by Moni Mohsin
Squatting on the bank, Mashooq said he scooped up a handful of muddy water and slaked his thirst. He then washed his face and neck and lay down to rest with his back against a tree. He must have been more tired than he realized, for it was almost midday when he woke. His body was stiff and chilled to the bone. He looked around for his cycle and remembered that he had left it behind in the hut by the brick kiln. When he reached the kiln, farmers were already harvesting the cane in the surrounding fields. Fortunately, he did not recognize any of them. And nor they him. Watched silently by the farmers, he entered the hut. He found his discarded jacket on the floor. He saw that the ground was bloodstained. But he did not dwell on it. He retrieved his bike and cycled down to Champa, his old village.
He didn’t know why he felt a compulsion to go there. It was a good couple of hours’ ride away, but he didn’t think twice about it. He stood his bicycle under a tree and walked over to a well where he had played as a child. There was a group of children playing there, none of whom he recognized.
An incident from the past came vividly to him. When he was about seven, boys from the village tried to put him in a bucket and lower him into the well. It had been their idea of a prank. Terrified, he had fought them with all his puny strength. He’d scratched and kicked and swore till he’d fought free. He had run as fast as he could, but his limp slowed him down. His tormentors had soon caught up with him and clobbered him until he felt as if his whole body was one throbbing wound. At last, when he thought he was going to pass out, they had stopped, but only on condition that he would repeat after them five times, ‘I’m a dirty, lame bastard and I am the lowest of the low.’ But that afternoon, he realized that those old memories no longer had the power to hurt him. He had cast off that burden. He had finally escaped his past, his history. He was free.
Having relayed the events of that day, Mashooq sighed and closed his eyes. He did not seem at all distressed by his confession. Nor did he seem remorseful. On the contrary, Feroze was startled to notice, he was smiling serenely.
‘Inspector, you have heard and recorded this man’s admission of murder?’ asked Tariq.
‘But I haven’t admitted murder,’ protested Mashooq, looking from Tariq to the inspector. ‘I did not murder her. Murder is a sin. I did not murder her. I cleansed her. I carried out Allah’s will.’
‘You terrorized a child and beat the life out of her, you bloody coward,’ shouted Tariq. ‘And you dare tell me that you didn’t murder her?’
‘But I didn’t. I’m not just saying it to walk free. I was going to give myself up anyway. I’m not ashamed of what I did. I’m proud of it. After I returned from Champa, I came to Sabzbagh to give myself up voluntarily. I knew there would be a search on for Rani, and I wanted to tell you what had happened to her. To put your minds at rest, as mine was.’
‘Then how did you come to be face down in the gutter this morning?’ asked Feroze.
‘Old habits die hard, I suppose,’ murmured Mashooq, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I got into Sabzbagh at about seven that evening. In the bazaar, I bumped into an old friend, who was returning from a cockfight in which he’d won some money. “Come, let’s celebrate,” he said. I declined, but he insisted. I hadn’t eaten for two days. The drink affected me more than I thought it would. What happened after that,’ he shrugged, ‘you know.’
Tariq took a step towards the bed and thrust his face into Mashooq’s. ‘I shall make sure that you pay for this, Mashooq,’ he ground out. ‘You shall stand trial for the murder of an innocent girl, and you shall hang for it.’
‘Hang? For protecting the honour of a sinful girl? For saving her bastard child from a miserable life? For removing the stain of dishonour?’ Mashooq frowned in puzzlement. Then he shrugged and said, ‘Do what you have to. I know I did my duty. My conscience is clear.’
Tariq drove straight to Kalanpur from the police station. It was dusk by the time he reached the haveli. Sardar Begum had withdrawn into her bedroom with the two women. A brazier of coals stood in the middle of the room, and mother and daughter sat huddled by it. Fatima’s son was in her lap, wrapped in her shawl. Only his face peeped out from its folds. Sardar Begum sat on a sofa, cross-legged, rocking back and forth as she read aloud from the Koran that lay propped open before her.
Tariq slumped down beside his mother and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was soothed by the rising and falling cadences of Sardar Begum’s Arabic recitation. He was a child again, in bed with fever. His mother, dark-haired and smooth-skinned, bent over him, reciting this very same verse from the Koran. Her cool, attar-scented hand stroked his burning forehead.
Tariq looked at Fatima. She seemed as if she had aged ten years in a single afternoon. She gazed at the fire, hollow-eyed, defeated. Sardar Begum read to the end of a passage, then closed the book. She kissed it and touched it to her eyes. Rising to her feet, she trudged to the mantelpiece, where she laid it down. Only then did she speak to Tariq.
‘What news have you brought now?’ she asked.
Editing the more sordid details, Tariq recounted Mashooq’s story. When Tariq finished, there was a muffled cry from Fatima. Her fist was in her mouth, and tears cascaded down her face. Kaneez had her arm around her daughter but gazed dry-eyed at the brazier, her hawk-like face bleak. Fatima’s son nodded against his mother’s bosom.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Sardar Begum.
‘At the police station. Tomorrow we are going to register a case against him and, once that happens, he will probably be moved to Colewallah jail to await trial.’
‘Trial? What trial?’ Kaneez raised a puzzled face.
‘Mashooq’s trial for Rani’s murder,’ Tariq repeated.
‘Did you say the trial will be held in a court at Colewallah?’ Kaneez had put aside Fatima and was now facing Tariq.
‘Yes, at least in Colewallah. Perhaps even in Lahore, if the case goes up to the High Court.’
‘High Court? Lahore? What do you mean?’
‘Mashooq has admitted to killing Rani. His statement has been taken down by Inspector Feroze at Sabzbagh station,’ Tariq explained. ‘Mashooq will have to stand trial for murder and explain to a court why he did it. If they find him guilty, which I am sure they will, since he has already confessed voluntarily, he will either be hanged or imprisoned for life.’
‘Hanged? Oh, no, we can’t let that happen,’ said Kaneez.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Think of the scandal, the shame, if it comes out that Rani was killed by her own stepfather. No, no, it must never come out.’ Kaneez shook her head. ‘There is to be no trial.’
‘You can’t mean that. You are overcome right now. We can talk about this tomorrow,’ said Tariq.
‘No!’ Kaneez repeated. ‘I know what I am saying. There is to be no trial.’
Tariq stared in disbelief from his mother to Fatima and Kaneez. Sardar Begum met his gaze impassively. Fatima stared into the fire, as if hypnotized by it. But there was a challenge on Kaneez’s lined old face.
‘Why is there to be no trial?’ asked Tariq at last.
‘Because we have suffered enough,’ replied Kaneez. ‘I never thought that in my old age my face would be blackened like this. It’s bad enough that the whole world should know my girl ran away and was then pulled out of the canal three days later by passers-by. Still, it was Allah’s will. But for Mashooq to stand up in court in front of strangers and tell them how she had begotten a child in sin and how he had to kill her to protect our honour – no, I can’t endure that humiliation. You will not speak of a trial again and you will have Mashooq released.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I am not strong and powerful like you. I cannot make you do it. But I am begging you, Tariq Sahib. I have lost everything. Now allow me this one comfort: that the world does not find out about my child’s fall. Leave her memory untarnished. I implore you. Let me live out the few days I have left with some scraps of dignity.’
‘Listen, Kaneez, I
know what your fears are,’ said Tariq. ‘I know the honourable life you have lived and at what cost to yourself. I also understand the huge sacrifice that Fatima has made. Believe me, I understand. But there is more than just your honour or Fatima’s suffering at stake here. What about Rani’s right to justice? And what about Mashooq? He gets off free? Does that seem right to you?’
‘I don’t have answers for everything.’ Kaneez bowed her head. ‘It was Allah’s will. On the day of judgement, He will decide Mashooq’s fate.’
Tariq was quiet for several minutes. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I won’t be able to live with my conscience. I owe it to Rani to give her justice in death, even if I didn’t give her protection in life.’
‘Tariq Sahib, I beg of you. Don’t rip the sky off my head,’ cried Kaneez, clutching his feet.
‘Sit up,’ Sardar Begum ordered Kaneez. ‘You don’t have to throw yourself at his feet.’ To Tariq she said, ‘It is not for you to give justice. That is for Him. And this is not about your conscience, either. It is about their honour, their loss.’ She jerked her chin at the group by the fire. ‘There is a limit to everyone’s endurance. Kaneez has reached hers. First she finds out Rani is pregnant. Then she discovers she is missing, then dead. And now she’s learnt she has been murdered by her own stepfather. Kaneez’s face has been blackened, her nose has been cut. What do you want now, to parade her naked through the streets?’
‘Mashooq is a murderer. What do you want me to do? Embrace him, garland him, congratulate him like a war hero?’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ snapped Sardar Begum. ‘I’m merely asking for his release. This matter should die here and now. I won’t let you put these women through more humiliation. What has Kaneez ever had but her good name? In the last days of her life, you will not take that away from her.’
‘All right! All right!’ Tariq held up his hands. ‘But just tell me one thing. Were Rani not related to Kaneez but was some other girl in the village, would you allow Mashooq to be let off? Whichever way you look at it, he’s murdered an innocent girl, hasn’t he?’
‘Rani committed a sin. She paid for it with her life. She had stained her family’s honour. Mashooq, rightly or wrongly, removed the stain.’ Sardar Begum shrugged and asked, ‘And have you thought how you will appear to the world, Tariq Azeem, publicly fighting for the rights of a girl who has brought shame and dishonour on her people?’
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ Tariq stared at his mother. ‘Rani was a child, only a little older than your granddaughters. At least tell me you didn’t mean it.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you think I believe,’ she muttered.
‘What about Fatima? I suppose she will go back to live with Mashooq as if nothing has happened?’
Fatima’s head jerked up in panic.
‘That is for Fatima to decide. It’s not for you to worry about.’
‘It is for me to worry about. How do you know his honour won’t be roused again and again?’
‘He won’t do it again,’ stated Sardar Begum. ‘He is at peace now. He feels he has acted honourably and can stand alongside respectable men. He is no longer the bastard.’
‘But the soldiers at the cantonment know that Rani died a violent death. They pulled her out of the canal, remember?’ pleaded Tariq. ‘All those who saw her know she didn’t die of natural causes. The doctor even did a post mortem. He knows, so does the colonel. How are you going to silence them all?’
‘We won’t need to.’ Sardar Begum’s tone was brusque. ‘They have better things to do than to gossip about Rani’s murder. Also, if a war breaks out tomorrow, do you think they will have time to think of anything at all?’
‘But Rani’s body is still at the cantonment,’ Tariq pointed out. ‘When I go to have it released, the colonel is bound to ask me what progress we have made in finding her murderer.’
‘You can tell him the truth: none! You have made no progress, and Rani’s family want their child’s body back. That’s the end of it.’
Knowing the colonel as Tariq did, he doubted whether that would be the end of it. The colonel would be a relentless hound on the scent of his quarry. He would lose no opportunity to taunt Tariq. How would Tariq look him in the face, knowing what he did and yet powerless to act on it? So far, Tariq had only dealt with grief and guilt. Now he knew he was about to taste humiliation.
‘Since there doesn’t seem to be anything for me to worry about,’ Tariq said bitterly, ‘I’ll go home and let you decide everything.’ He rose from the sofa and went to the door.
‘No, wait,’ Sardar Begum called out. ‘There are still a couple of things I need to ask of you.’
Tariq turned around stiffly. He looked beaten.
‘I want you to tell your inspector that Rani’s grandmother, who was her guardian, has decided to forgive Mashooq. She can ask for blood money in exchange for his freedom. But she is forgoing that, too, for his release tomorrow.’
‘Anything else?’ Tariq asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yes, make sure the inspector doesn’t speak of it to anyone. After all, he owes his job to you. He can do that much to repay the favour. Take the report from him, if necessary. It must be hushed up. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Rani had an accident. She slipped and fell into the canal and was drowned. Is that clear?’
Tariq gave his mother a salute. ‘Of course, as my personal, loyal servant, the inspector will not breathe a word to a soul.’
‘This is no joking matter,’ retorted Sardar Begum.
‘I’ve never felt less like laughing,’ replied Tariq. ‘May I ask how you are going to ensure Mashooq the drunkard’s silence?’
‘Leave that to me.’ Sardar Begum looked grim. ‘I’ve been soft on that man, but now he will understand what I am made of. His house is my property. You didn’t know that, did you?’ Sardar Begum’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘A few months back, he came to me for a loan. The fourth time since his marriage to Fatima. When I refused, he threatened to sell the house, to throw his family out. I bought the house from him so at least Fatima could be sure of a roof over her head. He will not be able to return to it now. Nor will he find a job in this district.
‘The district commissioner owes me. His father was our carpenter, who lost his hand in an accident. Your father looked after him and his family and gave money especially for this boy to be educated. You don’t remember because it happened when you were a baby. The DC came by to pay his respects when he was first appointed to Colewallah. I asked him not to tell you about the connection because your father never wanted his charity publicized. Since then, the DC’s asked several times if there is anything he can do for me. I can get Mashooq hounded from this district, if I want.’
‘My congratulations, on arranging everything so neatly.’ Tariq inclined his head with an ironic smile. ‘Anything else, or may I take my leave?’
‘There is one other thing.’ Fatima spoke in a trembling voice. ‘Can I have my girl’s body?’
‘Of course. I’ll fetch her tomorrow from Colewallah. And Fatima? My heartfelt sympathy.’ His voice broke. Composing himself with a visible effort, he let himself out.
19
Rani was buried the next day, on 3 December 1971. It was a small funeral, attended only by her family and the Azeems. Sardar Begum, Laila, Sara and Fareeda waited at some distance in the car while Tariq and Barkat lowered her slight, shrouded body into her grave. Mashooq had been released but had not attended her funeral. At Dera, he told his neighbours that he had said her funeral prayers already. It was bitterly cold, and the air was thick with the threat of rain. As the Azeems drove home from Kalanpur, Barkat switched on the radio, with Tariq’s permission, to catch the news. A flat, impersonal voice informed them that Pakistani armed forces had bombed Indian airfields earlier that day and the two countries were at war.
The next day, Fareeda checked all her food stores with Fazal. Then she had extra candles
, kerosene, battery cells and torches brought in and moved the girls’ beds to the guest room on the other side of the house, far from the spreading branches of the silk cotton tree. Bua carried her mattress into the girls’ room and laid it across the door. The Indians, she declared, would have to riddle her with bullets before she let a single one across the threshold. Nevertheless, Sara slipped her penknife under her pillow for extra protection. Once the girls had gone to bed, Tariq unlocked his gun cabinet. Carefully, he lifted out his shotgun and cleaned it. He counted up thirty-six cartridges, then, returning them to the cabinet, locked it again. He went around to Kalanpur to ask Sardar Begum to move in with him. She refused. She had her Allah to protect her, she said.
In the kitchen, Rehmat sharpened his knives. Fazal put duct tape on all the glass windows and packed away Fareeda’s cut-glass tumblers and fine china. Barkat camouflaged the gleaming car with mud paste and helped Amanat dig an L-shaped trench in the back garden for shelter during air raids. The old Laila would have been electrified by these preparations, but now she watched them from a distance, as if they were for a stranger’s party. She wondered whether anyone had moved the red chillies Rani had stashed behind her door.
Over the next few days, the radio was only switched off at night in the Azeem household. They learnt that, though vastly outnumbered, Pakistani soldiers fought like cornered tigers on the eastern front. They were not only containing the Bengalis but also throwing back wave after wave of Indian soldiers. Heroic though the troops were, they were surpassed in bravery by the air force, which brought down dozens of Indian fighters in the space of a few days. When the radio was not reporting on the war, it was playing rousing military songs. Laila and Sara soon grew familiar with Noor Jehan’s patriotic anthems.
Despite the media’s best efforts to rouse nationalistic fervour, those were anxious days for almost everyone. They were particularly worrying for the people whose relatives were fighting in East Pakistan. Barkat grew quiet and apprehensive as the casualty reports trickled in. But the days slipped by with no news of Shareef.