The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

‘You haven’t, you haven’t…’ Rani searched Bua’s face anxiously.

  ‘Told anyone? What for? To get a hundred shoes on my head for bringing such shameful news? You think a mad dog has bitten me?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rani whispered.

  ‘Be thankful when it’s all over – one way or another. Come, Laila.’ Pulling Laila by the arm, Bua made for the door.

  As she was being dragged away behind Bua, Laila turned to look over her shoulder one last time. Rani stood framed in the doorway, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She pressed her forefinger to her lips to remind Laila of her promise. Laila was tempted to turn her back on Rani. Let her totter off on her golden high heels to her new husband. But the thought of never seeing her again was like a corkscrew in her heart. Laila nodded and crossed her heart. Rani waved. Then Bua pulled her round the corner and Laila lost Rani.

  If there was one thing Sardar Begum hated more than being cheated, it was being made to wait. It was not that she was unusually impatient, for she could wait for the monsoons as the clouds gathered and dispersed week after sultry week; smile serenely for the full nine months of her pregnancy; and even face the prospect of waiting for a thousand years in her grave for the day of judgement with some equanimity. She could bear the delays decreed by Allah, for what was she but His lowly creature, placed on earth solely to submit to His will? But being made to wait for another person and that, too, someone younger or socially inferior, was a different matter.

  It was not just a matter of simple discourtesy. To Sardar Begum, it smacked of gross insubordination, indeed of social anarchy, a sure sign that the end of the world was nigh. A strict social order, a rigid hierarchy, was an article of faith to her. People should adhere to their assigned space and be thankful for it. That was one of the main reasons for her fondness for the long-departed English – their unswerving commitment to a rigid pecking-order.

  ‘They may have eaten pigs and not washed their backsides,’ she was fond of saying to her granddaughters, ‘but those farangis knew how to keep everyone in their place. When people forget their place, they step out of the bounds decided by Allah. That’s when the devil begins his work. Now, what are the Bengalis doing but forgetting their place? Allah has decreed a place for everyone – one for me, one for the sweeper, and one for the Bengali. As long as we remember it and honour it, all will be well.’

  So, when Laila reached the haveli, she found her grandmother in a sour mood. It had been a full fifteen minutes since Sardar Begum had woken up, twelve since she’d learnt about Laila’s whereabouts, and nine minutes since she had sent for her. She sat in her bedroom, on the hard wooden divan permanently positioned to face Mecca.

  Hers was an austere room with little else beside her divan, a worn rug on the floor and two hard-backed sofas covered in faded green tapestry. Matching curtains hung in the windows flanking the fireplace. The windows were positioned so that they opened out into the shadowy veranda. Hence, Sardar Begum’s room was always gloomy – until evening, when she switched on a pair of harsh fluorescent ceiling-lights. Despite her son’s frequent entreaties to replace them with bulbs, she refused.

  ‘There will be plenty of time for me to lie in the dark in my grave,’ she would sniff. ‘Also, they are cheaper to run than bulbs and, unlike you, I don’t have money to scatter from rooftops.’

  The fridge was housed in a specially constructed alcove off her room. It perched on a low wooden platform and, threaded around its door handle, was a small brass amulet to ward off the evil eye.

  Sardar Begum received Laila’s greeting with a snort. Her gimlet eyes were glued to a large steel clock on the wall. She sipped milky tea and nibbled on a soggy, tea-dunked rusk.

  ‘Finally! You’ve decided to spare a moment of your precious time for me. Thank you, thank you kindly,’ she sniffed.

  ‘I came to see you first, Dadi. You were asleep.’ Laila perched on the edge of the divan.

  ‘Asleep? With so many worries, you think I can sleep? I haven’t slept since he went.’ Sardar Begum jerked her chin towards the picture of her late husband over the mantelpiece. It was a grainy, much enlarged copy of a sepia photograph. It showed a portly young man in jodhpurs and turban astride a stallion, with a falcon perched on his wrist. It was an atypical image, for he had been a quiet sort who much preferred reading to hunting. Nevertheless, Sardar Begum liked to remember him thus, and every day a fresh garland of marigolds was hung around the gilt frame. The only other photograph in the room was a picture of Tariq, dressed in the black robes, edged with white rabbit fur, of Wadham graduands.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep. I was simply lying here looking at the ceiling.’ It was Sardar Begum’s fond claim that she neither slept nor ate – she was too worried about Tariq to sleep and too ill to eat. These were the hallmarks of a delicate constitution such as hers. Laila did not argue.

  ‘And you? Why were you skulking in the servants’ quarters?’ she asked Laila.

  ‘I went to see Rani.’

  ‘I might have guessed. And what did she give you? A grandmother’s love?’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Dadi,’ Laila pouted. ‘I did come to see you first. I promise, I did. But Kaneez said –’

  ‘Kaneez said, Kaneez said,’ Sardar Begum mimicked in a high-pitched voice. ‘Don’t you know Kaneez lost her brains along with her teeth? Only I put up with a brainless, toothless, useless old thing like her. Anyone else would have thrown her out long since. I’m too kind, that’s my flaw. Too kind and too soft. Now, give me a kiss, and next time don’t go rushing off to hang around servants. You give them ideas above their station.’

  Laila hugged her grandmother and was duly offered milky tea, which she disliked but accepted for fear of straining the fragile truce. But she drew the line at rusks, asking instead for carrot halwa. Kaneez was sent for and told to bring halwa for the little bibi.

  Sardar Begum pinched Laila’s spindly forearm. ‘You’re too thin. Too thin and too tall. How much more are you going to grow?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Laila shrugged.

  ‘Better stop soon, understand? One inch more, two inches at most. Then stop. Otherwise, where will we find a husband for you?’

  ‘I don’t want a husband.’

  Sardar Begum’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Touch your ears at once. Bite your tongue. Tell Allah you didn’t mean that. To be left, unmarried and unwanted … The shame, the misfortune. An unattached elderly girl is an abomination. God forbid that it should happen to you.’

  ‘But I’m a child,’ Laila protested.

  ‘Oho, I’m not saying marry now, this minute. But one day. Every girl must.’ Sardar Begum gave Laila a hard stare. ‘Tell me, have you grown up yet?’

  ‘Grown up? How?’ Laila gazed, wide-eyed, at Sardar Begum.

  ‘If you don’t know, it hasn’t happened yet,’ she said. ‘That means you’re going to grow taller still. May your growing-up come quickly in that case.’

  ‘Do girls grow up when they get married?’

  ‘No, silly. They grow up much before then. Or should do. Sara must be near to it now if she’s not so already. But who tells me anything? I’m always kept in the dark till the end.’

  Kaneez entered with the tea and halwa.

  ‘Why have you brought two plates?’ Sardar Begum barked at Kaneez. ‘Who do you think I’m entertaining? A wedding party?’

  ‘I thought you might like to try some,’ said Kaneez. ‘I know how you like to nibble.’

  ‘Me? Eat halwa? With my sugar so high? You want to kill me?’

  ‘Sugar won’t kill you, Dadi,’ said Laila.

  ‘I’m not talking of sugar, sugar. I’m talking of the sugar that comes in my small bathroom. What does your mother call it? “Die” something.’

  ‘Oh, diabetes. My other grandmother has it too.’

  ‘But you have three spoonfuls of sugar in your tea,’ Kaneez reminded Sardar Begum.

  ‘Who asked you?’ her employer bristled. ‘Are you a doctor to tell me what
I should or shouldn’t have? Take this extra plate and go. Vanish!

  ‘Drink your tea.’ Sardar Begum offered the steaming cup to Laila. ‘It’s made with buffalo milk. If I were your mother, I’d put a stop to all this going about in the sun, running around like the boy who used to keep the parrots off our mango trees. I’d keep you indoors until evening and make sure you drink eight glasses of milk a day, till you were white as a jasmine bud.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a jasmine bud.’ Large circles of grease floated on the thick, creamy tea. Laila replaced it on the tray with a shudder.

  ‘Then what do you want? To be black as a crow? Silly girl. I don’t know what they teach you in your Christian school, but let me tell you, men from good families like dainty, white girls, not rough, black giants. Talking of men, are there any Masters in your school?’ The intent look reappeared in Sardar Begum’s eyes.

  Laila shook her head. ‘Only Miss teachers.’

  ‘Thank God. Never know with your mother. She might have put the two of you in a boys’ school. And what about your mullah? Does he still come to teach you the Koran?’

  Her mouth full of halwa, Laila nodded.

  ‘And you study from him alone?’

  ‘I do, but Ammi gets Bua to sit in the room.’

  ‘She sees some sense sometimes. Never be alone with him, do you hear? The longer their beards, the dirtier their minds. And if once a girl loses her character, she loses everything.’

  ‘What’s a girl’s character?’ Laila asked.

  ‘Her pride, her value.’

  ‘Do boys also have character?’

  ‘They don’t need character,’ Sardar Begum chuckled. ‘They have status instead.’

  Dismissing her grandmother’s cryptic comments, Laila thought of Rani. Why had she said that the mystery was solved? Who had solved it? She couldn’t imagine Rani married, with children and things. What if she didn’t like Rani’s husband? What if he was boring and mean and wouldn’t let Rani play hide and seek with her and Sara? Eat tart, green mangoes with salt and chilli under the neem tree? What if he wasn’t even from Kalanpur?

  ‘Dadi, will you tell me something?’

  ‘Certainly, my moon.’ Sardar Begum stroked Laila’s arm.

  ‘You know when a girl gets married? Does she always have to go and live in her husband’s home?’

  ‘Yes, my moon, always.’

  ‘Even if he lives far away, say, in another village, or another city?’

  ‘Yes, even then.’

  ‘But what about all her friends that she leaves behind? When do they see her?’

  ‘When she comes home to visit. But, usually, girls get so busy in their new homes that they seldom have time for friends and fun. They’re not carefree like unmarried girls.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ cried Laila.

  ‘It’s not so bad. It’s fun getting married, having lots of nice new clothes and jewellery and lipsticks and powders and being fussed over and, if you’re lucky, as, Allah willing, you will be, having a husband who is nice to you, like your Aba is to your Ammi, and a saint for a mother-in-law like your Ammi has in me.’

  ‘But what about the friends you leave behind? What happens to them?’

  ‘Oh, they’re soon forgotten.’ Sardar Begum tossed her head. ‘Hear that? That’s the call for maghreb prayer. You’d better get going. I don’t want you travelling in the dark. And don’t look so glum. You’re not getting married next month, you know.’ Sardar Begum pinched Laila’s cheek. ‘One thing more. Don’t tell your parents about our chat? Or your father will scream at me for even mentioning the word “marriage” to you. As if he can keep you a child for ever. Promise, you won’t tell? That’s my moon. Go with God.’

  The sun was sliding behind the fields as Barkat sped towards Sabzbagh. Through a haze of dust and wood smoke, young boys were driving home their herds of goats and cattle. Bats swooped and rose in the headlights of the car. When they drove past the huts, only a couple of dogs gave half-hearted chase. Everyone else was gathered around the small fires that flickered in the open space between the huts. Shrouded in their shawls and huddled in a circle, the villagers looked like taut, full sacks waiting to be packed into a tractor.

  Laila sat beside Bua. A storm of questions raged in her head. She was aching to ask Bua about Rani but knew that she mustn’t. She’d promised on the Koran, on her sister’s and her parents’ lives, and Bua’s also. If she broke her word, they might all drop dead suddenly, like statues being knocked over. Or die horrible slow deaths, writhing in agony like the snake that Amanat had once pounded to death with a bamboo staff. And it would be all her fault. Also, Rani might never speak to her again. But, wait – she could ask Rani herself. After all, she had been about to tell her the name of her friend when Bua had interrupted them. She’d also make Rani tell about the church and the mystery. Laila smiled in the dark, pleased with herself. Now, even more than usual, she couldn’t wait to see Rani again.

  11

  The next day was a Sunday, and Tariq, Fareeda and Laila sat in the garden waiting for Hester. It had rained the evening before and winter had come overnight. But, for the moment, there was bright sunshine, and the thick scent of molasses floated across from the village, where cane was being crushed into crumbly brown sugar. Laila slipped her legs off the long, polished arms of her planter chair and reached for the dry fruit tray.

  The emergence of the dry-fruit tray – for some reason it was never referred to as ‘dried’ fruit, but always ‘dry’ fruit – was an essential part of the many rituals that marked the departure of summer and the arrival of winter. Woollen clothes that had spent the summer months hibernating in iron trunks were unpacked and arranged in piles in the sweater cupboard. Rugs that had lain rolled up in the storeroom were sunned, beaten and spread on bare terrazzo floors. Oil-fired heaters were cleaned and repaired, and a special visit was made in the last week of October to Lahore’s Beadon Road, where light-skinned, green-eyed Pathans sold big sacks of nuts and preserved fruit.

  Considered too ‘hot’ for the summer months – ‘rots the liver and thickens the blood’ – dry fruit was consumed only after the shisham trees had lost their leaves. Every household had its own version of the tray. Sardar Begum had a copper platter with three enormous wooden bowls of roasted chickpeas sprinkled with salt and chilli, dates stuffed with slivers of almonds and chewy nuggets of dark cardamom-scented sohan halwa. Hester, who had never quite got the point, had a single china plate with broken bits of old, hard Cadbury’s milk chocolate and musty peanuts.

  Fareeda’s tray, on the other hand, was a Kashmiri silver salver with matching bowls containing an assortment of Beadon Road’s finest – crisp, salted pistachio nuts; bite-sized disks of white nougat rolled in sesame seed; long thin pine nuts, shelled and dry roasted to a pale gold; wrinkled honey-coloured raisins; ‘paper shelled’ almonds that you could crush in your palm; and sticky, sweet peanut crunch.

  Laila helped herself to a handful of pistachio nuts. She licked the salt off the shells before prising them apart to reveal the vivid green flesh.

  ‘Ammi, can I visit Dadi today?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Fareeda scanned the pages of the Society Mirror for the photographs of a wedding she had attended recently in Lahore. ‘Go to Dadi’s? But you went yesterday.’

  ‘Can I go again?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘No, you can’t. It’s Barkat’s day off,’ she replied, her eyes still on the magazine.

  ‘Tomorrow, then? Can I go tomorrow?’

  ‘Your grandmother is supposed to go to Sargodha tomorrow to stay with your aunt again. Why’s she returning so soon again, Tariq?’ asked Fareeda. ‘I thought she didn’t like imposing on your brother-in-law’s hospitality.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Tariq looked up from the papers. ‘Apparently my sister’s mother-in-law hasn’t been too well. Even though she can’t stand the sight of her, my mother’s got to be seen to be doing the right thing, and so she�
�s going to ask after her health. Shouldn’t take her more than two or three days. I don’t think she’s even taking Kaneez this time. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason,’ shrugged Fareeda. ‘Just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘But can I still go to Kalanpur?’ persisted Laila.

  ‘To do what?’ Fareeda asked. ‘Dadi won’t be there.’

  ‘But Rani will.’

  ‘So it’s not Dadi at all that you want to see.’ Fareeda returned her attention to the magazine. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t travel five miles by car just to go and play when you have plenty of children right here.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘I said no. With a war looming, we can’t be wasteful with petrol.’

  ‘Not that you’d guess it from the papers.’ Tariq spoke from behind a paper wall of the Pakistan News.

  ‘Guess what?’ asked Laila and Fareeda in unison.

  ‘That there was a war looming.’ Tariq turned the pages of the newspaper. As usual, there was no news on East Pakistan. Instead, the papers were stuffed with reports of robberies and coach accidents, unimportant court cases and tedious speeches by minor dignitaries.

  Tariq turned the page to find two columns on the news of a forthcoming holiday. ‘Capital Wears Deserted Looks,’ he read.

  ‘ “Capital city, Islamabad, has assumed deserted looks owing to large outflow of government employees to other stations because of twin holidays on eve of the birthday of the Holy Prophet (May Peace be upon Him). The government employees have left for their native towns and cities for three days including two holidays of the Holy Prophet’s birthday, weekly off and one casual leave they have taken to add to the strength of their duration of enjoyment among their near and dear ones who are always considering them some super creatures. Islamabad which stands distinguished due to its specific cultural milieu can be seen dejected like hollow-eyed virgin, who is disappointingly staring at the vast expanses before her to search for the dearest one who has lost into bottoms of unknown destination.” ’

  He laughed aloud as he read the last line.