by Thalassa Ali
Before he could stride away, someone clattered down the stone stairs, galloped across the underground room, and nearly collided with him in the doorway.
It was young Yahya. “Good news, Lalaji!” he panted. “Those on the roof are saying that Prince Sher Singh has prevailed at the Hazuri Bagh, and that at any moment he will ride into the city on his elephant and stop the violence of his soldiers!”
The Shaikh smiled and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Then go outside and tell the servants to return to their quarters.”
As he watched Yahya leave, the Shaikh seemed to turn old, as old as he had appeared when he made his mistaken announcement of Hassan's death to Mariana and Safiya in the upstairs bedroom. He did not speak, but the single, hollow look he exchanged with his sister caused all Mariana's joy and hope to drain away.
In her happiness, she had forgotten the difficult truth; that Prince Sher Singh, now in full command of the city, believed that Hassan had tried to kill him.
The Prince's guards had seen and shot Hassan in the Hazuri Bagh. His soldiers had stood under the haveli windows shouting threats at his “enemies” who lived at Qamar Haveli.
Even now, nobles were whispering into the new Maharajah's ear, telling cruel lies about each other as they competed for his favor. For someone who coveted a place at court it would be easy to embellish the already serious case against Hassan, to convince Sher Singh that his assistant Foreign Minister had been wooed into treachery and at tempted murder by his calculating English wife and the British Political Agent. Assistant Foreign Minister would make an excellent appointment for a man with ambition
If all this were true, Hassan did not have long to live.
Once he entered the city, Sher Singh would not hesitate to act. A soldier accustomed to summary justice, he would end the matter in the crudest of ways. If the Shaikh refused to turn over his son, Sher Singh would bring one of his heavy guns into the little square in front of Wazir Khan's Mosque. After he had blown open the doors of Qamar Haveli, he would send his men to storm the family courtyard and charge down the stone stairs, into these very underground rooms.
The fact that women were present would not save Hassan.
“They will kill him,” Mariana cried impetuously. “Oh, Bhaji, where will they display Hassan's poor, severed head?”
After her brother left the room, Safiya had reached into her clothes and taken out a string of amber prayer beads. Since then she had hunched silently over them, her lips moving as she counted. She did not flinch at Mariana's outburst, nor did she argue.
“Allah Most Gracious,” she replied calmly, “is Protector of all. It is He, not Sher Singh, who will decide Hassan's fate. And ours.”
As Safiya uttered those words, Mariana's dream of the donkey caravan rushed back to her, dusty and unbidden. Lady Macnaghten's elephants, she knew, were just ahead of her, around a bend in the path. Aunt Claire and Uncle Adrian were also there, riding among the rocks
Understanding took a moment, but then Mariana cleared her throat. “There is something I can do to help,” she announced. “As soon as it is safe, I will leave here and go to Afghanistan with my uncle and aunt.
“I must, Bhaji,” she added, looking steadily into Safiya's stiffening face. “It is the best hope we have of saving Hassan's life.”
“Certainly not,” Safiya replied flatly. “Your wandering like a gypsy over the Punjab during your waiting period will do nothing to protect Hassan. It will only bring more shame upon you and us.”
“Please listen, Bhaji,” Mariana pleaded. “Everyone is saying that I am an English spy, even people in this house. Sher Singh knows it was the English Political Agent who plotted his death. He will never believe in Hassan's innocence as long as I remain here.”
Safiya Sultana did not reply. Instead, she watched Mariana's face, her gaze suddenly as penetrating as the Shaikh's.
“I will leave for Shalimar as soon as it is safe,” Mariana added quickly. “If it appears that Hassan and I have fallen out, people may guess that I left him because he refused to join the murder plot and tried to stop it instead. I am sorry about my iddat,” she said, unable to keep the misery from her voice. “I do not know how I shall live without Hassan, or Saboor, or you—”
Safiya turned to the door. “Send one of the boys for Lalaji,” she called out.
The Shaikh reappeared, Saboor in his arms, followed by a cluster of women who stopped in the doorway behind him. Saboor had been crying. He flew across the little room and buried his head in Mariana's lap.
“What has happened?” the women asked, craning for a better view as the Shaikh joined his sister and Mariana on the floor. “Why is Mariam so sad? What is wrong with Saboor?”
Mariana could not bring herself to look up. Instead, she bent over her luminous little stepson, her tears of farewell falling into his hair. He had known she was to leave them, although Safiya had not guessed until she was told. So prescient already, Saboor would gain great wisdom as he matured. Perhaps in time he would be greater than even his grandfather and his great-aunt.
Would she ever see him again?
“Listen, all of you,” Safiya announced. “Some of us have come to believe that Mariam is a British spy. This is wrong. She is no spy, and never has been. She had no hand in yesterday's violence at the Hazuri Bagh. She is returning to Shalimar today or tomorrow,” she added, a hand upraised to quell a storm of questions. “After that, she will travel to Afghanistan with her relatives. I have consented to this plan because I believe her sacrifice in leaving us may persuade Sher Singh to spare Hassan's life.”
Saboor hiccupped in Mariana's lap.
The Shaikh cleared his throat. “Daughter,” he said, “you are a good woman, for all your boldness and indiscretion. You may have saved our lives yesterday, when you repelled those soldiers from the upper windows. Do not think we have failed to recognize that service. And you have done more. We know very well what you did with the taweez that is missing from your neck.”
“Only Allah knows whether Hassan will recover from his wound,” Safiya added somberly, “or whether Sher Singh will spare him. But you are right. Go, then, to Shalimar, with our blessing. Our man who performs the cholera cure will go with you. We will also send a message to Firozpur suggesting that Shafi Sahib join you on your journey to Kabul.” She sighed. “Perhaps it has been Allah's will all along that you should leave us again. Perhaps, in the end, your leaving will save Hassan's life.”
Mariana looked up and saw the Shaikh nod. “Inshallah,” he intoned, “when all this trouble is over, you will return safely to us. Between now and then, my daughter, may Allah protect you.”
“Hai, what a brave girl!” exclaimed Rehmana, the gap-toothed aunt.
TWO MONTHS later, after a long wait at Peshawar for warmer weather in the passes, Mariana's donkey trotted rapidly, its dusty neck bobbing in front of her, as it climbed the upward-sloping path. The donkey was so small that Mariana's feet seemed nearly to touch the ground.
She shifted on its back to relieve the ache of riding without a sidesaddle.
It had taken some time for Aunt Claire's tears and recriminations to subside after Mariana reappeared from the stricken walled city, but Mariana had been too relieved to find her uncle still living to pay much attention.
Everyone at Shalimar had expressed horror at the prospect of Safiya Sultana's cholera cure, but ultimately Mariana's uncle had ignored his wife's queasy disapproval and allowed the Shaikh's man to make an incision across his shoulder and sprinkle the German doctor's crystals into the wound.
His recovery had been a slow one. Even now he rode on one of Lady Macnaghten's baggage elephants, out of sight around a bend in the path, together with the rest of the English party. Ahead of them all trotted the cavalry escort that had joined them in Peshawar for the hazardous journey through the Khyber Pass.
Apart from Uncle Adrian, who had rasped questions from his pillows, the sole person in camp who showed any interest in the events at Lahore ha
d been the reformed and now irritatingly subservient Charles Mott. To him, Mariana had recounted a censored version of her adventures over lunch in the dining tent the day after her arrival.
Mott and Uncle Adrian alone had been unsurprised at the Vulture's precipitous departure, which had taken place immediately after Mariana's return. As he rode off on “a matter of some urgency that has just been brought to my attention,” followed by his train of servants, Lady Macnaghten was heard to say that she had never liked the gentleman at all.
“If anyone wants to know what I really thought of him,” she had announced at dinner that night, patting her beautifully arranged hair, “I thought he looked exactly like a large, scavenging bird.”
Behind Mariana's donkey, Munshi Sahib's tall groom called out, his resonant voice echoing against the rocks on either side of the path. “Bibi,” he announced, “someone is coming.”
Running feet approached, slapping on the dry ground. A moment later, a rough-looking man appeared, still running, beside Mariana, his pale beard gray with dust, his chest heaving.
“As-salaam-o-aleikum. Peace be upon you, Bibi,” he panted.
“And upon you, Ghulam Ali.”
Stiffening with dread, she guided her donkey to one side of the path and waited, her fingers trembling on the reins as loaded horses, camels, Aunt Claire's unoccupied palanquin, and more donkeys passed dustily by.
The albino reached into some recess in his shirt and fetched out a small cloth packet, sewn together with tiny, neat stitches, with Mariana's name written in Urdu on one side.
“I have been sent to give you this,” he said, fetching a knife from his belt. “And,” he added, his tired face bright with what might have been joy, “I am to remain with you, and serve you in Afghanistan.”
Two things lay inside the little packet: Hassan's neck chain and gold medallion inscribed with the verses from Sura Nur, and a short note written on a scrap of worn, dusty cloth. Give this to my wife, it read.
My wife. Mariana pulled Hassan Ali's beautiful old medallion carefully over her head, lifted her chin and breathed in the clear air.
An Olive, read the delicately inscribed verse, neither of the East, Nor of the West.
GLOSSARY
The Urdu language shares much of its vocabulary with Hindi, Arabic, Persian, and Punjabi. Only three of the words listed below are not in the Urdu language.
A
abba the diminutive of father
a-jao (v.) come
Al Hamdulillah by the grace of Allah
Allah God
aloo gosht a curry of goat's meat and potatoes
As-salaam-o-aleikum may peace be upon you
Attar a scented oil
B
Baba a title of respect for a male child, father, or old man
Begum a lady of rank
Bhai brother, also a polite term for an elder male relative
Bhaji a polite term for an elder female relative
Bhang Indian hemp (Cannabis sativa), whose dried leaves, stems, or seeds are smoked, chewed, or added to a drink for a narcotic effect
Bibi used as a second name for a native woman, and also as a title for a Muslim lady
Burri Memsahib the senior-most English lady
Burqa an all-enveloping, loose garment worn by Muslim women, that covers the body from head to toe
c
Chador a large sheet used to cover a Muslim woman when she leaves her house; alternative to the burqa
champa Micbelia ckampaca, a tropical tree with sweetly scented yellow blooms
Charak Puja (Bengali) a Hindu festival in which men were suspended from a swinging pole by hooks in their flesh
charpai an Indian string bed with a wooden frame
chora long
chowkidar gatekeeper
D
dal boiled, spiced lentils
darwaza a door or a gateway
dhobi a washer of clothes
dhoti a Hindu loincloth
do two
dopiaza a curry of meat and onions
dupatta a long broad veil worn over the head and shoulders
durwan a gatekeeper
E
ek one
F
fajr the dawn, as in the Muslim dawn prayer
faqeer one who is poor in the sight of God
G
ghat a path or stairs, leading down to a river
Granth Sahib (Punjabi) the Sikh holy book
H
Hai, Allah! Oh, God!
Haveli a walled city mansion
Huzoor a title of respect for a man
I
Iddat (literally, number) the number of days a widow or divorced woman must wait before she can remarry: four months and ten days for a widow, and three months for a divorced woman
Inshallah God willing
Isha the nighttime prayer
J
Jadoo black magic
Jalao (from v. jalana) light
jamawar a woolen fabric from Kashmir, woven in an intricate, multicolored design and used for shawls
Jezail a long, heavy Afghan musket, capable of firing a ball a great distance
K
kachnar Bauhinia variegata, an attractive Indian tree with delicate mauve blooms
Kajal the black powder used for lining the eyes
Kali the hideous and terrifying Hindu mother goddess, wife of Shiva the Destroyer
kameez a long tunic-like shirt worn over a shalwar: loose, gathered trousers
Keema a dish of ground, spiced goat's meat
ke saat with
Khanum (Persian) a title of respect for a lady
Kismet destiny
L
Lalaji an affectionate, respectful term of address for an elder male
M
mahout an elephant driver
Mahraj the term of address for a Maharajah
Maidan an open space, park, or plain
Maund a measure of weight, about 40 kilos, or 88 pounds
mehndi a plant (Lawsonia inermis) whose leaves are ground to a paste and used to dye the hair and the skin
Minar the tall tower attached to a mosque from which the Muslim call to prayer is proclaimed five times daily
Mohur a coin of pure gold, the principal coin of India since the sixteenth century
muezzin the caller to prayer
mukhtiar the first assistant to the Maharajah of the Punjab
munshi a teacher or interpreter of Indian languages
N
n'hut the nose ring worn by married women in India
Nach an entertainment by Indian musicians and dancing girls
Nani Ma grandmother: mother's mother
Neem (Azadirachi indica) a tree whose astringent leaves and bark are used as an antiseptic
P
1 palanquin, palki a closed litter carried by bearers. A pole projects fore and aft from the roof of the box and rests on the bearers’ shoulders
Pan a folded betel leaf containing chopped areca nut, lime, and other ingredients. Used widely in India after meals
Punkah a swinging fan made of a cloth-covered wooden frame that has been suspended from the ceiling
Punkah-wallah the man who works the punkah by means of a rope that passes through a hole in the wall of the room and leads to the verandah outside
Q
Qamar the moon
Qur'an the sacred book of Islam, the record of the revelations received by the Prophet Muhammad
R
Rani queen
Rezai a quilt stuffed with fluff from the cottonwood tree
Rishta a relationship, particularly a family one; a marriage proposal
Rishtadar a relative
Rumal a handkerchief or scarf
S
Sahib a gentlemanly title
Salaam aleikum the Muslim greeting meaning “may peace be upon you”
Sari six yards of silk or cotton fabric, worn by women, wound about the body
Sati
the suicide of a Hindu widow who immolates herself on her husband's funeral pyre: considered (at the time of this story) to be an act of great piety
Shaikh a person of particular spiritual authority, such as the master of a Sufi brotherhood
Shalwar loose trousers narrowing at the ankles, typically worn with a kameez
Shia the party of Ali, one of the two principal branches of Islam
Shiva the Destroyer, one of the three deities of the Hindu triad
Sikh adherent of Sikhism, a monotheistic religion based on purity and equality, founded in the Punjab by Guru Nanak in about 1500
Sirdar a chief, leader, or general
Sowar a native cavalryman
Sufi a follower of the Path; a Muslim mystic
T
Tamasha a show, a spectacle
Tandoor a clay oven for baking bread and meat
Taweez the Merciful Prescriptions: a series of cures and healings practiced by Sufis
Teen three
Thug a member of a religious organization in India whose adherents befriended travelers on the roads, then ritually murdered and robbed them
Tulwar an Oriental sword with a curved blade
U
Ubtan a paste made of chickpea flour, ground almonds, rose water, turmeric, and other ingredients and used to soften the skin
Urdu a language closely related to Hindi, but written in the Persian script. It contains many Arabic, Persian, and Turkic words. Widely spoken in India
V
Valeema the celebration by the bridegroom's family after his marriage
Z
Zenana the family quarters of a Muslim household, where the women are secluded from male outsiders
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THALASSA ALI was born in Boston. She married a Pakistani, and lived in Karachi for a number of years. Although she has since returned to the United States, her deep connection to Pakistan remains unbroken.
A BEGGAR AT THE GATE
A Bantam Book / October 2004
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.