by Abda Khan
Razia was placed at the front of the field, in the correct position so that her head was in the direction of Mecca. The imam took his place, also at the front, to the side of Razia, and the congregation of men began to file into neat rows, ready for the imam to begin the funeral prayers. Ali was asked to stand in the front row by Razia’s father. He obliged, for he knew that this was a mark of respect that had been afforded to him by the family, in recognition of his position as a guest who had travelled from afar to share in the family’s grief and be a part of the funeral prayers.
The entire congregation faced in the direction of Mecca. There was silence; once the imam was satisfied that the men were ready, he approached Razia’s father and asked for his permission to commence the jannazah, which her father gave. The imam announced the details of the funeral; the deceased’s name, her family’s particulars, and then he began the recitation of the prayer in Arabic. The imam’s voice was truly melodic, almost hauntingly so, and as it flowed into Ali’s ears, it made him think deeply about the prayer and its purpose. He was not an overly religious man, but he was inherently spiritual, and the occasion stirred Ali into reflection; as he uttered the words in Arabic, he focused intently on the meaning of this ritual, and with closed eyes and a heavy heart, he found himself praying intensely for peace for the soul of this young girl.
As the men stood in congregation and prayed, the women back at Razia’s house tended to their tasks. Those women closest to the family helped to prepare a simple meal for the mourners. The remaining women and girls sat and recited the Quran and said special prayers for the departed.
After the funeral, Ali met Farah back at the family house, just outside the front gate, and they both expressed a wish to leave immediately; however, Razia’s parents were most insistent that they stay and have something to eat.
Farah and Ali knew that it was good manners to stay for food if the grieving family insisted in this way. They stepped to one side for a quick chat.
‘What do you think? Are you OK to stay for a bit longer?’ asked Ali. ‘If it’s too much for you, I can press the matter and we can just hang around in the departure lounge at the airport.’
Farah opened the gate slightly and popped her head in to see Nusrat, who despite having just sent her daughter’s coffin on its way, was busily preparing the food for her and Ali to eat. She owed her this much at least, thought Farah. She turned back to Ali.
‘No, Ali. It’s OK. Let’s stay.’
Ali gave her a subdued but warm smile.
They accepted the invitation and joined the others to eat a simple meal. Ali went to the neighbours’ house to sit with the men, and Farah entered Razia’s house. The men and women ate in different houses, just as they had sat in segregation to grieve.
Everyone was sat on the floor on old sheets and blankets in well-ordered rows. Even though Nusrat had tried her best to convince Farah not to sit on the floor, she had insisted on doing so, and insisted on eating the same food in the same manner as everyone else.
The meal consisted of tandoori rotis and dhal; both were homemade, and whilst the food was simplicity itself, it was delicious. The yellow-orange masoor dhal had been tempered with freshly fried chopped red onions, ginger, garlic and green chillies. The rotis, having been made in the tandoor, had the aromatic, smoky taste Farah associated with barbequed food. Eating this meal took Farah back to London, and the taste of Razia’s beautiful cooking on that fateful evening at Hans Place. She remembered how extravagant the menu had been that night, compared with the modest meal she was fed today. She recollected the food that evening tasting divine. And she also recalled how Aneela had floated around all evening taking the credit for everything that Razia had slaved over in the kitchen. The terrible memories of that dinner party would forever be stuck in her mind.
‘Is the food all right?’ asked Nusrat, prompting Farah to come back to the present.
Nusrat sat next to Farah and fussed over her, making sure she had enough to eat, and that her rotis were fresh so that they were soft and easy to eat; but no matter how fresh and soft they were, Farah couldn’t muster up an appetite. They had also gone to the trouble of buying cold bottled water for Farah and Ali. Nusrat said she didn’t want them to drink the water from the well in case it upset their stomachs.
‘Our debt has been paid,’ remarked Nusrat whilst she placed a fresh chapatti in the roti basket in front of Farah. Farah remembered that Mr Amin from the High Commission had assured her that this would be done. It was good to hear that he was a man who stuck to his promises.
‘That’s good,’ said Farah. She took a few long sips of the cold water. The heat was suffocating, and she had no idea how she had survived the day.
‘New housing has also been arranged for us in Lahore, close to some distant relatives on my husband’s side. We hope to move as soon as the mourning period is over. Things will never be the same again, but at least it will be a fresh start.’
What sort of a fresh start could it really be for this poor woman, now that her daughter was dead? Farah asked herself. She found each mouthful hard to swallow; Farah could not get the image of Razia’s corpse out of her mind, and as she looked on helplessly at the sorrow that she saw in Nusrat’s face, Farah could not console herself in any way, let alone console Nusrat.
The mourners had eaten quickly and drifted out of the houses in a hurry. Farah had been to many poorhis, the gatherings where mourners sat and comforted the deceased’s family, and usually people sat for hours, right up until the evening. Farah was puzzled.
‘Why has everyone left so suddenly?’ asked Farah. Nusrat sighed heavily, and then went on to explain.
‘They all have to get back to their work at the brick kiln. Making one thousand bricks a day is not an easy task, my dear child, even if you work for eighteen hours a day.’
Farah asked Nusrat if she and Ali could be escorted to the brick kiln to see it for themselves, and Nusrat went off to have a word with her husband.
She came back having quickly arranged the visit; she said Karim was happy to accompany them.
When Farah met Ali and Karim outside the front gate, Ali drew her to one side.
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea, Farah,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ replied Farah, who was curious, and quite determined. ‘Now that we are here, I really want to at least pay a brief visit to the place where Razia spent so many years of her young life toiling away. I want to see for myself the sort of work that she had to do. It can’t do any harm, can it?’
‘I don’t know. I guess we could go for a short while, if it will be of any comfort to you,’ said Ali, before he added, ‘but we need to be quick, I don’t want us to be seen hanging around for too long.’
They followed Karim down the lane.
33
Karim marched ahead, and Farah and Ali followed him closely. They walked down the winding paths of the village and beyond, as the kiln lay about a five-minute walk from the edge of the village.
It was now mid-afternoon, and the sun was still beating down like a scorching flame that showed no signs of burning out. As Farah and Ali approached the kiln, they could see the workers in the distance, most of them squatting, or hunched over.
As they got closer, Farah noticed that they were working in the most primitive of conditions. In fact, she thought, it was like stepping back in time some 200 years or more.
There were men, women and children, all with their heads down, working quickly. Except for the very young children; they amused themselves whilst their parents and older siblings carried out their tasks. The toddlers played in the dirt, and the babies clung to their mothers’ backs in homemade slings, or lay on a blanket to one side, entertained by the toddlers. The older children were busy at work. What surprised Farah the most was that none of the children were crying or playing up. Farah felt a tremendous flow of sorrow rush through her, as if this day hadn’t been sad enough already, as she considered how for such children, life was so different
compared to those back home. No schooling, no playtime, no leisure, just working hard to help their family reach the target number of bricks; day in, day out. Nothing else existed. The workers made their bricks, they were paid a pittance and they barely survived.
Farah and Ali approached the nearest family; a man, and presumably his wife, and their two young children, a boy and a girl, aged perhaps three and four, who sat close by. Karim introduced them, and then enquired after the man’s father.
‘Where is lala today?’ he asked.
‘He couldn’t come today, Uncle. His health is very bad. I have had to take out another loan to buy his medicines. What can I tell you about our woes, Uncle? With Mother gone, and Father too ill to work, and my children too young to help, it is down to the two of us to make the bricks. We never seem to get enough done, no matter how many hours we put in.’
The man was relatively young, as was evident from the fact that he addressed Karim as ‘uncle’, but he looked much older. The gruelling work in the blazing heat had taken its toll, and the premature lines on this man’s face bore witness to this. The man told Farah and Ali that he had worked here since he was five or six years old; he had never been to school and was totally illiterate. This was all that he had known for the past twenty-odd years of his existence. Farah wanted to cry. On a human level, she felt desperately sad for him; she wanted to help these people, and felt there must be a way to do that.
‘Doesn’t the landlord provide you with any help with the healthcare or medicines at all?’ Farah asked, although when Ali looked at her strangely, she felt she may have asked a silly question.
‘No, Madam. Nothing. We have nothing, and we receive nothing, except a lifetime of debt that we can never even dream of paying off, and which these children of ours will most definitely inherit.’
Farah had already known about the problem in broad terms but seeing it for herself really brought home to her the magnitude of it. This was the same fate that Razia’s family had been facing until the events that unfolded led to a change in their circumstances. Razia’s family were going to escape all of this, but at what cost?
Farah turned to look at the kids. Poor, dirty, malnourished kids. Kids that knew no other existence. They continued to play in the dirt, in between uncertain looks at the visitors; they seemed confused to see them, and Farah could see why. She doubted very much that these children saw smartly dressed strangers like Ali and herself at the brick kiln very often, if ever.
The wife had not stopped to talk, but rather she had continued working. She kept her head down and toiled like a human machine. As she worked, Farah wondered she how managed to keep her chaddar on her head the whole time; it never slipped off once. She was hideously thin, and her slender hands were covered in the sloppy mixture which she quickly prepared and shaped into the mould, and then slapped out onto the ground. Farah had never seen anything like it. It was like turning a jelly out of its mould or patting a just-cooled cake out of its tin, and yet those comparisons could not do justice to the sheer hardship that they suffered in order to carry out this work. There were rows and rows and rows of such bricks lying out to dry in the sun. Thousands of them.
Whilst Ali continued to talk to the male worker, Farah wandered off to one side. He noticed her absence after a few minutes.
‘Is everything OK?’ Ali shouted out to her.
‘Oh, yes; I just needed to check my mobile. I will be with you shortly,’ she called back. She walked a little further away in some haste, abruptly pushed her hair away from her face and tried to focus on the screen of her phone, as she typed fiercely.
Ali nodded and continued talking to Karim and the worker.
Ten minutes later, they headed back to Razia’s house, and as they stood by the gate outside, Karim insisted that they come in and have some cold drinks. Nusrat came out and repeated her husband’s request.
‘You still have a few hours until your plane is due to take off; please come in and have some soft drinks. I have already sent someone to the village shop to fetch some cold bottles.’
As most of the mourners were now at the brick kiln, aside from a few ladies who had stayed behind to comfort Nusrat and help with the chores, Farah and Ali both went into Razia’s house, and sat on the manji. The drinks were served to them as soon as a young boy dropped them off. Farah and Ali spent another half an hour with Razia’s parents, who seemed, Farah thought, to be comforted by their presence. Perhaps because they had been the last ones, aside from those inside the prison, to see her alive.
As they were talking, there was a knock at the gate, and a man entered.
‘As-salamu alaykum, Munshi ji,’ said Karim. ‘This is Munshi ji, he works for Mansur Sahib,’ he introduced Farah and Ali to Munshi.
Munshi was the only chubby person Farah had seen since she got to the village. He liked to eat, that was obvious from his large, flabby frame. He was on the short side and wore a smart beige salwar kameez. He had a receding hairline, although his hair was still black, it was obviously dyed, and he wore silver-rimmed round glasses. He carried a clipboard and a pen with him. Like 99 per cent of the male population in Pakistan, he had a thick black moustache.
‘The master would like to see you,’ Munshi said.
‘The master?’ Ali responded.
‘Yes, erm, Mr Mansur. Senior.’
‘Why?’ Farah asked.
‘As a gesture of friendship, that is all. Perhaps you would be kind enough to partake in some afternoon tea?’
Farah looked at the man with some uncertainty. What was going on? Why in the world did Zaheer’s brother want to have afternoon tea with them?
Ali and Farah proceeded behind Munshi towards a monstrously large 4x4 Toyota Land Cruiser. Munshi got into the front, Farah and Ali jumped into the back, and the driver started the short journey towards the Mansur ancestral home. Once they were away from the kiln, there was an increasing amount of greenery to be seen; they passed a pretty wooded area, and a stream trickled by. It was perfectly picturesque, especially when compared to the arid landscape of the dirty brick kiln they had visited just a short while ago. Farah turned to look at Ali; he looked serious, almost moody, and she really didn’t know what to make of it.
Farah did expect the family home to be grand, but she was quite unprepared for the dramatic appearance of the haveli. The mansion was an architectural delight, dating back over 120 years, or so Munshi told them. It was a very wide building; the lower floor was much larger than the upper. It was washed in a creamy colour, a muted tone that was very soothing to the eye. The building was enhanced with numerous archways, beautifully designed pillars and expertly crafted columns. It was appealingly symmetrical. The path that led to the front was dotted on either side with neat rows of orange and lemon trees planted alternately in the parched soil. In fact, everything around them looked dry and thirsty, standing forlorn due to the unrelenting heat which took over everything in its path.
Just as they were entering the hallway, a boy, aged about twelve or thirteen, came out from one of the doors to the side of the hallway. He stopped briefly to check his mobile phone, then looked up and met Farah’s gaze. For a split second she felt unnerved, inexplicably so, but then the boy rushed past them and darted up the grand staircase. He was followed by a middle-aged woman, presumably his mother, who carried a rucksack in her hands. She stopped in her tracks, and gave a brief nod to Farah and Ali, which was accompanied by a hushed salaam, which they both returned. She then followed the boy up the stairs.
They were both shown into probably the largest sitting room that Farah ever entered. There was enough space for perhaps two tennis courts. At least this room was not hot; far from it, for as soon as they stepped inside, the air conditioning made her feel as though she had walked from the unbearable heat of a baking desert in midsummer to the coolness of a dew-covered mountain top in winter. The freshness suddenly and quite unexpectedly brought to Farah’s mind several verses from the Quran, which she didn’t read as much as she felt
she ought, but did usually make an effort to try to read every Ramadan. She recalled the verses where paradise is described as a place where there will be a constant cool breeze and no heat or fatigue will touch those fortunate enough to dwell there, although she thought neither of the Mansur brothers were ever likely to enter the gates of paradise.
The coolness was where the similarity with paradise stopped. The room was decorated with large, showy, obtrusive portraits of various family members, past and present. This included one of Zaheer, which caught Farah’s eye as soon as she entered the room. It was a hand-painted portrait hung on the wall above a fancy glass-fronted display unit. Zaheer was wearing traditional clothes: a white salwar kameez and a black waistcoat. His face bore a faint smile, and it was as if his countenance was saying he was untouchable, invincible even. Farah looked away, uncomfortable with his image watching her from the wall.
They were shown to the seating area with three large, soft burgundy sofas, each resting on a decorative walnut frame. The wood extended to display fancily carved armrests. The large rectangular wooden coffee table in the middle was topped with an abundant arrangement of fresh flowers, a shiny gold cigarette box and an Urdu newspaper.
‘Please, make yourselves comfortable; I will arrange for some cold drinks and snacks, and inform Mr Mansur that you are here,’ said Munshi, and then he walked off.
They both sat on the same sofa. It was so large that at least six people might have fit.
Farah looked towards Ali, but he said nothing. Right now, there was something about his silence that unnerved her. She looked hesitantly around the room, which was imposing in both its proportions and its appearance. It was awash with gleaming marble floors, complicatedly woven rugs, modern and antique furniture and delicate ornaments that adorned every corner, table and dresser.
Farah didn’t speak, and Ali maintained his silence. She didn’t quite understand why Ali was so hesitant to speak; was he annoyed about having been roped into coming to this place, or was it perhaps the fear of being overheard?