Beyond the Fields

by Aysha Baqir

“Where’s your mother? Call her quickly and bring me a glass of water and a large platter.” Bari Masi’s gaze lingered on the heap of mud and wheat waste. “Why is the furniture out? What are you building?”

  Pretending I hadn’t heard, I hurried inside. “Bari Masi’s here,” I began. “Oh Tara, you look pretty in that shirt. No, don’t hide.” But Tara had already ducked behind Amma.

  Amma frowned. “What does she want from us? She’s chased Nasreen and her daughters off and now is acting pious enough to drive anyone crazy.”

  “She wants to see you and she’ll walk right inside if you don’t go out soon,” I warned.

  “Come and meet her, Tara,” urged Amma. “She’s always had a soft spot for you.”

  “I have a headache,” murmured Tara. I caught the strain in Amma’s eyes. Tara’s headaches started as soon as anyone walked in through the door.

  “Amma?” I began.

  “I’m coming. You go and make tea.”

  “Okay,” I turned to Tara. “Rest up, but make sure your headache’s gone by the time Bari Masi leaves. I need your help with the chores. You’re becoming a real majj.”

  “Zara!” chided Amma. But satisfied by the hint of a smile on Tara’s face, I hurried out and began to brew the tea. The sooner Bari Masi finished and left, the better. Walking up with the tea, I saw that Bari Masi had lined up some bottles, a total of six, on the platter.

  “Pour three drops from each bottle into a cup of water and after reciting prayers, sprinkle the water over Tara, or better still, make her drink it. Remember, once a day at least. Do it right, and all your sorrows will vanish in a few days,” explained Bari Masi.

  “But Bari Masi,” began Amma.

  “And shame on you for not coming to me. If Zubaida hadn’t mentioned it, I would have never found out,” scolded Bari Masi. “As the village elder, it’s my responsibility to guide you. Do as I tell you, and your son-in-law will come begging on his knees.”

  “Hope not.” The words were out. I reddened.

  Amma glared.

  Bari Masi’s face twisted. She threw me a quick look, then turned back to Amma. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing,” said Amma, shooting me a warning look. “She said she hopes the drops will work.”

  Bari Masi scowled. “Of course they will work. What does she know? I’ve been brewing my potions since before she was born. If you do as I say, Tara will be back with her husband in no time.”

  “Yes,” cut in Amma. “But I must tell you. It’s good to have Tara back.”

  “Oh rubbish,” cut in Bari Masi. “You know as well as I do that once a girl is married, only her dead body should leave her husband’s house.”

  “That’s not what our religion says. Even women have rights.” protested Amma.

  “Rights?” echoed Bari Masi. She picked up the cup of tea and poured it into the saucer. “You’re coming up with some strange ideas. Our traditions and customs give meaning to our life. We must preserve and protect them. Surely you’re not saying our fathers and forefathers were wrong?”

  “No, but …” started Amma.

  “No buts. Whatever happens, it’s a wife’s responsibility to make the marriage work. Imagine if all married daughters started returning to their parents’ homes?”

  “They should return if they’re not happy,” declared Amma.

  “I see.” Giving Amma a cold stare, Bari Masi set down the untouched saucer. “I thought your husband had done a better job of guiding you. I should go now. Let’s see, there are six bottles, and each is for four rupees, so that’s …” Bari Masi flicked her thumb over her fingers. “That’s twenty-four rupees. If it’s a bad time, I can extend credit.” She glanced slyly at the heap of furniture.

  “Phitteh muh,” I murmured. She had come to sell her potions. Seeing Amma beckon, I hurried inside and brought out the pouch.

  Bari Masi pounced on the notes Amma held out.

  “You don’t mind if I count too, do you?” she said, flipping through the notes. “Good, good.” Tying the money into one end of her chador, she picked up her basket. The chador dropped to the side, and I noticed other knots. How many other women had she bullied into buying her potions, I wondered.

  Bari Masi stopped at the door. “Come to me immediately if you have other family problems, you know, like sibling rivalry, or …” Her words trailed off as she glanced at me.

  “I think we are fine,” interrupted Amma.

  Bari Masi sniffed. “Is that so? We’ll see after I speak to your husband.” Without looking back, she walked out.

  Amma shut the door and turned to me. “Not a word to Tara, you understand?”

  “I won’t, I promise. But Abba?”

  “Don’t worry about him. Khalid Chacha sent a message that he is coming to visit us. He has promised to support me.”

  “And what about these, Amma?” I asked, pointing to the murky bottles.

  “Oh throw them out. I don’t trust Bari Masi and her concoctions for a second,” said Amma. “I only fear what she will tell others.”

  48

  The next morning, when Abba opened the door to leave for the fields, a swarm of women with curious eyes, draped in dark chadors, swooped inside. Bari Masi had done her work. Crying out, Tara rushed inside. The women crowded on to the charpais. Some sniffed and gazed at Amma with pitying looks, but others pounced.

  “Sent back, how awful.”

  “A mother’s worst nightmare.”

  “How do you sleep?”

  “You’ve been cursed.”

  “Go to your saints. Seek forgiveness.”

  “Nothing wrong with your girl, I hope.”

  “I always thought she was too pale.”

  “But what happened?”

  Following Amma’s instructions, I laid out mats and served cups of tea. The questions flew out faster and faster, like fleas hopping on rotting flesh. Amma’s feeble answers failed to appease the women’s appetite, and they began to speculate. Had Tara fought with her husband? Had she been rude to her in-laws? When was she going back? Had a demon possessed her? Had someone cast an evil eye on her? Why hadn’t she taken Tara to the shrine? There had to be an antidote to the black magic.

  The women tossed out nuggets of advice, dug out tales, shared tried and tested recipes for brews and potions, and urged Amma to seek the protection of her Pir. They also downed cup after cup of hot tea along with hot savoury rice.

  After a few hours, Amma slunk off to the room to be with Tara. Left alone, I nodded blankly, dodged questions, and when the women demanded more tea, I retreated to the cooking pit. The stock of dung dwindled, and the fire petered out. After the third cup of tea the women struggled to their feet, and declaring that it was up to a girl to make a marriage work, they left. Shutting the door, I sank down on the charpai. I hadn’t come back for this. There was nothing left for me here, not my lessons, not even Tara.

  Leaning against the door the next afternoon, I shut my eyes. My skin burned, but I couldn’t stop shivering. It couldn’t be true. But Zubaida Masi couldn’t be lying. Filling me with horror, she had flitted to the next house to do the same to them.

  A loud crackling noise resounded. “What’s that?” Tara came rushing out.

  “It’s just …” I began, but a blaring noise drowned out my words. I waited until the sound faded. “It’s Moulvi Saab on the new loudspeakers. Our landlord has donated speakers to our mosque.”

  “Oh,” said Tara, turning away.

  “His timing couldn’t be better. Amma said our landlord is setting up a committee for religious affairs,” I said, trailing behind Tara to the cooking pit.

  “Uh, do you want some chai?” asked Tara, pointing to the saucepan.

  “No, I’m fine.” My eyes flew to Tara as the noise boomed again.

  The words crackled, and the sputter died out. Watching Tara sprinkle the tea leaves into the water, I held back. I couldn’t tell her, not just yet. The speakers blared again. “If anyone knows anything, it’s your
responsibility to come forward.” Moulvi Saab’s voice crackled.

  “Knows anything about what?” Tara glanced at me. “What’s he talking about?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “We will hunt out the criminals!” Moulvi Saab’s voice rang out.

  “What criminals?” Tara leapt up, her face drained of colour. “What is it? Is it Kamran? Has he found out I’m here?”

  “No, no!” I gripped Tara’s arm. “Kamran has no idea where you are.”

  “Then?”

  “It’s, it’s …” I began and then hesitated. I had no right to keep anything from my twin. But was she strong enough? She had to be. I didn’t have a choice. Dropping down by Tara’s side, I related what Zubaida Masi had shared. Bhola Chacha’s nieces and nephews had come to visit him yesterday. The children had run out to play, but a while later, Ayesha, the youngest girl, couldn’t be found. Search parties had set out in the evening, but returned without any trace of Ayesha. Police had been called from the neighbouring town to comb the forest this morning.

  “Did they find her?” began Tara.

  “Yes, they discovered her body near the river this morning. Her mother has gone mad with grief, and her father is set on finding the criminals. They’re announcing a reward for anyone who can help.”

  Tara shut her eyes. “Was she …?”

  “Raped and strangled.”

  “How old?” whispered Tara.

  “Eight.”

  “A baby!” choked Tara. Tears ran down her face.

  I set the pan down. The tea could wait. “Come with me,” I insisted and, ignoring Tara’s protests, I pulled her inside the room. Once we were sitting on the charpais, knees drawn together, I reached for my twin’s hand. “The police will find the criminals. You’re safe now.”

  “No,” choked Tara, “I’ll never be safe. It’s too late.”

  “It’s not. You are safe.” I tightened my grip. “But you have to talk. Get it out. Tell me what happened that afternoon.”

  “No,” Fire exploded in Tara’s eyes.

  “Yes,” I insisted. “Every day that afternoon drills a hole in my head. I hate myself for letting you run alone.”

  “No,” cried Tara. “Don’t say that, don’t ever say that. It was my idea. It was my fault. I’ll tell you what happened. Then you’ll understand why I can’t live here with you.”

  I flinched. Was that why Tara stayed away from me? “You don’t have to …” I began.

  But with a fierce expression, Tara jerked back. “No, you wanted to know, so let me tell you.” She took a deep breath and began to speak. “I took off through the fields. I wanted to run faster than you, and reach the water tank before you. Hearing the sound of feet behind me, I spun round, thinking Omer had caught up. But it wasn’t him. It was two men with black chadors draped over their faces.”

  “Our landlord’s men?” I whispered. Who were they, these men covered up in black scarves? Why hadn’t the police caught them yet?

  “I don’t know,” Tara dragged in a breath. “One of them laughed. I froze and tried to scream, but nothing came out. The other shouted something, but I couldn’t understand.” Tara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I tried to run, but they caught me. One flung a chador over my head, and everything went black. I lashed out, but he covered my mouth with his hand and threw me to the ground. They didn’t talk, but their breathing … I remember their breathing. Before I knew what was happening, they tore my kameez and pulled my shalwar down. I didn’t understand what they were trying to do. I thought they wanted to steal something; I didn’t realise. Suddenly they stood up. I thought they were going to let me go, and tried to get up, but they thrust me down again. I must have hit my head on something because I blacked out. That didn’t stop them. Everything happened fast, but as if at a distance. One got on top of me and shoved down. I cried at the pain, sharp inside me, and stopped moving. After him, the other man got on top. They left me there. I could breathe, but I wanted to die, to disappear.” Tara shuddered.

  “When I woke up, Amma was there, cleaning me with a washcloth. I started crying. I asked for you. Where were you? Amma told me to sleep. She said everything would be all right and I needed to rest. I didn’t want to rest, I wanted to talk, I wanted to talk to you, but she didn’t want me to talk. She said I had to rest and forget everything. How could I forget?”

  I gripped Tara’s hand. “They wouldn’t let us see you. We tried, but Amma and Abba forbade us.”

  “I needed to talk. I couldn’t understand why Amma pretended nothing had happened and kept telling me to forget. Then Abba said we had to leave.” Tears ran down Tara’s cheeks.

  My breath hurt. “There was a meeting. Moulvi Saab, Abba, and Khalid Chacha wanted the men caught and punished, but then Riaz Chacha convinced Abba to send you away, saying it would be best for you, and for the family. He warned Abba of what would happen if the villagers found out.” I paused, remembering. “They took you to Lahore the next morning.”

  “I remember the journey and meeting this woman who called herself Auntie,” whispered Tara. “She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t remember. I was terrified of her, but I couldn’t have disappointed Amma. There was this strange ceremony in a small room. I was afraid of Kamran and his beady eyes. I cried and begged Amma not to leave me, but she told me that it was for the best. I had to forget the past, make my home there, and begin a new life. And then they were gone.”

  “What happened? Was he? Did he?” I started.

  “He raped me, again and again. It made no difference to him whether I resisted or cried. He was quicker if I didn’t, so I stopped. He laughed and said the marriage ceremony was a sham. He could do anything he liked with me.” Tara’s voice was flat. “Then there were other men. He said he had to recover the money he had spent on me. I tried to escape once, but he caught me. After that, he began to drug me. I was always drowsy and couldn’t think or plan. I didn’t know if it was day or night. I wanted to kill him, but I was helpless.”

  “You’re so brave, braver than anyone I know, ” I said.

  “Wait. How did you know where I was?” interrupted Tara, pushing my hand away. She sat up. “I saw you in the room. I tried to say something but couldn’t. I was too drowsy. When I woke up next, you were there! I couldn’t believe it. How did you get me out?”

  Silently, I stared at Tara, feeling cold and clammy. What was I going to tell her? I had never lied to her. Taking a deep breath, I began to narrate the muck of lies we had told everyone, but stopped mid-sentence. Tara was shaking her head.

  “No, it was you. I dreamt of you, and saw you, and not Omer. I am sure about that. And they would never have allowed Omer near me while I was drugged. You’re lying, why?”

  I gripped the jute weave, trying to fight the grainy darkness.

  “Zara!” repeated Tara.

  “You’re right,” I whispered. “I was inside the brothel, not Omer, and I got you out.”

  “How?” burst out Tara. “I know that place, the way it works. Qadir would never let you inside, and Auntie would never let you out, unless ...”

  My breath felt squeezed. “I got you out. The rest doesn’t matter. Does it?”

  Tara clenched my fingers. “It matters if they got you. Tell me they didn’t. Please, no. Not because of me?” Her voice cracked. She blanched.

  “No, not because of you.” I shook my head to clear the murky fog. Why was I punishing myself? For what? What had I done?

  “You were! Because of me you’ve lost everything.”

  “The only thing I’ve lost is my virginity and the paisa worth of honour attached to it,” I spat out.

  “What?” gasped Tara.

  “And is that all there is to me?”

  “Huh?”

  “My honour, the izzat I bring to my family. Is that all there is to me?” I exhaled hard. “I went inside to save you, but that man raped me, so it’s his shame, his honour and his izzat that’s lost, not mine. And yes it hurt, but
it’s over.”

  “It’s never over,” said Tara.

  My voice hardened. “It’s over because there’s more to me. I can’t accept that my honour and izzat is defined by one act, which I didn’t even have control over. And neither should you. Men encase our honour in a glass showcase, and then shatter it with rocks. They put us under burkas and then strip us. What kind of justice is that? They suck honour from us like marrow from the bone to strengthen their power, their name. Why don’t they look for honour within themselves?” I paused and looked at Tara. “What happened to you was wrong. But there was no law, no system, not even one person, nothing to help us. So I did what I had to, to get you back. Do you understand?”

  Tara stared. “Yes,” she whispered and reached out.

  Her fingers brushed my damp cheeks. I clasped her hand, hoping I had my twin back. I leaned over the charpai to unzip the black bag. Reaching inside, I dropped the silver birth bracelet into her palm. It was time.

  49

  I clung to the fading dream. Master Saab pointed to the blackboard, but I couldn’t hear him. Babur Saab stood in front of me now, blocking my view. What was he doing in my school? I jumped up, wide awake. Outside, cotton clouds filled the pale blue sky. I could hear Amma moving about.

  In less than an hour, Tara and I were busy with chores. Kulsoom Chachi was expected later in the day. It was the first time she was going to visit since Tara’s return. Done with mourning Saima Appi’s divorce, Chachi was on a mission to finalise Nazia’s marriage. Amma had set a milad in honour of Chachi’s visit, Tara’s health and happiness, and Omer’s success. Omer had sent word through Master Saab that he and Saleem were doing well and would stay in the hostel to work during the holidays. I wasn’t sure if Amma believed in milads, but I knew she felt indebted to Khalid Chacha, and said the milad might lessen the increasing pressure from the villagers to send Tara back to her husband.

  The afternoon simmered like an egg yolk in a frying pan. Sweat dripped down my neck and back. Trying to stop thinking about my dream, I swept the floor, laid out mats, washed the dishes, and cooked savoury rice with chickpeas.