“Please don’t sell Guluband,” I whisper, looking down at the fire. “Please, please, please.”
“I won’t if I can help it,” he says.
“But the others,” I say. “What you told the Baluch, that you’d rather sell them for meat than have them abused and shot down by soldiers!”
“I know,” he says. “Others are interested in the whole herd, too. I’ve asked the Afghans to pay twice what they’re willing to pay. Don’t worry, little one.”
That night, as I clean the pans and put them away, other men come to the fire to talk to Dadi. Just as last year, they are most interested in Guluband. Dadi tells them he isn’t for sale.
Dadi keeps the fire going far into the night. I am comforted that he’d told so many he won’t sell Guluband for any price, and I sleep soundly. I wake occasionally to Tipu’s lovesick roars, and when buyers come to try to persuade Dadi with offers that grow higher and higher, he refuses, and happily I fall back to sleep.
Next morning Guluband and I go to buy fodder. We return to find Dadi talking to Wardak and the one-armed man. Dadi listens, his back toward me. When Wardak finishes speaking, there is a long silence until Dadi speaks.
“Twenty-eight thousand for the big one, twenty-two for the other males, fifteen for each female, twenty for the pregnant ones, and eight apiece for the small ones. That’s two hundred seventy-six thousand, and not a paisa less.”
Wardak spits in the dust and walks away. I drop the twenty kilos of fodder Guluband and I have carried from the vendor and jump to the ground.
“You said you wouldn’t,” I shout, sobs tearing through my voice.
Dadi grabs me by the arms and shakes me hard until I’m quiet.
“Hush! He’ll never pay that much. And if he does, I don’t want a word out of you.”
I cry out and yank my arms away from him. He lets me go and I run blindly, my chadr flying out behind me, all the way to the canal that borders the fairground. I can’t stay long. I know Dadi can’t leave the animals alone with that man wanting Guluband so much. I sit hugging me knees, staring into the gray water, searching for an answer.
I think of taking Guluband myself, but there is nowhere a girl can go safely alone. I think of the Bugti girl who loved the Marri boy, and of her father looking for them to kill her. I have no money, I know nobody outside my family. I have no choice but to obey Dadi and hope the Afghan won’t pay that price for the whole herd.
When I get back to the camp, Dadi is showing the pregnant females to another buyer, a man in a huge white turban, with a big belly, enormous hands, and kind eyes. I ask if they want tea. Dadi looks at me and there is compassion in his eyes. I know I must remain in Dadi’s good graces—it’s my only hope.
The man comes into the camp and I hand them each a cup. The man thanks me and sits, sipping the tea noisily. He too is a Pathan, a herder from Zhob in north Baluchistan near the Afghanistan border. He tells Dadi half his herd was wiped out last year by disease. He needs good, strong females.
“The pregnant ones are each seven thousand,” says Dadi. “I’ll take six for each of the other females. Two have calves, and they must stay together. The calves are two thousand each.”
My breath rushes in sharply. That’s less than half the price Dadi has offered Wardak. Still the prices are high, and no doubt this man will bargain him down. Perhaps Dadi is right: Wardak will never pay that much!
The Bargain
The next morning the man from Zhob comes for breakfast. We sit around the warmth of the fire, eating in companionable silence as the sun comes up, spreading its watery light over the fairground.
When we have finished, the man sucks his teeth and stands.
“I’ve raised all I can. Thirty thousand.”
“That will cover all but the milking female and one other,” says Dadi, standing so his eyes are level with the other man’s.
“Your prices are the highest at Sibi,” says the other.
“My camels are the best,” Dadi replies. “Otherwise you’d put your thirty thousand on ten scrawny females from Sind.”
The other man nods slowly.
“Let me give you twenty-four and leave out a pregnant female. They’re always a risk.”
Dadi chews on a piece of straw for a moment and tosses it into the fire.
“The two pregnant ones are the best females. You’ll have no trouble. Both are a month from delivery. You’re talking of false economy.”
“But I need more …”
“One of the females hasn’t dropped a calf in three years,” says Dadi. “I want you to have my camels. You’ll look after them well, and they’ll produce fine calves and plenty of milk. If you have a good stud, the younger ones will give you a calf a year over the next seven years. Leave me the old dry one, and for your thirty thousand I’ll sell you the other females and calves.”
The man’s face brightens. He has a good bargain. He lifts his tunic to pull several handfuls of crumpled notes from a canvas money belt. He sticks a huge forefinger inside to make sure no bills are left hiding.
He and Dadi shake hands and the deal is done. There is tea, a little gossip about other camel sellers, and more sucking of teeth before the man leads away all but one of the females.
Dadi smiles broadly as he turns back to the fire.
“This is a good beginning,” he says, tugging my hair. I pour us each another cup of tea.
Later in the morning the dust rises, and Dadi is busy with a man who wants to buy Tipu. I sell two of Grandfather’s saddles for three hundred rupees apiece. Dadi is so pleased he sends me out to buy two chickens for dinner and invites our caravan companions for a meal tonight.
When I return, he has sold Tipu for eighteen thousand! He is singing and laughing to himself when I come back with sacks of vegetables and the chickens.
“I’ll go back and get two more chickens!” says Dadi, his turban pushed back on his head. “What luck! Eight camels!” It costs twenty rupees a day apiece just to feed them. And I don’t think even Dadi expected to get such good prices.
I spend the rest of the day peeling onions and making curry and chapatis, fetching water from the canal and keeping the tea boiling for a stream of prospective buyers. Dadi and I begin to sing again, and he promises to take me tomorrow to see the daredevil and for another paan.
Late in the afternoon the wind comes up. A dust storm is building, and I scurry to put out the fire and find lids for the pots to keep the sand out, and a cloth to tie up the chapatis.
The wind whips my skirt and hair. The chadr and shawl together don’t keep the sand from biting my skin. My teeth are gritty, and I open my eyes just wide enough to keep from tripping as I struggle to secure the tarpaulin to protect us and our belongings.
The camels shift positions to face into the wind. Their ears swivel back and their nostrils pinch down. They continue to ruminate with their eyes shut, content as old women in front of a fire.
I have secured three corners of the tarpaulin, and the last corner whips me about like a tassel on the end of a string. Dadi returns to help, and we drag sacks of flour, rice, and lentils under the tarpaulin. When we finally get underneath ourselves, every inch of my skin feels rubbed raw from the blowing sand. I fall asleep with the wind howling.
I am awakened by someone shouting “Abassi! Abassi!”
Dadi rises and goes outside. I lift a corner of the tarpaulin. Standing square into the wind is Wardak, looking like a wild man, with fire shooting out of his one good eye. He is alone. Dadi reties his turban tightly to secure it against the wind as he approaches Wardak.
The Afghan gestures furiously, and Dadi stands as he stood before, watching quietly. I sense Wardak is no stranger to killing. Dadi makes no move to invite him inside. The wind tears at them, plastering Dadi’s shirt against his broad back and his lungi against his muscular legs.
Rain begins to fall in dense plops on the tarpaulin and ground, sending up little splashes of mud. Still they stand outside, shouting above th
e storm.
The wind is frigid, and the rain beats in against my hands and face. My eyes are riveted on Wardak, who lifts his tunic and reaches into a canvas pouch hanging at his waist. He pulls out three bundles of stiff, blue five-hundred-rupee notes, still stapled together at one end. One hundred and fifty thousand rupees. Dadi’s shoulder dips as he reaches for the notes. I can’t see his hands or face.
I lift the flap higher and squeeze over a sack of rice. Wardak is halfway to where the camels are tethered when finally I can get a sound out of my paralyzed throat.
“No-o-o-o-o-o-o!” I scream, running at Wardak through the rain.
Dadi catches me halfway between the tent and Guluband, and he scoops me up in one arm. I kick at him and beat at the air.
“You promised!” I shriek. “Liar. You lied!”
Wardak has untethered the male camels, and Guluband is just getting to his feet.
“No-o-o-o!” I wail.
Dadi sets me down, and I try to break away from him. He holds me firmly by the arm. I bite at him like a wild animal. With his free hand he slaps my face, sending me to my knees. He still holds my arm.
Dadi’s eyes are on Wardak as he leads the animals away.
“Guluband!” I shout. My voice is like glass shattering and falling to the ground in splinters.
Guluband turns his great shaggy head and fixes me for a second with one clear brown eye. With a roar he turns, following Wardak obediently.
As I watch them disappear into the dim light, I know without a doubt that my heart is crumbling up inside me like a burning piece of paper. I sag against Dadi. He holds me against him for a moment, then lifts me in his arms and carries me into the tent.
Both of us are soaked and shivering. Dadi hands me a towel and tells me to take off my wet clothes. I obey, and he wraps me in a quilt, then goes out.
The wind dies, and the rain is now a gentle patter on the tarpaulin. I am numb and mute. Everything registers, but I cannot move. Dadi returns, folds back one edge of the tarpaulin, and builds a fire. I follow him with my eyes as he moves about the tent, arranging our clothes around the fire to dry and putting a kettle of tea on to boil.
He brings me a cup, but the salty-sweet tea turns bitter in my mouth and I choke. He takes back the cup. My teeth begin to chatter, and Dadi carries me to the fire. In its light, he inspects my face, looking at where he slapped me. I stare into his eyes, and for the first time he meets my look. He brushes his fingers over my tangled hair and folds me into his arms, where he holds me until I stop shivering.
When the rain stops and our clothes are dry, Dadi removes the stiff tarpaulin and folds it away. People begin to move around outside. I can hear the mud sucking at their feet. Dadi pushes the sacks of grains and pulses back into a big circle and covers the ground again with the reed mats.
He gets out the pots of curried chicken and lentils and rice and vegetables, and arranges them around the fire.
“Shabanu?” he says. I nod and take over the rest of the cooking while he goes out to find plates and cups to feed the men he has invited to celebrate the sale of our camels.
I feel strangely normal. I am not angry. I see everything clearly, as if I am awake for the first time in a long while. We are richer than we ever have been. From the sale of fourteen camels, Dadi has made enough for Phulan’s wedding and dowry and for mine next year. He and Mama will have an easier life. They still have a fine herd of camels at home.
But at the center of my self is an aching hole. With Guluband, my joy, my freedom, all of who I am has gone. I wonder if I will ever take pleasure in anything again.
Dadi returns with a sackful of red clay cups and plates. With him are two men, one with a drum, the other with a tattered old bagpipe. They kick off their muddy sandals and line them up outside the circle of our camp.
The sky clears just as the sun sets. Dadi heaps wood on the fire in a pit surrounded by the dry, clean mats, and orange glints curve around the edges of the pots and the folds of the men’s turbans.
The man with the bagpipe is the old man who shared his hookah with Dadi. He fills his frail frame with air and pumps up the bag. The sound begins as a low moan and rises as the pipes fill in an ancient tribal wail, the skin drum beating its rhythm underneath. Another man comes with a bamboo flute, and another with a roast leg of mutton.
Word spreads among the people of our caravan of Dadi’s great sales, and each comes, bringing what he can to help celebrate, and also in the hope that our good fortune portends his own.
Shatoosh
My heart stands still for a moment when Wardak appears. I want to tear out his one eye and spit in its bloody socket. But the dull ache around the hole where my heart used to be leaves me drained of all energy. Wardak has brought a roasted lamb. Our companions greet him warmly. They respect his wealth.
The men deposit their tributes around the fire and squat in a circle to gossip about the camel selling. The buyers curse the Afghans for driving prices up. The sellers mention the possibility of driving their camels through the Makran Range into the hands of the camel-eating Iranians and Arabs. The music pulses and everyone waits to eat.
Dadi passes out the clay plates. There aren’t enough. More appear. Trays heaped with meat, lentils, chapatis, vegetables, and rice are passed. I refill the teakettle again and again, moving about as if in a dream. Wardak never once looks in my direction.
After the men have eaten, the drummer quickens the rhythm of the music. Several men form a circle around the fire, smiling and swaying at first, then dipping and turning to clap their hands overhead, their steps a halting beat behind the drum in a traditional desert dance.
A young man who traveled with us through the Bugti tribal land tosses off his shawl and puts a reed between his lips. He lifts his arms gracefully and strikes at the air with his hands to staccato whistles through the reed, swaying like a mesmerized cobra. His feet lift forward quickly and smoothly, in time with the music and the reed. The others stand back, the fire flickering on their white tunics and turbans as they clap and whoop. A small boy joins in the snake dance, and the watching men twirl rupees over the dancers’ turbans to ward off the evil eye.
Four men drag Dadi to the fire. Their hero for today must dance, but he must appear to be unwilling. Wardak tosses Dadi a sword. He catches it by the handle and hesitates for a moment. With a shout, another of our caravan mates leaps into the circle of the fire, his sword raised over his head. The circle moves back farther, and the drummer beats the tempo still faster. Dadi and the other man whirl, duck, and leap in an intricate rhythm of hollow rings as their deadly swords flash in time to the tribal drum. When it’s over the two men sag exhausted against each other, swords upraised, and the crowd cheers.
Outside the circle, the night is cold. The storm has cleared the air, and the fairground is washed white with moonlight. I can barely hear the mechanical noise of the carnival above the music and voices. Half the fairground seems to have gathered around our camp.
When the men have drifted away, I gather up the clay dishes and cups, most of which lie broken around the edge of the mats. We pack up some of what’s left of the food and distribute the rest among the people camped about us.
Dadi looks tired, and his clothes are wrinkled and sweaty.
I’m glad to be occupied with practical things as I measure out wheat and lentils for the trip home. The rest we’ll sell in the morning. We have only one camel—the old female—to carry our belongings.
I lie awake for a long time, not thinking, trying to feel—testing for sadness, anger, anything, but I am as empty as the clay cups after the dancing. When I sleep finally, it’s a long, dreamless sleep. In the morning Dadi shakes me awake gently. The sun is fully up, and he helps me to sit. He drops something warm and heavy into my lap. It takes a moment for my head to clear.
A puppy with a large, round belly and soft brown fur picks at my fingers with sharp teeth. I look up, and Dadi is smiling. I hand the wriggling thing back to him.
/> “We’d better tie him up in a basket,” I say.
“Don’t you want to carry him?” asks Dadi.
I shrug. I feel exhausted and heavy. The thought of walking through the desert all day defeats me before I’m even out from under my quilt. I’ll be lucky if I can carry myself.
I go to the canal and splash water on my face. When I come back, Dadi has loaded the camel with everything but the teapot. The puppy barks a high yap from a basket that hangs next to the water jars on the camel’s hump. Dadi hands me a cup of tea and a chapati. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and am hungry.
“Do you want to ride?” Dadi asks. I decide to walk.
The day passes in a long, monotonous shuffle. Both of us walk in silence. The puppy quiets. Lulled by the stride of the old female camel, he falls asleep on the straw Dadi has laid on the bottom of the basket. His wet, black nose is pressed against an opening between the reeds.
We walk along the riverbed. My feet stumble and slide over the round stones. Dadi picks me up and carries me for a while on his shoulders.
We turn away from the river and follow the railway. Every two hours a train whistles by, moving fast downhill toward Jacobabad.
It’s getting dark when we see Dingra ahead, a tiny settlement around the train stop.
“Do you want to stop here for the night?” asks Dadi.
I shake my head.
“We don’t want to walk into the tribal area after dark,” he says.
But the moon is up before the sun sets, and we walk far into the night, keeping the road on one side and the train tracks on the other. We stop just short of Bellpat, where tomorrow we leave the road behind and walk along a desert track into the land of the Bugtis.
Over the next two days, we pass through the tribal area without incident. Dadi insists I ride so people will see we’re a simple family coming from Sibi to cross the desert. He has left several thousand rupees in his belt, enough to satisfy any thief we should meet. The rest of the notes are rolled into the hollowed wood of the camel saddle frame.
Shabanu Page 5