The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Fareeda.

  ‘These inane newspapers.’

  ‘Hester is bound to have some news,’ Fareeda suggested. ‘She returned yesterday from Lahore. She’ll give us all the juicy morsels over lunch.’

  Tariq folded the paper and dropped it on the lawn.

  ‘Why so glum, darling?’ he asked Laila.

  ‘Because Ammi won’t let me go to Kalanpur.’

  ‘You went only yesterday. Why the urgency to return?’

  ‘I want to see Rani,’ replied Laila.

  ‘Didn’t you see her yesterday?’

  ‘I want to see her again. I need to ask her something.’

  ‘Too bad. You should’ve done your asking yesterday. Your mother’s right, you can’t be driven back and forth, asking questions like Hercule Poirot.’

  ‘But I only want …’

  Laila’s words were drowned out by the horn of Hester’s Austin. Dressed in a purple belted dress with white spots the size of tennis balls, she alighted from her car and made her way towards them. She clutched a bunch of narcissi.

  ‘Hello, all. I brought these for you.’ She thrust the dripping flowers at Fareeda.

  ‘Thank you, Hester, they’re lovely.’ Fareeda grasped the wet stalks gingerly and held them at arm’s length.

  Still sulking over her parents’ refusal to let her go to Kalanpur, Laila mumbled a hello to Hester. Tariq pulled up a sturdy planter chair for their guest.

  ‘Oh, no, not that one.’ Hester opted for a straight-backed chair instead. ‘Once I subside into that planter, you’ll need a crane to lift me out.’

  Laila giggled at the image of Hester dangling high above from the claws of a crane, clutching her handbag and scissoring her fat pink legs in the air. Fareeda shot her a warning look. She handed Laila the narcissi and instructed her to go indoors and find a vase.

  ‘Good trip, Hester?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘Oh, yes, sold a filly to a moustachioed landowner from Sargodha. Probably some relative of yours.’

  ‘Not everyone in Sargodha is related to me,’ laughed Tariq.

  Fareeda served Hester chilled pomegranate juice from a crystal jug. Hester’s gaze moved from the sparkling glass to the immaculate flowerbeds, the smooth lawn and the trimmed hedges of Fareeda’s garden.

  ‘Must say, Fareeda, you do keep everything looking tip-top,’ she murmured appreciatively.

  ‘So, what’s the news, Hester?’ asked Tariq. ‘What’s the chit-chat at the Imperial?’

  Hester’s husband had been one of the first members of the Imperial Club in Lahore. The Club’s rules did not allow women to become members – ‘lady members disallowed’, it said in discreet gold lettering by the receptionist’s desk. But the rules had been bent to accommodate Hester, who had thrown a volcanic tantrum when she had discovered that, as a widow, she was no longer allowed to use the Club’s facilities. When in Lahore, Hester always stayed, as a point of principle, in one of the musty rooms at the Club, where she never failed to remind the hapless secretary that Geoffrey Bullock had been the third Englishman to join the Club after the then Governor and Commissioner of Lahore.

  ‘The usual.’ Hester waved her glass in the air. ‘Who’s diddled whom. Who is setting up what mill.’

  ‘What about Dhaka?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is no one talking about it?’

  ‘A few. In passing. Mostly about how the Bingos had it coming and how the army’s going to sort them out. The common consensus, as far as I can make out, is that Mujeeb is an Indian agent who’s been put up to this by Indira Gandhi. Her father, Nehru, couldn’t bear the sight of an independent, sovereign Pakistan, and nor can she. So, it’s a plot hatched by Mujeeb and Indira. Simple as that!’

  ‘I see,’ said Tariq. ‘And what about the millions of Bengalis who voted for Mujeeb? Are they also in Indira’s pay?’

  ‘Oh, no, they are just bolshy babus, really, who’ve swallowed Mujeeb’s propaganda hook, line and sinker. He’s whipped them all up into a right old frenzy, and now they’re all leaping about demanding freedom. But the army’s going to sort them out sharpish.’

  ‘Aren’t they the least bit worried that it might not be so easy?’ asked Fareeda.

  ‘Goodness, no,’ said Hester. ‘Sitting out here one tends to worry more. I suppose the isolation does it to you. Up in Lahore, they couldn’t give a damn. But here’s the odd thing. While the civvies are gung-ho, the army, I hear, is in a panic. Privately, of course. General Niazi’s blubbing like a child in his bunker in Dhaka. Apparently, he’s petrified now that the Bengalis and Indians are closing in.’

  ‘Who told you?’ questioned Tariq.

  Hester tapped her nose conspiratorially. ‘I have my sources.’

  ‘Those idiots in Lahore are so cheerful because they believe the army’s propaganda. Even though the army itself no longer believes it,’ said Fareeda scornfully.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hester.

  ‘And General Yahya? What does he think?’ probed Tariq.

  ‘I must confess, I have a sneaking regard for the old general,’ said Hester. ‘He said he’d have a proper election, and he’s done it. Pity he miscalculated the results so grossly. Well, one hears, he’s holed up in GHQ sloshing back the whiskey and stringing along General Niazi in Dhaka with assurances that help is on its way from China, America, Timbuktu. Wherever. Meanwhile, he’s said to be seeking solace in the company of a lady friend.’

  ‘A lady friend?’ breathed Fareeda. ‘Oh, do tell. Who is she?’

  ‘She goes by the name of General Rani,’ chortled Hester.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘That’s what they call her.’

  ‘But what’s her real name? Who is she?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest,’ said Hester. ‘Apparently, it’s all highly secretive, with the lady being smuggled in and out of curtained cars and being hustled through back doors to GHQ.’

  ‘How delicious,’ Fareeda laughed.

  ‘Ammi, I’ve put Mrs Bullock’s flowers in the yellow vase and placed it on your bedside table,’ Laila announced, dropping into the chair she had recently vacated.

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Hester, ‘thanks awfully for sending your electrician over. Hayat tells me he had the whole thing sorted out in two ticks. Such a relief to come back to light. And I brought you these.’ She handed Fareeda a paper bag. ‘Laila’s vitamins, remember? Now, tell me, young lady, have you started riding yet?’

  ‘No.’ Laila threw an accusatory look at her father.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Aba says I’m too little to go on his horse.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to get a smaller pony for her, but I haven’t got around to it,’ explained Tariq, a trifle sheepishly.

  ‘Bring Laila over to Bridgebad. I might have just the ticket for her.’

  Bua was not a scheming woman. But in one area of her life, she did think strategically. And this was in the giving and receiving of favours. She was acutely aware of her own value in the village as a conduit to patronage through her connection with the Azeems. From time to time, therefore, she entertained requests in return for small considerations. But Bua was selective in the requests she promoted. While she did not want to be swamped with demands, she had no wish to be overlooked either. Her position as a woman of influence within the village hinged upon her ability to swing the odd favour. To protect her position, therefore, she only made promises she could deliver. It was pointless, for instance, to guarantee someone a job in Tariq’s factory, for which he handpicked suitable candidates. Nor would it to do for Bua to bombard her employers with petitions, lest they tire of her demands. There were some pleas Bua rejected because she did not like the petitioner. And there were still others where the payoff was too small. But there were almost none that she refused out of fear.

  Rani was therefore an exception. Though disapproving of Rani’s conduct, Bua was sympath
etic to her plight. Had she been any other girl in the village, Bua would have pleaded her case with Fareeda, whom she knew to be tolerant about such things.

  But Rani’s was a complicated case. While neither a servant nor a relative of the Azeems, the girl had a special place in the family. In many ways, she had a closer link with Tariq and Fareeda than Bua. And, if Rani herself had chosen not to appeal to Fareeda, then who was Bua to interfere? Bua could approach Sardar Begum. But she was too frightened of her wrath. It would be akin to putting her head in the maw of a wheat thresher. Her other option was to bypass both Sardar Begum and Fareeda and tell Tariq. But Bua was embarrassed to discuss pregnancies with a man. And then, if Sardar Begum found out that Bua had been carrying tales to Tariq of the shameless goings-on in her establishment, when all along she had predicted the same outcome from his project, what then?

  She could, of course, tell Kaneez. But how? After her last visit to Kalanpur, Bua knew for certain that Kaneez would be devastated. She would also be humiliated to discover that Bua knew about the pregnancy before her. No, Kaneez had to be spared the knowledge.

  The more Bua thought about it, the clearer it became to her that Fareeda was her only possible option. But how was Bua to tell Fareeda without involving herself ? She wanted to help, but all her sensitively attuned antennae warned Bua to steer clear of this one.

  And, after all, as she reasoned to herself, it wasn’t as if Rani had appealed to her. Rani had approached Sister Clementine, and it was therefore Sister Clementine’s responsibility to see it through. When the nun had refused to take Rani into the clinic, Bua had persuaded her to put a word into Fareeda’s ear. In bringing Sister Clementine to the house, Bua believed she had done her bit, but, unfortunately, the nun’s timing had been poor, and nothing had come of the visit.

  While Bua was hopeful that Rani would be able to solve the problem herself – after all, the father of her unborn child could well be unmarried and happy to have Rani as his wife – she was still anxious. Time was slipping by, and soon everyone would know. She wished she could do something but knew with absolute conviction that she must not.

  Happily, not all of Bua’s dilemmas were so thorny. That same morning, word had come from Samuel Masih, a distant relative who lived on the other side of the village, that his eyes ached to see Bua, and that his buffalo, too, were pining for her blessings. Having heard that some misfortune had befallen his buffalo, Bua resolved to visit him. A pat of buffalo butter would be a small return for the favour he no doubt wanted to ask of her.

  It was in a happy frame of mind that Bua set off to see Samuel. For the moment, her worries about Rani were relegated to the back burner and she was determined to enjoy the afternoon. She was looking forward to throwing her weight around. She was pleased that Laila – who had once again been denied permission to visit Rani – was accompanying her, for the girl’s presence served as a physical reminder of Bua’s social position. Of course, she would have been outraged had anyone suggested that she was using Laila as a prop.

  As they strolled towards Samuel’s place, they passed cane fields the villagers had just begun to harvest. The men hacked at the crop with axes and scythes, while the women tore off the leaves and stacked the cane into heaps. All around was the sound of chopping and rustling as the tall plants fell to the ground. Village children milled about shrieking and waving long sticks of sugar cane. Their faces sticky with cane juice, they tore off the stiff bark-like peel with their teeth and attacked the fibrous centre. As Laila went past, two grinning urchins ran up to her. They thrust a cane in her hand and ran back to join their friends. Green-gold in colour, the cane was as long as her leg. Laila tucked the cane under her arm and waved her thanks to the children.

  ‘I’ll eat it when I get to your cousin’s house,’ she told Bua.

  ‘Good. It’ll put some strength in you,’ said Bua, embarking on her favourite topic of Laila’s diet. ‘I’m not asking you to eat, eat all day. No, Baba, what good would that do if you are eating factory oil and machine butter? Might as well eat dust and ashes. No, you do like this – you fry your egg in hand-churned buffalo butter in the morning and have a dollop of butter on your chappati in the afternoon and a smear on your toast at tea time and another dollop on your rice at night and then you see. You’ll be strong as a rock, cheeks blooming, eyes flashing, teeth sparkling, hair shining. Everywhere you pass, people will stop and say in wonder, “Who is that healthy girl? How her ayah must have fed her! Blessings on her, blessings.” Of course, I will be dust in the graveyard by then, and you will have long forgotten me, maybe even got a new ayah.’

  ‘I don’t like your butter. It stinks of cows’ udders,’ Laila grimaced.

  Bua poked her in the side. ‘Becoming too much of memsahib, you are. This stinks of this and that stinks of that. Where do you want milk to come from? The canal?’

  ‘Besides, Dadi told me I mustn’t grow any more, so I can’t possibly have your butter.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t grow any taller. But your grandmother never said anything about growing broader. With pure butter your waist will become like the trunk of a banyan tree, round, strong, solid.’

  ‘I don’t want to become a banyan tree.’

  ‘You don’t want anything. Funny girl, you are.’

  Samuel Masih was a peasant. He was a small, shrivelled man with a face like a walnut, and hands like spades. Samuel lived close to the canal. It was visible from his hut, a gleaming, silent presence in the background. His hut was dwarfed by a peepul tree. Two buffalo were tethered under its shade. At Bua and Laila’s approach, a black dog chained to the tree barked hysterically. Frightened by its fury, Laila shrank into Bua’s side. The buffalo looked up from their feeding troughs to stare balefully at the visitors.

  When Samuel saw that Bua was accompanied by Laila, he hurried to his hut and emerged with a string bed on his head. He set it down under the peepul. The stench of dung was overpowering. Laila wrinkled her nose but did not like to mention the smell. Bua, however, had no such scruples. She had decided that her kinsman was going to have to work hard for this favour.

  ‘Eh, Sami, you want to give us headache, placing this cot in all this dung, haan?’ she said, holding her nose. ‘Move it this side more.’

  Samuel not only moved the bed but also unwound the once-white cloth from around his head and gave the bed a wipe. Bua made a great show of gathering up the folds of her calf-length kurta before lowering herself on the bed.

  ‘I know this is not what you’re used to, but you might as well sit down,’ she said to Laila. ‘Mind your dress. Your mother brought it all the way from England. And so much it cost.’ She looked meaningfully at Samuel, who lowered his eyes in a show of respect. Bua continued in her haughtiest voice, ‘You can’t imagine what difficulty I had persuading her parents to let her come with me. “Take her where, Bua?” they asked. “But we’ve never let her go so far. And that too to a sharecropper’s hovel?” But I begged them, saying you were my cousin and how honoured you’d be if she came. So in the end, they sighed and said, “All right, Bua, but only for you.”

  ‘So here we are, but for a few minutes only. Then it will be this baby’s lunch time. The Owners are very particular. I have to wear this big watch so I don’t forget.’ She flashed her wrist, encircled by a man’s watch. ‘But why’s this place like a graveyard?’ she enquired, looking around her. ‘Where is that no-good wife of yours and your children? How many there are now? Seven, eight?’

  ‘Eight,’ Samuel replied sheepishly. ‘Youngest – a boy, but – came three weeks ago. They’ve all gone to cut the cane across the canal.’

  ‘You tell them to cross the canal carefully. That fool, your wife, can she look after the children?’

  ‘It’s the canal, Bua, that’s undone me,’ Samuel moaned. He squatted on the ground beside them. ‘Just last week, my second son, Nikka, he’s twelve now, took the buffalo out in the afternoon. One of them had calved. A fine heifer he was, strong and beautiful, but as they got t
o the canal, a car came racing by, blowing hard on its horn. The heifer panicked and galloped straight into the canal.’ Samuel covered his eyes.

  ‘It’s a hard blow to lose a good animal like that,’ said Bua. ‘Maybe God has a purpose in this also.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, Bua.’ Samuel blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on the ground. ‘Maybe Nikka wasn’t meant to look after the animals. Maybe he was meant to work in a nice house, with kind rich people, as a driver.’

  ‘Just look at you!’ Bua’s hand flew to her mouth in mock astonishment. ‘You think nice rich people let twelve-year-old boys drive their cars? You know how much cars cost? More than you can make in your lifetime, that’s how much. Forget drivery. He’d be lucky to get a place as a gardener.’

  ‘Thank you, Bua.’ Samuel touched her knees. ‘When shall I bring him?’

  ‘You think you are catching a train? These things take time. The Owners listen to me like school children listen for the finish-time bell, but they don’t like employing children. I’ll have to say Nikka is sixteen. I’ll send for you when the time is right. You’re not to trouble me before then. Otherwise, I won’t lift a finger. How are your buffalo milking?’ Bua eyed the animals. ‘I was telling this little Bibi, how much of milk they give. And so creamy, it could have come straight from England. Best butter they make.’

  Samuel took the hint.

  ‘Oh, Bua, I nearly forgot, I have kept some butter aside for you. Let me fetch it.’ He disappeared into his hut. He returned with a bowl filled to the brim. ‘There’s more whenever you need, Bua.’

  ‘How am I going to take this without the flies getting to it? Your head is also cracked, Sami. Get me a cloth I can cover it with.’

  ‘This is all I have, Bua.’ He tugged at his turban.

  ‘No, no, so dirty. Flies are better than this rag. I’ll use my own shawl. And remember now, don’t trouble me.’ She held out a hand to Laila. ‘Come, baby, time for your lunch. Your mummy will be waiting at the table.’

  Samuel came to see them off as far as the road. Bua walked off without a backward glance. When they were at some distance from the house, Laila pulled free of Bua’s clasp and asked her why she had been so nasty to her cousin.