by Aysha Baqir
Late morning Majjo Phuppi came bursting in with news from the city. There were more protests in the city, and rumours about a failed assassination. But no one paid attention, and the preparations continued. Later that morning the door shook and rattled. A horde of women entered, laughing and chatting. They crowded together on one side of the mats, and after a few minutes began to chant religious hymns. The soothing voices rang out and soared with fervour. Nazia and I sat outside to listen, but Tara had retreated to her room at the first knock. A while later, the door shook, and another pack of women trooped inside and chose to sit on the other side. Snippets of gossip spiralled in between the hymns.
“I swear my tongue will dissolve into ashes if I lie, but I heard this from my neighbour,” declared a square-faced woman. Looking around, she sniffed and went on. “Last week a woman wide as a buffalo came looking for Nasreen at Bari Masi’s door. She called herself Auntie and insisted she was Nasreen’s relative from Lahore and needed to meet her urgently.”
I strained to listen. Had the infamous Auntie been here?
“Bari Masi flew into a rage,” continued the woman. “She wanted nothing to do with anyone who knew her daughter-in-law. She screamed that if her daughter-in-law had been a good wife her son would have never joined the protests in the city and would still be alive. And threatening to kill her if she ever saw her in the village again, Bari Masi chased her out of our village with a hatchet.”
“How did I miss it?” moaned Sabiha Masi, but a moment later her eyes gleamed. “But listen to me. I have bigger news. I swear my nose will fall off if I lie, but I heard this from my cousin, who heard it from his uncle.” She paused, and the women leaned forward eagerly. “Our rulers are pimping our country to the highest bidder.”
“Sabiha, language!” chided Qudsia Masi.
“What language? We’re not five-year-olds, are we?” said Majjo Phuppi. “Give the details, woman.”
“Money is pouring in from powerful countries; too much and too quickly. We’ve been sending our boys to fight the war in Afghanistan. Many say it’s not even our war. And hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children are crossing the border into our country. Where will they go? Where will they live? The rulers can’t provide for us, they can’t better our lives, and they’re letting foreigners enter our land. This madness will cripple us.”
“What are we fighting for?” asked a woman.
“For money, and more money. Can the pockets of our rulers ever be full?” Sabiha Masi rolled her eyes.
“Never,” said Mujjo Phuppi, “So much wealth, where does it go? We see so little of it. We have no hospitals or schools, no drains, no gas or electricity. The factories dump waste into our rivers and we, being the asses we are, continue to drink the water and bathe in it.”
“True, true,” another woman piped up.
“I hear Master Saab has received funding for a school for boys and girls in our village,” started Zubaida Masi. Startled, I leaned closer to listen. Amma hadn’t mentioned anything about a school. Tiny wings fluttered in my belly.
“One school, what can one school do?” spat a thin-faced woman.
“She’s right. The whole village stinks. It’s like a cesspool in the monsoons. Over a dozen of our children died of malaria. And still no sign of a doctor or dispensary,” added another woman.
“You talk about problems,” Zubaida Masi sniffed, “Then start with the rape and murder of that poor Ayesha. There’s enough evidence to convict the landlord’s men, but will it ever happen? No. Even the police are scared. The landlord’s men roam the fields like wild dogs.”
“It’s because of the new laws,” added Sabiha Masi. The murmurs swelled. I shifted even closer to hear the women. The singing had reached a crescendo.
“Laws?” hissed Mujjo Phuppi, leaning forward. “You call them laws?” She pulled out a roll of newspaper.
“What’s that?” asked Sabiha Masi.
A rhythmic chant of prayers filled the air. Majjo Phuppi smoothed the page and pointed to the top right side. “It’s madness,” she began. “My brother read out the news to me.”
“Tell us now, what news?” urged Zubaida Masi.
Majjo Phuppi shook her fists. “A sixteen-year-old blind girl has been sentenced to fifty lashes and a prison sentence. Her crime? That she was raped by a businessman and his son while her mother, their maid, was at the market. Upon discovering her daughter was pregnant, the poor mother took the case to court. But the judge let the businessman and his son go free, saying there was no evidence against them, yet convicted the girl, saying she must have been with someone to get pregnant.”
“No, no!” protested the women.
“Can’t be,” protested Zubaida Masi. “This can’t be the law. Our mothers and grandmothers fought to create this country and gave up their lives for it. Why are they doing this to us?”
Majjo Phuppi looked around. “We can fight back. There’s a protest in the city. Women are getting together, forming an organization to challenge this ruling. I’m going, join me. We need to unite and organise a group in our village.”
More murmurs. Many women shook their heads. “Leave the city-folk to solve their problems,” said Sabiha Masi finally. “Don’t we have enough of our own, and who wants to risk the landlord’s wrath?”
“Who would look after our children?” added another woman.
“Take them along. We need to work together!” urged Majjo Phuppi.
“Who would do the housework?” asked a young, sharp-faced woman.
“Leave it for a day,” pleaded Majjo Phuppi. “Your homes won’t fall apart. Or ask your mothers-in-law or sisters-in-law to help out. This is important. Our rulers must see us united. We must show them we will not accept this.”
“Forget it,” said Sabiha Masi. “Have the city folk ever stood up for us or come to our help?”
“They get everything, all the benefits, the gas, electricity, water,” grunted another woman. Mujjo Phuppi frowned, but then sighed and tucked the newspaper back under her arm.
“Well, with such laws, it’s safer that we cover ourselves and keep our girls inside,” warned an elderly woman.
“With young daughters in the house, do we have a choice?” added another woman.
“If our laws can’t protect our daughters, then we have to protect them,” declared Zubaida Masi.
The women sniffed, frowned and nodded. I stared at their chador-covered heads, their hard eyes and tight lips. I looked around, willing even one of them to protest, willing even one woman to say something, but they were silent. A wildfire blazed inside my chest. Why were they giving up? Our grandmothers had struggled beside our grandfathers without any thought of honour or dishonour. They had fought alongside the men for our country’s birth and its freedom. Had we forgotten? I glanced at them again. No. They weren’t going to protest.
Anger reared up inside me like a beast spewing fire. This silence. Was this their answer to the madness? It destroyed any hope for justice. How many girls had been raped before Tara or me? How many women were being raped at this moment, how many in the next minute, the next hour, the next day and next year, across villages, towns, and cities, across other countries and continents? How many girls and women? How many daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers raped over land, water, war, money, revenge, or just because they were there? How many more would it take to stop? Would it ever end? Not if everyone kept silent.
At a nod from Amma, Sakina Masi raised her voice to lead the soulful prayers. Once the prayers were over, the women sniffed and murmured into their cupped hands. The sight of dishes heaped with rice, mango pickle, and kheer made the women get up and start eating. I watched them shovel food into their mouths.
Their silence strangled them. Why were they silent? Because of the laws? No, it was about shame and dishonour. Rape shamed and dishonoured. No one spoke about it. My mother’s friends, the women I had known since my childhood, were willing to keep their daughters inside and cage t
hem for fear of the shame of dishonour, but not willing to challenge those who smeared them with shame and dishonour. They didn’t deserve to have daughters.
They were cowards. We were cowards. Why didn’t we shame and dishonour the men who raped girls? Why did we not speak up against them? Why didn’t other men speak up against them? It made no sense. In a dacoity, the law didn’t accuse the victim of leaving the door open, or leaving the cupboard unlocked. But with rape, the victim was accused and charged for being raped. Like it was her fault for being there.
It took hours to clean up after everyone had left. The floor and mats littered with grains of rice had to be swept and rolled up. We washed the plates, glasses, and spoons that we had to return to the neighbours. Amma and Kulsoom Chachi went inside to rest.
The sun was sinking into the horizon when Tara and I sat down to rest. I groaned at the loud knock on the door. “I don’t have the strength,” I mumbled.
“Let me get it,” said Tara. I glanced up in surprise. Ever since our return, Tara had never volunteered to open the door. When someone knocked, her eyes would fly to our room to gauge how much time she had to run inside. I stood up after her, and then slowly sat down again.
As she reached the door, I called out, “Don’t forget to ask who it is.”
“Salam,” called the voice from outside. “Zara Beti? It’s me, Master Saab. Can I come inside?”
“Yes, yes, I’m just coming,” I shot up. Why had Master Saab come over? Everything was all right with Omer, wasn’t it? “Hurry up and call Amma,” I whispered to Tara. Giving me a puzzled look, Tara nodded. “Salam-a-laikum,” I said, pulling the door back.
“Walaikum-a-Salam, Beti. I heard you were back from the city,” started Master Saab. His eyes gleamed. “How have you been?”
“I’m well. Please come inside, Master Saab,” I replied. “Amma will be right out. Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you. I could do with a cup,” he responded.
Leading him to the charpai, I headed to the cooking pit that we had just cleaned. I lit the fire again, boiled the tea leaves and added a generous helping of milk and sugar. Waiting for the tea to simmer, I went inside.
“Come and meet Master Saab,” I urged Tara, who sat on the charpai with her back against the wall, humming softly. “He helped me find work in Lahore.”
“No, I want to finish these,” said Tara. She tipped the box filled with gold foil wrappers I had collected after eating the chocolates in Sehr Madam’s cupboard. She had started shaping them into small animals and had built a collection of goats, chickens, and buffaloes. Unable to persuade Tara to join us, I returned with the chai. Amma had joined Master Saab and sat on a charpai opposite him.
“Thank you. Yes, you’ve heard correctly, I’ve been selected to set it up,” Master Saab was saying.
“What an honour! But how did it happen?” asked Amma.
Curious, I perched on Amma’s charpai.
Master Saab didn’t reply immediately. He picked up the cup, poured the chai in the saucer, let it cool, and then poured it back into the cup. He repeated this movement a couple of times before gulping down the chai in one go and sighed. “I needed that. What can I say? Pure luck maybe, or maybe God answered our prayers. An old colleague of mine was transferred to the education department in the federal government. I had spoken to him about our village some months back and told him how well our boys had done in the exams and admissions. He was impressed, and called to tell me to say he had recommended our village for a primary school project for both boys and girls.” He paused. “They’ve also agreed to set up a dispensary in the school. I insisted on it. So many children, how could we not have one? They finally agreed.” He glanced at me.
“What an achievement!” said Amma. “When does it open?” I stared at Amma. Since when had she started supporting girls’ education? And why was Master Saab looking at me like he wanted me to say something?
“It’s already been a month since the approval,” said Master Saab. “I was busy preparing budgets and providing them with information. They signed the papers today and sent the first instalment. We have the go ahead. But there’s a lot to be done, and I need all the help I can get.” Master Saab shot me another look and nodded.
I froze. That look. It shouted I could scale mountains and cross the seas. What did it mean?
“I’m sure there’s a lot to do,” agreed Amma. She sighed. “But how exciting. I never thought so before, but it’s important for girls to study.”
“It is. It is. And I am so happy you think so too. We need all the help we can get,” declared Master Saab.
“Amma, let us help Master Saab. We can work at the dispensary, or even at the school.” The words were out. My pulse raced. Blood rushed to my face. Dreams were like fireflies. We had to grasp them. Catch them. Otherwise, they would fly away. And it would be dark again.
“Let you help, how?” echoed Amma turning to me. “How? You haven’t …”
“What a good idea. I could do with their help with the dispensary,” interrupted Master Saab. “There’s too much on my shoulders already and …” He paused, seeing Amma frown.
“I don’t know,” muttered Amma, looking at me. “She hasn’t even started her secondary. How will they help?”
Master Saab cleared his throat. “It’s your decision. I know these girls haven’t received any formal education, but they’re clever and hardworking. And I do need someone to manage the dispensary. It won’t be easy though. They will have to go through four months of basic dispensary training. Maybe Zara can finish her secondary while she’s there and has the time.”
“I don’t know,” repeated Amma. “It’s not only up to me, you know.” She shook her head. “And what will everyone say? That we’ve put our girls to work.”
“People will say what they have to!” I burst out. “They’re like woodpeckers, chipping away at others until they’re left hollow. If we’re not doing anything wrong, why do we have to answer to them?”
“Shush!” admonished Amma and turned to Master Saab. “Do you really need them to help you? And will you have the time to help Zara clear her secondary?”
“There’s so much to do, Behen, that their help would be invaluable. And I’ll pay them a salary, of course,” said Master Saab. “Once the school is set up we can see how Zara can continue her studies.”
“Their father …” began Amma and paused.
“You must talk to him,” said Master Saab. “His approval is important. But I should go now. It’s time for prayers.” He rose and then added, “Let me know soon, but I beg you not to miss this opportunity. Zara, you can see me out.” He looked at me questioningly. Amma nodded but didn’t answer.
I followed Master Saab to the door. My head spun like a top. At the door, Master Saab turned to me. “For you,” he said. Surprised, I grasped the white envelopes and looked down. One was from Omer, but the other? Saleem? It had to be Saleem. What had he written? My pulse raced. I looked up, but Master Saab had slipped out. I slid the envelopes inside my shirt and placed my palms on my burning cheeks. Why had he written? And what? And why now, when I had decided that everything I felt for him had only been in my head?
“Zara!” called Amma.
I bolted the door, then walked back. “Amma, please let us,” I began.
“Shush,” hissed Amma.
I shivered at the hard, beetle look in her eyes. My heart shrank into a lump of grit. Had she put on an act for Master Saab? Maybe nothing had changed. Was she going to stop me again? Take away what I wanted?
Amma sighed and locked her fingers. “I’ll tell you something. I’ve been forced to see what I didn’t want to. I’ve been brought back to the point I started from, to the choices I thought I would never have to make again. Why, if anyone had told me that I would even think about letting my daughters work two years ago, I would have laughed and said that I would chop my hair off before letting that happen. I wanted you both to be married and settled in your own homes. But
now …”
“But now?” I echoed.
“But now I don’t know.” Amma shook her head. “I don’t know what’s best for you both. You have to decide that.”
“What about Abba?”
“He will follow what your Khalid Chacha advises. Khalid Chacha cleared your father’s debt, so he has no choice but to listen to him. But tell me, do you really want to study, to work? You say you do, but are you ready? I can still try to get you both married.”
A surge swelled inside of me. I soared higher and higher. I was up in the sky. Flying beyond my village, beyond the fields. I stared back at Amma. Was I ready? I had been ready for years. I had been knocked down, lost a few rounds, but won more. I was up, and in the ring again. And this time the fight wasn’t just about me. It was bigger than me. It was about hundreds and thousands of other girls wanting to study, and wanting justice. We had to stand up and shout out to be heard. Majjo Phuppi was right. It was the only way to get education and justice. Was it too late? No. I was only sixteen or seventeen. There was more to learn, and more rounds to win.
Author’s Note
In 1998, after graduating from business school, I launched an enterprise development program in five villages. During the fifteen years (1998-2012) that I worked with girls and women of rural Pakistan, I met and talked with hundreds of daughters, mothers, wives, and grandmothers. They were my clients. I had to put together an economic development program that worked for them, a program that made the markets work for them. Today, Kaarvan Crafts Foundation works in over 1000 villages and with over 20,000 women entrepreneurs in low-income communities.
Beyond the Fields is inspired by the time I spent with the rural women of Pakistan. It is a testament to my admiration and respect for their determination, strength, and resilience in moments of despair – with so little they manage to achieve so much.
The protagonists in Beyond the Fields challenge the roles that have been defined for them, determined instead to persevere and achieve their dreams. The characters are fictional, but the voices are real. They speak of violence, poverty, strength and perseverance. I hope they speak to you as powerfully as they continue to speak to me.