Haveli (7 page)

“Hassan Ibne, on the afternoon of April second, you were apprehended outside the room of
Begum
Shabanu,” Rahim said. “Is that correct?”

“Ji, Sahib,”
Ibne answered.

“Tell me why you went there.”

“Khansama asked me to deliver a message to
Begum—
”

“He’s lying,
Sahib!
” said the cook. “I gave no message.”

“Be quiet!” Rahim said. “Go on, Ibne.”

“Khansama gave me an envelope that bore your seal. He said it was a message from you and that I should take it directly to
Begum’s
room. When I got to the edge of the courtyard, a woman was standing there watching, and when I was near the door she began to scream. Then the cook’s helper came running and shouting and woke about five house servants, who also came running. There was much confusion. The woman was screaming, and the cook’s helper was shouting that they should grab me. I was too shocked to struggle, and they dragged me to the ground. The envelope disappeared in the scuffle.”

Rahim listened carefully and turned to the cook.

“Where did the envelope come from? Who put my seal on it?”

“He’s lying,
Sahib
,” said the cook, who looked up at Rahim’s face then. “He went to
Begum’s
quarters because she summoned him. It wasn’t the first time.… ”

“Enough!” said Rahim, and his voice was cold with rage. He asked to see the cook’s helper, a tall boy who kept his frightened eyes fastened to the floor. In a barely audible voice he corroborated the cook’s story. His ears, red as blood, stood out at right angles to his shaven head. There was no one except Shabanu to give a second testimony on Ibne’s behalf, and she knew she would never be called.

Rahim’s face grew darker, but Shabanu wasn’t sure whose story he believed. In the end he dismissed
all three servants, saying they must leave Okurabad immediately.

The cook wailed loudly and put his fingers to his lips, imploring like a starving beggar. Ibne heard his sentence quietly, with his head high.

Oh, Ibne, Shabanu thought, if I could have saved you, I would have tried. But it would have been worse for all of us. Forgive me for saving myself and my daughter, and not you. Damn Amina! Damn her and Leyla to hell!

Rahim got up from the dais, and Shabanu left quickly, the way she had come—down the iron staircase, through the side door, and out onto the veranda. She hesitated behind the trellis, for in the wooden garden swing just a few feet away sat Amina, her sleek silver head leaning against the swing’s painted headrest, a faint smile on her heavily rouged mouth, her kohl-rimmed eyes closed. The rounded toe of one shiny black slipper touched the grass, and the swing glided back and forth with a faint groan, as if of its own accord.

O
ne morning Shabanu rose early to mend Mumtaz’s ever-growing pile of
shalwar kameez
that had torn as she played among the thornbushes near the canal and climbed trees in the garden.

The mornings were still cool, and a heavy mist hung about the topmost branches, descending into the open spaces above the lawn and rose beds.

It was very quiet; even the horses in the stable were still sleeping. The pearly air slowly grew lighter as the sun rose above the fog. Across the courtyard the back of the house seemed to stare at her through its dark doors and windows. Shabanu wrapped her shawl tight about her shoulders, then sat on the front step outside the door to her room. She listened for the soft breathing of Mumtaz, who lay sleeping on the baby
charpoi
just inside. Choti lay curled at the foot of the cot, her chin tucked among angles of her folded legs.

A gentle breeze blew in from Cholistan, across
the canal, the air wafting alternately warm with the peppery sweet scent of
kharin
and cool with the damp smell of irrigated land. Shabanu hoped it would soon clear the fog and let in sunlight to warm the garden.

She placed a candle on the small table that stood just outside the door. Lifting the lid to her sewing basket, she put her hand inside. Nestled among the skeins of embroidery silk, spools of thread, and scraps of cloth, she felt something at once hard and soft. She was puzzled for a moment, but then horror rose in her as her fingers found the sticky end of the thing.

A sick feeling settled into her stomach as she withdrew the severed foot of a baby camel from the basket. She thought of her own baby camel, Mithoo, who had followed her into the desert when she’d tried to escape from her family before her marriage to Rahim. Mithoo had fallen into a foxhole and broken his leg. Rather than leave him to the vultures and jackals, she lay down beside him and waited for her father to find them. Thus she had committed herself to the future her family had planned for her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Shabanu saw a curtain move slightly, and anger replaced the sick feeling as retreating feet slapped on the bare floor of the hallway that led from the back of the kitchen.

Would she never be able to relax her vigilance? Even in the earliest part of the day, before the household awakened, must she be wary of everyone and everything? She was never quite able to put behind
her the last intimidation or incrimination when the next was upon her. She sat still for a moment, listening to the birds in the neem trees. Then she wrapped the foot in her handkerchief, buried it back under the contents of her sewing basket, and stood purposefully to wake Mumtaz.

For the next few days she was filled with rage at Amina’s persistence and small-mindedness. But the rage was good, she thought; it kept her watchful. She must be careful that her reactions should not embolden the others to progress from their evil mischief to more serious things that might endanger Mumtaz or herself. She worried most about Mumtaz. Without a mother to protect her, who knew what would happen to her daughter?

Then came the day of the two invitations.

Everyone at Okurabad had been talking for weeks about
Basant
, the spring festival of the kites. For days the household was alive with talk of the
Basants
of other years, when the men and boys of Lahore had flown kites from the rooftop of every
haveli
in the old walled city. The women watched from the roof of the cinema, which stood taller than the
havelis
, with only the minarets of the neighborhood mosques to obstruct their view. They talked about it until Shabanu could see in her mind’s eye the bright-colored pieces of paper against the afternoon sky, and boys leaning over parapets with brooms of twigs tied to the ends of long poles to capture kites cut free by
the glass- and resin-coated strings of more skillfully flown kites.

Mumtaz had pestered her.

“Uma, please, can we go?” she asked, standing high on her toes and yanking at the sleeve of Shabanu’s tunic. “Please, Uma!”

Finally Shabanu shooed her away, and the child took to telling Choti how she would make her own kites that looked like her father’s desert birds. She imagined that if they could fly, kites must have wings.

The invitation came in an envelope marked only with her name, a plain white card inviting Shabanu to a picnic on the roof of the cinema. Part of her longed to go. It was the first time she’d been invited to
Basant
. And her dearest wish was to see Lahore.

But the memory of the baby camel’s foot against her fingertips made her shiver. She was afraid to take Mumtaz to the cinema rooftop, four stories above the old city. She began to worry that it would be rude of her to decline unless she had good reason. The sun grew warmer, but she shivered every time she thought of the kites and the crowded rooftop. With everyone looking up at the sky, it would be easy for someone to push them over the edge. Their fall to the street below would be a convenient accident.

And then the message came from the desert near Mehrabpur, where Shabanu’s sister, Phulan, lived with her husband, Murad, and their sons on their farm at the edge of the desert. A thin, solemn man wearing a
faded blue turban was admitted unceremoniously to stand just inside the back gate of the house. Shabanu was summoned for the recitation of an invitation from her family.

They had traveled to the edge of the desert, where they hoped she would join them to be with Phulan following the birth of her fourth son, the messenger said. The infant had come early, but both mother and child were well.

Just the sight of the soft-spoken desert man lifted her spirits. And a visit with Mama and Dadi, Phulan and Murad and their sons, Sharma and Fatima, and Auntie and her two sons couldn’t come at a better time!

The summons from her family was good enough reason to send her regrets for
Basant
. She wouldn’t miss seeing them for anything in the world!

Rahim wouldn’t return from Lahore for several days. When he wasn’t at Okurabad it didn’t matter much to him what she did, as long as he knew where she was and that she’d be there when he returned.

Without even placing a trunk call to Lahore to tell Rahim, Shabanu told the messenger to ask her father to come for her as soon as possible. She would be ready. She gave the messenger a ten-rupee note, which he refused. But she pressed it into his hand, and he folded the note into a package of country-made
bidi
cigarettes that smelled of cloves and tucked it into his breast pocket.

Early the next morning, a
tonga
cart carrying Shabanu’s father emerged from the cool mist of late spring. The servants made him wait outside the gate, but Zenat had been watching for him since before daylight. She ran to the stable yard to tell Shabanu and Mumtaz, who were ready and waiting.

Shabanu saw him through the gate. He stood in his embroidered slippers with turned-up toes beside the hired horse cart, his
lungi
and
kurta
clean and fresh, the breeze playing with the end of his turban. He looked awkward, his callused square hands hanging loosely at his sides, squinting at the wall as if puzzled by why it should stand between him and his daughter.

“Dadi!” she shouted, and he ran to the gate as she flung it wide. His beard was flecked with gray. But Mumtaz leaped into his arms, and he swung her high over his head. He was still strong and straight as a young man, and Mumtaz squealed with delight when he caught her, just as it seemed she would fall to the ground. Even Zenat gave a rare grin that showed the entire length of her wide-spaced loose teeth.

Shabanu and Zenat carried baskets of food and gifts of sugar and jasmine tea and cardamom and a large brass water pot for Phulan.

The morning held the promise of warmth in the fog that swirled around the pony cart as it made its way through the outer edge of the irrigated area. The acacia trees were pale and fragile with new growth.
Even the meanest desert shrubs were misted in pale green veils of leaf buds.

Shabanu’s heart turned over and over again as they neared the dunes of the desert. Seeing the blue ribbon of smoke from her mother’s cooking fire curl lazily toward the sky, she could almost taste the sweet milky tea, and already she heard the camels’ growls and mutters, transporting her back in time to her Cholistan childhood.

Her family stood to greet her in a small clump, their bright cotton tunics like flowers against the pale gray sand.

Shabanu flew into her mother’s arms.

“Sh-, Sh-, Sh-, Shabanu,” her mother crooned softly, and cradled her youngest daughter’s head against her shoulder as she’d done when Shabanu was a child.

Her cousins, aged eight and ten, had grown tall and thin. Their hands were coarse and broad, but their faces were still soft and childlike.

Dadi held Mumtaz as if she were a treasure, and Choti pranced at his feet as if she too wanted to have a fuss made over her.

Mama’s face was lined deeply, though her shoulders were still straight and square. Phulan’s eyes were pinched at the corners, and pockets of flesh were forming beneath them. Creases had developed around her lovely mouth, although she had not long ago reached only her twentieth birthday.

The desert ages people too fast, Shabanu thought sadly. She’d never noticed before.

Mama wore the same turquoise tunic she’d worn when Shabanu was married. It was worn and faded, but it still showed the strong lines of her mother’s tall, slim body.

At Shabanu’s wedding the women of Rahim’s household had stared at the desert women’s rough handmade slippers and tunics sewn in graceful lines that fitted their full breasts and slender waists. The women of Okurabad wore more stylish cuts of splendid fabrics that hid their plumper figures. Shabanu still loved the simple embroideries and mirrored designs of Cholistan far more than the beaded chiffons the women of Okurabad wore.

Her relatives wore their hair plain and pulled back in long thick braids, while the women of Okurabad wore theirs carefully coiffed in fluffy bobs. The hands of the Cholistan women were rough with calluses from hauling water, their nails cracked and split from patching the walls of their houses with dung and earth and water. The idle hands of the women of Okurabad were manicured, with long lacquered nails and soft white palms.

Shabanu’s family had stood silent with a natural grace, while the women of Okurabad laughed at them behind their silken
dupattas
.

Shabanu was glad to see every one of them—even Auntie, whose lips had grown thin and crooked from
years of pursing them with disapproval. Shabanu embraced them, one by one, inhaling the desert-clean smell of their hair and clothing, as if to dispel the outer layers of the Okurabad woman she’d become to reveal the Cholistan girl who remained inside her.

Auntie took Mumtaz by the hand, and they all sat beside the fire. Auntie had felt sorry for Mama and Dadi when they’d had no sons to provide for them in their old age. But now because of Dadi’s fine camel herd and Rahim’s generosity, they were far more prosperous than Auntie and her husband, who still worked as a government clerk in Rahimyar Khan and visited his family only occasionally.

Auntie hugged Mumtaz and kept her close, perhaps mourning the daughter she would never bear.