by Siya Turabi
The beekeeper was already there, sitting on the massive trunk of a fallen tree, its thick roots flying like frozen flames into the air. He was chiselling a wooden stick as Hassan reached him by the pond. The vultures looked up and stared. They did their job well, guarding the beekeeper.
‘Teak,’ the beekeeper said, chipping at the wood with his knife. He pointed to the ground. ‘I finished that this morning.’
By his feet was a log which was hollow inside. Hassan picked it up and examined it. The inner surface was smooth.
‘A hive,’ the beekeeper said.
‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ His father would have loved it.
‘Except for the real thing.’ The beekeeper kept chipping at his piece of wood.
‘When will the bees swarm?’
‘The bees control their own destiny. Remember what you’re dealing with.’
The beekeeper stood up and headed into the forest. Hassan followed with the new hive, which was much lighter than it looked. They walked down a well-trodden path that led to a denser area of trees and bushes, then through an area of long bamboo which was wild and overgrown. They waded through the soft reeds until they came to another wooded area and then finally out into a clearing.
‘My father built it,’ the beekeeper said.
The beekeeper’s house was made of mud and straw, with a round thatched roof. At the top of the roof, the straw was gathered to an opening. On either side of the house were round trees with dark purple fruit.
‘Mulberry trees. The bees like their flowers,’ he said. ‘Every part of those trees is medicine.’
Other trees stood a little distance away, in the sun.
‘Those are rosewood,’ the beekeeper said. ‘Very strong.’
The rosewood was shaggier than the mulberry.
‘Is that medicine too?’
‘I use the twigs to clean my teeth. Good for firewood and furniture.’
‘What do you do for food?’ Hassan asked.
‘Behind the trees is swampy ground for rice.’
The beekeeper pointed to a few palms behind the house. Bundles of dates hung from their branches. ‘Nature gives us everything.’ A mango tree stood on its own and the beekeeper picked a ripe mango off and passed it to Hassan. He bit the skin and squeezed the ripe flesh into his mouth; it was soft and sweet.
The beekeeper went over to the door and Hassan joined him, still with the taste of mango in his mouth. He wanted another one. A bee buzzed in front of his face, a curious one that held its ground before letting Hassan enter.
It was beautiful.
‘My family,’ the beekeeper said.
Honeycombs were everywhere: hanging from the ceiling, from the window frames, from under the beekeeper’s bed, from the chairs, from the simple table that was placed in the room. Comb after comb. The air was filled with buzzing. It was another chamber just like at the masjid. There must have been hundreds, or perhaps a thousand bees, wilder and louder than the city bees.
The beekeeper was quietly laughing. Or was he humming? He was part of them. Like another bee, he crossed the room and clusters of bees parted to let him through. He knelt down at a box on the other side of the room and nodded to Hassan to follow.
Hassan took a step through the buzzing, moving through the air which was filled with the smell of wax and honey. His arms were ready to fly about but the beekeeper’s stillness reached him through the haze. He had to cross the room through the activity. Workers and drones whirled around their homes, while pathfinders and foragers flew in and out through the opening at the top of the roof. He took another step. He was trembling and the bees felt it. The humming became more intense, their movements sharper. A cluster of bees rose in the air as if to tease him. He thought of the masjid, the chamber of bees, and his jaw became less tense and his arms relaxed. One step, then another. His movement became a dance, like stillness flowing, to the other side of the room. They had accepted him.
The beekeeper opened the lid of the box, and there inside was his father’s smoker. ‘I repaired it,’ he said.
Hassan picked up the tool. His reflection was clear on its surface. He turned it around and saw the beekeeper’s face, floating in the shining metal.
‘Who are you?’ Hassan asked him.
‘I am a friend of the bees. Like you.’
‘So, you have been waiting for me.’
‘The forest has been waiting for you.’
Being outside again was like landing with a bump on the cold floor of the masjid.
‘Bring the hive with you and put the smoker in it,’ the beekeeper said.
They waded up to their knees through the swampy ground behind the house until they reached higher dry land and picked their way across the prickly forest floor, between tall, thin trees with thin branches that shot out like spikes and other shorter trees with white flowers and long leaves.
They walked on until they reached an area of acacia trees. Some of them had golden leaves and long, thick trunks that split off into different shapes. Others were rounder, with their branches starting about ten metres above the ground, and still others had wide, twisting trunks. Hassan recognised the area. The fire had not been so big. None of these trees were affected.
Then they came to a clearing further on. He froze. Skeletons of trees stood, tall and thin, over the area; dead flowers, charred remains, and hanging leaves. He took a step forwards, brushing the low branches of a grey tree and a bunch of dead leaves fell to the ground. The ground was soft, cushioned by a thousand leaves burnt to ash, but it crackled as twigs dissolved under the weight of their feet.
The area was dead – not even jinns observed them from behind the trees. The birds had stopped coming, even the vultures did not show their faces here. No life at all. No green. The trees, bare and raw, stood in poses of desperation. There was only grey ash and charred skeletons that all looked the same and still carried the fingerprints of flames.
They reached the tree that his father had climbed. It was a ruin. Hassan wanted to bury his head in shame, to hide, but there was nothing to hide behind. The beekeeper didn’t speak as they progressed through the remains of the forest fire – an area as big as the square in Harikaya.
They left the cemetery of trees behind them and came to a new area, where colour came back into the world. The beekeeper pointed at a tall tree, a few metres away from the others, on its own.
‘Their new home,’ he said.
Steady humming floated down from the top. The branches and leaves were dense but he could see a black hanging nest and the cluster close around it. Hassan put the wooden hive down at the base of the tree trunk.
‘What shall I do?’ he asked.
‘Climb.’
‘Do you think I can?’
‘Fear can have its uses but not with the bees,’ the beekeeper said. ‘Take your time.’
‘I don’t have time. You don’t understand. It’s urgent.’ His head hurt. ‘Can you climb it for me? My mother needs the honey.’
‘This is your task, and yours alone. You know that.’
‘But you know what to do.’
‘If I do it for you, what’s the good of that?’
‘I need the honey today.’
‘The black honeybees work with those they choose.’
‘You’re chosen too.’
‘This is not my promise and they know that.’
He began to heave himself up with his legs and arms wrapped around the trunk, as he had seen his father do. The sound of humming was still quiet but getting louder as he got higher, like a motor that didn’t stop. About two-thirds of the way up, he lifted his eyes and looked up. He was tired and hot and he was losing his grip. No matter how much he wanted this, his arms had no more strength.
‘I need this,’ he shouted at the bees, lifting his head again.
Waves of sound beat down from the nest, blocking him. The bark was slippery; his hands were sweaty. He dried them, one by one, on his clothes but it wa
s no good; his clothes were soaked.
A black honeybee came near his face. Another landed on his forehead, loud and big. Hassan waved his hand. ‘No,’ he shouted.
More bees came down, buzzing louder. A bee touched his cheek, too close. He smacked his face. He pictured Baba on the tree, doing the same before he fell.
‘Hold on,’ came the beekeeper’s voice from below.
‘Hold on.’ This time it was a quieter voice. One that was cool enough to quieten a fire. It was his father’s voice.
Hassan’s palms stayed on the bark. His heart raced. Palms and bark. Human and tree. Something was holding him and the tree together – a mutual force. His father’s voice was in his head again: Their will is stronger.
Hassan stopped trying. He had been doing it all wrong. There was no need for victory. It was enough, just as it was. He began to make his way down the tree and the bees grew calmer. Then it happened: his father’s face was in his mind. It was there, clear as day, really there – his smiling face, his shining eyes. The face stayed with him all the way down to the beekeeper.
Hassan sank down, his back against the trunk. ‘I wasn’t listening to you or to them. They’re too strong to battle with.’
The beekeeper pointed to the nest, ‘Do you hear them? They want you to make a decision.’
‘But it’s their decision to give me the honey or not.’
‘I’m talking about your choice to stay or go.’
‘I’m not like Mir Saab. I can do both.’ Hassan went to pick up the hive a few feet away from the tree. His feet dragged over the ground. He didn’t know if the words he had spoken were the truth anymore. What he did know was that he felt the same feeling here as he had done in the temple in Karachi. That feeling of love that emanated from deep within the nest. He bent down towards the hive.
‘Leave it. The bees know it’s yours now. They’ll decide what to do with it.’
Hassan didn’t want to leave it. Time was running out for his mother.
‘My mother’s eyes are much worse that I thought they would be. I hope they decide soon,’ he said.
But now he felt the moisture in the air; its smell was changing too.
At the pond, the vultures were drinking there again, used to Hassan now. The beekeeper turned to him.
‘It’s your intention that counts. That is what moves you forward.’ With that he touched his heart – the Sindhi salute – and said, ‘You know the way now to their tree. I’ll wait for you there tomorrow.’
‘How did they know it was your promise and not the beekeeper’s?’ Maryam asked on the terrace that evening.
‘They don’t think like we do. They just know things. They can feel your heart language; all creatures speak that.’
‘They’ll let you go higher tomorrow.’
‘This isn’t about me anymore or my will or need.’
‘And the hive at the bottom of the tree, what’s that for?’
‘They might nest there.’
‘And then what?’
Hassan sighed and shook his head. A light breeze skimmed above an ocean of night crickets to touch his skin.
‘I can speak to my mother, if you like, about the ticket.’
He didn’t know what to say. He had been thinking. Karachi was one thing, but London was another world. Even if Maryam thought it was possible to come back in the holidays, it would be expensive. He would be building up a huge debt.
‘Don’t worry about your clothes. We’ll get new ones there.’
‘Why would I need new clothes?’
‘The weather’s totally different.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘It rains quite often. Well, very often and sometimes it even snows.’
‘Like on the mountains in the north of Pakistan?’
‘Not that much.’ Her hand was next to his on the wall, small and fine.
A bonfire was being lit down below. It grew stronger and people were gathering around it.
‘Are there forests in London?’
‘England’s very different,’ she said.
‘Scones and tea,’ he laughed.
‘And Big Ben.’
‘What about the forests?’
‘We can visit them.’
‘And bees?’
‘We’ll find them. I have a big garden. We can keep them there.’ She laughed.
‘First I have to get the honey here. I need it soon. The bees are taking their time and I don’t have enough.’
‘They’ll let you do it. You’ve got this far.’
‘I have no choice.’
What he wanted to tell her was that he didn’t even have enough time to think. Going to London was a huge decision but for her it was easy. The night crickets were loud; they helped Hassan stop thinking.
Perhaps it was just him that was making everything so complicated. It would be stupid of him to refuse something that everyone wanted. He looked at her now. He did want to be with her. It could work. She was staring at the bonfire and her fingers tightened. She spoke at last: ‘It’ll be a big change for you.’
‘You’ll be there,’ he said. He touched her hand and moved his over her closed fist. Their faces came closer. He was in flowing water, drawn in by the waves and now lost to their force. Their lips touched.
No, he would not change his mind.
‘How many days are there left before the plane to London?’ he asked her. He felt his jaw tighten.
‘Four.’
Chapter Thirty
Mir Saab prayed before breakfast and Hassan sat and watched the incense smoke and listened to Mir Saab’s whispers, floating in his mind to their rhythm. First to the kiss with Maryam. Then back to their temple in Karachi, on one of his journeys in the nest, surrounded by their hum. He bent his head; his shoulders felt heavy with the thinking. Maryam, the bees and his mother. Three loves. And he had made a decision.
Mir Saab finished and knelt on his prayer mat.
‘Did you tell the priest about the demonstration?’ Hassan asked.
‘Yes, I sent word. Hopefully he’ll announce it tonight.’
Hassan was about to leave.
‘Wait,’ Mir Saab said. ‘Their sound will speak to you.’
Hassan waited for Mir Saab to say more but he only started to fold his prayer mat.
‘Go,’ he said.
Hassan ran out of the fort, down the hillside. They were calling him.
The trees and bushes were blurred greys and blacks, forming a tunnel around him. His feet barely touched the forest floor. Driven by a scent deep in the forest, nothing else mattered. He was the hog, charging. He was the deer, leaping and running. He reached the acacia tree and bent over double, panting. The beekeeper wasn’t here yet.
A black honeybee buzzed close by; it hovered for a few moments as the sun disappeared behind a curtain of rain clouds that appeared from nowhere. The bee’s wings drooped and the bee fell to the ground. Hassan picked her up with his cupped hands and blew warm breath very softly onto her back until the wings came to life again.
The sun came out again and the bee shook off the dust on her wings. She wriggled her lower body, turning around on Hassan’s palms – a mini dance before she took off.
The grasses moved a few metres in front of him. Yes, a ball of grass was moving and then stopped. A nose poked out followed by a head. It was a porcupine, watching him, the stranger in the forests. Both of them froze at the sound of footsteps. The porcupine scrambled like a rocket back into the forest.
The beekeeper entered the area with another smaller hive that he placed next to the first.
‘The humming’s quieter today,’ Hassan said, touching the bark of the tree. It had been the same in the masjid before the bees were about to swarm.
Hassan settled the bag with the smoker and a knife over his shoulder and started the climb. With each pull of his weight upwards, the forces of sound and the will of the bees played with him, giving him strength. He was entering their sky, their home; even the bir
ds and trees lived in harmony with them. He took a few breaths and paused a couple of feet below the nest. The humming was steady. It felt as if they were accepting him.
There was no great effort anymore – only balance between his body and the tree. A few bees came to explore his face, his arms. He went higher, close to the nest. Bees stuck to it like soft balls of iron clinging to a magnet. There were patches of honeycomb not covered by bees. With one hand, he took the knife out of his bag and brought its blade to a bare section of the comb. Some of the bees started to become unstuck from the hive, moving to cover the section, maybe ten or twenty of them. More joined them. It was no good. They had refused him again.
He brought his knife down and put it back in the bag and waited. The mass shuddered and waves of warm air wafted towards him. It was happening; the hive was readying itself. The hanging clusters were warming up. The new queen was ready to leave with her brood.
The bees sent out messages of joy, beating over him, in a steady song. A few bees arrived back at the nest – messengers that danced to give news of potential new homes.
‘Please bees,’ he said, ‘please choose the hive we made for you,’ Hassan whispered. ‘I think I’m too late,’ he called down. ‘I wish I could have reached them before the queen was born,’ he said to the beekeeper.
They both sat on the ground below the nest. Hassan was growing used to the beekeeper’s ways of silence. It was a spacious silence.
‘I know what to do with the hive,’ Hassan said. ‘If they agree to use it, they could live with my mother.’
The beekeeper smiled. ‘If that is their will.’
‘Did you ever doubt you were meant to be here, to live with the bees?’ Hassan asked.
‘I don’t remember anything different.’
‘Didn’t you want to do other things? What about school?’
The beekeeper chuckled. ‘As you can see, I am unschooled.’
‘But you’re schooled in the ways of the forest.’