Beyond the Fields

by Aysha Baqir

  “You know that Master Saab doesn’t step out after Maghrib prayers, and we don’t know when Abba will come home. Can you meet him now, please? And Majjo Phuppi is also here. It’s better that you meet him while she’s here.”

  “Oh, all right, if you insist.” Amma sighed and turned to me, “Go inside and shut the door.”

  I slung the last few clothes on the line, tipped the bucket of soapy water, and hurried into the room. I shut the door, dropped down, propping myself up on my elbows to peer through the chink in the door. I wasn’t going to miss out on anything Master Saab had to say.

  “Salam, I’m sorry for barging in like this,” began Master Saab, walking over. “And thank you for seeing me.” Amma bowed her head in greeting. When Master Saab shifted, I sensed another movement. A lanky boy in a white shalwar-kameez stood behind him. I edged closer to the door. The boy shifted, and the sunlight slanted over his deep eyes and full mouth. He looked straight at me. I ducked.

  Master Saab hovered, and finally settled on the charpai across from Amma. When Omer nudged Amma, she raised her head for a quick nod, and Master Saab began to speak in the low modulated voice that I remembered.

  He was confident that Omer had passed his exams for entrance into the secondary school but wanted to discuss Omer’s future. Since enrolment had shot up in the primary classes, he had no space or time to teach the higher classes, and if Omer wanted to continue his studies, he would have to apply to other schools. When Amma protested that there was no other school in the village, Master Saab reassured her that she had nothing to worry about. Omer had an excellent chance of being admitted into a good school outside the village, and of even getting a scholarship. He was a top student. The nearest school was in Multan, but the best school for boys was in Lahore. However, since there wasn’t much time, they had to decide quickly. Leaning forward, Master Saab waited for Amma’s response. Amma looked down and finally murmured that she would have to ask Omer’s father.

  Master Saab urged Amma to decide soon and then recommended that Saleem, the boy who sat beside him and whom he had adopted, and Omer should not waste time and instead should begin to review their lessons while they waited for their results, since they were already a class behind for their age. Omer could help Saleem in Mathematics and Saleem could help Omer in English. When Amma murmured something about Abba again, Master Saab cleared his throat. “Now that we’re done talking about the boys, your daughter Zara, is she here?”

  “Why?” Amma’s head shot up. Her gaze flew to Majjo Phuppi. I dropped down.

  “She’s a brilliant student!” exclaimed Master Saab. He leaned forward. “I couldn’t believe her exam results. With such informal and irregular studying she scored extraordinarily high marks, enough to get her into any school in the District.”

  Majjo Phuppi gasped.

  “Master Saab,” began Amma shaking her head, “I don’t think …”

  “And you’ll never believe it,” interrupted Master Saab. He beamed. “The school in the neighbouring village has offered her a scholarship for Class VI starting January. What do you think of that?”

  Trembling, I pushed hard against the door. Any harder and the door would break. A scholarship? Charged with a current, I wanted to break through the door and race out. I clenched my fists.

  “A scholarship?” whispered Amma. She shut her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Zara won’t be able to continue her studies.”

  “Not continue her studies? But …” began Master Saab.

  “We’ve decided,” began Amma. “We are thinking about …” she paused.

  “Thinking about what?” asked Master Saab.

  “Nothing, but no more studies. I want her home with me,” said Amma.

  “But Amma, it’s not fair to her. She deserves to go to school. She’s studied so hard.” Omer was up on his feet.

  “Who said anything about what’s fair?” interrupted Amma. “Thank you for helping her, Master Saab, but no. If studying was in her destiny, she should have been a boy.”

  “But if she’s as good as any boy, she deserves a chance,” interrupted Majjo Phuppi.

  “What?” Amma gaped at Majjo Phuppi.

  “I said if she’s good as any boy then she deserves to go to school,” repeated Majjo Phuppi, looking at Master Saab. She turned to Amma. “I knew something was going on when I heard her read. She’s sharp. And if she’s as good as Master Saab is saying she is, then don’t stop her, Behen. Let her go to school.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. Her father will never allow it, especially not after …” Amma’s voice faltered.

  “Bibi?” questioned Master Saab.

  Amma sniffed and shook her head.

  “I can talk to him,” offered Majjo Phuppi.

  “No,” declared Amma. “Nobody tells him anything.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Master Saab. “What about Omer?”

  “I can’t say no,” Amma shifted her head slightly. “But I can’t say yes either until his father agrees.” She locked her hands, unlocked them, and began to twist the chador around her fingers.

  “I understand. Well, let me know when you’ve talked it over. The boys are intelligent and hardworking. Given a chance, they’ll do well.” Master Saab stood up and nodded to Saleem. “We should leave now, Khuda Hafiz, Bibi.” He dipped his head.

  Amma rose after them. “Khuda Hafiz,” she echoed, following them to the door.

  I couldn’t move. Or breathe. All the lessons and all the studying had been for nothing. The viper was back, coiling around my windpipe, crushing my dreams.

  I dragged in a deep breath. No. I wasn’t going to let them knock me down. I had to fight back. I had won a scholarship. I wasn’t going to let Amma snatch it away. I wasn’t going to give up. Others had fought for what they believed in and won. Like Nur Jehan, the ‘Light of the World’, a brilliant leader in the seventeenth century. She had been the wife of Emperor Jahangir. She had ruled the court and led her army to victory.

  At night, after washing dishes, I stood at the doorway ready to sleep when I heard the door creak. Catching Abba’s hawk-like eyes fixed on Amma, I swallowed the “Salam” on my lips, and scurried into the room.

  “Omer,” growled Abba, “go inside now.”

  “But …” protested Omer, glancing up, but then fell silent. He gathered his books and came inside. As soon as he shut the door, we crouched to peer through the slit in the door. Abba sat hunched up on the charpai, and Amma hovered over him with her back to us.

  “I’m telling you I called,” said Abba. “The ring went through, but no one picked it up. I had the operator dial the number half a dozen times.”

  “Are you sure you gave the right number?”

  “Of course,” Abba frowned. “They’re probably out of town. Don’t worry.”

  “But someone should have been home. What about the servants?” Amma’s voice shook.

  “He could have given them leave.”

  “And his mother?”

  “She must have gone with them.”

  “Can you try next week?”

  “I said don’t worry.” Abba closed his eyes.

  “Someone has to,” murmured Amma.

  “What?” snapped Abba.

  “You close your eyes and pretend everything is well, but I know it’s not. I haven’t spoken to Tara for weeks.” Amma’s voice trembled. “They haven’t come to visit us like he promised. First, he was busy with work, and now no one answers the phone.” Turning away, Amma wiped her cheeks with her chador.

  “Well, worrying will not help,” snapped Abba. “I’m sure they’re just on holiday. If he doesn’t call back, I’ll tell Riaz Bhai to go and check on them. I still have the card he gave me.” When Amma didn’t answer, Abba leaned back and began to smoke his hookah.

  I stood still, seeing nothing. Why wasn’t Abba able to reach Tara? Did she not want to talk to us anymore? But wait. Hadn’t Amma told us that Abba’s friend didn’t have any servants? �
�Omer,” I whispered seeing him open his books again. “We need to talk.”

  Omer shook his head. “Two more chapters. We’ll talk soon. I promise.”

  “When? And aren’t you done with your exams? Why are you still studying?”

  “I have to study. The city schools are tougher than the village ones. We’re already behind for our class. I have a lot to cover before the term starts. And you need to get back to your lessons too. It’s been over a month now. You can’t forget what you’ve learned. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I caught Amma’s frown when I sat for my lessons with Omer the next afternoon. Was she going to stop me? She hadn’t said anything about Master Saab’s visit. I tried to focus on the work Omer had set out, but it was impossible. Thoughts simmered and boiled. Why had Abba’s friend married Tara if he had servants? Had I misheard Abba? Abba said he had Tara’s husband’s card. Where had he kept it?

  The essay and sums made no sense, and finally Omer lost patience. He slashed a red line across my wrong answers. He made me redo the whole paper twice and beat his pen on the notebook like a cane.

  As soon as the lessons were over, Omer opened his own books and bent his head to them. I hesitated. I had to wash Kullo and then milk her. But there would never be a right time. I grabbed his books.

  “What are you doing?” snapped Omer.

  “We need to talk.”

  “And we will. I told you. But now I need to study. Give my books back.” Omer reached out for them.

  “No,” I dodged. “When you studied for the exams I couldn’t talk to you. Now your exams are over but you still don’t have time. You do have time. And we need to talk now.”

  “About what? You don’t understand anything. Give my books back!” Omer scowled.

  I gripped the books even tighter. “Understand what?”

  Omer jumped up. “Zara, stop this. I have to study. I need to.”

  “Why? You’re going to school whether you study or don’t study.”

  “I need to study to become someone important,” hissed Omer. “We’re nothing! We lost Tara because we’re nothing. I couldn’t do anything to help her. Now I have a chance to change my life, to change our lives. I need to succeed and become someone important, so no one can ever do this to us again.”

  Silently, I set the books down. Omer was fighting in the only way he knew. I was doing the same.

  A few days later, Saleem came over to study with Omer. Abba had announced that it didn’t matter whether Omer studied with his friend or went to school. There was not much to do in the fields these days. But when he needed Omer, he would have to return to the fields. That was his future. He had better understand that.

  After warning me to stay away from Omer and his friend, Amma retreated to the room to nap. Setting the pot of bubbling lentils aside, I leaned over the wall overlooking the expanse of green fields. They stretched to the horizon and maybe beyond. Would I ever cross them?

  When the door creaked, I lowered my head. “You’ve finished? So quickly?”

  “No,” grumbled Omer. “Not finished. We’re stuck, and thought we would go for a short walk to clear our heads.”

  Turning away, I gripped the wall. Amma had forbidden me from stepping out.

  “Do you want to come with us?” asked Omer. He stood right behind me.

  I wheeled around to stare at Omer. Go with them? I hadn’t stepped out since that afternoon.

  “We won’t tell anyone,” said Omer in a rush. “I know Amma has stopped you from going out, but I don’t want to leave you alone. And there are two of us.” He beckoned.

  I took a step, but then hesitated. The fields? No. Omer had said they would walk along the river. Flowing for nine hundred miles, the Sutlej was the longest of the five arms of the Indus. It started from about 15,000 feet above sea level in the Himalayas and swooped down to gush through deep gorges, to enter India and then Pakistan. I had seen the full waters glide meek as a worm, or rear up like a maddened beast. I had nearly drowned in the waters. But maybe it was time to face them again.

  “Hurry up. We can’t take long, just twenty minutes at the most,” said Omer. “Come on.” He beckoned again. Without glancing back, I followed.

  Over the next few weeks, the afternoons fell into a pattern. When Amma went inside to nap, I waited for Omer and Saleem to walk out, and tagged along behind them, listening. The discussions ranged from what they had learnt in history to English novels to science experiments and math formulas, as well as the daily yield of eggs and milk, about which I knew more.

  Walking close to Omer, I kept a distance from Saleem, remembering that Amma had told us to keep away from strangers. But Saleem didn’t behave like a stranger. He told jokes and made me laugh. He shared how he had come to live with Master Saab. He talked about his parents’ deaths, the months he had lived in his uncle’s house knowing that his aunt didn’t want him around, and how Master Saab had stepped in to adopt him. He talked about leaving the village to finish his studies. He wanted to become someone famous.

  One afternoon Omer ran ahead because he wanted to jump over the rocks but Saleem stayed back. He had a cut on his foot and didn’t want to risk getting it wet. When Saleem walked over and sat beside me, I nearly slipped off the log. I stared down hard, my heart pounding. What was he doing? What if someone saw us? But wait, what was he saying?

  Why did I want to study? What did I want to become? Did I miss Tara? He had heard about her marriage. Had I met her since? Would I be married off soon as well?

  For a few moments I stared at Saleem. No one ever asked such questions. But unable to look away from his searching eyes, I began to answer, the words tumbling out, when, suddenly remembering Amma’s warning, I shut up again. What was I doing? My cheeks flamed.

  And that’s when, without warning, Saleem curled his fingers over mine. My heart flip-flopped to my throat. What was he doing? Before I could say anything, he started talking. Whatever happened, I shouldn’t give up studying. And if I had promised to look out for Tara, then I had to keep my promise. And I should keep studying. Master Saab believed in me, and so did Omer, but I had to believe in myself. That was even more important.

  I couldn’t look away from him. Why was he telling me to study and to keep my promise to Tara? Why did it matter to him? Did he really mean it?

  Hearing Omer shout out to Saleem, I scrambled up, but Omer had yelled something about catching a fish. Giving me a quick smile, Saleem got up. I stared at him walking away and continued to feel the warmth of his hand on mine, hours after we returned home.

  Over the following days, I found myself thinking of Saleem, and caught myself looking at him. When he looked back, I lowered my head. But when he turned away, I felt an unexplainable feeling of loss. I missed the feel of his hand over mine and his dark searching eyes looking into mine. I missed his smile that made my heartbeat race.

  I’d never felt this way before. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t know him. But when I thought of him, feelings stirred, melting my limbs and filling me with heady heat. I felt like a pupa swathed inside a cocoon, about to burst out. How could I feel so much and not know him?

  Saleem was just a friend. I had to keep telling myself that.

  23

  “Zara!” called Amma.

  I burrowed into the quilt, trying to grasp Tara’s hands, but she faded into pale light. Hearing Amma call again, I jumped up and pulled out my notebook. My fingers clenched the pencil. One hundred and twenty days had already gone by, and I still hadn’t found Tara’s husband’s card. Where had Abba hidden it? I had no time to look for it; Amma’s sharp eyes always followed me.

  We were going to visit Khalid Chacha and then to see the mela. The news of the mela had spread like wild fire in our village. Tonga drivers flocked to our village square and lured us with promises of discounts, mouth-watering foods, foreign merchandise, and thrilling feats.

  It was late afternoon by the time we set off. Amma had forced me to wear the burka. When I protested, she decl
ared I didn’t have a choice. Smothering the urge to toss it off and walk out, I had reluctantly worn it. She was right. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t walk out. Where would I go? Who would keep me? How would I support myself? I didn’t have an education, a degree or any job skills. Abba and Amma had made sure of that. The stories of my heroes were just stories and not real, unless I made them real.

  The tonga picked up speed. Dark swollen clouds reminded me of jinns and demons. The clappity-clap of hoof beats and the whirring sound of wheels echoed in the still afternoon. It was twilight when the tonga swerved from the main road and onto the track that led to Chacha’s village. Oil lamps flickered in the distance.

  “We’re late,” muttered Abba. “No lights and no men in the fields. Not a good omen. We should have started earlier.”

  “We’re nearly there,” said the tonga-walla. “It would have been worse if we were still on the main road. You’ve heard about the dacoits?”

  “Not in front of the women!” warned Abba.

  “They hit a party travelling to Multan last week, and spared no one, not even the women and …”

  “Worry about getting us there, baba,” cut in Abba. “Your horses are growing old.”

  “My horses, no Saab, they’re not old,” protested the tonga-walla. “My Shehzadi can run faster than any horse in this district.” He whooped, cracked his cane, and the horses broke into a gallop.

  “Stop now!” a voice thundered. The tonga-walla cursed, and the tonga lurched. Thrown back, I clutched the sides of the vehicle. “Stop!” shouted the voice again. Murmuring prayers, Amma grasped my shoulders.

  “Who is it?” shouted Abba. “What do you want?”

  “Be careful, Saab,” warned the tonga-walla.

  “Abba, stay back,” shot Omer.

  Voices muttered.

  “Yaqoob Bhai, is that you?” called a familiar voice.

  “Khalid Bhai? Oh, thank God,” exclaimed Abba.

  “Thank God, thank God,” echoed the tonga-walla. Amma slumped. The men hooted and backslapped each other.