Scotty

The Mixed Business of Babylon

Oh Mohammed! Jesus Christ! You can’t call it that. No, no, no.

Blissfully unaware he was blaspheming two prophets in the same sentence, Mr Tan Singh called up from the foot of the borrowed ladder to another Mohammed, who was precariously balancing a large, red, plastic O.

Whyever not Mr Singh?

Tan held up his hands in mock disgust looking left and then right to an imaginary audience, flashing a big smile under his handlebar moustache.

Because you simply cannot have a store called that.

A white man with a dog stopped to look up. He squinted in the bright sunshine at the figure up the ladder, the Indian immediately welcoming him into his argument.

Can you Sir? I mean not here. Not in Australia. It’s not even Australian.
The white man stared blankly at the wide figure of Mr Singh, then back up at Mohammed who levered the ‘O’ back off the wall and balanced it between his sandals on top of the ladder. The dog sat down. Mohammed thought for a moment.

Mr Singh. Forgive me, but your shop is called ‘Flavour of India’ is it not?

Tan sighed and fixed his turban. Yes Mohammed. But it is a restaurant. A food place that sells twelve types of Southern Indian food from mild butter chicken to very hot Vindaloo. Poppadoms. Sag Allo. Samosa. The Lot. To eat in or take away.

Yes, yes. I know what a restaurant is. What I don’t know is the point you are trying to make. He stepped down twice to get a batter balance and held the big O with one hand. The fat man’s dog was sniffing around as if to pee. Tan rolled his eyes and sighed rather over-dramatically, Mohammed thought, and entirely for the benefit of his other six-legged audience.

“Mohammed. Although presently called simply FLAV you wish to hang these various plastic letters”, Tan gestured with his hand, “to call your shop ‘FLAVOUR OF AFGHANISTAN’ right?”
Mohammed nodded, curious as to what was coming next.
But you sell everything in your shop from bread and newspapers to plastic combs for the hair.
And…what?
Well, does golden Pide bread – Turkish bread – have a flavour of Afghanistan?

No.

Do any of your daily newspapers come in Afghani? Or Pakistani? Or Iranian even?

Mohammed shook his head. “No. All English.”

Singh nodded slowly, pondering theatrically and rocking gently back and forward like a Bollywood barrister.

Tell me, does a plastic comb have a Flavour of Afghanistan?

No. You are being silly. Of course not!

Tan’s eyes lit up, he snapped his finger in the air and blurted out. “That’s right! NO Mohammed. I think you’ll find it has a flavour of Made in China.” The big Indian gestured towards his shop just three doors away. “There is the real Flavour if India. The customers, they will be confused if they see a Flavour of Afghanistan next door. Especially when nothing inside your store has a flavour of such a country.

He had a point, thought Mohammed, who had struggled for some days to find a new name for his Uncle’s business. I am still learning to speak English Mr Singh.

Come now Mohammed – you speak better English than some white Australians. Tan almost laughed and waived his finger piously. That is no excuse my friend. And please, you have been here for 3 years in this beautiful country. The fact is that your Uncle’s shop is a mixed business and should have a name that reflects it’s status.

It was true. The little shop had changed little over the years. You could still spot the old Christmas decorations in the corners from some years ago and the shop was as old and tired as Mohammed’s Uncle Mustaf, the owner. It was tough to keep going, and business was slowing. The shop was slowly being surrounded by encroaching chrome and coffee filled bistros and in truth, it needed far more than a simple change of name. But Mohammed couldn’t think about such things right now. Perched high on the ladder and still clutching his big red O, Mohammed was just about to ask aloud if ‘Fruits of Paradise’ might be a suitable alternative when the white man with the dog interrupted him to ask if he sold ladies stockings.

Mohammed said he didn’t. The man tutted and mumbled something nobody could hear, shrugged and pulled his dog away.

Descending from above, then carefully leaning the red O beside the shop doorway, Mohammed looked at Mr Singh, who was beaming a smile back at the younger man.

“What you need to call it,” he said proudly with all the confidence of a man who could offer 12 choices of hot main course, “is The Mixed Business of Babylon.”

“The Mixed Business of Babylon. Yes. Yes, I like it Mr Singh”. Mohammed stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Very much.” Not wanting to dampen the enthusiasm of the Indian, Mohammed stared at the ground. Tan pulled out a small Moroccan cigarette box and offered the younger man a smoke, seemingly immensely pleased with himself. “Well?”

Mohammed shifted uncomfortably. “No thank you Mr Singh. I don’t smoke. Good Muslims don’t”. Tan spluttered on his first puff. "Good Muslims don’t smoke? They bloody smoke alright when they blow themselves up, no?” Even Mohammed laughed.

Ah Mr Singh…always the funniest…anyway, while the name is good and certainly unique enough, and I am most grateful to you for your creative blessing, Babylon is not in Afghanistan. Nor has it ever been.”

“So what? It is a good name, and most Australians wouldn’t care because they think we’re all darkies anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. It’s a good name!”

“That may be so. But, it would be like calling your own restaurant, ‘Flavour of Pakistan’ or ‘Flavour of Norway instead of Flavour of India as it is rightfully called. Anything else would be wrong.”

But Tan had waved him away. “The Mixed Business of Babylon is a good name, and unique! People will love it, it sounds exotic and full of promise. And nobody will ever get confused or accuse of you of trying to steal a flavour that rightly belongs to another country.”

“But Babylon is not in Afghansitan! It was in Iraq, thousands of Kilometres away.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t exist anymore Mohammed. So how can people possibly get confused about a place if it no longer exists!? Tell me that, eh? And one more thing, said Tan, If I were you, I’d hide the fact that I was from Afghanistan at all. You’ll be thought of as a terrorist, straight out of a Bin Laden training camp. No more selling plastic combs for you my friend. Off to the concentration camps at again.”

Mohammed smiled at Tan’s good natured reference to the immigration detention centre – a place in the outback where he had spent an uncomfortable three months. Well, perhaps your suggestion might not be so bad after all Mr Singh.

And you can still use your ‘O’. said Tan, pointing at the letter while walking away, puffing on his cigareete as he went. He pointed. Although I wouldn’t paint it red. Yellow will attract more customers.

And at this, Mohammed turned away and resigned himself to get on with his day and arrange some new letters for the sign above his Uncles’ shop. All of which were going to be large, bright and definitely red.