by Siya Turabi
One of the musicians sitting in the centre of the circle, near the fire, started to drum, a soft constant beat. An oil burner was passed around until it reached Ansari Saab, who placed it on the floor, making his chin glow. He cleared his throat and looked up to the sky as if he were waiting for a tap in his head to turn on. Drips at first, in Urdu.
‘The light of you.’ A gentle sway of his head. ‘Is the path to you.’
The audience of villagers and poets started to raise their hands. The drumming was steady.
Ansari Saab read his poetry and while everyone was looking at him, Hassan looked at Sami.
‘You entered my life when I was a young bird,
Fallen from its nest.
Now I sing on that same tree,
In the hope you come back,
But that day never comes
And all I have is the memory of you.’
The others made their noises. ‘Wah, wah,’ they said.
Ansari Saab handed the oil lamp to Baba who placed it between his feet, careful not to let any of the oil drip. He held his coconut shell high above his head. Baba was ready.
‘They tell me this is wrong.’ He looked at the shell. ‘Am I to cast you away and listen to their words?’
Nods of approval came from the circle of poets. He took a sip from his shell. The drum beat quickened.
‘The wise ones, I bow to you in gratitude.’ His father turned towards the musicians.
‘You bring the sound that never dies.
Carried on thin notes through reed, skin, and string.
It is the sound of truth, a law, dropped to the earth.
It is no accident.’
Baba stood up and began to sway, only a little at first. His arms were rising. Another poet stood. And another. Soon, a handful of poets were up, ready to sway to the sound carried behind the music. Hassan stayed where he was. He was sure Sami was watching him. The drum beat was speeding up but he still didn’t stand. His father was speaking again.
‘How long will it be before stones and rocks are all we have, and the snow melts and the desert plants bleed dry? How long will it be before the farmers become the travellers and can no longer plough their fields because old laws say one man is better than thousands?’
This wasn’t poetry anymore. Hassan looked over to Sami. She was staring at Baba. He wanted to pull his father down, all puffed up as he was with coconut spirit.
‘The forest is forbidden to us because of Mir Saab’s new law,’ his father said.
He was at the centre of the circle now and his face was lit by the small fire. The poets began to mutter.
‘Mir Saab made the law to protect the animals,’ an old man said, perched with his hands on his stick in the front row. ‘It’s more than what the government does for us.’
‘I understand that,’ Baba said. ‘I’m not saying the government has the answer to this problem.’
Some of the audience started to shuffle or step back.
‘We need those forests,’ Baba said.
Ansari Saab was shaking his head. ‘Dangerous talk,’ he muttered.
‘Mir Saab has done a lot to help us. It’s not right to criticise him.’ That was another poet.
‘Mirs belong to the old world.’ It was Sami’s father.
‘Yes, the old systems are on their way out,’ Baba said.
There were gasps in the crowd. Some of them started to shout.
‘Mir Saab is a good leader.’
‘How dare you?’
‘We’ve used the medicines of the forest for generations,’ Baba said. ‘We should let Mir Saab know we need access to the forest.’
The drum beat was erratic. People were coming to join the circle of poets to see what was happening.
‘A vote. That’s the fair way of doing things. Those of you who want to do something… to change this law, come over here. Join me. We can have a peaceful march.’
No one stepped forwards. His father looked around the crowd and then his eyes rested on Hassan. Hassan sighed; he had to do it. He held his breath and, without looking at Sami, he stepped close to Baba, who put his hand on his shoulder.
‘He’s got his son into this now.’
‘There’ll be trouble for both of you.’
Just then, Sami’s father stepped forwards into the circle. Sami looked on, her expression unchanged, and Baba raised his arm to the sky.
‘Someone saw you coming back from the forest today,’ a man said.
A hush fell over the crowd.
‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ Baba said.
‘The new law says you were.’
‘And why were you trying to hide a dead deer?’
‘Come on, Baba, we have to leave.’ Hassan pulled his father’s arm.
‘Tell us what you were up to.’
‘That was Mir Saab’s deer.’
‘Mir Saab needs to listen to us.’ His father was still trying.
People began to shout. The voices fell like sticks and Hassan felt hot. He wished his father weren’t so drunk.
‘We have to leave.’ Hassan stood in front of his father.
It worked and Hassan looked back just in time to see Sami and her father leaving through the crowd on the other side.
‘They’re all held captive by him,’ his father said, looking up at the fort.
They were on the track back to the village again. The noise of the crowd was still buzzing in Hassan’s head. His father stopped and grabbed his arm so tightly that it hurt.
‘The black honeybees. I wanted to take you with me to find them but now…’ He looked into the distance, across the fields and scrub land, towards the forest.
‘We could go one last time,’ Hassan said. ‘Together.’
‘I’ve never been able to find them. They’re much deeper in the forest than the other bees.’
Hassan thought of his mother and the doctors she had seen for her eyes.
‘Baba, you’ve always said the black honey is medicine. It could help Amma. I want to go with you.’
For a second the tiredness and worry left his father’s face. ‘Perhaps it’ll be different if you come with me.’ He let go of Hassan’s arm.
When they got home, Hassan’s mother was on the floor of the living area, waiting for them. ‘He has his exam today,’ she said, pointing to Hassan’s room.
‘The scholarship.’ His father covered his mouth with his hand.
Hassan took off his clothes and lay on his bamboo bed. There were still two hours to go before school started. His head was spinning with the voices of the crowd. Sami’s face when she was leaving. What would she think of him now? And all because Baba read too many of those books on Marxism. Hassan rolled over. He was too tired to make any sense of it now.
Chapter Three
Hassan woke to the sound of the cock and his parents arguing. He sat up. He was sick of it.
‘Promise me you won’t go to the forest anymore,’ his mother was saying.
‘I’ll only go to find the black honeybees.’
Hassan went to stand at the door.
‘You could get arrested.’
‘You don’t understand. The black honey’s special.’
‘Anything could happen,’ his mother said. ‘That man you sell the honey to is dangerous,’ she said.
‘You would know that, wouldn’t you?’
His mother pummelled the chapati dough in her fists harder and faster. ‘That was a long time ago.’ Her voice was high-pitched. ‘Tell that man you won’t do it anymore.’ She blinked and took off her glasses. Her eyes were cloudy and puffed up. She placed the clean backs of her hands on each eye and kept them there for a few seconds.
‘I’ll tell him but don’t worry, the black honey’s not for sale.’ Baba walked to the back of the house. Before he opened the door, he turned back to Amma. ‘It’ll heal your eyes. There’s no other way. You know that.’
‘The doctors…’
‘The doctors have said nothing can be don
e.’ He stepped towards her.
‘We can try other doctors. I can go to Karachi.’
‘Those doctors work for Mir Saab. They come from Karachi.’
‘I said, I don’t want you to go,’ his mother said.
‘This disease has gone too far.’ He came closer to her and held her wrist. His voice was breaking. ‘You need the black honey.’
‘Not now, not with this law. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Meri jaan, it’s glaucoma. Stop this pretending.’ Baba sighed.
‘Promise me,’ she said.
‘All right, all right, I won’t go.’ His father headed for the back door. Hassan waited for the sound of his sandals on the steps, then on the roof, and the creaks of the bed as his father lay down.
The dough dropped out of his mother’s hands. She went over to the small table in the corner and sat down in front of the tray filled with rose petals. She lit a candle and began to pick out the dead petals and let them drop on the floor. The skin of her strong arms glowed. Her face relaxed and she was beautiful. He understood why Baba always said it had been love at first sight.
But Amma only laughed when he said that. She had had a few proposals. Proposals she let go of – no, proposals she ‘sacrificed’ when Baba had kept after her. He had followed her around, begging her. He wouldn’t go away. She always told Hassan that ‘Baba made me fall in love with him.’ And she complained about it sometimes – well, often. ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone.’ Hassan knew all of this by heart now. ‘He promised to take me travelling with him – to Kashmir – to rent a boat on Dal Lake.’
His father had broken his promise and she often reminded him of it. He never took her anywhere, she told him. She was an educated girl and he’d locked her into marriage with lies. He’d said he had an important job, that he was too busy for holidays. Then why did he go travelling on his own? Leaving her behind to do all the housework and work in the factory. Did he think that just because he wrote for a paper that he was better, that he could get away with doing nothing around the house?
That was how it always went. That’s why Hassan didn’t believe in marriage or love or even an affair. He’d stay single all his life. Yes, he liked Sami, but no more than that. She might be interesting to talk to but a pretty girl wouldn’t change his mind.
Hassan came closer and knelt down next to his mother. She had stopped complaining recently. He looked sideways at her. ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’
‘They’re fine. You just concentrate on your test today.’
That was typical of her. She never let herself be ill or rest. That was his mother.
‘This is your chance,’ she said. ‘Harikaya has nothing for you anymore.’ Her voice carried regret, heavier than usual. ‘You’ll live in Karachi,’ she said. ‘In Mir Saab’s house. You’ll have a future there.’
He wanted to tell her the truth, that the scholarship was her dream, not his. That he didn’t want to leave her. ‘Amma…’
Banging. The door. He was on his feet. His father’s steps on the roof. Words – his mother’s. She was at the door before him. It was Sami’s mother.
‘They came to warn him this morning.’ The woman’s cries were desperate. ‘The guards came just now.’
His father was at the back door.
‘What did they say?’ his mother asked.
‘He’s lost his job.’
Sami’s father had worked at the post office.
‘Were they Mir Saab’s guards or the government’s?’ his father asked.
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. Her lips trembled.
Hassan stepped forward. ‘And Sami?’ he asked.
Sami’s mother turned towards him. ‘You’d better be careful. It could be your father next, or you.’
Hassan stepped back from the force of her words.
The teacher sat at the front of the class with his head buried in books. Hassan yawned. He was at the back next to Sami. She seemed more tired than he was, her eyes red and swollen, and she just stared at the questions.
But for Hassan it was different. English, maths, nature, geography. Extra lessons with Ansari Saab had made all this too easy. He finished the papers before the others. The teacher was still occupied and he wrote Sami’s surname at the top of each sheet and waved his hand just enough for her to look his way. He held out the papers and she took them with a confused look on her face. Hassan put his finger to his lips and gestured for her sheets with his other hand. A clean swap.
It was the right thing to do. She would have nothing now, not after what Baba had done. But now he had to wait for the bell and it was taking forever. He started to think of last night and sighed deeply. He felt her looking at him but kept his head low. If only he could sleep. He shouldn’t have gone to the shrine but then Baba would have been alone.
That was the trouble: when Baba had an idea, he’d stick to it and it was even worse after a drink. Baba had read too many books on socialism and now he wanted a revolution and he wanted to be the leader of the uprising of the poor and he wanted it to happen tomorrow. Why couldn’t he just accept that things would never change around here? Mirs would always be mirs and governments would always want more. Maybe revolution happened in England or France, but Pakistan was different. Hassan let his head flop. He felt too embarrassed to look at Sami after all this. The bell rang and Hassan packed up his pen and notebook. A teacher in Karachi was going to mark the papers and they’d know the results in a week.
Hassan went to the school gates; he was too tired to stay at school longer. He’d had enough. He heard footsteps behind him and felt a light touch on his arm. He stopped. She was panting, her face tight. Perhaps she was afraid he might change his mind.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked.
‘It’s done now,’ Hassan said, walking faster. He wanted to talk to her but it would just cause gossip.
‘Wait,’ she said.
He stopped.
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘It was my father’s fault.’
Her face scrunched up as if it were in pain. Her short brown hair fell in tangles around her face. She hadn’t even combed it but he couldn’t stop staring at her, at her brown skin, her broad chin, and her eyes, looking straight at him. He turned to carry on walking. She dropped behind.
Baba and Amma were at home when he got back. They hadn’t gone to work. Their faces were bright. His mother had already cooked for him but he couldn’t tell them what he’d done, not now. ‘I’m tired,’ he said and went to his room and fell asleep.
The next morning, Hassan walked past the stone cutters, sitting on the floor in their shop fronts. Hammering was slow. That meant it was still early. Taps got faster all the way to noon and slowed down after that till it was time for the workers to come home. Tap… tap… tap. Slow and steady. Must be around eight o’clock. The coconut stalls were set up outside the gate but the woman and her spinning wheel weren’t there.
Past his school, past the cotton mills and textile factories where his mother worked and the newspaper office where his father worked. All owned by Mir Saab. He carried on past the line of labourers on their way to the fields.
‘Mir Saab wants us to build channels in dry land,’ a man said.
‘More hard work,’ another muttered.
In the dry season everything was more hard work. Even cricket. Men sat under the banyan trees along the track – the coolest place to avoid work – and let their wives go for them instead. At least Baba went to work.
The cricket match took place in the dry river bed, at a spot not too near the forest but far enough away from the village and the factories for adults not to disturb them. A few scattered boats made good hiding places, in case someone like a policeman or, worse, one of Mir Saab’s guards came past. It was also one of the few places not overlooked by the fort.
Cricket was hot that day but Hassan scored a few runs more than the four other boys. The sun made him sweat and by mid-afternoon, he needed more
water.
‘Get me some too,’ the other boys said, handing over their bottles.
The well was in a shady corner by the track, a few minutes away from the village wall. The bucket was heavy but he brought it up and used his bottle to throw water over himself. Summer in Harikaya was like a bread oven before the rains and he was dry again in minutes.
He filled the five bottles and rested against the well. Footsteps and voices came from the other side. One of the voices sounded like his father’s. He crouched and peered over the wall to see his father carrying the jar again and talking fast to another man – the honey dealer. His father handed over the jar, looking around at the same time. Hassan began to stand up but arms grabbed his waist and pulled him to the floor and a hand covered his mouth.
‘It’s me,’ a voice whispered in his ear in English.
It was Ansari Saab, the poet. He let go of Hassan’s mouth and Hassan checked over the wall again. The two men had separated; the honey dealer was heading off between the shrubs and his father back towards the village.
Hassan nearly sprang up again. He wanted to question his father, but Ansari Saab grabbed his shirt.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said.
‘Baba said he wouldn’t go anymore,’ Hassan whispered.
Ansari Saab let go of Hassan’s mouth and began to fumble about in the sandy ground. ‘My monocle,’ he said. ‘It’s from Cambridge.’
‘What are you doing here, Ansari Saab?’
‘What are you doing here?’ the poet asked back. He had his monocle in his eye again.
‘Do you know that man?’ Hassan was afraid to hear the answer.
‘I know he’s not a good one. That’s all I know,’ Ansari Saab said. ‘He’s involved in too many things.’ He sucked his lips in and shook his head. ‘Too many things.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t want to know. But he doesn’t work alone. He has friends – let’s say contacts – in surprising places. Very powerful places. Best to keep away from him. Best not to get involved.’