“I doubt if anyone in this area would know a USB from a SUV,” he laughed, finally taking a bag from my shoulder. I had no idea what he was talking about.
My sisters stood in the doorway—Meena, light-skinned, tall and slim, like her twin, Amir—and Faisah, dark and plump. Meena had plaited her light brown hair into a single braid as thick as her wrist. Faisah’s hair was cropped close to her scalp. As different as my sisters are, they and Amir all have the same wide smile. And on this day, the three of them were wearing matching aprons.
“Just in time for tikka,” said Meena.
“But with bean curd instead of chicken,” said Faisah. She shifted her eyes in Abbu’s direction and mouthed to me, “Veg-e-tar-i-an.”
“And I made the chapati,” said Amir proudly. Flour dust coated his big hands.
They sounded like three children in a storybook tale. I let them carry my bags, bring me cool water, and usher me to the most comfortable chair. I had forgotten the privileges of being the “mother” of the family, and I could not remember the last time I had felt so happy.
For the first time in his life, Abbu was doing his own house cleaning and yard work. At sunrise he carried a tray of fresh flowers, water, whole fruits, and sweets in small, shiny bowls and laid them before the guru’s image in the home shrine. And every afternoon he prayed at the Gurdwara, the sacred Sikh temple.
The next day I accompanied him to the temple gate. As we walked on an old donkey path, I told him about Bilqis.
“You sound distraught, Uji,” he said. “Lonely.”
“Not lonely, Abbu. Distraught.”
Then I told him about Khanum.
“Abbu, as soon as I heard myself tell Khanum that I would help her, my distress disappeared. I think if I save her life, I may save my own.”
“The only one anyone can save,” said Abbu.
We walked in silence. I was thinking about how to ask his permission to take this trip to Balochistan to rescue Khanum. I had been on my own for so many years, so it seemed out of place to be asking permission, especially for the “mother” of the family, but I knew it was disrespectful not to give him the opportunity to give me permission.
At the temple he slipped his feet out of his open-back shoes. I realized then that he was going inside to pray without saying anything about my going to Balochistan.
“Abbu?” I said. He turned and took my hands into his own.
“What you intend to do brings the sour taste of fear into my mouth, Uji. My advice will be wiser if I pray first with that old friend.” I felt then—as I had many times—that he had been reading my thoughts. I kissed his cheek.
“And, Abbu, next I will fulfill my promise to you—and see a sister about a husband.” I grinned and handed him two lemon-colored sunflowers I had picked along the road. He smiled. “One for you and one for the Guru,” I said.
He took my offerings and opened the gate.
At home Faisah was mopping the kitchen floor and Meena was squatting, mixing water and flour in a metal bowl. She had laid out three onions and jars of spices on the enamel shelf. Meena and Faisah had greatly simplified taking meals together. When our mother was alive, she had made great efforts to present several dishes every evening—and always an assortment of chutneys, breads, drinks, and desserts. Now the family ate one dish, a plate of chapati, a pot of mint tea, and sometimes a dessert.
I washed my hands at the pump and took a sharp knife and a plate from the drawer. Kneeling on the concrete floor next to Meena, I began mincing onions.
“I wish Reshma were here,” Meena said with a sigh. “It has been more than a year since I saw them in Karachi. The twins are almost teenagers now.”
“And I miss Ammi,” Faisah sighed as if arguing with Meena. She returned the mop to its spot behind the door. I knew that Faisah did not miss Reshma. Faisah had lived with Reshma’s family during her final year of college. She especially disliked Mohammad, Reshma’s husband. A student of an obscure Islamist scholar, Sayyid Hamri, Mohammad measured everyone against Hamri’s teachings. “And I don’t miss Reshma one bit,” Faisah continued. “They let their boys criticize me—their own auntie—when the twins were only four years old!” Faisah mimicked the boys. “‘You should cover yourself. You should not cut your hair. You will burn in hell for it.’”
Meena’s back stiffened. Following our mother’s death, Abbu had chosen me to be the family’s mother, yet truly Reshma had been more of a mother to Meena than I. But Meena was familiar with Faisah’s ranting, and she let her vent. As I reached for another onion, Meena handed me a soft cloth to wipe my stinging eyes.
“Abbu wants me to help you find a husband,” I said.
“Well, don’t cry about it, Baji. It’s not that hopeless, you know.”
I laughed, then Faisah jumped in.
“I offered to place a personal ad on the Internet for her,” she said. “Single light female…”
“Seriously, Meena,” I said, “What do you want?” Meena turned away from me, but I continued. “When Ammi wanted to find a husband for me—right before her first stroke,” I said, “I had mixed feelings about arranged marriages, and I secretly hoped for a love marriage.” I felt a twinge in my chest about all that had occurred between Yusuf and me—our dream that I would be a scholar and raise our children, and he would be a writer. “Sometimes I wish things had gone differently,” I said aloud.
Suddenly Meena put her knife down.
“I do not want a love marriage,” she said. “Iffat’s sister had a love marriage. Then her parents threatened to kill her if she admitted that she had gone away with her husband willingly. Now the police are going to arrest her husband. It’s a big problem. But I do not want to marry a stranger either.” For a moment, Meena looked desperate. “What would Ammi say?”
“She would expect you to be yourself, Meena,” I said. “And me—she would expect me to let it be known in the village that you are available. She would host a dinner party for each boy’s family, and then you would decide.”
“I might not want to stay in this town,” Meena said quickly. “I might find someone in Lahore, and you don’t know anyone there to invite for dinner.”
“My, my, ladies,” Faisah said. “I think that Meena already has her eye on someone in Lahore!” Meena burst into a wide smile.
“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes!” The three of us giggled, hugged, and danced around the kitchen—knives, onions, and all. My hip knocked a metal plate onto the floor. Clang! Meena picked it up. “His name is Zeshan Shaheed,” she told us. “He’s on our board of directors at the orphanage—our accountant, actually. A good family, a devout Muslim.”
“And good-looking?” Faisah asked.
“Of course. Dark and handsome.”
“You mean he’s short.” Faisah gave me the eye.
“No, he’s not,” began Meena defensively. “Well, he’s not as tall as Abbu, or Amir, but he is tall enough for me, and that’s all that matters. And he is sweet and loves music. He makes me laugh.”
I recalled how Yusuf’s family had rejected me, and I worried that Meena might have the same problem.
“You know, Abbu is now Kulraj Singh,” I said. “He is not Ehtisham Mohammad—not a Muslim any longer. Will this boy’s family accept that your father is a Sikh? No longer a Muslim?”
“A Sikh-a Muslim-a Sikh,” said Faisah, “a Muslim sandwich.”
When I called to invite Zeshan’s family, his mother, Abida, was effusive.
“We would be delighted to come. When shall we do it? Tomorrow? Tonight?”
Later, in our sitting room, she grabbed my hands and looked into my eyes with such intensity I wished I had a shield. She jabbed her thick elbow into my arm to get my attention, and her breath smelled like last night’s lamb.
“I can see that Meena loves Zeshan,” Abida said, pausing. “But I worry that if he is in love with his wife, he will become brokenhearted, like all the men in my family. My father—every New Year’s he cries for the loss of his wif
e. So long ago! And my uncle—married only a year ago, now his wife flirts with other men! Love causes such heartache.”
I nodded politely and leaned away. I wondered if Abida thought that Meena would be unfaithful to Zeshan, or that she would die young.
“I must admit that I have considered a number of young ladies for Zeshan, but until I met your sister”—she corrected herself—“your daughter—Meena—I was never certain any of them was right for him. Now I feel sure.” Her eyes narrowed as she drew close to me again. “I want you to know that my family has tolerant religious attitudes. In fact, my husband’s grandfather is an Ahmadi. As for us, we are devout Muslims, but we have never wanted to impose our beliefs on others, not even on our own children. Surrender to the will of Allah must be voluntary and personal, don’t you agree? But, of course,” she added, her hand pinning my forearm with force, “Zeshan’s wife and children must be Muslims.”
“Of course,” I said. “Islam is not an issue. We are Muslims. Only our father is a Sikh.”
At first I thought that Abida’s comments were intended to assure us that they were tolerant of Sikhism. But then I realized that it could be the other way around. She was revealing in an indirect way that Zeshan’s great-grandfather was an Ahmadi, a fact that could create a problem for Meena. Ahmadis are illegal, declared so first by the mullahs and then by the Parliament. Zeshan’s family would not be pure enough Muslims for Reshma and Mohammad. They would consider them revisionist heretics.
But, despite all the problems, I liked Zeshan’s parents. I couldn’t help it. They were outgoing people, laughed easily, and admired Meena. It looked like Zeshan had inherited his parents’ liveliness. I could see it in the momentary gazes and private humor that he and Meena already shared. They emitted saturating devotion and desire. Yes, they would enjoy their lives together.
I have to admit, I envied them.
After the party I found Faisah ironing clothes on a folded towel she had spread on the floor in the women’s quarter.
“I notice you are in a hurry to find a husband for Meena, but not for me,” she said.
“That’s because you are a hopeless case,” I replied. I moved the electric cord away from the door. When I heard no comeback, I realized she might be serious. I sat on the bed we shared and watched her fold the still-warm kameez.
“Faisah, is there somebody I should know about?”
“No, not really. I’d like a family someday, but right now I have more than enough with my friends at work and the family here.”
I noticed that she did not return the question to me. She had been a few years behind me in college when Yusuf went away, but she knew our story well. We had not spoken his name in years. No point in bringing it up now.
“I need to talk with you about my latest plan,” I said. “It’s crazy, probably dangerous, perhaps even illegal. I need your help.”
She unplugged the iron and gave me her full attention.
“And don’t try to talk me out of it, because I’ve made up my mind. But I may need a good lawyer before I’m finished.”
How prophetic my statement turned out to be! I told Faisah about Bilqis and about meeting Khanum on the train and my decision to help her escape. Faisah was full of questions.
“She’s married, right? Not just living with this man?”
“She said she was married, but who knows?”
“She’s locked in the house all day?”
“I think so. Maybe.”
“So how are you going to get into the house without committing a crime?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I imagine the servants will let me in.”
“And what if she takes something of value with her and later you are caught? How will you defend against accomplice charges?”
I had the feeling Faisah was just warming up with the what-ifs. I cut her questions short.
“What is the worst that could happen?”
“In Balochistan? Oh, they might tie horses to your limbs and ride away in the four directions.”
“Faisah!”
“It could happen, Baji. More likely, they catch you, register a complaint of theft, jail you indefinitely, and hang you for some religious crime you’ve never heard of.” She looked me in the eye. “Oh, and this would be after they stripped and stoned Khanum publicly.”
Sometimes Faisah exaggerated her arguments, but I realized what she was telling me contained some truth. Stoning still occurred in places like Balochistan.
“I won’t let fear stop me anymore, Faisah. I promised Khanum, I promised myself, with Allah as my witness—I am so sick of coming into the lives of women when they are dead or maimed. I want to do something to prevent it.”
“I understand, believe me, I do,” Faisah said. “But I can think of only one way you could do it, if you want my advice.” She had that conspiratorial tone again. I knew I could count on her to have a foolproof scheme.
“What is it?” I asked. Then Faisah leaned forward and whispered, “Take me with you.”
I found Abbu in the courtyard, transplanting herbs. The temperature was dropping as light winds tussled with the heat of the day. Little gusts lifted the limbs of the neem tree from time to time, and they bounced up and down. Abbu knelt next to an old pushcart he had filled with sprouted cuttings. I shook the balls of dirt that clung to the roots and handed them to him one by one.
“I have been thinking about the direction you see your life taking, Uji,” he said. “It worries me if you try to do this thing—to rescue this woman.” He turned to me. Tears were melding along the sill of his lower eyelids. “Still, if you and Faisah do this together, I believe you will be more careful—having responsibility not only for yourself and for this woman, but also for each other. I have tried to clear my mind so I can best advise you, but in the end, I have no advice. How can I? You know more about what you are doing, and about what God wants for you. You are a grown woman now.”
Abbu speaking that fact aloud gave it power.
My fingers circled the edges of a basil leaf. He continued digging with a hand tool, placing the young beings into the earth, spreading the tendrils of their roots, and tapping the dirt around them. I took a tin can to collect rainwater that he saved in barrels solely for this purpose. I sprinkled each sprout.
“Many years ago when you and Faisah first visited Central Prison . . . remember that? In Karachi?”
I nodded.
“I tasted then the same dread that I taste now, thinking of what you want to do and why. And my response is the same: the Guru asks for our heads in order to recognize those persons destined to live like lions, an army that serves both the human and the divine.”
“I am angry, Abbu,” I said. “How can God abandon people the way He does?” Abbu stopped his digging and looked up again.
“Or do people abandon God?” He went back to digging. “It is no different now than it was in the time of the Guru. We were a clinging, fearful people then—like this woman on the train. Back then, it was soldiers that were needed, and so the Khalsa emerged. Today I believe it is people like you and Faisah who are the lions.”
“Lions?” I asked.
“Many turn away from the suffering they see, but you and Faisah do not. What is divine in you keeps calling you to this path. Can I oppose what God wills?”
We stood facing each other in our muddy clothes. The sun was low and the heat had won its skirmish with the wind. It settled into the bricks under our bare feet. Finally Abbu put his hands on my head.
“You and Faisah have my blessing. Lions walk with God.”
The night before we left for Balochistan was cold, and the dogs yapped and yipped. I lay awake listening to the wild geese squawking from the trash pond. The sound became one disturbing cry as hundreds of birds joined the din. What was it? Had the dogs swum through the icy water to grab a weak bird by the neck? Were the others watching, terrorized?
After a while the distress calls stopped. I nestled into the fleece and tried to sleep
, but I could not. I watched darkness withdraw from the ceiling and light begin its entry. I took a last look at the sunflower field, now watery gray in the shade of the world before dawn. The sky paled to lavender and the color held. When the arc of the sun appeared, its rays shot to the apex of the sky—yellow, orange and, for just a moment, everything turned blood red.
I shook Faisah.
My Sisters Made of Light Page 4