by Moni Mohsin
A scornful laugh erupted from Barkat, who had been leaning against the bonnet, listening to Mashooq’s narrative.
‘As if anyone would allow this dirty dog to touch the Koran,’ he muttered.
‘That’s enough, Barkat!’ Tariq glared at the driver.
Mashooq smirked at Barkat and then switched his gaze back to Tariq, quickly replacing the smirk with a wounded look. ‘Sahib, you can believe what you want. But I am telling the truth.’
‘All right, suppose I accept your story? What do you want me to do?’
‘I can never presume to tell you what to do, Sahib. I can merely make the humble suggestion that you write to Shamshad Sahib, telling him that he’s made a mistake and he must take me back. Allow me to deliver that note to him. After that, you need bother yourself no further on my account. I’ve been enough of an imposition on your time and patience.’
‘What makes you think that Shamshad Khan will take you back if I ask him?’
‘Like all of us here, Sahib, he holds you in the highest esteem. Don’t we know how you got rid of that cruel policeman who used to terrorize us in Sabzbagh? Don’t we know how you helped us when the floods came? Don’t we know how you help our sick, our unemployed? He would do anything for you. Besides …’ Mashooq left the sentence hanging.
‘Besides?’ prompted Tariq.
‘I happen to know, Sahib,’ Mashooq said in a low, conspiratorial voice, ‘that he is very keen for you to put in a good word for him with the new colonel at the cantonment. One favour, as they say, begets another.’
‘You’ve done your homework well,’ observed Tariq with a wry smile. ‘But then, I always knew that, whatever else you may be, you’re a thorough sort of man. You’d leave no stone unturned to obtain a favour or settle a score.’
‘Settling scores is the privilege of powerful people like you, Sahib. It is not for humble folk like me. I just want my job back so I can feed my children.’
‘Before I write any note to Shamshad Khan, I’d like to hear his side of the story.’
‘There are no sides, Sahib.’ Mashooq cracked his knuckles. ‘There is only one, the truth, which I have already told you.’
‘Still, I must have all the facts. You wait here while I call Shamshad Khan. If what you say is true, you’ll have your note.’
‘Sahib, remember who I am,’ Mashooq called out after Tariq. ‘I am the son-in-law of the woman who has worked for your family for forty years. Would I lie to you?’
But Tariq had already disappeared into the house. Muttering an oath, Mashooq kicked at the bench.
‘Afraid of being found out, eh, Mohammed Mashooq?’ sniggered Barkat. He leaned against the car, fingers drumming on the bonnet. ‘But if you are as “innocent as a newborn” what do you have to fear?’
‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ Mashooq snarled, and flung himself on the bench. Still chuckling, Barkat went off into the kitchen.
A little while later, Tariq flung open the back door and strode into the yard.
‘How dare you come here and feed a pack of lies to me? What do you take me for? A bloody fool?’ he shouted.
‘Sahib, I don’t know what you mean,’ Mashooq whimpered.
‘I’ll tell you what I mean. I just called Shamshad Khan, and he told me how you arrived drunk at work. How you were taking slugs from a bottle you kept hidden under your shirt. How you were yelling obscenities, singing lewd songs and taunting your fellow workers. How, when a fight broke out and the foreman reprimanded you, you smashed the bottle against a table and threatened him with its jagged end. When he fetched Shamshad Khan, you attacked him. When they threw you out, you stood outside the factory, swaying on your feet and screaming that you would abduct Shamshad Khan’s daughter. You then went into great detail about what you would do to her. And this in the hearing of all his employees. Now you know what I mean? Now you remember what happened? Or is the fog still clouding your drunken brain?’
‘Sahib, sahib.’ Mashooq flung himself at Tariq’s feet. ‘Forgive me,’ he wailed. ‘I am so ashamed. I didn’t know that was what happened. All I can recall is feeling ill and being thrown out and then waking up on the canal road.’
‘Get up.’ Tariq tried to shake his ankles free of Mashooq’s grip. ‘You well know this is not the first time you’ve shown up at work blind drunk,’ he shouted. ‘Had I been in Shamshad Khan’s place, I would have tossed you out the very first time, but he’s a decent man, who knew you had four children, so he gave you another chance. This is how you repay his generosity? With drunkenness and violence? And then you have the gall to come here and ask me to write him a letter demanding that he take you back. Instead of apologizing like an honest man, you hide behind lies and bluster. Get up, you snivelling coward. Get up and get out.’
‘Where can I go, Sahib?’ he moaned.
‘Go to hell. And let go of my feet before I kick you off.’
Mashooq released Tariq’s ankles. Uncoiling slowly like a cobra, he stood up and looked Tariq in the eye.
‘You have made up your mind, then?’ he asked softly. ‘You have decided that I am lying and he is telling the truth? May I ask why?’
‘Because I know Shamshad Khan to be a truthful, decent man,’ replied Tariq. ‘And I know you for the filth you are.’
‘You are siding with him because, like you, he is rich, and I am poor,’ Mashooq said in a toneless voice. ‘You rich men always stick together. The rest of us can drown in the canal, for all you care. Pretending to be great charitable souls with your factories and your speeches. Well, I don’t want your charity. I want my rights. You try feeding five mouths on a factory worker’s wage and then tell me if you don’t feel like drowning your misery in drink.’
‘Get out of my sight this instant.’ Tariq spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Before I have you thrown out.’
‘Just as you say, Sahib,’ sneered Mashooq. ‘But remember this also, Sahib, that I don’t forget an insult. And today you have insulted me.’
‘I’ve seen thousands like you, Mashooq,’ scoffed Tariq. ‘And I’ve found them to be cowards. Do your worst. Your threats don’t frighten me. Now get out of my house.’
13
Mashooq left Tariq’s house undecided what to do. He had left his bicycle at the gate, thinking he’d cycle straight to the factory from there and, presenting his note with a flourish to Shamshad Khan, saunter in. In fact, he had boasted as much to the other labourers when he had arrived at the factory that morning to find his entry barred.
‘See if I’m not back in half an hour,’ he had yelled, as they’d filed into the factory. ‘I’ll march in like a rajah, just wait and see.’
There was no question of going back to the factory now. He stuck his hand in his pocket and found a crumpled piece of paper. Pulling it out, he unrolled it slowly. It was a five-rupee note. Enough for two drinks. He could get the rest on credit. He was about to mount his bicycle when he heard a rustling sound behind him. He stopped and listened. There it was again. It was coming from behind a hedge by the gate.
‘Psst! Wait. Listen to me.’
He leaned over the chest-high hedge and saw a girl crouching on the other side. She had a pointed chin and tilted eyes. Her thin sallow face was bracketed by two beribboned bunches of hair.
‘You are Mashooq, aren’t you?’ The girl was forthright. As if it was her God-given right to question him. ‘Fatima’s husband.’
Mashooq noted her gold earrings and spotless cream cardigan with a pale-blue velvet edging. This must be Tariq’s daughter. What was her name? His hands itched to rip off her earrings. But they were too close to the house. If she cried out and he was caught, Tariq wouldn’t spare him. He took a deep breath and, clenching his fists at his side, nodded in reply to her question. Then, moving closer to the hedge, he said, ‘You know, I’m a foolish, forgetful fellow. What was your name?’
‘Laila. I’m Laila,’ she replied.
Despite her finery, she looked like a runt. She had skinny legs and a stringy chic
ken neck, begging to be wrung. She hadn’t taken after her mother. Fareeda was a beauty in her remote, disdainful way. He had often amused himself with fantasies about her. He knew how to melt that haughty reserve, how to make her sizzle like butter in a hot pan. The girl was speaking.
‘I saw you back at the house. From the pantry door. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but I saw you throw yourself at Aba’s feet.’ She had happened to pass by the door and had seen her father and an unfamiliar man facing each other across the yard. She had been too far away to hear their exchange, but she could sense the tension in their body language. Mashooq had his back to her, but the fury in Tariq’s face had shocked her. It was only when Mashooq was limping away that she had suddenly recognized him.
She had seen him before. Barkat had been driving Sara and her through Sabzbagh bazaar one day when Mashooq crossed the road before them. He had limped across at a snail’s pace, wheeling along a bike that looked too heavy for him. Barkat had honked impatiently. He had stuck his head out of the window and shouted, ‘Oye, Mashooq, you miserable dog, get out of the way before I mow you down.’ Mashooq had spun around, his face clenched into a fist.
Watching him limp down the driveway of her home, it had dawned on Laila that perhaps Rani had sent him to Sabzbagh. Unable to reach Laila herself, perhaps she had enlisted her stepfather’s help. Laila knew Rani had little to do with Mashooq. She seldom mentioned him. And when she did, it was always with rancour. She loathed him for taking away her mother and then abusing her as he did. He would not have been her first choice as a messenger. But perhaps he’d been her only choice. Why else would he come to their house? He had no connection with them, save through Fatima. Could he have told Tariq Rani’s secret? Was that why her father had been so furious? Laila needed to know.
‘So why did you throw yourself at Aba’s feet?’ she enquired again, tilting her head to one side like an inquisitive mynah.
Mashooq bared his tobacco-stained teeth in a grin. Could he charm her into handing over her earrings? They were worth at least a couple of months’ wages.
‘What a pretty little girl you’ve grown into.’
‘I haven’t. I’m just like I was.’
‘Well, I think you are very pretty. And so does, so does,’ he cast around for a name that would mean something to her, ‘so does Rani.’
‘Does she?’ Laila flushed. ‘How do you know?’
‘She told me.’ Mashooq noted the flags of colour in her cheeks with satisfaction. He was on the right track.
‘When?’
‘Today.’
‘Did you see her today?’ she asked.
‘Of course. I’m coming straight from Kalanpur. I went to drop off some cane juice that Fatima had sent for her.’
‘But you don’t go very often to Kalanpur, do you?’ The girl looked doubtful.
Mashooq shook his head. ‘Not all of us have time and money like your Aba, you know. If I don’t go to the factory every day, my children starve. That’s why I can’t see Rani as much as I’d like.’
‘How was she?’
‘Fine. Just fine. She sent her love. Asked me to tell you how much she misses you.’
Laila’s face clouded over. ‘I miss Rani, too. She’s my best friend, you know. I wish I could go and see her, but my parents won’t let me. Did she tell you anything else?’
‘Lots, but I promised her I wouldn’t tell,’ replied Mashooq, playing for time. He stared at Laila’s neck. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was an amulet on a gold chain under her cardigan. A rich brat like her. Bound to have one. He looked over her shoulder. He could hear the drone of a lawn mower, but he couldn’t see anyone.
‘Where’s your ayah?’
‘Oh, she’s tidying my cupboard,’ the girl replied haughtily. ‘I managed to slip away without her seeing me. I wouldn’t have been able to talk to you like this if she’d been with me.’
‘And why’s that?’ He rose on his toes to get a better view of the drive.
‘Because she says you’re not a nice man. That you beat your wife. And make rude noises in the bazaar.’
‘She does, does she?’ Mashooq spread out his hands and smiled winningly. ‘Do I look the sort?’
‘I don’t know. Bua doesn’t lie.’ Then she remembered the story of the baby and the bush. ‘Well, only sometimes. Why was my father angry with you just now?’
Mashooq was bored of parrying her questions. A sharp kick on the shin would send her flying. He gave her a small obsequious smile over the hedge.
‘Because I’d got into a fight with someone who had badmouthed your noble father. But your father was upset, for he believed that it was I who had said the bad words. Even though I swore I hadn’t.’
‘What had the man said?’
‘I can’t say.’ Mashooq looked down at his hands. ‘Not to a child. But, rest assured, I made mincemeat out of that scoundrel who said your father was an arrogant, bossy bastard who needed a kick up the arse. I couldn’t stand by and hear him say that without beating him into a pulp. Now could I?’ He looked at her from under lowered lids. ‘If your parents won’t take you to Kalanpur, why don’t you come with me, hmm?’
‘How?’
Mashooq patted the seat of his bicycle. ‘On this.’
Laila shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. Ammi would be angry.’
‘She doesn’t have to find out,’ he murmured.
‘She finds out everything.’
‘Tsk. Rani will be disappointed. She wanted to see you so much. She sent me to fetch you. “Get Laila,” she said. “I want to tell her a secret.” But if you won’t come, I’d better go.’ He placed a foot on a pedal and made as if to mount his bike.
‘Wait!’ cried Laila excitedly. ‘I knew she’d sent you. I also know what she’s going to tell me. She almost told me his name the last time I went to Kalanpur, but then Bua came in and she stopped. And now I’m going to Lahore tomorrow, and by the time I come back, she may even be married, and I won’t know …’
‘Married? Did you say married?’ Mashooq spun around.
Laila paused. ‘Didn’t she tell you? You said she’d told you lots of things.’ Doubt flickered in her eyes.
‘Er, of course.’ Mashooq cleared his throat. ‘Of course she’s told me about her marriage. But I’ve forgotten the exact date. Remind me.’
‘Soon. Very soon. Maybe even next month.’
Mashooq started. It was the twenty-eighth of November.
‘Her mother, I know, doesn’t know about her wedding. Does her grandmother?’ he asked.
‘Kaneez?’ Laila pursed her lips. ‘No. I’m the only one who knows. And you, I suppose. She made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I haven’t. Not my parents, not Bua, no one. She trusts me because we’re partners. Did she make you promise too?’
‘Oh, yes, she did. And her, um, fiancé? Have you met him?’ He watched her through narrowed eyes.
‘No. I don’t even know his name. Do you?’
‘She was going to tell me, but we were interrupted.’
‘Same thing happened with me. Suppose he’s not from around here, and she goes off to live with him? Then how will I meet her?’ asked Laila. ‘Now you see why I’m worried?’
‘I’m worried too,’ Mashooq said. ‘Between you and me, I’m worried about whose idea this marriage is. Could it be hers, do you think?’
Laila considered his question. ‘I think it is. She said she’d been meeting him secretly, but then something bad happened, because he got angry with her and said she’d spoilt his life. She thought he was going to run away and leave her all alone. He had begun to shout at her and didn’t want to meet at their secret meeting-place any more. But it’s all different now. He’s being nice to her again and has even said he’ll bring his parents to ask Kaneez properly to let them marry. Like they do for good girls. But he’s told her that if she tells anyone, he won’t come. That’s why it’s such a secret.’
‘I see.’ Mashooq rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Laila? Laila, where are you?’ Bua’s voice drifted across the garden.
Laila backed away. ‘I must go. But will you tell Rani that I’m going to Lahore today and will she please, please, not get married till I come back?’
‘Laila?’ Bua’s voice was closer. Laila could hear the irritation in it.
‘Did you hear me?’ Laila ran back to the hedge and peered over it, but Mashooq was gone.
It was dark when Mashooq staggered out of the liquor shop. There was something he had to do. It was gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he could not quite remember. Something to do with Tariq. Or was it Shamshad Khan? No, it was a girl. But who? He vaguely remembered a girl with gold earrings standing behind a hedge. Was it her? No, she was too young. It was another girl. And then he remembered. Squaring his shoulders, he limped across the street to his bicycle, mounted it with some difficulty and rode off into the night.
Her embroidered bed-sheet in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, Rani sat staring at the wall ahead. Then, suddenly, she ripped into the sheet. The cloth was tough and initially resisted the frenzied jabs of her scissors. But she went at it again and again, until the sheet lay intatters around her. Panting, she looked down at the ribbons of white cotton scattered on the floor. In the gloom of her unlit room they looked like torn love letters. There was a smudge of colour among them. Bending down, she picked up the scrap. It had a purple rose embroidered in neat satin stitch, still intact in its corner.
She thought back to the day when she had embroidered the rose. Laila had come to visit, and Rani had been so happy, so hopeful. The rose blurred before her eyes. Rani pressed the embroidered fragment to her mouth. Great gasping sobs racked her slender frame. She sank to the floor still clutching the scrap of bed sheet. Long after the tears ran dry, long after her hiccups subsided, she lay curled up on the floor, her knees against her chest. She turned on to her back, only to feel nausea well up in her throat. Rani pulled herself off the floor and stumbled across to the privy.
When she emerged, the quarter was dark. She had not switched on any lights earlier, and darkness had fallen, unnoticed. Rani was feeling her way across the yard when a hand descended on her shoulder. She shrieked.