The Truth About Peacock Blue

by Rosanne Hawke

  She shook her head. ‘This paragraph in particular needs to be changed. You’ll just have time if you do it now.’ She handed the book back to me. ‘It takes a long time to learn Arabic well, but you’ll get it in the end.’

  I sat on a bench and rewrote the section according to her pencil marks. I would show Rabia so we both could improve. But Rabia wasn’t in class that day. Mrs Abdul swept in and demanded our homework. She checked it while we copied verses into our exercise books.

  ‘Aster Suleiman!’ Mrs Abdul’s voice was so harsh I dropped my pen. ‘Come to the front immediately.’ She pointed at my new addition. ‘This is unacceptable. Are you slipping again?’

  I glanced at Saleema, but she shrugged her shoulders to show she didn’t understand what happened. She even looked puzzled. How could she have got it wrong? The answer came to me as I faced Mrs Abdul: I was crazy to trust Saleema.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  I pointed to the paragraph I’d crossed out. ‘Is that one correct?’

  ‘Ji, stupid girl, but if you knew what you were doing you wouldn’t have second thoughts. You must try harder. It would be easier for you if you were Muslim, then you would have enthusiasm for the subject.’

  This time she smacked me with the book. It felt as if a tennis ball that Sammy had hit for six just landed on my face. I clutched my stinging cheek on the way to my desk. I knew I’d have a bruise.

  When Abba collected me he didn’t see my cheek; he was facing the front with the motor running. ‘We’ll pick up your ammi on the way,’ was all he said.

  There would be many preparations before Dr Amal came. We reached the Rafiques’ house and I jumped out to get Ammi, but it was the Colonel who met me at the door. He must have been on his way to the garden.

  ‘Aster?’ His finger touched my cheek. ‘What is this?’

  I shrugged, unsure of what to say, or how much trouble I’d be in if I said anything at all.

  ‘Did a student do this?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘A teacher?’

  I stared at him miserably. What could I say?

  His mouth tightened. ‘Which one?’

  It wasn’t even a question. It was a command and I could imagine how easily he would have controlled an army of men.

  ‘The Arabic and Islamiyat teacher.’

  He frowned, but he didn’t say one word against Mrs Abdul. ‘Didn’t I tell you to ask me if you needed help?’

  I nodded. ‘A student has been helping me.’

  ‘She obviously hasn’t helped enough.’ How could I explain about Saleema? ‘You will come here every Thursday after school and I will help you with your study.’

  My heart sank. It was very kind but I had little leisure time. His face softened. ‘Just for an hour, then you can return home with your mother.’

  ‘Thank you, you are very gracious.’

  I hoped he wouldn’t tell the principal, but I didn’t want to make more of it by pleading with him. Ammi was ready then and we walked to the rickshaw.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  There was no sport to blame it on, no children’s games or cricket balls. ‘The Arabic teacher didn’t like my homework.’

  It still stung that I’d had it right. It was Saleema’s fault but Mrs Abdul was right about one thing: if I really knew what I was doing I would have known Saleema was tricking me.

  Ammi clucked her tongue, but whether it was at the teacher or me I couldn’t tell. ‘I heard the Colonel saying he’d tutor you. That’s very good of him.’

  The village was an ants’ nest. People were arriving and villagers like us were laying out extra mattresses for guests in our second rooms. Uncle Ibrahim, Sammy and other men were cooking curries and rice in degs, huge steel pots outside the church. Barakat had found Sammy. His family had just arrived by bus and walked in from the main road. His sisters and Aunty Assia would stay with us. Sammy saw me and waved me over.

  ‘Here’s Aster.’

  I had an armful of trays for the rice.

  ‘This is Barakat,’ he said unnecessarily. I knew who he was and I gave Sammy a fierce stare. I didn’t want to talk to Barakat. What if I got to like him and my parents chose someone else? Besides, there would be no early marriage for me now. Abba was intent on my education.

  ‘Salaam,’ said Barakat. I returned the greeting. It was the first time we had spoken since the flood. He stared at my cheek a moment but didn’t ask about my bruise. ‘I see you have taken over Ijaz’s wall.’

  My face felt hot. So he knew it was me. What did I expect? Everyone on Ijaz’s friend list must know. ‘I’ll make my own soon,’ I mumbled.

  Then he smiled. He looked so like Ijaz my mouth gaped. Sammy trod on my toe and I managed a quick smile back.

  ‘It’s good to see Ijaz’s wall alive again—’ Barakat stopped suddenly at his unfortunate use of words, but they didn’t hurt like they would have six months ago.

  ‘That’s what I thought when I did it.’

  Later, after everyone had pushed and shoved to reach the trestle tables of food and shovelled curry and rice from their plates into their mouths, they crowded into the church. Sammy played the tabla and I sang songs to lead everyone.

  Then Dr Amal told us where to dig our latrines so we wouldn’t get diseases, to understand water care, to boil water for babies and small children. At the end Dr Amal sang. We didn’t let him stop; after ‘Umeed’, we begged for more.

  It was late before I took Barakat’s ammi and sisters home to sleep. Aunty Assia didn’t speak much; she seemed tired, but Barakat’s sisters told me about their trip on the bus, how a fight broke out when the conductor found a man hadn’t paid and the bus stopped to throw him off.

  ‘It was because he was Shia,’ Afia said quietly. Afia was fourteen like me, but Rubina was younger and couldn’t stop exclaiming about all the things she had seen.

  ‘Dr Amal is so handsome,’ she said. ‘I hope I marry someone as fair.’

  ‘He’ll be rich one day too. Doctors always are.’ Afia winked at me. ‘And he’s not even married.’

  That wound Rubina up again. ‘Maybe he’d notice me and ask for me. That can happen.’

  ‘In your dreams.’ Afia yawned.

  ‘Why don’t you marry Barakat?’ Rubina said to me. ‘Then we’d all be sisters.’

  ‘But you’d marry someone from another village – you’d hardly ever be home,’ I said.

  Rubina pouted. ‘You’d get married before me. We’d have a few years together.’

  I thought maybe she would be married before me. She had stared at me in surprise when she heard I attended high school.

  ‘Anyway, Barakat likes you,’ Rubina added.

  ‘Shh.’ Afia cuffed her over the ear. ‘That’s for Ummie and Abu to decide, not you.’

  ‘Ow.’ Rubina called for her mother but she was already asleep with Ammi and Dadi-ji, my grandmother. Abba had gone to Sammy’s house to sleep, with ‘so many women’ in ours. Rubina didn’t stop chattering until I turned off the light.

  I woke early before my cousins and wrote a message to Maryam on Facebook.

  MESSAGES

  Peacock Blue Salaam, cousin-ji. We’re having a medical camp in the village – Dr Amal is giving the talks in an easy style so everyone can understand. He sang again last night. Have you seen the video clips on his Facebook page? Uncle Yunis and Aunty Assia are here with Barakat, Afia and Rubina. Hope you are all well, please give my love to your family.

  Afia woke and stared over my shoulder.

  ‘Do you want your own profile so Ijaz’s friends won’t see what you post?’

  I could imagine her and Barakat discussing it, and I nodded. It was time.

  She helped me set it up. We glanced at each other before we deactivated Ijaz’s account. I thought it would be harder, that I’d feel like I did when his coffin slipped into the ground, but I didn’t at all. Dadi-ji was right: Ijaz would always be with me.

  Suddenly Rubina was awake, makin
g the house sound like a dozen girls chattering, and the day clutched me by the scruff and dragged me through it. The inoculations for the kids were first. When Rubina had to have hers she cried while she waited.

  Aunty Assia scolded her, ‘What a terrible example for the little kids, you’ll make them scream. Now kharmosh, shut up.’

  She did, but I think it was more to do with seeing Dr Amal appear behind the table with all the medical supplies.

  ‘She’s a silly girl,’ Afia said. ‘She doesn’t think it will hurt if he gives it.’

  Then there was more curry and naan and a special service before the visitors left the next morning. Dr Amal had to leave but we discovered something interesting we didn’t know before: Barakat could sing. Sammy played the tabla for him and Afia said I should play one too. It was the most fun I’d had since Ijaz was alive.

  It was another long evening telling stories to Rubina before I turned off the light. It worked like magic – as soon as the room darkened Rubina fell quiet like a little bird in a tree.

  ‘Why is she so quiet?’ I whispered to Afia.

  ‘We don’t have electric light. We blow out the lamp. In the kitchen we have a kerosene one. I think when you turn off the light here it strikes her dumb. Don’t try to understand, just enjoy.’

  CHAPTER

  9

  The cousins were leaving on Sunday morning just as I had to go to school. Abba was busy taking people to the bus adda in town, but he managed to drop me off at school first. I was late and tiptoed into the classroom. Miss Saed-Ulla was reading. Imagine if it was one of Mrs Abdul’s classes – she would have made me write a hundred lines about why I mustn’t be late. In Arabic!

  Rabia and I ate lunch together as usual, helping each other with our work, and I told her what Saleema did.

  ‘She knew I’d be away. Never trust her. She’s mean to me as well. It’s possible she knows about my family and many don’t trust converts.’

  I was quiet. Christians could also be like this. When an ex-Muslim visited our village some people were wary, wondering if he had recanted and was looking to accuse us.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rabia said. ‘We are fortunate to be studying in this school.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The Taliban are bombing girls’ schools in Swat. That’s not so far away.’

  ‘It couldn’t happen here, could it, in this army town?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  I thought of the Colonel. Even if he was retired I couldn’t imagine him standing by while militants bombed schools. Yet so many people in Swat were fleeing their beautiful place. When we visited there years ago, it was paradise.

  Mrs Abdul still didn’t let up on me – if anything she became worse – but I was learning how to survive her lessons without too many blows. If I kept my head down and did my best, my reward was not to be beaten.

  This time she couldn’t fault my homework. She looked disappointed and didn’t praise me. ‘Maybe you’ll become a true Muslim yet, girl. Your study will be easier then.’

  Rabia had another go at me after school. ‘Why not say the Kalimah? It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Are you Muslim, Rabia?’

  She looked flummoxed. ‘Well, in name, I suppose.’

  ‘But do you believe that Muhammad is the last Prophet?’

  She looked behind her before she answered. ‘Well, not really.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  She shrugged and when she looked at me, her eyes were miserable. ‘I know there’s a god. Mrs Abdul is so strict about not believing anything other than Islam, or we won’t go to paradise.’

  ‘The Injeel, the New Testament, says the same. Belief in Yesu Masih is the only thing that pleases Khuda.’

  ‘You should convert,’ Rabia said. ‘It’s a Muslim country, everything is easier if you’re the same.’

  I knew then religion was just culture to her; whichever suited her best was what she’d say she believed. How many said they believed because it was expected, because they were born here?

  ‘It’s not who I am,’ I murmured but she didn’t hear me.

  Ammi had news for me when I returned home. In her hand she held a letter.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Hadassah is returning to the village.’

  ‘Wah. That’s wonderful. We’ll be able to do things together again. Will she come to school with me?’ I was so full of questions I didn’t at first notice how quiet my mother was.

  ‘Ammi? Is everything all right?’

  I thought then of the way Aunty Feebi didn’t tell me where Hadassah went. How I couldn’t write her an email even, and she wasn’t on Facebook anymore. It was like she had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  She looked at the letter and inclined her head.

  ‘I think so.’ She glanced at me. ‘It’s just that she won’t be here for long. When she returns she will marry.’

  ‘Marry? But she’s only two years older than me!’

  ‘It’s best for her. Uncle Bashir and Aunty Feebi have found a kind and suitable man.’

  I looked at her dubiously. ‘Does she want to get married?’

  ‘I’m sure she does. It’s a good opportunity for her.’ Ammi smiled at me. ‘A wedding is good for the village.’

  I thought of the mehndi party, dancing, painting patterns on our hands with henna. The ceremony in the church when the bride sometimes wore white like brides in western countries; then the walima, the wedding feast, at the groom’s house when the bride would wear the traditional red tunic and long skirt.

  ‘Hadassah and I can go shopping.’ I thought of Rabia. ‘My friend from school can come too.’

  ‘I hope so,’ was all Ammi said.

  A few days later Hadassah arrived with her parents. Abba fetched them from the bus adda in town. When I visited them in the evening, Hadassah was different. She was older than when I saw her last, but a year shouldn’t have made her seem like a woman who knew secrets that I wasn’t yet privy to. Maybe that was what a marriage proposal did to a girl.

  MESSAGES

  Maryam Yusef Thanks for the message, Aster. The medical camp sounds a good idea. Nice to see all the cousins?

  Peacock Blue Ji. Write more posts on your blog. It’s good.

  Maryam Yusef You could do a blog too.

  Peacock Blue My English isn’t good, and what would I write about? Village life in Pakistan? Who would be interested?

  Maryam Yusef You’d be surprised. People are interested in other cultures and human rights. The way they treat asylum seekers and refugees at government level here is pretty appalling, but no one who thinks about moral ethics agrees.

  Peacock Blue Even girls in my high school aren’t interested in villages and they live here.

  Maryam Yusef Australians are concerned – they get upset if a girl is bullied because she’s wearing a scarf.

  Peacock Blue Why would anyone bully a girl about a scarf?

  Maryam Yusef Some Anglo guys picked on my friend and me on our way home, called us dirty wogs. Then one pulled my friend’s scarf off. My brother had to get it back.

  Peacock Blue That’s shameful.

  Maryam Yusef Some Australians have never travelled and they’re frightened of people different from themselves. They think if people like us are let into Australia, extremists will follow.

  Peacock Blue People here don’t like groups like the Taliban either. But what can we do? If people don’t support them they retaliate. They’re bombing girls’ schools in Swat now. A girl wrote a blog about it under an assumed name, Gul Makai.

  Maryam Yusef Bet they know educating girls will change the world. I’m proud of you for going to high school.

  Peacock Blue Guess who has returned to the village after so long?

  Maryam Yusef Hadassah?

  Peacock Blue Ji, she’s going to be married.

  Maryam Yusef That may be a blessing. Let’s pray she’ll be happy.

 
Step by Step

  To see a world where freedom,

  peace and justice reign

  Exile

  A comment on my blog instigated this question: what is exile? My mother remembers the Hindu Kush – playing in the snow in January on holidays in the Murree Hills or in Azad Kashmir. She remembers mangoes so plentiful she could buy a dozen for a few rupees. When she was tiny her mother stripped her and sat her in a little tin tub to eat them. Mango juice stains a pretty outfit.

  She remembers the smell of spices down the streets, the kite festivals, dancing at mehndi parties before weddings, the Kaghan streams where Sprite bottles were kept cool in canals and fishermen caught rainbow trout.

  She wept when the earthquake destroyed her childhood dreams. Then came the floods. ‘What can we do?’ she cried. My father sent money for our families to rebuild. He went to help with constructing houses even though he only knows how to rebuild people’s jaws.

  My memories of mountains and an ancient Moghul landscape are secondhand. I look out at hills that are tiny in comparison but they are my hills. I love going for drives through them and visiting European-style villages and markets. I haven’t played in snow but I love the beach – a place about which my mother has no memory at all. Often I wonder how my cousins fare in their rural villages as I stand in an orderly line and travel to university on an air-conditioned bus that has empty seats.

  COMMENTS

  Khalid I know what you mean. I live in a country that has everything – freedom of speech (as far as it can be), just laws, education, medical help, nice houses and effluent drains, cars for everyone, and most people have jobs and houses to live in. If they don’t the government helps them. So many people in my extended family live in squalor in the old country my parents were born in. They don’t even have a proper stove. It drives me crazy sometimes thinking, why me? Why do I have the heavenly life when so many suffer? I wish I could help more.

  Maryam Yeah, whenever I go back to my roots I enjoy seeing my grandmother and cousins, and the place is beautiful, but it’s not long before I feel this guilt that I’ve been singled out. I don’t think it’s wrong to be rich, but I’ve been brought up to believe that resources are given to share. My father always sends money to make sure there is education for both boys and girls in the village he came from. But we get upset when we hear of anyone being exploited – usually those who have no money or power to do anything about it.