Thicker Than Soup (18 page)

Bidding each other ‘Khuda Hafiz', Rachel waited until Arif had moved out of earshot. “Sally?” It wasn't a question and Sally knew what she meant.

“What?”

“Are you all right? Why didn't you greet Arif?”

“I did! Well, no. I.., well, no, I don't know. I forgot what to say in Urdu.” She busied herself, adjusting her camera and cursing for behaving like a Victorian heroine, swooning at the first eligible bachelor – which he was unlikely to be – and giving him reason to believe she was both rude and silly. And why, she wondered, was her heart racing like it was?

*

As she'd done every night, she lay in bed and invited the day's events to lull her to sleep. But tonight's recollections started with and stalled at Arif, elaborating so that he accepted the invitation to join the picnic, sat next to her and talked about Abbottabad, his work, her trip, books they'd both read. He peeled an orange, and passed segments to her until she insisted he ate some too. It was an agreeable meander until common sense brought reality back into focus. Nevertheless, she hoped the invitation to tea would materialise, so that she could replace her false impression with that of a mature, interesting and intelligent woman. Forcing her mind elsewhere, she re-lived the bazaar; the tea, the chapattis, the yogurt. They'd used the chapattis as spoons, scooping the salty sour yogurt and unexpectedly delicious biryani into their mouths. When Rachel had first opened the flasks of biryani even the tantalizing aromas of cinnamon, cardamom and roasted chicken hadn't tempted her and she'd denied hunger, insisting on a small portion which she'd then lathered with yogurt and tested gingerly for Sammy. To her surprise the flavour seduced her to a second taste, and with her mouth watering she'd bashfully confessed and gratefully accepted a full helping before demanding the recipe from Rachel.

“The secret is in the spices, and of course, the way it's cooked.” Yalda had told her. “Everyone has secret ingredients and no-one will tell you how to make it.”

*

Sally was supervising Sammy's afternoon milk when Daoud announced an invitation to tea with Arif.

Her pulse quickened. “I expect we'll meet his family?” she asked tentatively.

“You didn't meet them yesterday?” Daoud sounded surprised. “Ah, well, Faiza is Arif's wife, Pazir is their daughter, and there is a son, Karim, a nice boy. The twins like him too much.”

Faiza. His wife. She chastised herself for the disappointment. Of course he was married! “Arif mentioned a wheelchair – has someone had an accident?”

“No, not an accident, Faiza's been sick for a long time. She's had many troubles but now she has Encephalitis.” Sally's raised eyebrow brought forth an explanation. “It's a brain virus that is usually not too serious. But Faiza is not responding well to treatment. She's not very strong.” He nudged his glasses up his nose. “She may not join us this afternoon. She gets very tired. But if she does, don't worry; it isn't contagious. We think she contracted it from a bite, possibly a mosquito.” He lowered his voice. “The poor lady has suffered too much in the past few years. There was a third child; a little girl, but she died from measles when she was two years old! It was a terrible shock. Faiza became too depressed after she lost her daughter; it was a bad time. I don't think she has come to terms with it, even though it must be three years now.”

Sally shivered; no mother could hear of the death of a child and not feel the shoes on her own feet. “Oh, Daoud! That's awful! But Faiza will recover from the En…sorry, what's it called?”

“Encephalitis. Yes, I think so. She has some new drugs now.” He sighed. “It has been difficult for them all. I hope Faiza is able to join us; I think you'll like her. And she'll be interested to meet you. She has a brother in England, studying, so she'll probably want to ask about your home.”

Sally wiped milk from Sammy's mouth then took his cup to the kitchen where Rachel was washing vegetables. “Did you hear? We're going to see your friend for tea, er… he's called Arif, I think?”

“Arif. Yes. He's a colleague of Daoud's. I met him when my first husband was in the hospital; Arif was his doctor.” She elaborated. “When I left Jabil's home I got a job at the same hospital. Nursing is good work for women – like teaching – and I had to earn some money. I'd been there for only a few days when I saw Arif again; he was with Daoud. And, well, the rest you know. Later I met Faiza too. We sometimes have picnics, or go out together.”

“You didn't tell me you're a nurse.”

Rachel laughed. “I'm not! I didn't even start the training; I met Daoud and married him and didn't need to work anymore.”

“But you could have still become a nurse, couldn't you?”

Rachel wiped around the sink mechanically. “I suppose I could, but it wasn't appropriate. I got married.” She dried her hands and hung the towel on a hook. “Right. We'd better get changed and make sure the boys are clean. They like to play with Arif's son, Karim. He's six years older but always finds something for them.”

In front of the mirror Sally pulled a brush through her hair and pondered the parallels and differences in her and Rachel's upbringing. Having grown up in England, each with a Pakistani father though of course, Rachel's mother had also been Pakistani, the similarities ended. Rachel had been wrapped in Pakistani culture despite being in England. Where Sally had continued from Primary School to the local comprehensive, Rachel had been educated with other Pakistani families so that from eleven years or so, her friendships and contacts would have been restricted to her own culture. Her father, Sally realised, who she'd believed to be a traditionalist, had modified his principles to embrace England and though a disciplinarian in all things, particularly education, he'd encouraged her and her brother equally. Shaping his face into the mirror next to hers, she silently thanked him.

*

Arif was waiting at his compound gates. “Asalaam Alaykum. You have walked. I thought you must be lost!” He led them through a neat garden to a shady veranda where a long table had been laid for tea and a girl of around twelve was manoeuvring a wheelchair into position. The child was tall, like her father who, she couldn't help noticing, had dark hair that curled neatly into the nape of his neck. He turned and Sally looked away quickly.

“Let me introduce my family.” Arif raised an arm towards the wheelchair. “My wife, Faiza, and my daughter, Pazir.” An elegant lady came through a door. “Ah, and my mother, Sultana Bibi.” A boy of around ten was introduced as his son, Karim.

Sally was directed towards a seat to the left of Faiza who, she could see, was aged beyond her years. Colourful cushions in her wheelchair accentuated pale skin that hung loosely from her arms and through her thinning hair, the shape of her white scalp showed clearly. Though warned of Faiza's fragile state she was shocked and wondered what miracle was needed for her to recover. She took the proffered skeletal hand. “It's very nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

Faiza's watery eyes blinked as she nodded slightly and indicated the seat one past her own so that Pazir, having secured the wheelchair brake and offered her hand in an unexpectedly mature formal gesture, took the seat immediately to her mother's left, cleverly obscuring Sally's view as she cut food into mouth sized morsels and held the teacup to her mother's mouth.

Arif's mother excused the younger children to a separate tea indoors, complete with their own version of a French patisserie style chocolate cake like the one that Sally had seen sitting on a marble slab on the sideboard, and handed delicate china tea cups and plates of tiny sandwiches around the table. The twins, delighted to be free of formality, had taken Sammy and disappeared with Karim whose homemade peepshow theatre was providing fun for them all. The toy reminded Sally of something she'd once made with her father. They'd decorated it with painted sponge trees and matchbox buildings, and added cut-out characters on lollypop sticks. Arif passed a cup from his mother to Sally. “Forgive me; the name of your son?”

“He's Sammy. Well, Samuel really, after his grandfather.” She thanked him for the tea. “Are you sure your son won't mind him being with them? He's still a baby.”

“Karim will take care of him. Samuel is a good name; Christian.” Sally glanced towards the house. “I am Muslim.” he said, sensing her enquiry. “It is what I was brought up to be. I find many questions but it provides me with a moral compass. And you? I assume you are Christian?”

Sally hadn't felt a religious affinity since attending Sunday school as a child and found the cultural religiosity in Pakistan disconcerting. It intrigued her to hear Arif say he questioned the doctrine. “Like you, I was brought up with a strong religious code, but in my case it was Christian. My father was and my mother still is a believer.” But she wouldn't claim to be a Christian. “In England it's different. Religion is personal. I think that here it's wider than that; more integrated.”

Arif spread his hands wide. “That's a whole conversation. We could talk for many hours! You are right. Religion isn't only personal here in Pakistan. It governs all aspects of our lives. Personal, social, economic, political. Everything. We are Muslim; my wife, my children. And me too. It is evidence of my respectability.” Arif smiled. “This is too serious for teatime. Please, tell me something about you. What do you think of our country?”

She hardly knew where to start. “There are so many faces of Pakistan and I've seen so few. But of course, meeting my father's family has been very special, and now that I've decided to stay longer I'm hoping to learn much more.”

“Five months! There is time to learn a lot.” He expounded the delights of Pakistan. “You have seen the landscapes here in the Hazara region but you should see more; Peshawar, The Khyber, Chitral, Shandur. It is different. Though Lahore is also interesting. I expect you have visited the Badshahi Mosque, the Red Fort, and the old city in Lahore. Are they not exceptional?” Sally nodded. “Shalimar Gardens? Jahangir's tomb?” She shook her head. “Ah, you must go and see the inlaid marble that is as beautiful as the Taj Mahal. Few visitors see it; you must make sure you visit.” Brushing crumbs from the table he continued. “And I'm sure you have wondered about our politics, our government, our corruption.” He rolled his eyes and his tone belied the gravity of his words. “Oh yes, there can be no denying. What you in the West call corruption is a way of life here, for the Government, the Army, Business. Everywhere. Even in sport where perhaps you might expect to find good ‘sportsmanship' eh?” Arif's mother coughed her disapproval of the conversation and he acknowledged her with a slight nod. “Of course, not everyone is corrupt; some of us find it most distasteful. But even where it is not necessary it does exist. For example, when it happens in the sports where we are world leaders, it is an insult to our magnificent sportsmen. You watch our national pastime; cricket? And we are famous for our hockey. And polo too. Have you seen polo?” His eyes sparkled. “You must before you leave. It is a majestic sight!”

“I've seen the horses being trained in Race Course Park.” She'd taken Sammy to the Lahore park several times. “But no, I've never seen polo played. Have you played?”

He grinned. “Oh yes, I like it too much. You know, we have to change the ball many times because when we hit it so hard it is no longer a ball; it becomes… I don't know the word in English, but it has many sides!”

“Your English is impressive,” Sally assured him, and told him about a film she'd once seen. “The film starred Steve McQueen. He played polo when he wasn't pulling off bank robberies.”

“Yes, I saw this film too; I remember McQueen and also I think Faye Dunaway. What was the film called?”

Sally thought for a moment. “It was ‘The Thomas Crown Affair'. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Do you remember the song
Windmills of your Mind
?”

“Ah yes!
The autumn leaves turning to the colour of her hair
.” A cough halted his bad singing and he ignored his daughter's giggle. “Have you visited a Sufi shrine and seen them whirl, crazed with drugs? Or watched hijras dance at a festival? Or drunk gin and tonic or beer that is brewed here in a country where the drinking of alcohol is prohibited? Yes, we are a crazy nation. Do you know how many languages are spoken here?” She shook her head. “No, I don't know either, I don't think anyone does. Some are only spoken in the mountains. Some are not recorded. But my dear, there are more than twenty in this province alone.”

She realised why she'd failed to understand voices around her in Abbottabad. “Urdu isn't spoken here?”

“You speak Urdu?”

“I'm learning.”

He nodded his head. “People do speak Urdu here and English is spoken in schools and businesses. But people speak Hindko and some speak Pashto. My wife is from this region; she speaks Hindko and of course our lingua franca, Urdu. But she doesn't speak English.”

Sally saw Faiza glance at her husband and speak to Pazir, who translated her mother's words. “My mother apologise she not speak English but say she welcome you in our home.”

Sally thanked her, “Shukria,” then answered a few more translated questions about English weather and Birmingham, where Faiza's brother was studying to become an accountant.

When Faiza spoke again Sally looked at Pazir, waiting for her to translate what she assumed to be another question, but Pazir left her tea and manoeuvred the wheelchair from the room.

Arif's mother apologised. “Faiza is unwell.”

Arif's eyes followed his wife from the room then he spoke quietly to Daoud. “The inflammation is not responding to medication and she has little strength to fight it herself.” The two doctors switched to Urdu but their expressions and tone conveyed the gravity of Faiza's illness and it wasn't long before Rachel thanked Arif and his mother for the tea and said they should be leaving.