by Anniqua Rana
Now that I had reached the neem tree, I looked up toward the house and saw Maria jumping over puddles, as if she sensed my urgency. She held a red ball of yarn in her right hand, and in the left, she held up a darning needle.
“This is the only one I could find,” she shouted jubilantly.
Chameli stalks are delicate, barely upholding their fragile white petals. Maria knew this, but she chose to bring the thickest needle in the basket. The stalks would be shredded by the needle that was to bring them together to make my garland.
“Do I want to murder someone?”
Maria rationalized her choice to me.
“It was dark in the room, and I was scared of looking under the bed in Amman Bhaggan’s basket. This one was poking out of the big red ball of thread that she uses to sew the comforters, and I thought if you’re making a garland with chameli, the red color will be best. You wouldn’t want any other color. The red will look so beautiful with the white flowers… . Actually, maybe white thread would be better. Should I go back and get the white instead? I can—”
“Hand it over.” Anything to keep the tranquility of the morning.
I took the needle and thread from her and squatted on a rock near the chameli bush. Maria wasn’t as careful, and her kameez trailed in a puddle near the rock she had found, but she didn’t seem to care, ever. We sat in silent meditation while I made the garland.
I had filled my veil with enough buds to make a garland for my braid. I shifted on my haunches and began threading the flowers. Maria, with no concern for the surroundings, sat following my every movement with her eyes.
I chose not to tell her that my plan had changed. She wouldn’t understand. She was too young. And what if my plan didn’t work? But I couldn’t think that way. I would never get what I wanted if I didn’t at least try. But if I didn’t tell her of my new plan, she would never know that I had failed. I could pretend that the garland was for Bibi Saffiya, instead of for me.
The thick needle tore through the buds, and some fell onto the damp ground and shattered. Maria picked them up and stuffed one in each nostril. I stifled a smile, but she knew she had amused me.
I couldn’t let her distract me from my goal, so I looked down at my task and hurriedly threaded the thick needle through the chameli buds.
The chameli bushes were at the entrance to Bibi Saffiya’s house. The latch on the wooden door left a gap large enough for the cat to climb through. The gap defied any promise of privacy to the two-step entrance, encouraging secrets to leak in and out of the home.
I looked up briefly past Maria’s short, scruffy hair, and the summer-dawn view from the entrance displayed the village’s ten mud huts huddled closely to the left. To the right, expansive fields stretched to the horizon. Maria and I sat at the entrance of Bibi Saffiya’s mud-covered opulence of many rooms that could have accommodated all the village families.
The wooden windows and doors hung loosely in disrepair, like their decaying, formidable owner. Each room seemed isolated yet connected to the next with multiple doors and windows. Halfhearted printed cambric curtains partially obscured the view to each adjoining room, authorizing eavesdropping.
The austere sequence of these rooms demonstrated for me the authority in Saffiya’s own life, as well as her ability to control the lives of others. At unequal distances on the whitewashed walls of each room, a few unsmiling family portraits were testimony to her lineage and power.
In her bedroom, her parents’ marriage photograph hung at a slight angle. I dusted it each morning, leaving it at that angle as I gazed at the young groom, Bibi Saffiya’s father, who stared back at me, one hand pulling back strands of marigolds from his brow. His wife, Saffiya’s mother, sat next to him, leaving enough space between them for a third person, who must have forgotten to join them. Her head was bowed low, a dopatta layered with a chador covering it, pulling it down, restricting her from making eye contact with the photographer.
Whatever I could see of Saffiya’s mother was weak, unlike Saffiya. That’s probably why she died when Saffiya had just started to walk. Amman Bhaggan, only a few years older than Saffiya, was brought in to care for her. She must have hated that, but I admired her for doing what was expected. I know I would never sacrifice myself for anyone.
The rooms adjacent to Saffiya’s were storerooms bordered with large tin boxes stuffed with bedding for family members when they came from faraway villages. The sitting area, where distant relatives and farmhands gathered, was bordered with lines of century-old chairs and brocaded sofas. On one wall hung a blurry photograph of Saffiya’s father’s brother, who had died of the plague before he was old enough to get married. The mournful youth looked tragically away from the camera, as if foreseeing his early demise.
On the opposite wall hung a few ancient photographs of long-dead men sitting in a row in the front courtyard, or standing in a line near a newly purchased tractor. On the third wall were pages of an old calendar with religious calligraphy that couldn’t be thrown away.
The other two rooms had charpoys around the circumference, separated by small wooden tables covered with starched white tablecloths embroidered in white by Stella. The remaining months of that calendar from ten years earlier bestowed color upon the rooms.
In the center of the rooms that made up the house was a mud courtyard with herbs in the corner closest to the outdoor kitchen, which was at the entrance. Maria and I sat cemented to the entrance of this house, engrossed in weaving the chamelis into a garland. When I straightened the garland to check the length, I noticed the mist rising from the stream that bordered the house. Just beyond that, a thicker layer of fumes emanated from the alfalfa fields, and in the far distance, the ghostly yellow cane fields blurred into the hazy morning sky.
The one-room mosque stood aloof, at a distance from the village, dismayed that the villagers, prioritizing work in the fields during the coolest time of day, didn’t frequent it enough for prayers.
Once my garland was nearly complete, I adjusted my feet to reduce the pain of squatting for half an hour in an attempt to save my favorite, parrot-green kameez from the mud.
Maria sat cross-legged, gathering the fallen petals with her tiny hands, unable to hide her excitement. I could never understand why she was always happy or excited. Her pleasure was always exponentially greater than the event. She clapped with joy when she found a potato shaped like a mouse, or when her hands turned blue with the bluing agent for the white bed-sheets. I thought she might be a bit soft in the head, but Amman Bhaggan said she was just a happy soul.
Unlike me, Maria was indifferent to stains from the moistened floor on her powder-pink outfit, which turned an exhausted gray because she hadn’t changed for the past week.
Memories of her dead brothers shadowed her happiness, but a happy thought brightened even these sad recollections.
“These petals will look so beautiful on my baby brother’s grave. Remember how he tried to eat them once, and you stuck your finger in his mouth to pull them out, and then he started crying because he knew you were mad, but you weren’t, really, were you, Tara? And then Bibi Saffiya shouted from her bedroom to stop making such a racket, and then you said bad words, and she was going to put a burning coal on our tongues, but she didn’t know we had broken all the buds… .”
She paused, looked up at me in panic. “Hai, I’m dead! We’ll be beaten with shoes.”
She was right. Bibi Saffiya’s fury was unpredictable and unchecked. If she didn’t notice, she usually didn’t care, but if she chose to walk around the gardens later that day and noticed the fallen petals, she would let her wrath be clear immediately.
I wasn’t going to let that deter me.
“Your mouth has the motions again. Will you stop talking for once? Of course we won’t be beaten. Bibi Saffiya loves me like her daughter. She would let me sleep in her room, but she doesn’t want you all to be jealous of me. When she shouts at me, it’s out of love. How many times have I told you? We’ll say buds blew off in the storm last
night.”
I convinced myself so I could concentrate on the garland.
Bibi Saffiya was my spoken mother, or mistress, depending on her mood and the time of day. She cared for me, her servant-child. She gave me everything I needed. I was like her—a woman who would make her own way in the world. I wouldn’t need a mother, just like she didn’t.
The other house servants envied our relationship and asked me to intervene when they needed a week off for a family wedding, or some money to buy clothes or to pay the village doctor to give them energy injections. At times I was unable to convince her, and at others I chose not to.
Bibi Saffiya was old, but not as old as Bhaggan. Unlike Bhaggan, she prayed five times a day and sometimes woke up for the later-than-midnight prayer before the morning prayer time, especially when the gases inside her troubled her.
Before each prayer, I would bring her hot water to complete the ablutions. Amman Bhaggan said she needed to purify herself because she couldn’t stop farting. She cleansed herself every time she sat on the prayer mat.
The gases controlled her life. When I massaged Bibi Saffiya in the midafternoon, without warning, even the chameli petals on her pillow would start to wilt. I would hold my breath until I felt dizzy, and she would wake up and slap me to force me to continue massaging her.
The garland was nearly complete. I held it up to check the length. Maybe a few more buds would complete it. The last two buds tore as I attempted to finish my task.
“Oof! The fat witch hides all the best needles!” I mumbled to myself.
I looked up as I made the last comment. I knew my young friend well.
“Hai Allah! You used a bad word. Amman Bhaggan will hit you with the fire tongs.” Maria stopped gathering the petals to caution me.
“How will she know?” I gave her a threatening look.
“I swear by Eesah, the beloved of Allah, my lips are sealed.”
“You know what’ll happen if you do? You’ll go to hell, and then the dogs there will tear your skin until you scream, but no one will hear you.”
I had shocked her into silence. I added, “And cover your head. Don’t you hear the call to prayer?”
When she faulted me, I distracted her. It was that easy. All I had to do was remind her of hellfire. She forgot she wasn’t of the same faith as the rest of us, or maybe she wanted to pretend she was. Then she would be allowed to eat from the same plate as I.
Amman Bhaggan used the chipped blue plates for her own family and me, and the white cracked ones for Maria and her family. When no one was looking, Maria and I licked halvah from each other’s plates and nothing happened.
I added the last chameli bud to the garland as the maulvi recited the last verse of the call to morning prayer: “Prayer is better than sleep!”
Without a loudspeaker, the maulvi’s deep, rhythmic voice never ventured far from the one-room brick mosque. But in the morning silence, it meandered over the fields to the front steps of Saffiya’s house, where Maria and I sat, tying the knot on my garland.
The morning prayer was the shortest of the five daily prayers, so, as we gathered the fallen buds to destroy all evidence of having broken the flowers, we saw a lone figure leaving the mosque. It was Amman Bhaggan’s eldest son, Sultan.
“There’s Sultan bhai. All by himself. Sultan bhai is so brave, walking all alone. Amman Bhaggan says you should never walk through the cane fields alone. Wild boar attack you and drag you into the fields—and you know, Tara, Stella says Sultan bhai works so hard. He gave her one of his old notebooks to press her flowers. Stella thinks he’ll come first in his exams.”
“Your sister can’t even walk straight.” Stella’s body dipped when she walked, so she avoided walking. It was a burden for me, because I had to serve her dinner and tea every day.
Maria looked at me accusingly. She stayed silent.
I didn’t try to hide my hatred for her sister. I stabbed the needle into the red cotton spool and continued, “What does your Stella know about notebooks? She spends all day embroidering tablecloths and pillow covers. She’s never been to school, and she shouldn’t take anything from Sultan bhai. Saffiya Bibi pays for all his books, and she’ll give her two stiff ones if she hears that he’s giving them away.”
How could Sultan like Stella more than he liked me? I knew more than she did. Everyone said so. No one even noticed her sitting in the corner all day long. I could attract his attention and get him to like me before he would even notice Stella again. Granted my body hadn’t developed to what I knew it would become, but my hair was long and thick. I could walk with my head held at an angle that made my braid sway across my buttocks and attract his attention. I would show Maria how easy it was to attract Sultan.
The Virtuous
In the movies on TV, it was easy. The heroine stood aloof under a tree or next to a bush full of flowers, and, like a fly to halvah, the hero gravitated toward her.
I radiated that magnetism from my seat close to the chameli bush. Sultan’s lone, slightly hunched figure walked in my direction.
I fumbled to complete the garland before he came closer. I continued with my half smile, even though I had now pricked my finger enough to draw blood. I wiped it delicately on the darker flowers designed on the side of my kameez.
Maria stood up and began waving her hands to attract Sultan’s attention. “Sultan bhai, Sultan bhai! We’re here, near the chameli bushes!” she shouted.
This wasn’t how it happened in the movies. Maria would ruin it for me. I was torn between stopping her and ignoring her and tying the knot to complete the garland.
What would the heroine in the movies do? She might have brought a friend with her. But not one like Maria.
Realizing that I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, I let events unfold without trying to control them. Maria ran toward Sultan, caught hold of his hand, and pulled him toward the chameli bush.
I busied myself straightening my clothes, doing anything to avoid giving the impression that I was waiting for him. I breathed deeply once, then once more. I felt the chameli buds being crushed in my sweaty palms, and then a sleepy morning fly buzzed in my right ear. I swatted it away, but it lingered. It distracted me, and in my distraction, I felt a wave of calm overcome me. The fly buzzed some more and landed on the garland. I stared at it for a while. Its boldness mesmerized me. It sat there, daring me to swat it, but I chose not to.
So engrossed was I in this exchange that it was only when I heard Maria’s one-sided chatter that I realized they were just a few steps away.
Sultan never said much. Bhaggan said it was because her eldest born was intelligent, like his father.
“People who talk too much think less. Silence means deep thoughts,” professed Bhaggan, when referring to her eldest, of whom she was prouder than she was of Taaj or Maalik.
I didn’t really care for any of the brothers. Sultan was sweet and shy and would help me sometimes when I had to lift a sack of onions or carry a jar of pickles from the store to the kitchen. Taaj made me laugh sometimes, but he was cheeky and I had to keep him in his place. I didn’t pay much attention to Maalik, the youngest. He was slow and silent, always following Taaj’s lead.
At times, I felt sorry for Sultan because he had a stammer. His two younger brothers entertained themselves at his expense. Their mocking angered him, and anger made his stammer only more pronounced.
Nearly every night, when Taaj pulled their shared pillow away from him, Sultan, half-asleep, would stammer, “Y-y-you idiot!”
And Taaj would respond cheekily, “How many idiots?”
Maria and I, sleeping with their mother, could hear this exchange from the veranda outside our room. We muffled our giggles as we heard a fist hitting hard and Taaj crying out.
“Go to sleep, my sons,” Bhaggan would mumble, drowsy from a tiring day.
So now there was silence in the garden, but the uncomfortable smell of egg, sweat, and coconut oil fragrance soon choked the chameli buds. Maria’s mot
her, Jannat, said the sulfurous odor came from damp clothes. The boys all used coconut oil to keep their hair close to their scalp, and the sweat emanating from all three of them was always suffocating.
I took a deep breath to pay attention to my goal at hand. Somehow, this lone fly had given me a newfound confidence. I didn’t think of the movies. I knew exactly what to do. I took my time arranging the buds on the garland.
“Look, I brought him to see the garland.” I knew Maria didn’t know why I wasn’t looking up.
I felt pins and needles in my feet because I had been sitting so long. As I attempted to stand up gracefully, my foot tangled in my dopatta and I tripped forward.
As I straightened myself, I noticed Sultan’s worn-out, open slippers and blackened toenails. I raised my eyes slowly, to ensure I captured his embarrassed gaze.
“Sultan bhai, I just finished this garland. Please pin it to my hair. Maria is too short.”
He remained silent.
“Take a pin from my hair, thread the garland through it, and then pin it back again. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I maintained a low tone and spoke slowly.
His arms were fixed to his side.
I looked up again and then turned around, slithering closer to him, until he had no choice.
“Do it, Sultan bhai,” Maria encouraged him.
“I just said my prayers.”
“So what?”
He mumbled something about not touching a woman if you are pure from prayer, but then pulled the hairpin from the top of my head, taking out a few strands along with it.
I didn’t flinch.
I passed him the garland, and he took it from my hand, making sure our skin didn’t touch.
“Don’t break the garland, bhai,” said Maria.
I felt him fumble with my hair, the way Bhaggan had when she’d deloused me.
“That’s it.” I smelled the egg sweat and coconut oil moving away from me slowly. Then he sprang two steps farther at a loud guffaw from behind him.
“We’re telling Maulvi that you were touching girls early in the morning,” said his younger brother, Taaj, laughing.