by Moni Mohsin
Though Bua had known Kaneez for all the years she had worked for Fareeda, she could not claim to be her confidante. Bua was too daunted by Kaneez’s reserve to risk familiarity. But, today, Bua sensed that Kaneez was inclined to talk. Pressing home the advantage, she asked, ‘What plans do you have for Rani? Have you got a nice man in mind? One can’t wait too long with girls.’
Kaneez laughed. It was a harsh sound, like a rusty gate being pushed open. ‘Plans? What good has it ever done me to make plans? Allah has foiled each one.’
‘I’ve always wondered, Kaneez, why you didn’t remarry? You were young. Not like me. I was already thirty-five when my husband died.’
‘I was still in my teens. But I didn’t remarry because I didn’t want a stepfather to soil my daughter. There’s no knowing with men.’
‘That’s true,’ Bua nodded. ‘Men can do anything. They are animals at heart.’ Encouraged by this rare intimacy, Bua nudged Kaneez’s shoulder and asked, ‘So why did you marry your lovely girl to that beast Mashooq, eh?’
A shutter slammed down over Kaneez’s face. She rose and said in a bleak voice, ‘I see you’ve finished your tea. Go and see if Begum Sahiba has woken up. If she finds out Laila is here but hasn’t been to see her, there will be trouble for you.’
Realizing that she had blundered, Bua rose awkwardly to her feet. She took a conciliatory step towards Kaneez, but the old woman turned her back on the ayah.
‘Don’t keep my mistress waiting. Go.’
Kaneez’s manner did not brook any argument. With a helpless shrug, Bua slunk off to look for Laila. Watching Bua from the kitchen window, Kaneez felt the anger drain out of her. She hadn’t intended to be so sharp with Bua. She knew that the ayah hadn’t meant badly. In fact, it was probably just a clumsy attempt at sympathy. But a lifetime’s habit of discouraging pity had left Kaneez unable to accept compassion. It seemed to Kaneez that the only two emotions she had permitted herself since her husband’s death all those years ago were sorrow and pride.
Kaneez had been proud when she had thwarted all those gossipmongers in Kalanpur who had predicted that the nineteen-year-old widow would soon stray and bring shame on herself. She had also been proud of the fact that she had never accepted charity. Instead, she had provided for herself and her daughter through her own toil. She had worn her independence and virtue like a medal until her daughter had grown up. And then, with her head held high, she had gone looking for a suitable match for her. She had soon found one. And why not? Fatima was as lovely as a firefly, and Kaneez had lived an exemplary life, on that there could be no two opinions. Fatima’s husband was a distant kinsman, an electrician by trade. Her daughter’s marriage was happy and, watching them together, Kaneez felt vindicated. A child was born to them within the year. A girl, admittedly, but Kaneez was confident boys would soon follow. Her self-sacrifice had been worth it. Her work was now done.
But three years into their marriage, Fatima’s husband had died of cobra bite. Fatima was devastated, but Kaneez felt betrayed. She refused to believe that this could happen to her again. Then, summoning up her last vestiges of resolve, she went looking again for another match for her bereaved daughter. For a year she searched and waited. Then she discovered why no one had offered for Fatima’s hand. Since the same fate had befallen both mother and daughter, people thought they were cursed. It was being whispered in the village that whoever married Fatima would die in three years.
A distraught Kaneez appealed to Sardar Begum, who advised her to wait a while. In due course, Mashooq presented himself at the haveli. He had seen Fatima in the Sabzbagh bazaar. He had made enquiries, discovered who she was and begun his pursuit. A clever, cynical man, he was not prey to the same superstitions as the villagers. Nor was he blind to her connections with the haveli. He later said he had been struck by her beauty and her sweet temperament, which, he declared, ‘shone from her face like goodness from the face of angels’.
‘How many angels has he seen, I’d like to know?’ snorted Sardar Begum, when Kaneez repeated his remark to her. Gradually, Sardar Begum was won over by Mashooq’s exquisite respectfulness – he bowed low when salaaming, kept his eyes cast down and called her huzoor, majesty. She liked a man who knew his place. She was also aware of his prospects.
‘He has a house and a job,’ she advised Kaneez. ‘If nothing else, at least Fatima will be comfortable.’ There were, however, two serious shortcomings in the new suitor. One was his appearance – Sardar Begum found his pitted skin and limp regrettable. But she was prepared to overlook these flaws if she knew more about his background. On those details, he was annoyingly vague.
Mashooq was a newcomer to Colewallah district. He claimed to be an orphan with no family. Kaneez made some discreet enquiries, but no one could shed any light on his past, his people or his home. When another month passed without the appearance of a better suitor, Sardar Begum was prepared to ignore that flaw too.
Kaneez accepted reluctantly. She consulted Fatima but, as she well knew, Fatima would have married a tree if she had asked her to.
Even now, Kaneez shivered at the memory of the day when Fatima first saw Mashooq. He had come to see Sardar Begum – he came every week to plead his case. Fatima was helping Kaneez in the kitchen when Sardar Begum called out for her tea. Kaneez was busy, so she sent Fatima. As Fatima crossed the courtyard with the tray in her hands, Kaneez saw from the kitchen window that Mashooq had stepped out from behind a pillar and blocked her path. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek. She could see Fatima’s face clearly. After twelve years, she could still recall the look of pure revulsion that flickered over her daughter’s face before she quashed it for ever.
Kaneez knew that she should have put a stop to it then. But she lacked the courage to visualize a different future for Fatima. Fatima, for her part, went off meekly with her new husband. Her only request to her mother was that she keep Rani and bring her up in the haveli. ‘Look after her,’ she whispered to Kaneez, when she was embracing her mother for the last time. ‘She’s all I have left of my husband.’
Bua was right. How could she have married off her daughter to that monstrous brute? But Kaneez had one consolation. She had looked after Rani. At least in that she had not failed Fatima.
Rani sat on a low stool in her tiny yard, bent over an embroidery frame. Laila quietly opened the door of the quarter and crept on tiptoe towards her. When she was within lunging distance, she roared and sprang on Rani, knocking her backwards. Startled, the older girl screamed. When she saw it was Laila, Rani grinned and pulled her leg from under her. Laila thumped down beside Rani on the smooth dirt floor.
‘Scared you, scared you,’ Laila chanted, sticking her tongue out at Rani.
‘You did. You nearly frightened me to death,’ gasped Rani, helping Laila to her feet. ‘When did you come?’
‘Just now.’
‘You didn’t stop with your grandmother?’
‘She’s asleep. What are you making?’ Laila picked up the frame. A purple rose was embroidered in neat satin stitch on white cotton.
‘A pillow case.’ Rani looked at the frame over Laila’s shoulder. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s pretty.’
‘Come, I’ll show you the matching sheets.’
Rani led Laila towards the room she shared with her grandmother. Like the rest of the servants’ quarters that crouched behind Sardar Begum’s haveli, Rani and Kaneez’s home was built on a tiny piece of land. It was enclosed by a mud wall with a single door. The door opened into the handkerchiefsized yard, a covered corner of which served as a kitchen. The opposite corner was curtained off by a sheet of corrugated metal grating, dug upright into the ground. It was the height of a tall man and concealed the privy and tap that served them as a bathroom.
The room smelt of cold bricks. Washed with white distemper, the walls were bare, save for a row of clothes pegs and a two-year-old calendar. It hung open on the month of December, illustrated by a picture of a fat blond baby, clutching a p
ink teddy bear. Two string beds stood at right angles, leaving just enough room for a chair and a deep tin trunk. The trunk was covered with a starched cotton cloth and, arranged neatly on it, were a plastic comb, a mirror, a bottle of hair oil, a small tin of talcum powder and an empty bottle of Diorella. The perfume bottle held a single yellow rose, plucked from Sardar Begum’s garden, and a spray of neem leaves.
‘You still have this? I gave it to you ages ago,’ asked Laila, fingering the bottle.
Rani nodded. ‘At first, when it was new, I’d fill it with water and dab it on my neck, it smelt so nice. But now the water has no scent, so I use the bottle as a vase. It reminds me of your home, of soft rugs, of bright, airy rooms and of your mother. She taught me how to put flowers in vases.’
Actually, as Fareeda would readily admit, Rani had not needed teaching. Accompanying Sardar Begum on an unannounced visit to Sabzbagh, Rani had come upon Fareeda arranging flowers in the pantry. Since the girls were away at school in Lahore, Fareeda had invited Rani to stay and help. The girl had watched with interest as Fareeda selected blooms from a basket of cut flowers, snipped off excess leaves, trimmed the stems, and arranged them in the vase. Fareeda had offered to let her do the next vase.
She had been hesitant at first, soliciting Fareeda’s approval every time her hand alighted on a cut flower. But Fareeda had waved her on. After completing one arrangement, Rani grew more confident, making bolder choices, mixing yellow chrysanthemums with orange gerbera, and white stocks with mauve roses. She seemed to know instinctively that a glass bowl required a different sort of arrangement to a silver flute. Gradually, she’d forgotten about Fareeda and hummed as she worked, totally absorbed in her task. Fareeda noted that her decisions were swift, her eye sure, her hands deft. When she had finished, Rani had cleared up the debris of the fallen petals, clipped stems and discarded leaves, wiped clean the work surface and lined up all the vases for Fareeda’s inspection. Delighted with her handiwork, Fareeda had praised Rani unreservedly. Rani had flushed with pleasure.
Now, putting her toiletries and the bottle to one side, Rani opened the trunk. Delving past the layers of clothes, towels and blankets, she lifted out a folded white bed sheet and pointed out the same purple rose.
Laila ran her hand over the cloth. It felt much rougher than her sheets at home.
‘Do you like it?’
Laila nodded.
Rani replaced the sheet in the trunk. ‘I have to put it right at the bottom, underneath these towels, so my grandmother doesn’t find it. Now all I have to do is to finish the pillow cases and get some cooking pots,’ she counted the list on her fingers, ‘six glasses and a jug and four sets of new clothes. Oh, and shoes, golden and shiny, with heels – like brides wear – and maybe even some lipstick. Then it will be ready.’
‘What will?’ asked Laila, puzzled.
‘My dowry,’ Rani blushed.
‘Why are you making your dowry now?’
‘Just like that.’ Rani giggled and tugged at Laila’s hand. ‘Let’s go outside.’
She led Laila out into the yard, where a small wooden crate had been upended. Raising a side of the crate with one hand, she reached in with the other and scooped out a tiny black chick.
‘Ooh, it’s so cute. Can I hold it?’ Laila held out her cupped palms.
‘Yes, but gently. Its leg is injured. See?’ Rani touched one of its toothpick legs, to which she had tied a match-sized splint with a string.’ I rescued him from the rubbish heap. He’d been left for dead.’ Lit by the afternoon sun, Rani’s skin was the colour of toasted peanuts. Her eyes were flecked with gold, and fudge-coloured streaks gleamed in her dark hair.
‘What does he eat?’ Laila cradled the chick in her palm.
‘Grain. Want to see?’
Rani turned towards the kitchen, but stopped suddenly, as if she had remembered something urgent. She gulped, clamped a hand to her mouth and dashed behind the metal screen. There was the sound of gasping and retching, and then silence. A moment later, Laila heard the splash of running water. Presently, Rani emerged, looking pale and sheepish.
‘Are you ill?’ Laila asked, peering at Rani’s face for signs of illness.
Rani wiped her face with her shawl.
‘Have you got cholera?
‘No. I’m all right.’
‘My mother can take you to the doctor, you know.’
‘No!’ Rani shouted. ‘You mention it to your mother and I’ll never speak to you again.’
Laila recoiled, dropping the chick. She felt a surge of anger. She wanted to shout at Rani, to ask what had come over her these days, but she held back, lest it jeopardize their relationship again. Rani swept the bird under the crate. Then she cupped the younger girl’s face in her hands and said softly, ‘I’m fine, not ill at all. I ate too many guavas. That’s all. Forgive me?’
‘Was it because you were ill that you came to see the sisters at the convent that day? Did you want medicines?’
‘I’ve told you, I’m not ill.’ Rani looked cross again.
‘But if you’re not ill, then why are you crying?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. See?’ Laila flicked a teardrop from the corner of Rani’s eye.
‘I’m crying because I’m both happy and sad. Sad that I upset you and happy … happy because … it’s a secret. Can I trust you not to tell?’
‘A secret? Of course you can trust me. I’ve kept all your other secrets, you know. Haven’t told anyone. But I’ll promise again if you like.’
‘Like before. On the Koran, your parents, Sara, Bua, everyone. OK then.’ Rani lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I’m getting married.’
‘M-married?’ Laila stammered. ‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Next week?’
‘Not next week. But maybe next month.’
‘Why? Why so soon?’ Laila was trying hard not to cry.
‘Because he’s promised me we will,’ said Rani. ‘He’s told me I mustn’t worry. Everything will be all right. His parents will come and ask my grandmother. Properly, like it’s done for good girls. At first I thought he was going to run away and leave me all alone. He had begun to shout at me and avoid me, making excuses not to meet. Once, he even told me he hated me, and that I’d ruined his life.’ Rani’s chin quivered momentarily, but then she rushed on. ‘But now he is being so nice with me all the time, stroking my hair and buying me salted peanuts and telling me how pretty I look. The only thing is, he’s said I must wait for a bit and I mustn’t tell anyone. Until he comes with his parents and proposes. So, you see, that’s why you must keep it to yourself. Because if you don’t, and he finds out, he’ll be so angry again that he might not even come.’ The prospect seemed to alarm her, and a look akin to panic crossed her face. ‘No, he won’t do that. He can’t. He’s promised.’ Brightening visibly, she asked, ‘Do you think I’ll look nice in high heels?’
‘But what about our partnership and the Terrific Two and the mystery which we haven’t even solved yet?’ Laila cried. ‘You promised we’d solve it together. You promised!’
Rani cocked her head to one side. ‘What are you talking about? What mystery?’
‘The mystery of the church. Why you came crying to the church that day and talked to Sister Clementine,’ Laila shouted. ‘Why you asked me to spy on Bua and report on Sister Clementine.’
Rani clamped a hand over Laila’s mouth. ‘You’ll get me into trouble if you shout like that.’ She scowled at Laila, but when she saw the younger girl’s genuine distress, she put her arms around her. ‘Listen to me now,’ she soothed. ‘What happened at the church that day is not important any more. It’s all in the past, like a bad dream that is now over. Or a mystery, even, that’s been solved. You must forget about it. But that doesn’t mean we’re no longer partners. We will always be partners, you and I. We are special friends, remember? And so we will stay, for ever and always. The only difference is that I am going to get married. But,’ she added quickly
, seeing Laila’s face crumple, ‘he won’t take your place in my heart.’
‘Who’s he?’ demanded Laila in a furious whisper.
‘He? Oh you mean him. My … the man I’m going to marry?’
‘It’s your friend, isn’t it? What’s his name?’
Rani coloured. ‘If I tell, you promise not to tell even your own shadow?’
Laila nodded, desperate to know, despite herself.
‘Come here, I’ll whisper it in your ear.’
Just as Rani brought her mouth to Laila’s ear, Bua stumped into the yard. Rani’s hand fell to her side. She edged away from Laila.
‘Come on, Lailu, your grandmother’s woken up.’ Bua’s voice was loud, almost strident. ‘She’s asking for you.’
‘Can I stay a little bit longer? Please? Oh, please?’ Laila begged. ‘Can’t you go and tell her I’ll come in two minutes?’
‘What? And get my plait yanked out from the roots?’ snorted Bua. ‘It’s not enough that I’m going grey without going bald also? You know how she gets if she’s made to wait. You are coming with me now.’
Still smarting from Kaneez’s rebuke, Bua was not in an indulgent mood. It was because of Rani, really, that she had been insulted by Kaneez. Well, from now on, she wasn’t going to bother to ask about her. The girl had got herself into this mess, she could jolly well get herself out of it too.
Laila glanced at Rani for support, but her face was as blank as a rubbed-out blackboard. Laila wanted to cry with frustration, to stamp her foot and demand that Bua leave and Rani speak. But one look at their tight, stubborn faces told her that neither was about to oblige. Reluctantly, she took Bua’s hand. Bua was about to stalk off with Laila when she paused, raked Rani with her gaze and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’ Her tone was brusque.
‘Fine,’ Rani mumbled.
‘Still, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, baba. Not for a haveli, not for a palace.’