“We have to stop at Fariel’s to get some money,” Muti said. “We can ask the rickshaw-wallah to wait while I go inside.”
It was a short ride to Mustafa Road at the edge of the Cantonment area. Muti instructed the rickshaw-wallah to wait at the end of the lane that ran behind the back wall of the compound. The man grumbled, but they left him to himself, knowing he’d wait rather than not be paid.
They held hands and ran together down the dark lane until they came to a gate guarded by a sleeping chowkidar. Quietly, without waking the old guard, Muti slid the bolt from the latch and let them both into a small garden planted with vegetables.
Lights from the house reflected from the round shapes in neatly planted rows of eggplants, squash, and tomatoes. They followed the planted rows until they reached the broad veranda that spanned the back of the house. Muti found the third window to the right of the back door. The bottom half of the window was screened, and Muti tapped lightly on the glass above: two taps, a pause, and three taps.
They heard the rustle of bedclothes and Fariel’s sleepy voice at the window. “Who is it?” she whispered. When she saw it was Muti, she said, “What are you doing out at this hour after your grandfather’s funeral?”
Muti shushed her and told her she needed some money. Fariel unlatched the window screen and opened it enough for Muti to come inside. “Do you mind waiting here?” she asked, turning to Jameel.
“Who’s with you?” Fariel whispered.
“My cousin Jameel,” said Muti. She heard Fariel exhale.
“Oh, bring him in,” Fariel said. In the dim light from the garden Muti could see Fariel wrapping a white chenille robe around herself. Jameel stood next to where Muti was just climbing through the window. He’d never been in a girl’s bedroom. If his parents found out, they’d disown him!
“You want to stand out there and get caught?” said Fariel. “You’d better come inside.” She held the screen while he heaved himself over the windowsill and landed on the floor inside. Fariel pulled the window shade closed and lit a small reading light on the wall over the bed.
Fariel was small, with wrists so tiny Jameel had an urge to circle them with his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were enormous, with cinnamon-colored irises. Her thick black hair was so short it stood up on her head, making her look like a small boy. She couldn’t be more different from his cousin, he thought. Muti was tall and slender, with graceful hands and arms. Her movements were languid, and this evening she wore her hair in a braid that hung down her back. Fariel spoke and moved like a hummingbird darting among flowers.
“What are you doing out at this hour?” Fariel asked, sleep in her voice, but not in her alert eyes. Muti explained quickly that they were running away. Fariel knew about Leyla’s mistreatment. Her eyes widened as Muti explained.
“I don’t have time to tell you the whole story,” she said. “We need some money. We have a rickshaw waiting at the end of the lane.” Fariel looked at them both and raised her eyebrows.
“Let me see if I have this right,” she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “You’re running away together so you don’t have to marry?”
“Come on, Muti,” said Jameel. “If she won’t help us, there’s no sense wasting time.”
“Did I say I wouldn’t help?” said Fariel. “I just don’t understand. Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell,” said Muti quickly. “And it’s better for you not to know. I’m sure Omar will be here looking for me before long, and you’ll be able to say honestly that you don’t know where we’ve gone. Just tell the truth.”
Fariel nodded. Jameel and Muti sat on one of two beds in Fariel’s room, and Fariel sat on the other bed, facing them.
“So—how much do you need?” asked Fariel.
“Enough to leave Lahore,” said Muti. “We don’t have credit cards, so it’ll have to be enough for two bus fares.”
“I have about two hundred rupees,” Fariel said, “but you’ll have to wait here while I go into the front hall to get it.”
“Hurry!” said Muti. “Omar will be here soon looking for us!” At almost the same time they heard a noise from the garden near the window they’d just climbed through. And a second later there was banging from somewhere in the house.
“The front door!” said Fariel. She doused the reading light and whispered, “Here, take this.” She swept a small pile of notes from the top of her dresser and shoved them into Muti’s hand. “It should be about a hundred rupees.” She leaned out the window and whispered, “Who’s there?” No one answered and she saw no one.
“Follow me,” she whispered, gesturing toward the hallway. She led them to a door that opened onto a side yard, where the compound wall was close to the house. “Go through that gate,” she said. “The lane will take you back the way you came in.” Muti gave her a quick hug, and she and Jameel ran down the lane to the alley, where they heard the putt-putt of the waiting rickshaw.
21
They directed the rickshaw-wallah to drive to the old walled city, looking over their shoulders to see whether anyone had come out through Fariel’s back gate, looking for them. But the alley remained dark and empty—no disembodied lights, no angry relatives.
“You might as well tell me where we’re going,” said Jameel, sitting back on the hard bench seat as the rickshaw putted down the lane toward Muallam Road. Muti shifted her eyes from the road behind them, slower to relax than her cousin. She looked at Jameel but said nothing. “I’m going to know soon enough anyway!” Muti gazed out at the buses and automobiles that careened around them as they swerved out into the main thoroughfare.
“We’re—we’re going to my mother,” she said finally.
“Stop talking in riddles,” Jameel said irritably. As they approached Mustafa Road, the press and din of traffic intensified and the smell of exhaust seeped around the edges of the plastic side curtains.
“I’m not,” said Muti. “I’m serious.” She had to shout above the blaring horns to explain how her mother had sent for her and why she’d hidden for such a long time. When she finished, Jameel rubbed his hand over his mouth and then dropped it to cover Muti’s hand on the seat between them.
“How long have you known that Uncle Nazir killed your father?” he asked. Muti shook her head.
“I didn’t know until my mother told me. But I’ve never felt safe around my father’s family—I don’t trust any of them, except for Baba, Auntie Selma, and Omar. And you. I’ve always tried to put it out of my mind. The other night after Baba died, I remembered something for the first time since it happened, around the same time that my mother disappeared.
“Do you remember that little fawn I had? Choti was her name.” Jameel nodded, and she told him about the fawn’s death.
“Did Uncle Nazir have something to do with Choti’s disappearance?” Jameel asked.
“I don’t know—Uncle Nazir was hunting with my father that day,” she said. “My father would never have killed my pet. He gave her to me. It was just another reminder of how little control my mother and I had over our lives. After my mother told me Uncle Nazir had killed my father, I felt certain somehow he’d killed Choti.” She shivered, although the moist heat of the evening pressed around them.
“I caught him staring at me during the funeral, and when we were preparing Baba’s body for burial,” said Jameel. “He’s always been creepy—how is it that we never noticed before?” Muti shrugged and they were silent for a time.
“There have been so many uncomfortable things in my life I hardly noticed him,” Muti said.
“I’m so dense,” Jameel said. “I never realized until the dinner just before we went back to San Francisco how bad things were for you living with Leyla. I’ve been such a self-centered—”
“Don’t worry,” Muti said. “I looked forward to seeing you every summer, and you were always my friend. We both have our reasons for not wanting to marry each other—but your friendship has been so important to me!” Jameel smiled,
and suddenly felt disconcerted. He changed the subject.
“Does Uncle Omar know about your mother?” Jameel asked, and Muti nodded. “Once he realizes we’re not at Fariel’s, won’t he look for us next at the haveli?”
“He’s probably on his way there now,” she said. “I’ll try telephoning my mother again to see if she’ll meet us at the bus terminal. My mother is going to see her family in Cholistan. Auntie Selma said it was important for me to go with her—perhaps because Omar has told her about the plans for us to be married. All I know is that my mother is going tonight. Let me just try calling her again.”
Muti punched in Auntie Selma’s number. This time Samiya picked up the phone immediately. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Your mother is right here.”
Shabanu’s voice was calm and deliberate when she spoke into the telephone.
“Don’t come to the haveli,” her mother said. “I’m sure they will come looking for you. I’ve telephoned Ibne at Okurabad to meet us and take us to Grandmother and Auntie Sharma in Cholistan. Where are you?” Muti said they were about fifteen minutes away.
“Meet me outside Akbari Gate,” said Shabanu. “Since they’re coming by car they’ll come the other way.” Muti asked if her mother had clothes she might bring for Jameel and two burqas.
“Your father’s clothes are still here,” Shabanu said. “I’ll find something for him.”
“Uma,” said Muti, “is it safe for you to be out? Jameel and I are both worried about Uncle Nazir.” It was the first time she’d used her childhood name for her mother, and it didn’t even sound strange to her.
“It’s dangerous, but we’ll be careful. Hurry—we won’t really be safe until we reach Cholistan.”
When she’d flipped the telephone shut, Muti leaned forward and ordered the rickshaw-wallah to take them to Akbari Gate. She sat back in the seat. Now that they had a plan, Muti could almost relax as the rickshaw weaved its way among other motor rickshaws and brightly painted trucks and automobiles and buses.
Outside the Akbari Gate a woman in a gray burqa paced back and forth in front of a bulging woven satchel that sat on the ground behind her. The red sandstone archway rose into a graceful domelike structure above and behind her, and Mumtaz wondered how many similar dramas had taken place with people entering and leaving the Old City through these gates over the centuries. The burqa flared out around her mother’s legs when she reached the curb and turned abruptly to pace back in the opposite direction.
When Shabanu saw the motor rickshaw, she picked up the bag and ran with it banging against her legs to the opposite corner. The rickshaw pushed across the traffic to the curb and lurched to a stop.
Shabanu put the carpet bag in the front beside the driver and pulled from it a burqa that she handed to Mumtaz. She squeezed into the backseat, with Mumtaz between her and Jameel.
“Uma,” said Muti, “this is Jameel.” Shabanu pulled the side curtains shut around them and pushed the burqa back from her face to study him.
“You were five years old when I last saw you, Jameel,” Shabanu said, laying her palm gently against his cheek. “You’ve grown to look like your Uncle Omar.” Jameel smiled and ducked his head. He was pleased that he looked like his uncle.
“Uma,” said Muti, “the other burqa is for Jameel.” Jameel’s eyes widened.
“It’s one thing for you to wear one,” he said, and Muti took the burqa from her mother, thrusting it into his hands.
“Anyone looking for us will be watching for a boy and a girl,” she said, “not three women.” Jameel stared at her for a moment, sighed, and pulled the burqa over his head as Muti put hers on.
“We must get away as quickly as possible,” said Shabanu, pulling her own burqa back into place. “I left the haveli by the back gate, and as I came around the corner a man in a white shalwar kameez and a mirrored skullcap was coming down the lane toward the front gate. Something about the way he watched over his shoulder made me distrust him.” Muti and Jameel exchanged glances.
“Spin Gul, Leyla’s driver,” said Jameel.
“The most logical thing would be for us to take the bus directly to Bahawalpur. And so I think we should take the train to Multan instead, and Ibne will meet us there. I asked Samiya to telephone him and let him know after I was gone. He’ll take us to my family near Bijnot. I haven’t let them know we’re coming, but Ibne knows where they are.”
“Has anyone telephoned from Number 5 Anwar Road?” asked Muti.
“Auntie Selma telephoned to tell me about the hullabaloo after the chandelier fell. She said that you and Jameel had gone missing, and that I should keep an eye out for you,” said Shabanu, and then she added, “I know about the wedding plans. We’ll talk about it later, when we’ve reached the desert.”
The rickshaw slowed as they neared the stationary crush of traffic near the train station. Shabanu told the driver to stop, leaning forward to thrust a twenty-rupee note into his hand. Jameel took the satchel, and the three of them got out into the road and made their way to the train station on foot.
22
Jameel and Muti waited on a bench while Shabanu purchased their tickets for places in the train’s third-class section. Despite their being hidden under burqas, Muti watched anxiously for anyone she might recognize. Omar and Nargis might think to look for them at the train station when they weren’t at the bus depot. But if they did, it was most likely they would look on the platform for first-class travelers. And Uncle Nazir would look there for them as well.
Shabanu came back with their tickets. They had about an hour to wait until the train was to leave. They made their way to the third-class platform for the Multan train and sat down on a bench. Other passengers spread cloths and sat on the concrete platform. Many others milled about. Muti looked at the people waiting in clusters, eating from hampers, so many people it seemed impossible that all of them could fit on one train.
Jameel went off to find a chai-wallah to get them some tea and something to eat. Despite his wearing the burqa, Muti worried that he looked masculine. His walk was too square and vigorous.
She decided to put her concerns out of her mind. The crush of good-humored travelers, the burqas, and being with her mother made Muti feel safe. The feeling of safety—perhaps for the first time in ten years—filled Muti’s heart and she began to weep silently. The well of her tears seemed bottomless. Without speaking, her mother took Muti into her arms, settling back against a pillar, and cradled her like a small child. Muti held on to her mother as if she were a life raft.
Jameel found them that way, and after a while Muti sat up and wiped her face with the flats of her hands. The three of them ate curry biscuits and drank sweetened red tea with buffalo milk, and waited for the train.
When they were seated on the wooden slat benches in the third-class coach, the satchel tucked behind their legs, they were happy to be under way. Exhausted by the events of the previous days filled with death and other partings, they slept fitfully, rocking to the rhythm of the train. The third-class compartment was so jammed with people and bedrolls and satchels, even some baby goats being taken as gifts to relatives in the country, that there was no danger of falling off the bench.
It was late at night when the train pulled into Multan, slowing as it approached the outskirts. The city was strangely quiet, lit only at major intersections. The air was clear from the day’s rain, and the mud still oozed in the streets.
They got down from the train holding tightly to each other’s hands. Jameel carried the large satchel, and they fought their way against the waves of people toward the first-class platform, where Ibne would be waiting to meet them. Shabanu and Mumtaz pushed their burqas away from their faces so they could better see where they were going.
When Shabanu saw Ibne in the crisply pleated, sharp white turban and the black velvet vest inset with bits of mirror glinting in the light from the streetlamps, it was just as she’d seen him the first time seventeen years before, and her heart filled with gratitude
to her husband’s most loyal servant. Shabanu remembered herself from the first time, too, a small desi girl in bare feet destined for marriage to a much older, wealthy man from a family filled with intrigues.
Ibne bowed to Shabanu, and she nodded in return, and lowered her eyes.
“How good to see you, memsahib,” he said. Shabanu smiled.
“And it’s wonderful to see you, Ibne,” she replied, her voice choked with the memory of all that time ago.
Ibne led them to the car, Rahim’s old sedan in perfect condition as if Ibne had just delivered him to the Provincial Assembly in it. Ibne put the satchel in the trunk, and they all piled in, Jameel in front with Ibne, and Shabanu and Mumtaz in the back.
They were quiet as Ibne concentrated on threading the car among sleepy passengers fresh from the train, many of them balancing bundles of clothing and bedrolls on their heads. When they came to the edge of the city the car picked up speed.
“Your father and mother know we’re coming,” said Ibne. “They were so joyful to learn both of you would be with them again. Your Auntie Sharma and her daughter Fatima are there—all waiting for you in Bijnot.”
Before getting into the car, Jameel had pulled the burqa off over his head. He sat slumped into the corner of the front seat by the passenger door. He watched the scrub of the desert thin outside the windshield as the car hurtled through the night. A line of pale greenish light was appearing on the horizon, a precursor to the monsoon sun, and he wondered what the next day would bring.
He thought of Mumtaz, who sat quietly in the backseat while Ibne and Shabanu talked of the people in Rahim’s household, those who still lived at the farm in Okurabad. No one from Rahim’s family had lived in the house since his death. Ibne had run the farm with occasional visits from Omar and Baba. Jameel had been to Rahim’s farm with Baba and Omar so many times, never once guessing that he would be the proprietor one day. As he faced every new situation, the altered reality of his life jolted him all over again. If Jameel were to become tribal leader, he would decide when to plant the sorghum, and how to deal with problems of the tribesmen who lived nearby, what cattle to put on the land, when to divert the irrigation channels, and what other crops to grow. The locusts would be his problem. And the hill torrents, and feuds, and diseases of cattle and tribesmen.
The House of Djinn Page 13