the notes down into a tray. His head presses against the carpet, and under his breath he mutters the prayer his mother repeated night after night when he was younger.
Then he prays for forgiveness.
I’m sorry that I kissed a boy, and that it felt so right.
There are no lies with God, no aversion to the truth when faced with an Almighty Deity, so he is truthful. He asks to stop remembering the smooth planes of the boy’s body, with his freckles lining his cheeks and unruly ginger hair. He asks to forget his best friend.
When he returns home, the air has shifted, and there is a girl in his front room. Their horoscopes are matched, and his parents hold hands, hearts filled with hope as they watch the duo.
Her eyes are wide, and her smile is fake; he notes this down in his mind. A glass is thrust into his hand, and he drinks to sedate the drought his throat has subjected itself to.
When the adults leave and the girl is left with him, he finds himself looking away. His eyes are trained on the clock to her right when he speaks, his voice low and cold.
“I can’t marry you.” He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in the young girl’s eyes, a feeling that will be amplified in both his parents’ hearts and eyes.
She gasps, the first tear falling from her eyes, and he looks up to see tears rolling fast down her round cheeks.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you,” she repeats, again and again, her hands shaking and her chest heaving as she sobs. His humanity is what drives him to help her, an arm wrapped around her petite frame. When she calms down, she unlocks her phone and shows him a picture.
She is standing on a beach in her high-waisted shorts, a bikini top slipping off her shoulder slightly as she leans into the frame of the man next to her. His ebony arm is wrapped around her waist, and they are smiling so wide that the sun is thrown onto the back burner whilst they take the spotlight. His lips are pressed against her cheek as she beams into the camera, wrapped in love and lust.
And life.
Aman sees how lively they look, living and breathing the very essence of life.
“I love him,” she whispers, and he holds her close as she sobs into his chest because Aman isn’t the first and won’t be the last, and neither will she. The door will be held wide open for a wife, even though Aman tries hard to deadbolt it every day.
“Promise me,” she whispers, her eyes flickering to the door before training onto his, “promise me, that when you fall in love, you won’t let any ties hold you back, even if you think it’s your parachute.” The hold that she has on his hand is tight and the intensity of her gaze makes Aman stumble to his feet, leaving the room with the stranger. He brushes past his mother, heading straight for the deadbolted door.
“I can’t marry her, Ma, I can’t marry any of them.”
AMAN SINGH IS ONLY HUMAN.
He rushes down the road, his foot firmly on the acceleration as he grips the steering wheel. Snow hits the windscreen repeatedly, his wipers working overtime to clear his vision. He flies down the freeway and grits his teeth as he approaches his destination.
Feet thunder on the stairs as he takes the steps two at a time. His knuckles wrap into a fist as he bangs on the door, and then it is swinging open.
Nick stands in a baggy Christmas jumper that has a crude joke about “ornaments” on the front. His hair sticks up on his head, late night on Christmas Eve taking its toll on the boy. Aman breathes heavily, his eyes flickering up toward the mistletoe above them before settling on Nick.
They are toe to toe. Centuries ago, their ancestors had stood in the same position, eyes trained on each other, ready to destroy one another. Their swords sought blood and flesh; their minds sought revenge.
As Nick Roster and Aman Singh face each other, they prepare for another battle.
With one last breath, Aman launches himself at the boy. Their actions are carnal, hands gripping the other’s back, pulling at clothes to bring the other closer. Their lips collide, teeth clinking against each other as they let their tongues tangle messily. His blood-stained fingers are marred red with the color of Nick’s hair, clutching it desperately as Nick holds him just as close by his waist. He is free-falling without a parachute, and he has never felt more alive. Blood rushes around his body, and his heart beats twice as fast due to the boy his lips are greeting.
Aman Singh isn’t gold. He isn’t a question nor a puzzle. Neither is he an object to admire for only it’s beauty.
Aman Singh isn’t fire. Nick Roster isn’t ice.
Aman Singh isn’t a mistake.
AMAN SINGH IS A HUMAN BOY IN LOVE WITH A HUMAN BOY NAMED NICK ROSTER.
Nia Tipton is a fiction major at Columbia College Chicago now in her senior year. She hopes to publish her own magazine/zine one day. You can find her work in the 2018 edition of Stories Through the Ages: College Edition.