by Siya Turabi
‘See? Perfect balance,’ Mir Saab said. ‘There’s strength in balance.’
Mir Saab picked up some of his papers and began looking through them. He brought the face of the beekeeper’s father to the top of the pile.
‘Why didn’t you find the beekeeper?’ Hassan asked, just as Maryam came in and stood next to him.
‘The forests grew so much over the years. He could have been anywhere.’ Mir Saab laughed. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want me to find him.’ He picked up his pencil.
Maryam nudged Hassan and mouthed the words, ‘Tell him.’
‘Tell me what?’ Mir Saab asked, looking up.
The words seemed to slip out of Hassan’s mouth. ‘The black honey in the forest is healing.’
Maryam’s eyes widened. ‘Go on,’ she mouthed.
‘I need it for my mother’s eyes.’
‘The forest is out of bounds now,’ Mir Saab said. ‘For the sake of the animals. I thought you knew that.’
‘But if he finds the beekeeper…’ Maryam said.
Hassan dug his nails into his palms as Mir Saab stared at him.
‘Would you allow me to look for the beekeeper?’ Hassan asked, his heart beating loudly.
Oddly enough, there was something about Mir Saab’s stillness now that reminded him of the beekeeper. ‘What do you know about the beekeeper?’ he asked. There was that look again in Mir Saab’s face, like a cricket match. Loss.
Hassan cleared his throat, ‘I keep being drawn to the bees.’
‘I’ll have my doctors look at your mother’s eyes. I’ll get someone to send a message to the clinic in Harikaya.’
‘The doctors have already seen her.’
‘And?’
‘They say there’s nothing to be done.’
‘The forests are forbidden.’
Hassan felt his stomach sinking.
Mir Saab was already too deep in his examination of the drawings again. There was a cloud of sadness around him that made being angry with him hard.
‘At least we have these ship plans,’ Mir Saab said. ‘One day, it’ll be built.’
Hassan thought about the rest of the people and the animals, the ones without a ship, or even a dream of one. His mother, the poet, the beekeeper. What would happen to all of them?
Maryam must have been thinking the same thing. ‘What happens to the bees if there are floods?’ she asked.
‘Bees are good at learning,’ Mir Saab said.
‘Learning what?’ Maryam asked.
‘They adapt to change and can make new nests anywhere. I wish humans were more like bees; bees work together.’
‘Humans work for themselves, too afraid to lose what they have, too greedy to share. Instead, they hate each other.’ Hassan thought of the people in Harikaya, the ones who had shouted and jeered at his father.
‘Not all of them,’ Maryam said.
‘Enough of them,’ Hassan said.
‘The government can do what it likes when the people are divided,’ Mir Saab said.
Mir Saab sat up straight. ‘I’m afraid of what could happen to the people if the government takes over the factories.’ He clenched his fists and slammed them down on the desk. ‘Slaves, that’s what they’d all become,’ he said.
Hassan crept out through the hole in the wall behind the servants’ building. Apart from a goat, there was no one around. The goat stood in the open sun, munching on a tuft of dry grass, and watched him walk on to the corner of the wall.
A few crows landed on the ground around him. ‘I have nothing for you,’ he said to them.
She should have been here by now. What had he been thinking when he agreed to meet her here? Maryam was from England; it was different for her. She could do what she liked but the servants still talked. Under their silent looks were tales and lies. He stamped his foot. These thoughts had to go.
‘Are you trying to magic me up?’
There she was, right next to him.
‘Yes, and it worked,’ he said.
‘Good, you’re a magician.’
They walked into the forest, side by side, the crows screeching louder than when he was alone and the sun beating down.
‘This is where the magic starts,’ she shouted and ran ahead of him, turning around and running backwards.
He caught up with her. ‘Can you imagine if anyone knew what we were doing?’ he asked.
‘Is it very bad?’
He laughed, ‘You and I, we’re different.’
‘That’s what you said before.’ She pretended to yawn.
‘Well, I’m sorry.’ He started to run. ‘Catch me if you can!’
She ran after him, through the forest. She was coming close, but he was faster. They ran past the swimming pool and through the trees beyond, until they both stopped, side by side, as if some invisible line had been drawn up. Her panting was louder than his.
‘There’s magic around here,’ she said. ‘You feel it too, don’t you?’
‘Come closer with me. It’s all right,’ he said to her. He wanted to take her arm and guide her to the masjid, to show her the bees.
They took a few steps forward. She stopped and took a step back.
‘I don’t want to go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not you, Hassan. Not everyone can do what you did.’
He stood watching her. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
She laughed with her eyes. ‘I think you do.’ She became serious again. ‘How will you get back in time?’
‘If I’m truthful, I don’t know, Bibi. Perhaps this is all a crazy dream. Even Mir Saab…’
‘No. Don’t lose hope.’
He waited for her to say something or to start moving again but she seemed lost in thought. She didn’t even notice how long he looked at her. She came from a different world to his. She could snap her fingers and be on plane back to London when she wanted. He couldn’t even take a train without begging and—
‘What’s Harikaya like?’ Her words cut through his thoughts.
‘It’s a crazy place.’
‘Like Karachi?’
He laughed. ‘Harikaya is a tiny village. There’s a main square where the market is. And then there are the streets and a wall that runs round the whole village. There are gates too with the words “Harikaya in Harikaya” over them.’
‘I want to go there one day.’
‘It’s nothing special, Bibi.’
‘And your mother, where does she live?’
‘She lives in a house with a small yard right at the end of the village. If you go to the roof you can see for miles.’
‘The forests too?’
‘Yes.’
‘How big are they?’
‘People say they go on for miles and miles.’
They looked at each other for a few seconds. He wanted to tell her more about his home, about the stars that were so clear at night time, about the stray dogs that were his friends, about the river and the bamboo that snapped as he rode past on his bicycle, about the trees that people were scared of because they said that jinns lived in their branches. No more questions came. Instead, Maryam turned and started to head back.
‘You go on your own,’ she said, turning to him again. ‘This is your magic.’
There was truth in that but he wished she was there in the empty space beside him as he reached the masjid. He stood outside and watched a bee leaving through one of the holes, followed by another. Both were larger male bees. They hovered in the air for moments before a few more came out. Others joined them but this time from the forest or from behind the masjid. It was becoming a gathering of drones. There was something about the sound of their humming that was different, unbalanced. These bees seemed to be in competition with one another; he was sure of it. By now hundreds of bees had come together but their attention seemed to be pulled by something still inside the masjid, and they stayed close.
A drop of water fell on his hand. And then another. A few drops came
down on his head and he moved back under the tree. It was a short shower but the bees only cared for one thing.
And then she appeared.
A new queen, with her formidable bulk, guided their passion on the path of her scent. The humming grew more intense; the males were eager to please her, to be her partner, to be the father of her brood.
Then the struggle began in earnest. The drones raced to reach her, ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. Only one touched her; it beat all the rest. The queen and her new mate were in freefall.
The audience of drones hummed quietly. Wave upon wave of sound turned into a joyful dance. His joy or the bees’? It didn’t matter. His whole body was laughing. The two lovers were wrapped in their own destiny, and then they separated. It was over in seconds. The impregnation of the queen. The other bees drew back and the queen returned to her nest to lay her eggs in the empty cells.
Hassan took the steps of the masjid two by two and opened the door. Inside, he sat by the same pillar as last time. No bees approached. He searched for the beekeeper’s face in his mind. He searched for any sign at all. Nothing. Words rose in his mind. He spoke out loud, ‘What will happen to my mother if they take the factories?’
He thought of home. He pictured his mother’s smile when he arrived in Harikaya – it would be a homecoming. The rains would begin in Harikaya in a few days, or a few weeks. This was his fourth day here.
‘Twenty-one for the workers, twenty-four for the drones, and sixteen for the queen.’ He spoke out loud.
In twenty-four days from today, there would be young bees in some other nest while the rest of their colony was preparing itself to swarm. Swarming always happened later in Harikaya than in Karachi. That was what Baba had said. He still had time. He would find a way back before the floods.
Thinking about all this made him tired.
A gentle breeze touched his face. He felt his body again on the cool floor, saw the light streaming in from the holes in the dome, heard the sounds of the bees, and smelt the honey and wax from the hive. Order and goodness reigned here. The invisible pulsations of the bees’ dances travelled and touched him from inside the hive.
He stood up and felt the dancing beings watching him from their home, from their collective body. Yes, the nest was their body. One desire governed them and at this moment, it governed him too. It was the one force that brought all the bees together in unending service. Dance. Its language became one with his being and his arms began to part from his body to become like wings.
Bees approached him from their home, travelling along lines of light that radiated from the nest. His arms lifted higher; his palms rose upwards. Cradled by the humming, he no longer needed to understand. Even the questions that were burning in him faded now. The answers would come when they came, if they came. The world of thinking, of needing to know, and the need to become anything, were far away. The smell of their joy was enough and he closed his eyes.
He gave in to the spinning that propelled his body.
Infinity spoke to him and there was no rush towards it. The spinning was a language understood by the bees. They spun with him, floating around his arms. Together. Humming and silence. Flight and stillness. Arms stretched out like wings opening, and then they pulled in, close to his chest. Over and over, out and in, caressed by the floating bees.
The presence of the queen was behind all of this, a force from deep within the hive. He may never meet her in there but her presence… her presence was real and that was enough, simply enough. Would he deserve her love? Could he match it with his own as his father had said was necessary?
At that moment, it was all he wanted to know.
The cook’s lips held onto a burning cigarette over a large pot that he stirred with one hand on the kitchen stove. Ash threatened to drop into the pot. Smells of spices and smoke competed for dominance.
‘Are you looking for your aunt?’ the cook asked Hassan as soon as he entered the kitchen.
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t find the girl here either.’ The cook leant further forward.
‘What girl?’
‘From London, isn’t she? Nice.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The cook laughed. ‘Come on, you’re almost a man.’
Those had also been his father’s words before they had entered the forest.
‘Look, I’ll be straight with you. I’ve been thinking. We can make money, you and I,’ the cook said, continuing to stir.
‘What did you say?’
‘Your father was a businessman. He knew what was good for him.’ The cook banged the spoon against the side of the metal pot. ‘Well, most of the time.’
Hassan stood taller.
‘People like us, we’ve got to look after ourselves. Nobody else will.’
Hassan had seen and smelt many times that same hunger for money that sweated out of the cook’s pores now. He had even seen it in his father, but only sometimes. The stench crept up his nostrils. The blades of the fans were feeble against it. The idea of grasping for money in this way stank, but still, the cook had a point. Money. It was interesting.
The cook seemed to understand Hassan’s silence.
‘You need money, like all of us?’
The cook took the cigarette out of his mouth and smiled as if he had eaten a gulab jamun, then licked his lips. ‘You spend a lot of time with the girl, don’t you?’ He winked. ‘I won’t say anything about that.’
This man knew too much.
Hassan was about to turn around, and walk out at that second but his feet were stuck to the floor.
‘I’m glad you’re beginning to see now,’ the cook said. ‘For people like us…’ He started to stir the pot again. The long line of ash that had grown on the cigarette fell onto the floor.
Footsteps.
Kulsoom came through the door.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Hassan.
‘Looking for you.’
He went up to her and she took a step forward. She was watching the cook and, for a second, her look softened. He must have imagined it.
‘Nice boy, your nephew. We’re getting on very well.’
The cook winked at him. Kulsoom’s face was back to being stern. He waited for her to ask him why he was looking for her. Instead, she said, ‘The family’s waiting for you.’
He slipped away.
Chapter Sixteen
This was Hassan’s first time in the drawing room. He sat on the long couch with Maryam, Zain, and Amina. Swirls and spirals were everywhere, carved into the wooden furniture and stitched into the soft furnishings. Maryam was very close to him and he inched further away without being noticed. Mir Saab was moving the pencil in his hands, round and round.
A car rolled into the courtyard and stopped. Moments later, the doors of the drawing room were opened by Muhammed and he announced, ‘The estate manager.’
The man stood with arms at his sides like a soldier standing to attention, and bowed. He nodded politely at each of them but ignored Hassan. Yes, he was definitely ignoring him; it was an automatic reaction, but it made Hassan want to become invisible. He sank into the sofa behind the others.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mir Saab waved him down and the manager sagged into an armchair. Muhammed offered him a glass of lemon water on a tray. The manager took the glass without speaking. The lemon water formed a froth on his thick moustache and threatened to drip down one of the curls that hung at either side of his mouth.
‘Your Highness, it is very difficult for me,’ he said, putting the glass down on the glass table. Glass touched glass too quickly and water splashed.
‘As you know, the Prime Minister has decided to go ahead with the bill.’ The manager breathed heavily.
‘They have no idea about how to manage the factories,’ Mir Saab said. ‘They want to destroy the whole of Harikaya state.’
The manager’s face turned grey.
‘I gave them control of the state,’ Mir Saab continued
. ‘They forced it from my hands.’ Mir Saab’s veins stood out blue and purple on his round face. ‘Even Jinnah, before he died, told me to be careful. He said, “Have faith in our new nation.” I thought they’d look after the fort. I thought they’d value our common heritage. But they’re hell bent on destroying me, all for the sake of power.’ Mir Saab took a sip of water. ‘Doesn’t he have enough land himself?’
Hassan thought of his mother and the women working at the looms. He conjured up the smell of the oil used in the weaving machines and the swish of the cloth on the floor. His mother’s hands checking the weave before she let it go. He looked down at his hands, searching for hers in his.
‘I set the factories up for the men and women,’ Mir Saab said, ‘so they wouldn’t need to depend on charity.’
‘We’ll have to trick them in some way,’ Maryam said. ‘In the best detective stories, there’s no difference between the detective’s level of intelligence and the criminal’s.’
‘You could pretend the factories don’t belong to you,’ Amina said.
Hassan thought of the fort, ever watchful over each one of them. How many times a day had he been reminded that nothing belonged to any of them and everything belonged to the mir?
‘Charity,’ Mir Saab said. His lips tightened. He blinked fast as if he was seriously trying to understand what the word meant. ‘They can’t take over a charity. That’s the law. I’ll make the factories into charities that don’t belong to me.’ Mir Saab leant forward. ‘In name at least.’
The manager sat rigidly unmoving, his mouth open.
‘What on earth will they make of that?’ Mir Saab asked.
Back in the living room that evening, around the dinner table, everybody was smiling – including Mir Saab. His whole body was lighter and he was looking at Hassan, about to say something, but Begum Saab got in there first.
‘Have some more food,’ she said, and handed him another portion of the sauce.
Despite her efforts over the last week, Hassan remained thin.
‘We don’t want you to look like a skeleton,’ she said.
Hassan raised his hand in polite protest with his mouth full of cauliflower but more food appeared on his plate. He could see Maryam grinning at him as he gave in at the sight of the second helping. It tasted good even though the cook had made it. His body would never gain the fat by which Begum Saab measured the success of her hospitality; his thin return to the village was guaranteed.