Haveli

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  “This is the real test,” said Zabo as she lifted two identical lamb suede sacks and dumped their clinking contents onto the coverlet on the bed between her and Shabanu. The red sack in her left hand contained solid gold bangles; the one in her right held imitation rolled gold of exactly the same color and design, created by the finest jeweler in the Anarkali Bazaar. As the bangles mixed together on the coverlet, they were impossible to tell apart.

  “Guess which are real,” said Zabo. Shabanu picked them up and turned them in her fingers.

  “They weigh the same,” she said. “And they’re exactly the same color.” She hefted them, one by one, in her palm.

  “I can’t tell,” she said.

  “Let me see,” said Zabo, bending her head over the gold circles in each of Shabanu’s outstretched palms. “I can’t tell either.”

  Shabanu was about to test the two gold pieces with her teeth when the door to her room banged open, and there stood Nazir, his globular frame outlined by the harsh light from the courtyard.

  “Why are you hiding in here?” he asked, his voice booming in that still, small room, which until this moment had never reverberated with a man’s voice. “What are you doing? Looking at your dowry? Why haven’t you shown me? I sent you a fortune.… ”

  “Father! I was just organizing it to display in Uncle Rahim’s house for you to see,” Zabo said. A small red dot high on Zabo’s left cheekbone was the only sign that betrayed her fear. Her voice was calm and normal.

  Nazir came in without asking or being asked, his breath wheezing in a rattle through his overfat chest.

  Shabanu and Zabo sat immobile with shock on the bed, and Shabanu’s shoulders twitched with wanting to hide the bangles away. But she knew Nazir’s suspicious nature and sat still, the gold—was it real or fake?—still sitting in her open palms.

  Nazir bent over Shabanu to peer into her hand. His breath was sour with the aftersmell of tobacco and whiskey, and floating over the stench was an overwhelming cloud of expensive perfume. He reached out and picked up the bangle in Shabanu’s right palm. A large diamond gleamed from a gold ring on his pudgy pinkie finger.

  Shabanu’s breath caught in the back of her throat, and Zabo shot her a searing look, but Nazir appeared not to have heard. Neither of the women moved.

  Nazir sidled over to the doorway and turned to look at the bangle in the unforgiving sunlight. Shabanu reached out for Zabo’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze, then she stood and walked to the doorway.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Shabanu asked him.

  “How many ounces are they?” he demanded.

  “I … I’m not sure,” said Zabo.

  “I sent you enough money that each one should weigh at least two ounces,” he said.

  “I don’t believe in buying heavy bangles,” said Zabo, standing to face her father with resolution. “I think it’s vulgar.”

  Shabanu sensed that Zabo, who never disobeyed or questioned her father, wanted to engage him in a discussion of the jewelry to distract him from testing it.

  Without warning, Nazir’s arm lashed out. The back of his hand caught Zabo full in the mouth, sending her flying backward onto the floor. The diamond ring had caught her lip, and a thin line of blood trickled down one side of her chin.

  Choti bucked and bolted from the room with a skittering of tiny hooves, and Mumtaz shrank back against the wall. Shabanu hurried to help Zabo to her feet. Mumtaz ran over and hid behind them.

  Nazir turned back to the sunlit doorway, ignoring them, and lifted the bangle to his teeth. Allah have mercy, please let that be a real one, Shabanu prayed to herself as she dabbed at Zabo’s now profusely bleeding lip with the end of her dupatta.

  They couldn’t see Nazir’s face, for his back was turned to them, and that moment seemed to last forever. The spot between Shabanu’s shoulder blades twitched wildly.

  Then Nazir turned.

  “At least it’s good twenty-four-karat gold,” he said. “You shouldn’t have more than eighteen-karat gold in a bangle. This will bend. Still, it’s better to err on the side of heavier gold, even though it’s softer.… ”

  He went around the room then, bending over to examine every article of clothing and every piece of jewelry that lay with it. He held each piece of jewelry up to the light and turned it to see the facets gleam. He touched the silks and embroideries tenderly, with the only affection Shabanu had ever seen him display.

  Zabo clung to Shabanu, but he seemed not to notice he’d hurt his daughter, or indeed even that the two women and Mumtaz were in the room.

  Shabanu thanked Allah each time Nazir put down a piece of jewelry. He tried to bite into every piece, but there was too little gold in each of the settings, and Shabanu thanked Allah doubly.

  Soon he wearied of criticizing—and sometimes praising—the stones, and left the pile of real and less-than-real gold bangles, chains, and pendants untouched on the bed.

  “Is this all?” he asked.

  “Nay,” said Zabo. “There are still things to come from Lahore.”

  “I want to see the rest when it arrives,” he said, and without another word he turned and waddled through the door, leaving it open behind him.

  Shabanu took a deep breath when he was gone. Mumtaz still had her face buried in Shabanu’s tunic.

  “It’s all right, pigeon,” she said to the child, prying her away and dropping to one knee to look into her face.

  “I don’t like Uncle Nazir,” Mumtaz said. “I don’t want to see him anymore.”

  “He gets angry easily,” Shabanu said. “You must stay out of his way.”

  Zabo still breathed unevenly.

  “It worked,” she said, smiling, then wincing. Her lip was swollen and bruised.

  “Yes,” said Shabanu. “But we’re lucky. There is little privacy now, with so many people coming and going. The times are strange, and we are just lucky your father picked up the right bangles. We must be more careful.”

  Shabanu called out into the stable yard for Zenat, who appeared immediately, her eyes cast down at her feet. She had heard Nazir, Shabanu thought.

  “Yes, Begum,” she said softly.

  “Please take Samiya and her children out to find Choti. Then it’s time for Mumtaz’s supper.”

  “Yes, Begum,” Zenat said.

  “And keep a close eye on Choti. Don’t let her out of your sight,” said Shabanu, fixing an eye on the old servant.

  Zenat nodded gravely and muttered softly to herself as she walked away.

  “Now it’s time to talk about our plan,” Shabanu said, turning to Zabo.

  chapter 17

  Rahim did not send for Shabanu that night. She went to bed with Mumtaz and fell asleep immediately, her eyelids like lead. In the banyan tree at the edge of the stable yard the peacocks wailed mournfully, as if their clamor would call in the monsoon.

  Sometime in the stillest part of the night Shabanu awoke, when the entire household was sleeping—even the animals, including the mosquitoes and flies—and the silence was palpable.

  She was certain she’d been awakened by a sound, but now she heard nothing. Then there was a faint tapping at the shutter near her bed. The strings of her charpoi groaned as she got up and reached for her shawl. She wrapped it about her shoulders and crossed quickly to the door, her bare feet silent on the earthen floor. She stuck her head through the doorway.

  “Who is it?” she asked in a whisper.

  A shadow pulled itself in against the wall, then moved toward her.

  “Who is it?” she asked again.

  “Did you think it was a fairy?” said a deep and throaty female voice, the voice of her Auntie Sharma.

  Shabanu ran to her and pulled her inside the room, closing the door behind her. She hugged her tightly. She smelled Sharma’s clean desert smell, and her small lurking fears fled like goblins.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come! How did you get inside the gate?” Shabanu said, her words tumbling over each other. “Where are yo
u staying? Did you come alone? Where is Fatima?”

  “Never mind,” said Sharma. “The fact is I am here, and none too soon.”

  Mumtaz and Choti awoke, and Mumtaz squealed, “Auntie! Auntie!” when she recognized Sharma’s voice, and Choti pranced on her delicate hooves.

  Sharma held the child on her lap, and soon she returned to sleep, her breathing even and quiet. They lay Mumtaz on her charpoi and moved over to the small sitting area at the end of the room.

  Shabanu didn’t want to take a chance on lighting her oil lamp, and so they talked in the dark. Shabanu asked first about her family. Sharma assured her they were all well.

  “And what has caused the change in wedding plans?” Sharma asked.

  “Nazir demanded it. And everyone is very nervous.”

  “And why should that be?”

  “There is much tension among Rahim and Mahsood and Nazir. No one knows what is in Nazir’s mind. And then other things …” She told her what Aab-pa had said about Mumtaz and Choti and about how the weather had made everyone tense.

  “The best time to take Zabo away is the time of Leyla’s wedding,” Sharma said. “There will be a great deal of activity. It should be easy for her to get away unseen then.”

  “But that’s two weeks at least! What if she conceives in the meantime?”

  Sharma laid a finger aside her nose. She reached into a belt she wore under her tunic, and withdrew a piece of vine just like the one she’d given Shabanu after Mumtaz’s birth.

  Shabanu tied it into a corner of her chadr.

  “Poor Zabo,” she groaned.

  “It’s the only way to be sure,” Sharma said. “She must be certain to use it, or she may be sorry the rest of her life.”

  Then they talked of the details of how Zabo would come to Sharma. When they were satisfied, Sharma hugged Shabanu to her.

  “There is much danger in the air,” she said. “I hope you are being careful. And wise.”

  “I’m trying,” said Shabanu. “But it’s difficult. Amina is always watching for a chance to do some mischief. And Rahim will not talk to me.”

  “You can only do your best and trust in Allah to attend to the rest.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to help Zabo, Auntie,” Shabanu said. “I thank Allah for you and ask His blessings on you a thousand times.”

  Sharma waved away her thanks.

  “It’s just that it puts you in as much danger as we are in,” Shabanu said. “It’s one thing to face danger because it’s thrust upon you, but to choose it for another is very brave.”

  “You mustn’t worry,” Sharma said. “If everyone is calm and does as agreed, we cannot fail.”

  “God willing,” said Shabanu. “We will be ready.”

  Sharma left as silently as she’d come, making herself as still and dark as the stable yard shadows. When she was gone, Shabanu lay awake on the charpoi. In her sleep Mumtaz sensed that Shabanu was near, and the child curled herself into the curve of her mother’s waist.

  Shabanu had perfect confidence in their plan. She felt no fear. In the face of all that had been forced on her and all that had been forced on Zabo, what they risked—death—did not seem so unattractive.

  It was the first night in many weeks that Omar did not steal into Shabanu’s waking thoughts or dreams.

  The muezzin climbed into the minaret and began the long low wail that signaled the call of the faithful to prayer before the sun rose.

  “Allah-o-Akbar!” he chanted in his beautiful thin voice. “Allah-o-Akbar!” But Shabanu was asleep by the second call.

  Selma and Samiya busied themselves with a thousand tasks: supervising the removal of the modest furniture Zabo had selected to the rooms she and Ahmed would occupy at Okurabad; seeing that the darzis who made the drapes had tea; making sure that the relatives’ children were fed and that the kitchen had plenty of food; finding more pots and kettles for the wedding preparations and more servants to help with the extra work load.

  And there were dozens of children. Samiya’s son and daughter played with Mumtaz. They stayed with her, loyal despite Shabanu’s insistence that Mumtaz stay within her sight. The boys played cricket in the empty space between the garden wall and the canal.

  The girls watched with reverence as the final preparations were made, and helped with tea and fittings, then slipped away to try out their aunties’ eye makeup and rouges on one another.

  Shabanu followed the hakkim’s advice meticulously. In the morning she mixed the powder into her tea and Mumtaz’s, and she measured out the crystals for the evening. She was with Mumtaz every moment, and the child loved the attention.

  They took long walks on the towpath with Choti, who followed obediently, as if she sensed there was danger. The deer kept her head high and her eyes watchful. Mumtaz grew impatient because Choti wasn’t interested in their usual game of running together along the path and jumping over logs and rocks.

  Mumtaz climbed trees and made houses of mud on the canal bank. She and Shabanu stopped to watch boys wash the dust from their water buffalo in the canal. The buffalo lolled appreciatively, only their big gentle eyes and round nostrils protruding from the surface of the water. Their black skin shimmered like oil when the dust was gone.

  At midmorning Zenat pulled the shutters against the searing white light, but the air was as hot inside as it was out.

  In the afternoons the wind picked up, hurling eddies of dust against the mud-brick walls of the buildings. This was the beginning of the daily premonsoon windstorms. Afterward every quilt, every item of clothing on the shelves, every bolster and cushion billowed with dust.

  The men hunted deer in the desert. They returned at sunset, their jeeps loaded with the tiny deer of Cholistan. The servants hung them upside down by the rear legs out behind the kitchen to skin them. In the evening clansmen came from all over the desert area to eat venison curry in the dining room.

  Later Rahim, Omar, Nazir, and Mahsood were occupied with village elders, politicians, and others who came to offer and seek advice and to extend congratulations.

  But if Selma was any indication, there was no reason to think the tensions between Nazir and Rahim had eased. She paced about the house and garden sighing and speaking sharply to her nieces and sisters-in-law and cousins and friends and friends of friends. They were used to Selma’s being that way, and made extra space for her as she swept through the rooms of the women’s quarters. Otherwise they paid her little attention. But Selma was gentle and kind with Zabo.

  Rumors flew about the compound like a plague of locusts. They even reached Shabanu’s sanctuary behind the stable, where idle gossip was not only unwelcome, but where it seldom seemed to find its way. The first important rumor came by way of Zenat, who avoided gossip as she had avoided bees since the day of Khansama’s trick.

  “It’s said that the astrologer is troubled because the stars of the bride and groom are not compatible,” she whispered, pressing her dry lips up close against Shabanu’s ear. “It is said that he is unable to choose an auspicious time for Ahmed-sahib’s wedding. It is said that the stars portend evil!” Zenat said the latter with a shiver of fear.

  Shabanu pulled back to look at the old ayah. There was no malice in her eyes, and Shabanu could see she really was afraid.

  The day before Zabo was to be married she was spirited away to the main house, where the women insisted she must stay until the wedding. She went bravely, spine straight and eyes dry, as if there were no tears left in her.

  Shabanu knew better: Zabo drew strength from the bundles of money that Shabanu had hidden in the bottom of the milk jar in the summer pavilion high atop the haveli in Lahore, and from the plan Shabanu had forged with her Auntie Sharma months ago behind a dune in the Cholistan Desert.

  Shabanu wanted to be with Zabo, and so she had to go to the main house, where so many cousins and aunts and friends had crowded into each bedroom and guest room that there was no room to sit, no privacy to talk. Fans turned lazily overhead, but the s
mells of perfume and so many bodies were dizzying in the heat.

  The noise and activity drew Shabanu outside of herself, and she began to feel that her feet had reasserted themselves beneath her, and that she was part of the world after all.

  Leyla was nowhere to be seen. Was she nursing resentment at the attention being lavished on Zabo these two days, when her own wedding was only two weeks away?

  Do not relax your vigilance, Shabanu told herself. And that also helped to keep her from thinking of Omar. When she did, what she thought of was how like Rahim he’d become, how committed to duty and the family, how unconcerned he’d been for the life of the beldar’s small son.

  Whenever she was about to relax, the crimson flash of lips and fingernails jolted her out of her complacency, and she was grateful for the suspicion that lurked within her.

  When Shabanu went to help Zabo organize her clothing for the wedding, an ominous feeling seemed to have settled like a fog over the courtyard and the house. The sun was blistering, though it was not fully up in the sky, and the light was so white it almost seemed there was a mist in the air.

  The birds on the veranda blinked from between the bars of their bamboo cages, but were silent. Even the peacocks had stopped summoning the rain from their perches in the banyan trees. The leaves rustled as they shifted their weight from foot to foot, and the branches swished as they jumped from one to another. But their familiar wails were eerily absent.

  Shabanu and Zabo had no privacy to talk. Dozens of cousins pressed near, talking about the mahendi that afternoon. Zabo squeezed her hands together and smiled.

  Afterward, after the dust storm had subsided, Shabanu and Mumtaz went out to walk beside the canal. Choti refused to graze. She held her head high and her ears forward, watchful and alert to danger.

  The canal was a muddy brown. Usually it flowed swift and clear through the meadows of Okurabad. This day it seemed so sluggish as to be standing still, except for little whorls and backwashes that sucked around the banks.