Thicker Than Soup (15 page)

“Yes, he was a good man.” She'd heard stories from his siblings but she wanted to know more. “Tell me about him, Daadi,” she asked gently. “What was he like when he was young?”

The old eyes brightened and a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Samuel bahut bahut chaalak. More chaalak than his brothers, and they bahut chaalak.” She nodded to herself, then seeing Sally's lack of comprehension, she thought for a moment. “Mafi, I mean clever, too clever – at school. But sometimes he too much clever. Sometimes he clever naughty. I tell you a story. One day he rip his school shirt. New one, and expensive when we had small money. His father tell him ‘Money – it not grow on trees. You too careless. You not care. I stop you pocket money.' So Samuel, he thinks, nahin mushkil – no problem – he take money from friends to do mathematic homework! He have more than pocket money very quick!”

Sally laughed. “He helped me with maths too; he was good at it.”

“Sarah,” her grandmother said, again using the name given by her father, “he should have been doctor like Daoud or a businessman like Daniel. He…” Her grandmother's voice faltered as she raised a hand, pale and almost translucent, to her mouth. “He was the eldest; he did what he had to.” Something from the past haunted her eyes. “It was too terrible.” Grief, unrelieved by time, resonated in the silence between them.

Holding her grandmother's papery hand, Sally encouraged her to speak some more. “He told us stories when we were young, about terrible things that happened. I see people here now, ordinary people, living ordinary lives, and it's hard to understand what happened.”

Her grandmother seemed to shrink in her chair and a full minute passed before she spoke, so softly that Sally had to lean forward to catch the words. “Nineteen forty seven. What started it all?” She shook her head. “It started before. Years before. British make India join their war with Germany. Ghandi, he say this not India's war. He start the Quit India Movement for Independence. But some Hindus and some Muslims don't like it. Hindus do not honour Islam. Muslim League and Indian National Congress want different Independence. Jinnah, he start the Pakistan Movement. ‘One country, one culture, one language,' he said. So Britain, their war finished, they give Independence to both by cutting in half.” Her eyes opened wide as she looked at Sally. “Suddenly, everybody is living in the wrong place! Bah! What did Mountbatten know of Punjab? He just chop it! Hindus and Sikhs, Muslims and Christians. We live together. Hindu temples, Sikh temples, Mosques, Churches. What is the difference? Eid, Christmas, Diwali, Usavas. We shared them all as friends.” She paused and sighed and, in Sally's eyes, looked frail. “Then came the fighting. One day friend, next day enemy!” Her eyes looked inwards. “Terrible. Terrible. My friends, Deepta and Leeora, they were Hindus. We grew up together. Like sisters. We went to school, we got married. We had babies. We were together, always. I loved my friends like sisters. Deepta went to live in Gujranwala, but she visited Lahore many times.” Her voice faded until she repeated, “many times” and she closed her eyes, drawing curtains over the painful memories and Sally wondered if she had fallen asleep. But she continued. “There was a massacre in the market place. They say mothers killed their babies by jumping with them into wells. I don't know. I never saw Deepta again.” Another silence extended. Sally waited; her grandmother's silence was far from peaceful. “Everyone blame each other, but all sides kill.” Again, silence. “Leeora's brother's head…. delivered to his mother, in a box.” A tear ran from behind the closed eyes and the sting of tears burned Sally's eyes. Tugging white tissues from the box she put one into her grandmother's hand and dabbed her own face, wanting to hear no more but needing to listen. “Leeora's family, they leave Lahore on the refugee train. Just one hour, they have, to pack and settle their affairs. They leave with nothing. Many people go; they have no time for packing or goodbyes and some people here get very rich very quick from what they left. I don't know if Leeora's family arrive in India or….” Shadows on her face didn't need words but what was said next was horrifying. “Trains of corpses arrive here, and there too. Blood run from carriages. One side kill. The other kill back. Maybe Leeora die quickly; she get shot or stabbed. Maybe raped. I don't know. But maybe. People disappear.” She tutted. “People. They thieve and lie and torture friends. How can it happen? I don't understand; not before, not now. How can I understand? It was people. Now? I don't trust anymore.” Her eyes opened and looked towards a framed photograph; a portrait of her husband and Sally wondered what evil had befallen her grandfather. He was neither Hindu nor Muslim, nor was he Pakistani. But he'd been a victim just the same. Her father had told her that his mother hadn't spoken for weeks after his body had been discovered and that the shock had turned her hair grey. She wanted to know more about him and waited quietly for her grandmother to continue but rising stiffly and without voicing the outrage, the final, unspeakable evil, she went to her room leaving Sally to see that time hadn't salved her grandmother's losses; she'd merely learned to live with them.

Looking at Sammy, sleeping soundly on the divan, the horror of murdering one's child made her shiver. Her father's accounts of India's history and Partition had been shocking but less explicit, and, in the safety of their London home, less vivid too. Here, in Lahore, in the stillness of an early morning, the immediacy of her grandmother's stories stunned her. Grief, which still hovered below the surface of the family, had been shared, and the sharing had made it hers too. She was family. With the first rays of sunshine touching the window, she gently lifted her sleeping son, carried him to their room and lay with him on their mattress, her hand gently but protectively rubbing his sore tummy.

*

By the time Sally woke the sun was high and Sammy played happily with her necklaces which, she saw, would take an age to disentangle. Remembering that Zarah would soon be arriving to escort her on a gift-buying shopping trip she jumped from the mattress, disengaged her beads and chains from Sammy's hands and after bathing him, handed him over to Maria, the maid, to be fed roti and egg. Taking a roti for herself she washed and prepared herself quickly, reluctant to keep her aunt waiting. Gift hunting amongst the gaudy extravagances of Ichara Market had offered nothing she wanted and when Zarah – who loved shopping – had offered to take her to a shop in the smart Gulberg area where she said stylish textiles and jewellery were popular amongst Westerners, Sally had accepted gratefully.

*

Like many of her friends, Zarah was an experienced shopper; knowledgeable about the wares, ways and wiles of shopkeepers and skilled at bargaining. In air-conditioned comfort Sally selected scarves, bags and pieces of unusual but distinctly Asian jewellery for her mother and her friends. She found woven table mats for Matt, and a linen kameez for Diane. Impressed with the quality and persuaded by the prices – expensive in Pakistan but much cheaper than London – she sorted through sumptuous bedcovers, table mats, cushions and rugs, trying to decide which would reflect her Pakistani roots in the home she intended to make for herself and Sammy before long. An array of purchases spread out next to the cash desk; enough for Zarah to negotiate and be granted an attractive discount so that, once paid, Sally insisted on providing lunch with her savings.

Regaled with stories of parties, weddings, picnics and shopping expeditions, Sally ate a chicken and mango salad until, as they finished with ice-cream topped iced coffees, she commented, “Being here has been a revelation to me; I thought Pakistan was a poor country!”

“Life is what we make it, Sally. It hasn't always been so good, but we have peace and prosperity like we've never had before. Businesses are booming and Pakistan is growing.” She cast her kohl-lined eyes casually around her and lowered her voice. “We have to be careful what we say in public and not attract attention because we're…” She lowered her voice even further, “Christians.” Sally almost laughed but it was clear that Zarah was serious. “We'll talk at home, but not here.” She whispered then laughed loudly as though they'd shared a private joke. Catching the eye of the waiter she signalled for the bill and when it arrived, passed it dutifully to Sally.

Adjusting her dupatta around her hair, Sally sat beneath the shabby cantilevered canopy of a motorbike rickshaw enjoyed the ten miles-an-hour breeze that provided respite from the afternoon heat. A motorcycle carrying a family of four weaved alongside them, the mother riding pillion and anchoring her flapping dupatta around a sleeping baby whilst a strappy sandal dangled casually from one foot. Wedged between herself and the driver a second child wore bright yellow sunglasses to protect his eyes from the dust and Sally realised how familiar Lahore had become when such sights no longer surprised her. Now, she sat calmly as they avoided buses, cars, bikes and pedestrians and listened to Zarah talk of the farewell party that Daniel and Yalda were organising for her, pleased to know that Daoud and Rachel would be coming. As they reached their local market Zarah spoke rapidly to the driver, instructing him to pause whilst she selected oranges and lychees from a roadside cart then ordered him forward to buy cauliflowers from a second cart. Accepting package after package the driver waited patiently as they visited a bakery and the pharmacy, and when finally they arrived at home and the driver had offloaded their purchases into the hands of Maria, Zarah dropped a few coins into his hand. Adding a few more as a tip, Sally wondered wryly if London taxi drivers would be so accommodating.

*

“Hello baby.” Holding out her hands to greet Sammy she kissed him on the cheek. “Have you been a good boy for auntie?”

Already putting a kettle to boil for tea, Maria turned and nodded. “Lovely boy. He too happy so I happy.”

“Thank you Maria, Sammy looks happy too.”

As Sally returned to the sitting room, Zarah told her, “You don't need to thank her you know, she's paid to do these things.”

The family's lack of interest in Maria's welfare irritated Sally and glancing towards the kitchen she spoke quietly. “That may be, but thanks cost nothing. Looking after Sammy isn't part of her job so it's kind of her to do it. And I'm grateful.” Defiantly, she decided to give one of the silk scarves she'd bought that morning to Maria as a farewell gift; they were certainly better than anything she had seen Maria wear, and why shouldn't she have something nice?

Zarah patted the space on the divan next to her “Come and sit here. You're just not used to having servants. Here, even maids have maids. No-one wants to do their own chores, but who you work for makes you important.” Pulling a mosaic-mirror lipstick case from her bag, she glossed her lips. “I'm sure that I would find many surprises in England. It's not so rigid here in the city but if you were to stay in our provinces you'd find things very strict. Lahore is more sophisticated; you're lucky we live here and not in some parts of this country.” She put away her lipstick and stroked Sammy's cheek with a heavily ringed finger. “But even here there are problems. I said I'd tell you about being a Christian here didn't I. You see, we're a minority group and our country is run according to Islamic laws.” Zarah's mascara-heavy lashes fluttered dramatically. “We're discriminated against and marginalised.”

Although she didn't think her aunt was lying Sally found it hard to trust what she was being told. “But Christians fill the church. St Andrew's was full when we went.”

“Oh, there are thousands of us! But we're still a minority. It didn't matter once. During British rule we were respected. We had good education – many of the schools here were set up by Christians – and we had good jobs. Hospitals too. But after Partition we became…, well, we became Dhimmis.” Zarah spat the word in disgust. She explained for Sally. “Dhimmis were people who, when invaded by Islamic forces, were granted limited rights. That's how it is for us. Even though Pakistan is our country our freedoms are barely tolerated. For example, as Christians we're allowed to eat pork and drink alcohol. But only by licence. And under conditions they regulate. How kind! When the British left and Pakistan became independent we Christians were reduced.” She paused for a second, thinking. “I mean separated, made less important. Now it is normal to be discriminated against. Zia Ul-Haq makes Islamic law Pakistani law, and Muslims say our religion is a Western religion being spread through schools and colleges. Ten years ago they nationalised the schools and colleges. And the hospitals. Many Christian teachers, doctors and nurses have lost jobs they had for many years. Daoud has been fortunate; he keeps his job because obstetricians are needed. But it's becoming more difficult for him. Some men won't allow him to treat their wives; he wonders how long he will be able to keep his job.”

“You mean he might lose his job because he's Christian?”

“Of course. It's even worse in the North-Western province where he lives. He drives an old car and lives in a small house so that he doesn't draw jealous attention. He's worried.”

Was Zarah exaggerating? Sally had overheard Daniel talking to Yalda about an allowance he gave Zarah to pay their boys' college fees and Sally wondered if she was jealous of her brother's successes. She knew that in Daniel's knitwear business Muslim and Christians worked together, and Aamina's good friend at college, Xainab was Muslim. What she'd seen didn't suggest Christians were unfairly treated. “Aamina's at a mixed school, isn't she?”

“Yes, it's a girls' college. It used to be run by Christians and it takes Christians and Muslims, but there are many more Muslims.”

“But wouldn't you expect that? There're more Muslims than Christians in Pakistan.”