The House of Djinn

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  Jameel grew restless, and his father told him he must stay at Number 5 Anwar Road. He swam in the morning, and wanted to go to the haveli to see Mumtaz.

  “She’s in purdah,” said his mother.

  Jameel opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. Purdah. He was quick to anger since the accident, even though he tried to understand the need for doing things the Pakistani way—the old way. He was fighting so hard against the familiar feeling of being stuck between times and places. If he felt stuck in San Francisco, he realized, at least he could get unstuck—it was just a feeling in California. But here in Lahore the stuck-ness was a reality.

  Or was it? He thought of Mumtaz as smart, having a right to speak her mind and to act on her wishes. Their relationship could be that way—who was to say it couldn’t? Perhaps he could learn to see purdah—women being kept separate from men—as just a formality, a reminder of the good things of the past, when it served to protect privacy and dignity. In California he’d always felt uncomfortable with the exposed navels and more. Was purdah so bad by comparison?

  His mother’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

  “I know, Beta,” said Nargis, holding up her hand. “It’s a very old custom. But when you’ve been living here for a while you’ll be surprised at how normal it will feel. You have to take the good with the bad, and there is a lot more good in the old ways than you might be willing to admit right now. The Amirzai people will expect these customs to be observed.”

  “I want to see how Mumtaz is,” said Jameel.

  “She’s fine, Beta. Your father is tending to her twice a day. Like you, she needs to rest, to recover from the concussion. But she is already up and about.”

  In the days that followed, wedding preparations began. Nargis bustled about, calling for flowers and food and extra servants, shamiana, thousands of little white lights, all of the accoutrements of a wedding. Furniture was rearranged. A new chandelier was brought from Karachi and hung in the front hall. The house was cleaned in every corner.

  Jameel watched the preparations as if he were watching a television show. He thought of Chloe. He wanted to call her, at least to tell her what was about to happen. But he knew it would be incomprehensible to her. He grieved. He’d never again wonder at her golden hair and blue eyes. He’d never be Jimmy again. He wanted to see Mumtaz. He wondered whether she felt as trapped as he did.

  Jameel’s father made him sit in the front parlor with Uncle Omar each afternoon to receive tribesmen, to hear their complaints and solve their problems concerning land, crops, or family issues, as Grandfather had done, and his brother and father and grandfather before him. The tribesmen had heard about the coming wedding and came to pay their respects.

  Jameel listened as one man presented a petition to get back a piece of land his cousin had seized. Uncle Omar signed a paper ordering the cousin to tear down the fences he’d built and give back the land.

  A shepherd came to complain that a neighbor had stolen his sheep. Omar ordered the two men to appear together and sorted out why the neighbor was stealing the sheep. It turned out the neighbor had felt wronged when the other had dammed his irrigation canal.

  One man said he’d paid a bride price and the woman married a man from the next village. Omar ordered the woman to repay the bride price.

  Jameel wondered how his uncle knew who to believe and what was the best way of solving these problems.

  Maulvi Inayatullah came to dinner one evening, and afterward Omar asked the maulvi and Jameel and his father to come into the study. Jameel thought perhaps Omar was going to tell him more about the plans that lay ahead. But instead the maulvi spoke.

  “I know you think we imams are old-fashioned and backward,” said Inayatullah, “but please listen.” The old man spoke softly but urgently, and Jameel remembered the animated conversations Inayatullah and his grandfather had in this same study, one minute outshouting each other and the next dissolving into laughter. “You have only one family,” Inayatullah went on. “If you were to turn your back on your people, you would cut yourself off from them. It will be as if you have no family at all. You can never replace them. That is a serious matter.”

  The maulvi paused, as if waiting for a response. Jameel said nothing, and he continued. “The second thing is that mahabbat here is very different from love in America. Here the word has to do with tradition, piety, duty, and family. When we talk of romance and passion, immediately we think of sadness or even tragedy. Mahabbat is a serious word.”

  “I don’t care about cultural difference,” said Jameel. “I want my life back.”

  “Maybe it was wrong that we didn’t tell you before,” said his father. “Your grandfather has always wanted you to be the tribal leader, since before you were born, even when Uncle Rahim was leader. Once your grandfather became leader he had the power to name his successor. Only he can change that determination. And he’s no longer here to do that.” Jameel felt his anger rise again, and he was helpless to stop it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me think I’d be like everyone else? That I’d grow up and make decisions for myself like other people do?” He felt the time warp engulf him again, as if he were stuck in medieval times.

  “Your grandfather was strong and healthy, and we all thought he’d live to be a very old man. We wanted you to live like a normal boy for as long as possible.”

  “When will this marriage take place?” Jameel asked.

  “It must be very soon,” said Omar. “As we have already seen, trouble is inevitable when there is a void in leadership. After Mumtaz has recovered, you and she will marry. Perhaps within the week.”

  Three days passed as if he’d dreamed them. And then one afternoon Jameel found himself alone in the house. Even his mother had gone out to pick up the new waistcoat Omar had ordered for Jaffar.

  He went to the intersection of Anwar and Canal Bank Road and hailed a motor rickshaw, ordering it to the walled city. He made his way to the haveli and pounded on the front gate.

  Samiya and Shabanu were both on the other side of the gate when it swung open. They looked astonished to see him.

  “I must see Mumtaz!” said Jameel. “I know we’re not supposed to talk until the wedding, but I must!” Shabanu looked at him closely for a moment before nodding.

  “Come with me,” she said. They went up the back stairway to the rooftop, and Shabanu left him outside the pavilion. Mumtaz sat inside on the floor amid a pile of bolsters, still wearing white in honor of Baba’s death.

  Jameel felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. She looked lovely with her head bent over a piece of embroidery in her lap. Her long fingers were working over pale blue yarn on white cloth, and her graceful neck was arched as she concentrated. When Jameel saw the embroidery he grinned. It looked as if a small child had taken her first stitches, so long and uneven the pattern they made was unrecognizable. Muti looked up and saw his smirk.

  “Hah!” she said. “You try it. I mean it. Come here and try doing this. You need six more hands!” Jameel went in and sat down beside her. He picked up the embroidery and tried. She was right: it was hard to hold and he stuck his finger with the first stitch. But even his first few stitches looked more respectable than hers.

  Muti sniffed and sat back against a bolster, folding her arms.

  “How’s your tongue?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Want to see?” She stuck out her tongue, which was still red and swollen.

  “Eeuuw!” he said, and they both laughed.

  “You do a better job than I do,” said Mumtaz, nodding toward the piece of embroidery.

  “Well, you know,” said Jameel, “it just occurred to me: do you know we’ll be wealthy after we marry? We can pay someone to do our embroidery and mending.” Mumtaz smiled a small, sad smile.

  “Uma says I can still go to Cholistan with her,” Mumtaz said. “If you really don’t want to get married, then I don’t want to marry you, either. I don’t want t
o lose you, Jameel. You’ve been my best friend all my life, and I don’t want that to change.”

  Unexpectedly, a large lump formed in Jameel’s throat. He nodded, and felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. “It won’t,” he said hoarsely. Then, for fear his tears would spill over, he stood and said, “I really have to get back. I just wanted to see how you are. My mother is watching over me like a hawk.”

  “Jameel,” Muti said, and stood, too, “please just tell me. I’ll go to Cholistan. They’ll find someone more suitable for you to marry.”

  “Don’t go to Cholistan,” he said, his voice sounding more like a strange old man’s voice. “I have to go.” He turned and walked quickly out of the pavilion, down the stairs, through the courtyard, and out through the front gate.

  He wished he had stayed. He wanted to talk to Muti more and to assure her. But what could he say? That he’d be a good husband? She knew how much he’d liked Chloe, and he didn’t want to say anything that would sound false to Muti. He was still angry, but gradually he was growing used to the idea that he and Muti would marry. He simply had not untangled his feelings about it.

  The next night he went to sleep thinking it was the last night he’d sleep alone. Tomorrow, he thought, and every night until he died he would share a bed with Muti, his wife. It didn’t seem real.

  In the middle of the night he awoke to see a flame hovering over his bed. It was so bright he could not see beyond it.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. His heart hammered, and he blinked to be sure his eyes were open. The light sped around the room, as if in search of something. “What do you want?” he asked. The light stood still when he spoke. He wasn’t scared. He wished Muti was there, and wondered what she’d say to make the djinni go away.

  Jameel reached across the bed for his nightlight and switched it on. The floating light disappeared. He remembered the maulvi said that the light shone brightest in the darkest darkness. He got out of bed, and on the table below where the light had hovered was a faded color photograph of a man and woman sitting side by side. Jameel examined it under the lampshade. It looked like a photograph of him and Mumtaz. He turned it over, and the date, August 27, 1958, was stamped on the back. “Jameel’s wedding” was scrawled in faded ink under the date. He looked at the photo again. It was his grandparents’ wedding. The date was fifty years ago tomorrow, when his grandfather was fifteen, exactly Jameel’s age.

  Jameel got back into bed and switched off the light. He lay uncovered on the warm sheets, staring into the darkness. In his grandfather’s day, cousins married to keep property in the family. But the maulvi was right. The American ideal of romantic love had become a part of him and he didn’t know how to rearrange his thinking.

  He thought of Mumtaz and realized for the first time how much he valued her intelligence, her inability to be anything but honest. He thought of her sense of fun, her curiosity, the clearness of her eyes, and suddenly skateboarding seemed like something he did when he was a child. His parents and Uncle Omar knew how important the things were that he valued in Mumtaz.

  “You and Mumtaz are a good match,” said a voice beside the head of Jameel’s bed. He turned to see Baba sitting beside the table. A faint white light and a sweetish whiff of betel nut emanated from him. Jameel raised himself to his elbows. “I felt the same way you’re feeling before I married your grandmother,” Grandfather went on. “And yet your grandmother and I were very happy until her death.”

  “Baba,” Jameel said, “I had so many things planned …”

  “And you needn’t give them all up,” said Grandfather. “Your Uncle Omar can handle things here while you and Mumtaz are at university. The experience of living in America will be good for her. It will be good for the two of you to live there together.”

  “But, Grandfather, in America …”

  “You are not an American, Jameel,” he said. “You may have a U.S. passport, but you have the blood of many generations of Amirzai leadership in your veins. You belong here.”

  “What do I have to offer?” Jameel asked miserably, and his grandfather laughed.

  “Just what we need right now is what you offer,” said his grandfather. “You honor Islam and you can help make Pakistan a more modern country. You and Mumtaz are strong and clever. You are ancient souls with modern eyes.” Grandfather’s form began to fade.

  “Wait!” said Jameel. “I want you to tell me—about the djinn. And I want to know what it’s like where you are. Wait!” There was no answer as his grandfather’s form faded to an almost invisible outline. “Please, Baba,” he said, “I haven’t even said goodbye!” But the figure disappeared completely. Jameel stared into the darkness, and he knew that the djinni had done its job. His grandfather was right. This was his place, and he knew now what to tell Mumtaz.

  Author’s Note

  The story of the many peoples of the land we know as Pakistan is one of the oldest stories on earth, even though the nation itself is only sixty years old. The land was settled, conquered, and resettled by Indo-Aryans, Persians, Greeks, Arabs, and Afghans; by Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists; and finally by the British, who ruled Pakistan as part of colonial India for almost one hundred years. Together, these peoples contributed to the development of Pakistan as a culturally diverse land.

  In 1947 the British departed, leaving behind the independent states of India and Pakistan. Pakistan was founded on the principles of law that govern Britain and the United States, but in parts of the country tribal law prevails. The tribes of the four provinces—Sindh, Baluchistan, Punjab, and the North-West Frontier—include large groups such as the Pashtun in the northwest, and other clans that have exerted political influence since 1947.

  Many tribal leaders, or sardars, are members of the provincial and national assemblies, and others have served at the highest levels of government. Wealthy sardars keep houses in the national capital at Islamabad or in the provincial capitals where they live when government is in session, or where they run family businesses.

  Lahore, where this story takes place, is the capital of Punjab Province. It was one of the seats of power for the Mughal emperors, who ruled the vast lands of the Indian subcontinent for more than two hundred years. Lahore remains the most beautiful, cultured, and interesting city in Pakistan today, with many of its treasures preserved as historical monuments. Still, Punjabi tribal leaders regularly return home to arid, dusty places that are the seats of their tribal lands.

  While tribal leadership is usually hereditary, sometimes a ruling sardar will overlook his eldest son in favor of another son or nephew who for one reason or another is more suitable as a leader. The sons of modern tribal leaders—and with increasing frequency their daughters—are often educated abroad, but many return home to assume tribal duties when their families need them.

  The language spoken by the fictional Amirzai family and other characters in this story would most likely be Punjabi or Urdu, liberally sprinkled with English, especially idiomatic English. The glossary contains mostly Urdu words, many of Arabic, Persian, or Hindi origin.

  Marriages in Pakistan are traditionally arranged. In tribal families, when business and political interests are at stake, a sense of familial duty may override any objection the bride and groom have to the match on personal grounds. But the personal preferences of the young man and woman are frequently taken into account by parents whose primary interest is in seeing that their son or daughter is happily married with a secure financial future.

  The House of Djinn draws on tribal traditions to create a world that is typical of some families of Pakistani tribal leaders, and not at all typical of others. The patriarch of the fictional Amirzai family is very modern and forward-looking, as some (but not all) sardars are. As in most families, personalities clash, people reconcile, and some go their separate ways. And as in most families—both real and fictional—love is a powerful force that draws imperfect people together in the face of jealousy, greed, and the demands of tradition.

  Al
so by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  Under the Persimmon Tree

  The Green Dog: A Mostly True Story

  Shiva’s Fire

  Dangerous Skies

  Haveli

  Shabanu: Daughter of the Wind

  GLOSSARY

  (Pronunciation guide: accented syllable is italicized; ah = vowel sound in call; eh = vowel sound in check; ih = vowel sound in chick; oh = vowel sound in dough; uh = vowel sound in stuff; ai = vowel sound in try; oo = vowel sound in true; ooh = vowel sound in hoof; ee = vowel sound in tea.)

  Ah-salaam-aleikum (ah-sah-lahm-ah-leh-koom)—Peace be upon you

  aloo paratha (ah-loo pah-rahn-tah)—fried bread containing onion and potato

  amrud (ahm-rood)—guava, a yellow, pearlike fruit

  annee-jannee (ah-nee-jah-nee)—coming and going

  atta (ah-tuh)—ground whole-grain wheat

  ayah (aiy-uh)—nursemaid or maid

  Baba (bah-buh)—Father or Grandfather

  Basant (buh-sahnt)—spring festival

  beta (beh-tah)—son

  bhoondi ladoo (boohn-dee lah-doo)—small cakes with raisins and nuts

  biryani (beer-yah-nee)—rice cooked with vegetables and/or meat

  bukri (buh-kree)—goat

  burfi (buhr-fee)—a sweet dish made by boiling milk until it is the consistency of paste

  burqa (bhur-kuh)—a traditional head-to-toe covering worn by Islamic women with a lattice of cloth in front of the eyes to allow vision

  chador (chah-door)—also a traditional head covering, usually an untailored cloth draped about the head and body

  chai (chaiy)—tea

  channa (chuhn-nuh)—chickpeas

  chappal (chuhp-puhl)—sandal

  charpoi (chahr-poy)—a string cot

  chawal (chuh-vuhl)—rice

  choti (choh-tee)—little