by Aysha Baqir
“Damn traders,” said Abba. “Of course they’ll do well. They cut our rates to increase their profits. No ties to the land.”
“How can you say that? They work hard like us,” protested Amma.
“Work hard?” Abba’s jaw tightened. “What do you know about that? Hard work happens in the fields and under the hot sun. Our sweat is the proof of our hard work. We don’t sit under the cool shade multiplying profits.”
“Let them be. Why do you care? We have nothing to do with their family now,” soothed Amma.
“Yes, thank God we don’t,” muttered Abba. He stretched his legs. “Now, are you going to get me a second helping of the kheer, or sit and listen to us talk the whole evening?”
Amma got up. “Khalid Bhai, would you like another helping too?”
“No, none for me behen, feed your husband. He works hard under the hot sun,” quipped Chacha, laughing. Abba grinned.
“You okay?” I murmured. I watched Tara pick up a freshly rinsed plate and dip it into the bowl of soapy water. She nodded without looking up. “What’s wrong?” I pressed.
“Nothing.” Tara glanced up and dipped another clean plate into the bowl of dirty water.
“I do have eyes,” I said.
“Not human eyes,” shot back Tara, “You have these eagle eyes.” She yelped as I pinched her arm. “Stop it, your hands are soapy.”
“Then stop putting the clean plates back into the dirty water,” I shot back, and Tara gasped.
“Is everything all right?” called Amma.
Nodding, we straightened up.
I waited until Amma had joined Abba and Khalid Chacha again, “Tell me what happened.”
Tara squeezed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Tara,” I prodded.
“Okay, okay,” Tara pushed her breath out. “I think I’m going crazy. What did happen, nothing, right? We went to the shop, bought the vegetables and came back. But something …”
“Salman?”
“I don’t know. Yes, maybe, or something about him.” She turned a plate over and began to trace circles along the rim. “We didn’t even talk, you know. It’s crazy. But …”
“But what?” Keeping an eye out for Amma, I leaned forward.
“There was something, a click. I felt a rush. It felt right. For a few moments there was nothing in the world except him.” Tara set the plate down and locked her fingers. “I better stop. What am I saying?” She took a deep breath. “I felt …”
“Like eating kairis?” The words were out before I could stop myself.
“What?” Tara stared at me.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Listen, I think he felt the same. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Even when you turned away.”
“Did he? I don’t know. Leave it. Didn’t you hear what Abba said? It’s clear he doesn’t like their family.”
I glanced at Abba. Tara was right. If Abba made up his mind about someone, he rarely changed it. “I can’t believe it,” I murmured finally. “Saima Appi’s agreed to marry a man she hasn’t even met.”
“Why strange? That’s the way it has been and will be. Hurry. Amma just looked over again.” Tara started to stack the clean dishes.
“But imagine going to live with a stranger, a family you don’t know? It’s creepy. What if Khalid Chacha and Kulsoom Chachi have chosen someone whom Saima Appi won’t like?”
Tara shrugged. “They’re her parents. They know her. I’m sure they’ve chosen someone she’ll like.”
“But getting married to someone you don’t know at all? Haven’t talked to or spent time with?” I continued. “Our religion gives us that right, you know.”
“Shush, you’ll get into trouble,” warned Tara. She paused. “Didn’t you see Chiragh?”
“She looked awful,” I whispered.
“She did,” nodded Tara. “But why did you have to give her our bangles? They were the only jewellery we had, and what will we tell Amma if she asks about them?”
“I was giving only mine. She looked like she hadn’t eaten for days.”
“She was with that boy, Anwar. He dumped her.”
“He betrayed her.”
“Zara!”
“He did. I’m not saying what she did was right but …”
“Exactly,” said Tara. “It’s up to us. We can get married like decent girls.”
“Or what?” I narrowed my eyes. “You sound just like Amma. You do,” I insisted when Tara scowled. “Yes, Chiragh was with that boy, but he was with her too. What about that? We’re celebrating his marriage, but shunning Chiragh like she has a disease. That’s not right.”
“She was with him; she did things she shouldn’t have.”
“She loved him.”
“Love?” scorned Tara. “Love is a sickness. That’s what Amma says. It makes you sick.”
I stared back. What did I know about love? Nothing. Amma said love was a sickness. Like malaria. It gave shaking chills, high fever, sweats, headaches, nausea, vomiting and pain. We had to stay away from it. “Well, Akbar Chacha fell in love with Shakeela Masi, didn’t he?” I began. My thoughts raced and stumbled. I shook my head. “I’m not saying our parents don’t know better than us, perhaps they do. But what happens if they’re wrong? What if they make a mistake?”
“They won’t. Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because.”
“There is no because.” Tara shook her head. “It’s better to let our parents decide. They’ve seen life and they know people. What do we know? We’re lucky we have parents who care about us and want us settled.”
“But still, what if they don’t choose the right person for us?”
“Shush, what’s gotten into you?” Tara glared.
“No, tell me,” I pressed. “If our parents choose whom we marry, do they support us or take us back if it doesn’t work out? Or are we forced to live with the mistake that they’ve made? Look at our neighbour, Samina Masi. How happy is she with her arranged marriage? Her husband beats her nearly every day. We hear her cries, her pleas, begging him to stop. We pretend nothing is wrong and she goes on making excuses about the bumps and bruises on her face and arms. Remember how he accused her of tempting the landlord’s thugs and beat her in front of the whole village? He’s a madman. Everyone knows it. She’s left many times, but her parents always send her back.”
“Nothing like this will happen to us,” began Tara and tugged my arm. “And our parents are different. Now come and help me alter the wedding clothes. And we need to practice our kikkli. It’s the first wedding in our family. We’d better enjoy it.”
I hesitated, wanting to say more, but gave in. Tara was right. We had to practice our kikkli. We performed the kikkli at every wedding in our village. I loved spinning round and round to the drum roll. We held each other’s hands tightly, not letting go. For minutes, many minutes, our feet flew, our heartbeats thumped, our rhythm were in sync and the universe spun until there were only Tara and me in it. It was our dance. We were better than all the other girls at kikkli. No one could beat us at it.
14
The sun roved the sky like an angry dragon. Even at night, the air burnt. Nothing moved, and it hurt to breathe. Sticky and sweaty the whole day, I was unable to get rid of the stink that clung to my skin. The lemon halves I stole to rub in my armpits didn’t help, and I sucked on raw onions to cool my parched mouth. But despite the heat, I smiled when I saw fields of white cotton puffs stretching to the horizon. It was going to be a full harvest. Abba told Amma he would be able to purchase a goat.
A week later, we awoke to a growling rumble and rushed out. Dark clouds hovered on the horizon like winged demons. Rumours of black magic flew through the village. Abba slaughtered a goat and scattered the raw meat around the fields to ward off evil spells. Amma sprinkled brewed potions on the crops. At mid-morning the clouds burst open.
Abba, along with other farmers, hurried to our shrine to donate a ration of wheat from the depleting
stock. But even the Pir had no control over the downpour, and by early evening Abba was trying to salvage what he could. By dusk, rumours of another failed harvest gripped our village. The next morning, the sun was out again. Abba said it was too early to tell whether the downpour had ruined the crop.
A week later, we left for Khalid Chacha’s village to attend Saima Appi’s wedding. Lulled by the swaying motion, I slept through the journey and only woke when our tonga, heaped with bags and bundles, rolled to a stop outside Chacha’s front door, decorated with gold and orange garlands.
After a heavy lunch, relatives and friends gathered in the courtyard. I sat with other girls on the floor while the elders sprawled on charpais. Amma went inside to help Kulsoom Chachi, Abba stepped out to finalise the details of setting up the marriage tent, and the boys ran out to play in the streets. Relatives shared old anecdotes and spun puns and jokes until the air pulsed with a buzz.
“I ask you, do we have any reason to celebrate our Independence? It’s been thirty-six years. Where do we stand? What have we achieved?” boomed a voice. I swung up to see a bald man in a dhoti, shaking his fist.
“What do you mean?” questioned an old bearded man, lounging on the charpai.
The bald man snorted and looked around. “I mean here we are, still travelling on donkeys and horses, while some countries have sent missions into space. What then have we gained independence from?”
“Our neighbours are no better,” countered the bearded man.
“That’s our problem. Why do we always look only to our neighbours? What about the rest of the world?”
“Why are you getting so excited? God would have given us wings if he wanted us to fly,” muttered the bearded man.
“God did better, he gave us brains to think!” declared the bald man.
“Didn’t the American space station crash?” piped in another man with a moustache.
“See?” smirked the bearded man. “We have forgotten our limits. God punishes those who forget their limits.”
“The Americans have already landed on the moon.” I froze. Had I spoken aloud? I couldn’t have. I had. The words were out. They floated in air for a split second and then rushed back at me, drenching me with icy water. I froze as Amma’s hand clamped my wrist. Where had she come from? Had she heard? My face flamed.
“Huh, who spoke?” The bearded man looked around.
“Mariam Beti, was that your daughter?” The bald man leaned forward. “Did she say something?”
“No, nothing, Ramzan Chacha,” reassured Amma. Her nails dug into my wrist.
“She should know better than to interrupt her elders.” The bearded man frowned.
“Oh, let her speak,” persisted the bald man. The murmurs died. I stared down, willing the ground to open up and swallow me. What had I done? What if someone told Abba?
“There’s no need,” began Amma.
I pushed my breath out. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“There is,” urged the bald man. He looked at me. “Zara Beti, Tell us what you said.”
“You’re spoiling her,” hissed Kulsoom Chachi, watching the bearded man shuffle away.
“Go on, tell us what you said.” The bald man smiled.
Someone grunted. I shut my eyes, feeling like a prisoner in front of a stoning squad. They would blame me no matter what I said. But I had to speak. I couldn’t let them think I couldn’t talk. I had things to say for myself and for other girls. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” I opened my eyes, looking up at the bald man. “These were Neil Armstrong’s words when he stepped on the moon ten years ago.”
“That’s enough,” snapped Amma.
“Well said,” exclaimed the bald man. “Something to think about, no?” Some heads nodded, but others shook and muttered disapprovingly.
“And how does she know all this?” questioned the man with the moustache.
“My son, her brother, he tells her what he learns in school,” said Amma quickly.
The man frowned. “And you allow it? That’s not wise. There’s a reason we don’t send our girls to school. They start to think for themselves and …”
“Everyone can think what they want to,” interrupted Kulsoom Chachi. “But not at my daughter’s wedding. Let’s talk about more cheerful things.” She turned to Amma and shook her head. “Take charge before she ruins your name. Better to nip such thoughts in the bud,” she murmured.
Mango-gold rays flooded Khalid Chacha’s courtyard the next morning. Girls laughed and chatted, but I sat alone, convinced that I had a talent for annoying everyone. Even Tara had looked at me accusingly. When a friend of Saima Appi’s, dressed in a fussy peacock dress with a matching headband, had wheedled us to play a game, I had cringed. What a stupid game. Some of the girls weren’t even ten years old. Could they think of nothing else except marriage?
The game had begun. The girl who picked the most original colour would be the winner. In turn, each girl shouted out the colour of the bridal dress she wanted at her wedding. The girls played enthusiastically, calling out “pink”, “red”, “maroon”, “orange”, “yellow”, “green”, “crimson”, “fuchsia”, “purple”, “light blue, no, midnight blue”. Hesitating for a split second, I had shouted “white”, and in the next instant, catching the horrified faces, knew I had gone too far. White was the colour of death. Stuttering, I had tried to explain they had misunderstood. I meant a school uniform, I had said it as a joke, but the girls had stared blankly, turned their backs on me and moved closer, leaving me alone. Even Tara left me to join the girls.
Now, I watched the girls gather around the dholak, a curved, wooden drum we had decorated the night before with shiny gold ribbon. We only heard the dholak playing at weddings. Amma declared that all music was haram. She had made Abba give away his radio to the village tea stall. But every time I heard the strum of a musical instrument and caught a tune, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill. The fast rhythm made my heart beat faster and my blood rush inside me.
I gazed around. We had worked the whole night to decorate Khalid Chacha’s red-brick house. A canopy of gold and orange flowers stretched over the charpai where Saima Appi would sit. A bright tent cloth, supported by bamboo poles, divided the courtyard into two halves, one for men and the other for women. Shouts and laughs filled the air. Chatting and smiling, women hurried in through the doorway. The crowd swelled. Naheed Akhtar’s “Tu Turu Turu Tara Tara” blared from the record player. Chacha had rented the player at the request of the groom’s family.
The chatter ceased as Saima Appi appeared in the doorway. Someone shut off the record player and the girls sprang into action. One girl beat the two-sided drum. Another girl struck the wooden sides of the dholak with a spoon and the remaining girls, including Tara, burst into a popular wedding song. Suddenly wanting to be part of the group, I tried to edge towards Tara, but a crowd blocked my way.
Kulsoom Chachi tossed one end of a chador to her mother and they held the chador over Saima Appi’s head. The crowd of women parted as Saima Appi took faltering steps towards the charpai set in the middle of the courtyard.
My gut churned. What had they done to her? She resembled an evil clown. The ghost-like foundation had cracked. Blood red lipstick smeared the side of her lips and her lowered lids glinted like two eerie, blue half-moons. A thick gold chain looped from her nose to her ears, reminding me of a buffalo being led away by its owner. Her red and gold dupatta was plastered to her forehead and strands of frizzed hair had escaped from the sides. Women elbowed each other, trying to close in on her. Between the beat of the drums and loud singing, shrill voices rang out.
“The shirt, too tight.”
“The clothes can’t be new. Did they alter her mother’s clothes?”
“She has gained weight, hasn’t she?”
“The lipstick is too bright.”
“Look at the gold. How many tolas?”
“Her family’s or the groom’s?”
I shrank back a
nd was swept into a surge of women moving forward.
“Come, come,” they urged, “The dowry’s on display.”
Swept into the crowd, I reached the back of the tent and gaped. More than half a dozen metal trunks crammed with clothes, shoes and bed linen were lined up on the tables. Gold jewels heaped inside shiny casings glinted in the bright light. Boxes of glasses, dinner sets and pots and pans were stacked beside a sewing machine, a washing machine and a water cooler. A bicycle and a water buffalo were tied to a tent post.
But something was wrong. The groom’s family huddled to one side, with heads bent close together. The groom’s mother shook her head, whispering agitatedly. The family members nodded their heads, listening to what she said.
Kulsoom Chachi, with Amma close behind her, hurried forward. “Is anything wrong?” she asked, with a bright smile pasted to her face.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, pandemonium.
“Anything wrong, you ask,” hissed the groom’s mother, wheeling to face Kulsoom Chachi. “You tell me! Did you call us over to insult us?” She pointed towards the table. Her lips thinned into a tight line.
“What?” stammered Chachi, her voice trembling.
The chatter stopped. Everyone shifted closer and whispers spiralled as the groom’s mother, with her eyes flashing fire, walked up to Chachi. “Our elders insisted on this match, so I went along. You should be grateful we didn’t give you a list for a dowry, but this,” She pointed to the tables again and spat on the ground. “Why, for generations brides have brought bricks of gold and plots of land into this family. My father gifted ten cattle, ten gold bricks and even a motorcycle for my dowry. And you dare to dump a grocery store on us?”
Gasps erupted. Twitters swelled. Amma caught Kulsoom Chachi as she swayed. Chacha stepped up, a dark flush staining his face. “Please,” he began. “Don’t say this, not at this time. We’ll give you whatever you want, just accept our daughter.” A shout announced the arrival of the Moulvi Saab. It was time for the Nikah.
When the groom’s father beckoned, Khalid Chacha sighed and followed the Moulvi Saab to the women’s side of the tent, for Saima Appi’s consent. Head lowered under the heavy dupatta, Saima Appi nodded three times to the Moulvi Saab’s question and burst into tears. Boys cheered, men thumped each other on the back, and girls and women clung to each other, crying and sniffing. A woman with a shrill voice began to stuff Saima Appi’s trembling mouth with sticky sweetmeats.