by Anniqua Rana
Taaj, only a year younger than Sultan, was Bhaggan’s middle son. Two years after Sultan’s birth, Bhaggan gave birth to her third son, Maalik, after her husband’s untimely death.
“Bastard. You’ll tell on me w-w-when … You were the one who d-d-d-didn’t come for the morning prayers,” Sultan stammered, his voice raised a full octave.
“Your prayers are useless now.” His brother laughed again.
“See, Maalik …” Taaj looked around for the youngest brother, seeking acknowledgment of having caught their elder brother at fault. Maalik, who was born of a grieving mother, had always taken some time to react.
Maalik’s slowness worried Amman Bhaggan: “My forthright son. He has his father’s honesty in him. He will always tell the truth, even to his disadvantage.”
Taaj continued, “Amman thinks he’s an angel, but only when she can see him. He does these things as if no one will ever know. I can keep secrets, but Maalik saw you too. He’ll never keep this to himself. He’ll tell Amman and then—”
“Quiet! N-n-nonsense, and, you, Maalik, don’t you dare say anything to Amman. T-t-this is not your business.” Spittle flew from the sides of Sultan’s quivering lips, adding to his humiliation.
Maalik stared from one brother to the other, unsure of what to do. Taaj was in control of the situation, smiling at his brother’s embarrassment.
“You’re the one who’ll get a thrashing. Or you’ll get what you want, and Amman will arrange your marriage with Tara.”
Fingers pointing toward the sky, lifting one leg and then the other, Taaj mockingly began the bhangra, the traditional wedding dance.
“Come on, everyone—join me. Tara and Sultan are getting married.”
“No, they aren’t.” Maria looked at Sultan and then turned quickly to me for a confirmation.
Sultan moved farther away from me, fearing female contamination, and I moved closer and looked at Taaj as I did so.
Other, less confident girls would have been mortified, but I felt stronger now. None of them knew that Taaj’s insinuations were exactly what I was hoping for. This was much better than the movies. Granted, Sultan was not the ideal romantic movie hero. He was more like the hero in a comedy— one in which the heroine would save him. I would do just that. I would save Sultan by the end of this encounter.
Sultan wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his frayed cuff. I could see he was now worried that he would be in bigger trouble than his younger brothers, who had missed the early-morning prayers.
I decided I would save him from his embarrassment. I would share with him some of the confidence that was brimming inside me.
“Really, Sultan bhai? Do you think it matters what Taaj says or whether Maalik tells Amman?”
I pretended to be angry, first with Sultan, for overreacting, and then with the two younger brothers, for creating a commotion. If only he stayed silent, he would stop making a fool of himself in front of them. But there was no silencing him now and, therefore, no way to save him.
Sultan’s angry stammer worsened. “I’m going to tell M-m-maa Jee that you didn’t go to the m-m-mosque to pray. You hid in fields instead. Have you n-n-n-no shame?”
Taaj laughed. “We’re not the shameless ones. It’s Tara and you who should be ashamed, flirting in public this morning. All of your prayers have gone to waste.”
Maalik, who had been staring at me till now, looked away and, following Taaj’s lead, danced as if he were in a wedding parade, stumbling when Maria screamed.
“Snake! Snake!” she cried, as she lifted her hand, pointing toward the snake line in the mud under the bush. The chameli petals folded in her dress scattered on the ground from where she had gathered them.
“Daughter of an owl. It’s an earthworm. Haven’t you seen them come out after the rain?” Taaj picked up the earthworm from under the bush and threw it at Maria. “There’s your snake. Let’s see if you die of a worm bite.”
“Stop, or … ,” Sultan shouted.
“Or what?” Taaj taunted him.
Maria started to cry, and I held her hand as we stood surrounded by the three brothers, Sultan stumbling over his words, Taaj sneering at the discomfort, and Maalik choosing to look above our heads as if the distant fields were more fascinating.
Sultan wiped the slime on his fingers onto his crumpled kameez. I crinkled my nose, and he noticed. He looked toward my shoulder, at the garland hanging from my braid.
Taaj’s gaze followed Sultan’s. He was not going to let his brother forget his slipup.
“Ai hai. The bride with Bibi Saffiya’s chameli garland,” he jeered. “She’ll beat you, like she did the other day.”
“My amman tells me to stay away from boys,” said Maria, wiping her face with the border of her kameez while trying to save me from the infamy of another beating.
Taaj was quick to quell Maria’s audacity. “Your amman has been with every man in the village. That’s why she has a baby every year and then kills it.”
We were all stunned into silence.
I stepped in front of Maria, as she cowered behind me. I protected her with my words. “Liar. I’m going to tell Amman Bhaggan, and she’ll put a lit coal on your mouth.”
“And then what?” Taaj took a step closer to me.
“She won’t love you. She already thinks you’re a loser.”
Taaj hung his head and asked, “Who told you that?”
“I heard her telling Bibi Saffiya that Sultan studies hard and that you … you do shit!” I paused and then, for effect, added, “And Maalik is an idiot.”
Maalik, who had joined Maria in picking the fallen chameli petals from the ground, looked at Sultan, expecting his elder brother to defend him from my vitriol.
He then looked at me, but my insult only grazed the surface of his feelings.
“You see,” I responded, “the baby can’t even defend himself. Your maa jee is right.” He was only a year younger than I, but I felt emboldened by his inability to react.
I turned my stare from Maalik to Taaj.
Taaj, further betraying his younger brother, pulled the chameli garland from my hair and deposited it onto Maalik’s head.
“Look, Maalik the idiot is getting married. Who will he choose, the sweet Maria or the sour Tara?”
“He can’t marry Maria—she’s not of our faith,” I blurted out.
“So what? She’s sweeter than you, isn’t she?” Taaj laughed, pinching Maria’s cheeks. She pulled away from him.
Maalik fumbled as he pulled the garland from the top of his head. “Sister fucker. It’s you who wants to get your thing into both.”
Taaj hit his brother on the head. “Say that again, and I promise I’ll kill you.”
Maalik kicked his brother, who, anticipating the attempt, retreated.
Sultan, now calmer, had been observing this exchange silently, moved closer to his brothers to separate them.
“You’re not our father, so don’t pretend you are,” Taaj shot back at his elder brother.
“He’s older than you,” I added, “so he’s like your father.”
“Shut your mouth, bitch. He’s only a year older than me. You have no father or mother, so who cares what you think?”
“I’ll tell your mother, and she’ll beat you with a broom. Then you’ll know how to respect me.” My voice was beginning to shake.
Sultan ignored this comment, picked up the bruised garland, handed it to me, and walked away. It was not like the movies. How had I not anticipated this ending?
Taaj snatched the broken petals from his younger brother’s hands and threw them at his elder brother.
“Our bakra, the sacrificial goat. We’ll sacrifice him on Eid day and throw a feast.”
Sultan continued walking toward the house, not looking back.
I was determined that Taaj and Maalik would pay for my embarrassment.
Lies and Secrets
I picked up the garland, dusted it off, wrapped it around my wrist, and followe
d Sultan but kept my distance. Taaj and Maalik were no longer interested in me and ran ahead. And Maria rushed to the outdoor latrine.
By the time I returned the needle and thread to the basket under the charpoy, Amman Bhaggan had already left her room to begin making breakfast. I would help serve it to everyone after my lessons with Zakia, the maulvi’s wife.
This was our morning routine. Taaj, Maalik, and I would go to the maulvi’s house to learn how to recite the Holy Book from his wife, Zakia. That was the job of a holy man’s wife in a village like ours. She taught the children how to pray, and he led the adults in prayer.
Saffiya paid the maulvi and his wife a stipend for coming to the village to bring religion to the villagers. They were outsiders, both from the northern hills, had fair complexions, and spoke a different dialect.
Maria, being of a different faith, didn’t join us for lessons with Zakia. She loitered around outside their house, waiting for our half-hour lesson to end.
Maria didn’t know that she wasn’t missing any fun. Zakia was a bitter woman who poisoned our morning lessons. If we forgot our lesson, she beat us with whatever was at hand—a broom, a hairbrush. If we were lucky and she was sitting too far from us, she’d throw her slipper instead and we’d duck to miss it. If anyone laughed, she’d throw the other shoe. When I complained about Zakia to Amman Bhaggan, she told me that her one regret in life was that she had never learned how to recite the Holy Book.
“When my parents died, and then during the forty-day mourning period for my husband, I wanted to recite the Holy Book,” she told me. “I looked at all the mourners who were reading, and they were at peace, but I was not. Zakia might be bad-tempered, but she’s showing you a peaceful path and paving your way to heaven.”
“Will she be there too?”
“Where?”
“In heaven?”
Amman Bhaggan threw the stained dishcloth at me, and I caught it and smiled.
“No one likes her. Not even her own husband,” I reminded her.
Zakia’s husband, the maulvi, led the five daily prayers, hoping the village men would join him. The few village women who prayed did so in the sanctity of their homes. When a baby was born, the maulvi prayed in the baby’s ear to welcome them to the faith. And when someone died, he led the funeral prayers. He also led prayers for the annual Eid celebrations and prayed when the crops needed rain. But, for all his prayers, he could not make his wife happy.
He never shouted at his wife, like some of the other men in the village, even if she sometimes put too much salt in the meal. He also kept bright sugar balls in his pocket and gave them to us if we greeted him with respect. And we never learned his name. We just called him Maulvi.
Maalik had tried to get more than one sugar ball by greeting him more than once in a day, but the maulvi was on to him and would only pat his oily head and smile at him and say, “May you have a long life, my child.”
And we would all laugh at Maalik for being so naïve.
“Babies bring happiness to women,” Amman Bhaggan said. “If the maulvi’s wife had a child, she wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
Taaj echoed my complaint.
“She hits us with her slipper when we make the smallest mistake.”
Bhaggan stroked Taaj’s head in consolation but never gave him permission to stay home.
Unlike his elder brother, Maalik never complained. He made more mistakes and bore the consequences silently.
Sultan was the luckiest of the three. It had been two years since he had completed the Holy Book, so he stayed home to finish his homework before it was time for school. Then he joined Amman Bhaggan for ghee-drenched paratha flatbread dipped in cane sugar–sweetened tea.
After having studied the Arabic Primer for a few years, Sultan had learned how to read the scriptures with a melodious harmony that mesmerized us all, to the delight of his besotted mother.
The day he completed the Holy Book, Amman Bhaggan slaughtered a goat to celebrate. Bibi Saffiya gave him a brand-new one-hundred-rupee note. We had never seen such a large bill and could only imagine what he would buy with it.
He bought nothing. I know because I got to see it hidden in the tin box that he kept locked under Amman Bhaggan’s charpoy, next to her sewing basket.
Six months after we celebrated the completion, I got to see the one-hundred-rupee note again, along with the rest of the contents of that box, the week my monthly bleeding started. Because of the bleeding, that whole week, I didn’t have to take lessons from that bitter woman.
Amman Bhaggan handed me the rags to tie in place and said, “You know you can’t touch the Holy Book now. You can’t pray. You can’t fast. But don’t let anyone know, especially the boys. We’ll make something up.”
“That’s not fair,” Maalik complained to his mother when I told him I wouldn’t be joining them for the lessons that week because of a fever.
“How does she get to stay home and we have to continue with our lessons? I’m getting a fever too. Feel my forehead.”
Amman Bhaggan paid no attention and gestured to Taaj and Maalik to leave for their lessons.
That week, I got to stay behind and watch Sultan prepare for school. I covered myself with my chador and squatted at a respectable distance from him, waiting to see the contents of the box that he always kept locked.
“You mustn’t tell Maalik or Taaj about what’s in here,” Sultan whispered.
I shook my head vigorously, excited that I would know something the others didn’t. Instead of opening the box, he looked around and, seeing the door slightly ajar, stood up, walked toward it, and shot up the bolt to make sure no one else came in. My heart raced slightly at being locked inside the room; I wondered what Amman Bhaggan would think if she returned to her room and found us here together.
Sultan then lifted his shirt, slipped his finger inside the top of his shalwar, and pulled out a little metal key. He sat down again and pulled the lock away from the box to open it with ease. I kept staring at the lock, surprised that I hadn’t noticed how small it was and how easy it would have been to pick open. But I didn’t need to bother about that now, because I would get to see all of Sultan’s hidden secrets.
I had been holding my breath until he opened the lid, and then I gasped. I stumbled slightly and steadied myself with my fingers on the floor.
This is it, I thought. I don’t know what I had expected, but it was nothing as mundane as what I saw when I looked through the thin beam of light that filtered into the tin box.
On one side, his textbooks were stacked in a neat pile. On top of the textbooks was a geometry kit that he had bought five years earlier, when he had entered fifth grade. He took it out now and let me open it and look at the sharpened pencils, worn-out eraser, and bright green pencil sharpener with a mirror stuck on the back. A small wooden ruler lay next to another instrument, with a pencil on one side and a point on the other. Sultan showed me how to draw a circle, and let me draw some of my own.
“You would come first in school,” he said to me, returning the items to the box.
I believed him but stayed silent. I knew I would never go to school. I was expected only to learn to read the Holy Book, and so the sole lessons I would get would be from Zakia, in her one-room, mud-covered home in the village.
Sultan chose the books he needed for the day and tied a belt around them. At a suitable distance from the books, a sad pair of white polished sneakers with gray laces were placed close to but not touching his two other outfits, a gray school uniform and a dull-green shalwar kameez that he wore on special occasions.
“They all think it’s so easy,” he confided in me. “I walk half an hour through the fields to get to the main bus stop, and then take the bus to school. There’s never enough space on the bus, and we must hang from the sides or the rear ladder. Sometimes we climb up the ladder and sit on top of the bus, but we must hold tight, because the driver brakes suddenly. My friend nearly fell off the roof last week. I held him tight, but his sch
oolbag flew over the side. We shouted to the bus driver to let us off so we could pick it up. The driver didn’t care. He just kept driving. My friend lost all his books. The schoolmasters beat him when we got to school.”
Perhaps I didn’t want to go to school after all, I thought. Or he might have been exaggerating to gain my respect. Then again, he wasn’t like that. Taaj was a show-off, but Sultan was kind.
When Maria and I were younger, Sultan showed us how to write on the wooden tablet, a takhti, with a homemade reed pen. He wrote on one side in scrolling calligraphy, dipping the reed pen in a fuchsia-colored plastic inkpot covered in specks of black, the contents freshly mixed to a perfect consistency. He showed us how to write the Urdu alphabet—alif, bay, pay, tay—until he had drawn all the letters. I recognized some of them from our Arabic lessons with Zakia, but she didn’t teach us how to write.
He handed the tablet to me, and I wrote on the opposite side, but when I handed it to Maria for her turn, she broke the pen and left black smudges on the tablet. We had to wash it at the hand pump and rub clay on it so Sultan could use it at school the next day.
Now, we squatted together on the floor near Bhaggan’s charpoy, considering the tin box. I wasn’t judging him the way his younger brothers did, and he must have sensed it, because he exposed his fears.
“This year is my last chance to take the final exams. I have already taken them twice before. Amman keeps saying I am smart, like my father, but he never went to school. I’ve been in the same grade for three years now. I can never remember the dates of the wars for freedom, and sums gets more difficult every year. I don’t know what will happen if I fail again.”
He wanted me to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. Every day, he got to leave home. He got to take the bus. He had a box full of his own books. He didn’t have to stay and help in the kitchen, and he didn’t have to sit with the younger kids to rock back and forth on the same primer I had read for the last two years.
I didn’t care to stay in the village my whole life. I would leave it. I wasn’t sure what I would do once I had left, but I was confident that there was a lot more to seek than the people around me and my thoughts within.