by Aysha Baqir
I winked at Tara. Chachi had said they had no time to prepare for their visit. Why the pretence?
“For days, Amma taught Saima Appi how to pour and serve tea and make sweetmeats,” continued Nazia. “But when the groom’s family came to visit, and Saima Appi walked out, wearing Amma’s rose coloured dupatta, everyone forgot about the tea and sweetmeats. I couldn’t tell if Amma was happy or furious.”
“Is that when you met him?” I interrupted.
“Who?” asked Saima Appi.
“The boy,” I said. Saima Appi and Nazia giggled.
“That’s funny. You think she met the boy?” asked Nazia.
“Well, you said his whole family visited,” I murmured.
“No, she’s never met him, but I nicked his picture from Abba’s pocket,” explained Nazia. “He’s tall, with a long curling moustache. You know what the moustache means, right? Their family has land, lots and lots of it.”
“But ...” I began.
“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Tara, and leaned forward to hug Saima Appi. I followed slowly. How had Saima Appi agreed to marry someone she hadn’t ever met?
“Do you want to see Saima Appi’s dowry?” asked Nazia.
“Yes,” said Tara.
“You’ve already seen a part of it,” began Saima Appi.
“What? Where?” asked Tara.
I glanced out and shook my head. Were they still going on about the dowry? I shifted forward. The sunbeams bounced in the treetops. The leaves beckoned. I wanted to run out and feel the wind on my face.
“The buffaloes,” said Nazia, “One each for us. Abba bought them last month. Hey, careful. Are you hurt?”
I sprawled on the floor. My hands and feet were ice. The buffalo. It was part of my cousin’s dowry. The picture of our glass-eyed, ink-black buffalo swelled and bulged inside my head. Why had Abba really bought Kullo?
12
“Phitteh muh.” I muttered under my breath in annoyance as the pencil nib slipped and streaked the page. I would have to wait for Omer to return before I could sharpen my pencil. We owned one sharpener between us. Master Saab had forbidden us from sharpening the pencils with a knife blade. I rubbed my palms on my knees, shut the book, and silently mouthed the words to “Subh ki Aamad”, a poem by Ismail Merathi. I continued till the end, and then again. One more time with the translation. Done. I knew the poem and its translation word for word, like a parrot. Omer had warned me not to even think of adding or deleting a letter or a full stop, because it could cost me a full mark. The exam wasn’t the time to share my thoughts; it was the time to show the examiners how much of the text I had memorised. And I had done that. But I felt cheated. If the poem was all about the joy and thrill of discovering knowledge, why did the examiners want to jail my thoughts? Why couldn’t I write what I really felt?
“Take a break,” said Tara, applying a cool paste on the angry rash on the back of my neck.
“Can’t.” I shut my eyes. “But thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And why not?” “Amma’s there.”
“So?”
“So …” I trailed off.
“Well, at least clean the sweat off your face and neck.”
“Why? It’s so hot I’ll be sweating in seconds again.”
“The heat’s not good for the crop either,” murmured Tara. Hearing the odd note in her voice, I glanced up. Miles and miles of lush green spanned the horizon. What was she talking about? Since our visit to Khalid Chacha’s, Tara had taken over most of my chores, giving me time to study early morning and once again when Omer returned. But I still had to put my books away before Abba returned.
The earth dried up, the shadows lengthened and then receded. The village slept. I hung out the last of the damp clothes and joined Tara to knead the dough for the chapattis. Amma said the dough had to be just right: moist but not wet, soft but not fluffy, gooey but not sticky. Sometimes Amma’s instructions were tougher than those in my Chemistry book. I frowned. Amma was lying on the charpai. That only meant one thing. Phitteh muh. I still needed to review two chapters of Mathematics before Abba got home.
“Oh, good you’re done,” said Amma. “Tara, rub my feet, and Zara, massage my scalp. My head’s about to explode in this heat.”
Muttering under my breath, I obeyed and perched on the edge of the charpai, trying to squash the hissing sound inside my head. I needed time to study. I dug my fingers into Amma’s thick coil of hair and began to knead her scalp. Hearing a noise, I looked up. Omer had puckered up his nose and pulled his lips into a frog face. He smacked his lips like he had caught a fly. Trying to swallow my laugh, I burst into a cough and lost my balance.
“Zara!” warned Amma.
“Sorry,” I muttered, not meaning it. Straightening up, I began to knead Amma’s head again.
“Pranks and laughs won’t take you far in your in-laws’ house,” said Amma. “You’re not children anymore. If you’re good, you’ll marry well. Once you’re married you have to keep your husband and in-laws happy and give them no reason to complain. You must do what they say, with a smile and without questions. That’s your duty and responsibility. The sooner you understand that, the better.” I rolled my eyes as Amma carried on with her favourite topics. Marriage. Duty. Responsibility. All traps. I wasn’t going to fall into any of them. Why didn’t Amma talk to Omer about them? Why always us? Why was Tara nodding her head in agreement? What was wrong with her?
Amma finally turned to her side. I shifted, thinking she would nap. But she sat up. “Come, we must hurry. Your Khalid Chacha is coming for dinner tonight. We need fresh vegetables. Here, take your veils. We’ll go to Shakeela Masi’s.”
Starting to protest, I caught Tara’s warning look. It was better not to say anything when Shakeela Masi’s name came up. Shakeela Masi was Amma’s childhood friend who ran a grocery shop with her husband, Akbar Chacha, in our village.
I had heard their story from Nani. At my parents’ wedding, Akbar Chacha, Khalid Chacha’s younger cousin, had stolen into the women’s tent, spotted Shakeela Masi dancing to the beat of the dholak, and fallen in love. Vowing to forget her glistening skin and light eyes, he had thrown himself into card games, brawls and potent drinks, but nothing helped. When he finally mustered the courage to declare he wanted to marry Shakeela Masi, he discovered that his father had arranged his marriage to Majjo Phuppi. His father had threatened to disown him if he married out of caste, but they were unable to dissuade him, and Akbar Chacha and Shakeela Masi were married just three months after my parents’ wedding. But even after fifteen years, relations were strained. Shakeela Masi and Amma remained close, but Abba kept his distance from Akbar Chacha. The story went that Majjo Phuppi started eating as consolation and vowed never to marry.
I trailed behind Tara and Amma, trying not to trip and fall. How was I supposed to walk straight under the dark folds of the burka? Amma had said I had to wear it for my protection. But I wasn’t convinced. I was going to toss it into the cooking pit as soon as my exam was over. Why did I have to be protected? And from whom? The landlord? His thugs? And how were thick folds of black going to protect me? What about my family, the police or the government? What government? There hadn’t been one for years. Master Saab said martial law was military rule that suspended the ordinary law, but others in our village whispered that martial law was a watchdog gone mad.
Crossing the lane, I walked on one side of the narrow track, staying away from the straggly beggar woman on the corner of our street. Men loitered by the tea stalls, crooning popular Punjabi lyrics. At the end of the lane, we turned right.
“In the name of God, have mercy,” called a hoarse voice. I looked up and stared. A scrawny girl cowered like an abandoned kitten in the street corner. Dark, matted hair covered her pale face. She raised her hand, baring a skinny arm.
“Look away and keep walking,” hissed Amma, and quickened her pace.
I stole a look. It had to be Chiragh. The gossip had spread like wildfire through our v
illage. Chiragh had run off with a boy, Anwar. He had promised marriage but abandoned her when his parents had tracked them down. There were rumours of an abortion. Chiragh’s family had disowned her and moved away. Anwar had married a girl chosen by his mother. Moulvi Saab had tried to stop Chiragh from returning to the village, but our Pir had intervened and allowed her to return, saying that if she had no man or family to protect her, he would be her protector. Nobody knew what that meant. He had two wives and half a dozen children. Amma and her friends blamed Chiragh, saying there was no place in our village for third-class girls, and Bari Masi had declared that Chiragh should drown herself if she had any shame. Majjo Phuppi had muttered something about what men got away with, and then noticing that Tara and I listened, had hurriedly told us to make tea.
Closer now, I noticed Chiragh’s jade green eyes and her dirt-smudged face under a ragged chador.
“Have mercy,” Chiragh’s voice trembled as she shook the tin bowl. “In the name of God.” The bowl tipped over.
It was empty. My gut squeezed into a tight knot.
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” whispered Chiragh.
“Hurry,” called Amma, turning the corner.
“Come on,” Tara pulled my arm.
“Uh, wait,” I wavered.
“Have mercy. In the name of God, have mercy,” Chiragh’s voice shook.
I stood still. Unsure.
The jade green eyes flared for a second, and in the next instant, dulled. “Go on, walk away,” she hissed.
But I couldn’t move, caught by the glint of tears in Chiragh’s eyes.
“Come on,” Tara tugged my wrist. “Amma will have a, uh, what are you, uh ... Here, take mine too.” In a heartbeat, Tara slipped her silver bracelet into my palm.
Bounding forward, I dropped our trinkets into Chiragh’s open palm and rushed after Tara. My heartbeat slammed in my ears like a race horse. What had I done? Had anyone seen?
Reaching the corner, I twisted back. Hands clenched, Chiragh rocked back and forth on her heels. I looked away and rounded a bend, just missing clumps of dung. Why had I given her our birth bracelets? They had been a present from our Nani and the only jewellery we owned. But I couldn’t have walked past without doing anything.
It wasn’t enough. What was going to happen to Chiragh? How far would our trinkets take her? She was being punished. No one in our village would forgive her. I had heard stories of girls being buried alive or being set on fire for bringing dishonour on their families. Those weren’t accidents. Was I part of it? I shivered, suddenly drenched in cold sweat. I had to stop thinking before I made myself sick.
Amma stopped near a vegetable stall. A dark cloth, tied to four bamboo poles, shaded the crates of vegetables stacked on a cart. A pedestal fan whirred, blowing warm air. “Salam, Masi,” called a deep voice from the left. Knowing Amma watched from her ‘third eye’ on the back of her head, I lowered my head.
“Salman beta, you’re all grown up and look so much like your father. How are you?” There was a lilt in Amma’s voice.
“I’m well, thank you Masi. Amma will be out in a minute. Here, please sit.”
Amma turned to us. “Not much room for all of us under this tree. Go and stand under the tent. And take your veil off your head, there’s no one here and I don’t want you fainting in the heat.”
I lifted my veil and sighed, feeling a breeze brush my face. I tilted my face. Deep hazel eyes slid past me. Following them, I froze.
Tara and Salman gazed at each other, unaware of everything and everyone else. Their stares fused and sparked heat. If eyes could eat, they would have swallowed each other. Was she crazy? Amma would thrash her, or worse. I pinched her arm, but she stood still, staring at Salman.
“Mariam!” rang out a musical voice. “It’s been too long. I didn’t even see you on Eid. Where have you been?”
“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” gushed Amma. “We were at Khalid Bhai’s for Eid. And after that, the weeks flew. I don’t know where the days go!”
“Excuses, excuses,” chided Shakeela Masi. “I know I’ll only get time with you when we’re withered, wrinkled and without any teeth. And have you thought about how we will chat then?” Amma and Shakeela Masi burst into chuckles. Stepping forward, Salman bumped against the wooden cart. The crates creaked. Vegetables rolled. I quickly pinched Tara’s wrist again. Gasping, she swung towards me, her cheeks red like tomatoes.
“Are those your daughters? How they’ve grown!” Shakeela Masi murmured, walking over. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you both. Have you met my son, Salman?” Shakeela Masi curved her arms around us.
“Salam,” said Salman. I nodded, head lowered. I knew I wasn’t expected to answer. I hoped Tara had the sense not to, either.
“Salman Beta, will you help me choose the vegetables?” called Amma.
“Huh, yes Masi,” said Salman. He hesitated and then stepped out from behind the stall.
“Good idea,” said Shakeela Masi, “And I can show your daughters some baby chicks, if that’s all right with you, Mariam?”
“Yes, of course,” said Amma.
Everyone moved at once, but I caught the spark between Tara and Salman. It was hot enough to fry pakoras!
“What’s going on?” I whispered as Tara turned away.
“Nothing,” murmured Tara.
“Girls!” called Shakeela Masi.
We scrambled after her.
13
I scooped a ball of rice into my fingertips, swallowed and chewed furiously. Abba and Khalid Chacha still argued over the new variety of seeds. Gulping the last mouthful, I looked up and frowned. The dish of rice was empty. Only a spoonful of yogurt left. I reached out, but hesitated. Omer had already put his plate down. Catching Amma’s stare, I also put away my plate, ignoring my growling belly. It wasn’t worth it. I squashed the urge to lick my fingers like Omer was doing. Amma never said anything to him.
“Enough of farm talk. I have some news,” said Khalid Chacha. I looked up, hearing an odd note in his voice.
“What news? Why didn’t you say so before?” asked Abba.
“We’ve fixed the date for Saima’s wedding.”
“Congratulations. For when?” Abba slapped Khalid Chacha’s shoulder. I stared down at the tin plate. My distorted reflection always made me smile. Not this time. Had Saima Appi even met her future husband yet?
“Soon. The boy’s mother insisted we keep it in late August. I know it doesn’t give us too much time, but I’ve been saving for years.”
“I’ve already started sewing the bed linen,” said Amma.
“Thank you.” Khalid Chacha smiled and shook his head. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky we are. The boy comes from an influential family with large land holdings, and is the only son. But …” he flicked a rice grain off his shirt.
“But what?” said Abba.
“I wonder if that’s enough,” said Khalid Chacha. Catching Amma’s hard stare, I began to stack the dishes. Tara followed.
“You said yourself it’s a good family with large land holdings?” said Abba.
“Yes, it is,” said Khalid Chacha. “But the boy hasn’t gone to school. The times are changing, you know.”
“One doesn’t need to go to school to be a good farmer,” declared Abba.
“I knew you’d say that,” interrupted Chacha. “And I also know Saima Beti hasn’t gone to school, but she’s still young. I had decided to say no, until Kulsoom reminded me that she was expecting our first child at her age.”
“She’s right,” said Amma.
“It’s an excellent match, Bhai. God willing, everything will be fine,” said Abba.
“We’ll celebrate this news with a sweet dish,” said Amma. “I’ll bring out the kheer.”
“Yes, do that,” said Abba, and turned to Khalid Chacha. “And stop worrying. You are doing what’s best for your daughter.”
Watching Amma pass out the milk-rice pudding in red clay pots, I hoped there wou
ld be some left for us. I sat across from Tara and filled two large bowls with water. Tara took out the black washing soap and began to scrape and soap the dishes while I rinsed and dried them. I tried to catch her glance, but she stared down. Abba and Khalid Chacha still chatted.
“I’m glad Omer Beta is continuing his studies,” said Khalid Chacha. “He’ll go far.”
“You think so?” said Abba. “I could do with his help in the fields.”
“There’s still time. Let him finish secondary at least.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Abba. He grinned. “As you say, ‘The times are changing.’” He laughed, and Khalid Chacha joined in.
“Mariam Behen,” said Khalid Chacha. “This kheer is outstanding. And the vegetable pulao was excellent. You have to teach Kulsoom how to make it.”
“She makes it well enough, Bhai, but thank you.” Amma smiled.
Khalid Chacha laughed. “There you go, you two, always praising each other. I’ll tell her that. She’ll be pleased, hearing it from you.”
“Did you buy the vegetables then?” asked Abba.
“Yes, I took the girls with me and left Omer home.”
“How much did you pay for the onions?” asked Abba. “The prices have spiked because of a rumour that there’s a shortage.”
“It’s the same with sugar,” said Khalid Chacha.
“I got a good rate at Shakeela’s,” said Amma. “It was the same as last month.”
“Ah, Shakeela,” drawled Abba. “Is she still flitting around like a queen bee? I don’t know how her husband puts up with it.”
Glancing up, I caught Tara staring at Abba. Catching my eyes, she lowered her head.
“She’s not like that,” protested Amma. “She’s my childhood friend and married to Khalid Bhai’s cousin, after all.”
“A marriage that nearly destroyed our elders,” growled Abba. When Khalid Chacha shook his head, Abba grunted. “All right, I won’t tease, but tell me, how are they?”
“They’re well,” said Amma. “They’ve expanded their shop.”