By Abu Jameela
We were newly married, and in her blissful state my wife insisted on dragging me off to a fancy department store to buy me a pair of bathers. The longest pair of board shorts I had ever seen caught my attention immediately. I was drawn to them. They came well below the knees and were made of nylon panels in dull red and matt black. The right leg was red in front and black at the back; the left leg was black in front and red at the back. A single black patch pocket at the back was contrasted against the red panel. Across the back, in big white stylized writing, was the trademark ‘Billabong’. What an unusual name. Obviously foreign. What did it mean, if anything?
The waistband of the shorts was black with a four eyelet cord tie at the front. They were good quality and well constructed.
All of these favourable considerations vanished when I looked at the price tag. “$79 !!!” it screamed: as much as a good pair of dress pants. My darling wife was not to be deterred and virtually dragged me to the fitting room. The board shorts fitted so well and looked so good on me. Well, what the hell, I thought. I wasn’t paying and if it made her happy it was a ‘win win’ situation (how I hate that term). I was getting beautiful board shorts; she was happy, and her happiness would certainly benefit me in so many ways.
I couldn’t help trying them on repeatedly at home, and I took my family on a trip to the beach as soon as possible. I had always been self conscious of my skinny, scrawny body at the beach, but now I walked with an exaggerated swagger. Everyone liked it, even if they didn’t like me. I enjoyed the attention in a very affected nonchalant manner.
When I fled my home, the land of my birth, a few years later, I had barely enough time to throw a few things together. I was heading for London, where the weather would rule out any need for bathers, and there were many more important things I could have taken, but Bordi just had to go with me. He was by now a fully-fledged person with a distinct personality. I had no idea as to which country I would eventually go; fortunately for Bordi and I we ended up in Australia, where the mystery of ‘Billabong’ was finally revealed. How amazing that my close companion Bordi was born in ‘oz’, and both of us would find found ourselves in ‘oz’ many years later! Perhaps it was predestined, a quirk of fate. One of the many mysteries of the universe.
Bordi and I spent many happy years together in our new home. With such frequent use over the years the waistband and hems slowly unravelled. The combination of sun, sea and chlorine gradually faded the colours. Eventually the elastic in the waistband lost all its stretch, forcing me to constantly try and spread the bunched up fabric. I was using an increasing number of safety pins to hold the waistband together. In hindsight I can claim to have inspired the idea of body piercing.
My wife and kids were disgusted. They pretended not to know me at the beach or pool, or wherever I had Bordi with me. They maintained a discreet distance, almost as if we were lepers. My bond with Bordi grew in direct proportion to my family’s harassment and criticism. They tried to shame me. The subject was deliberately inserted into almost every conversation, especially when we had friends over. They took to displaying my shorts to all and sundry, much to the general delight. We became the butt of jokes at ‘barbies’, picnics, or any outing that included Bordi. Some people even suggested I was stingy, broke or very eccentric. My friends and family took up a collection for a new pair of shorts, regardless of the cost, on condition that I surrendered Bordi for a communal burning ceremony. How utterly cruel and callous! They were the sort of fickle people who would euthanize their most beloved at the earliest opportunity. Most disappointing was the occasion of my birthday when I received six pairs of board shorts!
But it was like water off a duck’s back. I was resolute. The girls tried everything. My youngest daughter even dared to suggest taking Bordi to school for ‘show and tell’. They bought the latest and most expensive style of shorts. But in comparison with Bordi, the stylish bathers had no personality, no character, no attachment, no history or bond with me. They were a beautiful acquaintance at most.
When my daughters threatened to cut Bordi into little pieces I was horrified. I took to hiding Bordi in a secure location, both for his safety and my peace of mind. I thought of offering a compromise by asking them to repair Bordi to their satisfaction, but given the depth of their feelings I knew I couldn’t trust them. I would bring Bordi out of hiding only when we planned to go out alone, just Bordi and I.
Then one day Bordi disappeared. Vanished! My suspicions were aroused. Despite all my cajoling, threats, or offers of reward, no one would admit to abducting my beloved companion. Eventually I concentrated my efforts on trying to ‘crack’ the youngest one, ‘Daddy’s girl’, but it proved to be a futile pursuit. She had obviously been too well groomed by her older sisters.
The conspiracy of silence was deafening. To my daughters, Bordi was just a pair of board shorts; to me he was so much more. I regularly took to lecturing the girls on respecting the property of others, to no effect. In turn, I was lectured on self respect, dressing appropriately, considering the opinions of others, saving my loved ones from embarrassment, and going against my own principles.
My sense of loss persisted, and I finally realized what Bordi really meant to me. We had been through so much together, and survived so many things. He was my close companion and my flag, the symbol of triumph over adversity. I resent not having the opportunity to say goodbye to Bordi, and not being able to give him a decent burial.
All is not lost, I hope. Recently the girls have been asking about my feelings towards the long lost Bordi, and subtly hinting that Bordi may be alive after all.
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