by Aysha Baqir
“Huh, what do you mean?” Abba stared at Riaz Chacha.
“Well,” said Riaz Chacha and rubbed his goatee. “If the truth gets out, which it will if Tara stays here, you risk losing your honour in this community. You might even be forced to leave. Best is to send her away.”
“Send her away? How can I send her away, where?” Abba looked around, but only Riaz Chacha met his eyes. The room was silent again.
“My friend, listen to me,” said Riaz Chacha. And with his eyes fixed on Abba, Riaz Chacha began to talk.
19
I reached out, but Tara and Omer vanished. We had been feasting on kairis a few seconds ago. Where were they? Rubbing the grit out of my eyes, I pushed myself up. It was past dawn. Why was it so silent? In a flash, I remembered.
I flew towards the half-open door. The room was empty. Quiet. Nothing was out of place. The blankets were neatly rolled up on one end of the charpai. I gripped the door to stop from swaying. Where was Tara? My eyes blurred, seeing darkness. The sound of bats – hundreds, thousands of bats beating their wings filled my ears.
“Zara?” Hearing Omer’s voice, I spun round.
“Where’s Tara?”
Omer shook his head. “I tried to stop them, but Abba wouldn’t listen. They left early in the morning, taking Tara with them. Remember what Riaz Chacha said?”
Riaz Chacha’s stories of the rich and powerful and their mansions, factories, planes, powerful cars and holiday homes had finally caught Abba’s attention. Seeing that Abba listened with rapt interest, Riaz Chacha had tightened the noose. The rich needed an army of maids, cooks, drivers, guards and gardeners to run their houses. And if one was intelligent and hardworking, there were opportunities. Abba had nodded, agreeing with Riaz Chacha. And that’s when Riaz Chacha had gone in for the kill. His friend’s friend worked in one of the best maid agencies, and they were looking to hire local maids. If Abba agreed, and he would be foolish not to, he could recommend Tara. She would be safe, earn money, and even be able to send some home. It was the best solution for a girl in her situation. Listening to Riaz Chacha’s smooth voice, I had begun to tremble. Did Abba not know what the rich did to their maids? But wait, Omer had promised to stop Abba.
“Zara?” Omer’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Are you listening? After the meeting, Abba and Khalid Chacha left to call the agency. When they returned, Abba insisted they had to leave immediately. There was a maid’s position open in a businessman’s house. I tried to stop them, but …”
Dazed, I stared back. Did Omer not remember? He had brought home the newspaper from school. The headline had screamed “Girl Dies from Burns”. The newspaper reported the story of a twelve-year-old girl working as a maid in the city. Her employer, some official’s wife, had tied the servant girl’s hands and feet together like they were twigs, emptied the kerosene tin on her, and set her on fire for not sweeping the house properly. The girl had died within minutes. She had been from a village close to ours.
“Zara,” Omer reached out, but I stepped back blindly.
“They took her away?” I whispered and shook my head. It couldn’t be true. But Tara was gone. We had never been apart before. How could Abba and Amma have taken her away?
Omer shook his head. “You heard what the elders said. The new laws are against us. And if the news gets out, we lose our honour and risk shaming our family name.”
“And selling Tara into slavery, that’s not shameful?” My lungs spewed sparks.
“I tried to stop Abba,” protested Omer. “I blocked his way, but he pushed me aside, saying I was a child and wasn’t helping. Then Amma accused me of upsetting Tara and making her cry. They left without letting me see her.”
Unable to stop trembling, I gripped the door. Omer had promised me that he would not let them take her away. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to race out after my twin. I wanted to thump the ground and shout out what Amma and Abba had done. But I stood, doing nothing. I shut my eyes. Omer was right. Tara would get no justice here. I slumped against the door, wanting to squeeze into a hole and hide. Chickens scurried close to the charpai. Pale light fluttered on my lids. I squeezed my lids tighter. I wanted to jump into the past, shut the lid, and never come out.
I felt Omer’s hand on my arm. “Listen, we’ll find out where she is. I promise.” I looked up, and Omer nodded. “Kulsoom Chachi is coming over. She’ll be arriving soon. I’ll stay with you until she arrives, then leave for the fields. The crops are in danger of being flooded.”
“I don’t care. This isn’t right,” I whispered. Not waiting for Omer to respond, I turned away. I shivered under the hot sun. This was my village, obsessed by honour and shame. Fathers had hacked their daughters into mince, buried them alive, or drowned them for shaming the family name. The men got rid of anyone that threatened their family honour and family name.
Amma and Abba would hide the rape. They would pretend it never happened. But how was I supposed to forget Tara? What if it had been me? What if I had been raped and not Tara? Would Amma and Abba have abandoned me? Would Tara have let them do that?
I had to get Tara justice. Who could I go to? Friends? Who? We had none. We had never been allowed to make friends or get close to outsiders. Family? I could go to a relative. Majjo Phuppi? No. She would tell Abba immediately. Police? There was no police station in our village. The nearest one was two hours away. I had overheard tales of what happened at police stations. And what if Riaz Chacha was right and Tara was unable to prove it was rape, then what would happen?
I couldn’t go to anyone. Not my family, nor the police. There was no help. I was alone and trapped, with dark, gritty thoughts jamming my head.
Kulsoom Chachi arrived later in the day, and complaining that she was exhausted from the journey, went to rest inside. I rinsed the dishes, swept the courtyard, and finally crouched to wash the clothes by the stone pit. I flipped the basket over and gagged, seeing Tara’s torn, blood-stained pants. Crawling to the toilet, I retched until my gut stung.
By afternoon, it began to rain, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. When Amma and Abba didn’t arrive by evening, I began to pray they had changed their minds about leaving Tara at the maid agency. I would forgive them. They had to bring her back. She had never been away from her home and her village. She had never been away from us. This was crazy. She was their daughter, their better daughter. They wouldn’t get a better daughter than Tara. She obeyed them, did her chores without complaining, and kept no secrets from them. She was part of them. How could they put her to work in a stranger’s house? I lay awake unable to sleep, until my thoughts curled like wisps of hazy smoke.
The next morning the sun was out, but it drizzled at the same time. By afternoon, sticky, moist heat flooded the courtyard. Kulsoom Chachi still slept. Omer had missed school, left to work in the fields and returned for lunch. Finished with the chores, I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t opened my books for days, but I didn’t want to. For once, I didn’t care about my studies. Nothing mattered except getting Tara back.
I tried not to feel anything and get on with the chores, but when I opened or shut my eyes, the afternoon flashed to mind over and over again, until my head burst into flames, my limbs jammed up and I couldn’t move. I slumped. Exhausted. Was Amma right? Had Tara run out because of me? I shivered in the heat.
Hearing the rattle of the tonga wheels, I leapt up. The door rattled and opened. A figure in a black burka staggered inside. Amma. She was alone. Claws pinched my breath.
“Amma,” I burst out, running up to her. Did she still blame me? I gasped as Amma pulled me close, but hearing Abba’s voice, she let go instantly.
“See what you can do with these. I’m going over to Moulvi Saab’s and then to the fields. Remember to bolt the door.” Setting down half a dozen baskets, Abba strode out.
“Where’s Tara?” I burst out, staring at the tinsel covered baskets. I swung to face Amma. “You were supposed to come back yesterday. And what are the baskets for?”
“Shush,” said Amma. “Not now.” She pushed her veil off. Dark shadows smudged her eyes.
“Amma, you’re back,” said Omer, walking out of the room.
“Yes, thank God,” said Amma. She ran a hand over Omer’s head. “Abba’s also back. He’s gone to meet Moulvi Saab.”
“And Tara?” I whispered.
Amma glanced quickly at the door and then back. “Your Abba decided that.”
“What?” I demanded.
“Amma, sit down. You must be tired,” cut in Omer. Handing Amma a cup of water, he led her towards the charpai. “Did you go to the agency then? Has Tara started working as a maid?”
“No.” Amma sighed, “But it’s all well now. God has answered our prayers.” Her knuckles strained as she gripped the cup and took a quick sip.
“So where is she?” probed Omer.
Amma took another sip. “I can’t tell you.”
“You have to,” I shouted, and immediately slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”
Omer threw me a warning look. “Amma, we’re worried,” he said.
Amma sighed and looked at us. “If I tell you, you can’t repeat a word, understood?”
“Yes,” said Omer and I together.
“I’ll have to stop if your Abba returns,” muttered Amma.
She murmured a prayer into her cupped hands and blew on us. “It was afternoon when we reached the maid agency. We were exhausted from the journey and waiting to meet with your Riaz Chacha’s contact at the maid agency, when someone called your Abba’s name. It was Imtiaz, Abba’s childhood friend, whom he had recently met over Eid. He worked as a mechanic in the city and his business had been thriving until a month ago, when his wife was run over by a bus, leaving him with three young children, and the youngest one not even a year old. The children wouldn’t stop crying for their mother. He had stayed home for a few months, but now his savings had run out. He was in despair because his mother was too old to take care of the children, and they weren’t sure they could afford the agency.”
“What does this have to do with Tara?” I blurted out.
Amma’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We didn’t say too much, but Imtiaz’s mother was so loving and affectionate towards Tara. She kept saying that Tara reminded her of her daughter-in-law. When Abba finally confided why we were there, Imtiaz and his mother were horrified and most sympathetic. Drained by the journey, Tara was asleep by then. And that’s when Imtiaz’s mother begged me not to register Tara in the maid agency. I understood then.” Amma’s voice trailed off.
“Understood what?” asked Omer.
“No,” I burst out. They couldn’t have. Fear gagged my breath.
“Your father said it was for the best,” whispered Amma.
“What are you talking about?” asked Omer.
“How old is he?” I gripped the charpai.
“He’s much younger than your Abba, and that’s good enough.” Amma’s eyes flashed.
“Good enough for what? What are you talking about?” Omer burst out.
“They married Tara to Abba’s friend,” I whispered. I stared at the baskets wrapped in tinsel. There had been similar baskets at Saima Appi’s wedding.
“You didn’t.” Omer clutched Amma’s arm.
“Yes, we did, and it’s best for everyone,” said Amma.
“Why did he want to marry Tara? Why didn’t he hire a maid?” asked Omer.
Amma’s eyes hardened. “Don’t ask stupid questions. A wife will serve him much better than a maid would. He’s a man who helped us when no one else did. He’s married to your sister now. She is lucky to get another chance. He is a good man, a generous man. There was no need for it, but he even sent gifts. A watch for Abba, a radio, and …”
“I thought he didn’t have money,” I interrupted.
Amma shook her head. “Try to understand. Your Abba was under so much strain because of the crops, and then with what happened. We have to thank God for this blessing. The Nikah ceremony took place last night, and we caught the night bus back to the village.”
“But Tara was just …” began Omer.
“Stop,” Amma flung his hand away. “Don’t say that word. You have no idea what it means. You don’t understand this world. Abba said it was a miracle that a man like Imtiaz had agreed to marry Tara. She’s happy now. He lives in the city, has a house, a job.”
“He’s as old as Abba. He needed a maid, not a wife,” argued Omer.
“That’s enough.” Amma took a deep breath. “Be happy for your sister. She has been given a chance for a new life.” Turning to me, Amma beckoned and her voice softened. “Come here, Zara, my daughter. I’ve missed you so much.”
Without resisting, I let Amma pull me close. It had been years since I had been in her arms. Maybe Amma was right, and Tara was safe. At least she wasn’t working as a maid and being beaten or abused. But she had just been raped. And now she was married to Abba’s friend. My gut twisted into a tight knot. Amma said Tara was happy. Was she really?
“You are so precious,” whispered Amma in my ears. Her lips brushed my forehead. Feeling oddly comforted, I pushed my face into her shoulder, soothed by the warmth of her body. I inhaled the childhood scent. The tightness in my chest melted. I was home. This was home.
“You want to make me happy, don’t you?” murmured Amma. Unable to answer, I nodded. “Such pretty hands you have,” whispered Amma, and lifting my palms, she kissed them. “I’ll teach you to put henna on them. What do you say?”
I jerked back, my breath caught. “Henna? Tara loves henna,” I choked.
“Yes, but you are her twin, her half.” Amma pressed her lips to my forehead. “Life has cheated me from preparing for one daughter’s wedding, but I have you.” She sighed.
I stared at Amma. What was she talking about?
“It’s for the best,” murmured Amma. “Your Abba sent word to Sakina Masi. They’re coming to see you tomorrow.”
20
“Your other daughter’s marriage, very sudden, no?” asked Sakina Masi.
Tin cups clanked. “Oh sorry,” Amma set the tray down. “Will you have some tea?”
“I will, I will,” purred Halima Masi. “First the dessert and then the tea, what are you trying to do, fatten us up before the marriage negotiations?” She laughed, and Sakina Masi joined her.
I dug my fingers into the jute knots. How could this be happening? I was on display, like goods for sale. No, goods weren’t covered under chadors. Fury surged from my belly to my chest. I had to do something. Shifting on the charpai, I breathed out. I had rights. Had Amma forgotten? They were printed somewhere in some moth-eaten books, hidden away. I had to find them. They wanted a fight. I would put up a fight.
“Here,” said Amma, handing over the cup.
“So your husband must have been in the midst of negotiating Tara’s marriage when I met you at Khalid Bhai’s?” asked Sakina Masi. “Funny, it didn’t seem like that ...” Her voice trailed off.
“You know how it is. I couldn’t have said anything until it was final.” Amma flapped her hands. “Things happen when they happen. You see, her father had already given them his word.” The charpai dipped as Amma sat down.
“True.” Sakina Masi nodded. “Why, I was married at twelve. My grandfather had promised me to his friend’s son when I was just five. My mother howled until she lost her voice, but there was nothing she could do.”
“Yes I remember,” interrupted Halima Masi. “You gave us all such a shock, wanting to ride the groom’s horse.”
Sakina Masi smiled and cleared her throat. “I know it’s soon after Tara’s marriage, but I hope we can have your other daughter. You are doing the right thing, and we are in a hurry to negotiate.”
Right for whom? I clenched the jute weave.
In exchange for getting to hear details of Tara’s marriage ceremony, I had allowed Amma to braid my hair with flowers. Abba had left earlier, saying he had to work in the fields. But that hadn’t stopped A
mma. She had lined my eyes with surma and draped my head with a heavy maroon chador speckled with gold work. Once Sakina Masi’s family arrived, Amma had led me out. The slight pressure on my arm had been warning enough. I had to behave or else.
Seeing me walk out, Halima Masi had lifted the chador to exclaim, “Ah, what pretty eyes, but uh, the complexion, no, no, it won’t do.”
“It will clear,” Amma had assured her. “She spends too much time in the sun. I was the same way.”
Halima Masi had raised her hand to pat my cheek and made a clucking sound. “Make sure she stays inside from now on. She won’t be getting out after marriage, and really, the groom can’t be fairer than the bride, can he?” Everyone had laughed again. I had clamped my lips together to stop myself from nipping her fingers. Now, trying to ease my breath, I blew through my nose, and the dupatta puffed out softly.
“Yes,” said Amma. “He has a decent job, and it’s a good family.”
Lifting my head, I tried to focus. What were they talking about?
“So they’re based in the city then?” asked Sakina Masi.
“Yes, the boy is. It was such a rush, and so much to do.” Amma coughed.
“Here, have some water, Behen,” said Halima Masi.
“Thank you,” said Amma.
“So, what were you saying about your son-in-law?” probed Sakina Masi.
“Tara’s husband, he works in the city and is well settled ...” Amma trailed off.
“I was hoping for that.” Sakina Masi smiled. “He can help then?”
“Help?” asked Amma.
“Yes, with the dowry. I mean you must have married Tara off with one. I’ve heard how much these city boys demand. But now that he’s part of your family, he can surely help out.”
Had they seen the fields of damaged crops? My eyes stung. I wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of them. My throat itched, and it hurt to swallow. I sneezed.
“I should take her inside,” began Amma.