Shahana

by Rosanne Hawke

  When Tanveer has fallen asleep, Shahana takes out the pheran and the green thread and sits by the lamp. It is so cold at night now that she gets up to scoop coals from the fire and puts them in a clay pot inside a basket. Zahid watches her.

  ‘You use kangris, fire pots, also?’

  Shahana nods. ‘We always have. This one is my grandfather’s. Did you need them in Srinagar?’

  ‘It gets cold there as well – snow everywhere. The lake freezes.’

  Shahana puts the kangri beside her, then sits on a cushion. Zahid still looks pale; she hesitates, then holds out a cushion to him. ‘Come, sit by the kangri, you will be cold otherwise.’

  ‘My mother always put her kangri under her pheran, even when she was working in our vegetable garden.’

  ‘We do this too.’ Shahana’s answers are short. She is not sure what to say to Zahid when there is such a large valley between them. She waits to see if he will say what is troubling him. Everything important has to be waited for.

  Shahana has stitched half of the forest on the neck of the pheran when Zahid finally says, ‘The militants are causing trouble in Kashmir.’

  ‘Aren’t they there to help you gain your azadi, your freedom?’

  ‘So they say. But before they came we only had to watch out for the soldiers and our own militants. We call our national militants freedom fighters. Many are peaceful groups that only want freedom from India. But the militants from Pakistan and beyond are fierce and don’t warn civilians they will fight the army in the streets.’

  Shahana understands the bitterness so she says nothing. If she knew the soldiers and militants were fighting the day Irfan took her to school she would have stayed home and Irfan and her mother would still be alive.

  ‘Now we have to watch three ways,’ Zahid continues. ‘The jihadi militants from Pakistan are zealous and don’t know us. They want to change our ways. They try to beat the soldiers back to India and don’t care if civilians get hurt. They only care about their cause. Freedom, they say.’ He grunts. ‘What worth is freedom if we are all dead?’

  ‘You can all come here to Azad Kashmir. Many refugees from Jammu and Kashmir have come to Muzaffarabad.’

  ‘The Indian soldiers call this place Pakistani-occupied Kashmir.’

  ‘We are not Pakistanis,’ she hisses. ‘We are a state with our own president.’

  ‘But you are under the sovereignty of Pakistan.’

  ‘We are all Kashmiris. It was all meant to be part of Azad Kashmir in the beginning.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Zahid says it too loudly and Tanveer rolls over on the charpoy.

  ‘Chup se, quietly,’ Shahana whispers.

  ‘We were always free,’ Zahid says softly but firmly. ‘We were a state with a maharajah, never part of India to be handed over to Pakistan at Partition or to China. When India and Kashmir were divided into Hindu India and Muslim Pakistan in 1947 the two states went to war to control Kashmir. Since then, this conflict hasn’t stopped.’

  Shahana has not heard all this before. She would rather have peace, whatever it took. Then there would be no fighting, no fear. They could go to school and there would be justice. Is it possible to have both peace and freedom?

  ‘We are all Muslims,’ she says. ‘We should live together.’ Would that bring peace?

  ‘All religions lived together well enough in Kashmir before Partition. My best friend was a Hindu but they had to flee because of the trouble from the militants.’ Zahid pauses. ‘Everyone has a view about Kashmir – India, Pakistan, the rest of the world. It is like two children tugging both ends of a doll – soon it will tear apart.’ He is quiet for a while, watching Shahana’s needle, then he says, ‘Do you know the LoC cuts through some people’s land?’

  Shahana shakes her head.

  ‘One family I know eat in “Indian” Kashmir and grow their vegetables in “Pakistani” Kashmir.’

  ‘It’s Azad Kashmir.’ Shahana is not used to hearing the passion she senses in Zahid’s tone. Nor can she understand why Kashmir should be divided – it is too confusing.

  He ignores the correction. ‘We just want the Indian army to go. With the curfew, people can’t even get their sick children to the doctor. My grandmother said there was peace and tolerance sixty years ago. When she was young she marched in the women’s army in Red Square in Srinagar, but they carried wooden guns. Now the kids have a different alphabet. A for army, B for bullet, C for curfew and D for dead.’ He sighs. ‘I cannot tell these things in the day.’

  Shahana nods over her stitching. The day is to enjoy, to live, not to remember. Besides, she is glad they are having this conversation when Tanveer is asleep.

  ‘The militants make boys into fighters.’

  Her needle stills. Is this why Zahid was running from the militants on the mountain? ‘Was your father a freedom fighter?’ she asks. Maybe that is why he wants to use the rifle.

  Zahid’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. ‘No, but the Indian soldiers thought he was. He marched for freedom. That is all he did, but the next day they took him away.’ He pauses and then whispers, ‘Kashmir used to be Paradise, now it is burning, now it is Jahanam, hell.’

  Suddenly Zahid stops talking of war as if he has turned off a lamp. ‘How did you learn to stitch so well?’ Shahana can hear the real question in his tone: You’re a girl; how come you can sew?

  ‘My grandfather. He realised I could stitch better than my father and so he taught me the patterns. Abu bought pashmina shawls and Nana-ji and I stitched them. Then Abu sold them.’ She stopped to bite a thread. ‘My mother had a sewing machine. She taught girls and women how to sew and make patterns. When I was too young to stitch she had a weaving loom, too. That was when she wove the shawls Nana-ji embroidered. It took six months to complete one.’

  She looks across at Zahid. ‘What is your talent?’

  ‘I used to play a reed flute at home.’

  Shahana crawls across to Nana-ji’s trunk and takes out a long whistle made of wood. ‘Like this?’

  Zahid holds it, putting his fingers over the holes. ‘Ji.’ He plays a few notes.

  Shahana listens to the haunting tones, entranced as Zahid plays a rag, an old tune. Even Nana-ji didn’t play as well as Zahid does.

  When he finishes she goes back to Nana-ji’s trunk and takes out his shoes and white cap. ‘You will need these,’ she says.

  He accepts them as if he understands how hard it is for her. He tilts his head in thanks. She is struck by how similar they are, even though they live on opposite sides of the Line of Control.

  ‘Shahana, I need to start sleeping under the house.’

  She doesn’t argue; he is getting better and it is the correct thing to do. For him to sleep inside with her is haram.

  Then he says quietly, ‘I will need the rifle – to protect us all.’

  She feels a void open inside her as though she is hanging on to a cliff and is losing her grip. She looks at Zahid and for a moment sees just a teenage boy.

  She nods just once.

  Chapter 8

  In the morning Shahana wakes early, prays and takes the pots out to the stream to wash. There is a mist and the air is icy. She tightens her shawl around her. Soon she will need to start wearing her pheran.

  Tanveer follows her out with the bucket to milk Rani. Zahid is already there. Shahana watches as Zahid shows Tanveer how to milk the goat. Some milk squirts in Tanveer’s eye and he giggles.

  ‘Don’t waste the milk,’ she scolds, but she is happy. After their conversation the night before, Zahid feels almost like a brother. She is not sure if he has explained everything about himself, and she knows her mother would send him away, but Tanveer would never forgive her if she didn’t let Zahid stay. She watches his hands guide Tanveer’s, and wonders if he too has a young brother.

  After breakfast Shahana sends Tanveer to fetch the rifle from behind the door for Zahid. She can feel the fear curling around her neck.

  ‘Hoi, Veer, never point it a
t anyone.’ Zahid takes it from him and inspects it. He pulls a lever. ‘Hmm, it is old, but a good one, a Lee Enfield. It needs cleaning.’ He looks up at Shahana. ‘Is there a cloth I can use? Hot water and soap? Oil?’

  Tanveer gets the water and soap. Shahana takes a soft rag from Nana-ji’s trunk and a small bottle of sewing-machine oil. It is Shahana’s dream to have a sewing machine. The oil has always made her feel as if one day the dream will happen: she will be able to make clothes and have enough money to live. She hands the dream to Zahid. He smiles up at her but the collar of dread circling her throat does not loosen. She watches him work with the soapy hot water and can’t stop herself from wondering how he learned to clean a rifle.

  She busies herself packing the pheran and the leftover green thread into her backpack. Zahid fell asleep before her in the night but she managed to stay awake to finish the sewing. She is pleased with her work and hopes Mr Nadir will be too. She has always wondered what it would be like to stitch with silver thread.

  This time she leaves Tanveer at home with Zahid, who has promised to care for him. To take Tanveer with her to Mr Nadir would be a bigger worry. ‘Be careful,’ she says to Tanveer. ‘Stay close to home.’

  Zahid slings the Lee Enfield over his shoulder. He does this too easily and Shahana’s stomach tightens. She hopes she has done the right thing. As she walks past the spring he stands to watch her go, looking like a brother who knows he should accompany his sister to keep her safe. But Shahana wouldn’t have let him go with her. Even though there are no police in their village he could still get into trouble, and so could she. And what would happen to Tanveer then?

  She is not used to walking alone. She hears a noise and swings around but it is only the breeze in the trees knocking more leaves to the ground. They crackle as she walks through them. She passes Aunty Rabia’s house. No one is outside, but that is not unusual.

  Shahana reaches Mr Nadir’s shop and, once inside, takes out the pheran. Has it only been a few weeks since she was here? So much has happened. She takes a deep breath as Mr Nadir comes out of the other room. She can hear the click clack of the carpet loom and imagines the little boys who work it – boys who may never see their homes again, little slaves forced to do whatever Mr Nadir asks. She shivers, glad she hasn’t brought Tanveer.

  Every time Mr Nadir inspects her work Shahana feels she is having a numbers test with her father. She used to hate those. Sometimes she didn’t hear all the numbers that needed to be added together.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mr Nadir holds the pheran close to his face, then lowers it again and stares at her.

  Shahana shifts on her feet. She is always uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He is frowning. What is he thinking? Hasn’t she sewn well enough? She has tried to do such tiny stitches.

  ‘It is not seemly,’ he says at last.

  Shahana almost falls, but clutches the counter. How has he found out about Zahid?

  Mr Nadir goes on. ‘You stitch beautifully, even better than most men, but it is not seemly.’

  Shahana lets a breath escape. It is only the embroidery.

  ‘You need to be married.’

  She stills herself, like a hare in the forest scenting the air for danger.

  ‘There are militants in the area again. It is not safe for you.’

  ‘Will they not fight the Indian soldiers across the LoC?’ she ventures, thinking of Zahid’s words.

  ‘Ji, that is their plan, but you have no husband to protect you while they train here.’

  Shahana stares at Mr Nadir. ‘Protect?’ she whispers.

  Mr Nadir smiles, but it isn’t playful like Zahid’s when he suggested he be her brother. ‘Do you know what jihadis do to girls like you? They will take you away to make more militants.’

  Shahana isn’t sure she understands, for Mr Nadir is leering at her now.

  ‘I know a man,’ he says, ‘who needs a nice young wife. How old are you now?’

  Shahana makes herself speak. ‘Too young, janab, too young for marriage.’ A husband will feed her, clothe her and protect her, but he won’t look after Tanveer. And what is the man like? If he is like Mr Nadir she will say no. Then her stomach tightens. Could Mr Nadir force her to marry? There is no one to speak for her. She can’t produce Zahid as a brother. Mr Nadir will know he is not. Probably he will also know he is not her cousin.

  The horror must show on her face for Mr Nadir nods in satisfaction. ‘You may well be afraid, my girl. It is a good offer, so you should think about it. Your little brother can go to an orphanage or stay here with me and work on the loom. He will be well looked after. Think of me as a father – I will speak for you.’

  Shahana shudders. Mr Nadir is nothing like her father. If only he were still alive. He was tall with a beard. Maybe that is why the Indian soldiers thought he was a Pakistani militant. Her father was different from other men in the village. He taught himself to read. He didn’t think men should fight for their religion or kill others because they were different. He kept these ideas in the family but Nana-ji agreed with him. That was why Nana-ji chose him to marry his educated daughter.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Mr Nadir is saying, ‘you can use silver thread on the next pheran. Be careful not to lose any thread or use too much. I will not give you more. It is expensive – pure silver.’

  Shahana is so shocked by Mr Nadir’s words of marriage and carpet looms she can’t feel the joy of using silver thread. She has kept Tanveer safe all year, and he wouldn’t be safe with Mr Nadir at all.

  ‘Remember my offer. If your husband doesn’t mind you can still work for me.’

  ‘I do not wish to marry but thank you for your concern, janab.’ It is politeness only. She doesn’t know if Mr Nadir cares for her at all.

  He sneers. ‘You act so proud, just like your father. But you will be humbled. You will be glad to accept when winter is here.’

  She takes the money he is holding between his two fingers, picks up her bag and backs out the door. Winter is harsh. Nana-ji said his mother called winter the three sisters. The first sister is the first forty days of winter, the second sister is the next twenty days. And the last and cruellest sister is the final ten days of winter. Nana-ji was weakened by the days that had gone before and it was the third sister that killed him.

  Shahana’s thoughts are wobbling all over the place. She drags herself to Mr Pervaiz’s stall and takes so long to decide which vegetables to buy that he asks, ‘Are you well, Shahana?’

  She tilts her head.

  ‘You look as though you’ve had a shock. Where is Tanveer?’

  ‘He is home, janab.’

  ‘Home? You never leave him alone.’

  ‘He is getting older, more sensible.’

  ‘Be careful, there are jihadis in the mountains now. They are not from here and they don’t know our ways. All they know is to kill, and how to steal boys to train them into militants.’

  ‘Girls, too?’ Shahana doesn’t know why she says it; maybe to check if Mr Nadir’s story is true.

  Mr Pervaiz’s face changes. ‘Only boys, but you be careful too.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘You need a mother, Shahana.’

  She feels like saying she is a mother herself, but then she remembers the net.

  ‘Do you have string?’

  ‘What is it for?’

  ‘The net. It got damaged.’ She nibbles at her lip. She can’t tell him how it got damaged. Are they even allowed to fish?

  Mr Pervaiz takes down some green string. It shines like plastic. ‘This will be best for the net.’ Then he says, ‘Shahana, I know your grandfather used to fish in the river, but be careful. There are rules about such things these days. Don’t let anyone see you.’

  Shahana buys more vegetables than usual. If Mr Pervaiz notices, he doesn’t comment.

  Then she thinks of Zahid and his mother’s vegetable garden. ‘Janab, do you have any seeds for vegetables?’

  Mr Pervaiz frowns at her. ‘Your family has never grown vegetables. Your grandfather o
nly grew roses.’

  ‘These are hard times, janab. I must try everything.’ Then she says something Nana-ji used to say. ‘Breaking water nuts on someone’s head to eat is difficult.’

  Mr Pervaiz chuckles and puts a few seeds in a small brown paper bag. ‘Here, you can have these. They are saag, spinach. They grow in late autumn, though it might be too late now. You can try if you like. Shahana . . . ’ He hesitates as though he has difficult words to say. ‘Have you ever thought of the orphanage? There are good ones now. There’s a safe village for the refugees from across the LoC. They are orphans of the war. Like you,’ he adds gently.

  Shahana stares at him, blinking back tears. First Mr Nadir and now Mr Pervaiz. What is happening today?

  ‘I am sorry to mention it, Shahana. I just worry about you on the mountain alone.’

  ‘We are doing well, janab.’ She tries to smile as she picks up her backpack. ‘Shukriya.’

  Shahana slows as she sees the shiny roof of Aunty Rabia’s house. Then she stops. She walks up the wooden steps to the door and calls out, ‘Aunty Rabia, assalamu alaikum. Ayesha, are you there?’ There is a bag of vegetables by the door and the window is shut but Shahana hears a scuffle inside. She doesn’t know what she can say that won’t sound as if she is begging. She wants to plead, I need you to help me. Please tell me what to do. But all she says is, ‘Khuda hafiz, may God be your protector.’

  She waits a moment longer, her forehead resting on the door, but nothing happens. She walks down to the road. When she looks back, the door is ajar. Ayesha is picking up the vegetables. Even though Ayesha is looking at her, still she shuts the door, but she does it slowly. Shahana thinks about Ayesha’s look. It isn’t angry; it’s a ‘please understand’ kind of look.

  Shahana walks home strangely content. It is the first time in years that she and Ayesha have exchanged a glance. The first time in two years that she has seen their open door.