The Pakistani Bride

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  In a sudden surge of hope Zaitoon thought it must be the river she heard. Her mind became sharp and decisive. She knew she must leave the dangerous vicinity of the village before it stirred. Keeping the river in view, she would be able to steer her path to the bridge. “Careful now, careful,” she cautioned herself, trying to contain her impatience, afraid of the slightest miscalculation or risk.

  The hum increased while she moved. Her heart racing with anticipation, she at last scrambled over slabs of dark, rough granite, where the glimmer of dawn lit a sky-blue stretch of wet satin trembling against white banks. Her face crumpled in gratitude. She wanted to sink into the soft white sand and dip her face in the water.

  She rushed down, not caring how, and flung herself on the beach. Rolling over and over, she reached the brink of the river. She drank the water and splashed herself until she felt numb with cold. There she lay, growing warm in the dry sand. Unexpectedly, something touched her—tickling the bare sole of her foot. Her spine arched back convulsively and she retracted her legs.

  In a line beyond her feet, his arm stretched out, a man lay face down, his thick, yellowish fingers curling where her feet had just displaced the sand. She could not see his face, only a matted blur of brownish hair and the ragged length of his body. At right angles to him, supporting his head on his hand, sprawled another tribal. He had a hard, exceptionally pointed chin, and a hooked nose that almost dipped into his mouth. His hooded eyes moved down her body.

  Zaitoon knew that a moment ago she had been alone. It was as if the men had risen from some foul depths in the sand.

  An arm lunged at her ankles, and she recoiled. Close to her threatened the narrow, rapacious face of her tormentor and the cracked, grimy nails that quivered like talons. Zaitoon sidled backwards. The man casually turned on his side. She hugged her shoulders trying to conceal her trembling.

  Cold, speculative eyes measured her wet body. They took in the outline of her ribs, the panting swell of her damp shirt, and the mud in her hair and on her small, terrified face.

  Zaitoon knew the madness of the still eyes. She stood up hesitantly and started to walk away.

  “O, ay, where are you off to?”

  She hurried her pace.

  “Wide-eyed little gazelle, we love you. Won’t you favor us?”

  The crude, smug voice was close, and she whirled to face him. The man had touched her. The other, still sprawled on the sand, looked on coolly.

  “Come, let me thaw your cold little heart.”

  Zaitoon’s desperate eyes held his in horrified reproof. He moved, and despite her terror Zaitoon thought he seemed to be enjoying the chase, like a villager cornering a flustered hen. She ran.

  Next, she breathed the stench of his clothes, the sickening, bovine smell of his unwashed body. He overpowered her. She was down.

  “You can’t escape us, my dove.” The man’s husky breath sank into her ears. She flailed at him. He caught her wrists, and it seemed her arms would snap. “How thin I’ve grown,” she thought. She saw the other man get up slowly and walk towards them.

  Chapter 26

  The dank, thick-walled room, with its single pigeonhole skylight, was quiet. Misri Khan lay on a stringy mat alongside a wall. He stroked his beard and from time to time he sighed aloud, muttering a winded string of words: “Allaahhh, help us . . .”

  Sakhi sat cross-legged, cramming his mouth with baked maize and drinking voracious gulps of water from an earthen bowl. He held out his hand. Lifting a roti from the fire pit Hamida handed him the bread.

  She crouched and, touching her cheek to the floor, blew into the fire. She sucked the air in with wide-mouthed “Aaahs” and blew until the wood blazed and crackled. Breaking a rubbery chunk from a tray full of maize dough, she slapped it between her deft fingers until it took the shape of a huge pancake; then she tossed the roti on the fire. She glanced nervously at Sakhi. His eyes were red with sleeplessness. The change in him touched her: there was a grim maturity in the contours of his face, and in the deliberate movement of his limbs. She wanted to stroke his hair, fuss over him, and counsel and console him, but she dared not. Everything about her irritated him: her withered, crooked body, her thin, cracked voice; and especially her timid, defensive insistence on mothering him. A few days back she had ventured, “Son, you must leave some things to Allah . . . you can’t be everywhere all the time . . . If you don’t eat and sleep properly you’ll sicken.”

  “You’ll sicken,” he mimicked brutally, “and who’ll hunt your bitch of a daughter-in-law while I sleep . . . you?”

  “The entire tribe’s with you—you know she can’t get away . . .” Hamida seldom provoked the menfolk but that day she felt she must have her say. “You shouldn’t have beaten her like that, son. You knew she was different . . . you frightened her. She’d have come round to our ways in time . . .”

  Sakhi had glowered murderously. He would have struck her but Misri Khan restrained him. The men had not spoken to her since. She gossiped with sympathetic clanswomen, but once the men returned, she contented herself with the grunts and moans accompanying her chores. Now she had no more sympathy for the girl. She only prayed for the end of the hunt and for her mournful household to return to normal.

  The hunt was organized in shifts. Clansmen scoured the hills nearby and went deep into the mountains, searching meticulously. There was no sign of the girl. The village was tense and the women talked of nothing else. Magic and witchcraft colored their speculations. She was from the plains. Who could tell what knowledge such women possessed? What dark forces befriended the girl? Anyway, this would teach the menfolk a lesson.

  Young girls, barely in their teens, gave Sakhi covetous, sympathetic looks. He could have married any one of them.

  The room was gray with smoke and the open doorway framing the bright air gave it a supernatural brilliance. Hamida hobbled out, an arm on her aching hip. She returned, groaning beneath a burden of firewood. Sakhi turned to scowl at her, and she subsided quietly at Misri Khan’s feet.

  The room darkened with Yunus blocking the doorframe. Adjusting his sight he sauntered in and squatted across the fire from Sakhi.

  “What’s up?” Sakhi demanded. “Finish your meal.”

  Removing a half-chewed morsel from his mouth, Sakhi placed it resolutely on the remaining scrap of roti.

  “I’ve finished,” he said quietly, challenging his brother to say what was on his mind.

  “Munawar Khan is here. He thinks two men from Cheerkhil saw the girl this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “At Cheerkhil.”

  Sakhi sprang to his feet. “So. She is alive! She did find her way through the mountains!” His strained voice cracked with bitterness.

  They stared at each other. Yunus Khan was still squatting. “You’d better be off,” he said quietly to Sakhi.

  Snatching his gun and cartridge belt from the floor, Sakhi started.

  “Wait!”

  Sakhi turned impatiently.

  “Change your shirt,” said Misri Khan.

  “She might be at the bridge already . . .”

  “It will take you too long on foot. We’ll ride from Pattan. I’m coming with you.”

  Misri Khan was already stripped. Hamida fluttered, unwinding his bedding-roll and the old man snatched his clothes from the bundle even before it fell open. Sakhi tore the filthy shirt from his body, and Hamida held out a new slate-gray militia shirt.

  Flanked by his two sons, Misri Khan strode across the bridge to Pattan.

  Chapter 27

  Carol’s anger at the Major had dissolved. She was honest enough to admit to herself that her demand had been absurd. Marriage would have created grotesque complications for them both. And, strangely enough, she discovered she did not loathe Farukh any more.

  Carol made a decision she had not even known she was debating. She would not go back to the States. What, after all, did she have to go back to? Another store? More school—or something equally dreary? Her f
amily would welcome her for a month or two; but then she would have to make a life for herself. Pam or someone like her would make room for her in the same barely furnished third floor walk-up, or another like it. And then she would begin all over again—doing things she had found so meaningless before. She would hate to go back to standing behind a cosmetics counter!

  Besides she had too much pride to admit failure—particularly after her defiant insistence on marrying Farukh. Her life in Pakistan was rich: it was exciting, and even glamorous. She had taken it too much for granted, and the crisis in her relationship with Farukh made her realize just how much she would miss it all. She had, after all, put some effort into her marriage. She had adjusted to the climate, the country, the differences in culture and the people—and had come to love them. It would be a shame to throw it all away.

  One of the pleasant surprises of her marriage to Farukh was her very special status. As an American married to a Pakistani she was allowed much more freedom than a Pakistani wife. She could say things and get away with behavior and dress that would have been shocking in a Pakistani—and even in an American. Cut loose from the constraints of her own culture, she did not feel restricted by the new. She had become used to moving, thinking, and speaking with an increasing sense of freedom. Her inherent impulsiveness had burgeoned correspondingly . . . She had not understood the strange contradictions and forces in her new life—and often they tore her apart—but she felt she had come a long way to understanding . . . She was up against Farukh’s jealousy of course. She suddenly thought his spate of words and posturings were not as restricting as they appeared. She knew she could handle him with a few adjustments in her thinking and behavior.

  Yes, she must make it up to Farukh. She might even stop taking the birth control pills she’d used so faithfully and secretively, an almost subconscious result of her reservations about this country and her marriage. Once they had children, his jealousy might subside . . . maybe, that’s what she needed, children. They would anchor her . . . control the dangerous restlessness within her . . .

  Carol’s behavior towards the Major had become more formal after their quarrel.

  Sakhi and Misri Khan hovered impatiently in front of the Mess Hall. They had been in Dubair an hour. Yunus Khan had been posted by them to watch the bridge. The Major, Sakhi and Misri Khan were told, was out inspecting the road. He was expected back at any moment.

  On their arrival at Dubair they had rushed straight to the bridge. The guard on duty had brusquely assured them that he had not seen a single woman all day. They had searched the chaotic rubble of rock and hills across the river, and now they were looking for the Major. Sakhi and Misri Khan ran in the dusty trail of the jeep when it rattled over the drive. It stopped at the side entrance to the Mess. Mushtaq was at the wheel.

  They accosted him before he could climb down, crowding him in a clamor of salaams and questions. Mushtaq sat back.

  “You’re here again, are you?” he said wearily. “Haven’t you found the girl yet?”

  Misri Khan pushed forward aggressively. “No, sir. But we have news . . .”

  Mushtaq glanced at the youth standing arrogantly by the older man. Taken aback by Sakhi’s contempt he steadily returned his baleful stare.

  Misri Khan touched the Major’s chin impatiently with his rough forefinger to turn Mushtaq’s attention back towards himself.

  “He’s my son, sir, the girl’s husband. As I was saying, we have news, sir. She has been seen a few miles from here this morning . . .”

  “Good afternoon, Major.”

  The men turned their heads at the interruption. Carol stood framed in a window behind them.

  “Good afternoon,” Mushtaq smiled and waved. “Where’s Farukh?”

  Misri Khan and Sakhi stepped aside.

  “Taking a bath,” she said coldly with a toss of her hair, refusing to meet the Major’s eye.

  She noticed the splendor of Misri Khan’s array of ammunition. “Aren’t you going to introduce them?” Her glance slid to meet Sakhi’s insolent appraisal. She blushed.

  “He’s the girl’s husband,” Mushtaq said shortly.

  “They’re both gorgeous.”

  Mushtaq was furious. “Get in and close the window,” he commanded icily. “I’ll join you and Farukh in a little while.”

  Carol shut the window wondering why Mushtaq was angry. Instantly Misri Khan resumed crowding Mushtaq with importunate demands for action, assistance, and assurance.

  “Just what do you want?” Mushtaq exploded. “I’ve told you again and again the men on duty will report to me. They know the situation.”

  “But we don’t trust them,” Misri Khan insisted.

  “Then stand guard yourselves.”

  “Of course!” Sakhi spat contemptuously.

  Mushtaq fixed his eyes sternly on Misri Khan. He stepped menacingly close, pointedly ignoring Sakhi. “Look, I want no butchering here. No butchering . . . understand?”

  “It’s up to her husband . . .”

  Mushtaq grasped him firmly by the shirtfront. Misri Khan was a bit shorter.

  “Old man, there will be no killing in my territory.”

  “No, sir,” Misri Khan capitulated craftily. “My son only wishes to claim his wife and take her back to our village.”

  “I don’t care a damn what he wishes or what he does so long as there’s no killing here.” He let go of the shirt. “God be with you,” he saluted curtly and marched inside.

  Carol watched the men from behind the curtain. A soft half-smile lit her face. She remembered Sakhi’s challenging, arrogant eyes stab at the Major and defiantly revert to her. Her fantasy—set off by his startling handsomeness, his intense animalism, and her fascination with tribal lore and romantic savagery—took wing. Suppose she had been in place of that girl, she dreamed . . .

  . . . He would think her so special . . . For his sake she would win over all the men and women and children of his village. In the remote reaches of his magnificent mountains, she would enlighten a clan of handsome savages and cavemen. She would be their wise, beloved goddess ministering Aspro and diarrhea pills. She would learn how to give injections. She’d collect boxes of antibiotics, and work sophisticated miracles. She’d flit about scrubbing, tidying up, and by her own example imbue the tribe with cleanliness. She would champion their causes and focus the benign glare of American academia upon these beautiful people, so pitifully concealed from the world by a fold in the earth. For a delightful moment she saw herself a gracious, tenderhearted, brave, blonde Margaret Mead, biographied and fictionalized into immortality . . .

  Farukh stepped out from the bathroom, a towel around his lean waist.

  “The Major back yet?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Carol indifferently.

  After lunch Farukh retired for a nap and Mushtaq joined Carol on the lawn.

  The moment they settled in their chairs, he confronted her: “You’re unbelievable—acting up to that murderous scoundrel!”

  “Oh? You mean the girl’s husband? He’s unbelievable too,” retorted Carol, stung to the quick by the sudden attack.

  “You know how their minds work. He’ll spread it all over, I’m keeping a tart! It’s tough enough controlling these bastards without your making me appear ridiculous.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything . . . I just asked you to introduce them.”

  “You really are something, aren’t you? Don’t you know by now that women don’t ask for introductions to such men?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be jealous, now would you?”

  “Jealous, my arse!”

  “He’s about the handsomest creature I’ve ever set eyes on,” Carol mocked him defiantly. “His wife’s one lucky girl!”

  Mushtaq looked at her intently. “Oh, surely you’ve heard the news? The girl’s run away. The whole bloody clan’s out hunting her. I only hope her luck holds!”

  “Hunting her? What will they do wh
en they find her?”

  “Beat her up. Probably kill her . . . She’s hiding in the mountains—she could be trying to reach us. She’s been on the run nine days. Imagine! Nine days in that tractless waste! I can’t believe she’s alive . . . they say she is!”

  “How do they know?”

  “A couple of bastards from Cheerkhil raped her. News spreads. She’s not very far.”

  “Oh God!”

  Carol had a sudden sinking realization of the girl’s plight. She remembered the curious communion between them; and her large, sensitive eyes. She now felt they had revealed more than just the hopeless drift of her life; they had communicated faith and a dauntless courage. Through an awesome act of will the girl had chosen to deflect the direction of her life. Carol felt a compulsion to help her, even at risk to herself.

  “Can’t you do something?” she demanded.

  “Very little. Unless she manages to get across. The husband won’t dare kill her in the camp. Don’t worry, she’ll probably be okay. If not, too bad. It happens all the time.”

  “What do you mean, ‘happens all the time’?”

  “Oh, women get killed for one reason or other . . . imagined insults, family honor, infidelity . . .”

  “Imagined infidelity?”

  “Mostly.”

  “What’s the matter with the men here? Why are they so insanely jealous?”

  “Jealousy, my dear, is not a monopoly—it’s pretty universal.”

  “Chopping off women’s noses because of suspected infidelity isn’t universal!”

  “That’s in the Punjab. Here they kill the girl. They’d kill her there too . . .”

  Carol looked away. “Do you think Farukh would kill me?”

  “Who knows? I might, if you were my wife.”

  She looked at him sharply. He was leaning forward, his eyes twinkling.

  Suddenly a great deal became clear to her. “So that’s all I mean to you,” she said. “That’s really what’s behind all the gallant and protective behavior I’ve loved so much here, isn’t it? I felt very special, and all the time I didn’t matter to you any more than that girl does as an individual to those tribals, not any more than a bitch in heat. You make me sick. All of you.”