Wild Boar in the Cane Field

by Anniqua Rana

  On any other day, this act would have maddened Saffiya and she would have told me to bring a damp cloth to wipe away the patch of powder, but this was not one of those days. She was still stupefied by the pressure of my silence. I stood with my back to her.

  I fiddled with the lock on the cupboard, remembering how Taaj had wooed me over the past few months. How he had brought a small bottle of shampoo for me. How he held my hand when he gave me the basket filled with vegetables from the village, or the time he pulled my paranda to get my attention, pretending it was an accident.

  Taaj was very different from his brother Sultan. Had I been deluded by my attraction to the elder brother? Was it really the outgoing and adventurous Taaj whom I would have preferred?

  I imagined how he’d keep his promise and take me to see the movie Love and Honor in the theater. It all unfolded in my mind: We’d sneak away to the city on the bus, in the middle of the afternoon, when Saffiya was snoring inside and Bhaggan slept on her charpoy under the shahtoot tree.

  I would wear Saffiya’s earrings, the gold ones with little rubies that I had stolen. But I’d keep them covered with my dopatta, in case they were recognized as real gold and pulled from my earlobes. I’d stand behind Taaj at the ticket counter and let a glimpse of gold shine through to the man at the counter, proof that we were a legitimate couple.

  He would be convinced of this as he handed the two tickets to Taaj.

  I would blush.

  Once in the theater, we’d sit close and I’d dig my fingers into my bra and pull out two rupees and hand them to him. “We can share a Coke and a samosa during the break,” I would say. Then he’d smile and tell me to wait until the vendor came to us, so he wouldn’t have to leave me by myself.

  “Next time I’ll bring you in a car,” he would promise me.

  I imagined sitting in the front seat of a car with him while he wove around the buffalo and camels on the streets, swerving to miss them, but the motion of the car would bring us closer. The radio would be playing “You’ve Stolen My Heart, Don’t Steal My Life,” or “How Does Spring Arrive Unannounced?” just like in the movies.

  “Do you hear me?” Saffiya’s shrieking pierced my ears. “Call Bhaggan. She’s the only one who can talk some sense into you.”

  I walked out, still refusing to speak, hoping I wouldn’t find her, but Bhaggan had prepared the tea tray and was waiting for me to bring it in.

  “What, my daughter?” She looked at me as I walked into the kitchen, feeling the power of my silence dissipate.

  I shrugged and picked up the tray, and then out of the corner of my eye caught her wiping her eyes with her dopatta. Did she feel my pain?

  She shuffled behind me, bolstering my obstinacy, and sat in the corner near the entrance to Saffiya’s room.

  In contrast with my defiance, Bhaggan, a bundle of garlic and onion–smelling fabric, sat emanating the sweaty alarm in response to my insolence. Her drooping jowls forced me to acknowledge that Saffiya was still speaking. She wasn’t going to let up. My mind was racing, but my body stagnated. I focused on Bhaggan, trying to ignore what I heard, but Saffiya’s deep, jaded voice hammered into my mental silence.

  “Bhaggan, you tell her. Does she have any other chance? Of course she doesn’t. Here is an educated man. Someone who doesn’t even care about her looks or her family. Someone who—”

  “Bibi, there’ll be others,” Bhaggan inserted, as Saffiya choked on her words.

  “I’m not asking you!” Saffiya shouted, as soon as she caught her breath again.

  “Listen, Bibi,” Bhaggan said, “give her some time.”

  I turned toward Bhaggan and glared at her. Did she really think I would give in?

  Saffiya turned on Bhaggan. “This is all your doing. You’ve made her feel so special. Who is she, anyway? You know as well as I do, if it hadn’t been for me telling you to brush away the flies, she would have been left there. Maybe that would have been what she wanted all along. Her mother must have been some kind of witch. I’m telling you. You should have had more sense. You were older than me. You knew what this would …” Saffiya placed her hand on her chest and then on her head, unable to breathe.

  Bhaggan moved closer in a miserable attempt to help her benefactor and looked at me as I stood close to the tea tray, having just poured a cup for Saffiya. I picked up the cup and saucer and passed it to Saffiya. With a flip of her finger, Saffiya tipped the saucer and the teacup flew toward Bhaggan, hitting her on the shoulder. Milky liquid trickled over her breasts and into her lap, ending in a pool near the door.

  Bhaggan took her dopatta from her head and wiped the tea off the floor. As she leaned over the entrance to clear the way, Taaj entered the room, barely avoiding stepping on his mother’s worn hands.

  “Bibi Saffiya, the maulvi is here to talk to you,” he said, and looked at me as he spoke. Bhaggan looked at him and then at me. And pulled herself up with the door handle.

  She couldn’t know what I was thinking. But even if she did, I no longer cared. And if the maulvi thought he would be able to convince me to change my mind, it was clear that he didn’t know me at all.

  Fading Colors

  I chose my time to escape, picked up the tea tray with exaggerated caution, and took it to the kitchen, only to drop it into the cement dishwashing basin on the floor. The lid of the small teapot rolled off and shattered into three pieces.

  Saffiya’s anger exploded through the rooms, reaching the kitchen in a futile attempt to further devastate me. “Break all my dishes, now. That’s all you’re worth.”

  I slumped on the low stool, filled my fist with straw and ashes, and began washing the dishes. The running water from the faucet would drain the water tank and drown out Saffiya’s voice. The broken lid lay where it had fallen.

  The streaming faucet splattered around me, dampening my clothes and my spirits. My choices were limited: I could stay and marry the nameless nephew, or I could leave the house, never to return. But where would I go? I had nowhere to turn.

  Where did Taaj go when he left for days and sometimes months? When he returned, he was welcomed with a loving embrace and a hot meal. But he was a man, and he had a mother—two barriers I could never overcome.

  I was like the beggar women leading isolated lives at the shrine, with no one to care for them. But at least they didn’t have anyone to answer to. Could I be like them? I had some money that I had saved—granted, not much—and I also had the gold earrings. The money would pay for the bus ticket to the shrine. I would keep the earrings for emergencies.

  At the shrine, food would be free. I could sleep like the beggars and the dervish in the courtyard of the shrine. I would need a blanket and a pillow, which I would hide under the banyan tree in the courtyard.

  I would let my hair grow into snakes around my head, and after a while, no one would be able to recognize me anymore. My life would be free of dishwashing and housecleaning. Would that life of freedom be better than what Saffiya and Bhaggan were planning for me?

  I continued staring at the pieces as the kitchen screen door opened and Taaj crept in, followed by the maulvi. The maulvi walked toward me, but I chose not to look up from the dishes. He bent over and stroked my head, and I shut my eyes, absorbing his care.

  “How is my daughter? Be careful with that broken pottery. It doesn’t take much for a scratch to inflame and become an abscess.”

  I held back my tears, still not looking at him, but mumbled a response.

  The maulvi then followed Taaj into Saffiya’s room. The sitting room was used only for larger events, like Eid celebrations, or for more formal discussions, like when the land tenants came to negotiate the rent with Bibi Saffiya. For a personal matter like this, Saffiya’s room would provide the required privacy.

  The only time Saffiya’s room was off-limits for others was if the door was locked. Otherwise, she ate her meals there, and village folk and relatives gathered around her charpoy on folding chairs and high stools.

  Ever
y morning and early evening, Bhaggan sat herself down on Bibi Saffiya’s bedroom floor and leaned against the wall, close enough to the door that she could hold on to the handle and lift herself up. There she sat, planning the meals of the day and discussing village politics.

  That afternoon, Bhaggan had sat herself in her usual corner while Saffiya was having tea, to discuss the evening meal. I imagined that Taaj would have pulled in a folding chair to place near the entrance of the room, so that Maulvi could sit at a respectable distance from Saffiya.

  He would have cleared his throat and, after wishing Saffiya a long and prosperous life, sat silently, waiting for Saffiya to ask, “So, what brings you here today, just a short while before the late-afternoon prayer call?”

  I was confident that he had come to convince Saffiya not to follow through on the proposal to marry me to his wife’s nephew. He might not even have told his wife before he’d come.

  The maulvi knew his wife’s nephew well. He knew he would not make a good husband for me. So maybe he was here to convince Saffiya and Bhaggan to wait for someone who had more to offer, someone who was young and good-looking. Bhaggan would remain silent, but I was sure Saffiya would mention her responsibility to find a suitable husband and home for me. She would remind him that that was her prime responsibility as my mother.

  I imagined that he would agree and then softly persuade her that because of my intelligence and charm, and because of my connection with her family, a family well renowned in the area, there would be many, much more appealing young men who would want my hand in marriage. He would convince both of them that any hasty decisions would not only ruin my life but also ruin their reputations for knowing how to select who would become part of the household. I convinced myself that this was how it was unfolding. There could be no other reason for him to have come to see Saffiya.

  This thought gave me hope as I finished washing the dishes. I picked up the broken teapot and placed the pieces together. I could use the extrastrong glue to piece them together.

  Wiping my hands on my dopatta and filled with new hope, I tiptoed toward Saffiya’s room and saw Taaj standing at the door.

  He looked at me and placed his finger on his lips, indicating that I should remain silent. As I moved closer, I heard the end of what Saffiya was saying: “I’ll give her nothing.”

  “That’s all right, Bibi. Tara is a sensible girl. She’s always been that way. Remember how she cared for Maria when Jannat couldn’t. The girl will manage her life. I just wanted you to know the whole truth about the situation.”

  I was pleased. The maulvi knew his wife was as incompetent at matchmaking as she was at her other work. He would save me from this disastrous proposal. He was reassuring Saffiya that others would recognize my worth, like he did. I didn’t have to be married to the first man who asked.

  But the maulvi did not stop there.

  “His problems are not minor. Even as a boy, he threw tantrums. When Zakia returned from her brother’s village, she cried for her brother and his wife. They were tormented by their son’s rage.”

  I had never heard the maulvi openly criticize someone. And this was his wife’s nephew. He coughed and continued, “All the young women in his village turned down his marriage proposals, until they brought a girl from another village. But after two beatings, which landed her in the city hospital, the girl refused to return. They were never divorced.”

  Rage for Zakia welled up in me once more. She wanted me to be a second wife to such a brute.

  Even more reason, I thought, for Saffiya and Bhaggan to tell the maulvi that his useless wife needed to be taught a lesson.

  The silence emanating from the room smelled of doubt and guilt. I looked at Taaj to see if he sensed my relief, but he just shifted his weight from his left leg to the right. Taaj had never been a sensitive boy. He wasn’t astute about his surroundings, so he must not have realized the direction the conversation was taking.

  “Then … ,” Saffiya said, and paused again. I could hear Bhaggan clear her throat and click her fingers loudly. But she, too, remained silent.

  “Then,” the maulvi continued, “you have to do what is best for her. She is like a daughter to you.”

  Why was it taking so long for her to reach a decision?

  “It is nearly time for the late-afternoon prayer,” the maulvi said. “I will have to go to the mosque to call for it. My legs are not as strong as they used to be, but I owed it to you to let you know. You have been kind to us. You have provided us with housing and money enough to fill our stomachs.”

  What, I thought, has any of this got to do with my situation?

  “And Tara has always been very dear to me. She is like the daughter I never had. You know how Zakia and I have been praying to the Almighty to hear our one wish, but we must have committed an unforgivable sin.”

  Bhaggan spoke up now. “You and Zakia are both people of God,” she said. “You led the funeral prayers for my husband and my son. I am also indebted to you and your wife. You have both taught my children everything they know about religion in this life and the next.” She went on, “Ever since I’ve had any sense, I have been with Bibi Saffiya. And I know she trusts you like a family member.”

  Bhaggan was stating what Saffiya would never let pass through her own lips. She would never be beholden to anyone.

  “But if you promise that you will take good care of her, I know Bibi Saffiya will never send you away empty-handed.”

  Now I was even more perplexed. Bhaggan wasn’t making any sense.

  The maulvi’s response soon made things clearer: “Of course, I will personally keep him under my control. They will live in our home after they get married, and I will gain a grown daughter and a son. I have always considered Tara the daughter that I never had. Her husband will be like a son to me. Their children will be a blessing to us. They will open the doors of paradise for Zakia and me. We will not have lived our lives in vain.”

  More silence.

  “Not to worry, Bibi Saffiya. Tara will still be close to you, as she is today. She can continue to serve you like a daughter during the day and keep old Amman Bhaggan company in the kitchen. Zakia will take care of their babies,” the maulvi continued.

  He had worked it all out. What kind of love was this?

  “You crazy old man!” I wanted to shout. “Is this how you protect the ones you love? You were the only man who paid any attention to me as a child—who listened to me, who smiled at me, who gave me hope. For this? You deserve the bitter woman who is like a rock that drowns you in the canal. Your fate should be in the depths of the dark waters at night. You should be torn apart by the boar in the cane fields. You are worse than the others. At least they didn’t give me reason to dream.”

  “In the evenings, she will be ours.”

  The dizziness of despair overpowered me. My eyes searched for stability from Taaj. His right ear twitched, but he didn’t turn toward me.

  A shuffling of shoes and feet from the room indicated that the meeting was nearly over, but I was not going to stay for the end. Hearing the decision would make it permanent.

  I would pretend nothing had happened. I would go about my routine, and that would erase what I had heard.

  I turned and walked toward the shahtoot tree. Saffiya’s washed clothes would have dried by now. This time, the color would not fade in the sunlight.

  It must be a mistake, I thought, as I walked toward the two trees. Had I just heard the maulvi try to convince Saffiya and Bhaggan that I should become the second wife of Zakia’s nephew and live with them in the house in the village so that they could protect me when he lost his temper? Was that the only way to help me?

  Was I that much of a burden to them? And why had Bhaggan remained silent? Did she agree with all this?

  I gathered the brightly colored, still damp shalwar kameezes and threw them back in a pile on the charpoy. I didn’t care about the white hand towels spread on the chameli bushes in the sun, now stiff with total dehydra
tion but covered with small patches of dust from the leaves.

  Returning to my routine and gathering the partially dried clothes to clarify my confusing thoughts did not help me. It didn’t take me long to realize that I needed to torment them all by controlling my own life.

  A Frog Underfoot

  The heat of anger vaporized my tears, leaving a starchy itchiness in my eyes. I wiped my face with my dopatta and sat on the edge of the charpoy under the trees. The sun dissolved into the distant fields and emanated a torrid heat. The fields stood motionless, but the sky above was melting.

  On any other day at this time, Bhaggan would have been waking from her afternoon nap on the veranda, but the commotion about my future had prevented that. When Maria and I had been younger, Bhaggan’s siesta had been our time for freedom. She had awoken ignorant to our stolen joy, but since she had also been refreshed, no one had complained. The beginning of the evening was usually a time for rejuvenation in preparation for the cooler night winds, but today the heat had stagnated us.

  All those years ago, the day Sultan had died, Maria and I had married our dolls. She had told me how the boy doll lay on top of the girl. How many months later the baby would be born. Maria’s knowledge had angered me then, but it had made me more curious.

  Later, if the topic ever came up, I would lean forward to listen in on the village women’s hushed conversations, in hopes of knowing more, only to be met with silence. They stopped midsentence, sensing I was eavesdropping on conversations that were not for my young ears. How would I ever know what happened when men and women got married?

  I couldn’t think of whom to ask. This frustrated me further.

  I had no idea what would happen if I married Zakia’s nephew. For the most part, the village women had talked of fear and pain with marriage. Very few mentioned pleasure.