‘What do you think we do with women like you?’
Samarra could not see his face; she could only feel the pull of his boots. Her scalp throbbed as he squatted down to speak to her.
‘What do you think happens to baghi like you?’
‘I’m not a rebel.’
She closed her eyes in preparation for the second strike. How had they found her? Who had been careless enough to expose her to these men? Everyone knew what they did with women like her. Not so many years before, they’d read in the papers of women doctors and secretaries raped in Balochistan’s Sui gas fields because they had spoken too loudly of the state’s pilfering. A consultant who had been hired from her southern city to come and put together a report on the gas fields was raped and beaten in her official bungalow, the home let to her by the government, and left for dead one November.
But she survived and accused one of her superiors of ordering and orchestrating the twenty-three hours of abuse that ought to have killed her questioning spirit. She was later admitted to an asylum for the infirm and insane.
Her rapists never made it to court.
Who could have been treacherous enough to name her when they knew – in Mir Ali everybody knew – what these men did to women like her? She could not think of a single soul.
‘How do you know the things you do?’
He cocked his head to the side, looking at Samarra. Her cheek was pressed against the floor and her skin was red and torn from his hand.
He stood up again and dug one of his ox-blood boots into her face. She bit her tongue involuntarily. Her jaw clicked against his heel.
‘How do you know who is no longer enrolled in university before the registrar does? How do you know which families have closed their shops to retire to the mountains before they pass our checkpoints?’
He pressed his boot against her cheekbone and waited for her to talk but she kept silent.
‘Do you know the force of what you are dealing with? Do you know how small you are, zama lur, underneath me?’
She could not open her mouth to speak. Samarra twitched, indicating that she wanted to talk, that she had something to say. He removed his boot from her face, but her hair, fanned out on the floor, pulled at her scalp as his feet readjusted themselves. Samarra licked the inside of her cheek. She tasted the dirt of the floor.
‘I know who you are.’
Her voice was quieter than she imagined, as if she still had the rag over her mouth suffocating her.
The man smiled. He played with a wedding ring on his left hand. She saw it for the first time as he twirled it once and then counter-clockwise twice, as though he was opening the combination to a safety deposit box. She waited for him to twist it a third time.
‘I know that you are the ones who have sold everything in this country you defend so urgently. You sold its gold, its oil, its coal, its harbours. I know you are the first in these sixty-six years of your great country’s history to have sold its skies. What have you left untouched?’
Samarra’s voice rose. She felt her strength return, she even thought she could hear the blood rushing against her right ear.
‘Who are you to sell the sky?’
His face contorted. His wedding ring stopped its twirl. His hands fell to his sides. With her one eye that was not closed against the dark crevice between her face and the floor, she saw him lunge towards her. His hands closed upon her face and he pulled her off the ground, her neck straining, her body falling loose so that the pain of what came next would be lessened by her weaker resistance. Having lifted Samarra, the army man held her against the wall, his palms against her forehead, her neck. She promised herself that she would not cry; she promised herself, as she began to feel her eyes burn, that she would not scream.
‘Bring the boys in.’
He issued the command and released her. He didn’t look at Samarra as he picked his pistol off the chair he had been sitting on and tucked it back into his holster, clicking the safety catch shut, before walking out of the room.
• • •
After she had been let go, she tried to clean herself up in the home of a friend so that her mother would not see what they had done to her. After Samarra realized that what they had done could not be cleaned up, not erased or lightened with soap and make-up, she called her mother and told her that she was spending the night at her friend’s home. The room was dark except for the halo of light coming from the TV, switched on to one of the many talk shows aired at night. The volume was low and Samarra couldn’t hear the presenter. Malalai could barely hear her daughter on the line.
Samarra touched her cheek. His ox-blood boots had left an impression on her face. Torn skin, purple bruises, a constellation of tiny broken capillaries. Samarra held the phone away from her ear. The sound of her mother’s voice hurt. She could feel the blood rushing against her temples.
It was only this time, she promised her mother; it was late and she did not want to travel alone at night – you never knew how safe you were in Mir Ali, Samarra reminded her. And Malalai, fearfully aware, agreed and relented.
Her second call had been to Aman Erum. Samarra dialled his number and, in the clearest English she could muster, she asked the American boy who picked up the phone if she could speak to Aman Erum. It took Aman Erum four minutes to come on the line – no one called him at his hostel, he used the phone at his discretion. And though he had given people in Mir Ali the number in case of emergencies, this was the first call he had received from home.
When Samarra heard his voice she began to cry. She had forbidden herself any tears until then. But with Aman Erum, Samarra let go. She sobbed, he thought he heard her howl. Ghazan, Ghazan Afridi. He thought he heard her say her father’s name. And me. And now me. But her cries tore through the line. It took Aman Erum some time to understand what Samarra was trying to say to him. At first he couldn’t make out the words; they were strangled in her throat and he couldn’t understand what she was saying except for zalim. Between her growling cries she repeated the word over and over. The unjust. The injustice. When he understood, when Aman Erum finally understood what Samarra had been saying, he dropped the phone.
• • •
Aman Erum stands on the pavement quietly, thinking about what he is about to do. He looks behind once more to make sure he hasn’t been followed. Though half of him hopes that Colonel Tarik has been trailing him all this time. Aman Erum half hopes that the Colonel will catch him and stop him. He looks at his watch. There isn’t much time left. He has to reach the agreed-upon spot and make the call. Prayers are at noon. He has less than an hour left.
17
Sikandar keeps his eyes on the Talib speaking to each other. He can see them arguing. When they catch his eye, he lowers his gaze. Mina is deathly still. She has not moved since the man with the light-blue turban backed away from her window. Mina places her hands on her lap and talks to her husband under her breath. Unlike him, she does not lower her eyes. She does not bow her head. She keeps her head upright and looks straight ahead at the unrecognizable wilderness of the forest around them.
‘What are you doing?’
Sikandar can’t answer. He shakes his head slightly, too slightly. Mina doesn’t see the movement. She hasn’t turned to look at him.
‘What are you doing to get us out of this?’
As her voice quickens, her teeth bite against each other.
Sikandar tries to answer. He wants to tell her everything is going to be all right, to look at this as a checkpoint – they have been through hundreds, thousands, of them before – this is no different, only the toll is unusual. But nothing comes out. He shakes his head again. It seems to move on its own, like the nervous tremble of a hummingbird. His neck tightens.
‘Mina –’
She turns towards him, breaking her posture.
‘Kha, say something.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
He sees her shoulders slump forward before she straightens herself upright in defiance of the betrayal her body feels. He hears her inhale angrily, quickly. Sikandar watches Mina’s body stiffen again. She turns her torso away from him and towards the dashboard.
‘I’m sorry.’
She closes her ears to him. She moves her handbag off her lap, putting it first between her thighs and the door, crowding her seat, then reconsiders. What if the Talib suspect she’s getting too comfortable? Mina folds the bag so it takes up less space, and just then Sikandar hears the sound again. Beads rolling against each other. He’s almost certain it’s beads.
He listens, not lifting his eyes, for the tapping sound the invisible objects make as they clink against each other in Mina’s moving bag. For the first time that day, he hears the noise clearly. What does she have hidden in there? Sikandar counts the rings on Mina’s fingers: all there. He checks the buttons on her cardigan absent-mindedly. He allows his eyes to graze along his wife’s body before he closes them.
Tamarind seeds.
Counted at funerals. The words of prayers said over them before they’re offered as petitions to God on the behalf of the deceased. She carries them with her.
Sikandar turns his face slightly to look at Mina. Their son had looked like his mother in profile. Small nose, high cheekbones that were almost Mongoloid, silken hair. Hers is now brittle and growing white from neglect. Zalan had looked very little like him. He had not grown old enough to develop the heavier features of his father. But he had been frightened like him. They had their fear in common. Sikandar’s heart sinks with the memory of his son’s inheritance.
For a brief time, when the nights were longer, Zalan was all Sikandar’s. He sat in his father’s silhouette and did not leave him until he closed his eyes for sleep. It was Sikandar who put Zalan to bed with a short story and three kisses, one extra for good luck.
Sikandar has not thought of those nights for some time. He has stopped his mind from wandering to his son. Sitting with Mina in the van, Sikandar prays for nothing more than quiet so that he can revisit those long-ago evenings.
To him, Zalan always remained that sleepy, frightened but proud boy. He pictures his son, no matter how old, as that unsure little boy.
‘I’m too afraid to close my eyes, Baba,’ Zalan would say, the furry blanket pulled up to his chin, its stray hairs getting caught in his mouth and eyelashes. Zalan would have to free his hands to clear them off.
‘Why?’ his father would ask gently.
‘When I close my eyes at night,’ Zalan would reply, ‘I have bad dreams.’
‘Close your eyes and summon two lions,’ Sikandar would say, his voice so clear with authority that his son sat up to listen. ‘Think of them as statues, as gatekeepers. They will guard the ministries and buildings of your dreams.’
That was all Zalan needed. Comforted by the lions, his own invented guardians, Zalan would drift to sleep in the crook of his father’s shoulder.
Sikandar’s eyes sting with tears.
• • •
The men break apart and return to their positions surrounding the van, Kalashnikovs cushioned in their arms and pointed at the driver’s seat. The gaunt commander speaks with a new tremor in his voice.
‘Are you a Muslim?’
Sikandar bows his head as he turns towards his window. ‘Yes, yes,’ he says, and nods in confirmation. ‘Yes, of course, I am a Muslim.’
The Talib wraps his shawl round his neck, freeing his arms which had struggled against the fabric as he rammed the gun into Sikandar’s face earlier.
‘You are a man of the faith?’
Sikandar feels foolish now. He has worried over nothing, over an imagined fear these young boys can’t inspire, not even with assault rifles draped over their shoulders.
The rain, which had let up briefly for the last half an hour, returns. Water falls on the gaunt Talib’s threadbare kameez. The wet tunic clings to his skin. It is transparent. Mina thinks she can see the outline of a T-shirt underneath. She sees light colours, faded from wear, shades of yellow and green. She thinks she can see a silhouette of the man on the shirt: Bob Marley. Mina looks at her feet.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I am driving the doctor to the village where she is needed and then I will be returning for my prayers.’
Sikandar smiles at the gaunt Talib, encouraging solidarity. He smiles cautiously, in anticipation of the positive response his prayers will elicit. The Talib does not return the gesture.
Mina breathes quietly in her seat. She shuts her eyes for the first time and focuses on the men’s voices. Sikandar looks at her for approval, for her to issue an apology to him now. She was wrong to doubt him. But he sees that her forehead is still tight, her skin pinched into deep lines. He can hear her teeth grind against each other.
‘You fold your arms when you pray, drever –’
Sikandar doesn’t let him finish his sentence uninterrupted. This is a misunderstanding. He hurriedly assures the Talib of his right intentions and his journey on the right path.
‘Brother, ror, I am a Muslim. I pray each week. I was first taken for munz by my father as a young boy. I learned how to speak to God before I could write. I taught my own son, my own boy, how to give thanks. I pray today for the blessing of Eid.’
The gaunt Talib pushes his gun into the car, stabbing Sikandar’s shoulder.
‘I asked you a question. Answer it.’
Sikandar’s wan smile is cast off by the burn of the Kalashnikov’s muzzle against his kameez. It’s hot; it has only just been fired.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ror. I misunderstood.’
‘I asked you if you were a Muslim.’
Sikandar answers carefully, ‘I am. I was five years old when I first said the kalma.’
‘You don’t hear me, drever. How many times do you pray?’
Sikandar doesn’t want to reveal himself as a once a week, once a month – truthfully, once or twice every year – supplicant but if he lies and says he prays daily they might know. They have men everywhere these days, especially in the mosques, who might out him as a sinner, as a liar. Sikandar weighs the two against each other. There is redemption afforded to lax believers. There is none for liars.
‘I am . . .’
Sikandar starts, but he can’t say the words with Mina looking at him. He feels her glare upon him. She knows he is a coward.
‘I am only a driver . . . I do not have the time to live as a good Muslim must . . . I pray on Fridays whenever I am able to leave work for a few moments . . .’
The Talib turns the gun with one swift revolution and rams the butt of the rusted Kalashnikov against Sikandar’s temple.
‘Chap sha! Shut up! You think this is a joke?’
Sikandar holds up his hands. There is blood on his white kameez. Droplets of rich red are falling onto his lap from somewhere, but he can’t feel where the gun has cut him. His face, his head, his neck and shoulder all feel heavy and bruised. He licks his gums. There is no blood in his mouth. He inhales the rich scent of the air, sweetened by pine cones.
‘Do you pray three times a day?’
Sikandar understands now, his meditation interrupted, that it is his eyebrow. The skin above his left brow has been ripped open. His eye stings and he blinks quickly to avoid the blood falling into his eye.
‘Brother, I am sorry. I do not pray daily, but I will. I will.’
Sikandar promises blindly, eagerly. They can’t beat him for that. The gaunt commander looks at the Talib back at his position guarding Mina’s window. He nods at him and the Talib lifts his automatic weapon to place it against Mina’s head. The gaunt Talib leans his body against the van so that his torso is bent over into Sikandar’s window.
‘Khar bachaya.’
He whispers the curse at Sikandar.
‘Are you Sunni or Shia?’
18
Samarra had gone to Hayat when Aman Erum stopped calling her. She could not understand, especially after what had happened, why he no longer called her in the mornings and woke her up with the shrill ring of the phone. Samarra did not understand what had happened to the boy who used to wait for her by the screen door, hobbling over to her, dragging the dead leg that had fallen asleep under his books as he counted the minutes till her footsteps sounded on the pebbles outside his house.
Aman Erum never answered when she called his hostel any more. In the beginning, whoever answered the phone would return after a couple of minutes and tell her in a distracted voice that Aman Erum wasn’t around. But later on, as her calls grew more frequent and more needy, no one even bothered to come back to the phone; they just left her dangling, like the receiver, without answer.
Samarra waited for a letter, a postcard, an envelope containing a museum ticket, a cinema stub. But Aman Erum wouldn’t send a word. Samarra walked past his house in the evenings, hiding her face in the twilight, and looked into the driveway, searching for a sign that something else was wrong. She could not bring herself to talk to his family. Not like this, not with the welt of a smart ox-blood army boot still on her face. But night after night, Samarra saw no extra lights, no bodies moving about hurriedly, nothing.
To her mother, Samarra feigned an accident. It had been so long since she drove a motorbike, she said. Malalai, unable to hear any reference to Ghazan Afridi without tears, asked no more. But everyone else stared. They looked at her with worry and with fright. As if they knew.
Samarra sat in the Shah Sawar net café with her hair pulled across her face, and searched the world for news of New Jersey. But nothing. She remembered Aman Erum telling her of the café and of its underground curiosities. The men – there were only men at Shah Sawar, at the stations next to hers – moved their monitors. Some stood up and asked the proprietor for another place. Others just stared at the lone woman sitting at a computer with her hair falling over her eyes. She made them uncomfortable. She wasn’t supposed to be there. But Samarra didn’t care. She stared at her computer screen. Nothing. Samarra found no news of Aman Erum.
The Shadow of the Crescent Moon Page 15