Where the Air is Sweet

by Tasneem Jamal

  “It’s not likely a difficult pregnancy was the reason,” he said. “Women hemorrhage in childbirth for many reasons.”

  She nodded and looked out the window. A group of women, Banyankole she guessed, sat on the lawn of the hospital, their babies and their young children beside them. Gaunt, sallow, sick. How far did they walk to come here and wait, Mumtaz wondered. For the off chance of charity.

  “My dear,” the doctor said, swallowing his r in the manner of the English, in the manner Mumtaz was taught in school.

  She turned and looked at him. He was sitting on a desk, leaning towards her, his almost-brown, almost-green eyes round behind his black frames.

  “Times are different. Mbarara Hospital is well equipped. I am overseeing your pregnancy. If need be, we will admit you for bedrest when you are closer to term. You will be fine. Your baby will be fine.”

  Mumtaz lowered her eyes and winced as she felt the nausea rising up in her.

  “Have you tried ginger tea?” he asked.

  The doctor is a kind man, a kindly man. But Mumtaz wanted to slap him.

  Esteri arrives with the towel. Khatoun takes it without looking at her and begins to wipe her chest, balancing a flailing Karim in her other, free arm. Mumtaz calls Esteri over and asks her to bring another towel, this time a wet one, for Khatoun.

  “Please, Bhabi,” says Mumtaz when Esteri hands her the new towel. “Give the baby to her. His crying is making me feel worse.”

  “Hai, hai. I’m sorry,” says Khatoun, taking the towel and handing Karim to Esteri, who takes him out of the room.

  “She should have brought a wet towel in the first place,” Khatoun says, wiping her saree blouse, her chin pushed into her chest, so that the fat between her chin and neck juts forward in two clearly discernible rolls. “These girls have no sense.”

  “You didn’t ask her to bring a wet one.” Mumtaz spits the words out so they fly, hard and fast, like sharp arrows, towards her. Khatoun looks up at her, wounded, her face flushing.

  “No, I didn’t, did I?” she says, laughing. It is a nervous laugh.

  “I’m sorry he threw up on you,” Mumtaz says. She does not try to soften her voice. Khatoun shakes her head, her face still pink.

  “He is only a small baby. There is nothing to be sorry for.”

  Mumtaz spends the final three weeks of her pregnancy in the hospital, being rehydrated intravenously every few days, crying uncontrollably. But when the baby girl comes, she comes easily, effortlessly, after forty-five minutes of labour. When the doctor holds her up in the air so that Mumtaz can see her, the child has an angry scowl on her red, pinched face.

  After the baby has been measured and weighed and washed, Rehmat wraps her tightly in a white cotton blanket. “Our Sakina has arrived,” she says, looking at the girl’s face.

  “No,” says Mumtaz sharply. “Not Sakina. Her name is Shama.”

  “I’m sorry, beta. I thought—”

  Mumtaz shakes her head. “Look at her, Ma. She is Shama. Look! Please, look at her!” Mumtaz can feel her face tightening, the muscles in spasms. She is breathing rapidly. Her hair is tangled. She cannot remember when she last combed it. She feels frantic, panicked. They had agreed, she and Jaafar and Rehmat and Raju, that if the child were a girl, she would be called Sakina, after Mumtaz’s grandmother. But Mumtaz knew from the moment she saw this baby that the name did not suit her, did not fit.

  Rehmat places her hand on Mumtaz’s forehead. “What you see is there. You are her mother.”

  Mumtaz smiles and feels her face relax. She closes her eyes.

  When she wakes, Raju is sitting next to Rehmat. He is holding her daughter in his arms. He did not hold Karim when he was a newborn. He did not visit Mumtaz in the hospital then. Today, he is smiling, nodding, talking to the girl. “Shama. A candle. A fire but a small fire. A light but a gentle light. Our newest daughter.”

  Rehmat is massaging Shama. She is sitting on her bed and Mumtaz is watching her.

  “When I would massage Mumdu, he would cry. I had to be very gentle with him. Shama is strong. She likes me to press more firmly. Do you see?” She looks at Mumtaz. “We come to know the natures of each of our children, don’t we?”

  Mumtaz nods. “Ma, when did you last see Mumdubhai?”

  “He moved away more than twenty years ago. In the years after he left, when he was living in Kampala, I would go to see him.”

  “Alone?”

  “First, with Baku. Then alone.”

  “Does Bapa know?”

  Rehmat shakes her head.

  “He would be angry?”

  “Mumdu did not want to see his father. He did not want to hear anything spoken of him. It would hurt his father to hear this.”

  “Why is Mumdu so angry at Bapa?”

  “They disappointed each other. And then life disappointed Mumdu. Dilshad could not give him a child that survived pregnancy. They began to fight and to be cruel to each other. And Mumdu became very cruel to everyone, the servants especially. He beat them like dogs.” Rehmat’s hands are still. Shama is squirming under her.

  “Was he cruel to you?”

  Rehmat looks at Mumtaz. “The person I saw in Kampala then was not my Mumdu. He became something I did not recognize.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma.”

  Rehmat smiles. “He will come back,” she says, resuming Shama’s massage. “We did not bury him. My Mumdu will come back.”

  Shama is in the sitting room chewing on the fabric of the curtains. Mumtaz is watching her while listening to a news report on the radio. “Stop,” Mumtaz says, with little conviction. “Chafu.” Dirty.

  “Hapana!” Shama screams, and yanks at the curtain.

  “Shama,” Mumtaz says, “would you like something sweet to eat?”

  The toddler is sitting on her bum, her hands and teeth gripping the lace fabric, blinking rapidly.

  “I think Esteri has some jalebi in the kitchen,” Mumtaz says.

  Shama’s eyes widen and she releases the curtain. She scrambles to her feet and walks unsteadily towards the kitchen. Mumtaz follows, asking Esteri to take Shama and the jalebi to the verandah.

  Mumtaz returns to her spot by the radio. When she hears the sound of the front door opening, she turns it off and stands up. Jaafar is standing at the door, smiling.

  “I thought it was Bapa,” Mumtaz says, sitting down again.

  “Baapre! Not yet. I am slim and my hair is still black and full.”

  She switches on the radio.

  “Where are my children?”

  “Karim still has a fever. He’s napping. I sent Shama outside to eat jalebi with Esteri. She was being so naughty I couldn’t listen to the report about Obote. It’s over now.”

  “If you keep feeding that baby to keep her quiet, she’ll grow fat. Then who will marry her?”

  “Baganda were likely behind it,” says Mumtaz, her eyes scanning the newspaper that is spread on the floor. “Revenge for throwing out their king.”

  “Or the army,” says Jaafar, sitting down on the sofa.

  “Do you think so?” Mumtaz asks, looking up at him. “So many people have come to hate him. He can’t survive without the army.”

  “George thinks it might be small elements within the army. Anyways, we’ll know soon enough who was behind it when arrests are made.” Jaafar leans back and lets his head fall onto the top of the backrest, so that he is looking up at the ceiling. “Poor Obote. He meant well.” He sighs. “He was so determined to make all the pieces of this country fit together.”

  “But the report said he’ll live.”

  “This time.” He is silent for a few moments. “The bullet hit him in the mouth. Now that’s a message.”

  “Or a bad shot.”

  Jaafar brings his head forward to look at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a man.”

  Mumtaz turns to the newspaper, ignoring Jaafar’s comment.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m modern. I like an outspoken
woman.”

  “Are you playing golf today?”

  Jaafar nods. “First I wanted to find out what the doctor said about Ma.”

  “Her electrolytes or salt or something are out of balance. The doctor has given her a solution to drink.” Mumtaz is speaking quickly. She wants to get back to reading the newspaper. “She says it tastes horrible, but it almost immediately made her feel better. She’s resting now.”

  “You should come play with me,” Jaafar says.

  Mumtaz raises her eyebrows. “Golf? With those mzungu doctors and teachers? And who will look after the children?”

  “They have an ayah.”

  “True,” she says. “But what about Bapa’s perfect chapatis? You know Bhabi can’t make them like I can.”

  Jaafar’s grin is mischievous. Mumtaz has seen it on Karim’s face.

  She rolls her eyes but she is smiling indulgently at him. “Some of us have to grow up. We can’t play all the time.”

  “Maybe not,” he says. “But we can play far more than you realize.”

  16

  SHAMA IS WEARING A WHITE COTTON EYELET dress for her second-birthday party. It has an empire waist cinched with a bright pink satin sash. Mumtaz stitched it to match the dress of a doll she bought almost six months earlier. The doll has remained hidden under stacks of sarees in Mumtaz’s wardrobe. She went to four fabric shops in Kampala before she found the eyelet that matched the doll’s. The satin sash was an easier match. The night before Shama’s party, she wrapped it in brown kraft paper, careful to use small strips of Sellotape so that Shama could open it herself. She arranged for Banyankole Bakery Shop to deliver the cake. She asked the Ismaili owner to prepare the cake in the shape of a flower, and decorate it entirely in pink and purple icing. When she saw it the morning of the party, she clapped her hands. Rehmat, standing behind her, laughed. “Who is this for, beta, you or Shama?”

  Mumtaz feels a lightness in her head as she ties Shama’s hair into two small pigtails. She begins to fasten them with white ribbons, but is forced by dizziness to stop. She lowers her head.

  “Mummy?” Shama places her hands flat on Mumtaz’s head, as though in an act of benediction. “Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,” she chants.

  “Mummy is tired.”

  “Mumtaz, what is it?” Khatoun has walked into the sitting room.

  “I need to lie down for a little while until the guests arrive. I feel weak. Can you take Shama to Mary and ask her to finish tying her hair?” She slowly stands up and walks towards her bedroom while Khatoun leads Shama outside to the children’s ayah, who is helping set up the table. Mumtaz stops in the washroom and throws up in the toilet. As she is washing her face, Khatoun arrives to stand in the doorway, a smile on her face.

  “Another girl?”

  “It must be,” Mumtaz says. “I think girls might be too much for me.”

  Khatoun laughs. “But in the end, children are worth all the suffering they bring, aren’t they?” Mumtaz takes three large steps towards the toilet and vomits again.

  She lies on her bed the entire morning, a small empty saucepan beside her, while the sounds of children screaming and laughing stream through her window. Each time she attempts to stand, she throws up. Esteri walks in quietly, replaces the saucepan and hands Mumtaz a cool, wet cloth. Mumtaz does not want to miss Shama’s party, but she does not want to ruin it either. She begins to cry. “I don’t want this,” she tells Esteri, who is about to step into the hallway. “I don’t want this.” Esteri walks back to the bed. She sits on it, beside Mumtaz, and holds her hand firmly in her own.

  Later, when Shama and Karim are napping in the adjoining bedroom, Rehmat shares details of the party, telling Mumtaz that Karim helped Shama blow out the candles as Mumtaz had asked him to do, and that Shama gasped and then pressed her new doll against her when she pulled it from the packaging. She assures her Jaafar took many photographs.

  “Ma, how did you tolerate so many pregnancies?”

  “You have difficult pregnancies, beta. Mine were not like this.”

  Mumtaz does not ask, Did you ever think your babies took more from you than you could give? She has missed Shama’s second-birthday party, she missed Karim’s first. She will miss most of the next nine months of their lives. The thought makes the nausea rise up again.

  When the doctor confirms the pregnancy one week later, Mumtaz is disappointed. “Maybe I’ll be better this time,” she says, ashamed of her reaction, looking at the doctor. “Maybe I won’t be so sick.”

  But she is sick, constantly. She sees Shama and Karim for only minutes each day. They are both frightened by the sight of her vomiting. And seeing them excites her, pumps her blood faster and makes the nausea worsen.

  Jaafar celebrates the arrival of the New Year without Mumtaz. She does not know where he has gone, to which party, to which hotel or house. He told her, but the words slipped through her mind like water. She stays home in bed. She is asleep when the clock strikes midnight and marks the beginning of 1971.

  Three weeks later, when Mumtaz reaches the eleventh week of her pregnancy, she begins to bleed. The doctor instructs her to lie on her back, with her feet on a pillow. The bleeding goes on for three days, light but continuous.

  After the fourth full day of bleeding, during the darkest hour of the night, Mumtaz is awoken by a sharp cramp in her lower abdomen. She lets out a cry, a small cry, and presses her hand over her mouth. Jaafar, who is sleeping beside her, does not stir. Her nightdress is damp, stuck to her skin. She steps out of bed and walks across the hall to the bathroom, her hands on her pelvis, which is contorting. When she switches on the light, she sees that below her waist, the nightdress is soaked in blood. She has left her bloody fingerprints on the light switch. Warm fluid begins to run down the inside of her thigh.

  Quickly, she walks towards the toilet. She does not want blood to drip onto the floor. It will be impossible to clean once it seeps into the concrete. Raju renovated this bathroom five years ago, before Mumtaz moved into the house. He installed a European-style toilet and a bathtub. He is proud of it. Mumtaz has seen him standing at the doorway, staring in, his fingers drumming his chest. She sits down heavily on the toilet, holding her knees apart to keep the blood-soaked panties from slipping down to her ankles and touching the floor. She is listening to the sound of blood hitting water. She folds her body to ease the cramps so that her swollen breasts almost touch her knees. When she feels clumps leave her body, the cramps stop. She begins to shiver. When the flow of blood slows down, she stands up, holds a towel between her legs and rinses her panties as best she can with one hand. Then she fills the sink and leaves them to soak. She does not remember when she stopped feeling nauseated. Now she feels hollow. She prefers feeling hollow to feeling always like she will throw up. She pushes this thought into the back of her mind. But it keeps pushing its way forward.

  Holding the towel between her legs, she walks to the bedroom. “Get up. Can you get up?” she says to Jaafar. “Everything is a mess.”

  “What?” He looks up at her, his eyes swollen with sleep, like he has been in a fight. “What? Su thyu? What happened? What time is it?”

  She returns to the bathroom, kneels in front of the bathtub and turns on the taps. She sees Jaafar’s shadow fall over the bathtub. She doesn’t turn to look at him.

  “The blood isn’t on the floor or the tiles. It will come off everything else.”

  “Are you all right?” He crouches down behind her and puts his hands gently on her arms.

  She stiffens. His hands feel like hot coals on her skin. “Can you pull the sheets off?” She does not look at him. “I’m afraid the mattress will have to be thrown out. Maybe Esteri can clean it. I don’t know.”

  Jaafar does not move.

  “Please, you need to do it quickly.” She looks at him. “I’m fine. Please, go.”

  When Jaafar returns from the servants’ quarters, Esteri behind him, Mumtaz has washed and is wearing a long dress she stitched from a kanga. She hates th
is dress. She was rushing when she made it and accidentally stitched the Swahili proverb into the seam. Now it is illegible. Mumtaz buys kangas for the proverbs rather than for the patterns. She ruined this one. But she cannot bring herself to give it away. Jaafar is staring at her. She does not know what expression has settled on her face. She does not know where her thoughts are going. Or why.

  “We’ll take the BMW. I won’t waste time putting the roof on the convertible,” he says.

  The doctor confirms that Mumtaz has miscarried. He performs a dilation and curettage and she remains in the hospital the whole of the morning and through lunch, resting, periodically having her blood pressure checked. Shortly after 3:30, the doctor tells Jaafar he can take her home.

  “It’s for the best,” Jaafar says, as they sit down in the car. “Watching you suffer through the pregnancy with Shama—” He stops midsentence.

  She has turned away from him to look out the window at the African mothers and children camped on the lawn. They are different mothers and children, they must be, than the last time she was here. But they look the same, even their poses, their expressions. As eternal as the horizon. Waiting for their turn.

  Jaafar pulls onto the main road. He turns on the radio. The music is loud, overbearing. It pounds on her head, which has begun to ache. She looks at Jaafar.

  “It’s martial music,” he says. “Army music.” He reaches for the dial. Before his hand touches it, the music is interrupted.

  “Here is a message from the soldiers of the Uganda army.”

  Mumtaz turns back to the window.

  Warrant Officer Wilfred Aswa is speaking. He is struggling to pronounce the English words. He sounds disconnected from the words he is reading, as though he doesn’t understand them. He says the army has overthrown the government. He says the government detained people without charge for indefinite periods. He says the government was corrupt; ministers and senior civil servants took people’s money and spent it on their own lavish lifestyle. He says the army believed Obote’s policies would lead to bloodshed; he too often favoured his own tribe, the Langi. The warrant officer continues to list reasons why the army was forced to save the country from Obote.