by Aysha Baqir
“He’s ready,” said Omer. My lips moved, but nothing came out. I jumped into the rickshaw sensing Saleem’s eyes on me. Would I ever see him again? It didn’t matter now.
I leaned back as the rickshaw driver pulled the gear, the motor sputtered to life, and we sped back towards the house. We turned left at the fork. I pointed to the gate and signalled to the rickshaw driver to stop. “Shut off the engine,” I told him.
Charged like a live wire, I bounded out. The gate was slightly ajar, the way I had left it. Auntie squatted on the steps, breathing heavily. Tara sprawled over the bottom step. Qadir snored.
“Auntie, the rickshaw’s here,” I called from the gate. I waited until she opened her eyes. “The rickshaw’s here,” I repeated.
“So? What do you want me to do? Take this wretch out and put her inside the rickshaw!” snapped Auntie.
I nodded. Eyes down, I hurried over, clasped my arms across Tara’s chest, and lugged her across the driveway. Suddenly Auntie sat up and her legs stuck out like two stumps. “You tell me when you have her in the rickshaw, understood?”
“Yes Auntie.” My heart raced. In less than a minute I had hauled Tara inside the rickshaw. I leaned forward. “Now,” I whispered. The driver pulled the lever, and the engine rumbled.
“What’s going on? What’s the noise?” roared Auntie. I lurched back as the rickshaw shot forward. “Stop! Wait! Stop! Wake up, you fool, wake up!” she shrieked. I swerved and shivered. Auntie resembled a wild hippopotamus charging towards us. And then Qadir was out too, swearing and running after us. We turned the corner, the driver cranked up the gear, and the rickshaw sped ahead. Qadir was left behind. I clung to the side railing with one hand and Tara with the other. The grey road blurred into hot tears.
40
When I woke up the room was dark. Jungle dark. Tara slept. It had started drizzling when the rickshaw had rattled to a stop. I had stuck my head out and choked on the overpowering stench of garbage. We were on a mud track. On the left, a sewage canal glistening with sludge disappeared into the dark night. A row of crooked buildings loomed on the right.
“This is it,” said the rickshaw driver. “Get going.” A dim tube light dangled over the door. I had checked the number on the card against the building number painted in black on the rusty metal, before banging on the door.
If Mrs Niaz had been startled, she hadn’t shown it. She had helped me to carry Tara inside and listened to me, without saying a word. When I had finished, she had told me it was late and we could sleep in the lounge.
Was it morning now? I tugged the curtain, and flinched at the bright glare. Letting it drop, I looked around. A single mattress and a small sofa took up most of the space. I nudged open the narrow door; it led to a toilet. There was another door, but it was locked.
I pulled at Tara’s arms. “Wake up.” Tara moaned and turned away. I rolled her over and prodded harder. There was no reaction. I shook her shoulders. “Tara, wake up, it’s me.” She moaned slightly.
“Come on, wake up!” I whispered, seeing her eyelids flutter, and cried out as she opened her eyes. In a heartbeat I wrapped my arms around her.
“No.” Tara shrank back.“No.”
“Hey, it’s all right,” I said, trying to pull her hands away from her face. “It’s me.”
“How? What are you doing here? Where are we?” Tara looked around wildly.
“You’re safe. We’re at a friend’s place.”
“No!” Tara moaned and shook her head.
I curved my hand around her shoulders. “What no?” I murmured, tightening my grip. It was my twin, her face, and her smell. I kneaded her shoulders gently. “Tara, look at me.”
“Go away. Leave me alone,” cried Tara.
Stumped, I drew back. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now. With me. We’re going home.”
Closing her eyes, Tara shuddered. I stared at her, confused. Had I made her cry? I loosened my hold and Tara pushed back. “I can’t go home,” she whispered.
“What do you mean, you can’t go home?”
“You know why. I’ve disgraced our family.”
I froze. Had Amma and Abba said anything to her? “What did you say?”
Tara shut her eyes. “There’s no place for me back home. You should go. Stay away from me. I’ve ruined our family name. Dishonoured our family.”
“Honour can’t be taken by force,” I shot back. Flames struck my breath. “The men who raped you have no honour. The people who punished and betrayed you have no honour.” Did I say the words for Tara or for myself? My throat stung.
Tara shook her head. “If anyone finds out about me, our family will be ruined. Amma said no one would understand. They would make up stories. Shun us.”
“They should shun us. For pushing you away, and marrying you to a monster, when you needed our love and support.”
“They didn’t know!” protested Tara. “Amma and Abba thought they were marrying me to a good man.”
“But, it was a mistake, our mistake. Why should you be punished?”
“Because I’m guilty,” murmured Tara. “I should have stayed at home, as Amma said. I shouldn’t have run out alone. I shouldn’t have left the house.”
I gasped. “Are you mad? What are you saying? That it was your fault? That it was okay for them to rape you because you left the house?” I trembled with fury. What had they done to her? Nothing made rape okay. Nothing. What had they said to her?
“No, no, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t. And I don’t care what anyone’s told you, Tara. You did nothing wrong. I let you down. We all let you down.” I gripped her arm.
“What could you have done?” whispered Tara. My heart raced at the flash of gold in her eyes, but the next instant it was gone. “I’m tired,” she mumbled and moving away, she lay down, turning her body away from me.
I leaned back against the wall and shut my eyes. How could I take Tara back home? But I had promised Mrs Niaz that we would leave soon.
She had woken me up before she left for school. Over a quick breakfast of tea and chapatti, she had asked me to relate my story again. When I had finished, she had begun to talk, her voice flat and eyes dull, like someone had squeezed the life out of her. She sounded different. What had happened?
Her papers had come. She was leaving to join her husband in Saudi Arabia. This country was not safe. You could trust no one. You could talk to no one. The rulers wore uniforms and switched hats; striped top hats to please the West, round white prayer hats to appease the Middle East, and peak caps to pacify the Far East. They had shredded the constitution and were conjuring up new laws every day. They had already sold the women. Children would be next; hundreds of religious schools for young boys were being set up across the country.
It was also a dangerous time. The men in power could judge you and accuse you of blasphemous crimes. She had been accused of talking too much and was being forced to leave this hostel. She was leaving the country, and I should leave as well, the sooner the better. I would be safer in my village. I was a clever girl, but it wasn’t the time for clever girls to be out. I should return home. There was no other way.
I had stared at her in disbelief. The professor had changed. She had given up. Why? On the bus, she had talked about being tough and strong. What had happened to her talk about fighting back?
41
“Did your brother call?” Gloria cross-examined. I nodded. Omer had called after Mrs Niaz had left. “What did he say?”
I hesitated. Mrs Niaz had warned me not to open the door for anyone, but hearing Gloria’s voice outside the door, I knew I had no choice. For a moment, I had wondered how Gloria had traced me here, but then Gloria knew everything. “He’ll visit tomorrow, and we’ll leave the day after, since it’s a holiday in school,” I answered.
Gloria nodded. “The sooner you all leave, the better. There will be trouble if the word gets out that there are two single girls here.” Gloria paused. “I’ve taken an app
ointment for you at the clinic tonight. It took some connections.”
I stared back. In Jameel Saab’s house, I had overheard the maids whisper excitedly about a new operation in town. It took just a few minutes and a few stitches to close the tear. It was a cure for single girls with dark secrets. It made them as good as new for marriage.
“Get it done. You don’t have a choice. And it won’t take long, a few stitches.” Gloria shook my arm when I remained silent.
“What should I tell Mrs Niaz?”
“Tell her you’re going to collect your remaining wages.” Gloria slung her shiny black bag over her shoulder. “You should be grateful there’s no risk of a child. Gita said the man used protection.”
My gut heaved. “Gita, is she okay?” I muttered, wanting to change the subject.
“She slipped out in the chaos that broke out after you left. Doesn’t plan to return. Auntie’s been thrown out.” I was quiet. Had Gita called the man in on purpose? Was Gloria helping me out of guilt?
“What are you thinking?” asked Gloria.
“The doctor, is he good?”
“He’s referred by a friend. He doesn’t make a mess.” Gloria shrugged. “So?”
“I’ll do it.” Gloria was right. I didn’t have a choice. I had to protect myself.
“Clever girl,” said Gloria.
42
“Age?” demanded the hook-nosed woman. She tapped her pen on the grey desk, under the dim fluorescent light in the waiting room.
“Don’t answer, just hand the money over,” said Gloria.
I slid the wad of crumpled notes across the metal surface. The woman frowned, flipped through the bundle twice and dropped it into a steel drawer.
“Age?” she repeated, finally looking up. I shook my head. The woman clucked disapprovingly and tapped her pen again. “Address?” I was silent. She sighed. “Go inside, take your pants off, and lie down. The doctor will be there soon.”
In minutes, I was lying on a narrow steel bed. I stared up at the moon-faced light. A balding man in a long white coat loomed over me, and a sharp smell filled the room. He spoke, but his voice came from far away. A ringing sound echoed in my ears. I was back home, racing out. Suddenly, the fields tipped towards the horizon and I stumbled, I tried to run but kept falling and sliding down into the giant stalks that closed around me. I opened my eyes. The balding man had raised his hand; I caught a glint of a needle.
What was I trying to do? Lie? Hide the truth? Why? Was I going to let the fields trap me again?
I leapt up, shoved his arm away, and ran out, ignoring the shouts behind me.
The knocking sound wasn’t going away. I opened my eyes and winced. My head throbbed and my thighs were sore. Gloria had dropped me back at the hostel, repeating that I was a fool, that I would regret my decision, and she never wanted to see me again. The professor had left for school even though it was a holiday, saying she had to attend a teacher training and she would be back before evening. How long had I slept?
The raps came again, louder now, but before I could answer, Tara leapt towards the corner. “It’s Omer. He said he would visit,” I whispered. Why was I whispering? “I have to let him in,” I continued. “Is that okay?” Tara didn’t reply and hunched in the corner like hunted prey.
“What took you so long?” demanded Omer, as I unbolted the door. He pushed past me. “Tara!” he cried out but halted, seeing her bury her head in her arms. “Tara!” he repeated, and frowned when she huddled against the wall. I stood up and beckoned towards the door. He followed me to the door. We passed a veiled woman dragging a young girl with long braids.
There was no one on the mud track except for a few men returning from work, and a stray mutt nosing through trash. I winced, and eased down onto the narrow stone steps. The bitter, antiseptic odour of the clinic still filled my head, and the ground spun.
“Zara,” Omer’s voice seemed to come from a distance. He sat beside me. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” My breath shook. Why did I feel like crying?
“I never thought,” started Omer and paused. “Why doesn’t Tara want to see me?”
“She needs time.” Was I trying to convince him or myself? I quickly filled him up on how Tara had reacted.
“The sooner we get back, the better,” declared Omer. “We don’t have to wait till tomorrow. We can leave tonight. I’ve checked the bus schedule.”
“We can’t go back to our village.”
“Why?”
“Everyone will make up tales. Abba will be angry. He doesn’t want Tara back.”
“He still loves her,” protested Omer.
“Does he? He told us to forget about her.” I met Omer’s gaze.
Omer sighed. “Well, if not home, then where?”
“What about Khalid Chacha’s?” I rushed ahead. “I know you think Chacha is to blame, but he helped us.”
“Helped us? How?” Omer frowned.
“He convinced Abba to let me go to Lahore. And he rescued Saima Appi from her terrifying marriage.”
“And his friend got Tara into this mess in the first place. How can you forget that?” asked Omer.
I shook my head. “No. We can’t blame Khalid Chacha for a suggestion that Riaz Chacha made. It was Abba’s decision to send Tara away and marry her to that man.”
“Did they leave him with any choice?” burst out Omer. He took a deep breath. “Okay, maybe you’re right. It might be better if Abba finds out from Khalid Chacha. I’ll go along with what you think is best. What do you think everyone will say?”
“I don’t know. They’ll make up stories. We can’t stop them.”
“I can stay longer if you need me to,” started Omer.
“No, you have school. We’ll be fine.” I tried to sound convincing. The fight wasn’t over. I had won a few rounds, but not the match.
43
The indigo sky was fading as I dozed off. When I woke up, the bus had stopped at a station and the conductor was swearing at the loaders, telling them to get moving. The sun was up in the sky. A gold balloon, a sea of brilliant blue. The lush green fields raced to the horizon. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Nothing could be the same. I felt a nest of worms slither in my gut. I was going to be sick.
“You’re up,” remarked Omer, tapping my shoulder. He had been lucky enough to get a seat right behind the women’s section.
“Yes,” I took a deep breath and twisted my body towards him. The bus was nearly empty now except for two old men, fast asleep.
Omer glanced at Tara and frowned. “She didn’t say a word last night and didn’t look at me even when I tried talking to her. I thought she would want to talk, or say something at least. I don’t understand.”
“We have to be patient. We don’t know what she’s been through,” I said, feeling as if a fist squeezed my heart. I did know.
Omer nodded and took a deep breath. “I can’t believe you got her out.”
“We all did.”
“No,” corrected Omer, “You did it alone. But I never asked.” His eyes met mine. I saw the curiosity in them.
“Asked what?” A blade of heat lashed my face. I had been waiting for this. A low drumming sound filled my ears. I forced myself not to turn my face away.
“Inside the brothel? Did anything happen? You were there for some time, and when you got out, you looked strange, all pale. I didn’t ask then …”
I swallowed, and tasted grit. I had to say it. “If something happened, would it matter, would it change anything?” I held my breath. His answer mattered. A lot.
Omer stared at me for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No, we’re together, that’s what counts. Nothing else matters.” He squeezed my hand and let go.
I turned to look out of the window. The bus hurtled down the thin blade of a road. It was the beginning of another day, the two hundred and seventy-fifth day.
44
The wind raged, hurling whorls of sand everywhere
. I jumped down from the bus and helped Tara out. Omer went to hail a tonga. The tonga walla chatted nonstop through the ride. The day before his wife had locked him out and told him not to return until he’d earned enough money to feed their five children. Not a single customer had approached him the whole night. Near dawn when he had decided to sell the tonga he had inherited from his father, to try his luck at the brick kiln, Omer had come along. That was fate. It was in his blood to drive tongas.
An hour later the tonga turned onto a dirt track. I inhaled the scent of fresh earth. Roosters crowed, birds chirped, tin pots and pans jangled as women prepared breakfast. I was home. These were my sounds. I had carried them with me.
The tonga stopped outside Chacha’s door and we jumped off. Omer waved the tonga-walla goodbye. As we stood outside the door, Tara slumped against the wall. “I can’t,” she choked.
“It’ll be all right,” I assured her.
“Trust us,” reassured Omer, but Tara shook her head. I thumped my fist on the door and hearing a noise I nodded to Omer.
We waited, but nothing happened. Omer stepped up and banged harder. A shuffling noise came closer this time.
“Who is it?” called a voice.
“Saima Appi?” I answered. “It’s me, Zara, please open the door.”
“Zara?” exclaimed Saima Appi. “How? Wait, just opening.” The latch dropped with a soft thud, and the door swung open. Saima Appi gasped. Her eyes flew from Tara to me, to Omer, and back to Tara again. “Tara?” she murmured. “How, what’s going on? When did you … How?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. "Can we come in?”
“Sorry, sorry. Come in,” Saima Appi stepped back, “I had just started preparing breakfast when I heard the noise. I thought I had imagined it, but then it started again. I never thought...” Not finishing her sentence, she shut the door.
Once we were sitting on the two charpais set across from each other, Omer asked Saima Appi about Khalid Chacha.
“He’s still sleeping. Your Chachi and Nazia aren’t home either,” answered Saima Appi. “But tell me, what’s going on?”