by Aysha Baqir
Omer crouched down and gripped my arm. “It’s not too late. You have a chance. Master Saab said so.”
I shook my head. “Where will I go? There’s no girls’ school in our village.” I had dreamt of studying in a classroom with proper desks, chairs and a blackboard. But it was a dangerous dream, an impossible dream.
“Master Saab said there’s one in Khalid Chacha’s village. But you have to score a minimum of eighty-five percent on the admission test. Master Saab says you can do it. I know you can too. We’re all above-age, but can catch up if we work hard. And Master Saab is so proud of your results. I’m proud of you. How can you not try?”
“Zara,” Amma’s voice made us jump apart. “Have you made the tea? No, then why are you talking to Omer? And why are you flushed?” She felt my forehead. “No. You don’t have a fever. What’s wrong then? Are you hiding something? Tell me right now.”
“It’s nothing,” I murmured.
Amma shook her head. “If it’s nothing then get to work. Tara’s already cleaned the rooms. Now, what are you staring at? Finish making the tea and then get on with sweeping the floor. Oh, and use the new broom that Abba bought, it’s by the door.”
After pouring the tea into tin cups, I hurried to pick up the broom. Omer was proud of me. So was Master Saab. Had Amma heard?
Balanced on my haunches, I swept the floor from one end to the other. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Amma straighten Omer’s school uniform and comb his hair while he ate his breakfast. Ignoring Amma’s warnings of what happened to girls who peered out, I scooted after Omer and squinted through the crack. Like on every school day, Omer and his friends hurried off with school bags hitched on their backs, mimicking Master Saab’s voice and goading each other to mastermind pranks.
After sweeping and rinsing the clothes, I began to wash the buffalo. I had decided to name it Kullo. I was in awe of the horned beast. It stood its ground, did what it wanted, whenever it wanted. It chewed grass, swatted flies and squirted streams of warm frothy milk better than the squeaky water pump in our village. My experiment of adding green fodder to the feed had doubled the milk production. The day before, I had asked Omer to find out if the local tea stall needed another milk vendor.
I had sat down with Tara to begin peeling peas when the door rattled. “Open up,” cried a sharp voice.
“Majjo Behen,” said Amma, lowering her feet from the charpai. “What is she doing here? Tara, open the door and Zara, make some tea.”
Majjo or Mahjabeen was Khalid Chacha’s younger and unmarried cousin. With hair that wriggled like a coil of worms and skin that glistened like cream, she laughed a lot and loudly, and when she did, the rolls of her chins jiggled. Over the years, the nickname, ‘Majjo’, had stuck.
Preparing the tea tray with care, I wondered again if Majjo Phuppi was happy being unmarried. She lived with her brother, since she wasn’t allowed to live alone. Amma kept warning her everything would change the minute her brother got married and she should think of her future, but Majjo Phuppi declared that she didn’t need a husband when there was food and politics. And she ran a poultry farm.
Walking in, I stopped. Majjo Phuppi was beating herself with a roll of paper. “Hai, hai, hai,” she wailed.
“Salam, Majjo Phuppi,” I murmured, setting the tray down. Before I could straighten up, Majjo Phuppi had grasped my shoulder.
“We’re all doomed. Have you heard the news?” she shrieked. I shook my head and tried to step back, but Majjo Phuppi tightened her grip. “The rat of a shopkeeper sold this leaflet to me for the price of gold,” she wailed. “And now your Amma’s claiming she’s forgotten how to read. What good is this paper to me if no one can read it?” She turned to Amma beseechingly and cupped her hands.
“Majjo, please, it is city news for the city people. It has nothing to do with us,” soothed Amma.
About to turn away, I halted, seeing tears roll down my aunt’s cheeks. Recalling the countless times she had smuggled treats for us, I reached out and wrapped my arms around her. I had never seen her cry. For a moment, Majjo Phuppi sagged against me, but then pushed back.
“Don’t read it then,” she burst out. “I’ll ask a stranger on the street. I can, you know.” She shook her fists and then shrieked as the paper fell to the floor. Without thinking, I picked up the leaflet and stared.
“Baton charge,” I began, my eyes straying to the black and white picture. Batons. Rifles. The words stuck in my throat. What was going on? What was the police doing to the women? I gasped as Tara snatched the paper from my hand.
“Yes, but why, what’s happening?” demanded Majjo Phuppi, her eyes fixed on my face. “But wait!” She shook her head slowly and then her gaze swung from me to Amma. “Is Zara learning to read? Are you teaching her?” She gripped Amma’s arm.
My head filled with dark, gushing water. It rose higher and higher, swallowing my voice and thoughts. I couldn’t think or breathe. I had promised Amma no one would find out.
I saw that Amma’s lips were curved, but she wasn’t smiling. “No, no, how could you think that?” she murmured. “She’s teasing you. Foolish girl. Omer is going to school, so she picks up a word here, a word there. Nothing to worry about.”
“But does her Abba know?” purred Majjo Phuppi.
“She hasn’t learnt much. Why bother him?” began Amma. “But you know what, I think Omer will be able to read the remaining news for you when he returns. What do you say? Now sit and have some tea and kheer.”
“Really?” Majjo Phuppi’s eyes softened. “Thank you. That’s all I came for.” She settled down on the charpai, her arms folded across her chest, her hand still clutching the newspaper. When Amma beckoned, I sat down to finish peeling the heap of peas.
Hours passed before the door rattled. Before Omer could greet us, Amma instructed him to read the newspaper. Throwing Amma a puzzled look, Omer picked up the paper and started to read. “Baton charge on protesters,” he began.
In minutes we had learnt that despite the ban on protests, hundreds of women in Lahore had gathered to march to the Lahore High Court to submit a petition. They were protesting against a law introduced by the Zia-ul-Haq regime that considered the testimony of two women to equal that of only one man in a court of law. Seeing the crowd, the police had charged at the unarmed women with tear gas and batons, injured dozens and arrested nearly fifty women. Escaping the police, a few brave women had been able to reach the High Court and been met by male lawyers, who had handed them garlands.
“They’ve murdered our leader and now they’re slaughtering our rights,” shrieked Majjo Phuppi. “Our leader is dead and now it’s our turn.” Rocking back and forth, she rammed her fists into her chest.
“Stop it,” Amma gripped Majjo Phuppi’s arms. But a deep wailing noise swelled from Majjo Phuppi’s throat. When Amma’s dark beetle eyes hardened, Tara and I hurried out. Omer ran to get Abba and returned with him after a few minutes.
I heard Abba trying to soothe Majjo Phuppi, but her cries and moans drowned his voice. Sitting beside Tara, I began to cook the lentils for our evening meal. A sprinkle of stars dotted the dark sky. It was just another evening, or was it? I stirred the curry with a wooden spoon. What did this new law mean? Was I half of my brother? I thought of the notes in my copybook.
1977: General Zia-ul-Haq, chief of army staff, arrests Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto on the charge of murder, imposes martial law and becomes the chief martial law administrator.
1978: Zia-ul-Haq assumes office of President and retains office of army chief.
February 1979: Zia-ul-Haq’s regime passes the Hudood Ordinance to establish an “Islamic” system of justice in the country. The new laws focus on many crimes and their punishments, including robbery and rape.
April 1979: Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto is executed.
Was Bhutto's trial rigged? Was Majjo Phuppi right when she said we had no leader now that he was dead, along with the dreams of millions of the poor across the country?
&
nbsp; How would these laws affect us? Would they affect us? Abba had declared that General Zia could do what he wanted, but nothing would change in our village. We lived too far to matter to anyone.
I blinked back the rush of tears. Why did I feel like crying? I had done well on my test. Master Saab was proud of me. He thought I had a chance of going to school. Did I?
10
Head lowered, eyes down, I tried to pray. And breathe. But I couldn’t. Tara and I sat with legs folded, joined from knees to hips, squeezed into a hot, musty corner. A streak of dim light slanted in through a slit in the wall. My stomach heaved. The stink of sweat and death pushed in from all sides and the keen stares of the ‘dealers’ made me want to bury myself in the ground.
Our Shaukat Chacha was dead. He was Bari Masi’s son and married to Amma’s friend Nasreen Masi. Amma had insisted we accompany her because she couldn’t leave us home alone, but then she had slipped inside another room to be with Nasreen Masi and left us alone in a roomful of ‘matchmaking aunties’. That’s what the villagers called them. I disagreed. They didn’t make matches. They made deals.
I shrank, feeling them draw in closer to me. When Tara dug her elbow into my side, I picked up the beads but was unable to remember any prayer. The ‘dealers’ were all around us.
They draped the whitest of chadors around their heads, and with sly smiles and scheming eyes that darted everywhere they watched everyone and missed nothing. They devoured news about any and every single girl in the village, like vultures plucking flesh from bones. They kept track of which girl was single, which girl belonged to which caste, which girl had the right dowry and they dealt out the knowledge they had acquired, to make marriage deals.
Cries echoed and wails soared. More women trudged inside, sniffing and moaning. Remembering my prayers, I began to recite under my breath, but in a few minutes, I lost count. I tried again. My lips moved faster and faster until the end of one prayer merged into the beginning of another. I couldn’t help it. Amma had taught us the prayers, but not what they meant. When I had asked Amma for the meaning, she had told me to ‘have some shame’. What did shame have to do with it?
“Poor Nasreen,” whispered a bony-faced woman. “What will she do? A young widow with three children, the poor soul.”
“She has a son, a reason to live for,” piped up a sharp-nosed woman. I recognised her as Zubaida Masi, Amma’s friend.
“Make room, make room,” shrilled a hefty woman with bulging hips, surging forward. Ignoring the dark looks from the women who had to move closer, she thrust herself in between two women, flung her dark veil back, and moaned.
“You are ... ?” questioned Zubaida Masi.
“Family.” The woman sniffed, rocking back and forth.
“Ah, but I haven’t seen you here before?” persisted Zubaida Masi, leaning forward.
“How would you? I’m from the city. Nasreen’s mother is my cousin. It’s been years since I saw her. But in such times family is all you have.” I flinched at the ear-splitting pitch.
Zubaida Masi nodded. “What a loss!”
“What happened, tell me?” prompted the woman.
“Don’t you know?” Zubaida Masi sighed. “God only knows what possessed Shaukat Bhai to go to the city to join the rally. Something went wrong. There was a stampede, the crowd threw stones, burnt tires and set vehicles aflame. The police fired shots, tear-gassed and arrested Shaukat Bhai. He went in alive and kicking, but they found him cold as a fish in a rubbish dump near the police station the next morning.”
I shut my eyes: the hanging, the protests and now more deaths. When would it stop? I had read that schools and colleges had closed down.
The woman stared at Zubaida Masi unblinkingly and finally said, “The dead are gone. I hope for Nasreen’s sake that her children are all settled.”
“Two girls and a boy,” another woman piped up.
“Married?” she prodded. I swung my head up.
Zubaida Masi sniffed again. “Just between us, the other day I was advising Nasreen to fix her elder daughter’s marriage. She’s fourteen after all, and if not now, then when? But Nasreen laughed and said I was a fool.”
“She’s the fool,” muttered the woman. “And she’ll realise that soon enough. But tell me, do you think they will serve anything? I left the city at dawn and haven’t eaten since. I don’t see any sign of food, although it’s past noon.”
“Ijaz Chacha was spotted walking over to the landlord’s haveli early morning,” confided another woman. “So many mouths to feed and more squeezing in by the minute. I hope he got the loan.” The chant of prayers echoed out from the inner room. For a few moments there was silence, and then shrieks and cries burst out of the room.
I locked my fingers with Tara’s. The prayers were over. It was time for the burial. I imagined the men hoisting Shaukat Chacha’s body, covered in white cloth, on their shoulders. Only men went to bury the dead; the women stayed home. I could still hear muffled sobs. A low hum filled the room. The door opened and Nasreen Masi’s eldest daughter, Zohra, stumbled out.
“Tell me, who’s that pretty thing?” probed the large woman over the babble in the room.
“I thought you said you were related?” answered Zubaida Masi. “That’s Zohra, the eldest daughter.”
“It’s been some time,” murmured the woman. She blinked and then raised her hand. “Zohra,” she cried. “My girl, come here and meet your old aunt.”
I gaped. What was she going to do?
“What are you doing?” hissed Zubaida Masi. “It’s her father’s funeral.”
When the girl drew near, the woman clasped Zohra’s hands and drew her down. “Oh you poor little thing, left fatherless so young. But you don’t have to worry anymore. I’m here now. I’ll take of everything. Come to the city with me and I’ll get you married to a nice boy in no time. Your mother won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Zohra choked back a cry and disappeared inside the room. I gripped Tara’s hand. Shaukat Chacha’s body hadn’t even left the house, and this woman was talking about marriage.
“Shy little thing. She’ll do well,” murmured the woman.
“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Zubaida Masi.
“Doing what has to be done,” muttered the woman. “I know a good family in the city. The boy manages a grocery shop. They’re looking for a pretty but simple girl from the village. One who doesn’t have the demands that a city girl does. If Nasreen is keen, I could take her and Zohra to meet them.”
“God bless you,” gushed the bony woman.
“I’ll try my best, but it’s not like I earn any money from such arrangements. Of course, gifts are always welcome.” The woman grunted. “These are hard times, I tell you. But speaking of girls, who’s that one over by the wall with that milky white skin? My cousin is desperate to find a daughter-in-law with a complexion fairer than fresh cream.” I shivered. The woman’s eyes had sunk into Tara like fish hooks.
“Ah, her, she’s Mariam’s daughter, Tara. She has a twin, you know,” said Zubaida Masi.
“Twin? Where?”
“By her side, the one who just turned away.”
“Let it be,” muttered the woman.
The walls spun. Chatter faded. A low buzz filled my ears. I remembered it like it was yesterday. Amma had taken us to Zubaida Masi’s to learn how to make sweet vermicelli with milk. A group of girls had run up to us.
“You’re not really twins?” a girl with buckteeth had probed.
“You’re so, so different!” chirped another girl with pigtails.
“Like day and night,” chanted another. I had wanted to slap her.
“No, like salt and pepper.”
“No, no, like mud and milk.”
The girls had burst into peals of laughter. We hadn’t gone back to Zubaida Masi’s again.
“Let it be? Why?” probed Zubaida Masi.
“Waste of a good-looking girl,” muttered the woman. “Her mother should do so
mething about it.”
I felt the women’s eyes on me. My face felt hot.
“Well, at least she has a brother,” murmured Zubaida Masi.
“Huh? What do you mean?” she prodded.
“Watta-satta,” explained Zubaida Masi. “You know, an exchange, one sibling for another. Her brother’s doing well at school. He’s a good boy with a bright future. Everyone knows that. Many families want a son-in-law like him. And it helps that she’s a clever girl. A brother and sister married to another set of siblings is a good settlement.”
“Well, you villagers have it all sorted.” The woman’s voice rang out. “All this talk of marriage is making me hungry. I’m going to go and find out what’s happening about the food.” The other women drew back as the hefty woman struggled up and shuffled away. I tried to move, but my limbs jammed. My breath squeezed into a knot. I wasn’t going to be traded.
A shout announced that the food had been set out. Women heaved and elbowed each other to reach the rice platters. Seeing an opening, I shot up.
“Zara?”
Without answering, I yanked my chador over my head and zipped through the courtyard.
“Wait,” called Tara, but I was already across the street. Inside the door, I pressed my head against the shaded wall. Why had I run out? I should have faced them and stood up for myself. I wasn’t going to be married off by any ‘watta-satta’ contract. I wasn’t going to be traded off. I didn’t care if the crops burnt down, or an earthquake flattened our hut, or a tornado swept our village off the earth, but I wasn’t going to be married off. I had a chance to go to school. How could they stop me? They couldn’t. Was it a crime to go to school?
“Zara!” Hearing my twin, I swung back and saw her dangling my shoes. When I stayed still, she dropped them. “Why did you rush out?”
“I need to study.” I gazed back steadily. I needed her on my side.
“Study for what? Omer’s not even home.”
“For school.”
“School?”
“Yes. Master Saab said to try for the admission test for the school in Khalid Chacha’s village.”