He had been so self-absorbed he hadn’t been thinking of Mumtaz—it was as if Baba’s death and the djinni and the sad separation from his former life had happened only to him. Not only had Mumtaz lost Jag and Baba, but she was adjusting to having her mother back and to the idea of marrying him—and he’d made it so clear he wanted to escape. Jameel looked into the rearview mirror at his cousin. She had pushed the burqa back, and he could see one side of her face as she stared out the window. She looked as if she was in shock. But perhaps it was just the greenish lights from the dashboard that lit her profile dimly.
Suddenly Ibne’s foot slammed down on the brake, and Jameel jerked his head around in time to see in the headlights a huge U-shaped barrier made of rocks that crossed the road just where it straightened after a curve around a hill. The rock barrier prevented them from turning to either side. Ibne struggled to control the car, but it swerved violently and spun in what seemed like slow motion, slamming sideways into the boulders. Jameel was aware of his body being hurtled against the dashboard, his head cracking against the post between the dash and the side door, things flying past, and then a black nothingness.
Mumtaz awoke with one side of her face in the dirt. She had been thrown from the car. Her body felt broken, and her mouth was filled with blood. She wanted desperately to sit up, to see whether her arms and legs worked, whether her mother was okay, and Jameel. But she heard men’s voices, and from somewhere in her head came the warning to stay still and quiet in the dirt.
She managed to open her eyes slightly, and through her eyelashes she saw men milling about. Her mother, still covered in her burqa, sat beside her. She saw Jameel kneeling on the ground. Masha’ Allah, God’s will, he looked dazed but not seriously hurt. A large man stood between Mumtaz and Jameel, his back to her. Muti’s blood went cold as she recognized the tailored tan silk waistcoat that Uncle Nazir had worn what seemed years ago at Baba’s funeral.
She opened her eyes a little more and she saw other men with rifles, all facing Jameel. And she remembered someone—was it Omar?—saying that Nazir might try to take over the tribal leadership. And she remembered Auntie Selma saying Nazir was a toothless tiger, and her mother saying you must never trust a tiger, even a toothless tiger.
As Mumtaz’s head cleared, she saw her father’s car, twisted metal lying on its side, with smoke rising from the place where its engine should be. She recognized it only by the pale blue color of the parts that weren’t twisted and burned beyond color and shape. One wheel was revolving slowly, like a fan on a sultry day. And the green Punjab Provincial Assembly emblem still sat proudly on an absurdly shiny bumper.
Slowly the likely consequences of what had just happened began to dawn on her: that in his grab for power Nazir would likely shoot each of them, one by one. But she never had time to finish the progression of thought through the murk of pain in her head.
Suddenly there was loud noise all around. And scuffling, and running, and men grunting. She saw Omar, still dressed in the fine silk shalwar kameez that he had worn for the funeral, raising a rifle to his shoulder and taking careful aim, and the recoil of the rifle butt against his shoulder as Nazir seemed to fly up into the air feet first, and then crash to the ground in a crumpled pile.
Mumtaz closed her eyes, and when she awoke again, there was a sharp sting in her nostrils and she gagged on something strong, and her eyes teared, and she could only see white all around her.
23
The sounds were ordinary sounds, a clink of metal and water pouring, Auntie Selma’s deep, gravelly voice, the click and whir of a fan overhead. Someone was washing her face. She struggled against the hand that held the vial of smelling salts, and someone said, “She’s awake!”
Sitting before her was Auntie Selma, and at her shoulder was her mother, and beside her mother was Jameel. They were all dressed in white. Of course, she thought: Baba’s funeral. Her mother’s arm was in a sling. Jameel had a bandage wrapped around his head. Her first thought had been “Where’s Baba?”
“Where am I?” she asked, and their faces whirled slowly once or twice before coming into focus. Her mouth hurt and her words sounded fuzzy. She felt as if a large piece of wood wrapped in cotton wool pressed down on her tongue.
“You’re fine, darling,” said Auntie Selma. “You bit your tongue—nearly bit it off!” Arms were helping her to sit. “You’re in my bed in the haveli. The doctor said tongues heal quickly, and you will be fine.”
Her next thought made her stomach lurch: They were going to make her marry Jameel. And he didn’t want her. She looked up at Jameel and his brow was creased. He swiped a hand across his eyes, which were glistening with tears. She must look a mess, she thought. She reached up and touched her mouth. Her teeth seemed to be intact.
“How long have I been here?” It might have been days, she thought. Her words came out sounding like “Nowon haha knee?”
“Since this morning,” said her mother. Auntie Selma stood then and offered Shabanu her chair.
“Uma!” said Mumtaz, and tears filled her eyes.
“Don’t worry, little one,” her mother said, stroking her face. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine.”
“Wha hahenned?”
They told her how Spin Gul had followed them to the train station and telephoned Nazir, who flew his airplane to Multan to get there before the train arrived. He’d ordered workers from his farm to build the stone barrier across the road, and after the crash he was about to shoot Jameel when Omar and Jameel’s father appeared. Omar had shot and killed Nazir. Jameel’s father had been injured, but not seriously. Jameel had a concussion, and so did Mumtaz. Shabanu had broken her arm in the automobile crash. Only Ibne had emerged without injury.
Thank God they would all be fine, Mumtaz thought, her mouth too sore to say anything at all. And then she fell back to sleep.
24
Shabanu sat beside Mumtaz as she drifted in and out of consciousness. When her daughter awoke, Shabanu leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I am here, daughter.” She fed her broth and held a cup of water to her lips, fluffed her pillows, bathed her, and took her own meals sitting in the chair beside the bed.
By evening Mumtaz felt well enough to sit up. Shabanu arranged the pillows behind her daughter. She took a hairbrush and carefully brushed the tangles from Mumtaz’s thick dark hair, then braided it into a single rope that fell down her back.
“I want to know everything,” Mumtaz managed to say. Her tongue still ached, but the pain was duller now, and her words were slow but more intelligible.
Shabanu pulled her chair closer and took Mumtaz’s hand in hers. She began by saying that Spin Gul had come to the haveli and cut the lock on the gate. He crept in to listen as Samiya telephoned Ibne to say that he should meet them at the Multan train. He slapped Samiya to get her to tell him more, but she refused.
“Samiya is fine,” Shabanu said quickly in answer to Mumtaz’s raised eyebrows, and then went on. Spin Gul telephoned Nazir, whose airplane arrived in Multan before the train even pulled out of Lahore station.
“Omar and Tariq got to the haveli and caught Spin Gul and tied him up and called the police,” Shabanu went on. Khoda Baksh stayed to keep watch over Spin Gul until the police came. Omar and Tariq climbed back into the car and sped off for Multan. They got there after the train, but there was only one road Ibne would have taken into the desert and they followed close behind. They arrived just a minute or so after the wreck, and almost crashed into the whole mess at the barrier. Omar was driving carefully because he expected something like the boulders.
“But how did Nazir know you were still alive?” asked Mumtaz. This had been on her mind ever since she saw Nazir raise his gun. She would never have forgiven herself if Nazir had hurt her mother because Mumtaz couldn’t keep her secret!
Shabanu shook her head. “It was you and Jameel he was after,” she said. “He thought he should be the tribal leader. He actually rubbed his eyes when he saw me, as if he were seeing a
ghost.” She smiled slightly.
“Will you stay here?” Mumtaz asked. There were so many things she needed to know to be able to imagine her own life.
“Nay, daughter,” said Shabanu. “You and Jameel can live here in the haveli. I am going to Cholistan to be with my family and to teach women to read. I will visit often. You two will be safe here with Auntie Selma.”
“I don’t want to marry Jameel,” said Mumtaz miserably. “He doesn’t want to marry me. I want to come with you!”
Shabanu pressed her lips together and nodded. “Let me talk to Omar,” she said. “If Jameel really is opposed to marrying you, I will take you with me to Cholistan.”
Shabanu helped Mumtaz get up and held her with one arm as she wobbled to the bathroom and back. Mumtaz fell asleep again with Shabanu beside her.
Omar came later that night and pulled up a chair beside Shabanu at Mumtaz’s bedside while she slept. They talked about the wreck and the shooting and how Mumtaz was feeling.
“And what about Leyla?” Shabanu asked. Omar said nothing. “She sent Spin Gul to spy on us and told Nazir where we were. He could have killed us, and she was partly responsible.”
“Leyla wants Jaffar to be the Amirzai leader someday,” Omar said slowly. “I don’t believe she was intending to hurt anyone. She just wasn’t thinking of the consequences.”
“Leyla has hated me ever since I married Rahim,” said Shabanu, keeping her voice level. “I don’t believe she didn’t mean to hurt us.”
“I can promise you she will not try again,” said Omar. “I’m sending her to live with her mother in the Cantonment. She will have nothing to do with the wedding arrangements. Jaffar will stay with me. It will be a severe punishment for her not to have Jaffar and me with her. If Jameel and Mumtaz want to live at Number 5 Anwar Road, that’s their prerogative.”
“Mumtaz says Jameel doesn’t want to marry her,” said Shabanu. “If that’s so, I want her to come with me to Cholistan.”
“Mumtaz must stay here,” Omar said gently. “This has been an enormous shock to Jameel. He loves Mumtaz. I know he does. I’ll talk to him.”
“But they must decide for themselves!” said Shabanu.
“Nazir is gone. She and Jameel are safe. They are the hope of the Amirzai people.”
“So! You would perpetuate this system of feudal grandees?” Shabanu asked sharply. “After all that it’s taken from you, you won’t allow these children to choose for themselves?”
“Mumtaz will have a good life,” he said. “I’ll see to it as long as I live. And Jameel will see to it as long as he lives.”
“And can they stay here, in the haveli?” Shabanu asked. Omar thought for a moment.
“They can stay wherever they like,” he said, “so long as they are not in the same house with Leyla.”
“You are your Uncle Rahim,” she said quietly. Then they were quiet.
“After all this time, we have nothing to say?” asked Omar.
“My heart has no words,” said Shabanu. “And if it did, there would be no use saying them.”
She asked Omar to sit with Mumtaz for a bit while she took a break. As soon as her mother was gone, Mumtaz opened her eyes.
“This time it was my turn to hear,” she said, smiling at Omar. “Unlike my mother, I do not think freedom to do whatever you want is necessarily a good thing. But first I must know that Jameel wants to marry me.”
Shabanu climbed the stairs to the roof and went straight to the pigeons’ cage. She slipped inside and held up her hands, and several birds landed on them. She caressed them and pressed them to her lips one at a time, and took each out to the edge of the roof, releasing it as she had the first two, until they all were free.
25
That night Jameel went to his room at Number 5 Anwar Road. Apart from napping on the airplane, he had not slept since two nights before in San Francisco. His grandfather was still alive the last time he went to sleep, he thought with a jolt. He wondered whether this would keep happening—if every time he thought a new thought, it would be in the realization that life was going on without Baba in the world.
Jameel changed into his pajamas and sat down at the desk in the corner of the room. He took Baba’s letter out and reread it. He was almost surprised that it said the same thing as when he’d first read it. He crumpled it and hurled it to the floor, then thought better and picked it up, smoothed it out, refolded it, and placed it back in the desk drawer.
He took a tablet of blue vellum paper from the desk and began a letter to Chloe. She deserved at least an explanation of what had happened, why she would never see him again. He wrote the date, then sat with the pen poised for several minutes and realized he’d never be able to make her understand. He put the paper and pen away and sat with his forehead resting on his hands.
There was a light tap at the door, and Uncle Omar stuck his head in.
“I saw your light was still on,” he said. “May I?”
“Please,” said Jameel, “come in.” He stood and motioned to the easy chair in the corner beside his desk, but Omar didn’t sit.
“I know this can’t be easy for you,” said Omar.
“When were you going to tell Mumtaz and me?” asked Jameel. “Or were you going to kidnap us and—”
“Please don’t be so bitter,” said Omar. “Jameel, you and Mumtaz will be good for each other. You’ve known each other all your lives, and you’ve always been close.”
“Didn’t it ever occur to anyone that we both had our own ideas about how we’d live our lives?” Jameel asked. The tears were very close to spilling out of his eyes, and perhaps he’d never be able to think of how they’d tricked Mumtaz and him without being angry.
“You know I understand,” said Omar. “The same happened to me when I came back from America.”
“So just because the same thing happened to you, does that make it right that I should never see my friends again, never go to college and study to be an engineer, and—”
“Who says you can’t go to university?” said Omar. “There’s no reason you and Mumtaz can’t go to university together after you’re married. We all thought Baba would live for a long time. He wanted you to go to Stanford just as he did. You always wanted to go to Stanford. You can both finish school here and go back to California if that’s still what you want.”
Jameel didn’t answer. He tried to imagine himself and Muti married and going together back to California. How would his friends accept Mumtaz—as his wife? Even at eighteen, when they would be on their way to college? And sex. He couldn’t go there yet. The conversation with his father would come soon enough.
But the idea of going together back to the United States to university certainly was not his image of how things were done in Pakistan. In his time-travel fantasies he thought of his family—particularly his grandfather—as being purely in the realm of the past. Baba had gone to Stanford University in California, but he came straight back to Lahore. He was already married to Grandmother—an arranged marriage when he was fifteen—and he ran the family farms until Uncle Rahim died, when he became tribal leader.
“But I never wanted to be tribal leader. Why did they skip your generation? It’s not fair! I should have more time.”
Omar paced, listening carefully to Jameel.
“Something happened that changed me,” said Omar. “I fell in love. It was not someone I could ever marry. She was already married. I was about to be married—it was hopeless and completely out of the question. I knew it was the kind of love that ends only in tragedy, like Shah Jahan and Anarkali. It was a matter of life and death. And then she died. I knew I would never be happy. I would never love anyone in that way again. So I honored my father’s wishes and married your Auntie Leyla.”
“But you never became tribal leader! It should be your responsibility, not mine!”
“Jameel, the woman I loved died because of the same tradition of vendetta and family honor that killed her husband. I didn’t want any part o
f it. It was the only time I ever refused my father or my duty. I promised to do anything else to help him—but I couldn’t carry on that tradition.”
“And now you want me to?” asked Jameel.
“You and Mumtaz are a new generation,” Omar said. “Things must change if Pakistan is to survive. You must be educated and wise. It was what Baba wanted. It’s just that things happened more quickly than we anticipated.”
Jameel climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over himself after Omar left. He’d never thought of his uncle as someone who would fall in love so deeply. He was a cheerful man, someone who liked things to run smoothly and peacefully. Jameel would never have guessed he had suffered such a terrible tragedy as the loss of his one true love.
Jameel closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. Scenes kept appearing in his head like flash cards: his face twisted in mute anger as he washed his grandfather’s body in preparation for the funeral; Uncle Nazir flying from his feet like a puppet yanked from a stage; Mumtaz lying on the ground with blood pouring from her mouth; the golden halo of Chloe’s hair as she sailed from the ramp on her skateboard.
26
The servants cleaned shattered crystal from the front hallway for days. Auntie Leyla was nowhere to be seen. Jameel’s mother was looking after things. Jameel was glad not to have to see Leyla after what she’d done.
The House of Djinn Page 14