The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “Can you make it to Skardu?” he asked.

  “I can take you to the top of the Himalayas,” said the cocky young man, smiling broadly.

  “It is an emergency. I can pay you anything you want.”

  “Of course you will pay me,” the driver said as Adeel climbed into the back.

  It took the Jeep half an hour to reach the snow-covered section of the road, where an ancient snowplow was making slow progress. The driver of the Jeep laughed, saying that his vehicle could also act as a plough. He made about half a dozen drive-and-reverse manoeuvres, and, on the last try, cleared a path large enough to get through.

  “If we fall into the ravine, my mother will kill me. She has arranged my marriage next week,” the driver said, smiling.

  “I have a lot of experience with snow,” Adeel replied, thinking about his time on the glacier.

  By the time the Jeep roared victoriously into Skardu, Adeel had struck up his first friendship in years. The driver, whose name was Rashid, had curly hair, a lanky frame, and a penchant for laughing through danger. He told Adeel that he had been driving this route, without a licence, since he was eighteen years old. His expertise and humour won Adeel’s admiration. Adeel paid him generously and asked if he would take him back to Gilgit the following day.

  “I will find a place to spend the night,” said Rashid. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  “I hope so. I have to find someone,” replied Adeel.

  “Who is it?”

  “She is my woman. She is somewhere here.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “No. It’s all right; I am a tracker. I will find her,” replied Adeel.

  “I will help you,” said Rashid, further cementing the camaraderie that had formed between the two men.

  They searched for three days. Rashid did not leave Adeel’s side. They roamed through the bazaars and knocked on doors. Adeel was convinced that Norbu must have found refuge indoors; the weather did not permit an outdoor existence. He knew she would not have returned to the home from which the brigadier had removed her. Above all, he hoped she did not think he had abandoned her. If that were the case, he would never find her. Fear gnawed at him. He had finally found someone to love; he could not bear the thought of losing her.

  “I know she is here somewhere,” he said aloud.

  “Then we will find her,” said Rashid. “You are a strong man and so am I.” He swung an arm around Adeel.

  They headed to a part of the town where a shabby government school was located. The building had a scruffy front yard strewn with mud and pebbles and two rickety wooden swings that stood motionless in the still air. A wooden fence with a gate encircled the compound. Adeel stopped and looked at the swings, thinking that, one day, a child would be injured playing on them. As he stood, taking in the front yard, a figure emerged from the entrance, carrying a short-handled broom. The woman knelt over and started to sweep the floor with fast strokes. At one point, her head covering slipped and settled around her shoulders. Adeel saw the straight black hair and knew, in an instant, that he was looking at Norbu; he would recognize her from the other end of the world. He leapt over the fence. She looked up, tossed the broom away, and ran toward him. He reached her first and closed his arms around her like an iron band. He pivoted on his heel and swung her around, lifting her clear off the ground. She laughed and kept repeating his name.

  “I found a job. I clean the school. I sleep here,” she said proudly.

  “I have come to take you home,” he said, burying his face in her shoulder.

  “Yes!” She cradled his face in the palms of her hands.

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the fence.

  “No. This way.” She led him to the gate and opened it with a key. Then she placed the key on top of the gate. Together, they raced back to Rashid and the Jeep.

  THE BATTERED TAXI that had driven them from the bus station stopped in front of a sturdy brick home. Adeel glanced at Norbu; two of her fingers were hooked into the amulet around her throat. She was coming to the home of strangers, and she was apprehensive and frightened.

  “Nothing bad will ever happen to you here. This is my mother’s home,” he said as he helped her out of the taxi.

  “It is a fine house,” she replied.

  “This is our family home. My father built it years ago but it needs some repairs.” He looked at the cracked concrete of the front stoop.

  The front door opened and his mother stepped out. He held Norbu’s hand and walked up to her. Kisses rained on his forehead as his mother eyes filled with tears. Norbu stepped away to give the mother’s and son a chance to reunite. Adeel turned to her and pulled her forward.

  “Mother, this is my life. She is my heart and my destiny. Her name is Norbu.”

  His mother put her arm around Norbu and examined her. She noticed her son’s amulet around Norbu’s throat and nodded. And with that gesture, Adeel knew she understood; he would only part with it for someone special, someone who belonged to him.

  “Come inside. You need to eat, rest, and wash. Your journey must have been long.”

  They entered the modest front room that led to a dining room. Beyond this were the two bedrooms. There were no other rooms. Adeel’s sister-in-law was placing plates on the dining table.

  “Ah, Adeel! You have not called your mother for weeks! Your brother is very angry with you,” was her petulant greeting.

  Then she noticed Norbu.

  “Oh! Have you brought a maid for the house?”

  “When you came into this house, we made the same mistake. I thought my son had brought a maid,” replied Adeel’s mother, instantly reassuring Norbu about her place in the family.

  After the meal, Adeel’s mother took Norbu to her room and arranged for her to bathe and rest. She pressed one of her own outfits upon her. She admired the rare beauty of the young woman who shyly consented to wear her clothes, and when she noticed Norbu’s fearful body language, she was flooded with tenderness for her. She waited until Norbu fell asleep, then turned to shut the door. She almost collided with Adeel, who had been watching from the doorway.

  Mother and son walked to the kitchen door and stepped out into the little back garden for privacy.

  “I want the story from the beginning to the end,” his mother said.

  After listening for a few minutes, she interrupted Adeel.

  “Are these thoughts you have about religion new?”

  Adeel remained silent.

  “Do you believe in God, Adeel?”

  “Not in the way the religion is practised. I have seen too much violence and bloodshed from the so-called believers of the faith. I can do without it,” he said.

  “An old statue did this to you?”

  “I think it just released something inside of me that was always there. No one has to know, Mother. I will not bring either shame or harm your way.”

  “People who do not believe in Islam are targeted here now. You know what happens! Christians and Shias do not feel safe. How will you protect yourself?” she said, distressed.

  “I want to marry her, Mother, but I don’t want a bearded mullah to perform the marriage. Will you help me?”

  “What about Norbu? She is a Muslim.”

  “Yes and no. Her ancestors were Tibetan. They were Buddhists many years ago.”

  “So you intend to worship a different God?”

  “I am sick of all of it, Mother!” Adeel said, raising his voice. “My beliefs are just an attribute, a way of leading the life I want. You will see in the coming days.”

  “I have lived in this town all my life. I will find a way for you to marry,” she said, accepting Adeel’s decision gracefully. “Your father’s best friend is still alive. He is a respected lawyer and he will help you.”

  Adeel was filled with gratitude. He knew t
hat most of his strength had come from this woman. The love that his father had expressed for his mother had always been evident during his childhood. His mother had the grace of a woman who had experienced love and was able, in turn, to accept his love for Norbu.

  “Would you like to grow something on the land and make a life here? Your brother has no interest in it,” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said, gratefully.

  SPRING CAME EARLY in the small town. It was time to plant seedlings and to get a head start for the season. On a half-acre stretch of land, Adeel and Norbu worked side by side. They planted vegetables and worked harmoniously for most of the morning, until a row erupted. Their raised voices could be heard nearby.

  “You cannot plant flowers between the vegetables! Flowers are expensive and nobody buys them here,” Adeel said, trying to control his exasperation.

  “We will see,” declared Norbu, flinging her trowel on the ground.

  “We are going home,” said Adeel.

  “No! I am going to dig a small pond. There is a flower that grows in water,” she said as she backed away with a mischievous smile on her face.

  “That flower is a lotus,” Adeel said, amused.

  “It is a sacred flower.”

  Just then, the call to prayer boomed out from the mosque. It was Friday, the day when the most important prayer of the week was recited. All of the men from town would attend the mosque for this prayer and listen to the accompanying sermon. But Adeel had no interest. The peace and harmony he sought came through the fruits of his and Norbu’s labour in their field. His father’s lawyer had conducted their marriage privately at home. The certificate crafted was genuine. However, the lawyer had also registered it at the local municipal office; Adeel kept another copy at home. He knew that he still had to be vigilant in his newly erected paradise.

  “You can never talk about our beliefs outside of this house, not to anyone,” Adeel had told Norbu after they were married.

  She’d looked at him thoughtfully. “It is okay. It is here,” she said, and tapped her head. “There has never been language, only feelings.”

  Adeel smiled at her now, grateful for the life they had built together and all it entailed.

  “I have a gift for you. Do you want it?” Adeel said as he grabbed her hand.

  He walked back with her to their motorcycle, which was equipped with a sidecar that they used to carry their tools and fertilizer. He lifted a small cloth pouch that he had placed there and grinned at her as she hopped up and down like an excited child. Then he drew out the small chunk of marble that was the fragment of the sculpture’s mouth. He thought he saw the lips moving, but the voice he heard was Norbu’s, telling him that she was expecting a child.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I thank Anwar Saif-ullah Khan for arranging “a room of one’s own” in Islamabad and the use of a vintage home in the snow-capped mountains of northern Pakistan for writing the first section of the book. I salute my cousin, a retired General in the Pakistani Army, for selecting routes on a map of Pakistan. My dear friend Margaret Atwood for her customary generosity and for gamely playing the role of literary consigliere. Khalid Usman, Barbara Adhiya, David Dyment, Brian Fawcett, Helen Richardson Scroggie, Elizabeth Melanoir Scroggie, Carrie Flaherty, Bruce Walsh, George Gianopolous, and Deepa Mehta for simply being there at crazy times. To my wonderful editor Janice Zawerbny, who understood the book and rattled the cage. Bravo! Also deep appreciation for the hard-pressed copy editor. I thank my wonderful agent, Chris Bucci, who knows how to hold my hand and sell a book. Also merci to my French agent, Anne Confuron, in Paris, France. The Writers’ Reserve Program at the Ontario Arts Council also assisted in the completion of the book. Finally, bravo to Sarah MacLachlan, publisher at House of Anansi, for taking a wild ride.

  Photo by David R. Smith

  NAZNEEN SHEIKH has written several fiction and nonfiction titles for adult and young adult audiences, including Moon Over Marrakech: A Memoir of Loving Too Deeply in a Foreign Land, Chopin People, and Ice Bangles. Her culinary memoir, Tea and Pomegranates: A Memoir of Food, Family and Kashmir was a critically acclaimed success. Nazneen was born in Kashmir and went to school in Pakistan and Texas. She lives in Toronto.

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”