by Thalassa Ali
Ghulam Ali shrugged. “Whatever happens, there will be no need for her to leave Qamar Haveli. It is very strongly built.”
He picked up a small stone and turned it over in his hand. “And if she refuses to separate from Hassan Sahib,” he said carefully, afraid to let his eagerness show, “will you, too, come and live with us? Of course you will serve only the men, but there will be Saboor Baba to care for, and Hassan Sahib is a good—”
“No.” Dittoo shook his head as they watched the Political Agent stride away toward his own tent. “Memsahib is the only person I want to serve. If I cannot serve her,” he added, his voice roughening, “I will return to my village.”
As he turned away to wipe his eyes, the small stone fell from the albino's fingers and dropped to the ground between his feet.
A moment later, Ghulam Ali stood and banged dust from his clothes. “I must go back to the city,” he declared with his customary abruptness, pointing to a pair of donkey carts that waited inside the main gate, one loaded with oranges, the other with pomegranates. “They are expecting me. It does not ordinarily take this long to fetch the fruit.”
“Be careful on your way back,” cautioned Dittoo. “The villages along here are full of cholera. Two of our soldiers are ill with it already.”
“Wait, Ghulam Ali!” A starched-looking servant hurried up, waving a folded paper. “Memsahib's uncle wants you to take this message to her.”
As soon as the servant was out of earshot, another man appeared. “You, courier,” he ordered, planting himself in front of Ghulam Ali.
“Go at once to the Political Agent Sahib's tent. You are to deliver an urgent letter to Memsahib in Lahore. You are then to wait for her reply, and return with it.”
“Memsahib is no spy,” Dittoo insisted, as Ghulam Ali pushed aside a basket of pomegranates, and climbed onto one of the donkey carts. “She will never aid Clerk Sahib in his treachery, whatever it may be. You will see for yourself how bravely she refuses.”
Wedged between two baskets, his pink, blistered feet dangling from the back of the cart, Ghulam Ali watched the dusty walls of Shalimar recede into the distance. He, who had seen Hassan Ali's wife looking out of her tent after the Englishman attacked her, did not share Dittoo's point of view.
Brave she may be, but Ghulam Ali knew too well that, being an outcast, she had little protection against the evil of others. As a child with only a poor mother to protect him, he himself had been a thief in the walled city, apprenticed to a man with a fierce grip and a wicked leather strap, until he made the mistake of snatching a bunch of grapes from a barrow in the Kashmiri Bazaar just as Shaikh Waliullah emerged from a nearby shop.
He himself had been fortunate, but who would intervene on behalf of Hassan Ali's wife? Bound by pride and shame, she would never take her troubles to the only people who could help her: the Waliullah family themselves.
He reached for the railing as his cart jolted over some loose stones. That trusting uncle of hers knew nothing about the second letter. The Political Agent, a powerful, devious man, had seen to that. How, then, could she stand up to such a man? How could she refuse to spy? She could not, and Clerk Sahib knew it.
Ghulam Ali sighed. When the Waliullah family discovered what she was, they would hasten the divorce and send her away as swiftly as possible.
That morning, eating alone as usual in the kitchen courtyard, he had allowed himself to imagine that she would stay, and that his first real friend would soon be there, to sit companionably beside him after the meal, talking of her as he always did, his hands moving in grand arcs as he spoke, as if she were indeed the stuff of legend
Ghulam Ali snatched a pomegranate from one of the baskets and flung it, hard, into the road.
But he had no right to complain. His return to Lahore after a six-month absence had produced no hero's welcome, but he had been treated with more respect than he had anticipated. The guards had wished him peace after he pounded in his usual impatient fashion upon the carved haveli doors. The Hindu carpenters at work in the elephant stable had looked up and nodded as he passed.
Later, summoned to the small courtyard, he had been flattered by the length of time the Shaikh had given him to describe his adventures and offer an account of his expenses. His back to the sun to ease his eyes, Ghulam Ali had stood at attention beside the padded platform, softening his harsh voice as best he could while he told the story of his escape from the gang of thugs, and described Calcutta, a city the Shaikh had never seen.
He had, of course, made no reference to the lady, or to her people's shocking determination to see her divorced.
After he finished speaking, the Shaikh had nodded. “You have done well,” he observed, causing Ghulam Ali to flush with pride. “There are few couriers in this city who can be trusted to undertake such a long journey. You are among the best of them.”
After delivering his donkey cartload of fruit to the haveli's kitchen entrance, Ghulam Ali made some inquiries and then forced his way through the busy streets until he reached a small teashop near the Golden Mosque.
Inside the shop, on a carpet-covered platform with teapots and glass tumblers in front of them, sat Hassan Ali Khan, his friend Yusuf, and two Afghan traders whom Ghulam Ali had seen before. Unlike Hassan and Yusuf, the Afghans appeared perfectly relaxed.
“I only give him the same bazaar gossip he hears from everyone else,” the pale-eyed trader was saying. “Why should I tell him anything more? Do you think I did not see the son of shame in the crowd, gloating over my countrymen who were to be blown from cannon? Do you think I did not see him recognize us, then run away when you came to our rescue?”
“Then why call on him at Shalimar?” Hassan's face had hardened. “What sweetness, what trade, does the Englishman offer, Zulmai, that would cause you to swallow your hatred of him and go there?”
The Afghan smiled broadly, revealing even, white teeth. He glanced at a quartet of elaborately decorated jezails that stood, barrels pointing upward, against the teashop wall. “My hatred of him is unchanged, brother. But if I do not visit him, how can I discover his plans? How can I help you?”
“What, then, are his plans? What help are you offering us?”
“I cannot tell you just yet, but as soon as I know, I will come to you. Do not worry, my friend,” the Afghan added softly, signaling to his young companion. “I will not fail you.”
With one swift movement he stood and picked up his guns.
Ghulam Ali waited until the two men had disappeared into the crowd before he stepped forward and offered his salaams. “I have come from Shalimar,” he told Hassan and Yusuf as he reached into the courier's pocket hidden in his clothes. “As I was leaving, I was given two letters. Both are for your wife, Hassan Sahib.”
“Who wrote these?” Hassan asked sharply. He stared at the folded papers, each one labeled with foreign-looking scratchings.
Ghulam Ali pointed. “This one is from the tall Englishman who wears black all the time. The other is from Memsahib's uncle.”
Unable to bear the expression on Hassan Ali's face, he left the shop as hastily as he could.
YUSUF WATCHED Hassan push the folded letters into his coat pocket. “Why do you care if these British are spying?” he asked. “It is Sher Singh, after all, who is marching toward us, bent on seizing the throne. What threat does that foreigner offer, with his puny, cannonless escort?”
“He offers no threat now, but I tell you, Yusuf, these British are ambitious and arrogant,” Hassan replied. “They want to possess all of India. When we have exhausted our energy in fighting each other, the British will take the Punjab for themselves.” He sighed. “I see the Political Agent's hand in everything around me—in the slaughter of Afghans, even in my wife's attempt to dissolve our marriage. Why has he written to her, Yusuf? What could he want from her?”
Knowing how fiercely the Waliullahs clung to their dreams, Yusuf hesitated before answering. “What he wants is information,” he said, stating the obvious as ge
ntly as he could. “The Political Agent wants your wife to repeat what she is hearing in the ladies’ quarters, and what she learns from her conversations with you.”
Hassan shook his head. “With me? Why would I discuss these matters with my wife? I never speak of private court business with anyone but my father.”
“Of course you don't.” Yusuf shrugged. “But in any case, you should let her receive the letters without knowing you have seen them. When you meet her again, listen to her. See if she questions you. You will learn easily enough if she is a spy. If she is, then by her questions alone, she will reveal much of the Political Agent's plans. And if she is not,” he added softly, pained by Hassan's stricken face, “you will have no further need to worry.”
Hassan dropped his head into his hands. “All I know now,” he murmured, “is that we must, from this moment, regard the British as our bitter enemies.”
Akhtar did not find an opportunity to speak to Safiya Sultana alone until after the ladies had finished their meal and dispersed to doze in the bedrooms or against bolsters in the sitting room. After carrying in the cotton-filled quilts that would cover the ladies as they slept, she crept to the private room where, each afternoon, Safiya wrote poetry and prepared cures for various illnesses. Afraid to interrupt such important work, the serving girl hung back in the shadow of the doorway, listening to Safiya's voice rise and fall as she composed aloud.
“You live with fear, who move with outrider and scout,
Compassed round with bristling steel.
Unlike you I travel weaponless;
Desiring only the Beloved, I step unarmed onto the path of fire.
“No,” Safiya rumbled to herself, “each line should end with ke saat —”
Pen in hand, she looked up from her string bed to see Akhtar standing nervously by the doorway.
“Bhaji,” the girl whispered, “I have had two dreams. The first was of a woman and an open gate and roses, and the second was of dust and—”
“Come in, child,” Safiya said quickly, laying her pen on a square of cloth beside her, “and close the curtain behind you.”
In the end, one recitation was not enough. Safiya did not let Akhtar stop until she had retold each dream three times, omitting no detail. Then Safiya closed her eyes briefly and recited something under her breath.
“You were right to tell me about your dreams,” she said, opening her eyes and preparing to stand. “If you see anything else, you are to come to me at once. And Akhtar,” she added, frowning, “come again tomorrow at this time. Now that you have had important dreams, I will give you something to recite. And from now on, make certain you do not miss any of your prayers.”
WHY, MARIANA asked herself, had Safiya's beggar prince seemed so much like Hassan?
This was no time to be thinking of a stranger with a crooked nose and a tired brown gaze who passed all his time at the Sikh court and imagined her to be the unpaid guardian of his child. She had serious work to do, and she must begin it soon. After all, she did not have much time to learn the secrets of this household. This first afternoon was already slipping away, and Mariana had not even uncovered the mystery of Shaikh Waliullah's cure for snakebite. It was maddening to see him through the latticework shutters, surrounded by his silent followers, while the afternoon shadows lengthened in the courtyard behind him.
Someone coughed in the verandah outside. More people had come: two women, a new distraction for Safiya. Mariana felt a twinge of resentment as Safiya motioned them to enter.
The older one had already taken off her burqa, revealing the lively round-cheeked face of a countrywoman. She carried a child in one arm, an infant of a few months. The other woman stood, shrouded and unmoving inside her burqa's folds until the first woman lifted away the fabric, revealing a lank-haired girl whose shoulders drooped so badly that she seemed about to collapse onto the floor.
Horrified at the girl's despair, Mariana looked away.
Saboor seemed to come from nowhere. He burst from a knot of children and rushed headlong toward the two visitors, his curls bouncing, determination on his face. At the doorway, he gripped the hem of the girl's kameez. “An-nah,” he cried as he tugged the girl into the room. “Come and help!”
While the women and other children made way silently for the new arrivals, Safiya caught hold of a fat little girl with a thick braid. “Rifhat,” she ordered, “go and fetch a bolster and a rezai.” She pointed to a corner of the room. “Put them there.”
As soon as she reached the corner, the younger woman dropped to the sheeted floor. Without removing her burqa, she lay down and drew her knees to her chin.
Saboor sat down beside her. “An-nah,” he repeated, flapping his hands, as the fat girl arrived, puffing, the bolster and quilt in her arms. “Come!”
Mariana hesitated. What did Saboor want her to do? Why was he stroking the girl's shoulder with a small, kindly hand? How could she herself be of use when she had no idea what was wrong, when the girl's sadness repelled her as if it had an evil life of its own?
In the corner, the older woman put the infant down, lifted the girl's head and pushed the bolster under it, then covered her legs with the rezai. She leaned over, fussed with the girl's clothing, then picked up the baby and arranged it beside her.
A moment later the quiet room was filled with the sound of a baby's noisy sucking.
“Go to my room, Akhtar,” Safiya ordered, “and bring jasmine oil and cotton wool.”
When the servant returned, Safiya signaled to Mariana. “Come here,” she said.
It was an order, not an invitation. When Mariana approached, Safiya handed her a little tuft of cotton fluff and a tiny glass vial. “Roll the cotton into a ball like this, put a little oil on it, and then tuck it into the fold of that girl's left ear. Like this.” She uncovered her own ear and pointed. “That is the first thing to do in such cases.”
From the corner, a beaming Saboor patted the floor beside him. Aware that Safiya was watching, Mariana went reluctantly over and sat down, careful to avoid contact with the supine girl.
An ugly, sweetish smell came from her, as if she had not bathed for weeks. The hand holding the baby to her breast looked grubby.
Was this, Mariana wondered, a test of some kind? If so, whatever her revulsion, she must somehow pass muster. She held her breath, leaned experimentally forward, and saw that the girl's eyes were tightly closed. Hoping she was asleep, Mariana took a strand of unwashed hair and held it gingerly aside.
“No!” At once the girl flung up an arm and struck Mariana's hand away, then curled her body into a tight ball around her child.
Mortified, Mariana glanced over at Safiya, but found her deep in conversation with the gap-toothed aunt.
“Speak,” advised the countrywoman as Mariana searched for her fallen cotton ball. “Say something to her.”
At a loss, Mariana could think only of a Persian poem she had learned a year earlier.
“And heart bowed down beneath a secret pain,” she whispered, “Oh stricken heart, joy shall return again, Peace to the love-tossed brain—oh weep no more.”
She stopped. These women spoke Punjabi. Why had she chosen a Persian poem that they could never understand? And why had she chosen one that reminded her so powerfully of her own sadnesses, of her father growing old so far away, of her coming loss of Saboor, of her hopeless dream of marrying Harry Fitzgerald and having fair-haired babies of her own?
Tears stung her eyes. When would her losses end? When would she have her own people to love?
No one was paying attention to them. Safiya was still talking to the aunt while the ladies formed into groups for some activity involving baskets of tiny yellow limes.
Saboor stopped patting the girl and came to lean his small, comforting weight against Mariana. She went on reciting, her head bowed, while tears dripped from her chin.
“Mine enemies have persecuted me.
My love has turned and flown from out my door.
God count
s our tears and knows our misery.
Ah weep not. He has heard thy weeping sore—”
The older woman nudged her. “Look,” she said, pointing. The girl, too, was crying. Her thin shoulders shook. The hand that had been clenched against the baby's small body was now open. Mariana dashed away her own tears, lifted the girl's hair out of the way, and pushed the cotton ball into place before she had time to protest.
The older woman lifted the baby and handed it, a brown parcel with a tiny, crumpled face, to Mariana. “Safiya Sultana Begum knows everything about cures,” she confided. “It is said that she can even cure cholera.”
“Well done, Mariam,” intoned Safiya Sultana as the woman took the infant back and put it without ceremony to the girl's other breast. “You have done the first part of the work. The next part is for me to do.” She frowned toward the verandah doorway.
A female servant stood yawning outside, papers in her hand. “There are two letters here for Mariam Bibi,” she announced.
Eat,” Safiya ordered, holding out a spoonful of something brown and aromatic that looked like minced meat. “You have not even tried the keema.”
Mariana pushed away her banana leaf. “I am sorry, Safiya Bhaji,” she said, hiding her shaking hands in her sleeves, “but I can have no more.”
She had done her best with the evening meal. Under Safiya's tutelage, she had used small pieces of bread to scoop up curried vegetables and a yellow mush that tasted of earth and unfamiliar spices, but her thoughts had not been on the savory native food in front of her, so different from the insipid fare at Shalimar. All she had been able to think of were the two letters that crinkled in the waistband of her drawstring trousers.
She had read Uncle Adrian's letter first.
My dear child, he had written,
You must return to Shalimar at once. Sher Singh's men are expected to attack the city, and I fear they will run riot.