by Aysha Baqir
“And you’re telling me now?” Tara’s eyes flashed. When I nodded, Tara turned away.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. Sitting next to my crate, I studied until Amma returned, and then hurried to help Tara wash clothes. We worked without talking. After dinner, Amma and Abba left for Shaukat Chacha’s house. Omer sorted the livestock feed outside.
At night, lying on the charpais, my thoughts churned like milk and water whisked into lassi. Why hadn’t I told Tara before? She was my twin, a part of me. She snuck food to me when Amma sent me to bed without dinner. She rubbed my head when it felt heavy as a rock. There was no one like her. She played thumb wrestling with me when I couldn’t sleep. We always slept with our fingers curled together. We told each other everything. We had never kept secrets from each other. She was right to be angry. I leaned back, feeling Tara’s warmth and inhaling her scent. The tight knot inside my chest melted.
“That woman, what she said, it’s all rubbish,” whispered Tara. “You know that, right?” Her hand curled around my shoulder. “Not now, but in a year or two, I always thought we would get married together.” I froze. What was she talking about? Tara shifted closer. “Zara?”
My breath jammed. I shook my head. “No, not now, not in a year, or even in two years.” I pulled away. Why didn’t she understand? If she didn’t, who would? She had to understand. I took a deep breath. “I want more.”
“What more?” Tara was up on her elbows. “Marriage will give us so much, our own homes, our own lives. Amma says so.”
“Amma’s wrong.” I shot out. I shut my eyes. Was I wrong to want more?
“Zara, don’t,” urged Tara. “Haven’t you learnt enough? Who’s putting these ideas into your head? And what if Abba finds out? We’ve already lost so much.”
I stared into the dark, trying to push the memory away. A few years ago Amma had been eager to grow vegetables on the patch of land behind our house. Amma’s friend, Shakeela Masi, who ran a vegetable shop with her husband, had told Amma they were looking for suppliers. One afternoon when our Nani had been visiting, Amma had asked us to clear the weeds and plough the land, since the planting season was near. When Abba returned home, Amma had led him to the plot, held out the packet of seeds and voiced her idea. Abba’s brows had fused like a giant centipede. He had snapped that the women in his family didn’t work.
When Nani had tried to reason that the extra income could help with our dowries, Abba had growled that his family had to learn to live with what he earned. Stammering, Amma had tried to explain that she had only been thinking about how to help him. But Abba had cut her off and roared that if Amma wanted to help, she should think about how she could please her husband. And she might do a better job without her mother around. That had been the end of Amma’s vegetable garden and Nani’s visits.
11
A few days after Shaukat Chacha’s funeral, Abba discovered an army of pests chewing on our cotton crop. We prayed, sprinkled potions and sacrificed animals, but nothing worked. Finally, Abba, along with the other farmers, rushed to our Pir with sacks of wheat. The next morning, the pest sprays that had mysteriously disappeared from the market were back in the village store.
Master Saab set a date for my exam for Class VI, giving me ninety-one days to prepare. Was it enough? I didn’t know. I had never sat for a proper exam before. It could change my life. Amma had agreed to speak to Abba about my lessons if Omer promised to rank first in his class. I knew it was important for Amma that Omer topped. I pretended not to care.
A week after the storm I slipped out into the grey morning. The rooster that I throttled many times in my dreams had stopped crowing, and the baby’s cries that had woken me had subsided into gurgles. I had an hour at least. Setting my book on the wooden crate, I bent my head.
A shadow fell over the open copybook. I jerked up. The sun was up in the sky. Amma peered over my shoulder with a frown. “You’ll ruin your eyes with studying so much.”
“I’m nearly finished.” I shut the book.
“And what’s all that?”
“Mathematics. I didn’t have enough pages in my copybook and needed to draw different types of shapes. See.” My hand skimmed over the lines I had sketched on the dry ground.
“Rub them out before Abba returns. And what have you done to your hair?” Amma tugged at the knot. “Take it down immediately and put your books away.”
“But Amma, I only have a few pages left,” I protested.
“Do as I tell you. Close your books, get on with washing the clothes and then help me pack. And don’t forget to put out the scraps. The cats must be hungry.” She turned back.
I stiffened. The cats. Why didn’t she just take them to Khalid Chacha’s? Gripping the book, I flipped through the pages; at least ten questions left before the end of the chapter. But catching Amma’s warning look, I jumped to put my books away.
We were going to Khalid Chacha’s place for the festival of Eidul-Adha. Khalid Chacha was Abba’s cousin and close friend since Abba had arrived in Pakistan. After marriage, Abba had moved to another village, but they had remained close.
An hour later I hung the freshly washed clothes on the washing line, careful not to tear the fraying fabric and helped Tara to pack the clothes, shoes, pickle jars and gifts heaped on the charpai. Following Amma’s instructions, we knotted the bundles with thick twine. We had to pack the gifts and clothes tightly. If nothing moved, nothing would break.
Sweat dripped down my face and neck. “Let’s bathe,” I urged. “Omer will finish the water if he goes first, and I just hauled up a bucket this morning.”
“Good idea,” said Tara.
Yanking a change of shalwar-kameez from the rusty nail, I dashed into the narrow stall with Tara. After I had caught a cockroach scuttling up my calf, we kept a watch for roaches and other bugs while we bathed, taking turns.
I took one mug of water to soap myself and three mugs to wash off. Done. I slipped into my old clothes. They were fraying at the ends, but the neck was loose and sleeves short. I could breathe. The new shirt that Abba had bought for Tara and me to share this Eid had long sleeves and a high collar that bound my neck like a noose.
“Let’s go stand by the door,” I urged.
“Wait, take these before you go,” called Amma.
I turned back and froze. Amma held out the long dark folds of two burkas. We had never worn the burka before, so why now, and in this heat? What was wrong with the chadors we took? And why the burka? It was the worst. I wasn’t going to wear a burka. Never. Trembling, I turned towards Tara, but she had slipped the burka over her head. She looked like a witch.
“Why are you waiting? Hurry.” Amma tugged the veil over my head and tied the strings under my chin. The heavy cloth slithered over me, and down to my feet. Within seconds I was trapped and caged. I couldn’t move. It was dark and stuffy. Everything blurred into grey. Where did my hands go? I couldn’t see. Or breathe.
“Amma, no,” I tugged at it. She couldn’t do this.
“Take it off, and you won’t get another minute to study,” hissed Amma.
“But why?” I whispered.
“For your own good.”
“Amma, they take chadors, they don’t need this,” protested Omer, walking in.
“Nonsense,” Amma shot back. “What do you know? Hurry and put on your shirt.”
At that moment, Abba walked in, and telling Amma he had to bathe and change, he disappeared. Amma got busy laying out his new clothes.
My head was going to explode. Rushing out, I bumped into the tonga wheel. Gripping the side, I traced my fingers over the faded wood. The invention of the wheel and axle had changed the world. I jumped aboard. Dreams were like fireflies, Nani said. They sparked and flashed in the dark. We had to grasp them, catch them. Otherwise, they would fly away. And it would be dark again.
I shut my eyes. I hiked on the narrow, winding Silk Route, passing the dense cover of the pine trees to reach the rugged terrain of the Himalayas an
d the Karakorum. I climbed the luminous peak of K2, jutting nine thousand meters above sea level. I sailed past the white foaming waves that rolled on the coastline of the Arabian Sea from Baluchistan all the way to Sindh, a distance of over a thousand kilometres. I flew over the glistening sands of the Cholistan desert, bordering my village, and paid homage to the silent killer. Over the centuries, the gentle waves of golden sand had dried up many rivers and destroyed many villages outside the bastions of Derawar Fort. I ran away from fields that fenced me, and the mud hut that buried me. I had speed and strength. I wasn’t going to let a burka beat me.
“Hey girl, are you all right?” asked the tonga-walla as the horses reared and the tonga tilted. I nodded, leapt down and walked around. Flies buzzed around the horse’s nose. Bothersome pests. Large brown eyes stared back. I ran my knuckles down the long mane. My chest tightened. Strapped to the harness, the horse followed the path chosen by the tonga-walla. About to ask if it was necessary to strap the horses, I stopped when the door banged open.
“You’ll get us all into trouble,” muttered Amma. “Thank God Abba didn’t see you going out.”
“Sorry,” I murmured. Omer grinned and opened his mouth to say something, but Abba was out and bolting the front door. Seeing Omer squeeze in between Abba and the tonga-walla, I nudged Tara into the middle seat. She hated the rolling motion; it made her sick. I sank down and jumped immediately. The plastic was hotter than burning sand.
“Zara,” warned Amma. I dropped back into the seat, shut my eyes and in my mind, ran. When I ran, I could be someone else, somewhere else and far away.
“Let’s go,” said Abba. The tonga walla flicked his rod. The horses broke into a trot. The rickety wheels rolled past the narrow drains littered with paper and plastic. Stray, flea-infested dogs napped in the shade of the mud walls. In minutes, we had left the village behind. I opened my eyes. My backside was numb.
The mud-baked houses and bullock carts receded. Sunlight streamed clear and bright and dust particles hung in the air. The mud track ended abruptly. The tonga climbed onto the thin blade-like road cutting through the fields. At the flick of the rod, the horses quickened their pace.
It looked picture perfect. Leafy trees with knotty limbs arched over the grey, paved road. Sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves. Beyond the woods, the fields swayed like a sea. Tufts of spiky grass bordered the road. The unfamiliar chirping sounds added a mystical touch to the otherwise silent morning. Small furry creatures scurried along the way and disappeared into the forest, out of a fairy-tale. It looked perfect, but it wasn’t. Like the menacing hag who stood at the corner of our street cursing everyone who crossed her, the forest held dark secrets. Last year a young girl had taken the dare to cross the woods after sunset. She had never made it home. Abba had joined the search party. They had found her close to sunrise with her clothes half-torn and repeating silly rhymes. Some villagers whispered that the jinns that lived in the forest had possessed her.
Soothed by the rolling motion I dozed off and woke up as the tonga slowed and turned onto a paved track. Khalid Chacha’s village had a gated park with swings and even a small market. Tall, slightly crooked brick houses with adjoining walls lined the winding road. I craned my neck, trying to spot the girls’ school Master Saab had mentioned, as the tonga sped through the paved lanes.
The tonga stopped, and we helped Amma down. Khalid Chacha came outside, and after responding to our greeting, beckoned us to go inside. I followed Tara into a large, cobbled courtyard. Two buffaloes chewed grass and swatted flies in the near right corner and an armful of chickens pecked at scattered grain in the far right corner. In the centre of the courtyard a goat with deep eyes bleated, restlessly tugging at the rope tied to an iron hook.
I had overheard Amma say that Khalid Chacha had built four rooms in his house to please his wife. Kulsoom Chachi and Khalid Chacha had two daughters and two sons. We were close to their daughters, Saima Appi and Nazia, but only met them once or twice a year. Hearing a throaty laugh, I spun around. Kulsoom Chachi sauntered towards us. Her long, henna-dyed braids spilled over her loosely draped chador.
“Salam, Chachi,” I echoed, a beat behind Tara.
“You’re here, finally. We’ve been waiting since morning,” gushed Kulsoom Chachi, clapping her hands. She trailed a finger over Tara’s cheeks. “Getting fairer by the day my dear, and what’s this? How pretty!” she murmured, eyeing the paisley pattern of henna on Tara’s palms.
“Thank you, Chachi,” said Tara. “We bought some henna for Saima Appi and Nazia too.”
“You’re such a sweet girl,” murmured Kulsoom Chachi, “But what’s this, Zara, no henna for you?” I lowered my lids as Kulsoom Chachi raised my chin. “Still running wild under the sun, I see,” she said and laughed when I squirmed. “Come and meet your cousins. We’ll have lunch later.” I scowled as she pinched my cheek and swung away.
We settled down on the mats. Chachi had cooked pulao with chickpeas and prepared jugs of frothy lassi. Abba and Khalid Chacha discussed how to get rid of cotton pests, the hike in prices, soaring temperatures, and the preparations for the sacrificial ritual for Eid the next morning. I looked up, hearing Khalid Chacha offer Abba a job on his lands. But Abba laughed and brushed the offer aside.
After lunch, Omer escaped to the fields with the other boys. And seeing Amma’s nod, I rose to help our cousins. Stacking the dishes in our arms, we walked to the washing pit.
“What? When? Congratulations!” boomed Abba, slapping Khalid Chacha on the back.
“It was rather sudden,” admitted Khalid Chacha.
Amma hugged Kulsoom Chachi. “It’s wonderful news, and you’ve shared it on such a special occasion.” Kulsoom Chachi beamed.
“It’s a father’s dream to see his daughters married,” declared Abba. “Saima Beti will live like a princess.” I swung towards my elder cousin, but she looked down. How could she have agreed? She was elder to us, but only by a year or even less.
“That’s what I said,” chirped Kulsoom Chachi. “Such a surprise it was. I had no time to prepare. But when they proposed, I knew we had to answer immediately.”
“That’s not …” began Khalid Chacha.
“And how could we not?” interrupted Chachi. “The tension of young daughters ripening in the house is enough to …”
“That’s enough,” cut in Chacha.
“I was only saying,” began Chachi.
“We have much to celebrate,” Amma cut in. “Tell me what needs to get done.” Tugging Kulsoom Chachi’s arm, she led her away.
Early next morning, Abba and Khalid Chacha left for Eid prayers, taking the boys with them. I came out to help Amma, but after watching the goat tug and bleat restlessly, I slipped back inside. Why wasn’t I more excited? I hadn’t tasted meat for months. We had received a whole raan from our landlord before the local elections last year, but nothing since his win.
Hearing Abba and Khalid Chacha return, I curled into a tight ball and closed my eyes. Silence. I heard my heart pound. Suddenly frantic, high-pitched bleats cut the air. Shouts. More bleats. And then silence. I scrambled up, peered outside and saw Chacha raise the glinting silver blade of the skinning knife, I lurched back. My gut heaved.
We had to sacrifice. But why always the poor goat? Couldn’t we sacrifice what was important to us? Abba and Chacha could stop chewing the tobacco they loved. Amma and Kulsoom Chachi could stop applying the henna they loved, to darken their hair. Was I crazy to think like this? I had more questions, but no answers. When I asked Amma, she told me to be quiet and to obey my elders. It would keep me out of trouble.
Within the hour, a smell of cooked meat filled the house. When Tara came in to check on me, I doubled over, feigning cramps. When Amma opened the door, I pretended to sleep. Finally, Amma returned and insisted I come out to join the family for lunch. Unable to spin any other excuse, I trailed out behind Amma, ignoring Chachi’s knowing smile. Abba urged me to taste the meat, but haunted by the image of a round
nose and deep eyes, I even found it difficult to swallow the soft vermicelli pudding. After lunch, Abba and Khalid Chacha retired for a nap, while Amma and Kulsoom Chachi went into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. Omer sprinted out with the boys again. I gave up any hope of running out and eventually Tara and I joined Nazia and Saima Appi inside their room. We sprawled on colourful blankets strewn on their charpai. Saima Appi folded her legs and laughed while her younger sister Nazia twirled around the room.
“I’ve got a surprise. Can you guess?” chirped Nazia and winked. Before I could reply, she had hauled out an old hookah from under the charpai. “It’s all ready,” she said, offering the long pipe to Saima Appi. “Come on, take a puff.”
“Are you mad?” hissed Saima Appi, flushing beetroot red. “Take it back. Abba will kill you.”
“He won’t. It’s an old one. There’s hardly anything left,” coaxed Nazia. She pushed the pipe towards me. “Come on, Zara, it’ll make you feel better after all that food. Tara?”
Tara shook her head, but I curved my palm around the pipe and drew in a puff. Nothing. I inhaled the smoky air again and felt a rush to the head. I took another puff.
“My turn,” declared Nazia and pulled the pipe back. We took turns under Saima Appi’s stony glare, and in minutes there was nothing left. I grinned, feeling a heady rush melt my limbs. No wonder the men smoked it all the time. Nazia slid the hookah back under the charpai.
“No, don’t keep it under my charpai,” snapped Saima Appi. “And I hate that stench. Stay away from me.”
Laughing, Nazia shoved the hookah under the other charpai. “It was just a few puffs.” She clasped Saima Appi’s hand. “Please don’t be mad. I’m going to miss you when you’re married and gone.”
“Will you really?” asked Saima Appi, her voice softening.
“Yes,” declared Nazia. She turned to us and grinned. “I must tell you that Amma became a bit hyper when she learnt that a family was coming to see Saima Appi. She insisted we had to purchase a new tea set.”