The Truth About Peacock Blue

by Rosanne Hawke

  Her eyes brightened, and I saw a glimmer of the old Hadassah.

  ‘You are strong, Hadassah. Abba says Khuda doesn’t give us a journey so hard we can’t walk it with him.’

  She squeezed me back. ‘I have a path that is much too difficult for me, but thank you. I’ll try to remember I don’t walk it alone.’

  I went into Sammy’s house to mind his little brother and sisters while their mother sewed their clothes. Aunty Rakel sat cross-legged in front of the machine on the floor inside. Akeel, Marya and Noori were bickering in the courtyard while Sammy finished his lunch.

  ‘Asti, tell us a story,’ ten-year-old Noori said as soon as she saw me. ‘A wedding one.’

  ‘Ji, ji.’

  Little Marya climbed into my lap before I’d even settled on a cushion. Akeel wasn’t so sure, but I started my favourite story.

  ‘Once there was a Persian king who ruled all the land from India to Africa. His wife had annoyed him by not coming to an important banquet and so the court decided to choose a new queen. The most beautiful girls in the kingdom were brought to the palace harem by their fathers and spent a year learning how to act like a princess.’

  ‘Are we beautiful?’ Marya asked. ‘Hadassah’s using whitening cream to make her skin fairer for the photographs. All the Bollywood actresses and girls on TV are fairer than us.’

  She was right: every ad had a fair-skinned girl with her brown hair fanning out from her face and light eyes, her dupatta flying to heaven. We all had black hair and dark eyes.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we’re not beautiful,’ Noori said quickly.

  ‘I think you’re all beautiful.’ Sammy said it easily like he always said things, but he didn’t laugh, and when I looked up he was staring at me. It was the first time he made me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘See?’ Noori said to Marya. ‘Darker skin is beautiful too. It’s the way Khuda made us.’

  Sammy tilted his head at me and suddenly, talk of beauty didn’t seem appropriate – he and I weren’t little children anymore.

  ‘Don’t you have to help the men put up the shamiana for the wedding?’ I asked. The marquee was huge; they would need all the help they could get.

  He left with a grin.

  ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘In the harem,’ Akeel said.

  I stared at him in surprise – so, he had been listening.

  ‘Accha, there was a girl called Hadassah. Her guardian and cousin, Mordecai, called her by a Persian name, Aster, and brought her to the harem to be considered as the new queen. She was not only beautiful but she was also kind and all loved her, especially the chief eunuch who looked after the harem. She grew even more beautiful with the special treatment, but there was one thing she hadn’t told—’

  ‘She was a Jew,’ Marya said.

  ‘Ji, but when the king met Aster he liked her best.’

  ‘How did he know?’ Akeel asked.

  ‘It’s called love at first sight,’ Noori said.

  ‘Will Hadassah have love at first sight tomorrow?’ Marya asked.

  ‘She might.’ I hoped her groom would.

  ‘Actually the king was so happy with Aster, he put a crown on her head and made her his new queen. They had a huge banquet, a party—’

  ‘Like Hadassah’s tomorrow?’ Noori asked.

  ‘Ji, just like our wedding feast. They even had a public holiday all through the kingdom and the king gave gifts.’

  ‘What sort of gifts?’ Akeel said.

  ‘Probably money and letting prisoners out of jail.’

  ‘Hadassah will get money when she’s married too. We’ve already bought a money necklace,’ Marya said. ‘And I’m allowed to put it on her.’

  At that all three of them ran off.

  ‘I’m the bride!’ Noori said.

  ‘No, I am!’ Marya called after her.

  ‘I’ll be the groom.’ That was Akeel, and no one argued.

  Relatives began arriving in hordes. Our village was like a rickshaw adda. Afia and Barakat’s family were the first. Then Uncle Yusef, Aunty Noori and Maryam arrived in a proper taxi. They had managed to get a flight from Australia in time.

  Maryam hugged me tight. ‘How are you now?’

  She was just like a big sister. ‘So much better now you’re here. Tonight’s the mehndi night – it will be fun.’

  I took her into our house. She’d have to share my charpai but she didn’t complain. That night Afia, Maryam and I, with all the girl cousins and aunts, danced and sang in Hadassah’s house. I played the tabla and we sang old wedding songs and Masihi praise ones like ‘Jai Jai Jai’.

  No one remarked on Hadassah’s quietness – that was how a bride was meant to be. We were all dying to see the groom. Hadassah wouldn’t tell us anything about him, which was demure, but I did wonder if she had met him yet.

  I awoke the next morning to the smell of spices cooking. Maryam was still asleep from what she called jetlag. Onions and meat were being poured into the degs when I emerged outside. Hadassah would be getting dressed in her white long gown that one of the aunties brought from Lahore; Aunty Assia would be doing her hair and make-up. A few hours later the rest of us assembled in the church, men on one side and ladies on the other. We women and girls all wore dupattas on our heads in church; even Maryam covered her hair although she was western.

  Hadassah was two hours late but no one minded. I had a good chat with Maryam about uni and school. I glanced over to the right and found Barakat observing me. Sammy noticed and drew him into a whispered conversation.

  The groom stepped up to stand at the front of the church with a man who must have been his brother, they looked so alike. The groom was old, even older than Dr Amal, maybe even thirty, but he didn’t look ugly. He wore a cream shalwar qameez with a Nehru-collared coat and a long silk scarf.

  When Uncle Bashir walked in with Hadassah in a white western veil I saw the way the groom looked at her. There was compassion in his gaze. He too had suffered recently. He promised that he would support, love and protect Hadassah. It seemed as if he knew all about her. What if he did? Only a man living by God’s spirit of love could accept such a situation, and my heart swelled with hope. Maybe he was such a man.

  The guests enjoyed the chicken curry and the sweet rice afterwards with its multicoloured grains.

  ‘Hmm,’ Maryam said after a mouthful. ‘We don’t get this often enough in Australia.’

  ‘We only ever have it at weddings.’ I watched the children fighting to reach the tables of food, but I couldn’t be bothered telling them off.

  Hadassah had changed into the Pakistani red bridal skirt and long tunic and sat under the colourful shamiana with the groom, who we now knew was called Danyal Peter. My family was pleased, especially Dadi-ji, as it was the name of Dada-ji, my paternal grandfather who died when I was little.

  The next day we all travelled in buses to Danyal’s village near Rawalpindi, where his family put on a feast for us. Weddings were not about the bride and groom, but about families joining together, and Hadassah’s parents were bursting with pride. The Peters were a respected Christian family; Danyal’s father was a pastor like Abba.

  There was only one chance to meet with Hadassah without a mob before the four days were over. Maryam was with me and we were in Hadassah’s new home in Rawalpindi, about to leave. Hadassah wore a beautiful pink shalwar qameez with shining stones like zircon embedded in the bodice. I’d never seen her look so beautiful.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I asked for want of something better to say.

  She took me seriously and tilted her head. ‘I think so. He seems kind and so does his mother, which is even more important.’

  Maryam and I grinned, pleased Hadassah’s humour was returning.

  ‘He’s sad, but I understand that. I have met his children. There are two.’ She stopped, finding it hard to speak, then swallowed and began again with a smile. ‘They are young. The boy is still a toddler.’

  Her eyes filled
and I held her, thankful for Khuda’s mercy. The boy would become hers. If Maryam wondered why Hadassah was overcome, she didn’t ask. After all, brides cried a lot at weddings.

  ‘Be happy,’ I said. ‘And join Facebook so I can tell you everything. Like my results from my exams next week.’

  ‘At least you’ll be able to study now the wedding is over.’

  ‘Let me know when I can visit like a proper younger sister.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch too,’ Maryam said. ‘It’s been great to spend this time together.’

  We all hugged, and we left Hadassah in the home she would share with Danyal, his children and parents, his three sisters and his brother’s family.

  MESSAGES

  Peacock Blue Salaam, Maryam. You will be back in Australia by now, I think. It was wonderful seeing you again, even though it was short. Thank you so much for coming.

  Maryam Yusef That’s what family is for – I’m just glad we could get a flight in time.

  Peacock Blue I’ll put pics of the wedding on Facebook soon. So tired. Exams in a few days.

  Maryam Yusef So now we have relatives in Rawalpindi too.

  Peacock Blue Ji, relatives everywhere. Must sleep. Khuda Hafiz.

  Maryam Yusef God bless your study.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The exams loomed close like a monsoon, with the same heavy feeling in the air. Rabia had been to a shrine to pray for success in the exams.

  ‘I want to be a teacher,’ she said. ‘I have to get good results.’

  She wasn’t the only one. We all had to do well, not only to satisfy the teachers but also our families. The final few days before the exams I was let off the chores. Noori fed the hens and carried water. Ammi did the washing at the canal all by herself.

  ‘We want you to do well,’ Ammi said, ‘but don’t get used to this treatment. After the exams you will have Noori’s quota of water for a week.’

  I still spent time with Dadi-ji, which was no chore at all, and took the goats to graze but I carried To Kill a Mockingbird with me to memorise quotes while I watched them.

  The Islamiyat and Arabic exams were both on the first day and these were the ones I’d spent the most time on. I even took to watching Islamic programs in Arabic on TV. Ammi looked worried when she caught me, but I put her fears at rest. ‘The only way to be educated in this country is to know Islam, but I won’t convert.’

  ‘I wish we’d had the money to send you to the Christian Girls High School,’ she said. ‘But it is a boarding school deep in the mountains.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to leave you,’ I said quickly.

  How lonely Abba and Ammi would be with no Ijaz and me away. She kissed my cheeks and finished preparing dinner, a chore I usually did.

  In class that first exam day we were given a blank booklet. We recited prayers and I said a few of my own. Then Mrs Abdul placed a page upside-down on each of our desks. None of us moved. My eyes never left her face. She returned to the front and stared at each of us and, it seemed, especially at me.

  ‘Start!’ she snapped. It was like the start of a race. All those pages whizzed over and pens scratched on paper. Some questions were taken directly from our homework and I relaxed. I had a good memory, I would pass. I managed to complete all the answers that were required in Urdu. I approached it clinically, reminding myself that I was just repeating information for an exam. I don’t believe all this.

  Then the Arabic questions began. It was an effort getting it all finished in the two hours and near the end I panicked. A question called for a passage praising the Prophet. I tried to write the correct text from the Qur’an, but I couldn’t remember exactly how to spell a word. Was the letter a baab or a taab, one dot or two? The bell to put down our pens sounded and I quickly wrote in the word.

  After we handed in the papers we were allowed a break before the next exam.

  I sat with Rabia in the lunch area and we went over the questions. It seemed as though I had answered most things correctly and I smiled at her in relief. She was about to speak but her gaze slipped above my shoulder and her face froze, her mouth still open. I looked behind me to see what was wrong. Mrs Abdul and a man in a navy blue shirt and khaki trousers were walking towards us.

  A police officer?

  It was as if all the girls in the yard became statues; only their eyes moved, watching. What could a policeman want at school?

  Mrs Abdul and the officer stopped in front of me and I stood in respect. She had been angry with me constantly, regularly beat me, but she had never spat words at me like she did then, as if I was a bazaar dog with rabies.

  ‘This is the girl, officer, who blasphemed the Holy Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him.’

  Rabia gave a cry. I couldn’t say a word; I was too shocked.

  ‘There must be some mistake, she wouldn’t . . .’ Rabia’s voice trailed away as Mrs Abdul’s gaze bored into her.

  ‘Be careful, Rabia. If you support her you could be arrested too. This malaise is catching.’

  Rabia shut her mouth but I finally found my voice. ‘Why is this happening? Is it the exam? I tried my best.’

  Surely they couldn’t arrest me for doing badly in an exam?

  ‘Dirty kafir, you finally showed your true colours! You cursed the Holy Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, in your paper.’

  My eyes stung. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. W–what did I write?’

  Mrs Abdul wouldn’t tell me. Was it the spelling? Should it have been two dots after all? I couldn’t even remember what I dashed down at the end, but surely it wouldn’t have made a blasphemous word.

  The officer produced handcuffs; they were heavy and looked ancient. He pulled my hands behind my back and I felt the click of iron like a thud. None of the other girls spoke on my behalf. Their fear was as palpable as mine. Even Saleema paled. Rabia was weeping. I could still hear her as I walked with the police officer towards the outside gate.

  We had just passed the office when Miss Saed-Ulla stepped in front of us. ‘There must be an explanation,’ she said. ‘This girl is law-abiding. She would not wilfully blaspheme.’

  We were too close to the gate. A mullah on his way to the mosque heard her words. By the time the principal had joined us and Mrs Abdul had finished explaining to Miss Saed-Ulla how evil I was, there was a crowd gathering on the road.

  ‘We don’t want blasphemers,’ one man called out. I sensed the fear in his voice, for it echoed mine.

  ‘Try her under Sharia law, kill her,’ another said.

  The officer called for reinforcements on his mobile. Within minutes there were a dozen police at the gate, pushing men away.

  ‘We will have to take her to the station now whether we want to or not,’ the first officer said to the principal. His exasperation had an edge to it. ‘There will be a riot otherwise.’

  Mrs Abdul spat at me through the gate. ‘Now you’ll have to become Muslim to save yourself.’

  I wondered if I had converted right then, would she have recanted, said it was all a mistake?

  One of the younger policemen bundled me into the black police van. He actually pushed me from behind with his hand, squeezing under my buttocks. I landed on the floor as he locked me in, and that was when I wept in earnest. I had never been touched like that by a man and the shock of it shamed me. I thought of my father, and my more pressing problem took over. I couldn’t ring him, there had been no time to get my backpack. We always left our phones in our bags during class. The enormity of my situation began to thunder in my brain. I couldn’t ring him anyway with handcuffs on.

  Handcuffs? Why did they need to handcuff me? I was just a schoolgirl.

  Abba would come to collect me from school in a few hours. What would they tell him? Would he be safe? Could he do anything to help me? Everyone knows that once Christians go to jail they rarely come out.

  And people accused of blasphemy can be murdered before they even reach jail.

  CHAPTER

  13

/>   The police van stopped outside the station. I could see the younger officer through the bars, coming to unlock the door.

  ‘Ao, come. Jaldi, jaldi, quickly.’ He gestured to me, continually glancing back the way we had come.

  I stood and stepped towards him. He held out a hand as I leaned forward, then withdrew it. With my hands cuffed behind my back it was just enough to tip me off balance. I slipped, then fell to the ground. He stood there watching me struggle to my knees. I had no idea how much we need our arms to balance with.

  I could hardly rise. I didn’t want to ask him to help, but he reached forward and dragged me up by the cuffs. I tried not to gasp from the pain in my wrists and shoulders. The tears came unwillingly as he pushed me in the back to walk in front of him. I almost tripped again. I’d done nothing wrong; he had no right to treat me like this. But I was too frightened to speak.

  Inside, there was a bench with an officer sitting behind it, typing. Another officer took me aside.

  ‘Where are your things?’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘No cell phone?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t dare look at him.

  He frisked me and his hands lingered on my front. There was nothing I could do with my hands cuffed. My dupatta had fallen from my head and hung uselessly around my neck. I may as well have been naked. He checked my pocket, tickling my thigh as he did so. I tried to pull away but he grinned at me and pushed me towards a desk where an older officer sat.

  I stood waiting until the officer decided to notice I was there. He made a show of finishing what he was writing. He was a big man, twice the size of Abba – he certainly didn’t work in the fields. Two other officers materialised beside me.

  The senior officer threw down his pen suddenly and I jumped. He leaned back in his chair and observed me.

  ‘So, you are frightened. You should be. This is a serious charge. Blasphemy.’ He said the last word slowly as he brought his hands in front of him and rested the tips of his fingers against each other like a tent.

  ‘What did you say to insult our religion?’