by Siya Turabi
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
She turned to him. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m going to school, and then…’
Zain and Amina came in and, without a word, came to stand by Maryam to look at the open book. At the same time, the back door opened. Mir Saab entered and said, ‘I have to write that reply now or I’ll never do it. The wedding’s tomorrow.’ He reached out for a steel ink pen. ‘Two blackbucks, the symbol of Harikaya,’ he said, pointing to the top of the letterhead paper. ‘They’ll protect us against the government’s intentions. The factories will remain mine.’
The dead deer by the train tracks… Its wounded flesh, the skin, the lifeless head framed by cigarette butts…
That was the image in Hassan’s head.
Mir Saab’s metal pen clinked as he laid it down on the table and the dead deer vanished.
‘That’s that,’ Mir Saab said, tossing the card to one side. ‘They’ll get this before the wedding.’ The dark shadow on his face disappeared as he stood again, pursing his lips and scratching his chin. He took the large roll of paper lying on the table, unfastened the ribbon that held it, and stretched it out on the table, shuffling some weights onto each corner. ‘I have it,’ he said, picking up the sheet. He turned to the children and waved them nearer. ‘I know what the boat needs.’
Mir Saab added lines to the huge sailing boat, making the sails bigger. ‘This boat may be our only choice one day if the machine they’re running on grows too big,’ he said.
‘Who’s running on?’ Hassan asked.
‘The government.’
‘What machine?’ Hassan asked.
‘Political greed. It eats up everything around it: people, land, livelihoods. The weather too.’ Mir Saab looked at his drawing, bringing the sheet closer to his face. ‘I’ve had this dream for a long time.’
‘How long?’ Maryam asked.
‘Ever since I had to make a choice between them waging war on me or me handing them my sovereignty of the state of Harikaya.’
‘Why did they want you to do that?’ Maryam asked.
The shadow came back over Mir Saab’s face. ‘So that it would become part of the new country, Pakistan. They argued for the cause of unity.’ He swallowed. ‘I wanted to believe them but they cornered me well and truly.’ He sighed and looked up. ‘It’s a long story. The first government was fine – good intentions and all that. The second was all right. After that, things changed. The third government told me it could be two ways. A peaceful takeover or a violent one.’ Mir Saab frowned. ‘It was nineteen fifty-three. The partition had happened a few years earlier. Six, to be precise. And the population of this new country was growing. The folk were traumatised. I’m not blaming anyone. During the split into two countries, there were huge casualties on both sides.’
Mir Saab put down his pencil.
‘People who had once lived side by side with their differences suddenly called each other enemies. They had to move from their homes and rebuild their lives. Many of them suffered so much.’ He hung his head. ‘Much too much. When the second government decided to make Harikaya part of Pakistan, the new land, and not a separate state as it had been for hundreds of years, they threatened me with war if I didn’t agree. I could not fight back.’ He pursed his lips. ‘The people had gone through enough.’
‘So, you gave them what they wanted,’ Maryam said.
Mir Saab looked relieved that someone else had said those words. ‘I had to believe in the goodness of some of the original sentiments that were behind the birth of this nation. They promised to pay for the upkeep of the fort and the village services in exchange for my loyalty.’
‘You had no choice, Baba,’ Amina said.
‘In truth they wanted total power. They haven’t kept their promises as they should have done. They say money is scarce but they live in opulence.’
Everyone fell silent. Hassan pictured the factories if the government got control – quiet, lonely. His mother’s job could vanish because of the whim of a Prime Minister. More and more people would be coming to Karachi to work in the factories and the tiny shops he had seen on the way from the airport. Those would be the lucky ones. They wouldn’t have the protection of a home like this. Hassan shuddered. He looked towards Mir Saab again. His eyes were wide. He seemed to be somewhere far away.
‘I suppose nothing lasts forever,’ Mir Saab said.
‘Why a boat?’ This was Hassan.
‘Things are so uncertain. The population is growing too fast. The pollution in the air and soil is destroying life. The trees are being felled to make way for more people. The weather is changing. I’m worried the floods will become out of control.’ Mir Saab started to shade in a corner of the boat.
Something rustled. No one else noticed. Only Hassan turned. Someone was behind the open door.
‘I’ll teach you all how to sail,’ Mir Saab said.
‘With the wind?’ Amina asked.
‘How else?’ Zain asked.
‘And when there’s no wind, we’ll float,’ Maryam said.
The rustling was there again. It might be someone listening or it might be nothing; Hassan wanted to go and look. Was someone there, eavesdropping?
‘There’ll be room for animals too,’ Mir Saab said.
‘Hassan can look after the bees,’ Maryam said.
‘They’ll help us find dry land,’ Zain said.
Maryam clapped her hands.
‘Yes, they’ll send scouts out to search for land. They’ll be led by the sun to the scent of the flowers,’ Mir Saab said, ‘and when they find them, they’ll come back and dance.’
Just as Hassan was about to say something, he saw Kulsoom approaching the doorway, her hair falling out of her plait and shiny drops of water on her forehead.
‘The estate manager,’ she said, out of breath.
‘Oh no, I’d forgotten,’ Mir Saab replied.
The dream dissolved in front of Hassan’s eyes and Mir Saab rolled up the sheets before departing to greet his visitor.
Hassan left the others in the study and went to look behind the door. There was no one there. No one in the hall either. The male voices from the drawing room became louder as Hassan approached, and he picked up words about the factories and the new bill.
‘I don’t understand.’ That must have been the estate manager’s voice, quiet and unsure. ‘Why does the Prime Minister want your factories?’
‘Because they’re mine,’ Mir Saab said. ‘He’s always hated me. I laughed at him in public a few years ago over a new law he brought in. He wanted to look more conservative, to make alcohol illegal. And yet he won’t give up his whisky. Now he’s stripping away the rights of minorities. Calling it religious purity. The new trend. Preposterous! All to please the conservatives, to get their vote. Very dangerous, I’d say. This country was built on tolerance. Anyway, I made him look small.’
‘And now he’s looking for opportunities to hurt you,’ the estate manager said.
‘They started by taking away the funding for the fort,’ Mir Saab said. A glass came down on a table. ‘And the fort’s crumbling.’
‘Talk with him at the wedding. You are going, Mir Saab, aren’t you?’
‘I’ll go, but…’ He paused and sighed, and it came out as a long, hard blow of air. ‘For the sake of the people.’
Hassan turned around. He heard footsteps but the hall was empty. Had he imagined it? He listened for more. In the dining room perhaps? Nothing. He tiptoed to the entrance of the living room; nobody was around. No breathing and no echoes of tapping sandals.
Chapter Fourteen
The afternoon nap had been Begum Saab’s idea. No, her order. It was better that way, and now he felt light, just in time for the wedding. Maryam had insisted he accompany them. The white cotton shirt and trousers embroidered at the edges in sky-blue thread were a little loose but so soft against his skin – a gift from Begum Saab. This was a different world, their world, Maryam’s world, and he laughed. Wha
t would his mother say? Before he left his room, there was one last thing. He put on his waistcoat; it was old, but it was part of him.
On the balcony, Kulsoom’s door was slightly open. If he asked her about returning to the village while he was wearing this suit, she might listen to him. He knocked but it was quiet. He went to the main house. Nobody else was around yet so he braved the kitchen; Kulsoom might be there. Nobody seemed to be inside, so he went through the flaps of the door. It was a mistake. The cook’s thin back was bent over the counter at the other side. His shirt was stained with dark patches of sweat.
The cook threw him a dark look over his shoulder and turned round. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. ‘So?’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Hassan, looking at the door flaps. It was too hot in here.
‘Stop playing games. What do you have?’
‘They don’t speak much.’ Hassan scratched the back of his head. He had to be strong.
‘Neither do you,’ the cook threw back at him.
‘All right. I’ll tell you something.’
‘I knew you’d see sense. You’re a true businessman like your father.’
‘Mir Saab loves animals.’
The cook laughed. ‘That’s not enough for me to organise your trip back.’
‘What more do you want from me?’
‘What more do you have?’
‘I told you what I have.’
‘I’m watching you. You’re walking a dangerous path.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hassan was well aware he had walked into the fire.
The cook came closer now and Hassan stiffened, keeping his arms pressed against his sides. Strength stirred in his legs and he found himself taking a step back. That taste was back in his mouth. Ink and oranges, like at the shrine.
‘You’ve got the best job in the house.’
‘I don’t have a job.’
‘You hear everything. You give me what I ask for, and I’ll make sure you get what you deserve. Enough for a quick trip back.’
The cook leant forwards.
‘I want more,’ the cook said, tilting his head,
A hot, sharp pain gripped the back of Hassan’s neck as if someone was squeezing it, and he rocked back on his heels. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Come on, kid, stop pretending you’re one of them.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be a fool. You’re using them too. I’m just more honest about it.’
‘You’re the fool,’ Hassan said, edging towards the door.
The cook wobbled on one leg as he bent down and took off a sandal. ‘Get out of here then.’ He lunged forward, throwing the shoe at Hassan who jumped back through the door flaps just in time. The cook lost his balance and toppled over. He lay on the floor with a crazed look on his face behind the plastic doors.
Hassan ran all the way to the hall and outside into the early evening sun. The light was mild at this time of the day. Ali Noor leant on one of the two cars in the courtyard; he was chatting with the other driver, Muhammed. The cook’s words floated into Hassan’s mind again and he tried to push them out as he walked to the cars. He’d be able to go back to see Amma, to pay his way. But that man, the cook… there was definitely something familiar about him.
The drivers saw him and carried on talking; he nodded at them in greeting. Soon the family would be out. How could he, even for one second, have considered that money from that man might be a good thing? Was it that cursed doll that the boys had left at the door? Was it starting to work?
What a stupid idea.
He dragged his feet; he was no better than the cook. He looked down at his new clothes. The smell of kitchen oil had touched their crispness and they seemed to sag.
After a few minutes, Mir Saab came out with Begum Saab. He wore a black suit and she, a red sari. His face was like a small child’s, scared but full of eager hope. They both disappeared into the first car.
Hassan sat in the back of the second car in his own little corner, feeling like a prince. The last time he had been to a wedding was in Harikaya, when the guests had danced in the village square until the early hours.
In the coolness of the car, it was hard to be as calm as the others. Every time they came to a standstill, Zain opened the window to see the city without the dark glass in between. Countless rickshaws, cars, trucks, and decorated buses with people hanging onto outside rails, seemed to be on the same journey as they were.
Thin, old donkeys pulled heavily laden carts on their way to the bazaars. Families were balanced on bicycles or scooters, weaving expertly through the flow. Traffic lights were there to be ignored and horns were indicators. Whenever their car stopped, women in burqas, old women with dupattas, or young children appeared with outstretched hands at the windows and Ali Noor handed out coins from a pouch.
‘Why does he look like that?’ Maryam asked. A boy staggered from one car to the next. He looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, even when he tripped and got up.
‘Opium,’ Zain said. Hassan was uneasy. On the one hand he was glad he was in the car, safe. But this could slip away so easily and he could find himself on the other side of the glass. He was a pretender here.
A woman in a full burqa walked right up to the window of the car next to theirs. A man’s arm reached away from the steering wheel but Hassan could not see the face; the woman grabbed a note from the man’s hand but stayed where she was. The hand and arm moved slowly, finding their way under the burqa. The woman was patient. The traffic light changed and the man’s arm went back onto the steering wheel. Hassan blinked in disbelief. The others had not seen. Karachi was a strange place.
They took shortcuts through narrow side streets strewn with bits of paper and plastic, where children stopped cricket matches to let them pass. Wider roads opened out before them, bordered with walls. Broad, leafy branches reached out over the walls and behind them were glimpses of flat-roofed houses.
‘Look, the Jinnah Mausoleum,’ Zain said, winding down his window at the front and pointing at the white building shaped like a huge box with a dome.
The car crawled past the sign that said ‘Founding Father’. A shopping complex came next; a girl got out of a car and walked into a glass-fronted shop.
‘She’s wearing jeans,’ Maryam said.
Amina laughed. ‘Yes, that does happen.’
Hassan wished he had a brother or a sister, or even a cousin to listen to him. There was no one to do that for him, but there was no time to think about that now. The car went up the hill and stopped. They had arrived at the hotel. The air was fresher here and mingled with the salty sea air blown in from the ocean below. Flags were strung from tree to tree.
Ali Noor winked at Hassan as he stepped out of the car and Hassan smiled back kindly as he had seen Maryam do, which made Ali Noor wink again. Men in long white jackets and fan-shaped hats lined the steps of the hotel entrance. A tall, thin man with a round eyepiece rushed down to Mir Saab’s car. Another man who was scowling followed more slowly, flanked by a wall of guards. His grey silk jacket was buttoned from his neck to his knees, and worn over stiff silk trousers. His hair was jet black and streaked back over an empty scalp while his stomach was puffed out like a pregnant dog on the streets of Harikaya. He had a cigar in his hand and he flicked it just before he reached the bottom of the steps. Mir Saab stepped out of the car.
‘Your Highness,’ he said to Mir Saab with a quick bow of his head. ‘It’s an honour.’
‘That’s the Prime Minister,’ Maryam whispered.
They followed him into the hotel. Glass doors to the marquee were swept open for them. There were at least a thousand people in there, or were there ten thousand? They stood or sat on chairs around tables and their loud chatter became a low lull as their group appeared. Mir Saab and Begum Saab disappeared with the Prime Minister into the corner of the marquee while Amina, Zain, and Maryam made their way further into the hall. Hassan took a deep breath and followed them.
The waiters ran
around, weaving in and out of the shiny people. Hassan checked his waistcoat; it was straight. Maryam was a few steps away on the rugs, whose diamond shapes overlapped so that a sea of geometry rippled towards him. Someone like his mother had woven these carpets in a very different place surrounded by very different sounds. The shuft, shuft of the loom in his head formed a bubble around him and turned the chatter into a distant droning. From here he was safe to watch.
A man entered and stopped at the end of the red carpet.
‘That’s the groom,’ Amina said.
Behind the groom were three men – friends or relatives, he supposed. The band of musicians stopped tuning their instruments and started playing as the groom made his way to a platform where he sat on one of the two thrones. Under the garlands of white flowers around his neck and face, it was hard to see what he looked like.
A waiter appeared in front of Amina with a gentle smile. He carried sweet desserts in small clay bowls and handed one to Amina, one to Zain, and one to Maryam. When he reached Hassan, he paused, holding the bowl in the air.
‘Do you want one too?’ he asked.
Hassan froze. The man had used tum, the informal you, whereas he had called the others aap.
The expensive clothes had failed to hide who he was, especially worn under his ‘villager’ waistcoat. He glanced sideways at the others who all had their hands full. They acted as if everything was normal, but they had heard the waiter. And everything was normal for them. If Amina and Zain spoke with him in Urdu, they would do the same – call him tum. Amina and Zain spoke in English to help him learn more. It had made him forget his place. He was the fool, to think they wanted to treat him as an equal, no different to them. It was all nothing but charity. They only let him sit at the same level as them in the house to make them feel better. The scholarship, the conversation, even this trip. Everything was to make them feel better. And he had fallen for it, for their conversations and the pity disguised as kindness. Even the poetry with Maryam was pity. The overlapping diamond shapes in the carpets were all he wanted to see. The waiter walked away.