The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

  ‘On my next visit then.’ It was more a statement than a question, but Tariq let it pass, vowing not to let him anywhere near his factory.

  The colonel raised his hand in an ironic salute to Tariq and then, with a swish of tyres, he was gone.

  Tariq was sitting on the veranda when Fareeda returned from her weekly shopping expedition to Colewallah. She had the satisfied air of a woman who had accomplished much in little time.

  ‘Weren’t you going to spend the afternoon at the factory?’ Fareeda asked Tariq, pushing her dark glasses up over her forehead.

  ‘I was called back to the house by an unexpected visitor.’

  ‘Who?’ Fareeda dropped her handbag to the floor and drew a chair up beside Tariq.

  ‘Colonel Butt.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  Tariq turned up his palms. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘But, still. He must have said something.’

  ‘He said an awful lot. But I still don’t know exactly why he came. Other than to invite us for dinner.’

  ‘He came all this way to personally deliver an invitation?’

  ‘And to check us out. I suspect he came to see the house, the factory, the whole scene, so to speak.’

  ‘So, he was being nosy, was he? Typical! I couldn’t care less where he lived and how.’ Fareeda made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Anyway, did we pass muster?’

  ‘You did. He approved of your decorating skills. Wanted me to congratulate you on “managing to live elegantly even in the depths of the provinces”.’ Tariq mimicked the colonel’s stiff manner.

  ‘“In the depths of the provinces”? How deliciously quaint! I wonder where he learnt that phrase?’ laughed Fareeda. ‘I hope you didn’t accept his dinner invitation?’

  ‘God, no,’ shuddered Tariq.

  ‘So, what else did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot. I asked him when he thought the war would start, but he gave me some patronizing guff and took off soon after, thank God.’ Tariq stood up. ‘Jumped-up little toad, swaggering about in his flunkey’s uniform! Had the nerve to ask me to show him my factory. I’ll have to be gagged and bound before I go anywhere near his cantonment, let alone his house.’

  ‘Seems like it was quite an eventful visit after all. I hope you told him to go to hell.’

  Tariq shrugged. ‘If I had, he’d have stayed till next year, giving me several pieces of his manic mind.’ He paused, before adding, ‘I think we should go to Lahore and fetch Sara.’

  ‘Why?’ Fareeda sat up. ‘He did say something about the war, didn’t he?’

  ‘No. I’d just feel happier if she was here.’

  Tariq stood with his back to Fareeda, staring out into the garden.

  Fareeda picked up her handbag and stood up. ‘I also want to bring my mother,’ she said. ‘I don’t like the thought of her being by herself at such a time in that huge, echoing house.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll leave tomorrow. My mother is to return from Sargodha in three days. Should anything happen before, I suppose she’s as safe with my sister as she is here.’

  ‘You think it could happen as soon as that?’ Fareeda tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

  ‘I have the feeling that we are sleepwalking into a war.’

  ‘In that case, I’d better call Lahore now and tell them we’re coming. What time shall I say?’

  ‘Some time after lunch. Around three?’

  Fareeda told Laila of the proposed trip to Lahore later that evening, while she was brushing her daughter’s hair. They were in Fareeda’s bedroom. Fareeda sat on a stool, and Laila was on the ground, her back resting against Fareeda’s knees.

  ‘We’ll go to Lahore tomorrow,’ Fareeda said casually, brushing Laila’s wavy hair with long firm strokes. ‘We’ll bring Sara back with us.’

  ‘Is she ill? Has she also got typhoid?’ Laila tried to twist around to face her mother.

  ‘No. Hold still. I can’t do your plait if you keep jerking your neck.’

  ‘But the holidays don’t start till the twentieth of December.’

  ‘Of course, the holidays.’ Fareeda smiled. ‘I’d forgotten about those. No, darling, we’re not bringing her back for the holidays, but for something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your father and I think that there might be a war.’

  ‘With fighter planes and bombs and tanks and special spies on parachutes?’

  ‘Where did you learn all this?’ enquired Fareeda.

  ‘From Where Eagles Dare. We saw it twice at the Regal Cinema with Nani.’

  ‘There will probably be tanks and planes, though we’re not likely to see them. But I don’t think there will be special spies on parachutes.’

  ‘And will the Indians come here on their tanks?’ asked Laila.

  ‘To Sabzbagh? I hope not.’

  ‘And if they do? Will we fight them with Aba’s partridge gun?’

  ‘They won’t come here,’ said Fareeda firmly. ‘Stop sucking that ribbon and pass it to me so I can tie your plait. There.’

  ‘But if they do come, I’m ready to fight them, you know. Both Rani and I.’

  ‘How?’ asked Fareeda.

  ‘I can’t tell you. It’s top secret.’

  ‘OK then.’

  Laila was about to skip off when a thought struck her. ‘Does Sara know about the war?’

  ‘I haven’t told her, but it is quite possible that she’s heard from your grandmother, from Nani.’ Fareeda replaced the brush on the dressing table and straightened the stool.

  ‘So will we wait for Sara to come back to the house or will we rush into the school and take her in the middle of the class?’

  ‘We’ll get to Lahore in the afternoon,’ Fareeda explained, ‘long after Sara has returned from school. Next day, we’ll keep her back, and I’ll write a letter to Sister Maria explaining her absence, which I’ll put in the post before we return to Sabzbagh. Satisfied?’

  Laila nodded. ‘Just as well you’re not going to take her in the middle of Mrs Abdullah’s class. She teaches my class maths also, so I know how strict she is. She’d scold you and send you out of the class for interrupting. You can smile all you want, but I know Sara will die of shame.’

  It would be fun to have Sara back again, particularly if there was going to be a war. They could play nurses together, and collect food and blankets for the soldiers, and Laila could show her Hester’s horse. They could also have exploratory expeditions, to check how far the enemy had penetrated into their territory. Sara was good at organizing. She could marshal the hordes of tangle-haired children from the village into an obedient little posse of explorers – something Laila was too shy, too diffident, to attempt on her own. Though a little bossy at times, Sara could be an exciting companion. But she must make sure that Sara did not muscle in on the Terrific Two. She must forewarn Rani not to let her into their secret. Besides, there was still the identity of her bridegroom to be discovered before Laila departed for Lahore.

  ‘What time will we leave tomorrow?’ Laila asked.

  ‘In the afternoon,’ Fareeda replied absently, as she leafed through her telephone book. ‘Will you please pipe down now? I want to make a couple of phone calls.’

  ‘One last question?’

  ‘What?’ Fareeda groaned, shutting the book in resignation.

  ‘If we’re not leaving till the afternoon, can I go and see Rani in the morning?’

  ‘This is the fifth day in a row that you’ve asked me that question. Why is it suddenly so crucial for you to see Rani?’ asked Fareeda, annoyed.

  ‘I can’t tell. I promised.’

  ‘If you can’t tell, then you can’t go,’ Fareeda snapped, flicking open the book.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Laila!’ There was a distinct note of warning in her voice.

  Laila slouched towards the door. How could she leave for Lahore without knowing whom Rani was going to marry? As it was, every night, just before she dropped
off to sleep, Rani’s face would drift before her closed eyelids, wavy, frond-like, a reflection on water. She would appear just as Laila had last seen her – a finger pressed to her lips, reminding her of the promise. The image would dissolve suddenly, as if a stone had been hurled into water.

  What if Rani’s wedding took place while they were in Lahore? Hadn’t she said that it was going to be very, very soon? Laila hoped that she hadn’t got around to buying her clothes and her bridal sandals yet. Without those, she wouldn’t marry, would she? But what if she did? And went to live far away, for ever? Sardar Begum had said that girls found it very hard to come back to their old homes after they got married. What if Rani never came back, never visited Kalanpur again? ‘Please, Allah,’ Laila prayed under her breath, ‘don’t let Rani go away for ever.’

  Tariq and Fareeda received a telephone call while having breakfast the following morning. It was from the engineers of the Oil and Gas Board, requesting Tariq’s presence at his land near Kalanpur, where they were going to lay gas pipes.

  ‘They will have to dig up part of my wheat crop, and they’ve been told to do it in my presence in case I object later,’ explained Tariq between mouthfuls of toast. ‘Apparently, they’ve had some complaints in the last two villages they tackled.’

  ‘What time will they lay the pipes?’ asked Fareeda.

  ‘They’ve asked me to get there at four.’

  ‘You won’t get back till at least six. I thought we were leaving directly after lunch. I hate travelling on that road in the dark. You know that.’

  ‘I had no idea they were going to spring this on me today. I suggested Jacob oversee the work, but they insist I be there. I know it’s inconvenient but it means that, finally, we’ll have a gas connection. Would you mind if we went tomorrow?’

  ‘I suppose not. I’ll have to call my mother and tell her. But we will leave tomorrow? Promise?’

  ‘We’ll leave tomorrow, as early as possible. By the way, where’s this butter from?’ He examined the fluffy white butter on his knife. ‘It’s not from my mother’s, is it?’

  ‘It’s from Bua. No doubt to soften me up for the request which is bound to follow.’

  ‘Trust her to keep her oar in. What does she want?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be enlightened before long. Any news from the British Development Association yet?’

  ‘Only a short note.’ Tariq stroked Fareeda’s cheek with the back of his hand. ‘They say we’ll receive a full reply in a couple of weeks, once they’ve had time to assess everything.’

  ‘At least we’re still in the race. Now leave me to my crossword,’ she said, reaching for the coffeepot. But, a moment later, Tariq strode back into the sitting room.

  ‘What is it now?’ asked Fareeda.

  ‘It’s that damned Mashooq. Fazal has just informed me that he’s here and demands to see me this instant. I said he should come back after I return from Lahore, but the wretch refuses to leave. Says he’ll camp out in the yard till I see him.’

  ‘Just get it over with,’ advised Fareeda. ‘I don’t want him hanging around.’

  Mashooq lounged on a bench by the garage. With his face turned up to the sun, he hummed a ribald Punjabi song. He was of average height and delicate build. His pomaded hair was arranged into a cluster of tight little curls all about his gaunt, strangely hairless face. He had a thick wad of tobacco tucked into one cheek, and a brown trickle of juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Hosing the car a few feet away, Barkat was doing his best to ignore him. Every now and again, however, the driver would look up from his task and throw Mashooq a dirty look. If Mashooq was aware of Barkat’s hostility, he seemed unmoved by it.

  Mashooq sat up and, hawking deep in his throat, spat an arc of tobacco juice in Barkat’s direction. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing brown-stained saliva over his cheek. Flashing Barkat an insolent smile, he shut his heavy-lidded eyes. He settled his head back again and draped himself over the bench with studied nonchalance.

  Barkat flung down the rag with which he was polishing the bonnet and was about to stride around the car towards Mashooq when Tariq appeared. Mashooq’s manner changed abruptly. He jumped up from the bench. He bowed his head, lowered his eyes and folded his hands before him.

  ‘Salaam, Sahib.’ He made to touch Tariq’s feet, but Tariq stepped away. ‘Your slave prays for your long life and good health and prosperity for you and yours.’

  Tariq nodded curtly, trying not to show his revulsion. There was something effeminate about Mashooq’s narrow shoulders and the way his pomaded hair curled confidingly into the nape of his neck. Tariq could smell the flowery aroma of his scented tobacco from where he stood. And what was that glistening brown streak across Mashooq’s pock-marked face? It looked like pus had oozed out of his cheek.

  From the hesitation in his manner, Tariq guessed Mashooq was about to ask a favour. It wasn’t the first time that he had approached Tariq with a request. A couple of years previously, he had asked Tariq for help in obtaining his identity card; and then there was that occasion when Tariq had received a pleading call from the jail, where the local inspector had held him for drunk and disorderly behaviour. Tariq had been sorely tempted to let him rot but had capitulated under combined pressure from Sardar Begum and Kaneez.

  Personally, Tariq thought that Fatima would be better off without him, but that, he accepted, was not his decision. All he could do was make her life a little easier by entertaining her husband’s occasional petitions and, as far as possible, keep him out of trouble.

  ‘What do you want, Mashooq?’

  ‘What do I want, Sahib? I want to spend my life at your feet.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well, man. But what do you want?’

  ‘I didn’t want to inconvenience you, Sahib, for I know how busy a man of your position is. Believe me, Sahib, I would rather drag myself on my belly over broken glass than bother you with my petty problems. But what option does a poor, insignificant creature like I have but to appeal to your munificence?’

  ‘Now, Mashooq, I’m leaving for Lahore tomorrow morning, and there’s a lot I have to do before then. I can’t stand around all day listening to your theatrics, so if you want me to do anything for you, you’d better spit it out,’ said Tariq.

  ‘Sahib, my tongue falters at the thought of burdening you with the misfortune that has befallen me.’

  ‘What misfortune?’

  ‘I, the father of four children, have lost my job. But I have not lost it, Sahib.’ Mashooq wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘I was tricked out of it by miscreants, by troublemakers. I am innocent as a newborn. My only fault, Sahib, is that I am too trusting,’ he sobbed. ‘I am no match for these strange times, for these crafty people.’

  ‘So you’ve been sacked?’

  ‘No, Sahib, I’ve been tricked.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! I’m asking you a straight question. Have you or have you not been sacked?’

  ‘Sahib, I’ve been thrown out of the milk factory.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This poor, simple villager was the victim of a devious plot. Yesterday afternoon, Sahib, as we went back to work after the lunch break, I told Sarwar, a co-worker, that I was thirsty, and that I’d get a drink from the tap outside and join him in the factory. “There’s no need,” he said. “Why go all that way when I can quench your thirst right here?” He had a bottle with him, Sahib, a dark-brown glass bottle. He held it out to me and said, “Go ahead. Slake your thirst.”

  ‘Now, as you know, Sahib, I have, once or twice, at the insistence of friends, taken a sip or two of alcohol.’ He smiled sheepishly at Tariq. ‘But I know what that is like. It smells of rotting dates and looks like cloudy water. But this, Sahib, was different. I can’t describe it, but it was fragrant. I said to Sarwar, “But this is not water.” “No,” he said, “it’s sandalwood sherbet, from Lahore.” Unworldly as I am, I took a few gulps and followed Sarwar into the factory.

  �
�No sooner had I begun work than I felt a strange heaviness in my limbs. Next, I felt dizzy. The factory was spinning around me. I was aware that the owner, Shamshad Sahib, had come in and was asking me something. But try as I might, I could not answer him. My tongue was cleaving to my palate. The last thing I remember was tearing at my collar, which was tight as a hangman’s noose. Then I passed out, Sahib.

  ‘When I came to, it was dark, and I was sprawled by the side of a deserted road. My bicycle was lying on its side. The tyres were spinning as if someone had kicked them in passing. Looking about me, I realized I was on the canal road. I staggered to my feet. With every step I took, a shooting pain ran from my head straight to the soles of my feet.

  ‘I wanted to curl up and go to sleep. But because of my duty to my wife and children, I climbed on to my bicycle and went home. Sahib, don’t ask with what difficulty I made the journey. Allah must have been watching over me.’ He turned his face up to the sky as if in gratitude.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The next morning,’ continued Mashooq, ‘meaning today, still feeling unwell, I went to the factory. As soon as I entered, I noticed people were giving me strange looks and whispering behind my back. At first I thought I might have a bruise on my face, but I checked in a glass and I was fine, or as fine as an ugly fellow like I can ever be. And then, Shamshad Khan Sahib comes striding into the factory, followed by his foreman, and starts screaming at me to get out, never to show my face there again. What things he said, Sahib,’ Mashooq blubbed, his shoulders shaking. ‘What names he called me. A pig would blush with shame if he heard.

  ‘Pushing and kicking, he flung me out of the door and down the stairs. As I got to my feet, I saw Sarwar. He was watching me from a window. He was smiling, Sahib, smiling ! Beside him was his brother, whom he’d been trying to find a job in the factory for weeks. Shamshad Sahib had told him he could only take on extra staff when there was a vacancy. Only then did I understand, Sahib, what a cruel joke had been played on me.’

  ‘You certainly know how to spin a dramatic tale,’ remarked Tariq dryly.

  ‘It is no tale, Sahib. I swear on my dead mother’s grave. I promise you, it is the truth. I am ready to swear on the holy Koran.’