Haveli (13 page)

“Whatever we do, we must plan very carefully,” Shabanu said. “Your father has made sure the bodyguards are within a few steps of you every second. I don’t think we should try anything before the wedding.”

“He posts them outside my bedroom at home,” said Zabo.

Shabanu continued to pace, and when she turned the light back to Zabo, her eyes were half closed.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” said Shabanu.

She helped Zabo out of her clothes and into her nightgown. Zabo was asleep when Shabanu drew the sheet over her, closed the mosquito netting, and returned to the drawing room, which was bathed in
the glow of electric lamps. The three men sat at one end of the room, and Selma sat alone at the other end, a tea tray on the table before her.

Omar looked up as Shabanu entered. She could see him from the edge of her vision, but she kept her face turned toward Selma as she walked to the chair beside the older woman. She loosened the
dupatta
that lay across the base of her throat, draped over her shoulders and down her back. As she sat down Omar’s eyes were still on her. Rahim kept talking, and Omar sat beside him, half listening.

Shabanu ignored them and leaned toward Selma. The older woman held up her hand before Shabanu could speak.

“I know, I know,” Selma said, keeping her voice low. “I’d have to be blind not to see she’s miserable. It’s criminal. There’s nothing we can do but distract her until she’s used to the idea.” Her eyes were weary and heavy-lidded—the eyes of a woman who’d dealt with such problems all her life.

“I’m afraid,” said Shabanu. “Can someone spend the night with her?”

“I’ve told Yazmin to bring her pallet to Zabo’s room. She sleeps lightly, and she’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you,” said Shabanu. Selma reached over and patted the back of her hand.

Shabanu looked across the room to where her husband and his nephew sat, engrossed now in their
talk, one head dark, the other silver, and she felt a heaviness settle over her heart. She couldn’t quite identify the overbearing sadness, but somehow she sensed that their lives had changed forever that day.

Rahim came to bed late, and Shabanu pretended to be asleep. Not wanting to disturb her, he slipped quietly into bed and began to snore almost immediately.

Shabanu stared at the ceiling. She thought of Omar and how his eyes had followed her. She thought of how his large hands moved with ease when he talked; of their surprising softness; and of his sure, strong touch, so very different from Rahim’s. She wondered how it would feel to have him touch her body.

The thought made her belly ache, and she rolled over onto her side and rested her head against the inside of her folded arm.

Omar didn’t behave toward her as did the other men of Rahim’s family. They treated her respectfully, but she could see in their eyes that they regarded her as a woman Rahim kept for his bed. Omar seemed to be interested in what she thought, and …

Well, it made little difference. Soon he’d be married to Leyla, and he would take his wife’s side against her.

She wondered whether Leyla would be a passionate wife. Of course, there was no
need
for her to be passionate. Shabanu might never have known the
depth of her own passion if Rahim’s ardor had not been a matter of survival to her. The only need Leyla had was to become impregnated, to produce sons who would inherit the family land.

She thought how terrifying a pregnancy would be for Zabo. Watching her belly grow from month to month, not knowing whether she would give birth to a helpless thing that would live senseless in the world.…

She found it difficult to believe that Ahmed could function sexually. But of course Rahim would never have arranged the marriage unless he knew there was a chance Zabo would produce an heir to cement the peace with Nazir. After all, that was the main point of the whole thing. But how Zabo would endure—that was the question.

She thought of the early days of her own marriage. Amina had drawn the battle lines within just two weeks of Rahim’s marriage to Shabanu. She asked to see the new bride in the front parlor of the house. It was their first formal meeting, and Shabanu had been unclear as to which of them should be hostess. Shabanu shared Rahim’s quarters, but Amina had lived in the house for twenty-four years.

Shabanu had sent Zenat to the kitchen for tea. Amina, a handsome woman of imposing proportion with thick silver hair wound back in a bun, swept into the parlor. She was accompanied by Leyla, who sat and listened with a secret smile on her crimson
mouth while her mother told Shabanu how things would be:

“We all help one another at Okurabad,” Amina had said, eyebrows arched and lips pursed. “There is always work to be done.”

She extended her hand, and a row of seeds strung into prayer beads clattered lightly onto the table.

“And we observe Islamic customs meticulously.”

Shabanu, whose family had been religious in their thoughts and deeds, though less so by custom because of their nomadic life, reached out for the string of seeds.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then without another word, Amina had stood, gathered the silken folds of her
dupatta
about her face, and swept grandly from the room, followed by Leyla.

No sooner were they gone than Zenat appeared with a huge willow basket piled high with clothing from all the women of Okurabad.

“
Begum-sahiba
says you should mend these and return them by tomorrow evening.”

Shabanu had not been taken completely by surprise, for her Auntie Sharma had warned that the women of Rahim’s household would try to make her their slave.

She didn’t even consider telling Rahim, who might suspect her of not wanting to help with the household chores. It was the price she must pay for being the youngest wife, the most lowly born. But
she had no intention of being their slave, and she was determined to deal with it in her own way.

She took out her sewing basket and set to work. The first garment was a green silk tunic with broken armhole seams and bodice fabric stressed by the mass of an ample bosom. She mended the seams and disguised the tears with tiny embroideries. She worked all through the night and the following day, mending the clothes with perfect tiny stitches.

The work took longer than it might have, for Shabanu took in the seams of each tunic so that the wearer would find the fit somewhat snug.

Later, Zenat had told Shabanu that the women talked among themselves about the perfection of her work. In the weeks that followed, basket after basket arrived with mounds of mending to be done. Then the women began to appear with cloth from the bazaars to be measured for clothing to be made by hand. They refused to buy her a sewing machine.

Zenat also began to mention an element of discontent in the women’s quarters. Arguments broke out at the least provocation. There was much weeping and little laughter.

And then some time later, Amina flew into a rage, telling her daughters they’d never find suitable husbands if they didn’t lose weight and improve their tempers. She fired all the cook’s helpers, and a strict diet was enforced throughout the women’s quarters.

Still the baskets of mending came day and night,
and Shabanu worked continuously until Rahim grew impatient with the toll mending took on Shabanu’s attention, which he regarded his exclusive domain.

When it became evident that Shabanu was entering a late stage of pregnancy, he ordered the flood of mending to end.

By then the women had dieted until they were gaunt, and still their clothing bound their breasts and pinched their waists.

The thought of it still made Shabanu smile to herself.

The house was completely dark and silent. Shabanu shifted cautiously from side to side on the bed, the strings squeaking softly with each movement. Even the clatter and jingle of
tongas
in the lanes below had been silenced, and she did not want to waken Rahim. She could not respond to him tonight.

There was no chance Zabo would find humor in her life with Ahmed, she thought. If only Zabo could see beyond, to the things she and Shabanu might share.

I need Zabo, she thought, surprised at the intensity of her fear of losing her only friend.

Then she thought again of Omar, and she fell asleep imagining his hands on her face.

In her dreams there were murmurs—throaty whispers that grew excited, then angry. She couldn’t see in the dream. Everything was dark, and moans were interspersed with the murmurs. She was frightened,
her heart hammering in her ears. She searched for Mumtaz. She could hear her daughter crying out to her.

“Uma! Uma!”

She ran toward Mumtaz’s voice, but the women shrieked at her, taunting her and laughing down from the windows of the house at Okurabad.

Then they were still. Wailing began from the windows. “Rahim is dead,” they cried. Amina, Leyla, Saleema, and Tahira accused Shabanu of murdering him. They threw her belongings down at her, pelting her with sandals and things from her childhood in Cholistan: brooms of desert twigs, camel bells, small clay jars. Heavy silver anklets and brass camel bells thumped to the ground around her. Gossamer
shalwar kameez
floated over her head, brushing her cheeks as they fell.

They said they would keep Mumtaz to work in the kitchen …

Shabanu sat up straight in the bed, shivering and perspiring all at the same time, her heart thumping wildly. Her nightgown stuck to her back. She slipped out from under the quilt. Rahim sighed loudly and she stopped in midmotion, but he remained asleep.

She tiptoed to Mumtaz’s door, opening it a crack. Old Zenat’s snores chortled through the room, and a
tap-tap-tap
was followed by the cold wet press of Choti’s nose against Shabanu’s hand.

She tiptoed barefoot to Mumtaz’s cot and
switched on the flashlight Omar had given her. There was her beautiful Mumtaz, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, behind veined eyelids, heavy lashes, her pink mouth open slightly, her hands, palms up, curled on either side of her face on the pillow.

Shabanu closed the door and stood in the hall, where she opened the shutter. The sky looked like old dull silver. A faint line of green outlined the domes of the mosque near Masti Gate, where the sun would rise in half an hour.

She didn’t think often about what would happen to her and Mumtaz when Rahim was gone. But she had planned her life around the time with meticulous care, as if she were planting a garden that must be harvested all at once.

Down the hall toward the stairway she heard the rustle of skirts, and Zabo came running to her, a shawl drawn around her nightgown.

“Shabanu!” she said, her voice an excited whisper. “I’ve thought of something! I can’t wait to tell you!” Zabo took Shabanu by the hand and pulled her, half running, to her room, their bare feet slapping against the floor.

Shabanu was pleased to hear life in her friend’s voice, and she ran after Zabo gladly. Yazmin sat up sleepily in the corner where she’d spent the night.

“Go away!” Zabo said to her, shooing her with fluttering fingers. The servant girl smiled and folded her pallet before scurrying from the room.

“Yazmin told me last night about the fake jewelry in the Anarkali Bazaar. I haven’t been able to think about anything else ever since. She says it’s made by artists, and you can’t tell it from real jewelry. We could buy a few pieces of good gold, rubies, and pearls for the wedding. I’ll have a few saris and some
shalwar kameez
made with gold thread, just for the celebrations. The rest will be boxes of fake gold from Anarkali Bazaar and cheap ready-made clothes. What do you think?”

“Wouldn’t your father be able to tell the difference?” Shabanu remembered her own father biting into the gold bangles he’d bought for her sister Phulan’s wedding.

“Yazmin says they use stones that are almost real, and if you have things made with many stones—and not much fake gold—you can’t tell the difference. By the time anyone noticed, we could be gone!” Zabo said.

Shabanu was still thinking of her own father. She thought of how she’d fled into the desert by camel when he told her the time had come for her to marry Rahim.

“I’ve told you I know a place where we can go,” Shabanu said. “But you are your father’s only hope of gaining a fortune. Don’t you think he’d hunt us down and kill us?”

Shutr keena
, Shabanu thought, camel vengeance. It was the rule of the desert, for animals and men alike.
It was the rule of all Pakistan, village and city. Each transgression against honor was punishable by death, with no exemptions for the rich, for much-loved daughters, for adored young wives.

“We could go into the desert, to your Auntie Sharma!” said Zabo.

“I have to think of Mumtaz,” said Shabanu, feeling a small grain of betrayal fester in her heart. She thought of Mumtaz, still so small and helpless. She had to put Mumtaz first.

“She said you could come to Fort Abbas anytime,” Zabo went on, as if she hadn’t heard.

“When I left the desert,” Shabanu said, “I thought I would die. But I don’t belong there now. Mumtaz must be educated and learn to fend for herself. And you—you’ve been brought up with servants. You would find life in the desert difficult. Do you think you could survive there?”

“I can live anywhere, but not married to Ahmed. Remember how frightened I used to be of the panthers at Dinga? Well, leopards and scorpions and cobras mean nothing to me now.” They sat together for a while without saying anything more.

“If you can’t live with me in Cholistan, I will go myself. I know you must do what you think is right for Mumtaz,” Zabo said, lifting her chin. “Forget your promise to me. Without some hope of escaping a life with Ahmed, having his children, I would kill myself.”

The small kernel of betrayal blossomed in
Shabanu like a full-blown rose. She wanted to take back what she’d said, to tell Zabo she’d come to Cholistan with her. But a steely voice spoke in the back of her head. “For the sake of Mumtaz,” it said. “For the sake of Mumtaz.”

At the same time she recognized the warm little pressure at the top of her stomach as being partly fear, partly excitement at the thought of freedom. It was a feeling she’d not had for many years.