The village women’s constant labor was the foundation of whatever small wealth their families could accumulate. They birthed children, nursed and cooked, cleaned, and cared for them, made their clothes, farmed or bartered for their food. The women married young, promised even before they menstruated, and when the day arrived, they left their mothers to live forever as servants to their husband’s family. Some did not even know their own birthdays or names. They never looked at a man from outside of their immediate family, and men ignored them, too. They were as vulnerable as sparrows and as common as crows. All they could hope for was that after they died, their children would remember them for a while.
Punjabi families, whether rich or poor—for there were few who were not one or the other—guarded their reputations as fiercely as a jealous husband would clutch his wife. For the rich, the family name was the tissue that connected the fabric of the body politic. For the rest, a good name was all the wealth a man had to pass on to his children.
At five o’clock the bus entered Lahore. The old city was tarnished in the evening glow. The sandstone mosque was cinnabar, and next to it, the golden Sikh temple gleamed. For an instant the last few rays of the sun flared on the domes and turrets.
“Wait with my bags,” Nafeesa told a porter, handing him a few rupees as she searched for the toilet.
“Across the street,” he said, pointing at the hotel. Once there, Nafeesa removed the cotton suit she had worn and slipped her arms into a golden shalwar kameez. Without a mirror she traced a line of kohl around her eyes, and smoothed on red lipstick. She combed her fingers through her hair, and hurried back to the depot. She crossed the street, scanning the crowd for the porter.
Then she saw them! Jameel stood in front of her bag with one hand on his hip, the other one outstretched to stop her. With such hatred in his eyes, to her he did not seem like Jameel. Behind him Ali was thrashing through Nafeesa’s bag like a wild animal. He stopped to read her journal where she had recorded everything. All was unspoken and completely clear: they had raced the bus in Ali’s sports car. They had come for her.
I should run, she thought. But I could never outrun them.
Then she saw a man get out of a taxi and leave the back door open. As she ran toward it, she screamed at her brothers.
“Thieves! Thieves! Stop them!”
She leapt into the taxi, slammed the door, and sped away. Through the rear window she watched Ali’s eyes and his monster hands coming after her. But he was helpless. Jameel was running, and falling behind. A policeman was blowing his whistle at them.
“Having trouble, Madam?” the driver asked without turning around.
“No problem,” she said. “Shalimar Garden, please. I have to be there by sunset.”
Nafeesa removed from her wrist the bangle her father had given her when she had come of age. The bracelet felt like a handcuff now. She would pay the driver for this taxi ride with it. If the bracelet is not enough, she thought, I will give him my silks, my shoes, even the hair on my head. Whatever he wants—because he is taking me to freedom.
Everything Ali had read in her bag condemned them, and she had seen in Jameel’s eyes that he and Ali were a team. Ali was capable of anything, and now he knew where she was going and why. She had to warn Kulraj!
“Shalimar,” Kulraj Singh said to the driver on the afternoon of his rendezvous with Nafeesa. The taxi maneuvered the Grand Trunk Road, the ancient route from Kabul to Calcutta. The driver’s horn spoke the language of the road. A two-second honk was a warning to goatherds ahead. A light pip was a greeting to a familiar face in the bazaar.
It was a typical holiday. Men filled open stalls along the road—repairing and trading stacks of shoes, tires, cloth, and cheap bags, toys, toiletries. Some sold vegetables spread out on colorful dhurries—small oranges, a mound of bruised cauliflower, translucent long-stemmed onions. Barefoot children dawdled nearby. A young man stood with his legs apart and his elbows to his sides, peeing against a brick wall. Shopkeepers were closing early to gather at Shalimar for the evening spectacle when the oil lamps would be lit just before sunset.
Kulraj Singh’s life was in order. His family understood that they would be Nafeesa’s only family now. He was itching to get out of Punjab. In Karachi they could find an apartment, or live with his family, whatever Nafeesa wanted. He had bought open plane tickets so they could fly to Delhi, or to Karachi, or to Malaysia, or anywhere she desired. He did not have to return to his architectural firm for two weeks. He reserved a room at the Lahore Hilton so that their honeymoon would not to be delayed.
Shalimar Gate was a wide arch through which elephants had once paraded. Outside, vendors hawked samosas, roasted corn on the cob, and stirred their curries. Hundreds of people were packed together, moving under the arch as if one body.
All day Kulraj waited for Nafeesa at Shalimar Garden. However will she manage to get away from Malakwal on this exact day and at this exact time? he wondered. He passed the time studying the history of the fragile, heavenly place. He ran his finger along the entwined stems and faded flowers painted on the peeling walls. He rested under the apple trees and shared walnuts with fern squirrels that begged as persistently as street children. Two swans in a pond glided into a bed of tall reeds.
As shadows fell beneath the mango trees and jasmine scented the air, a small regiment of men in long, white kurtas appeared with tapers to light the famous oil lamps. They stretched their bodies across the pools to reach the farthest wicks. The lamps threw shadows that dappled the terraces, and the crowds slowed and quieted. This was their appointed hour, so he scanned the garden for Nafeesa. As darkness fell, light reversed directions, departing from earth into the endless sky. He passed a large marble throne, and turning, saw her.
She stood ten meters away, watching him approach. She glowed like a candle as she inched toward him. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes seemed to burn from a fire at a great distance. He had thought so often of this moment that he expected he might cry at the sight of her. But not a tear formed in his eye, and no tension gripped his throat. She moved in a casual way, but she was not smiling. She crooked her finger to signal him to follow her underneath the bougainvillea.
“My brothers followed me to the station,” she said, and then recounted her escape from Malakwal. Kulraj Singh’s mind was clear as he divided his attention between listening to her and planning their escape. He recalled garden exits he had passed during the day. Which ones were open, which ones would be the safest way out?
“I have no doubt Ali is coming for us,” Nafeesa said.
He took her hand and pulled her deeper into the darkness next to the walls where the air was warmer. A musician playing his flute leaned against the bricks, and the bells of the ghungroo signaled the start of dancing. As families spread out cloths for picnics, Nafeesa and Kulraj skirted the lengthy wall.
The first gate they came to was locked. At the second gate, a guard pointed past the purple hedge to an open archway across the lawn. They promenaded with other couples, crossing the open park together, sidestepping the picnics, dancers, and poets. All the while, Nafeesa eyed the crowd for Ali’s wide frame. Twice she thought she saw him, and each time she pulled Kulraj into the shadows, peering out until she was sure the person was not her brother.
Suddenly she screamed, “Jameel!” and she fell to Kulraj’s feet. There she curled up and covered her head with her arms.
A boy stood over her, gripping the haft of a sword with both hands.
He panted, looking terrified.
Blood dripped from the tip of the blade. Nafeesa’s blood.
A large man stood next to him with a poised dagger in his hand.
This must be Ali, Kulraj thought. This one is mine!
His rage overwhelmed him. A crowd was gathering. A police whistle blew, but he dared not turn away. If Nafeesa had survived the one blow, he thought, she would never survive a second.
“Again,” Ali shouted to Jameel. “Strike her again. Do it now.”<
br />
Jameel looked halfhearted as he swung the blade over his head. Kulraj unsheathed the sacred kirpan under his shirt. Growling like an animal and waving the dagger at Ali, Kulraj forced him to move in closer to Jameel. “Come here, you son-of-a-bitch. Come on!” Kulraj danced around them, threatening Ali, distracting Jameel.
Nafeesa groaned. She rolled her eyes upward to face the threatening sword.
“No! Jameel!” she begged. “Don’t! I am Baji!”
But the blade began its descent as Jameel screamed.
“Bajiiiiii!”
Ali lunged at Kulraj, and Kulraj slashed his face, taking part of his nostril. Kulraj reached for Nafeesa, lifted her over his head, and they disappeared through the Lahori Gate. The crowd closed in behind them.
Kulraj Singh could hear Jameel’s sword clatter onto the ground. He could not help himself. He turned back to look.
Ali writhed in pain, blood smeared on his face and hands. He yelled at the boy. Jameel stood there, stunned, as if he had been the one struck down.
4
Adaila Prison, 1996
The chilis in Rahima Mai’s masala burned the edges of Ujala’s mouth. Am I eating too much? she thought. Or talking too much?
“Why so quiet all of a sudden?” asked Rahima Mai, greedy for the story in a way that Ujala had come to recognize. Rahima Mai wanted to consume whatever she loved, and her expression of that urgency amounted to a demand.
Ujala had pieced together a collage of information about Rahima Mai. She seemed to have no impediments to working late. She never spoke of children. When she mentioned her husband, it was always in the past. Her gruff exterior melted when they were alone.
Rahima Mai stood over the hot pot, spooning out the spinach and cheese. Then she plopped back down into the plastic chair, which heaved a bit from the movement. With each fragment of chapati she scooped up spinach, chickpeas, and cheese from the plate and placed each bite into her mouth whole.
Ujala had no appetite for the food, so she put down her plate and continued with the story.
* * *
On the day I heard the crack of gunfire that killed Taslima, something in me cracked a little, too. I carried the gunman’s pistol in my pocket everywhere, even at home in Nankana Sahib. Through the kitchen window I again saw the vision of Ammi out in the field with a lotus in her hand.
The Q’ran says that angels fall with every drop of rain. In Punjab it rained for many days. Peacocks called to their harems, mewing like warring cats. The slender herbs that Abbu had planted lay flattened in little pools—their tendrils extended like arms of swimmers stretching to shore. The sunflowers bowed down until their heads hung and their spines snapped. The soaked rhododendrons glowed in the backlight of the rain. Their leaves were thick as toenails and their blossoms swelled beyond capacity. Those that bloomed beneath the foliage were protected from downpour, but, in the end, all the blossoms collapsed; flower-by-flower, each one became a dirty, drooping knob.
I took my knife out into the garden to slice the disturbing ugliness away. My woolen shawl was soaked, and the rain fell hard, forcing me back inside. But by midday the drizzle softened, and I went out again, the only human in sight. I wept in the rain at the five hours: in the morning, at midday, late afternoon, early evening, and before bedtime.
“You really have to stop this, Baji. You’ll catch your death of cold,” said Meena. “And the neighbors are beginning to wonder.”
I snapped at her. “I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough.”
Reshma and Mohammad had written to Meena that they would not be attending her wedding.
We cannot condone marriage to someone who comforts an infidel. Ahmadis are kafir—they hold themselves out to be Muslims when they are not. They have diluted the teachings so that millions have lost their true faith. Meena, you are making a mistake, not only for this life, but also for your soul’s eternity. The Islam of your husband’s grandfather is not true Islam. We must keep pure the words of the Prophet. We cannot do this and attend your wedding also. I pray that Allah will forgive you and the entire family for this grievous sin.
“It will be an insult to Zeshan if they do not attend,” said Meena when she read Reshma’s words. Her words were angry, but her voice sounded bereft.
“I will telephone Reshma,” I said, “I will make her understand.”
I would not let them intimidate her, and I prayed for wisdom. I lit incense in the shrine room, where Abbu had welcomed the addition of Ammi’s photograph to the altar. I placed my worries in my mother’s lap. I realized that as the family’s mother now, I could demand Reshma’s obedience.
“Something good will come of this marriage, whatever the outcome of my conversation with Reshma,” I prayed to Ammi. “What is the worst that can happen? Reshma’s family will not attend, I will make excuses for them, and the couple will be honored in a loving, accepting environment. Their decision would be unfortunate, but not fatal to Meena’s happiness. Ammi, please help me to remember it is the marriage, and not this power struggle with Reshma, that is the heart of the matter.”
“Waleikum salaam,” Reshma responded to my voice with formality. We exchanged questions about family members. Finally, I took a breath and spoke.
“Baji, Meena is crushed that you may not be able to attend her wedding.” I heard mumbling on the other end of the line.
“Mohammad will join us for this discussion,” said Reshma. I heard the click of the telephone extension.
“Assalam aleikum,” said Mohammad. “We were sorry to hear that you have arranged this marriage for our dear sister. We pray day and night that you will come to your senses.”
“Meena loves this man. She wants to marry him.”
“What Meena wants is irrelevant,” Mohammad said. “One must denounce the infidel. Has Zeshan denounced this relative of his?”
“It is his great-grandfather, Mohammad. Please be reasonable,” I begged. “How can he do such a thing? The old man is dear to them, like our father is to us.”
“Our father is also an infidel,” said Reshma.
I was speechless.
“It falls to you to follow the Q’ran in this situation,” Reshma continued. “You must do it for the sake of her soul, Ujala . . . Let me help you.”
“What could you do?” I asked. Reshma’s self-righteousness was never more irritating than it was now.
“I could speak with Zeshan myself. If he is a believer and truly loves Meena—as you say he does—he will let her go for the sake of the family, if for nothing else. Or he will denounce his great-grandfather, as he should. I could explain it to him. Someone should.”
“Abbu asked me to handle this,” I said.
“Abbu is part of the problem.” Reshma sounded like she was speaking a shameful secret out loud. “I know he means well and has done the best he can. He is a good man, and I respect him as my father, as I have been taught. But he is not a believer—he has always been a mystic and a dreamer. Remember how Ammi used to say to him, ‘Mr. Singh, if a mosquito landed on a rose, you would swear that insect was God Himself?’
“Abbu avoids making hard judgments. He allows the children to do whatever they want—and look at the result. Five adult children and only one is married. Why? Because Ammi arranged it, that’s why. She understood her responsibilities as a Muslim parent. I know you and Abbu do your best . . . but, Ujala, what do you know of being a parent? You have never labored in childbirth. What could you know about what makes a good husband? You have never known a man.”
My mind was spinning. I squeezed my eyes, trying to revive the wisdom I had known during prayers in the morning rain. What was it that was most important about this phone call? What was the heart of the matter? I could not recall. Dry anger expanded inside of me. I could feel my face flushing with blood, but I refused to react to Reshma’s comments.
“I am listening,” I said. Then Mohammad spoke.
“With all respect, my sister, your father is a product of the liberalism of m
odern life, and unfortunately he contributes to it. We Muslims must change all that and return to the traditions of the Q’ran. The way we live must reflect the sacred teachings. God has given women the responsibility to shape human character through the family. Do not set God’s design for you aside. You must surrender to His holy will.”
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