by Aysha Baqir
Omer’s laugh snapped me back to the present. I opened my eyes and blocked the past. I dipped the kairi into the spice blend and bit into it. The flavours swelled and danced. Sour. Tangy. Spicy. My tongue pulsed like it was the centre of my being. But the flavours were gone too soon. I pushed back and licked my fingers.
It had been months since we had run out into the fields or gone fishing. I missed the scent of shrubs and soil. I missed the feel of the damp earth and the springy grass under my feet. As young children, we had spent long afternoons playing pithu gol garam with stones, hopscotch with sticks and even chhupan chhupaee or hide and seek. But those days were gone. Now, Amma said that running out was haram. Playing in the streets was haram. Everything was haram after the bleeding started.
Hearing the sky rumble, I looked up. Jagged cracks split the sky, and the ground lit up silver. Branches swayed and leaves flapped. Omer began to pack up the spices. “We should go. It might worsen.”
I nodded. “Last one back cleans the chicken coop for a week.” I shot out, turned to run and caught a glint of gold in Tara’s eyes. My eyes.
A year ago, she wouldn’t have let me win. She would have challenged me or called me a fool. We had spent hours imagining our adventures. We had planned to discover the world together on rafts, ships, trains and even airplanes. But now she stood knotting the chador under her chin.
5
I raced past the sea of swaying stalks that ended before the line of uneven huts. I felt the early evening gust, free to drift where it wanted, brush my cheeks and shivered as it chilled the sweat on my face. Skidding to the door, I took a deep breath. Inside, our rooms were dark and windowless.
Pulling my chador over my head, I nudged the door open, hoping to slip into the shadows.
“Zara?” called Amma in a strained voice.
“Coming!” I stepped inside.
“You went out?” Amma’s voice tightened with anger. “Haven’t I told you and Tara a thousand times not to? What if someone sees you? Do you want to ruin our family name? And where is Tara?” Amma’s dark eyes flashed.
“We’re here. Sorry Amma,” called Omer, bounding in. Tara followed.
“Where were you?” demanded Amma.
“We went fishing,” I began.
“Went fishing, and came back stinking of kairis. Don’t lie.” I yelped as Amma pinched my chin. “You’re becoming more ‘tez’ day by day, you understand?”
I looked down. “Tez” was Amma’s favourite word for me. Smart. Sharp. Sassy. Was it so bad?
“Amma,” began Omer, slinging his arm around Amma’s shoulders. “Zara’s right. We were going to go fishing. Weren’t you saying the other day that you wanted to cook fish for dinner? We were near the river when we heard thunder and hurried back.”
“Stories,” retorted Amma. “Now hurry and stack the firewood before your father gets back.” She pushed Omer away and turned to us. She pinched my chin again, and then Tara’s. “You two should know better. Go on now, finish the chores. It’s late. And look at the filth on your hands. Wash them right now.” She looked at Tara. “Did you sweep the courtyard?”
“Yes,” answered Tara.
“Sort and soak the rice?” Amma’s eyes were on me.
“Yes,” I nodded, praying Amma would not spot the heap of unwashed clothes under the charpais.
“It’s ready to boil,” added Tara.
“Peel the potatoes and onions?” continued Amma.
“Yes,” we said together.
“Good.” Amma turned to me. “Finish dusting and take out the bedding.” She turned towards Tara. “Throw some scraps out for the poor kittens, they’ve been meowing away, and then come join me. I’ll teach you how to knead the dough for chapattis and fry the potatoes.”
“Can I work with Zara instead? We’ll work faster,” said Tara.
“We’ll dust, take out the bedding and then knead the dough together,” I added. I always worked better with Tara.
“Not today. Go on now.” Amma’s voice was firm.
“Phitteh muh,” I murmured.
“Did you say something?” Amma snapped, glaring.
Shaking my head, I dragged my feet into the sitting room and squatted beside the sofa and the pair of matching chairs. Feeling the musty shadows and walls close in, I grabbed the dust cloth.
The sofa set was part of the dowry Amma had brought to Abba’s house. I remembered Amma’s words. “Your grandfather spent more than half of his savings on my dowry. He travelled to Chiniot to place the order for the furniture.” I shifted back, careful not to move the cushions, and yelped as a hand grasped my elbow.
“Shush, it’s me,” said Tara.
“Why didn’t you say something? Scaring me like that!” I whispered.
“I thought a little light might help,” said Tara, setting the lamp on the table. A soft glow flooded the room. She paused. “Zara, tell Amma.”
“I can’t.” A trace of kairis stung my throat.
“Tell her before she finds out. Say we both did it.”
“You didn’t.”
“But she doesn’t know that,” said Tara.
“It’s ruined.”
“It can be fixed. It’ll be worse if Amma discovers it before you tell her. And it wasn’t your fault.”
“But will she believe me?” I whispered. Bari Masi, one of the village elders, had barged into our house yesterday. Before I could say that Amma was not home, Bari Masi had frowned. “Where is your mother? Has she left you alone? Why isn’t your chador on your head? Cover your devil's tails for shame.” Grabbing my braids, Bari Masi had pulled me inside.
“Sit,” Bari Masi had hissed, pinning us with her pale eyes. “You flit like butterflies now, but one slip is all it takes, and you’ll be strangled by a thousand snakes and burn in the fires of hell. Even at night you’re not safe. The night eyes – they’re everywhere, all around you. You think you can escape, but the night eyes watch you, they will always watch you.” Her lips had disappeared into her leathery face.
What did she mean by ‘night eyes’? My fingers had tangled into the jute weave of the seat and tugged, listening to Bari Masi’s raspy voice warning us that all girls were born stinking of shame. It was up to us to cover ourselves and protect ourselves from temptation, or we would burn in hell forever. Finally, when Bari Masi had gotten up to leave, the wicker strands had curled around my hand. I had stared at the gaping hole in horror.
“Tell Amma what she said,” urged Tara.
I shook my head. “What’s Amma going to do? Ask her to pay for repairs?”
“She might or might not, but you might try listening to me for once.” Tara moved to stand but stopped. “Oops, our bracelets are entangled.” She pulled at my wrist.
I unclasped my silver birth bracelet and it fell to the floor, freeing Tara. Since I could remember, I had always known what Tara was going to say before she said it. And when I spoke, she finished my sentences. Now, at times I wasn’t sure what she thought or meant, even when she said it.
“Go before Amma catches us,” I urged. My back still hurt from the thrashing Amma had given me last week when she had caught me tossing the broken broom over the wall. On a whim, I had tried to practice my batting with a broom when Omer had left to play a game of cricket with his friends. It hadn’t been one of my better ideas.
Watching Tara leave, I re-fastened the silver birth bracelet around my wrist. It was the only present I owned. Nani had gifted it to us on our birth. We had been born in the month of Assu, the month of the monsoon rains. Nani said the dai had not yet finished mourning the birth of one baby girl darker than a cooked crab when Amma had shrieked. Muttering and mumbling, the dai had squatted between Amma’s thighs and pulled out another jaundiced bundle. “Another girl,” she had mourned. Begging Amma to seek their Pir’s forgiveness, the dai had disappeared into the night. Nani had washed us and handed us to Amma, who had tucked us, one at each breast. But we had hollered, inconsolable until Amma had cradled us together u
nder one arm. We had turned to each other, two halves of a whole. The next day, Amma put us out in the sun. In days, Tara’s yellowness had faded to a creamy peach colour. My redness had cleared too, but the sunbeams had done their work, leaving me dark as a berry. I knew I was darker than Tara and much darker than Amma.
As soon as we learnt to walk, Amma set us on chores. She woke us at dawn and in the time we took to clean our teeth with a sheesham twig, wash our faces and plait our hip-length hair, she had our work lined up. We cooked breakfast, dusted the rooms, swept the floor, sorted grains, fed and washed the livestock. But in the afternoon when Amma went inside to nap, leaving us with more chores, we created adventures. Washing clothes, we pretended to fight monsters crawling up the riverbank; soaking rice and lentils, we stirred the brews to poison the witch who had captured many of the villagers; dusting, we searched for hidden treasures, pretending to be sailors from Treasure Island. We grew up imagining new adventures and creating characters out of the stories our Nani told us, or the books I read.
But then Nani left, taking the stories and adventures with her, and Amma began to pull us apart. She told Tara to cook and me to clean. She told Tara to sweep and me to wash clothes. She told me to bring water and Tara to mend clothes. And she compared us, clicking her tongue and jabbing her thumb on her pinky, going on about who did better. Tara did. Always.
I stepped back to study the sofa. The wood gleamed. Or was it the light? Setting the oil lamp to one side, I shook out the frayed crochet cover over the wooden table, to hide the chipped corners. I dusted the plastic mats filled with pictures of wild birds and beasts that haunted my dreams. I arranged the set of pink-flowered plastic plates and cups on the two mud shelves. I wiped the poster of the fair, golden-haired baby boy. He sat on his bottom smiling away. He had every reason to smile. He had golden hair and fair skin. And he was a boy. In our village, it made all the difference. Sometimes, I caught Amma staring at the poster when she thought no one was looking.
Plucking a bunch of plastic daisies from the clay vase, I brushed off the dust. Nothing matched, but Amma still crammed this room with her most valued possessions. No one visited anymore, but Amma insisted we sweep and dust daily. I stuffed the flowers back into the vase and hurried to the next room.
Two creaking charpais set against opposite walls took up most of the space. Amma and Abba slept on the slightly larger one while Tara and I slept on the other. I spread the ragged blankets over the charpais and rolled out Omer’s bedding, a thin straw mat, between them. I sorted the heap of washed clothes and hung them behind the door. Catching my reflection, a narrow, tanned face with a smattering of freckles, in the cracked mirror, I swung away.
Amma had forbidden us to look in the mirror. She said it was haram. The devil lurked behind the glass, waiting to catch young girls who peered inside. Only Abba used the mirror to clip his moustache. I straightened my chador over my head, and turning away, banged my shin against the tin chest filled with old clothes. In the last year, my arms and legs had shot out, making me stumble when I moved too fast.
I stepped out and stopped. Had the mud walls moved in closer? Why did I suddenly feel trapped? Even the air was still. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.
We lived at the end of the village, in a small hut tucked between a dirt track and the fields. Our courtyard was crowded with two charpais, one for Abba and the other for our guests. Amma only sat on the charpai while Abba was out. When he was home, she hovered around him or squatted by the cooking pit.
I had a place in the courtyard too. Amma had set Abba’s old tool crate in the furthest corner of the courtyard, keeping silent when Abba occasionally and absentmindedly asked why she hadn’t thrown the old crate away. Amma made me sit on it for a few days each month. Amma read prayers, blew them into water and sprinkled the water over me or told me to drink it. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Rage. Hatred. Anger. They sucked on me like dark leeches right before the bleeding each month.
Amma said the spirit of Mai Phatto, a crazed barren wretch who was stoned to death for abducting young village girls, was trying to possess my spirit. I had to stop her. The trick was not to feel. I would pretend to be a stone, a pebble, unmoving and lifeless. If I didn’t feel, maybe Mai Phatto would leave me alone. But it never worked. I would try to fight back, try not to feel, but Mai Phatto’s spirit was clever, it would lie low until I thought I was okay, and then suddenly surge up like a crocodile. I would scream and lash back at Amma and be sent to sit on the crate. I had to sit on it until I had calmed down and was ready to get on with my chores. I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone while I sat on the crate. And no one could speak to me. Tara tried, but Amma kept her away.
I stepped into the courtyard, and catching sight of my sewing basket, swiftly kicked it under the charpai. Amma had told Abba to purchase our sewing baskets from the market last season, saying it was time we started sewing our bridal linen. Tara had already traced out a pattern on her pillowcase and begun embroidering vines and roses with pink and green threads. Lagging weeks behind her, I was in no hurry to catch up.
Tara and Amma squatted near the two shallow pits for cooking and washing dishes. Tara hummed softly as she flipped the chapattis. Amma had forbidden her from singing aloud, saying it would entice the jinns.
“Come help me,” called Omer, stacking the firewood.
“Amma, can I?” I asked.
“Hmm, yes,” said Amma without looking back, “But after you’ve rubbed the tonic on your face and hands. It’s been ready since the morning. I’ve told you three times already.”
“Do I have to?” I protested.
“Yes, now,” said Amma. “And Nasreen Masi was asking me about the potion. Why did you have to mention it to her daughter? There’s no need to tell others, you hear that? Now hurry.”
Gripped by a surge to rebel, I hesitated. But catching Tara’s pleading look, I spun towards the cooking pit.
Amma’s obsession with medicinal herbs had begun after Omer had caught typhoid. There was no doctor in our village and she had begged Abba to take Omer to the herbal doctor in Khalid Chacha’s village. After their return, she had begun to grow vines and prepare herbal brews for Omer. He had recovered in a few weeks. But Amma hadn’t stopped experimenting. She brewed potions to make us taller, to cleanse our stomach of worms, to clear the spots on our faces. Every few weeks she plucked, dried and ground the plants into powder for various remedies and stored these in jars. For the past few months, she had been on a rampage to lighten my complexion. Lifting the dish, I gagged at the stench of the foul-smelling, colourless blend, pinched my nose and dipped my fingers into the slimy goo. I slapped it on my face and arms, and spat out the bitter residue.
“Zara, hold the stack while I tie it up,” called Omer.
I skipped over, passing the chickens roosting in crates, waiting for nightfall. Stopping to stroke the kittens, I suddenly wished that Amma would talk to us in the voice she used for the kittens. She crooned and murmured to them, held them gently, and even let them up on the charpai when Abba was out.
What was wrong with me? Shaking my head, I walked and gripped the stack of firewood. An aroma wafted up and my mouth watered at the smell of warm chapattis with spicy potatoes.
“Done. Now come, let’s practice,” Omer urged, straightening up. He bent his knees, arched his feet and raised his fists. I shook my head. Amma could turn around any moment. “Come on,” urged Omer. “Remember: float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”
My arms tingled as if brushed by spiky grass, and a rush of heat swelled my cheeks, remembering Muhammad Ali’s fight chant. He was a warrior in the boxing ring, the 1960 Olympic gold medallist and the world’s heavyweight boxing champion three times. Our village had burst into celebrations after his last win.
But Muhammad Ali hadn’t been born Muhammad Ali. He had been born Cassius Clay, Jr. He had been born poor and black. He had risen to become the world-famous boxing champion.
“Scared?” mocked Omer and
swung out one fist after the other. Tightening my fists, I bounced forward, aligned my toes and heels until they were shoulder width apart, and shuffled them to a 45-degree angle. But before we had exchanged a few rounds, a banging shook the door.
“Open the door!” boomed Abba.
6
We jumped back.
“Move,” roared Abba, as Omer yanked open the door.
I sprang to one side. Did Abba mean the buffalo or me? What a devilish beast. And it wasn’t budging. Omer shoved the door back as far as it would go. “Move,” repeated Abba. He slackened his grip and then yanked harder. The horned monster lumbered forward.
“Salam, Abba,” I murmured. What was he doing with a buffalo? Amjad Chacha sent over a pan of milk for the morning and afternoon tea in exchange for the fodder that we collected each evening. My eyes flew over the ink-black glistening body, the white markings on the muzzle, the sharp ears and the set of curly horns. My pulse quickened. It was the Nili-Ravi breed, the black gold, the best breed for business. Was Abba planning to sell milk? We could do with the money. I remembered Abba telling Amma we would move into a bigger place with tall pukka walls, a solid wooden door and a cobbled courtyard. But we hadn’t moved. Our hut’s walls were still low and made of mud. The narrow front door was cracked and faded. The roof leaked when it rained.
“Zara, get your sister!” said Abba knotting the rope around an iron hook.
“Salam, Abba,” said Tara, standing behind me.
“Come closer, you two,” said Abba. He grasped our hands. “She’s yours. Take good care of her.”
“For us?” Stumbling, I dropped the rope. Unmarried girls didn’t own land or property in our village. Sons inherited all of it. They carried the family name. Abba’s land would go to Omer. Our dowry was for our in-laws. There was nothing for us. I knew that. I had been told that.
“Oh good, very good. I was hoping,” said Amma. Her voice trailed off and her face flushed.
“Hoping for what?” I searched her face.