The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

  The silver-haired Fazal had the carriage of a viceroy. Having once served briefly in C. P. Khan’s household, he had never recovered from the distinction. On his arrival in the Azeem household, he had tried to establish his superiority over the other servants by dint of his travels and undoubted sophistication. But he had received short shrift from Barkat and Rehmat. Fazal had, in the end, contented himself with splicing his conversations with the odd sarky one-liner. With his masters, however, he was all quiet efficiency and discreet coughs.

  ‘How did you know I’d be back early?’ asked Tariq, dismounting and handing the reins to the bearer.

  ‘I had a feeling, Sahib,’ replied Fazal with a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘Is the groom here to collect the horse?’

  ‘No, Sahib. I’ll ask Amanat to walk it back. Can I help with your boots?’

  Tariq eyed the bearer’s pristine uniform and then his muddy boots. ‘I’ll manage. Are Bibi and Laila at breakfast yet?’

  ‘No, Sahib, not yet. But the breakfast table is laid.’

  ‘Good. Wait ten minutes till I shower, and then get my eggs ready. I want to make an early start at the factory.’

  At four-thirty that afternoon, an elderly green Austin drove up to the house. A uniformed driver jumped out and held the back door open. A pink-stockinged leg ending in a plump foot wedged into a golden-buckled court shoe swung out of the car door. The Austin rocked as Hester gripped the open door and hoisted her bulk out. She straightened her navy-blue crimplene dress over her dimpled knees, grasped her alligator handbag by its strap and lumbered towards the house. Fazal showed her into the sitting room and hurried off to fetch Fareeda.

  Fareeda had spent most of the day at the garment factory, trawling, under Tariq’s critical gaze, through the project report she had drafted with Mr Jacob. The donors in Lahore had written back with minute, tiresome queries, and Tariq had sent for her to provide clarification. He had been curt with her when she had not been able to supply the answers immediately. He’d clicked his tongue and tapped his foot and looked heavenward as she leafed through the pages slowly and frowned over the questions. She’d been tempted, then, to fling the papers at him and tell him to do it himself. But Jacob’s embarrassed presence had inhibited her.

  Fareeda had returned to the house seething. She had just drawn the curtains and stretched out on her bed for a rest when there was a light tap on her bedroom door, punctuated by a discreet cough. She was not pleased when Fazal informed her of Hester’s presence in the sitting room. Yet few could have guessed that from her effusive welcome minutes later.

  ‘Ah, Hester,’ she gushed, entering the drawing room with arms outstretched. ‘What a wonderful surprise.’ Having planted a kiss on Hester’s bristly cheek, Fareeda sat down.

  ‘Sorry to barge in without warning,’ said Hester. ‘But I had a favour to ask.’

  ‘Anything at all. But first tell me whether you’d like coffee or tea so I can tell Fazal.’

  ‘A cuppa cha would do nicely. I wondered whether you could send over your electrician chappie to my house for a quick dekko? Awful nuisance, but the lights in my house aren’t working. Some problem with my transformer, I’m told. Our bijli wallah’s a bit of a nincompoop and couldn’t sort it out. So thought I’d ask you, since your house is always bright as a lighthouse.’

  Fareeda laughed away the compliment and promised to send her electrician over the next day.

  ‘I’m leaving for Lahore now,’ said Hester. ‘But Hayat’s around. Can I get you anything from Lahore?’

  ‘Some vitamin C tablets for Laila, if it’s not too much trouble. She likes the ones that fizz in water. I’ve run out.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll pop into Johnson’s. Won’t take two ticks. Ah, tea. And chicken patties with tomato chutney. What a treat.’ Hester helped herself to one. ‘What’s your news here at the farm?’

  ‘All well. Tariq’s quite close to getting the funds for his project. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. And how are your nuns doing?’

  ‘Hardly my nuns,’ Fareeda grimaced. ‘Fine, I suppose. Why do you ask?’

  ‘On my way here I saw a couple of them going towards the bazaar in a tonga. Waved rather cheerily. Wonder if they’d wave half as cheerily if they knew I was a lapsed Christian?’

  Fareeda snorted. ‘I was visited by one of them last week. I didn’t quite grasp what she wanted. There was some nonsense about treating girls at that clinic of theirs.’

  ‘Do you think our pious, God-fearing sisters perform abortions?’ Hester asked.

  ‘I sincerely hope not. There are enough murdering midwives around for that! Why do these village women still insist on going to them and those ghastly midwives when they can come to me and I would send them to a good doctor at a decent hospital? Why?’

  ‘Habit,’ pronounced Hester. ‘One can’t change people overnight with a wave of a wand, much as one would like to. Talking of change, what did you think of our new colonel?’

  ‘I thought he was a bit bumptious,’ Fareeda sniffed. ‘Who’s he to tell us what we ought or ought not to be doing for our villagers? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous for an outsider?’

  ‘An outsider,’ echoed Hester softly, gazing into her tea cup. ‘I wonder if the good folk of Bridgebad still think of me as an outsider?’

  ‘Oh, but, Hester, you’ve spent an entire lifetime here.’

  ‘Is that enough?’ reflected Hester. Then, in a bright voice, she said: ‘Oh, look who’s here.’

  Fareeda turned to see Laila leaning against the door jamb. ‘Come in, darling,’ Fareeda beckoned to her. ‘Come and say hello to Mrs Bullock.’

  ‘Hello.’ Laila sidled up to her mother.

  ‘How’s our little patient? Recovered from her fever?’ Hester snapped open her handbag and pulled out an object wrapped loosely in a linen handkerchief. ‘I almost forgot, tiddlywink. I brought you something.’

  Laila craned her neck for a closer look. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Laila!’ Fareeda’s tone was sharp. ‘What’s come over you? Say thank you first.’

  ‘But I haven’t even seen it, yet,’ Laila protested. ‘What if I don’t like it?’

  ‘How many times have I told you, it’s the thought that counts?’ Fareeda shook her head.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ Hester said briskly. ‘Thoughts don’t matter. The road to hell being paved with good intentions and all that. Actions – or in this case – presents matter. You’re quite right to have a look first. Here, open it yourself, but careful, it’s quite fragile.’

  Probing through the handkerchief, Laila could tell that the thing inside was smooth and knobbly at the same time. It also felt cool, like stone, but lighter. She unfolded the hanky and saw a carved mustard-coloured horse no bigger than her palm. Its nostrils were flared, its neck taut. The tail streamed out behind it as if it was galloping away from a hungry lion. Laila ran her fingers over the delicate legs, the finely carved sinews straining in immobile flight. Cradling the horse in her palm, Laila murmured, ‘It looks like it’s carved out of honey.’

  ‘It’s amber,’ Hester told her. ‘My father gave it to me when I was your age. I’d just won my first show-jumping contest.’

  ‘Hester, it’s too much,’ Fareeda protested.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Bullock,’ said Laila. She got her thanks in quickly, before Fareeda could ask her to return the present.

  ‘Entirely my pleasure, my dear,’ said Hester. ‘I hope you’ll get as much joy from it as I have.’

  ‘I still think it’s excessive,’ Fareeda objected.

  ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense. I’m happy and Laila’s happy. So what’s the fuss about, eh?’ Hester placed her hands on either side of her thighs and hauled herself out of the depths of the sofa. She pulled her dress out from between the cheeks of her bottom. ‘Righty-ho, I must be off. Thanks awfully for the tea. Do remember to send the electrician, and I won’t forget the vitamins.’

&nb
sp; ‘Of course.’ Fareeda followed Hester out into the entrance hall. Fazal held open the door with the impassivity of an Easter Island monolith. Both women stepped out into the portico.

  It was late afternoon. Sunlight filtered through a row of cypress trees and lay in broad tiger-stripes across the front lawn. The village milkman was clanking down the driveway on a bicycle that needed oiling. A pair of kites wheeled and turned in a cloudless sky. Hester heard the birds’ thin, mournful cry and shivered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Fareeda. ‘Can I get you a shawl?’

  ‘Just someone walking over my grave.’ Hester patted Fareeda’s arm. ‘Cheerio.’

  The driver slammed the door shut, and Hester waved a handkerchief out of the window. Fareeda watched the car disappear around the bend in the driveway. As she stood there, an arm crept around her waist. Fareeda smiled and pulled Laila into her side.

  ‘What did Mrs Bullock mean when she said someone was walking over her grave?’ Laila asked.

  ‘It’s an expression which means you’re feeling uneasy. Anxious.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Usually people say it when they feel something nasty is going to happen but don’t know what.’

  ‘Is something nasty going to happen?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Fareeda squeezed Laila’s shoulder. ‘Why should it?’

  10

  The wind rushed in through the car’s open window and lashed Laila’s hair against her cheek. Pushing it back, Laila turned in the front seat to look at her ayah. Bua lay in the back, a length of cloth, part bandanna, part bandage, wound tightly around her forehead. Her eyes were shut, but from time to time she moaned.

  ‘Oh, Holy Mother, please take pity on this orphan, this widow. Take her wretched headache away. Still these hammers pounding her poor skull. What have I done to deserve this, hain, Mother?’

  ‘Bua, you orphan, you widow, wind your window down and get some fresh air.’ Barkat took his eyes off the road briefly to address her reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘It will blow the pain away.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she groaned. ‘It will whip my head off my neck. Leave me to my misfortune. Ooh, Mother, hear me.’

  Bua’s headaches were a regular occurrence, and Laila was accustomed to their bizarre manifestations. Bua described a pain that leapt up from her shoulders and entered through her ears, raced all around her head, galloping from one ear to the other, from the back of her throat to the crown of her head, like the devil riding a maddened bull. The headache usually came after a reprimand from Fareeda or an altercation with another servant. It stayed till Bua had broadcast her suffering and received some mollifying overtures from the other party. This particular headache had come upon her after lunch, following an argument with Fazal, and looked set to stay at least till dinner. Hence, when Laila had asked Fareeda if she could visit her grandmother in Kalanpur, Fareeda had taken one look at Bua’s martyred face and told Laila to take her ayah with her.

  As they drove towards Kalanpur, Barkat looked sideways at Laila and grinned. ‘So, Lailu, who in Kalanpur are you going to see? Your grandmother or Rani?’

  ‘Both,’ Laila replied primly, and turned to look out of the window. She was acutely aware of her grandmother’s dislike of competition. And that, too, from a servant.

  They were on the narrow metalled road that ran from Sabzbagh to the bustling town of Hisar in the next district, thirty miles away. Except for a huddle of huts midway, the five miles of road between Kalanpur and Sabzbagh were mostly bordered by cane and wheat fields dotted with the occasional brick kiln. As they passed the huts, children and dogs rushed out and gave chase to the car, screaming and barking with delight.

  ‘May the devil take them,’ muttered Barkat. ‘Haven’t they seen a car before?’

  A group of straight-backed women balancing brass water pots on their heads turned in slow motion to stare at the passing vehicle. Further down the road, Laila saw two buffaloes lower themselves into a pool of stagnant water. They seemed unperturbed by its thick skin of green slime. Barkat swerved to avoid a dead dog lying in the middle of the road. It lay on its side, its belly unzipped. A cloud of crows pecked at its bloody entrails. They rose cawing in the air as the car bore down on them.

  Barkat switched on the radio. A high-pitched whine, backed by wailing violins alternated with crackling static.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Barkat corrected Laila. ‘That’s the Queen of Melody, Madame Noor Jehan. Wah! What a voice she has. Sweeter than a garden full of bulbuls. No, Bua?’

  Bua grunted.

  ‘Allah has given her a special gift, Lailu. God has blessed her with the unique ability to rouse men’s honour, so that they are ready to shed their blood at the sound of her voice. When she sings about our homeland, even old men stagger to their feet to do jehad. There is something in her voice that turns men into lions. Haven’t you heard her song “My Darling Soldier Boy”?’

  Laila shook her head.

  ‘What about “My Country’s Handsome Braves”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Uff, even now, when I hear that song, the hairs on my arms stand up to salute her. See.’ Barkat pushed his sinewy arm under Laila’s nose. ‘She recorded that song during the ’65 war. You were a baby then, too small to remember. She came into the radio station, removed her shoes – she always does that before singing, because she says singing is like praying for her …’

  ‘Like taking off your shoes outside a mosque?’

  ‘Exactly. She removed her shoes, told the recording people to get ready – “What are you looking at? Tune up, ji,” she said. Then she poured out the song straight from her liver, right to the end, without stopping even once to draw breath. When she finished, all the studio wallahs’ faces were wet with tears. As long as we have Allah and Madame Noor Jehan on our side, we cannot lose. May Allah give her eternal life. Amen.’

  When they arrived at Sardar Begum’s haveli, the courtyard was deserted. The daybed was under the neem tree but, though the cushions were in place and the Urdu newspapers she favoured were folded into a neat pile, there was no sign of Sardar Begum. Bua and Laila were debating whether to look for Kaneez in the kitchen or to brave Sardar Begum’s bedroom, when Kaneez shuffled out from the veranda.

  ‘Salaam, Kaneez,’ said Laila. ‘Where’s my grandmother?’

  ‘Asleep,’ said Kaneez, brushing Laila’s cheek with her wrinkled, callused hand. ‘You look so much like your father when he was your age.’

  ‘If Dadi’s asleep, I’ll go and see Rani,’ said Laila.

  ‘She’s at home. Bua, come to the kitchen, I’ll give you some tea.’ Kaneez nodded at Bua’s bandanna. ‘Make your headache better.’

  Tempted, Bua asked Laila, ‘You’ll be all right?’ But Laila was already out of the door.

  ‘Come. No need to worry. You know Rani will take care of her.’

  Sardar Begum’s kitchen had a nodding acquaintance with the twentieth century, thanks to the single tube-light on the ceiling. The cooking was done on a wood-fired hearth, which had left traces of its smoky breath on the whitewashed chimneybreast. Sardar Begum’s haveli did have a fridge but, because she feared that Nazeer would pilfer cream off the milk, she kept it in her bedroom. Water was brought into the kitchen from a hand pump outside, and drinking water was stored in three round-bottomed earthenware pots balanced on a wooden stand. Since Sardar Begum seldom lingered in the kitchen, she had not equipped it with any chairs or benches. The servants were expected to squat on the rush mats placed on the floor.

  Bua squatted on one of them while Kaneez boiled the water.

  ‘How have you been, Kaneez?’

  ‘As well as can be expected at my age. Would you like some cardamom in your tea? It will do you good.’

  ‘If your mistress doesn’t begrudge it,’ sniffed Bua.

  ‘Oh, she’s not as bad as all that. She has a kind heart and gives quite freely. What she can’t bear is for people to help themselves.
But she won’t mind me giving you two pods of cardamom.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Bua asked in a casual tone, ‘How is Rani?’ She had not seen the girl when she had visited recently with Sardar Begum. Bua had been at the church that Sunday and had missed Sardar Begum’s visit.

  ‘Rani’s better. She was quite sick before.’ Kaneez handed the tea to Bua. ‘Must have caught something at school.’

  Bua dipped her head and took a sip of tea. ‘And Fatima? What news of her?’ asked Bua.

  ‘None. I get to hear from her little and see her even less.’

  ‘Because Mashooq won’t let her visit?’

  Kaneez sat down beside Bua. After a long silence, she said, ‘Tell me, Bua, why is it that Allah punishes the same people over and over again, even if they are blameless?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bua peered at her warily over the rim of her cup.

  ‘I am munhoos, ill starred. All my life I have been dogged by misfortune. When my husband died, I was still a girl. With a baby.’

  ‘Kaneez.’ Bua lowered her cup. ‘You are not the only one. My mother died when I was a child, and I was also widowed after just fifteen years of marriage.’

  ‘Still, you had fifteen years of married life, fifteen years of living in your own home.’

  Bua nodded. ‘My mother’s body hadn’t even cooled when my father dragged me off to the convent. Seven years old I was. I pleaded with him to let me stay with my brothers and him. Our home was small, but we had a pigeon coop on the roof, and I was up there all day with the birds. You should have seen how much they loved me. As soon as they heard my footsteps on the stairs, they’d start cooing and billing and fluttering. But my father wouldn’t listen. Instead of letting even one person whisper even one word of gossip, he threw me in there with the nuns, whom I’d never even met. Every night I was wetting my pillow with too many tears.’