Beyond the Fields

by Aysha Baqir

  “Behen, please,” murmured Kulsoom Chachi. “Tara’s married to him. She’s his wife. Whatever he is, he will protect her. And it’s better if she never finds out. Have you talked to her since her marriage?”

  Amma opened her mouth, but Abba raised his hand to silence her, and spoke. “No, Kamran said he would bring her over, but he never did.”

  “What about the Nikah Namah, you have a copy?” asked Khalid Chacha. “If Tara Beti is unhappy, we can file for divorce.”

  Abba shook his head. “He said he would bring our copy over when they came to visit. But Kulsoom Behen is right. Tara is safe as long as she’s married to him. We must remember she’s looking after his children. She probably knows too much by now. He’ll never let her go, and might harm her if he suspects that she wants to leave or tell others about him.”

  Amma moaned and rocked back and forth. Kulsoom Chachi grasped her shoulders.

  “Mariam, control yourself,” rebuked Abba.

  “Take her inside and look after her,” commanded Khalid Chacha.

  “Yaqoob Bhai,” began Khalid Chacha. “We can still try. Have faith. We won’t give up.”

  “No,” said Abba. “We can’t do anything.”

  “He runs a brothel. How can we let Tara stay married to him?” protested Khalid Chacha.

  Abba shook his head, his face stone hard. “We can’t risk anything else. He has contacts. If this news gets out, it will shame us and dishonour our family name. We must forget about Tara. She’s in her husband’s house. It’s her fate.”

  Shivering, I shrank from Abba’s words. It was dark and still outside, but inside my head, I howled and screamed. This was not Tara’s fate. She had been raped and then forced into a marriage to protect their ‘honour’. This was what Abba and Amma had done to her. Even now, he could think only about family name and honour. What family? What honour? I wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to stop trembling. I had to break away from the lies. I wasn’t part of this. I couldn’t be.

  25

  It was late afternoon when the tonga swung into our lane. Amma and Abba hadn’t exchanged a word on the way back. Hearing a shout, I craned my neck to look ahead. Saleem jumped up and down, waving his arms across the street. Suddenly I wanted to talk to him; he was my friend too. I watched Omer leap down and dash over before the tonga rolled up to the door.

  “You’ve done it,” shouted Saleem, but I couldn’t hear the rest because Amma had pulled me inside. Telling me to boil the rice and soak the lentils, she hurried out.

  I wavered, tempted to eavesdrop, but spun back. Dropping a handful of rice into a pan of water, I raced into the room. I had to hurry. Amma could come inside any second. I ran my hand along the narrow shelf. Nothing. I pulled up the bedding from my parents’ charpai. Nothing. I rummaged through the pockets of Abba’s shalwar hanging on the wall. They were empty. I pushed open the metal chest, groped through old clothes, bags, chadors, and spotted Abba’s money pouch. My fingers fumbled, untying the knots. I thrust my thumb and forefinger inside and touched paper. I pulled out a card. Kamran Sultan. I had him now. I flipped my notebook open and scribbled the address. Done. I slid the card back, tied the strings, tidied the chest and rushed out to see Amma walking in.

  I flushed and looked down, waiting for Amma to catch me, but Amma only murmured that dinner would be late since Abba had left for the fields and Omer had left for Master Saab’s. Lowering herself on to the charpai, she pulled her chador down to her chin and began to pray.

  I crouched by the cooking pit, pretending I had never left. My hands shook as I drained the rice, set the pot of water to boil and began to cook the lentils. Near dusk, when the dull orange light split into embers, Amma pushed her chador back and shared that Omer had received an offer from a prestigious boarding school for boys in Lahore and would leave at the beginning of the summer term.

  Spring's warmth retreated, and a wave of grey cold seeped inside. Amma wilted like a parched stalk. She woke only after Abba left. Refusing even a cup of tea, she dragged herself to the charpai. She lay on her back with her eyes closed. I pretended not to see the tears that slid down her cheeks. What was the use of crying now? She had played her part in Abba’s deceit and dragged us all into it. When I roused Amma for a mid-day meal, she swallowed a few bites and then lay down again. She went inside to sleep before Abba returned.

  Abba stayed out, trying to salvage the crops from the flooded fields. He bartered our chickens to buy food supplies. A few days later, two men came to take Kullo away. He skipped meals and didn’t come home some nights. I didn’t know where he ate or slept. I didn’t dare ask.

  I stuck to my chores. I cooked, washed, dusted, swept and ran the house, to stop myself from thinking. But like arrows, thoughts stabbed my head through the day. Abba and Amma had lied. I had let them. I had let them take Tara away. I had helped them to hide the rape. And done nothing to help my twin. I had given up on my dreams. I was so far from where I wanted to be. And it was too late.

  In the passing weeks, feeling lost, I walked into the rooms not knowing why I was there, or stepped out into the courtyard not knowing what to do next. I talked to the kittens to make sure I still had a voice. At night my mind twisted like a tornado, memories surfaced, spun and sank into a haze. Some nights I woke up sweaty and clammy, thrashing my arms, fighting off the gold stalks closing in over me. I hid inside the room to smoke Abba’s hookah. The smoky taste loosened my nerves. I didn’t care if Amma caught me.

  Omer zipped in and out of the house, saying he had things to do, but insisted we continue my lessons. We worked for a few hours each day. I heard from him that Saleem had also received admission in the same school and planned to leave with Omer. I would lose them together.

  A few weeks after we returned, I squatted to start washing clothes in the courtyard when the door rattled. Amma tried to get up from the charpai, but after a few tries she slumped and nodded to me to open the door. Omer was studying inside the room.

  “Mariam,” called Zubaida Masi, elbowing me aside. “What’s this I hear about you being unwell? But have you heard? It’s awful.” Hurrying over, she whispered into Amma’s ears. Amma gasped and quickly swathing a chador around her head, hobbled outside with Zubaida Masi’s help. When the door shook again, I called to Omer to open it.

  “Salam, no, she’s not here,” answered Omer. A shrill voice rose and threatened. Omer quickly bolted the door and swung back.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  Omer frowned and shook his head. “Chiragh’s dead.”

  My chest tightened, remembering the flash of jade green eyes and the dark matted hair crouched on the street. What had they done to her? “How?” I whispered.

  “Raped and strangled. Amjad Chacha discovered her body in the fields. Bari Masi just came to stop Amma from going to the funeral prayers. You should have seen her face when I told her that Amma had already left.” He shook his head. “That woman scares me.”

  I had finished rolling the dough for chapattis when the door rattled. Amma staggered to the charpai, sank down and beckoned. Suddenly afraid, I walked over. Without a word, Amma pushed a tangle of thin silver into my hand and turned away. I stared down and squeezed my fist around the silver trinkets. Why hadn’t Chiragh sold them? Why wasn’t Amma angry?

  Later I learnt that Moulvi Saab had requested the village women to prepare the body for the funeral since Chiragh had no family in the village, but they had refused under Bari Masi’s orders. Only Amma, Zubaida Masi and Surriya Masi had turned up to wash the body. When Moulvi Saab had begun to read Chiragh’s funeral prayers, a mob had gathered and threatened to set the mosque on fire. Moulvi Saab had been forced to send Chiragh’s body to the shrine. I shivered. The villagers never forgot and never forgave. They prayed to God for mercy and forgiveness but had none to spare.

  A few weeks later, I stood on my crate, leaning against the wall. The chores were finished, at least until sunset. Springtime lurked, and the freshly washed earth glistened. Sudde
nly I pushed back and shut my eyes. It was happening again. The air was still. The walls were moving in closer. The fields loomed over me. They would bury me. I was trapped. I gulped a deep breath. I had to run out and get away. Hearing the door rattle, I spun around. Omer walked in, balancing a stack of books in his arms. He did little else except study these days.

  “Omer,” I called. “Can we talk?” Omer glanced at me in surprise, but when I tilted my head towards the charpai, he nodded. Abba was out in the fields, and Amma napped inside. Once we sat across from each other, I stalled. “All ready to leave?” I asked lightly and balled my hands into fists, suddenly wishing I had the magic stones. But they had disappeared. Like Tara.

  “I guess,” said Omer and clasped my arm. “You know I have to go. I want to make something of my life. It’s the only way to escape this.” He looked around.

  “Yes,” I mumbled. I needed his help, but I couldn’t let him guess that. What if he said no? I drew in a breath and squared my shoulders. “I want to go with you.” The words were out.

  “Go with me?” Omer stared. “But how? It’s a boys’ school and …”

  “No, not to school, take me to Lahore to find a job.” I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. “We need the money. Abba’s lost everything. We’re in debt. Remember Saleem told us that Master Saab’s nephew works at a maid agency? Can he help in getting me a job, any job?”

  “You want to work in the city? But you were against it. I don’t understand, why now?” Omer shook his head.

  I looked at him steadily. “I was against it after reading the news about the maid who was burnt to death. I was afraid of what might happen to Tara. But there’s nothing left for me here now. I’ve lost the scholarship. I can’t study or get married unless I have a dowry. I need money for both. But I’m stuck. I can’t go forward and can’t go back.”

  Omer continued to look at me. “All right. Let me talk to Master Saab and find out if he’s okay with it and if his nephew can arrange a job. And you’re right. It’s not a bad idea. Maybe it can work. I will be in Lahore and look out for you. And the money will help.” He grasped my hand and smiled. “If Master Saab can convince Abba, we’ll leave for Lahore together.”

  “But what about her marriage?” countered Abba. “She needs to get married soon. The time will pass, and then …” His voice trailed off.

  Abba, Khalid Chacha and Master Saab sat on the charpai in the courtyard. Amma had a fever and rested inside. After giving Amma medicine, I crouched by the cooking pit, brewing tea.

  “Let her work for some time,” began Master Saab. “She will be safe and will earn good money. Once the news gets around that she’s earning, proposals will pour in. Believe me. That’s the way it is these days, not like the old times, when the family name mattered, when values mattered and when the girl mattered.”

  “Khalid Bhai?” asked Abba.

  “She does have to get married,” agreed Khalid Chacha. “And Lahore is far away.” He sighed. “But then times have changed, and maybe with Master Saab’s connections it can work.”

  “I’ll take full guarantee of where she works. My nephew Shafique has been providing maids to respectable families for years now. And Omer Beta will be there to check on her as well,” said Master Saab.

  “Yes, we wouldn’t even consider it otherwise,” said Khalid Chacha. He turned to Abba. “Have you heard back from Sakina?”

  “Heard back?” Abba’s hawk-like eyes narrowed. “They sent another list. As if we have the money even for the first one! She said they would visit again, once we gave them the go-ahead. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Bad news spreads fast. Everyone knows about the crop failure.” Khalid Chacha looked grim.

  “I’m facing a disaster. I don’t know how I’ll manage,” said Abba.

  Khalid Chacha nodded. “Send Zara to the city. It’s her fate. We’ll arrange her marriage when she’s earned her dowry.”

  I woke up early on the morning of my departure. Everything was the same, for the last time. I wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Amma lay unmoving on the charpai. After the morning chores, I wandered around the courtyard and, drawn to the wall, I leaned over and stared hard. Not a stalk or a leaf moved in the muggy heat. The fields were a mirage.

  An hour later, I had packed two changes of clothes and my comb in a bag. I drew the zipper and clicked the lock shut. I stepped outside, my eyes on Amma’s limp body. Who would cook and clean after I left? Who would look after Amma?

  “Khuda Hafiz,” I whispered to Amma, leaning close. I caught a flicker in Amma’s eyes and for a moment was tempted to tell her everything, but then Amma’s eyes dulled, and I pulled back, my words zipped and bolted inside me. No one needed to know. This was my journey.

  Abba went to drop us at the nearest bus station, a small shack in front of a dusty parking lot. A mob of boys and men crowded around the bus. It stood tall, a glistening beast, painted in bright colours, with drawings of birds, hearts, flowers and calligraphy, ready for flight.

  26

  Hearing footsteps, I turned round. The sky was flushed gold. How long had I stood by the window reminiscing?

  “You’ll get into trouble staring out like that,” said Bushra. “Our time isn’t ours in this place. Hurry, or you won’t get anything to eat. Not the best way to start your first day.”

  Without a word, I followed Bushra to the kitchen. Since we were late, all we got was a mug of tepid tea, and curious looks from three maids in dark chadors. Bushra made no introductions, and the maids’ stares made my skin prickle. Finally, they turned to whisper to each other. My chest tightened. In my village, I had Tara. No one bothered us when we were together. But I was alone here.

  Before I had finished my tea, Gloria appeared with a list of chores. I was to wash the clothes, dust and polish the furniture and silver before lunch; iron and starch the washed clothes and hang them back in the closets before dinner; and put out coils for mosquitoes and lock the windows and doors in the evening. I had to stick to the schedule and keep my meals short.

  A few minutes later, I was staring at the line of detergent bottles and the baskets heaped with soiled clothes. How many pieces of clothing did three people manage to get through in one day? After hanging out the clothes to dry, I armed myself with an assortment of sprays for dusting and polishing wood, silver, marble and glass, and set to work. By evening my body hurt and my belly growled. Lunch had been a few spoons of lentils with half a bowl of rice. I had a few minutes to swallow the mush under the cook’s creepy stare before it was time to get back to work.

  Over the next few days, careful to avoid other servants, I explored the house whenever I got the chance. It was grander than anything I had seen in books. In tiled bathrooms, I turned on the gold taps engraved with H and C and cupped my hands under the clear water that gushed faster than the river. Drawn to the panel of gold switches and unable to stop myself, I clicked the buttons on and off, again and again. I got giddy staring at the hundreds of shimmering crystals that hung from the chandelier. I ran my hands over the smooth glistening marble shelves. I gazed at the photographs in gilded frames. Happy, shining faces smiled and laughed from hilltops, oceans and distant lands. They were free. They went to places I had only dreamt of visiting.

  In a few days, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. There was no escape. Time ran with the ticking of clocks, not the stars. I woke before dawn to start work and continued working past dusk. Outside, the sky changed: it swirled tea-pink each morning, blazed sea-blue in the afternoon, and glimmered coal black at night. But I was trapped in a maze with hard floors and concrete walls. When I finished one chore, I found another added to my list. When I stepped out, the guards sent me back inside. I had to stay inside the house at all times. They had their orders. How was I going to get out and find Tara? When?

  Following Gloria’s warning about the male servants, with bold eyes and bolder hands, I learnt to make my way through the dozen rooms and halls that sprawled over an acre. I remembered th
e rooms by their colours. The brick-floored patio with wicker chairs and table opened into the gardens. It was where Jameel Saab, Sehr Madam, and their son had breakfast by turns, and alone. Sehr Madam nibbled a solitary lunch in the pantry with the chequered floor on the days she chose to stay home. There were other rooms: a silver-and-gold gilded dining room, a drawing room filled with pale silk sofas, and tables set with silver and crystal ornaments, a sitting room with velvet sofas and a television which blazed with bright colours and sounds at the push of a button.

  Uneasy under the glassy stare of the tiger mounted on the wall, I avoided Jameel Saab’s smoky study. There were guest rooms too: a green room, a blue room, a red room and a white room. It was a house full of rooms, most of them empty. There was too much space and silence. Jameel Saab, Sehr Madam and Babur Saab spent their time in different parts of the house through the day. I never saw them together.

  A week passed, and then two. I waited, but Omer didn’t call or visit. I missed him. I missed Saleem and our talks. Had I imagined how he looked at me and listened to me? I had to get out. But how? Restless, I began to calculate sums, recite poems, and review math formulas while I worked. It helped to quiet my mind, but I missed my books. And my hands and feet hurt. My palms hardened and my knuckles bled from washing heaps of clothes. The balls of my feet toughened into leather. I missed the smell of mud. I missed the feel of the loose earth under my feet. Lying down at night, I missed Tara. I missed whispering and giggling with her. I missed the part of me she had completed. I had no friends, except her. We were different, but more similar than different. I had to find her. But how?

  To soothe my gnawing thoughts, I dug my nails into the hardened pads of my feet and tore off flakes of dead skin. It felt good to rub the raw tender skin. Dreaming of running back to my village with Tara, I slept restlessly and woke with my heart pounding, drenched in sweat.