Beyond the Fields

by Aysha Baqir

  “We should also leave,” said Sakina Masi, and looked over. “Halima?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Halima Masi. “I’m glad we came, so I won’t waste time and come straight to the point. I like your family and your daughter, but my son is a rare jewel. One in a million.”

  “No need to be shy,” said Sakina Masi. “Tell them frankly. You have a daughter and a dowry to worry about as well and …”

  “We’ve made a list. It should make it easier for you,” interrupted Halima Masi’s husband, speaking for the first time.

  “A list?” murmured Amma. Paper rustled.

  “It’s all written down, for your ease, of course,” said Halima Masi. “Now if you think you can manage, we can finalise the details. Right, Sakina?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” replied Sakina Masi.

  Thank you, Behen,” said Amma and paused. “I will look at it. I mean we will, when Zara’s father returns.”

  “Do that,” said Sakina Masi. “But we want to reach some agreement, and soon. We had hoped your husband would be home, but …” She cleared her throat.

  “He had some work, urgent work, but I will talk to him as soon as he returns,” said Amma.

  Charpais creaked, voices died, and the door shut with a thud. I bolted up, and the chador dropped to my waist. Gulping mouthfuls of air, I drank in the colours around me; they were sharper and brighter than before, the grass greener, the sky bluer. I wasn’t going to be caged again.

  “Don’t you worry,” muttered Amma, walking over. “If not here, then somewhere else.” She patted my arm. “I’ve heard your Zubaida Masi’s cousin is in despair. The poor man has been married for two years now and still no child.”

  Zubaida Masi’s cousin? Poor man? What was Amma talking about?

  “The Pir told him that his wife is all dried up inside. She’ll never be able to give him a child. Tragic, but lucky for us. Can you blame him for wanting a second wife? I’ll ask Zubaida to come over. Now go on and get changed. You don’t want to ruin the dupatta.” She gave me a slight push.

  I shivered at the look on Amma’s face. Not a week since Tara’s rape and her forced marriage, and Amma wanted me gone, married to anyone she could find. Silently, I wheeled round and walked away. I wasn’t Tara. I wasn’t going to let Amma get away with it.

  21

  Zubaida Masi never came over. Amma learnt that she had picked the daughter of a well-off farmer for her nephew. All the village women attended the wedding but Amma stayed home.

  Wary of Amma’s hard eyes and fast hands, I kept my distance from her. It was the only way to avoid a shove or a slap. When she came out, I hurried inside. When she came inside the room, I rushed out. Amma muttered and fumed about my lessons. They were a waste. They weren’t going to help me in life. She was going to teach me how to cook curries, prepare soft chapattis, mend clothes and embroider my wedding linen. She was going to show me how to be a good wife and a good daughter-in-law. She was going to turn me into the best daughter-in-law in the village. No boy would ever pass me over.

  While Amma ranted, I slipped into a safe place in my mind. When I woke up I saw Tara. I heard her voice, felt her warmth, inhaled her scent and clung to her memory like it was a boat in a stormy river. Did Abba, Amma or Omer not miss her? How was she? What did she do the whole day?

  Even though I tried, I could do nothing right. Amma complained that I dusted carelessly. When I cooked, I kept forgetting to add salt. I washed the dishes, forgetting to scrape off the grease. I swept the courtyard, spreading the dust and leaves around more than before. I washed the clothes without rinsing out the soap. I made tea forgetting to add sugar, or added double the required amount of sugar.

  Amma beat me with her chappli and made me sit on the wooden crate. I didn’t care. I was inside my safe place. I wasn’t going to get married, and I wasn’t interested in hearing about the muggy heat, the pests, the silt in the water, the dust, the hike in vegetable prices, the stench from the rubbish dump outside, or any new marriage proposals she was trying to arrange for me. I wanted to talk about Tara. I wanted to know when she would be coming back or when we would go to visit her. But Amma’s steely eyes gave no clues, and she refused to talk about Tara.

  Some days I awoke convinced that I had imagined the dark afternoon and Tara was still with us. In confusion, I would start to search for Tara; run to the wall and back. I would hurry inside the bedroom and out, pace around the courtyard and back to the wall, tracing and retracing my steps, until my head spun and Amma’s sharp voice snapped me back to earth. Finally I would slump down and wrap my arms around my knees.

  I hadn’t talked to Tara before she left; I hadn’t said goodbye to her or hugged her. We had never spent a day apart. How could Amma and Abba have abandoned her? Some days I felt the walls drawing closer, choking my breath, and I would rush out to gulp fresh air. But Amma never let me go far. I was forbidden to leave the house.

  Every evening, leaving Amma to wait for Abba and Omer, I retreated to the room. But lying on my charpai, I couldn’t sleep. Tangled bits and pieces of that afternoon flashed like sparks in my head. There had been a flush on Tara’s face and an edgy flicker in her eyes. Was Amma right? Had I told Tara to come out into the fields? Who had said what? I couldn’t remember.

  Two weeks after Amma’s return, Zubaida Masi zipped in again, bursting with news. The government had approved a gas pipeline for our village as part of a five-year development plan. A dark jeep with tinted windows had raced into our village at dawn. The villagers had thronged to watch officers in khaki uniforms and long boots march across the village grounds, carrying beeping tools and metal instruments. The officers spoke Urdu, which only a handful of our elders understood. Saraiki was the popular language in our village. Ignoring the crowds and questions, the officers retreated to the guesthouse. The village grapevine blazed that maybe change was coming.

  But the following afternoon, the cleaning woman told everyone she met that the officers had woken up past noon and demanded a full breakfast. Their room had reeked of smoke, and when she had poked in her broom to start cleaning, half a dozen dark glass bottles had rolled out from under the bed. After breakfast, the officers had sped off, without tipping anyone and raising clouds of dust.

  Amma listened till the end and then spun a lie. I stared at her in disbelief as she told Zubaida Masi that they had married Tara to an eligible city boy. The proposal had come through Khalid Chacha’s relatives. The groom’s family had insisted on a hasty marriage since their son had to take up a job. They had no choice. The boy was a good catch.

  The banging began soon after dawn next morning. I opened the door to a crowd of Amma’s friends. Gossiping and laughing, they crowded on the mats and charpais, demanding answers. Under Amma’s direction, I distributed small packets of round nutty sweetmeats, but the sweets failed to satiate their appetites and the women pressed her for details. How had we managed to find such a catch for Tara? Who had arranged the meeting? When were Tara and her husband coming to visit? When would the celebrations take place? Amma tried to distract them with chai and more food and withdrew to the cooking pit. Abba offered vague and lame explanations, but some questions had no answers, and after a few hours the women left with pursed lips and angry eyes.

  The next afternoon Omer returned from school with torn and dusty clothes. He stomped into the room saying he wasn’t hungry. When Amma demanded to know what was wrong, Omer confessed that he had punched a boy for calling Abba a miser for not spending on his daughter’s wedding. A fight had broken out, and other boys had joined the scuffle. The boys had backed off when Master Saab threatened them with suspension.

  A few weeks later I was back on my crate, punished for burning the sweet rice that Amma had told me to cook for some distant relatives who were coming to see me. I had pleaded with her to stop them, but she had ignored me. When I swore I wasn’t going to meet them, Amma said I didn’t have a choice. I had to show her that I did have a choice.

  “Zara,” wh
ispered Omer. “Can we talk?” I swung my head up. Omer wasn’t supposed to talk to me while I sat on my crate. Busy studying for his exams, he hadn’t spoken to me for days. But he had promised to find out more about Tara. Had he found out something? “Master Saab heard back from the school.” Omer gripped my wrist and beamed. “They’ve checked your paper. You didn’t forget, did you? You got ninety-one percent! It’s one of the best scores. Master Saab is thrilled. He said that if Abba allows it, you can start the school term in January!”

  Dazed, I stared back. What was he saying?

  “Zara?” Omer’s voice floated near me. “Did you hear what I said?”

  I shook my head. “Are you sure?” My voice wavered. I had forgotten about the test. Was he making it up? I hadn’t hoped to get over eighty percent. No one ever had.

  “Yes, I am sure. Master Saab showed me your paper. And guess what?” whispered Omer.

  “Omer, you’re back?” called Amma. “Why are you talking to Zara? She’s punished. Don’t you need to pack?”

  “Salam, Amma. I was telling Zara about how to milk …” began Omer.

  “She has enough to do,” cut in Amma. “She’ll be making sweet rice again, once she’s told me how sorry she is for what she did. And don’t you have to leave for Khalid Chacha’s soon? Abba said he has arranged for your travel. Eat something and then finish your work. And for God’s sake get the chicks away from there.” She walked off.

  “Zara,” Omer leaned closer.

  “Ninety-one?” I whispered.

  Omer nodded. “I’ll speak to Amma.” He lowered his voice as Amma glanced towards us. “But you need to continue your lessons.”

  “Lessons?” I pulled back. I didn’t have it in me anymore. “I’m not ready,” I began.

  “What do you mean not ready? You’ve already missed too many days. You’ll forget what you have learned.” Omer frowned.

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Sakina Masi said …” I stopped.

  “Forget Sakina Masi,” hissed Omer. “Have you seen their demands? Amma and Abba can’t meet them. And you promised me you were serious about your studies.”

  “Promised?” I frowned, trying to grasp a drifting memory. I had made another promise. I had promised to look out for Tara.

  “Zara, are you listening?” I stared at Omer as a rushing sound filled my ears. What did I want? Did it matter anymore?

  At night, I lay awake, unable to sleep. My eyes shot open as Amma and Abba entered. The charpai creaked. “Any word from Tara?” whispered Amma. “We haven’t heard anything for some time now, and I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “I called and spoke to her husband for a short time. He said he was busy with work,” said Abba.

  “And Tara, how was she?” asked Amma.

  “I wasn’t able to talk to her. He said she was busy with the children, but well. Go to sleep. She’s in her home, and we have other worries now.”

  “We have to send word to Sakina,” murmured Amma.

  “We’ll say something when we have something to say. With the crop situation, how am I supposed to think of anything else?”

  Amma didn’t reply. The charpai creaked, and it was quiet.

  The next morning I followed Amma to Nasreen Masi’s house. In spite of her in-laws’ resistance, Nasreen Masi had accepted a teacher’s position at a school in her parents’ village and was leaving soon.

  Once a large woman, Nasreen Masi had shrunk down to her bones. Beckoning Amma to sit on the charpai, she set a bowl of prayer beads between them. Unsure of where to sit, I squatted on the low stool. My eyes followed the scrawny chicks, but my ears tuned into the conversation.

  Nasreen Masi was confiding in Amma that out of all her friends and acquaintances only Amma and Shakeela Masi had come to wish her. The rest, fearing her in-laws’ disapproval, stayed away.

  Amma swore. I looked up. Amma sounded different, her voice stronger. Wiping her eyes, Nasreen Masi sniffed and confided that the night of the funeral, a large woman had come to their house, claiming she was a distant relative, and said she wanted to take Zohra to the city to marry her nephew. Furious, she had driven the woman away. But her mother-in-law, Bari Masi, had found out that she had refused the proposal, and had beaten her with a broom. Then yesterday her father-in-law had whipped the girls for not folding his clothes correctly. She had defended her daughters, and the old man had turned on her with his slipper. Nasreen Masi pulled up her shirt to reveal angry red welts on her arms and back. Amma swore again and then glanced at me. I looked away. I had welts of my own to show Nasreen Masi.

  “I shouldn’t be talking like this in front of your daughter,” murmured Nasreen Masi. “Sabra, come outside. Your friend is here,” she called.

  Sabra appeared at the doorway and beckoned. I followed her inside a dimly lit room with stained walls and grimy windows. Clothes, chadors, blankets and kitchen utensils were heaped on the charpai. Sabra’s elder sister, Zohra, folded clothes and piled them inside a tin trunk. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled. “Zara, it’s good to see you. Your mother has been so kind to us.”

  I nodded. “Sorry I haven’t come sooner.”

  “Wish we could have met Tara before she left,” said Sabra. “Your parents got her married in a rush, didn’t they?”

  “Don’t be nosy,” interrupted Zohra. “It’s always good to see you, Zara, but we would have loved to see Tara too. Lucky girl. She must be living like a queen in the city.”

  I swayed. Zohra’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her anymore. I tried to breathe, but there was no air. I gasped. It grew darker.

  “What’s wrong?” Sabra grasped my elbow.

  “Amma, Mariam Masi!” cried Zohra.

  “Zara?” Amma was hurrying towards me. I took a deep breath, trying to fight the darkness.

  “She nearly fainted,” said Sabra.

  “Zara, what happened? Are you all right?” Drawing me close, Amma turned to Nasreen Masi. “We should go. She’s not been keeping too well. There’s too much illness going around since the rains.”

  “Yes, of course. Take care, my friend.” But before Amma could make her way out, Nasreen Masi had sidled up to Amma and clasped her hand. “Before you leave, I must tell you. There’s a rumour going around about Tara, about why you took her away. Tara is happily married, isn’t she? There’s nothing more, is there? You can tell me.”

  I froze. Would Amma tell the truth and confide in her friend? She had to. Nasreen Masi could help us get Tara back.

  Amma was shaking her head. “People have nothing better to do than to make up stories,” she hissed. “There’s nothing more. Tara is happily married. Thank God.”

  I shut my eyes. Lies. Again.

  “Truth has a rotten core,” whispered Amma as we walked back. “They say they want to know, but they don’t. Nobody can take too much of it. You remember that.”

  22

  A week later, the sands of the Cholistan desert stormed over the horizon like angry waves. In a few hours they would be upon us. But I wasn’t afraid anymore. I could do anything if I put my mind to it.

  Seeing Amma’s lips tighten like a stitch yanked too hard, I began my chores. I sorted grains, kneaded the dough for chapattis, peeled and chopped vegetables, swept the floor, dusted, washed clothes, and bathed and fed Kullo. For the first time in weeks, I did everything right. My brain ticked like Nani’s hand loom, clicking, crossing, warp and weft. Nani had sat in front of it for hours, working away. Like threads closing gaps, my thoughts fell into place.

  I needed answers. Where was Tara? I had to find out. I had promised her. By afternoon, the fields had vanished, and all evening and through the night the wind howled, lightning crashed, and rain pounded our mud roof like hoof beats of armies in battle. I jammed my fingers into my ears to muffle the roar. I needed to think.

  I opened my eyes to pale light streaming through the half-open door. Sparrows cheeped on damp branches. I reached out, but as alw
ays, I was too late. Tara disappeared each morning. Before I knew it, tears would run down my face, hot and fast.

  Enough. I sprang up. I wasn’t going to let the pain break me. It was the enemy. I was going to jab, cross, and hook it. Rolling over, I pulled out my notebook and pencil from under the quilt, flipped to the last page, and wrote: “335 days”. I had a target now, to reach the city and find Tara. A month had already gone by. I had less than a year left before next autumn, the time of assu, to find her. Below “335 days”, I wrote the date. Done. I flicked back to the first page.

  “Don’t count the days. Make the days count.” Muhammad Ali’s words leapt at me. Why hadn’t I opened my notebook before? I had been keeping a journal of my heroes, the men and women who stood up, spoke out, and fought for what they believed in. Master Saab had told us to start a hero’s journal much earlier, before the exams. On the first page, I had pasted Muhammad Ali’s picture from an old newspaper and written about his wins, losses and struggles. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1942, the son of a black billboard painter, Mohammad Ali started boxing at the age of twelve. He trained hard, and practiced even when he wasn’t fighting. He won the gold medal in the 1960 Olympics and heavyweight championship in 1964, and became a boxing legend. He was banned from fighting in America, and even sentenced to prison. But he had not given up and had fought back to reclaim his title in the famous 1974 boxing match named Rumble in the Jungle, in Zaire.

  A little before mid-day, I was rinsing the last few clothes when the door rattled and Omer rushed inside, his face flushed. “Salam, Amma,” he burst out, shooting me a quick look. “Master Saab wants to meet you to talk about my studies. He’s waiting outside.”

  “Why? You’re not in trouble, are you?” Amma turned away from Majjo Phuppi, who had come to visit, and with whom she had been chatting, and frowned.

  “No, it’s not that. But will you meet him? Can I call him inside?”

  “Shouldn’t he talk to your father instead?” said Amma, pulling the chador around her shoulders and over her head. “This isn’t a good time.”