by Aysha Baqir
Amma shook her head, slapped the leathery skin and sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you girls how to care for it and …”
“Yes,” interrupted Abba. “You do that, but remember the first stream of milk goes to mother earth.”
“But that’s just a village superstition.”
“You heard me, so do what I tell you. Tell me, do you recognise its breed?” Abba jerked the knot.
Amma shook her head. I looked at her. Why did Amma pretend? She had grown up looking after buffaloes. I had heard her tell her friends.
“I thought you wouldn’t,” said Abba. “It’s the best, the Nili-Ravi. I rushed over as soon as Khalid Bhai told me about the auction. I had to purchase it in instalments. Now if only we get a good season.” Rolling back his sleeves, Abba started to walk over to the charpai.
Amma hurried after him. “Set the food out,” she called to us, pouring water over Abba’s hands and arms. Abba scooped the water in his palms, ran it from his fingers to his elbows and shook his hands dry. Tara had turned towards the cooking pit, but I swerved to look at the beast again. “Zara!” Hearing the warning in Amma’s voice, I hurried.
Abba took his place at the head of the mat and sat cross-legged. Amma tossed the remaining water in the washing pit and settled on Abba’s left. Omer came and sat next to Amma. After arranging food and plates in front of our parents, Tara and I sat opposite Amma and Omer.
I smelt the spicy potatoes and pushed all thoughts away. This was when it all came together: food, family and stories. Abba farmed wheat and cotton on a plot leased from the landlord. When we had been younger, there were days when Abba would wake up and declare he wasn’t going to the fields. He would haul us up on his shoulders and walk to the river, telling us about his childhood days. He would feed us pickles and aloo-parathas that Amma had packed in the tin lunch box. He would hold our hands while we giggled and squealed and dipped our feet into the icy water that tickled our feet. But nowadays, he left after an early breakfast and didn’t return until after we were asleep. He rarely joined us for dinner, but when he did, the food tasted better.
“How was the meeting?” asked Amma, scooping food onto Abba’s plate.
“A waste,” Abba frowned and shook his head, “Our landlord accuses the department of corruption, and they say he’s a fraud. They lured us into this ‘double the yield’ scheme and now have us by our throats. They control the prices and the markets. We can’t do much.” He tore the chapatti and scooped up the potatoes with it.
“The neighbour of the river is neither hungry nor thirsty,” murmured Amma. “They won’t get away with it, they …”
“Omer,” interrupted Abba. “Did you clean the farming tools as I told you to?”
Omer swallowed. “I was going to when I came back from school, but …”
“School or no school. When I tell you to do something, you do it.” Hearing the iron in Abba’s voice, I looked up.
“Yes Abba, but …” started Omer.
“No buts. And we’ll have to see about school. I’ll need your help in the fields and maybe even …” Abba broke off and frowned. “Keep your focus on the land, son, that’s your future.” He pushed his plate away and started to get up.
I threw Omer a quick look. Famous for his storytelling, Abba had promised to tell us tonight how he had journeyed from Jalandhar, India, to Pakistan during the Partition of the subcontinent. I needed to know his story for the project Master Saab had assigned.
“Sorry, Abba,” mumbled Omer. “I’ll clean the tools after dinner. And I’ll give the fields as much time as you want me to.” Seeing Abba nod, Omer pushed ahead. “Will you tell us the tale of how you came to Pakistan? You promised.”
Abba gazed at Omer for a few seconds and then nodded again. “You remember, then. Yes, I did promise.” He sat down and unfolded his legs, tipping the stack of steel cups over. Tin clanked and water spilled. Bending forward, Amma began to apologise and Tara and I leapt to help her.
Why was Amma sorry? She hadn’t done anything wrong. I smothered the sparks in my chest. I had other battles to fight. I was named Zara after Abba’s younger sister, whom he had left behind. Nani said Zara meant the top, and the best at everything.
7
Stacking the dishes in my arms, I followed Tara to the washing pit. A storm rumbled inside my head. According to Abba, my grandfather had been one of the most famous dacoits in India. He had looted the rich, puppets of the British Raj, to feed the poor villagers. He had put my father under the tutelage of a wrestling champion, and Abba was being trained for a wrestling competition when the flames of Partition had exploded and torn their village apart. When a mob, armed with daggers and burning batons had attacked, my grandfather had forced Abba to flee to the nearest refugee camp. Abba had been the only son. He had the responsibility to carry on the family name. At the age of thirteen, Abba had hiked through miles and miles of jungle in the rain and sludge to reach the nearest refugee camp. He had never seen his sister or parents again. He had survived the journey to Pakistan alone and camp officers had helped him to locate his relatives. Turning to farming, he fed people and helped build a new country. He had lost his family, but we had gained a nation. More importantly, he had kept his promise to his father and kept the family name alive.
But why had Abba given up on his dream of becoming a wrestling champion? Was it because of his promise to my grandfather? I too longed for my journey and purpose. Amma and Abba didn’t know. Nobody knew.
“Girls, have you finished?” Amma’s voice broke into my thoughts. From the corner of my eye, I saw her get up.
“Nearly,” answered Tara, wiping the clean dishes.
“Good, finish up and get to bed,” said Amma, walking over. “You have to start helping your father in the fields from tomorrow. The harvest is on our heads and …” her voice trailed off.
I nodded, seeing Tara do the same. We had helped Abba in the past when he couldn’t afford to hire labour. I enjoyed working in the fields under the open sky. Glancing up, I froze. Amma was almost on top of us. Tiny hairs crackled on the back of my neck and arms.
“You’ll have to stop your lessons,” said Amma in a low voice, her dark beetle eyes fixed on me. “You’ll have no time between helping your father in the fields, and the chores. Anyway, it’s time you put your mind to other things.”
I turned to stare at her.
“But you promised. You said I could finish my studies,” I began, hating how my voice wobbled. Heat stung my eyes.
“Nonsense.” Amma tightened her lips. “You’ll forget all about them in a few weeks. I’ve made up my mind.”
8
My breath squeezed as if a python coiled around my windpipe. Why did I have to work on the land? It wasn’t mine. My dreams were mine. No one was going to snatch them away. Not even Amma.
I clenched my fingers around the stones and counted them silently. They were magic; they could work magic. I pushed up and took a deep breath.
“What do you think Bari Masi meant by night eyes?” whispered Tara. I tensed, feeling her hand curve around my shoulder. “Zara?”
I shifted away. Hadn’t she heard Amma? Didn’t it matter to her? I tightened my hand into a fist.
“Stop talking, or Amma will barge inside,” said Omer. He flipped a page and lowered his head over his books again.
“Nothing, night eyes are nothing. She was trying to scare us,” I whispered. I rose on my elbows, took another deep breath and edged towards the side. I had to talk to Omer. I wouldn’t make it through the night. Sleep was impossible. “What are you studying?” I probed. Omer shook his head and didn’t look up.
“Have you told him?” asked Tara.
“Not yet,” I whispered.
“You should.”
“Stop talking.” Omer thumped the book and straightened up. “I can’t study like this. I already lost time cleaning the tools and I can’t fall behind.”
“Did Amma say anything to you about Zara’s lessons?” interrupt
ed Tara.
Omer sighed and slid his books under the charpai. “Yes, she did, right after she spoke to you. I was going to talk to you about it in the morning, but since you’re not going to let me study, let’s talk now.” He met my eyes. “I told Amma it wasn’t fair.”
“It’s not,” I shot out.
“And that you wouldn’t give up,” continued Omer. “But she insisted you wouldn’t have the time and it’s true. Abba wants us on the fields right after school.” Seeing my face, he held up his hand. “But wait, before you say anything I have an idea. How about I tutor you before I go to school? Before Amma and Abba wake up? It’s early, but no one’s up and there’s no other time.”
“Yes,” I breathed out and lay back, feeling a molten warmth flood my limbs. I reached out to Omer, but then wavered. We hadn’t hugged in a long time. Not after Amma had said it wasn’t right anymore. I pushed the river stones to the corner of our charpai.
“Good, it’s done. Go to sleep or you’ll have Amma inside.” Watching me for a moment, Omer pinched the flame and slid the lamp under the charpai.
“Thank him,” whispered Tara.
I shook my head. It was too late. I wanted to hug Omer, I wanted to turn around to whisper and giggle with Tara like old times, but the python was back, squeezing tighter and spewing thick venom. Last year, when Omer had passed his exams, Amma had spent hours preparing his favourite dessert, the milky kheer. This year, when I had cleared with higher marks, Amma had muttered I needed to learn to make softer chapattis.
I wasn’t going to be pushed back. Not this time.
Three years ago, Master Saab, as he later became fondly known, had stumbled across our village by chance, en route to his ancestral home after retiring from the post of principal of a government school in Multan. We had been in the fields, helping Abba with the harvest, when his tonga had broken down outside our village. Spotting the unmoving tonga, we had crowded around it, steered it to the guesthouse and helped Master Saab to unload a small zipper bag, a large blackboard and a massive metal trunk large enough to hold a small buffalo. Overcome by our welcome or for some other reason, Master Saab had decided to stay on.
In a few days, Zubaida Masi, Amma’s friend, had dropped by to share the gossip. Troubled by the sight of half-naked children loitering in the village lanes, Master Saab had decided to set up an ‘English’ school in our village. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop,” he had quoted to the village grocer. In response, our Moulvi Saab, who led prayers at the mosque each Friday, had announced that he would start a religious school for children. In the following weeks, our village elders debated the risks and rewards of each system over countless cups of tea and gurgling hookahs, but the discussions broke into scuffles and fights. Following the advice of his friend Amjad Chacha, Abba decided to send Omer to the religious school. But Amma begged him to reconsider, saying the lands belonged to their landlords, and Omer should have the chance to make something of his life. She had pleaded with Abba to seek his cousin, Khalid Chacha’s, opinion. A week after Khalid Chacha’s visit, Abba had enrolled Omer in the ‘Angrezi’ school.
A few months later, I had gone inside our room to hang the freshly washed clothes and tripped over Omer’s books. Bending to pick up his copy book, I had gaped at the number of crosses and slashes in red ink. Why hadn’t he told us how badly he was doing?
Curious, I flipped the pages to the end and buckled, feeling like there was a fist ramming into my belly, unable to tear my eyes away from the gold stars gleaming on pages of smooth writing towards the end. I shut the copy book, but it was too late. Claws ripped my gut. How much had Omer learnt? What had I learnt during these months? Nothing. Fumbling and unable to stop myself, I opened another book. Girls in blue and grey uniforms and shiny black shoes, with hair in neat braids and ponytails, smiled back. Who were they? Did they study and play with the boys in the same school? Why didn’t I go to school? What could I be if I went to school?
For months, stealing any opportunity to escape from Amma’s sharp eyes, and without saying a word to anyone, I browsed through Omer’s copy books. I couldn’t read a word, yet they whisked me off to another world. The boys and girls went to school and on holidays. They celebrated their birthdays, shopped with their parents and picnicked in parks.
One afternoon, Omer caught me with his books and warned me of what Amma would do if she ever found out. When I had confided that I wanted to study, Omer hadn’t understood. “Why? What is the need?’’ – I would be married soon. I didn’t have to support a family. We had started arguing when Amma walked in. Ignoring Tara’s warning look to back down, I announced that I wanted to go to school and flung open the books to show Amma that girls did go to school. In a flash, Amma seized me by my shoulders and began shaking me like a dust cloth. Had I lost my mind? Had I forgotten who I was and where I lived? Girls in our village didn’t go to school. She would marry me off in days if I ever talked about going to school. She had loosened her grip only after I promised I wouldn’t talk about it again.
But then Omer had bowled a googly and vowed he was going to start tutoring me at home. If Amma didn’t allow it, he would stop going to school as well. Our Nani had told him that our grandfather, an English teacher in a government school, had taught Amma until her marriage. If Amma had been home-schooled, why couldn’t I be?
Stumped, Amma only agreed after Omer promised no one would find out and I would finish my chores before or after my lessons. When I urged Tara to join us, she refused, saying she didn’t have the time.
Within a few days, Omer had borrowed the books and supplies from Master Saab who, thrilled that I could be a model for the rest of the girls in the village, had to be reminded that they had to keep my lessons a secret. He had agreed, but reluctantly. Where he came from, both girls and boys went to school.
Each afternoon I waited for Omer to return from school. Master Saab set me on a target of one book a week. I was behind for my age and had to catch up. He had a trunk full of books, mostly in English, and encouraged the boys to read as much as possible. He wanted all his students to learn English; it would get them jobs in the city, he said.
Within a few months, I was reading stories about Jane and Peter. They visited the seaside, went for picnics and baked cakes with their mummies. I had never been to the seaside. I had never been on a picnic or tasted cake. Their world was far away from mine. I zipped through stories of Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella. They bored me. There was no place for fairy tales and magical kingdoms in my world. And I didn’t want to be a princess.
But the next lot of books that Master Saab sent over, Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, Tarzan and The Jungle Book, tossed me into adventures and hurled me into undiscovered lands. I was hooked. Persuading Tara to join me, I invented our escapades. Depending on what I read, my wooden crate became a boat, an island, a tree, or a rock, and Amma became Long John Silver, the leader of the cannibals, Clayton the hunter, or even Shere Khan, the tiger.
Little House on the Prairie gave me a place in its world. Laura Ingalls Wilder lived in one room with her family and so did I; I had to sew and mend my clothes and so did she; her life was filled with chores, and so was mine. But that’s where it ended. She went to school. She rode on ponies, made candy and played in the snow. Having the freedom to roam and explore the American frontier, she experienced the thrill of discovery. She survived storms, famines and disease. She was free to decide how she wanted to live. I knew I wasn’t free. My parents weren’t free either.
In Little Women, I admired Jo, wanting to be like her. No, I wanted to be her. We were different, yet similar from inside. I knew I wasn’t alone. Girls across the world were trying to find their way and cross hurdles. It wasn’t my struggle alone. But we lived oceans apart, in different worlds. When Jo rebelled, she gained her family’s approval; it wasn’t the same for me. My obedience was a yardstick of my parents’ standing in our village. If I rebelled, I dishonoured them and my family name.
Master
Saab sent other books for me. I read about the Mughals, the European Empire and the world wars. I read about the great scientists, poets, painters and inventors. Many stories found a home within me. The books and lessons sparked ideas and questions. Busy learning, I forgot where I came from or where I belonged.
Sometimes Omer was able to answer my questions, and sometimes not. I squeezed out the knowledge I could, but the sun shifted, shadows shortened and time always ran out. There were days I felt like a goldfish in a plastic bag. Circling round and round, I watched and learned about other realms, trapped in a world that was becoming too small for me.
9
The charpai creaked. I dropped my books into the sewing basket and bolted to the cooking pit. Abba and Amma were up. After tutoring me for over an hour, Omer had gone inside to get ready for school. Abba and Omer would want tea before heading out.
For the last few weeks, from dawn to dusk, Tara and I had been on the fields. The rippling crop was all cut and stacked, ready for the landlord’s men to carry it off. I was proud of my work. But sweltering under the thick chadors Amma had forced us to wear, I had fumed. The men got away without wearing their shirts, but we had to take our chadors on top of our other clothes. I couldn’t wait until Abba handed over the crop to our landlord, stored his share of the wheat bundles on our roof, and planted cotton. Then I could finally get back to my lessons.
“Zara,” Omer’s voice broke into my reverie. “Master Saab checked our assignments.”
“He did? Already?” My belly flipped like a fish out of water, the way it always did before Omer told me my marks. My grip tightened on the saucepan handle. “Do you know what I got?”
“Eighty-eight percent!” Omer beamed. “It’s one of the best scores. Master Saab is thrilled. He’s insisting that you try for school.”
“School?” I echoed, feeling hundreds of tiny wings flutter and flap inside my chest. “It’s too late,” I muttered. Amma would never allow it.