by Thalassa Ali
Safiya's snores explained the mysterious thunder in Mariana's dream, but what had the rest of it signified? Why the donkeys and the bare, unfamiliar landscape? Why had her old language teacher reappeared suddenly, to join her on that unexplained journey?
Uncle Adrian had been nowhere in sight along the stony path. Oh, please, let him still be alive. Let him survive until the fighting stops, until I am able to bring him Safiya Sultana's crystals….
Hassan must still be alive, for there were no sounds of mourning, but where was he? Without raising her head, Mariana looked about her and found that his bed had been moved forward, into the light. Two women sat on the floor beside his still, sleeping pro file, talking together in low tones, their elbows resting on the wooden edge of his bed, a plate of pistachio nuts between them on the floor.
“—no need for more jewelry than she already has,” the younger of the two said primly as Mariana gathered herself to rise and join them. “But wait,” the girl added, “Mariam has stopped crying in her sleep. I wonder why she was weeping.”
It was the girl with the high-bridged nose, who had admired Mariana's now ruined shawl on a morning that seemed to have receded far away in time. Although she spoke in an undertone, her voice carried easily across the low-ceilinged chamber.
“Perhaps she weeps for shame,” the gap-toothed aunt suggested.
Shame? What were these women talking about? Mariana arranged her head so that she could watch them through half-closed eyes.
The girl leaned confidentially forward. “So you think, Bhaji, that she knew there was to be an assassination in the Hazuri Bagh?”
“Of course, Rukhi.” The gap-toothed aunt spoke in a soft, emphatic singsong. “Of course she knew.”
“She received a letter from Shalimar before it happened,” agreed the girl.
“Two letters, Rukhi, two. And the very next day, only hours before it was to take place, she left this house secretly, wearing Akhtar's chador.” The aunt opened a pistachio shell with a snap. “No woman,” she added decisively as she pried the nut from its shell, “not even a European, would leave her house disguised as a servant unless she was up to no good.”
The girl named Rukhi nodded her agreement.
“And as to her dreaming of the house where Hassan was to be found,” the aunt continued, chewing as she spoke, “I do not believe a word of that story. She went out in the middle of the night to meet someone who led her to it, just as she ran away the day before to meet someone who would take her to Shalimar. Mark my words, Rukhi, there is more to our Mariam Bibi than we have guessed. I believe,” she finished grimly, “that she has been spying for the English.”
“No!”
“I believe she has been aiding the British Political Agent, whom everyone is calling the author of the assassination plot, the very man who is to blame for Yusuf Bhatti's death and poor Hassan's dangerous wound.”
The girl's hands flew to her mouth. “Hai!” she breathed. “How terrible!”
Mariana twitched angrily beneath her quilt. These accusations were not only wrong and unfair, they were also dangerous. If the old aunt believed Mariana was the Vulture's spy, then others must think the same. If they all did, down to the little Keeper of Shoes with his penchant for gossip, the story would soon spread to the city, and then to the Citadel beyond.
Someone might already have told Prince Sher Singh.
In the back corner of the chamber, Safiya gave one last, echoing snort, followed by a series of coughs. “Firoz,” she called an instant later, wide-awake, “bring the food.”
So it must be mid-afternoon. Mariana opened her eyes to find Safiya leaning over her, wrapped in a voluminous brown shawl. “Are you feeling better?” she inquired, peering into Mariana's face.
When Mariana nodded, Safiya gave a satisfied little grunt. “Good,” she said decisively, “for the time has now come for you to explain yourself.”
“Explain myself?” Lying down put Mariana at a disadvantage. She glanced sideways toward Hassan's bed and saw the gap-toothed aunt and her companion watching her, their faces alive with curiosity.
“We must be told,” Safiya replied, “what need or impulse drove you to leave this house twice in the past three days, disguised as a servant. We must hear what happened to you while you were gone. You will also tell us your real reasons for returning to Qamar Haveli from Calcutta.”
“Us?” Mariana whispered nervously. Surely she was not to recite all her sins in front of a score of suspicious Waliullah women?
“My brother and I. He will be having his food with me today. When he comes, you will tell us your story. ”
Telling Safiya and the Shaikh together would not be much easier than telling a roomful of women, but she had no choice. Mariana cleared her throat and blinked upward. “Yes, Bhaji,” she croaked.
Safiya turned away, “Akhtar,” she called, “bring warm water and a basin, and help Mariam Bibi to wash.”
THE MEAL was as simple as dinner had been. No milkman had come, so there was no yoghurt, nor had the bread been sent to the local tandoor. Worse, for two days, the only chickens and goats that had been slaughtered in the city had been killed by soldiers.
The room where Mariana ate boiled dal, rice, and a few spiced vegetables with her two interrogators was small and dark, a dry storeroom, almost, that opened into the large underground chamber, but it offered privacy as long as they did not raise their voices. Through the room's curtainless doorway, Mariana could see the ladies bending over trays of food. Across from the doorway, the fat girl laughed as she pushed wads of rice into Saboor's open mouth.
Instead of his usual tall, starched headdress, the Shaikh wore a knitted skullcap on his narrow head. He sat opposite Mariana, eating neatly with his right hand, kneading his rice and dal with long, precise fingers before putting them into his mouth, getting no food under his fingernails, unlike Mariana, who already wanted desperately to wash her hands.
She had already spent half an hour giving him and his sister an accounting of her time in Lahore. Unable to lie in their presence, she had told them the full story of the previous four days, omitting no sorry detail: not the furious, panicky scene she had made with Hassan, not his angry agreement to the divorce, not even her temporary theft of the dead man's shawl. The only part she had left out had been the night Hassan had spent in her bed.
When she was finished, the Shaikh nodded. “You have told us of your actions since your arrival in Lahore,” he said in the same deceptively light tone he had used since the beginning of the meal, “but you have not told us why you changed your mind about the divorce.”
“When I first returned to this house,” Mariana admitted, “I expected to be divorced, and to leave Saboor behind me. Although I knew that leaving him would cause me terrible pain, I did not wish to spend my life far from my own people, our horseback riding, our games, our dances. I expected to go to Afghanistan with my uncle and aunt and find an English husband, but then I stayed here for two days, and Hassan was so, so—”
Unable to meet their eyes, she looked down at her feet. Surely they did not expect her to tell them about that?
“Do not be shy, Mariam,” Safiya rumbled as she helped herself to the rice. “This is not a house of secrets. We know more of your sentiments for my nephew than you realize.”
“Although I did not want to stay,” Mariana hurried on, “I desperately wanted two things: to keep Saboor forever, and to learn everything I could about Lalaji.”
Safiya and the Shaikh looked at one another, then nodded in unison. “Ah,” said Safiya Sultana.
“I know that Saboor is to be the next leader of the Karakoyia brotherhood,” Mariana went on, her half-formed thoughts tumbling from her. “I have seen him predict occasional events. It was Saboor who knew that Hassan lay wounded at the house near the Delhi Gate when everyone else, even you and Safiya Bhaji, thought he was dead. If Saboor can do these things at his age, then what greater mysteries has the Shaikh grasped? What marvels can he produ
ce? Does he influence events? How can I be certain that he did not cause me to fall in—to like Hassan so much?”
As the Shaikh and his sister smiled, Saboor crept into the room and sat silently down, one small hand on his grandfather's bony knee. “An-nah,” he said, his bright eyes on Mariana.
Mariana turned to Safiya. “And you, Bhaji,” she added. “You are always calm. Even now, with all this danger and Hassan so gravely wounded, you seem at peace.”
She pushed the last grains of rice together on her banana leaf and kneaded them anxiously with her fingers. “In the beginning, I believed I could learn everything about Lalaji within a few days. Later, I saw that it would take years to approach his power and knowledge. Now I realize that I can never be like him, no matter how hard I try. After all, I am a woman. …”
She fell silent, realizing what she had said. Where had these ideas and ambitions come from? Was it really true that she wanted to be like Shaikh Waliullah?
The Shaikh pushed a long finger inside his skullcap and scratched his head. “Daughter,” he said, “you have misunderstood something: there is no barrier to a qualified woman who wishes to follow the Path to Peace.
“You have not recognized it,” he added, “but my sister here is a member of the Karakoyia brotherhood. In fact, should I die while Saboor is still a child, the regent who will guide the Karakoyia until he is grown will not be a man from among my followers, but my sister Safiya, for she is as qualified as I am to be Shaikh.”
Mariana sat up, trying to grasp what he had said.
“Safiya,” he went on, “has traveled farther along the Path than all but one of the men who come to sit beside my platform in the courtyard. That exception, of course, is my old friend Shafiuddin, whom you have called Munshi Sahib, and who sends his salaams from Firozpur, where he has arrived safely.”
Too upset to be pleased that she had foreseen Munshi Sahib's arrival in her dream, Mariana shifted beneath the Shaikh's gaze, her heart aching. There were not one, but two Shaikhs in this house. What losses she had brought on herself….
“Safiya's abilities and skills, to be sure, are different from mine,” the Shaikh went on, ignoring Mariana's grief, “but they are no less important. Unlike me, she is well versed in the difficult science of taweez, the Merciful Prescriptions. It was she who made the amulet which I can see you are no longer wearing.”
Hardly listening, Mariana stared at her hands. For a few short days the Shaikh, Safiya, and Hassan had been hers. During that brief time, she might have become a real member of this extraordinary family. She might have learned much more than a few simple facts about Shaikh Waliullah and his sister.
Had she qualified, she might have begun to follow the Path herself
Why had she not held her tongue with Hassan, and kept her evil suspicions to herself? Why, struck with terror at the unexpected strength of her feelings, had she lashed out and lost him?
Holding her greasy right hand away from her clothes, she gulped back tears of fury at herself, at the Vulture, at the whole awful turn of events. She could never gain Hassan's forgiveness while he lay, perfectly inaccessible to her, in an opium-induced sleep, surrounded by gossiping women.
For all she knew, he would die before he awoke.
Seeing the heartbreak on her face, Saboor left his grandfather and crawled to Mariana, past trays, footed serving dishes, and banana leaves. “No, An-nah, don't cry,” he said as he crawled onto her lap and began to pat her wet face. “Do not cry.”
As Akhtar took the food away and carried in a brass ewer and basin, she considered what she had just overheard.
Safiya Sultana was as powerful as Shaikh Waliullah. More powerful, perhaps, since she had also learned the Merciful Prescriptions, whatever they were.
Akhtar's hand shook as she poured clean water over the great lady's fingers. How could she have been such a fool, searching for a cheap caster of spells in this house of mystery and power? How had she failed to see the greatness in front of her eyes?
“Enough, Akhtar,” Safiya said sharply. “There's no need to pour all the water over my hand. Keep some for my poor brother.”
As soon as Akhtar folded herself into a corner, anxious to hear the rest of the conversation, shouting erupted outside.
Hurried footsteps crossed a room overhead. The Shaikh's old, gap-toothed relative put her head around the door.
“Sher Singh's soldiers are attacking us again,” the woman announced. “They are trying to get inside through the back entrance.” She pointed toward the stairs as intermittent thudding came from the courtyard. “Hassan's Afghans are firing down at them from the roof,” she added, fastening her eyes on Mariana, still swollen-eyed after her tearful recitation. “Of course we are not certain whether—”
“Thank you, Rehmana.” The Shaikh spoke respectfully, but with such finality that the old lady recoiled in the doorway.
After she had gone, Safiya Sultana pushed away her banana leaf and turned to Hassan's wife. “Are you afraid? Is that why you are weeping?”
“I weep because I have lost Hassan, and in losing him, I have lost both of you as well.” She hiccupped sadly. “Hassan hates me now. That lady who came in hates me also. She thinks I am a spy.”
“Rehmana is Lalaji's sister-in-law,” Safiya put in a little severely. “She is a silly woman and a gossip, but she hates no one.”
“As to your complaint that you have lost all of us,” the Shaikh added, “I must speak the truth, although it is bitter.
“You have indeed behaved badly, especially to my son. Two years ago, although he barely knew you, Hassan did not hesitate to entrust you with his child. He did not take another wife during your long absence, in spite of many suggestions that he do so. But in spite of his decent behavior, you failed to treat him with trust and respect.
“I am not at all surprised that he abandoned hope for this marriage after listening to your unjust and unconsidered accusations,” he went on, ignoring Mariana's renewed tears. “How could you have thought him capable of killing the Maharajah's guests, some of whom were your own relations?”
“I heard him saying he hated the British, and that he—”
The Shaikh held up a silencing hand. “The matter of Hassan's hating or not hating your countrymen can be taken up another time,” he snapped. “Since your arrival at this house you have acted wildly, and with indiscretion. You ran away alone to Shalimar, risking your life and your modesty and bringing shame upon this house, for of course you were recognized upon the road. As if that were not enough, you went out again last night without a word to us, and exposed yourself to every kind of assault. Again you shamed us, this time in front of Hassan's Afghan friends, and also in front of my followers, after you returned.”
Mariam wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“But as foolish as your actions have been,” he added, his tone softening, “it is clear that they were prompted by a warm heart. You ran to Shalimar to protect your relatives and the other English people. You went out again last night to rescue Hassan and bring him home to us. What is more, during this time of trial, you proved yourself in ways that you may not have guessed.”
Safiya Sultana nodded solemn agreement. Akhtar leaned forward, unwilling to miss a word.
“Yesterday,” the Shaikh continued, “you reached our gate and found it closed against you. Seeing this, you humbled yourself and took on the guise of a beggar. While waiting for our doors to open, you treated the little Keeper of Shoes with decency and respect. Later, at risk to yourself, you brought him into the safety of this house. Although the doors had already begun to close, you undid your theft by returning the dead man's shawl.”
Mariam brightened. “If I have proved myself,” she said eagerly, “will Hassan change his mind about the divorce?”
“My son is a patient man, daughter, but when he turns his back on a thing, that thing is finished for him. There are people in this house with whom he is no longer intima
te who can attest to this fact. Inshallah, he will survive his wound, and tell you himself whether he still wants to divorce you. Until then, you will remain here and begin your iddat.”
Mariam shook her head urgently. “But I must go to Shalimar. My uncle has cholera, and—”
“You will do no such thing,” Safiya Sultana interrupted impatiently. “You will wait here while we attend to your uncle. It must be known whether you are with child. Should you leave this house during your iddat,” she added testily, “you will bring even more disgrace upon us than you have already. Do you understand me?”
Mariam stared. “With child?”
The Shaikh spread his hands. “The waiting period is three months. If, Allah forbid, Hassan should leave us during that time, the period will be another four months and ten days.”
Mariam searched his face. “And Hassan will be here?”
“Of course he will. This is his house.” The Shaikh held Mariam's eyes with his own. “If he lives, and there is doubt as to the need for divorce, the three months of waiting time may be used for reconciliation.”
“Three months? For reconciliation?”
As Akhtar stood up at last to take away the ewer and basin, someone shouted an order in the courtyard above. At once, a booming volley of shots echoed down the stairs, but Mariam Bibi took no notice of it. Instead, she offered her father-in-law her beautiful, transforming smile.
THEY HAD sat for what seemed like hours, while the firing went on upstairs. Crouched on the floor of the little room, Mariana had prayed that the Afghan sharpshooters would protect them, that there would be no terrified screams as Sher Singh's men charged into the family courtyard.
She had also dreamed of Hassan, and of the three long months she had been given to woo him back.
When the shooting ceased, the Shaikh nodded and rose to his feet. “I must see what is happening outside,” he told them.