Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  ‘I remember the first time I saw your father so clearly it might have been yesterday. I’d seen him before of course because our families lived in the village, but the first time I really saw him he was walking alone from the fields. Everyone else had returned to the village. Tahir had kept on working. His head was bowed; he was weary. Back then, he was young and strong and handsome. Oh, so handsome! I puzzled why I’d never noticed this before. It couldn’t have happened overnight. Something must have changed to make him so manly. Now I know the change was in me not him. He crossed the high land with the sun falling behind him, looking to where I stood, and went on to Mundhi. Later, I often asked him if he saw me. He always answered no. Tiredness had dulled his mind, he said. All he saw was a warm bed and sleep. It would have suited the girl I was if he had answered yes, of course, but a man like Tahir had no need to lie about his love, he showed it in a hundred ways, even on our last morning.

  ‘I watched him. He was watching too. For months we went on with this delightful nonsense until we met on the path south of the village. People use a million words when they speak of love, yet real love just is. Someday you’ll know.’

  Behind the hollow eyes and parchment pallor Jameel glimpsed a girl. Time was cruel indeed.

  ‘One night Tahir and his mother – your grandmother – came to my father’s house. I was sent out with my brother and ordered to stay away. I didn’t hear what they said. Eventually, I returned, cold and tired, to find everyone acting as if I’d said something clever and they were pleased with me. We married. Later, we were blessed with you.’

  She paused, drained. ‘And so to this.’ She nodded at the pieces of wood. ‘Your father’s family had nothing: no money or cattle and little land.’ She spoke without bitterness or pity. ‘But he had a love for me the strength of ten. More than enough for one life. On our wedding night he presented me with these.’

  She lifted the bundle of ebony rounds and counted. ‘One, two, three, four, five…ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve, six for each wrist.’

  The boy wanted to be impressed.

  ‘These are hand-carved bangles. A set, two sets in fact. They belonged to your grandmother, given to her by your grandfather, and to him by his mother. They’re very old and very precious. Not in the way the world measures value, the way the heart weighs such things.’

  The effort was becoming too much; a new attack of fever gathered on her brow.

  Jameel tried to inspire her to health. ‘Put them on, mother.’

  Her eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell. ‘Your father’s love and your grandfather’s, and even before them is in this wood. Now they’re yours.’

  Jameel said, ‘Let me see you wear them.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I did wear them. For many happy years I wore them. The bangles have new work to do. Your grandmother believed they have the power to bring lovers together. Then the charms move on to unite others who need their help. As time passed, I knew it was true.’

  She clasped her son’s hand in a feeble grip. ‘This is my gift to you. Choose well and when you give them to your girl she’ll love you forever. It can be no other way. Tell her the story. Girls like stories about love. And believe. We are what we believe we are, Jameel.’

  He refolded the cloth and tiptoed from the room. His mother drifted to sleep, wasted to nothing; tiny under the sheet. What a story. Not exactly the treasure he’d hoped for. Thoughts of girls and love would come to Jameel Akhtar, but not yet.

  -------

  He slid off the bed, alarmed to see he had creased his new white kurta.

  Remembering the story made him want to check. The bundle was on the floor just as he’d left it and he had no doubt who would wear them.

  He could put it off no longer. Jameel straightened his clothes in a final unnecessary gesture and set off. Afra’s mother saw him across the village. His crisp outfit told her all she needed; he was coming to see her. She would have preferred to avoid the conversation they were about to have but wouldn’t shrink from it. This boy had risked his life to save her children from a terrible attack, and maybe a worse death. He was a brave one all right. Since his mother died, he’d become a man, nevertheless she would set that aside. It had to be.

  She greeted him, feigning surprise. ‘Jameel. Why aren’t you out in the fields? Are you all right?’

  Jameel answered with his own brand of fakery. ‘I’m well, Mother, and the fields will wait for me.’

  They went inside, out of the late morning sun. The room was bigger than his with better furniture. Hot tea appeared, made with half water, half milk, sweetened with four teaspoonfuls of sugar. She laid a cup on the table in front of him. ‘I’m curious. Why does a handsome man pay a visit to an old woman today? Tell me.’

  ‘You’re not old, Mother. And you have the power to make me happy.’

  She accepted his compliment; this was difficult for him. ‘How can I do that?’

  Jameel sipped; the tea was too hot. He was already tired of this shilly-shally. ‘I’ve come to you about something so important to me, that when I think of it, I can scarcely breathe.’

  He rushed on, unable to hold back, forgetting the speech he’d rehearsed over and over in his head. ‘If my own mother was here, she’d speak for me and find the words I cannot find. But she isn’t. All I can do is follow the only voice I’m sure of: my heart.’

  The woman’s expression remained impassive. She had a heart voice too but its message was buried. She didn’t speak in case she heard herself say things she mustn’t say.

  ‘You are wise. You know why I visit in the middle of the day. Or maybe you wonder if I’m ill. Could that be why Jameel isn’t in the fields? And the answer would be yes, I am – and I’ve never enjoyed it more. I’m on fire from dawn ’til dusk and into the night. You have the cure.’

  ‘Your heart must read many books, Jameel.’

  ‘Afra is the reason I feel this way. I expect the whole village is aware of it. Even when we were children, playing together, I knew I had to watch over her. You’ve known me since I was a baby, you know my worth. Now I’m a man, to care for her is why I’m on this earth. There can be no other reason and I need no other. I’ve waited until I can wait no longer. I’m here to ask permission to marry her. Hear me, and let my life begin.’

  The heartfelt plea left her unmoved. ‘Jameel, I knew the moment I saw you. Of course I did. I’m old, not a fool. I see the way you look at my daughter. And I remember the service you did my family, here in this room with the dog. I’ve little enough to live for. Without your bravery that day…’ She let the thought go unfinished. ‘Now you’re asking me to return your gift. Right deserves to be rewarded, though in life it’s not always so.’

  She lifted her eyes and met his. She had to end it, now and forever. ‘My answer to you is no. You cannot have my permission.’

  For all his anxiety, he hadn’t expected rejection. ‘But why? You know me, I’m Jameel.’

  ‘And why I answer as I do.’

  His confusion deepened.

  ‘You’re a good boy. But you’re nothing in the world.’

  “Nothing in the world.” His worst fear spoken to him.

  ‘And you’ll stay nothing. Afra’s young and beautiful. She can have any man. I must protect her from the impetuousness of her youth and make her look beyond a village boy. She thinks she understands life, she doesn’t. Neither of you do. There are other girls for you, Jameel, more suitable girls, who’ll give you children and make you proud. But not Afra.’

  The assessment of his worth stunned him. His white pyjamas felt ridiculous. The woman picked up her cup and drank the sweet liquid, cool now.

  ‘And this is your final word?’

  ‘My final word.’

  He had entered the room – the scene of his bravery – full of purpose. Now his head hurt. He needed to get out. He felt faint. The mother kept her eyes on him. She’d wounded this boy and she wasn’t sorry. Better to learn your place in life early. Better to have foolish notio
ns driven out while there was time to recover and go on.

  ‘It’s not about you or me; it’s the world we live in. From time to time, we’ll see each other in the village. Let’s not pass without a word. Let’s not become bad friends. I like you. I’ve always liked you. I refuse because I see your future. In time…’

  ‘I’ll never forget Afra.’ He was near to tears.

  ‘She’s destined for more. She deserves more. I deserve more.’

  They were out in the compound. ‘What you can offer is not what she needs. You’ll have a small life and be content with it. My daughter will go on to a big life with a rich husband. That will never be you. I’ve said I know you, Jameel. Now you know me.’

  She went inside and closed the door, leaving him with the chickens and the donkey and the dust.

  Chapter 3

  The moon crept from behind a cloud and cast its silver light on Mundhi village.

  Tonight it was no friend of Afra. In bed she’d had the usual whispered talk with Fatimah, but her mind was somewhere else. She hadn’t seen or heard from Jameel. She asked about him. Nobody knew where he might be. His house was in darkness.

  She closed her eyes, listening to her sister breathe, willing sleep to come. For hours, she lay wondering, until she could stand it no longer. The shared bed creaked. Afra slipped from it to her clothes lying on the chair and grimaced every time the door moved against its hinges. During the day these sounds didn’t exist, as if the sun soothed the complaining old wood. Outside the air was cool. The smells that lingered were the aromas of life in Mundhi; chili and cumin; ginger and mint, rosewater and kaora. Afra shivered and closed the door, aware of the consequences if she was discovered. A female skulking in the middle of the night would be severely punished. Women were the embodiment of family honour. Even an accusation was enough to guarantee ruin. To be caught would bring retribution she dared not think about. In Pakistan what she was doing was very dangerous.

  She crept through the village, keeping to the shadows. A dog barked and her heart stalled. She quickened her step. The moon played hide and seek; for the moment it was hiding.

  Afra gathered her garments round her and sprinted to Jameel’s house. She reached for the handle and pulled. The door was locked. Fear gripped her. Had he gone off without telling her? She listened then knocked. No one answered. She knocked again, louder than before, and put her mouth to the keyhole. ‘Jameel, Jameel. It’s Afra.’

  Nothing.

  Maybe he was ill. She crouched in the doorway and knocked again, harder. ‘Jameel. Jameel.’

  A sound, quiet, growing louder. Then footsteps.

  In the sky the moon broke through, a key turned in the lock, the door opened and there he stood. ‘Jameel. Are you all right?’

  His eyes darted over the houses looking for signs of discovery and helped her to her feet. ‘Quickly. Inside.’

  She felt herself pulled from the entrance. The door closed behind them. He disappeared and returned with a candle, sheltering its flame with his hand.

  Afra said, ‘I was worried.’

  The candlelight was weak but strong enough to show his face. It seemed different. ‘You’re not well.’

  His reply was harsh. ‘Why have you come here? Don’t you understand the danger you’re in? If we were found like this, whatever they did to me, it would be worse for you. You must go before you’re missed.’

  Afra didn’t hear. The face she loved was thinner, lined, and his eyes were swollen.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing. At last I’m awake. And I see.’

  ‘See what? What do you see?’

  ‘A clown who would deceive himself and you. Yesterday I met him for the first time though he’s never been far, and knew him for the dreamer he is.’

  ‘Jameel?’

  ‘I want you to go. So far you’ve been lucky. You could still be caught. I want you to run.’

  ‘You talk in riddles.’

  He placed his hands on her slender shoulders. ‘Afra, my eyes have been opened to who I really am. I have no business inviting you to share my life. I thought it was a good thing. I was mistaken, it’s wrong. In time we would be forced to recognise it, and by then it would be too late.’

  ‘But I love you. I was sure you loved me.’

  ‘Love is not enough. If it were we’d be as rich as the Moguls. A happy life needs more, and I have no more.’

  She pushed his arms away. ‘You talk nonsense. Love is the only thing that matters, everything else is an illusion. Why do you hurt me with this? You’ve forgotten all we’ve said. I’m angry with you, Jameel. I may not walk home with you today, I’m so angry.’

  She was close to tears. He stepped back and stretched out his arms. ‘I asked your mother for you, she refused. She told me things I didn’t want to hear. That I was nothing in the world. I couldn’t tell her she was wrong.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her. She’ll change her mind.’

  He smiled, slow and sad. ‘But I won’t. I can’t. You deserve better than I could give.’

  The girl was in shock. Everything had changed, and so fast. They were at the door. ‘I’ll speak to her. She’ll hear me.’

  ‘Afra Afra, it’s not a time to speak, it’s a time to listen, so listen to me. Our love cannot be now. That doesn’t mean it can never be. What do you say to Fatimah, “wherever you are, I am, and wherever I am, you are too?” Well, that will be you and me.’

  She sobbed. Jameel disappeared into the other room and returned with something in his hands. He guided her nearer the candle and peeled back the corners of a faded red and grey cloth. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Magic.’

  He held up the bangles; light skimmed off their polished surfaces. ‘They belonged to my mother, and before that to my father’s mother, and to hers. Twelve, six for each arm.’

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  Jameel took her hand and slid six of them onto her wrist. She caressed them. ‘What kind of magic?’

  He drew her hands to his lips. ‘They have the power to bring two people together. You take half. The rest will stay with me. On the day we’re together again, I’ll give mine to you. You must wear them always. If you don’t it’ll mean you’ve lost hope. Believe in the power, guard my gift, and remember.’

  ‘Let me say it.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘Say it then.’

  ‘Wherever you are I am, and wherever I am you are too.’

  They hugged each other. How she wished to hear him ask “Tomorrow then?”

  ‘I’ll speak to my mother.’

  He shook his head. ‘Keep the bangles safe. They’ll guide us back to each other. I must leave Mundhi. It’s for the best.’

  ‘Oh! No! I can’t go!’

  Afra tried to break back into the room; he caught her. It was light now. People would be out in the village. For her sake he had to make her leave. ‘As long as we believe, the bangles will not fail us.’

  He pushed her away, closed the door and leaned against it. With Afra gone the room was a shell. The scrap of land would be sold; a week, two at the most. That would give him something. Jameel wished he could go at once. Leave Mundhi forever. He blew out the candle. This was the saddest day of his life, but his mother had been right.

  Girls liked stories about love.

  Chapter 4

  Hamid Ghazili said nothing, he only looked.

  Jameel looked too. His eyes saw the same narrow piece of earth he’d seen every day of his life. Unworked for almost a week, the corn leaves drooped, determined to put on an unimpressive show. The older man stroked the stubble on his chin. Beneath the turban, his weathered face told the story of a life lived under the sun.

  Jameel matched his unhurried air, gazing east to where the Great Indian Desert reduced life to a daily battle. That was not the Punjab. Here, agriculture flourished in the subtropical climate; hot summers and cool winters. Hamid spat on the ground and drove the heel of his sandal into the dry earth, confirmi
ng some suspicion. Jameel watched dust drift in a tiny haze and wondered if he should spit. Would it mark him as a man who knew a thing or two?

  The farmer paced the land. Jameel didn’t follow; he knew every stone and felt no sentimental pangs at being rid of it. Once, it had played a role in his plans. Those plans had changed. Destroyed by Afra’s mother. Jameel had locked himself away, crying in the night. When Afra came to him he’d found the strength to rise above the desolation in his heart and pretend to be strong for her. But there would be no return to how it had been.

  What was said couldn’t be unsaid.

  A message to Hamid Ghazili had brought them here. Jameel sat on the ground and held up a hand to shield his face, fixing on the figure of Hamid, pacing and counting in the distance. The price was fair though the farmer’s opinion deserved respect. If their business was successful, Jameel would have some money at least. The house would remain unsold; no one in the village needed a house.

  Hamid completed his inspection. The prospective buyer stood as he had at the beginning, tracing the land with his eyes, surveying the scene. The seller did the same, unsure what he was supposed to see. The farmer clapped Jameel on the shoulder and the deal was done.

  A car sped along the dirt road, reflecting sunlight in brilliant flashes; it would reach the village before them. Mundhi was a long walk from the main road – motorcars were a novelty. Hamid and Jameel watched the wheels throwing up dust and stones. The dark blue BMW swept under the arch, travelling too fast to see inside. When they reached the compound it was there, wisps of smoke trailing from under the bonnet.

  ‘Three days, maybe four,’ Hamid said, ‘then I’ll have the money for you.’

  Longer than Jameel wanted but it would have to do. Hamid shuffled towards his house while across the baked earth, Afra was about to feed the chickens. The vehicle had attracted her attention along with a dozen others, mostly women. In the middle of the morning, the men were out on the land. The birds squawked. She threw a handful of seeds to the ground and watched as two men got out. The driver went to the front and lifted the top. Steam rose in a column. He put his hand in his pocket and produced a handkerchief. At his second attempt the radiator cap released, hissing. His companion lit a cigarette from a gold lighter and blew smoke into the air. Both had the same high forehead and hooked nose, the same moustache and jaw line. They wore western-style suits and white shirts without ties. There the similarity ended. The one smoking was dominant.