by Siya Turabi
‘I don’t know.’
The heat was heavy but Hassan trembled on the way back.
They walked in single file at a pace that made him out of breath.
He was at the end of the line and looked back from time to time, not out of fear, more out of a hope, that one of the bees had followed.
Chapter Ten
What had happened? He was pacing his room without end. Had it been real? Bees filled his mind. That cloud of bees so close. Part of him was still there at the masjid with them. He paused in the middle of the floor and waited for any signs, but there were none: no humming, no image to make him feel whole again.
He wanted to go to school, to be like them, like Maryam, to tell stories and laugh. He would return home briefly with Kulsoom to find the beekeeper and the honey and then be back for school if everything went well. He sat down and took the honeycomb from under his pillow. He held it with both hands. Yes, Baba would be happy with that plan. And when he went to look for the beekeeper, maybe, if it were meant to be, maybe he would find his father in the forest too.
A crow screeched on the sill, its black eyes watching his thoughts through the netting. And now this with the bees. What would they all make of it? He placed the piece of honeycomb in his waistcoat pocket. His lips were dry and his head pounded; he had to find water.
He crashed down the steps into the blanket of heat below. From the shade of the wall, he braced himself to run across the courtyard but a car drove through the gates and stopped at the main house. Ali Noor jumped out to open the back door for Begum Saab. Kulsoom got out of the other side and hurried to help Ali Noor take the shopping out of the car as Begum Saab went into the house. Hassan stepped back into the shade to wait until Kulsoom was gone. He still had to speak to her about returning. He would try and find her inside.
The water in the fridge in the dining area was cold. Drops splashed on his chin and neck as he gulped down half a bottle, paused and then drank the rest. That was better. The air filled with the sounds of sandals slapping on the floors and Begum Saab’s instructions that echoed around the rooms. Suitcases thudded as they were pulled up the stairs in the hall.
Two women came in carrying bundles of knives, forks, and spoons and dropped them with a loud clatter on the side table. The women ignored him as they chattered and sang. He slipped into the living room where it was quiet and cool; the fans worked hard to blast the air around the room. He noticed some photos lined up on the mantelpiece to the side of him.
Carriages, uniforms. Mir Saab, as a boy, on a horse. Mir Saab with his father. Other men sat on thrones in front of palace doors, round men with round heads and decorated coats. Men on horses, men and women smoking cigars, jewels, rainbow silks, and lavish cushions. All with the same faces as Mir Saab but that’s where the similarity stopped. Mir Saab was small, modest even – at least he appeared to be. But no, actions were reality; that was what Hassan told himself. Mir Saab had sent the guards after his father. But he loved the bees. How could someone who loved bees and drew them so beautifully be heartless?
He walked over to the open doorway of the study. The clock was ticking. The shutter was open and the golden hive structure, a skeleton shaped like an egg, seemed like it was on fire. He stayed at the door. What if he had to leave because of what had happened?
Mir Saab came through the other door and faced the table at the other end of the study. He did not notice Hassan and picked up the camera, humming to himself. A minute passed. The hive glowed.
‘You can practise with this.’ Without turning around, Mir Saab stretched out his hand for Hassan to take the camera.
As Hassan went to take it, voices came from outside, getting nearer.
‘Where’s that tiger poem?’ Maryam asked. Amina and Zain came in behind her.
Hassan brought the camera to his eye and aimed it at Maryam, his finger over the button. She smiled, almost half a laugh, pleased to see him.
‘Closer,’ Mir Saab said. ‘Portraits should be taken up close.’
Bravery was easier behind the camera. Her face was nearer now, in focus.
‘Yes, that’s close enough.’ Mir Saab’s hands were raised and his fingers were spread. Maryam’s smile became stiff and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses.
‘Now,’ Mir Saab clapped.
The black button clicked and the handle turned under Hassan’s finger.
‘I wish I could have taken a photo of Hassan surrounded by the bees,’ Maryam said.
Hassan nearly tripped but he gripped the camera more tightly. All eyes were on him.
Stumbling in their words, talking all at once with their expressions changing fast, Maryam, Amina, and Zain explained what had happened, like three buzzing bees loud and close. He laughed.
‘There were thousands all around him,’ Maryam said, ‘like a wall.’
‘I’m never going back there,’ Amina said.
Mir Saab watched him. His eyebrows rose and fell until he said, ‘That’s impossible.’
‘How did you do that, Hassan?’ Maryam asked.
‘It just happened,’ Hassan said. He wanted to tell them that in the middle of the swarm, his own body had not mattered anymore. That he had been one with the bees, that—
The sound of tea cups.
Kulsoom came in and put the silver tray down on the table in front of Mir Saab before she headed out again, giving Hassan a questioning look.
‘Did that really happen?’ Mir Saab asked when she had left.
‘Hassan saved our lives,’ Amina said.
Mir Saab was thinking. His eyes narrowed, his lips were slowly moving, and he was muttering to himself. It was too many words. Hassan didn’t trust words. For a moment the smell of honey and wax and old trees touched Hassan’s nostrils.
‘I knew a man once. He had a special connection with the bees,’ Mir Saab said.
‘Who?’ Zain asked.
‘An old beekeeper.’
There was a deep longing in Mir Saab’s eyes, as if he were opening a locked treasure box containing some old secret that was only now ready for sharing.
‘Where is he now?’ Maryam asked.
‘Twenty years ago, the beginning of this country meant new laws. The old beekeeper went to live in the forest with his wife and son. Father taught son in the forest, and I left for boarding school in England. I heard the old beekeeper died a few years later and so did his wife.’
‘What about his son?’ Amina asked.
‘The summer I finished school, when I turned eighteen, I tried to find him.’ Mir Saab was sitting at his desk now and touched the golden hive. ‘We travelled in jeeps to the edge of the jungle and then went in on foot with the guards every day. I tried again after that a few times when I was back for good, before the rains.’
‘Did you find him?’ Amina asked.
‘I found nests.’
Hassan could see the black honeybee nest high in the tree and feel the cool shade of the trees at the forest border with his father; he smelt the smoke on their clothes and in his hair.
‘Bees, bees, bees,’ Mir Saab said.
So, Mir Saab had found the beekeeper too.
‘But I never found him.’
‘Why not?’ Amina asked.
Mir Saab picked up a picture and held it a few inches from his face. ‘These drawings are the only way I have into their world now.’ He put the paper down too quickly. ‘Anyway, what about you? Where did you get this skill from?’ Mir Saab bent over and stroked the egg. ‘This knowledge?’
Whatever he meant by this, Mir Saab looked like a child who had had something snatched away from him, something that should have been his. Hassan stayed silent. They were kind now, but that could change in the blink of an eye. The clock ticked.
‘Hassan, how did you do that?’ Maryam asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Everyone leant forwards, except Hassan and Mir Saab. There was a look in Mir Saab’s face that made Hassan hold back. Only a hint, but it was there, like in t
he faces of the boys when Hassan had won at cricket.
‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ Mir Saab said.
Was this some kind of trick to make him admit what had happened? Moments passed.
‘Perhaps this is your path,’ Mir Saab said, ‘to come to know the answer to that question.’
No, this was not his path. It was a job he had to do, to go back for the black honey and then start school here in the city so he could leave Harikaya; that was his path. He opened his mouth but Mir Saab spoke, ‘That’s enough for now. The tea must be getting cold.’
‘Can you read the tiger poem for us, Baba?’ Amina asked.
‘We heard it in the masjid,’ Maryam paused. ‘At one of your old parties.’
She and Amina laughed, two conspirators sharing a secret memory.
‘I’ll read it to you, and the next time, one of you will recite it to me by heart.’
‘Hassan’s father’s a poet,’ Amina said. ‘Mother told me.’
Amina brought over the poetry book.
‘Sit down everyone,’ Maryam said.
Hassan dropped to the floor.
‘On a chair, silly,’ she said. Hassan looked over to Mir Saab. He had sat at the dining table with them but he hesitated. Villagers did not sit at the same level as the mir or his family.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mir Saab said, and reached for the hive structure again.
Amina poured the tea. The milk went into her cup first from a small jug. The brown liquid was the colour of the Indus river when it was still low before the rains.
The chai his mother made was always darker. She made it in a big pot for all the neighbours on special days: birthdays, death days, and holy days. He enjoyed squeezing the cardamom pods from the bottom of his cup after he drank the chai. Their black seeds were soft and warm in his mouth. Softer than when he had eaten the pods raw every morning until his mother put the jar away. But Baba would always give him a handful here and there. ‘They’re good for you,’ he would say.
Maryam began.
‘Tyger, tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?’
A cry came from outside the living room. It was Begum Saab. ‘There you all are! Come upstairs for the gathering.’
Hassan stayed seated.
‘You too,’ Mir Saab said. ‘Go on, with the others.’
‘What?’ asked Begum Saab, looking from Mir Saab to Hassan.
‘He put himself in danger for the children,’ Mir Saab said.
Taking off the camera strap was difficult. Hassan had got used to it around his neck.
‘No, keep it for now. Take pictures. You know what to do,’ Mir Saab said.
‘Thank you, Mir Saab.’ He made his way out of the door with the camera hanging around his neck. Before he slipped out, he turned to see Mir Saab picking up the picture of the black bees and closing his eyes.
Hassan followed the sound of sandals on the stairs. His shadow fell on the steps before him. All was quiet. He held the camera tightly in his hands as he turned the corner of the stairwell. Almost at the landing now, he saw the double doors of the girls’ bedroom slam together and then swing, the two pieces of wood clapping against each other until they came to a rest. Next to their bedroom, light seeped through the gaps under the closed doors of the prayer room – old doors with decorated glass. Hassan brought his foot down onto the landing. One of the bedroom doors opened. Maryam stepped out. He jumped.
‘Got you.’ She was right in front of him with a camera to her face.
‘Maryam Bibi.’
‘Shh.’ She brought the camera down without pressing and pointed to the other set of doors.
They went into a room soaked with incense. Zain, Amina, and Maryam were sitting on the carpets. Begum Saab flapped her hand and gave him a nod, keeping her eyes on the book she held. He stayed at the door. Her large reading glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. She licked her finger and turned the book’s yellowing pages. The thread barely held the sheets together anymore.
She began to sing. Quiet sounds. Throaty notes. Her voice had to be warming up. A train of words fell out of her mouth to form a melody that was painful. Begum Saab was singing high notes and low ones in some kind of tune.
He looked around. Zain rubbed his forehead. Amina rolled her eyes. Maryam hugged her knees to her chest. She looked ready to bury her head behind her knees but she beckoned to Hassan with her hand, looking at the space next to her. Instead, he shut the door and sat down in front of it with his legs folded, ready for a picture.
So, this was a family gathering. To Hassan it was beautiful. The glow of candlelight made it even more magical. His body relaxed for the first time since arriving in Karachi and he let go of the camera to let it rest on his lap. He knew he had to be very careful because all of this could fall apart at any time, destroyed with just a few wrong words about his father.
And then he caught Maryam looking up at him, a sideways look.
He took hold of the camera again, lifting it to his eyes and pointing it in her direction, and pressed.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, servants rushed in and out of the main house, propelled by Begum Saab’s orders. Around mid-morning, Hassan entered the dining room with the camera hanging from its strap around his neck and found Amina and Zain sitting at the table with school books. A man, who must have been their tutor, sat with them.
‘Will you join us, Hassan?’ Zain asked, but Hassan backed up, out of the room. He lifted up the camera and took a picture. He bashed his heel on the door frame and disappeared back into the hallway to the sound of giggles.
He went back up to the long balcony outside his room. Water splashed and then stopped; he peered over the wall. Ali Noor was at the tap below near the steps; his children were playing on the swings and they waved at him. They, like him, were being sponsored by Mir Saab. The mir was supporting them all, even the beekeeper that he had not found.
He wanted to see the bees again. He walked to the top of the steps by the balcony and then stopped and went back down. There was still too much to think about and understand: the language of the bees, he had used it and they had understood; his knowledge that Mir Saab had talked about; the secret knowledge that Baba wanted to hold; the bees’ knowledge…
A door opened and shut. Kulsoom came out of her room a few doors down and stood by the balcony wall. He stepped back into the door frame of his room and watched as she adjusted her dupatta around her shoulders. The sun fell on her bare arms and head, making her skin and hair glow. The camera was at his eyes now. His finger froze. Through the camera lens, the movements of her head and arms were tiny but they didn’t stop. She touched her face, wrung her hands, and moved her head, looking down at the courtyard as if searching for something or someone. After a minute or so, she turned and walked away and down the steps at the other end of the balcony.
Dinner was still a few hours away and he thought if he went down to the house he might be able to catch her now. She was in the hallway, standing beside a woman who was thrashing a broom in corners of the room to beat the cobwebs. They both had their backs to him.
‘They’re putting up the tent in Harikaya,’ the woman told Kulsoom.
‘Is it big?’ Kulsoom asked.
‘Yes, and people from other villages are coming too for the gatherings.’
They were eleven days into the month of Sha’ban now. In the new calendar, September would begin in three days. He pictured the tent with the people flowing all around, doing what they always did, whatever that was with their songs and gatherings. He always stayed away from them, preferring to walk around Harikaya, leave the track and run along the river banks. He did that every year as the water rose slowly at first and then more steadily when the rains were in full force. That’s when his father used to disappear for his travels.
‘The tent will still be up when I get there for Eid,’ Kul
soom said.
‘Mir Saab says it’s important to remember the ancestors just before Ramadan too, not only at Moharram. He says it brings us together more,’ said the other woman. ‘Mir Saab’s a good man.’ She started making her way towards the stairs, thrashing her broom across the floor in time to her steps and singing to herself.
Big crowds would make it easier for him to slip away to the jungle. He stepped forward, trembling, ‘I want to go back now. I’ve done what I needed to do. I’ve met Mir Saab.’ Kulsoom turned around, surprised to see him.
‘You’re starting school here in Karachi.’
‘I can come back before then.’
‘Why?’ She pretended to laugh.
‘You know why.’
Kulsoom looked towards the woman. ‘He’s a good boy. He misses his mother.’ She turned back to Hassan. ‘We’ll visit her for Eid.’
‘That’s in two months.’
Hassan was losing his balance. The woman carried on thrashing the floor with her broom.
Kulsoom came closer to him. ‘You’re doing so well here. I don’t know how you’ve done it but you’re even joining them for meals.’ Her voice was low and her breathing shallow. ‘Don’t spoil things.’
Raisin eyes were upon him, only a few inches away from his face. He was picking up the smell of camphor perfume mixed with the sweat from her clothes. They sold small bottles of camphor at the shrine, pretending it was blessed. She had to be pretending too. The song from the woman on the stairs continued. Hassan stood firm. Even if Kulsoom always won with his mother, she would not win with him.
‘I need to go back for the black honey.’
Her face was tight and serious. Her warm breath carried the taste of chai.
‘You’re just like your father, charming your way into families.’ She stepped back again. ‘He always got what he wanted. He played people well.’
There was a distant look in her eyes, some memory that she resented. ‘But forget his foolish dreams. They’re dangerous.’