Haveli (25 page)

They passed through the village without slowing down, sending chickens and small goats fleeing into the narrow drains on either side of the lane. It was prayer time, and several shops were closed. Old brass padlocks glinted on rough wooden doors as a sign that their devout owners had gone to the mosque.

Old men squatted on their haunches in doorways, their white turbans gleaming in the sunlight. Some nodded, others watched bicycles and scooters wind through the lanes, their bells jangling and horns tooting. Cats walked along the parapets of shop buildings, and a herd of donkeys seemed to wander aimlessly, their backs piled high with grass to take back to the desert, their owner probably at his prayers.

Overhead, laundry hung on a pole that stretched
from the roof of one house to the roof across the lane, which was so narrow a woman reached out her arm and handed a cup of sugar across to her neighbor on the opposite roof.

A few women in
burkas
floated like ghosts from shop to shop buying vegetables and milk and yogurt and spices and lentils.

Behind the village the road stretched out between two rows of trees that gave way as they left the irrigated lands of Okurabad to more delicate desert shrubs and trees.

Keekar trees spread their lacy branches over the road, and stands of tamarisk floated light and fine on the gentle breeze.

As the
tonga
horse trotted along, Shabanu told Mumtaz of all the wonderful things they would find in the desert at monsoon time.

“There will be
kumbi
that appear like magic among the dunes when the rain ends. They are small and white, growing very close to the ground. They taste mysterious and dark and must be picked before the sun climbs into the sky to dry them—they’re that fragile. And perhaps Auntie Sharma will have killed a chicken to eat them with!”

They had brought a crate of mangoes with them, the most important treat of the summer. It always made the hot season worth surviving at Okurabad. Mumtaz and Shabanu shared one, the sticky yellow juice running down their arms.

The
tonga
turned off the main road to a smaller road that ran beside a canal, and then onto two dirt tracks that ran beside an even smaller canal, and finally onto a path made by the feet of the farmers who lived at the end of the smallest irrigation ditches.

They passed some shabby farms no larger than the courtyard at Okurabad. Their walls were crumbled. In the hopelessness of poverty, people sometimes made the mistake of failing to repair their walls each day, and before long their roofs collapsed.

The goats had trampled little fences of brambly branches that protected yards where clothes dried and kitchen gardens grew. The gardens were as overrun and barren as the ground outside the fences, except for a few spindly cornstalks.

When they arrived at Phulan and Murad’s farm at the edge of the desert, at the very end of the irrigation system, the whole family had assembled to greet them. They looked like a small bouquet in the distance, and the desert spread out behind them like a gentle gray carpet.

At Murad’s farm the walls were perfect and straight. The roof was freshly thatched, and the kitchen garden was bright with peppers, corn, and squash. The fields were neat and square, and the tiny irrigation ditch had been dredged and kept clear. The earthen dowels that ran along either side to protect the fields from overflow were straight and even. The farm gave Shabanu the feeling she’d had as a child that
there was order in the world and all was well. It was not until they reached the farm that she allowed herself to relax.

Mumtaz jumped up and down on the hard
tonga
seat when she saw that her grandfather had with him several baby camels, standing with their heads held high to inspect the cart and its passengers. It was the first real enthusiasm she’d shown since Choti had left them.

Shabanu hugged Phulan first. Her sister’s belly was round with a fifth child. The fourth son was still an infant, and the other three boys crowded around their cousin Mumtaz, anxious to have a new playmate. Mumtaz stood on tiptoe to pet the baby camels, who ducked their heads shyly and blinked their long-lashed eyelids.

Dadi held the mother camels back so the children could pet them for a few minutes, and when he turned the mothers loose they rounded up the babies, ducking their heads and sniffing each one until they found their own.

Shabanu’s mother, father, sister, and aunt crowded around her, all talking at once.

“Why have you come with such little notice?”

“Is anything wrong at Okurabad?”

“How long can you stay?”

“Tell us about the wedding!”

Sharma and Fatima did not arrive until after dark. Their animals came with them, their bells gonging
softly, plinking lightly, rattling and plunking as they made their way among the dunes. As always, Sharma was greeted with much chatter and laughter.

Phulan’s in-laws had come with supper from the adjoining farm and
jelabees
from the village. They sat before the fire eating the sticky sweet fried pretzels and gossiping about Shabanu’s cousins, several of whom had sent their children to school in the city of Multan.

Shabanu felt divided. Part of her was hollow with the thought that Mumtaz would not be educated if she stayed in the desert. A larger part of her was filled with the certainty that Mumtaz would be safe here. There would be no more looking behind to see who might be watching or planning a trick. Mumtaz would be loved by good and decent people who would continue to teach her right from wrong. She would learn to love the things in the world that no one can take away—sunsets and rainstorms, bird-songs and the sound of water running in the canal—but for which the people of Okurabad had little regard. And there was always the hope that one day it would be safe for them to return to the
haveli
and live with Selma, and Mumtaz would be able to go to school.

After they had eaten, Phulan’s mother-in-law, Bibi Lal, produced a surprise. She had invited a drummer and a bagpipe player from the village, and Murad’s cousin Kharim marked rhythm with a pair of metal
tongs. Two other cousins produced their flutes with little coaxing.

The flames leaped as the women danced, their bare feet slapping the rain-packed sand under the starry sky, and here among her own people Shabanu’s doubts about leaving Mumtaz to grow in the desert melted away.

That night Shabanu crept between two quilts spread on the desert floor where Mumtaz already slept. Sharma came and sat beside her.

Shabanu sat up and looked beyond the orange flicker of the dying fire, to where Mama, Dadi, Auntie, and her cousins slept.

She leaned forward to hug her Aunt Sharma, and a sob escaped her throat. Sharma held her close, and Shabanu told her of Amina’s plan to make Mumtaz a servant.

“So I must leave her here with you,” Shabanu said.

Sharma held her at arm’s length and than wiped Shabanu’s face with the end of her
dupatta
.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Sharma said.

“I have no choice!” said Shabanu.

“No, pigeon,” said Sharma. “You always have a choice. And that is why you act wisely. Because you choose.”

“I can’t bring myself to think of living without her,” Shabanu said, her voice choked.

“The only thing we have in this life is time,” Sharma said, taking her by the shoulders. “And we
never know how much of that we have. The good things that happen in the time we have foretell what will be in the next life. The bad is only a trial to be endured. You will be with Mumtaz again.”

As she fell asleep under the stars Shabanu thought of all that she had left behind: her impossible love for Omar, her husband whose life was a series of struggles to hold on to power, the troublesome women of Okurabad—and she was certain that Sharma was right.

T
he next morning Shabanu awoke to the smell of a fire and roasting bread. Mumtaz had slipped out from under the quilt before sunrise to find the baby camels at the edge of the
toba
. The night before she had fed them sugar from her hand.

Shabanu rolled their quilts and joined her mother beside the fire. Her mother handed her a tin mug of sweet milky tea. She felt warm and happy and relaxed in a way she’d forgotten it was possible to feel.

“Ah, it’s so good to see both of you,” her mother said, and Shabanu prepared to listen with patience to the familiar plea that she have more babies.

But before her mother could go on, they were interrupted by the distant roar of a four-by-four station wagon making its way down the track from the main road to the farm. As it came closer, still miles away, the engine ground as the vehicle labored
through the sand that was damp from the recent rains.

In the distance, behind the
toba
, the camels milled about, the mothers gathering the young into a circle in the midst of the herd.

The car passed the farm and continued down the track to the edge of the desert. Ibne drove, and Rahim and Omar sat in the back, both of them straight and silent. When they came to a stop, Rahim got out.

Again Shabanu was struck by how her husband had aged. In fact, she thought, it was more than age; his face looked creased and gray, as if he’d fallen gravely ill.

“Asalaam-o-Aleikum,”
Rahim greeted her father, who came running from the
toba
. There was a brief exchange of greetings among Omar, Murad, and his cousins, and Rahim addressed Shabanu.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your holiday,” he said. “But I must ask you to come with me.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“There’s been an accident at Mehrabpur,” Rahim said. “We’re on our way there now to find out what happened. Ahmed was involved. You must come to stay with Zabo.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know anything except that there has been an accident, and that Ahmed was involved,” he said.

Shabanu and her mother flew into action, gathering
her things from the courtyard. Mama called to Mumtaz, but Shabanu laid her hand on her mother’s slender brown arm.

“I want Mumtaz to stay here,” she said. The intense way she spoke had the same effect on her mother as it did on Mumtaz, and there were no further questions. “I’ll go say good-bye to her.”

Shabanu ran to the
toba
, calling “Mumtaz! Mumtaz!”

There, behind where the sun glittered on the water, Mumtaz ran over the top of a dune, the loose sand pulling at her bare feet, her hair blowing out free behind her, as if she’d never lived anywhere else on earth.

Shabanu ran to her and held her close. She smelled the sweetness of camel’s milk on her breath.

“I’ll be back soon, pigeon,” she said, and Mumtaz broke away from her and disappeared behind the nearest dune in pursuit of the camels. Shabanu felt her dream of educating her daughter in the city flutter and tug at her heart like a bird in a cage.

She’s young, Shabanu thought. It will happen, if Allah is willing and if I am patient.

Protect her, she prayed, and she forced her feet to run back to where Rahim waited in the car.

Shabanu climbed into the back and sat between Omar and Rahim. Omar greeted her.

“I hope you’ve been well,” he said.

She nodded. “And you?”

She felt awkward. It was the first time they’d spoken since she’d asked him to leave her alone. His jaw was so straight and broad, his eyes so dark and serious. Even through her worry and fear she felt the old longing for him sucking at her heart with a power that made her wonder how he could not feel it too. She wondered how she could have thought her feelings for him had gone away.

She was conscious of Omar’s hip, thigh, and shoulder against hers, and she clenched her teeth.

“How did you find out about the accident?” she asked.

Neither Rahim nor Omar answered for a moment. The car slogged through mud and leaped from rut to rut until it reached the secondary road along the larger canal.

“Nazir’s driver came with a note that there had been an accident,” said Rahim. “I don’t know what kind of accident, or who else was involved, or when it happened.”

The car had left the dirt track for the hardtop road. It hurtled through the tunnel made of thorn trees, through the early morning mist that had grown thicker as they neared the main canal. Nazir’s house was only a few miles down the main road.

“Nazir took Ahmed hunting,” Shabanu said.

“What!” said Rahim. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Zabo told me just as they left,” she said, evading
his question. “I didn’t know where you were.”

As they neared Mehrabpur they passed a broad field where dozens of workers with axes were cutting down trees that Rahim had planted only two years earlier. At the edge of the field other workers dug holes for fence posts. Large spools of wire fencing sat at intervals along the perimeter of the road.

Rahim looked back over his shoulder.

“Stop the car!” he said. His voice was dangerous and low. “That’s Ahmed’s land,” he said.

On the other side of the road, where the fields were already strung with strands of sparkling wire, fat brown cows grazed under a low gray sky.

“That, too, is Ahmed’s,” Rahim said. “And those are Nazir’s cattle.”

Rahim climbed out of the car and walked to the edge of the road.

“Ho!” he shouted at a man who seemed to be in charge of the workers. Shabanu recognized him as Nazir’s farm manager, who frequently appeared at Okurabad.

“What are you doing?” Rahim asked.

“Nazir-
sahib
has ordered us to clear and fence this land,” said the man. “He’s going to plant sugar.”

“This is not Nazir’s land!” Rahim said, his voice rising. The man stared at the ground.

“Uncle,” said Omar, getting out of the car. “This fellow is just following orders.” But the man wanted to speak.

“Already Nazir-
sahib
has bulldozed the village of my brother, because my brother’s father-in-law said it was you who should order Master Ahmed’s land cleared,” he said.

Rahim got into the front seat of the car. He motioned for Ibne to drive on, and they didn’t speak again until after they had passed through the village of Mehrabpur.