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I met the pichal pairi by the Ravi’s bank at the mouth of a secret tunnel. She was sitting on rocks, massaging her backwards feet on pebbles from the riverbed.
“My mother always said,” she sighed, “this is good for plantar fasciitis.”
She was smaller than I’d expected, five-three perhaps. Pretty, with green eyes and walnut hair with copper and gold hues, so a red ripple went through it every time she shook her head. She wore ripped jeans, a white T-shirt with WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY? printed on it in electric blue with a middle finger skewering PEOPLE, and an orange dopatta around her neck. No jacket, though the riverbank was chilly from late February winds. Woke, but somehow vintage at the same time.
“I didn’t realize witches got plantar fasciitis,” I said.
“I didn’t realize I’d be stuck with an idiot who wouldn’t know the difference between a witch and a churail.” She arched her back, stretched, and straightened. She spoke perfect English, slipping in and out of the language like an eel. “So, who’re you with again?”
“Dawn Magazines.”
“Ah, that bastion of anti-establishment sentiment. Nice.” She produced a cigarette from a shoulder bag on the rock beside her and lit up with a Zippo. The smoke drifted across the bank toward a buffalo wallowing in a stream that was once a river.
Everyone knows there are tunnels that go from the Fort to the Ravi and under the river—so the old guide at Lahore Fort told me when I visited years ago. Basements from Emperor Akbar’s time—many levels deep to the famous Fairy Palace—toss labyrinthine limbs toward the water. Not only did they give embankment against the mighty Ravi of the sixteenth century, they provided escape from scalding heat and quick access to the ferries should the Mughals face siege from enemy forces.
Now the Mughals were gone, the Ravi a muddy gash in the face of Punjab, its water a urine-colored trickle, and the tunnels—
Everyone knows the tunnels are a myth, they said when I first began asking around. Of course, no prince ever ran blind in that darkness, spilling gold coins and diamonds in his haste to flee the city. No queen, courtier, or guard made use of such secret passageways. And even if such tunnels existed, most certainly no pichal pairi with banshee wails and malformed feet haunted them. Was I ready to buy Badshahi Mosque next too? They’d heard it was up for sale.
Ghostly circles grew like mouths widening around me.
“Raza, right?” the pichal pairi said and blew another smoke ring at me.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about calling you a witch earlier. My bad.”
“Sure. Try not to stick around after dusk.”
Ignoring the alarming quip, I lowered myself next to her, aware of the proximity of her alien limbs curling and pressing against a litter of pebbles, first one mud-streaked foot then the other. Did she walk along the river between scatters of tents and tin-sheds, where hundreds of homeless families lived? After exiting Ring Road I’d noticed sickly-looking panhandlers—adults and children in rags tapping on car windows, slum-dwellers. I had no idea how long they had lived here. Generations? I made a mental note of looking into that for a possible piece.
She was smiling, a hint of teeth between lightly painted lips. I grabbed my recorder, clicked it on.
“Hello! Raza Minhas of Dawn Magazines here,” I began, “and I’m here with Lahore’s very own pichal pairi—Ms. Firoza of Old Ravi. Ms. Firoza, I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Name’s Farah. Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Could you tell me a little about yourself?”
“And risk being doxxed? No, thanks.”
“A little about your family then. Are you married?”
“Your questions are boring.” She flicked ash between the pebbles. “Indubitably, delightfully unmarried.”
“Parents?”
“Ailing in a retirement home. No, we won’t be discussing details.”
“Any siblings?”
“I have a sister. She is very pretty.”
“What does she do?”
“I’ve changed my mind. Can you turn that thing off?”
“You’re kidding?”
“About not putting my personal info on record? I’m sure as fuck not.”
“Potty-mouth,” I said under my breath.
“Did … did you just use a kindergarten slur to tone-police me?”
I turned the recorder off. “No, Ms. Firoza, I didn’t.”
“Farah. Yes, you did.”
“So that’s it for the interview?”
“I said I’d meet you, then decide.” She lifted an eyebrow. “So, yes.”
We regarded each other. I looked away, then at her. Green eyes with flecks of hazel.
She licked her lips. “Are you hungry?” she said. “I’m hungry.” I must have looked worried, for she said, “For some chicken, moron.”
Which is how the pichal pairi and I went to eat Shahi Murgh Chanay at Lakshmi.
* * *
She had lived in Lahore for more than three decades. Her father was Parsi; his ancestors moved from Eastern Iran to Afghanistan a century or so ago. Mother’s family were nomads, descended from a Hindukush tribe called Abarimon.
Mentioned in Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, these swift and savage mountain people lived alongside animals amidst tall pines and firs on the highest peaks and couldn’t be captured due to their tremendous speed. When Alexander of Macedon passed through a Scythian valley, his troops spotted an Abarimon male and gave chase. The back-footed man vanished quickly into the rocks and verdure, but later there were screams in the night and steel and animal noises. When dawn came, an entire regiment of soldiers was gone, the snow-whitened ground spotted with blood, littered with chewed up human feet.
Mortified and enraged, Alexander gave orders to track the aggressors with dogs and seasoned foresters. After three days and nights, they captured an Abarimon juvenile. She was hoisted on a pole like a hog, brought to the camp, and presented to the king. Alexander tried to touch her, but the Abarimon bared her teeth. The king laughed and ordered her caged so he could take her with him to the Indian plains. The moment the army left the valley, however, the Abrarimon gasped and fell to the ground, dead.
Alexander’s land surveyor Baiton would conclude that the Abarimon could only breathe their own valley’s air. The outside was poison to them.
“Baiton, of course, was blowing smoke up his own ass,” Farah said. “The kid was likely ill and the account exaggerated. It had nothing to do with the air. Our ancestors were nomads, for heaven’s sake.”
She had a point—further demonstrated by her presence in Lahore.
Springtime in the City of Gardens. A
cool breeze patting the heads of white roses, honeysuckle, and gardenias set in a neat row by the house opposite the coffee shop. Our second meeting scheduled at Gloria Jean’s, and we were getting more comfortable.
Her name was Firoza, but she preferred Farah.
“I was Ferozeh at birth, but it was too Parsi a name and my father didn’t want anything to do with Iran or Afghanistan anymore.” She sipped honeyed green tea. “So my parents changed it when we moved to Pakistan in the seventies. I was ten.” She raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You gave me a look.”
“Well, you don’t look fifty.”
“Appearances. Deceiving. And all that.” She dusted crumbs off her shirt. She had been dipping biscuits in her green tea, which I thought was weird. “Besides, I am half-Afghani, half-Abarimon. Deathless mountains,” she pronounced, “are in my bone marrow. Unlike you plain-crawling Lahoris.” She laughed not unkindly.
I was tempted to point out her current habitat of choice, but refrained. “So you’re a refugee?”
“When the Soviets invaded, my father knew the differently abled would be the first to get targeted. With us there was no question of staying when war came.”
I decided to move away from the morbid.
“What else do you like besides Peanut Pik, murgh chanay, and green tea?”
“Are we keeping an inventory? Chill the fuck out, bruh.” She wiggled her backwards toes out of her dainty buttercup flip-flops, retrieved Vaseline from her purse, and rubbed it on her heels. “God, that feels good.”
I watched her spread more lubricant over blisters. “Must be tough walking with a shifted center of gravity.”
She made a noncommittal noise.
“Did you go to school in Lahore?”
“LGS, then a few years at NCA and a summer at Boston U. My mother used to say education by dint of broadening your horizons, by showing you the world, can ruin you. Especially a pichal pairi.” The side of her mouth twitched. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I do now.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She called to a waiter who came over, carefully keeping his gaze away from her feet. “Can we get the check please?”
“Jee, madam. Should I pack anything?”
“Just a slice of chocolate cake. The hazelnut, please.”
He moved off.
“Do you need a lift?” I said as we stepped out.
She shook her head. “Careem zindabad. Long live ride-share.” She held my gaze. “As before, I’d appreciate it if the piece you’re working on—”
“Alternate lifestyles and minorities in Lahore.”
“—doesn’t mention my family history or details of my personal life. No identifiers.”
“Nothing specific. No addresses or family names. I’ll keep my word.”
“And if you don’t,” she said, flashing teeth. “I know where to find you.”
“I have your number. Will get in touch if I have more questions.”
“Your questions are getting better and you’re a good listener. Rare, that.” She walked to the curb, where her Careem was waiting, the swing of her body throwing her spine up and back, turning her gait lord-like. She cast a coy glance over her shoulder. “I’m on Tinder too, you know. Just saying.”
I couldn’t help a grin. “Full body pic?”
“Don’t be an asshole.” She got into her car. “See ya, news guy.”
She likes chocolate, I thought. I’ll remember that.
* * *
We went to see Nighat Chaodhry at The Colony on Queens Road.
I’d like to think it was my irresistible charm that made Farah call me, but I’d be lying. Her Careem app wasn’t working and she needed the ride.
“I’ve only seen her on YouTube. The woman is a fucking genius,” Farah said as we settled on pillows the organizers had arranged on the floor. The hall was filled with college students and student-adjacent adults. They sat cross-legged, cellphones flashing in their hands. Someone opened the balcony door and pot smoke drifted in.
“Didn’t Plaza Cinema use to be here—” I began to say, but Farah put a finger to my lips. The lights were dimming. A yellow square lit up the stage. A wave of shushing went across the room as Shafqat Amanat Ali’s “Ya Ali” began to play. Wearing anklets and a solemn black-red lehnga Nighat Chaodhry appeared on stage from the left. She held red roses in her outstretched hands, an offering to the song’s eponymous patron saint Ali. Facing the audience, head bowed, Nighat placed the roses in the middle of the stage, swayed, and began to whirl. Her dance ebbed and flowed, her arms and legs transforming the music into geometric shapes of grief and hope.
She came empty-handed to Ali, the song told the audience, hoping her barren bowl of desire would be filled by the time she left his holy presence.
Farah watched the kathak performance with a glint in her eyes. Her right foot tapped the hardwood floor in tune with the tinkling of Nighat’s anklets and the subsequent lamentations of tabla, flute, and sitar.
After it was over and another dancer replaced Nighat, Farah rose and went to the balcony. Slipping my jacket on, I followed. Above us a pale February half-moon hung in the sky like a prop.
Farah lit a cigarette. She was wearing an orange kurta and a pleated pink skirt that fell to her calves. In the moonlight her feet gleamed like marble, and I wondered briefly what it would feel like to put my lips around her toes and suck.
I put my hands on the edge of the balcony.
“So, what did you think?” I said.
She inhaled and blew smoke out her nostrils. “Woman’s a genius.” She looked at Queens Road brimming with evening traffic. “When I was young I used to wonder why people danced. What compels our body to harmonize with music? Why waste all that energy?”
“The taal of the tabla, the beat of the drum. The obvious answer is dance is like sex,” I said. “And sex is life.”
“You’re such a guy.”
“What’s your hot take?”
“You know all that time she was dancing, I kept thinking of Anarkali.”
“The dancing girl?”
Farah twisted her wrist and pointed her fingers at the sky. Simultaneously she stepped forward with a foot, her body in line with her arm—a classic kathak step; but her balance was off. Even I could see that. “Yes.”
I knew the story, of course. “Why?”
Smoke ribboned to the sky from her airborne hand. She breathed and straightened. “You remember in the story Anarkali and Emperor Akbar’s son Saleem fall in love?”
“Yes?”
“When Akbar finds out, he is livid, right? How can his son, the future emperor of India, fall in love with a dancing girl! In his rage Akbar has the girl entombed alive. Bricked up airtight. Left to starve to death while the prince goes on to wed his queen and retain royal rights to fuck concubines on the side. A tragic ending, eh? Patriarchy wins again.
“Except there are other versions of the story.” She took another drag and offered me the cigarette. I took it. “In my favorite, a mason is bought off by the prince and he lets a brick sit loose so the girl can breathe—while the prince’s men burrow beneath the walls a couple nights later and get her out. Anarkali is taken to the tunnels beneath the Ravi and whisked off to Delhi, where she lives happily ever after.”
I had a vague memory of reading this particular account years ago.
“Escape.” Farah’s eyes shone. “The dancing girl escapes, Raza. They can’t have her, after all. All of dance, for me, is Anarkali’s escape. A flight of mind, body, and spirit.” She smiled and held out her hand for the cigarette.
The balcony door opened. Music drifted out. A contemporary number. The Dunhill Light was moist from Farah’s lips. I dragged on it, gave it to her, leaned in, and kissed her cheek.
When I pulled back, she was watching me, her green-blue eyes trained on mine.
“What was that?”
I
shrugged, but my heartbeat had picked up.
“Next time, ask first.” Farah puffed, then flicked the cigarette stub off the balcony. It spun all the way down, scattering embers into the night. She pulled out a Ferrero Rocher, popped it into her mouth, and munched.
She turned to me. “May I?” she said quietly, caught the V of my shirt, and pulled me toward her. It was a firm, inquisitive kiss. Her breath was hot and tasted like smoke, chocolate, and metal—it made me shiver. I took her face in one hand, ran my fingers through her hair. She smelled like lavender and the barest hint of sandalwood sherbet. She gently bit my upper lip and sucked it, before drawing back to examine me.
“Well,” she said.
“I never said yes,” I told her. A couple stood half a dozen feet away, pretending not to look at us. The girl laughed. I felt tremulous and very aware of our surroundings.
“Fair enough.” Farah slipped her hand into mine. Her fingers were cold and so soft. “You can be mad at me in the cab.”
We went to my place.
* * *
You don’t need to know the details, except this. A pichal pairi’s feet curl with pleasure. When they do they tend to turn forward.
It is fascinating, watching them rearrange. Pleasure, or happiness, it seems, is their true north.
Farah had published poetry under a pseudonym. Quite decent, too. Spring rain drummed on my patio the following Sunday as, bare-chested, I fetched my acoustic and played a few progressions to render her words into song. She lay on her stomach on my Beatles floor rug listening, her legs penduluming in the air. She was wearing my Freddie Mercury shirt and nothing else.
“Not bad,” she said, eyes closed, “although one can tell the lines weren’t written for music.”
“Neither was Faiz’s work, but look at what folks did with that.”
“Eh.” She turned her head the other way, blew a copper-hued hair strand out of her eyes. “I’d like to check out Hast-o-Neest sometime.”
“The traditional arts place?”
“Yes.”
#Spring Love, #Pichal Pairi Page 1