by Moni Mohsin
‘Nasty? Me? Listen to you! I went all the way, and that also walking, to listen to his problems. How was that nasty?’
‘You said his cloth was filthy and that it was smelly under the tree and that our car was too expensive for his son to drive.’
‘So? Did I lie?’
‘No, but it wasn’t nice. You made him feel dirty and poor.’
‘You don’t have to be polite to be nice. It will be very nice of me to get his Nikka a job.’
Just then, a tonga jolting behind them drew abreast, and the horse slowed to a walking pace.
‘Even though I only saw you from the back side, Bua, I knew it was you straight away,’ Sister Clementine called out. ‘Hello, little Laila. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Salaam, Sister,’ said Bua. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home, only. If you’re going my way we can share this tonga.’
‘Yes, please, Sister. My old legs are getting tired now with walking very little also.’
Bua clambered up beside Sister Clementine in the back seat, and Laila climbed up by the driver in the front. She laid her sugar cane carefully on the seat by her. She half expected Bua to admonish her for sitting next to a strange man and order her into the back but, for once, Bua did not demur. It suited her to have Laila in the front. Bua waited just long enough for the tonga wallah to prod his horse into a trot before broaching the subject of Rani in a hushed voice.
‘Has the girl been to see you again, Sister?’
‘Which girl?’
‘The one who came to the church that day? Who wanted you to take her to the clinic, for, for – for you know what …’ She made a face at Laila’s back as if to explain her reticence.
‘That girl.’ Sister Clementine nodded vigorously. ‘No, she hasn’t.’
‘Oh! I was quite sure she had.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because we went to her place four days ago and she seemed …’ She peeked at Laila to see if she was listening, but she had her back to them. The tonga driver had handed Laila the reins, and she sat far forward, concentrating on the job. Bua hoped that she wouldn’t be able to hear much over the creak of the wheels and thud of the horse’s hooves. ‘The girl seemed different. Still nervous, but much less frightened than that day at the church. Wanted to know if I’d told anyone.’
‘Have you?’
‘Haw, Sister! How you can ask? As if I would!’ Bua waited two beats before asking: ‘Have you?’
‘Me? What good would it do me to tell anyone, tell? As it is, your mistress is running after us poor sisters with a knife. I say something, and all the blame will come on our heads. “Yes, yes,” she will say. “It is all your doing, spoiling our girls and all. I know you Christians.” More I think about it, more I know that silence is golden.’
‘Sister jee, my mistress wouldn’t say that. She respects you all too much.’ Sister Clementine opened her mouth to disagree, but Bua hurried on. ‘So, I was saying, Sister, the girl looked different to me. Remember how she was that day, her face all swollen with crying, and she looking over her shoulder all the time? Well, now she looks calm, not so much happy, but calm. So I wondered if she had been to see you and whether you had helped her?’
‘Of course not,’ Sister Clementine snapped. ‘As if we would! Shame on you, Bua, for asking. You think we sisters want to burn in hell?’
‘Never, never, Sister jee. I know you wouldn’t, Sister. So good and pious you are. Everyone in the village is always saying, “That Sister Clementine is God’s own angel come down into this sinful world to show us the way. When we are all lying in our dark graves, cold and dead, thinking now the devil will come, suddenly a light will shine, and it will be Sister Clementine with an electric torch come to show us the way up to heaven.” That’s what they say about you, Sister.’
The nun looked mollified.
‘So I wondered,’ Bua murmured, ‘what had happened to make the girl look relieved. I knew she wouldn’t go to the midwife in her village. She does these jobs for a price, but ten, ten tongues she has. Telling her anything is like asking the mullah to make announcement on the mosque’s loudspeaker after Friday prayers. Rani wouldn’t have gone to her.’
‘Did you see her stomach?’ Sister Clementine spoke into Bua’s ear. ‘Is anything showing yet?’
‘Girl looks very thin, still,’ Bua whispered back. ‘No bump, no nothing. But she’s the type who won’t show till ninth month, almost. And then like snake that’s swallowed an orange.’
‘She couldn’t have gone to another midwife in some other village?’
‘I don’t think so. Midwife from our village is away in Kasoor – her daughter has the big fever. The other village, Dera, which is close to the girl, is where her mother and stepfather live. She’d be too scared to go there.
‘So why is she looking happy then?’
The tonga lurched over a rut in the road, and Laila was thrown against the driver’s side. Bua swung around, glared at the driver and pulled Laila back to her own corner of the seat. She turned back to Sister Clementine and resumed their conversation.
‘Would the child know anything?’ Sister Clementine cocked her head at Laila. ‘Maybe the girl has confided in her.’
‘Even if she were to tell the child, child wouldn’t know what was what. She’s not grown-up yet,’ said Bua, by way of explanation.
‘Could it be that her man means to marry her and that’s why she’s happy?’
‘Once men have taken what they want, Sister, why should they marry? Tell? Still, we can only pray.’ Bua sighed. ‘What a pity that Fareeda Bibi didn’t listen to you that day. If only she had.’
‘I did my best. Holy Mother was seeing. But your mistress wasn’t listening. Too busy with that snake, Jacob.’ Sister Clementine folded her hands primly in her lap.
‘A pity, a big, big pity.’
‘She didn’t even offer me a cup of tea.’ Sister Clementine sniffed. ‘Or water even. I had to pull out a chair for myself. Otherwise, she would have made me stand like a beggar. That’s no way to treat a guest, is it? And that, too, a guest who is a stranger in your land. So much she hurt me, Bua, only I know what wounds I carry in my heart.’
‘My Bibi is not like that.’
‘Are you saying I’m lying?’
‘No, no, Sister jee, not at all. All I’m saying is I don’t know why Fareeda Bibi was like that that day.’
‘Who knows who is like what? Still, I did my best. The girl was unlucky. Here, Bua, you better get off. I’m going on to the convent.’
12
Colonel Khursheed Butt’s dislike for Tariq was based not on a personal aversion but on a general antipathy he reserved for people with privileged backgrounds. The colonel liked to think of them as ‘slackers and softies’, given to extravagant sentiments but lacking in the moral fibre and decisive action that counted on a battlefield. Himself a scholarship boy from a missionary school, the colonel had worked hard for everything in life and rewarded himself for his efforts with unwavering self-respect.
The night of Hester’s dinner, the colonel had been in Colewallah for a month. He had hoped for better things by this stage in his career, for Colewallah was a small cantonment about ten miles from Sabzbagh and Bridgebad. But he had manfully swallowed his disappointment and prepared to administer the agricultural district of small market towns and scattered villages with the grace befitting ‘the good sport’ he considered himself.
Now, driving towards Sabzbagh, he told himself that he had come to call on Tariq at his home in his official capacity – the new colonel acquainting himself with a local grandee. However, if the colonel were to be frank, he would admit that since that evening at Hester’s he’d been consumed by a gnawing curiosity to see Tariq’s set-up for himself. Tariq had irritated the colonel intensely that evening.
First, there was the leftie garbage spouted with a scornful disregard for the tremendous fight the army was putting up in Bengal. Then,
there was all that smug, self-righteous rot about improving the lot of his villagers. But what had incensed the colonel most of all was the way those two white dinosaurs had hung on to his every word. Visionary, indeed! The colonel snorted. Given his own way, the colonel would like nothing better than to shove Tariq into the marshy wilds of Bengal at the point of a bayonet and see how fast his urbane Oxford manner evaporated.
As for his open-necked shirt and old tweed jacket! The colonel’s lip curled at the memory of Tariq’s clothes. He’d shown Tariq a thing or two about dressing well, he thought, stealing a look at himself in the rear-view mirror of the car. Straightening his peaked cap ever so slightly, the colonel wondered idly how Tariq would receive him. And that uppity wife of his! Had he, Khursheed Butt, been married to her, he would have taught her a thing or two about manners. He was looking forward to this meeting today.
But when the colonel’s chauffeur drove up to the bungalow, it was to find that the Azeems were not at home. Fazal informed the colonel that Tariq was at the factory and Fareeda and Laila were in Colewallah town. Undeterred, the colonel alighted from the car and announced that he would wait. Fazal showed him into the sitting room and asked if he would like some tea. The colonel declined, but just as Fazal was about to leave the room, he said, ‘On second thoughts, why don’t you go and fetch your master? Tell him he has a guest. Hurry, I don’t have all day.’
Tariq and Fareeda were not averse to guests arriving unannounced, for it could sometimes get lonely in Sabzbagh. So Tariq did not mind when Fazal came to fetch him. When Tariq entered the sitting room, he found the colonel hunched over a table, peering at a framed cluster of old family photographs. Tariq cleared his throat noisily. The colonel did not turn around. Mildly peeved, Tariq marched up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The colonel spun around.
‘Ah, Tariq Sahib, I was acquainting myself with the pictures of your worthy forbears. A distinguished lot, I must say.’
Tariq gestured to the sofa on which the colonel had placed his swagger stick and cap. Tariq was about to ask after his guest’s family but held back. He had a feeling that the colonel would get to the point of his visit in his own time.
‘I must congratulate you on arranging your house so elegantly, even in the depths of the provinces,’ said the colonel.
‘It’s Fareeda’s doing.’ Tariq shrugged. ‘You can compliment her yourself when she returns from Colewallah. Would you care for some tea, Colonel?’
‘I only take tea at breakfast.’
‘Something cold then?’
‘Nothing just now. Thank you,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘I see you are fond of reading.’ The colonel nodded at the rows of books.
‘Oh, those. They were my father’s.’
‘Your father was from these parts?’
‘Yes, my family has lived here for many years.’
‘How many?’
‘Am I being interrogated?’ Tariq laughed, only half in jest.
‘I apologize if it came across that way,’ replied the colonel stiffly. ‘So! In what direction do your literary tastes run?’
‘I’m not sure I have any particular literary tastes,’ said Tariq. ‘But I suppose I like biography.’
‘How surprising!’ The corners of the colonel’s lips lifted.
‘Why?’
‘Because I am also fond of biography. I wouldn’t have thought that you and I’d have much in common. Don’t you agree?’
Tariq shrugged. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘That’s the difference, you see.’ The colonel smacked the arm of his chair for emphasis. ‘You don’t give much thought to a casual introduction over dinner, but I do. I take very little for granted, whereas I suspect you do. But then, you can afford to.’
‘I don’t quite follow …’
‘You and I, Tariq Sahib, we are very different people, our reading preferences notwithstanding. We come from different worlds. We also view it very differently. You pride yourself on being a liberal. You want to smarten up your peasants. You feel sympathy for the poor downtrodden Bengali. You would, were it up to you, advocate talks, rapprochement, compromise.’ The colonel laughed. ‘All very worthy sentiments, but misplaced, don’t you think?’
Tariq digested his guest’s outburst in silence. Something had obviously provoked him. Tariq frowned as he tried to recall his comments before the colonel’s little rant.
‘Come now, don’t deny it. You are a bit of a leftie, aren’t you?’ mocked the colonel.
‘I don’t think my sympathy for the Bengalis is at all misplaced,’ replied Tariq primly. ‘But enough about me, Colonel. Where do you stand?’
‘Politically?’ The colonel stretched out his legs and, tilting his head to one side, viewed his shiny boots with approval. ‘That’s easy. I stand with my country. I’m a simple man. A patriot. A soldier. And I’m proud to say I think like one. When someone threatens the territorial integrity of my country, I regard him as an enemy. An enemy who should be taught a lesson. And, since you ask, Tariq Sahib, let me tell you that I have no faith in the politicians you probably hold dear. They are lying, manipulative and selfish, each and every one of them. The true guardian of this country is the military. But please don’t think I’m not appreciative of the efforts you are making here.’ The colonel flicked a tiny speck from his khaki trousers. He raised his gaze and smiled blandly at Tariq. ‘A man in your position needn’t throw himself so wholly into his charitable works.’
‘A man in my position?’ queried Tariq.
‘You know, old landed gentry. Feudal, some people may call you. Your grateful peasants would still tug their forelock, even if you didn’t run your factory.’
‘My family’s association with this place makes it incumbent on me to contribute. And I certainly don’t think of it as charity,’ Tariq replied angrily. ‘The people of my village are as involved in it as I. I can also tell you, they are much keener on their own progress than I could ever be.’ His words sounded wooden to his own ears. Why was he bothering to explain himself to this jackass soldier? It riled him that the colonel had managed to put him on the back foot. He had nothing to apologize for. He was proud of his work. And who else could run the project, if not him? If the colonel couldn’t see that, then it was his problem, not Tariq’s.
‘My mistake. I admire your efforts wholeheartedly.’ The colonel spoke silkily. ‘But still, it must be nice to receive all that adulation. When I met you at Mrs Bullock’s, I thought to myself, why would a man who has had your opportunities and education bury himself in a village like this? But now,’ he said, looking around him once more, ‘I understand all too clearly. In the big city, Tariq Sahib, you would be advantaged, certainly, but you’d be one of many. Here, you get to run the show. If I were in your place, I, too, would want to come back to this house, this status, this certainty. Good choice.’
Tariq looked at his visitor’s toothbrush moustache, crew-cut hair and stiff starchy uniform and felt a strong urge to throw him out of his house.
‘If I can be of any assistance to you in your worthy work, please do not hesitate to get in touch,’ said the colonel, steepling his fingers.
‘Thank you for your kind offer, but we’ve stumbled along for almost eight years now, Colonel, without your or anyone else’s help. I think we can manage.’
‘Not just eight years, Tariq Sahib. I would say for at least three generations, if those photographs are anything to go by.’ He nodded at the table.
So that was what had riled him, Tariq realized with a jolt. He’d taken exception to the photographs, to his background. They had made him insecure. Pleased to have found the colonel’s Achilles’ heel, Tariq smiled.
‘I must correct you,’ he said, lazily crossing his legs. ‘It’s eleven generations, not three.’
The colonel flushed a dark, angry red. ‘Actually, I came to invite you for dinner,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to provide as refined a setting as this. But we shall do our humble be
st.’
Tariq did not extend an invitation in return. He stood up. He was tired of the colonel’s insinuations, and there was work to be done at the centre. The colonel took the hint and also rose to his feet.
‘I’ll ask my wife to give Mrs Azeem a call soon.’
‘There’s no hurry. Please take your time.’ Tariq sauntered into the hallway, opened the front door and stood aside to let him pass.
The colonel’s driver leaned against the car bonnet, probing his ear with the car key. As soon as he saw his boss, he leapt to the back door and pulled it open. Ignoring the driver, the colonel placed his cap on his head and gazed about him, in no apparent rush to leave.
‘That tree is very big.’ He pointed with his swagger stick at the silk cotton tree. ‘It rather looms over the house. Are there any bedrooms under it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Tariq.
‘Ever thought of getting it cut?’
‘It’s weathered its fair share of storms.’
‘But storms are not bombs.’
‘Aren’t you being rather dramatic?’
‘One cannot overstress the spite of the Indians.’ The colonel smacked his palm lightly with the stick. ‘We have fought them before, and we know what we are up against. There is nothing to which they will not stoop.’
Tariq looked at the tree. A long-gone Irishwoman had planted it many years ago, and now his daughters’ swings hung from its lowest branch. Through the lattice of its yellowing leaves, he could see the dark bulge of a beehive in its upper boughs.
‘If the house were to be bombed, we’d get blown up, tree or no tree,’ said Tariq. ‘When do you expect war to be declared?’
‘I couldn’t say. All I can tell you is that nobody values peace more than a soldier. Now that I am here, could I have a look around your factory, too?’
‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Tariq. ‘We’re working on a large order, and it holds things up if visitors have to be shown around. Now, I have to get back.’