The Pakistani Bride (10 page)

Nikka held up another hundred rupee note and then tossed a wad of ten rupee notes at the retreating dancer. At that, Qasim surfaced from his lascivious stupor. He scrutinized Nikka's profile in alarm.

The girl spun closer. Kneeling, she touched the money to her forehead. She resumed her dance, her lissome body suggestive, her eyes luminous slits flashing under heavy lashes.

Qasim pressed against Nikka. “Enough! Stop it now,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I know what I'm doing! Something special for my simple Pathan friend.”

Nikka was up and before Qasim could restrain him, he staggered across the small room. His lumbering presence shattered the scintillating atmosphere and the air grew tense. The man who had received them in the street materialized from nowhere and stood at the entrance, looking in. His sweat-drenched shirt outlined the menace of his muscles. Qasim blanched. He missed the reassuring pressure of his pistol against his thigh and wished he hadn't left it behind. He knew these people were not to be trifled with. Nikka would be no match for these Mandi pimps.

They thought the Pehelwan, intoxicated with Scotch, was about to rough up the girl. Shahnaz, her face pale, backed
cautiously, but Nikka veered from his course. He moved towards the Madam.

Instantly she stopped chewing on her paan. Her puffy features congealed into a haughty mask. She appeared to be bracing herself for the stock remark: “Shahnaz is a dancing girl, not a prostitute. We are a respectable house!”

She tilted a defiant ear when Nikka sat down by her.

Qasim prayed that his friend would accept the inevitable rejection amiably.

Nikka whispered something, and as though in answer to Qasim's prayer a smile softened the Madam's features. She laid an affectionate arm on the pehelwan's shoulder and leaned closer. Nikka crushed some money into her enveloping palms. She nodded, as if giving in with great reluctance—indulging a difficult favor. Nikka strode across the room and settled amidst the cushions with a grand mysterious smile.

“What's up?” whispered Qasim.

“You'll see. Just sit back and watch.”

The American wiped his forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I thought those bastards were going to louse up the show.” His voice was limp with relief. He sucked in a long draught of Scotch and his unperturbed companion nodded agreement.

Shahnaz and the Madam joined the circle, and their laughter, lacing the room with merriment, instantly restored a sense of delicate abandon. The American often caught Shahnaz's flitting hands, kissing her fingers, his eyes tremulous and pleading.

Despite the levity, the presence of the dancing girl, the Madam, and the nature of the establishment, a certain over-gallant, flowery decorum was maintained.

 

Nikka rubbed his palms together and looked around with the air of a Moghul conqueror about to relish the spoils of his
victory. The musicians were ready and once again the measured chhum of the dancer's tread approached. She continued through the curtains as before and bowed before the four men, salaaming Nikka for almost a full minute. The tabalchi set up a slow sharp beat. His fingers flew across the taller drum vibrating the background for the hollow, almost metallic “tha! tha! tak-a-tha!” of the wider, shorter tabla. The dancer flexed her knees in the classic pose of the Kathakali dance, thighs sloped sideways. She lifted her bent knees, stamping the floor in a heavy, rocking tread. The thick band of bells round her ankles struck in time to the staid whip of the tabla. She turned, thighs wide, and then, facing the men, danced to a quickening tempo; now straightening, now spreading her thighs open. Her arms rippled and swayed, controlling the fanning, tapering fingers.

Keeping to the stylized classic movements, she removed her chiffon chaddar and flung it floating to the floor. Next she removed the black velvet waistcoat that edged the swell of her breasts.

At last the nature of Nikka's mission to the Madam dawned on Qasim. The American and his companion cast inquiring glances. “How far will she go?” Nikka, his eyes fixed on the girl, encouraged, “Ahha, Ahha, Great! Great!” and the men surmised she would go pretty far.

Leaning forward, Qasim gawked at each movement, astonishment wreathing his face. Four pairs of protruding eyes locked on the girl's body.

 

The dancer's movements still follow the classic beat, but they grow more sinuous. Clothes lie scattered at her small, bejeweled feet. The body barely reveals its ribs, its spine—it is draped in color. Her flushed skin glows like molten, pliant copper, flaming in the pink haze that highlights the voluptuous flow of
long dark thighs and the soft swell of perfect breasts lightly swaying. Shadows accentuate the in-curving areas, the opulent hollows. While the feet move, her arms rise above her head stretching the body in all its marvelous perfection. No melody. Only the staccato resonance of the drums and the echoing chhum of bells on her ankles. Bending, a soft breast touching one knee, she removes one payal, then the other. Now she is free of the tyrannical bells. Her feet twinkle, she sways unrestrained, while the black reptilian plait of her hair flays her body. She curves her back until the plait rests on the floor. She is bent back like a bow, her nipples smooth and firm as carved mahogany, gazing at the ceiling.

It is past midnight and Nikka and Qasim have spent over six hours with the dancer. Qasim's lids feel unnaturally heavy. His head throbs, racked alternately by waves of blinding desire and the need of sleep. He notices the other men reclining heavily on the cushions, resting their heads against the wall. Their puffy faces are battling a deep drowsiness. “The bastards,” he thinks. “They have doctored our last drink!”

Shahnaz is swaying, undoing slowly her thick plait of hair. Her fingers run down to the tip of each strand, keeping apart the lengthening coils. All undone, the hair falls in three skeins covering one entire side of her body. A deft untangling flick of her head and the heavy silken hair cascades down behind her. The final nudity. Wild, serene, natural as a forest tree at sunset.

Shahnaz stands still. Raising her arms she sways against the long jet mane of hair, throwing her head this way and that until hair froths around her like thick, inky dust.

When her dance resumes it becomes erotic, her movements sensual and brazen. She teases wantonly, secure in the knowledge of her inaccessibility.

Poor Nikka and Qasim. Never having possessed riches, they know not the savor of so rich a toy. Theirs is a world
of villages and mountains; of brash wrestlers, privations and primary appetites.

The evening's entertainment merely titillated the American and his companion, but in Nikka and Qasim it unleashed a primordial frenzy, a ferocious tangle of desires. “God! These bastards put something in our drinks . . . These bastards,” Nikka squirmed, gurgling the words.

They might easily have fallen on the girl, tearing, ripping, and dismembering her to satisfy their anguish.

As it was, Shahnaz backed to the center of the room. She jerked her head forward and her hair splashed on to the floor when she knelt in a final curtsey. She remained bowed. Then, touching her dainty fingers to her forehead, she salaamed several times and—gathering her payals and her scattered clothing—she disappeared through the curtains.

The musicians quietly slipped cloth covers over their instruments and stepped into their moccasins. The rosy haze in the room brightened into a yellow glare. Nikka groped for Qasim. He meant to say, “Come on, the show is over,” but he uttered only inarticulate croaks.

His head lolling back, Qasim stared with glazed eyes. “Let's get home,” thought Nikka, struggling monumentally to sit up.

The Madam loomed over them with a pile of blankets. “I think you'd better stay the night.”

The American and his friend lay slumped, their heads at uncomfortable angles on the cushions. Qasim's mouth hung open in sleep. Nikka closed his heavy lids, gratefully surrendering to the Madam's care. The musicians helped her straighten the limbs of her charges. They covered them with blankets.

At about five o'clock the next morning the groggy men were propelled into two taxis. The fat pimp saw them off, his singlet wet with perspiration even at that hour. The cars wound their
way, one behind the other, through the tawdry, now deserted alleys of the sleeping Mandi.

That day, Miriam, who took everything in her stride, quietly assumed charge of Zaitoon.

The girl, stricken by terror, flung herself at Miriam screaming, “Oh, my Abba doesn't awaken. He is dead!”

Miriam burst into laughter. Hugging the child to her bosom, she soothed her. She took Zaitoon to the room where Nikka lay sprawled on a charpoy. “See?” she chuckled, prodding her inert husband. “See how he sleeps? They are both tired. Soon your father will awaken, dangle you on his lap, and tickle you like this . . .” Laughing, she tickled Zaitoon, and all fears were forgotten.

 

Qasim and Nikka slept through the day. In the evening, over the tea steaming from his saucer, Qasim asked, “Tell me, how much did you spend in all?”

“About two thousand . . .”

“Two thousand rupees!” exclaimed Qasim incredulously.

“Well, at least now we know how the rich blow their loot!”

Qasim nodded solemnly.

N
ikka came to look forward to assignments that required his particular skills. Patronized by the powerful political group that sought his services, he began to enjoy certain liberties. He was no longer an ordinary citizen.

From the recesses of the underworld right through to the patrolling policemen, everyone knew that Nikka wielded influence. His promises, his opinions, carried weight. Word of his ability to help extended to Qasim. For a fee he interceded with Nikka specially on behalf of tribal petitioners.

 

The following summer, the Leader summoned Nikka into his august presence. “Tell him to bring along the Pathan as well.”

The interview was discreet. Qasim and Nikka were led through a thickly carpeted corridor, opulent with the gleam of copper and carved mahogany, into a luxurious room. A tall, dark man with a sleekly oiled moustache sat behind a desk. They knew he held most of the power in the land. His bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes appeared to measure them in the subdued light. He extended his hand. Qasim and Nikka padded nervously through the air-conditioned space scented by tuber-roses and expensive cigars. Stiff with awe, Qasim stood, studying the pattern in the Persian carpet.

With an ease born of generations of gracious living, the leader motioned them to a corner of the study darkened by black leather upholstery. Qasim, who had never sat on anything so soft, sank, he thought, into a cloud. Nikka stammered ingratiatingly, “Yes, my lord, yes, my lord,” to everything the
man said, and Qasim, who had never seen him so obsequious, blushed for the two of them.

After what seemed an eternity (but was not more than five minutes in fact) the mighty one supplied the cue for their departure. With a humility that won their hearts, he touched his fingers to his forehead and said, “We are deeply indebted to your loyalty and services. Our cause is just, and you are worthy. God be with you.” Fixing Nikka with grateful eyes, he said, “I wanted to thank you myself.”

Nikka flushed.

“My lord, it is my privilege and honor to serve you always.”

An arm across each of their shoulders, the mighty one led them to the door. “My car will take you home. God be with you.” He embraced each in turn, “And don't forget. My house and my heart are always open to my friends.”

Flattered, they walked to the waiting car. Nikka was a rooster trying to smooth his puffed feathers. He looked with disdain at the shoddy crowds streaming past the tinted glass of the air-conditioned Cadillac. “I wish the whole of Qila Gujjar Singh were gathered to see us arrive in this,” he whispered.

The chassis swayed in its deep suspension springs. It wafted them over the potholes with the airy ripple of a yacht. By the time they reached Qila Gujjar Singh, Nikka felt he was tottering on a cushion eleven feet high.

 

Soon followed the fall from grace.

In his new self-importance, Nikka turned insufferably arrogant. To quote a Punjabi proverb, he would not let a fly alight on his nose.

He became a bully. He described graphically to those he wanted to intimidate what he would do to their balls and the chastity of their women. He bought a shop next to his for much less than the going price and expanded his business to
include a provision store. He sat solidly on his charpoy outside and lorded it over the alley.

“O, ay, you one-eyed jinx, if I see you bring your solitary eye into our district again, I'll thrash you,” Nikka threatened once, and sure enough, when he noticed the half-blind man a month later, he chased and thrashed him.

He forced the milkman to take a circuitous route because the jangle of cans suddenly jarred his delicate senses.

He was feared and even the police could not control him. Their reports, though, reached the man in the scented, luxurious room. At first he regarded his protégé's antics with indulgence. “Leave him alone—the man means no harm.” But the complaints grew urgent, and Nikka's high-handed conduct ceased to please. The weary black brows atop the bloodshot eyes puckered. “If that's the case, let's put him right. To be sure, he has his uses, but rough him up a little. Show him his place . . .”

 

His masseur gossiping next to him, Nikka sat upon his sagging charpoy, blocking the pavement. He was in a foul mood. Somehow he sensed trouble. The evening traffic rushed by in a tangle of cycles, tongas, bullock-carts and trucks, squashing the dung on the wide road. Nikka glared at the traffic, his shifting eyes intent on mischief.