Haveli (29 page)

It had been a long and difficult journey. She had begun from Derawar before first light, wrapped in a goathair blanket and piled with dozens of other blankets onto a camel cart. The dust of the blankets had filled her nose, and several times she was barely able to breathe.

She had traveled that way for many hours, until the camels met up with a caravan. She and the blankets had been transferred to another camel cart that was to take them to market for sale. The driver of the cart did not know she was among the blankets, and he had piled on top a load of water jars. And again she was barely able to breathe.

The carts creaked along, the drivers singing and
spitting into the dust at the side of the road.

She’d been bruised by the weight on top of her and was dizzy from the bad air by the time the camels reached Bahawalpur. While the drivers stopped in a stall in the bazaar to take tea, she managed to work her way out from under the pots and blankets.

From Bahawalpur she had taken the bus to Lahore. In the Mall in downtown Lahore she had flagged down an empty
tonga
and had bargained with the driver to take her to the
haveli
.

Now she drew the black
chadr
around her face as she stood in the doorway of a small shrine to look down the lane. She heard the nightstick of the old neighborhood
chowkidar
go
chunk, chunk
on the cobbled paving stones as he made his way on his rounds. She peered around the corner and saw his back retreating from the yellow circle of lamplight outside Selma’s gate. He would not return for at least fifteen minutes.

She hurried to the gate and stood for a moment in the shadows inside the courtyard to listen for voices and footsteps. There were none.

Certainly Selma was asleep, the servants were asleep, the chickens in the courtyard were asleep. The
haveli
itself seemed to be asleep.

Its old doorways sagged like slack, sleeping mouths. It seemed to wheeze and creak and groan with release from weariness.

For the tenth time that day Shabanu wondered,
Will it always be like this—hiding and then wondering if I’ve been seen when I was unaware?

Still keeping in the shadows, Shabanu made her way to the bottom of the old stairway that led up, up through the center of the house, through the open well that went from the courtyard to the top floor, which had been sealed off after the death of Selma’s husband, Daoud.

She climbed in the dark, keeping to the inside of the curving staircase, where the steps had the most support and were least likely to creak under her weight. She stopped every few steps to listen. Still there were only the groans of the sleeping house.

She was weary when she reached the roof. She unfastened her neck chain, removed the key, and unlocked the door to the pavilion. She lit one of the small brass oil lamps. It was exactly as she’d left it, with dots of cheerful light from the cut-crystal chimney dancing from the surfaces of the wood she’d polished with care.

Even the needlework she’d had in her lap when Rahim had come to Selma’s parlor to summon her back to Okurabad still sat in the little basket at the foot of her Swati chair.

Her heart tumbled again when she went to the corner of the room where the small
charpoi
she’d found for Mumtaz made an L with her own.

She found the books she’d brought up, even before she could read well enough to get through
them, and she felt unaccountably happy.

But then she found a picture Mumtaz had drawn for her, and she thought that now Mumtaz would never study to become an engineer. She would be a little desert girl, married to a cousin—perhaps one of Adil’s sons—with a small farm like Murad’s. And she fell into a mood so black and devoid of hope she feared she might never again emerge into the light.

Is this what despair feels like? she wondered. A dark and featureless landscape with only fear and pain and loss to occupy the heart? This time she permitted herself the thought.

She spent the rest of the night mourning in this way. She was unable to sleep, seeing Omar’s face as he wailed her name, and wondering when she’d ever see Mumtaz again.

By now Dadi would have told Mumtaz that her mother and father were dead. She wanted to hold her, to tell her that her mother would always be alive for her. What grieved her most was the thought of her daughter’s grief.

Her heart felt as if it was full to overbrimming with jagged pieces. She was desperate to hear news of her family and of Omar.

Is this how Anarkali felt, she wondered, suffocating slowly in her tomb? No, I am not like Anarkali, who died for love. I have denied love, and wonder now if life is worth living without it.

Well before dawn, she crept down the stairs to
Selma’s quarters on the second floor. The massive door creaked on its hinges as she let herself in, and she called to Selma.

“Who is it?” Selma asked, sounding alarmed.

“It’s Shabanu.” She laughed a small mirthless laugh.

“Ay, ay, ay,” said Selma, and the bedclothes rustled as she scrambled and tore at them, trying to find the light. “What happened that you are alive? And how did you get here?”

When the light came on, Shabanu went to Selma, who struggled to get into a robe. Shabanu sat beside her on the bed. Selma took her face in her hands and studied it to be sure it truly was Shabanu.

“Do I dare trust my eyes?” Selma whispered. “They’ve seen too much grief …”

“Oh, Selma!” said Shabanu, relief washing over her. “I had no choice. I’m sorry you worried about me, after what happened to Rahim.”

Selma blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and composed herself.

“Begin at the start, and don’t leave out a thing,” said Selma.

She interrupted Shabanu only twice—once to ask her to repeat Nazir’s horrifying marriage proposal, and once to hear again how Zabo died. Selma cried again, and Shabanu wept too. The only detail Shabanu did not tell was of Omar crying beside Zabo’s grave.

“So,” said Shabanu. “As long as Nazir is alive, he
must think I am dead. To protect my family they all must believe it was I who died, and not poor Zabo. Can I stay here, up in the pavilion, without his knowing?”

“Of course, child,” said Selma. “You yourself know that nobody goes to the pavilion. They’re too afraid of the ghost of my dear late Daoud. That would have given him such a laugh! Samiya can bring your meals. Nobody else need know you’re here.”

“Now,” Shabanu said finally. “Tell me what you know about my family. And I want to know what happened at Nazir’s.”

Selma heaved herself up from the bed. She paced a few moments, and then let herself down into her rocking chair.

“Let me start from the beginning. Omar returned to Okurabad with Rahim’s body in the car. Within a day he had gathered the clansmen and formed an army of five hundred men. That boy will be a fine leader. Rahim, may his soul rest in peace, would be proud of him.

“They had six mortar guns, and almost every man had an automatic weapon or a grenade launcher. Big guns, nasty guns—I don’t know what all they had.

“Omar assembled a convoy of lorries, vans, and minibuses. He gathered provisions for several days of fighting. And then he assembled all of the old warriors who have always followed Rahim. He was wonderful!”

“But why did he wait so long?” asked Shabanu. “It seemed forever before he came!”

“He let two days pass. There was no way Nazir could summon as many armed men on his side. So Omar expected a trap. He thought if he waited Nazir might think he’d not been able to get the support he needed.

“Omar was right. They came in the early morning and waited until dawn, when the guards were changing. And then they attacked. Nazir’s men fought valiantly. Nazir ordered them not to surrender, and then he slipped away.

“Nazir lost more than a dozen men, and the house was nearly destroyed by mortar fire. It was lucky you and Zabo escaped. Two or three of Omar’s men were wounded. But Omar will get Nazir, I’m certain of that.”

“That means more bloodshed,” said Shabanu. They sat quietly for a moment.

“Thank God you are safe,” said Selma. “I am so glad you are here. And when Nazir is gone, you can bring Mumtaz back and stay if you would like.”

“Insh’Allah,”
said Shabanu. “God willing. I should be grateful just to see Mumtaz again. Tell me what news you have of my family.”

“Word reached them that you had died on the very same day. By morning they were gone, back to the desert with Mumtaz.”

“And my sister?”

“Omar has posted guards at her husband’s farm. For now at least they are safe. But I think Nazir believes you are dead. As long as he does, I think he will leave them alone.

“Now, child, you must get rest. You look more tired than I am, and that is considerably tired.”

The weather had turned cooler, but the pavilion was pleasant. Shabanu found blankets and a small heater in the storeroom where her furniture had come from. As miraculously as the open lattice walls captured the summer breezes, they also held in the heat, as if they were made of solid stone.

In the afternoon Samiya brought Shabanu tea. Samiya was proper and formal as she entered the room, as befitted a good servant.

But Shabanu wept when she saw the small birdlike woman. She thought of the happy days she and Mumtaz had spent with her, learning to read, learning to think, as Samiya did, that all things were possible once you had access to words in books.

“Oh, Samiya,” she wept, and Samiya set down the tray without a single rattle and came swiftly on her bare feet to Shabanu’s side.

“Little
Begum
,” Samiya said, taking Shabanu’s hands. She held Shabanu as she wept, and when she was finished crying she felt better.

“What else can I bring you?” asked Samiya then.

“Books!” said Shabanu. “I don’t feel like reading
yet, but I will soon. And a pan of coal for the heater. And more oil for the lamps. Can you do it without anyone’s knowledge?”

“Don’t worry,” Samiya said. “
Begum-sahiba
has said you may have whatever you want.”

Shabanu imagined her life settling into a pattern. Each morning Samiya would bring her tea and breakfast. They would sit and talk for a short time—about the weather and who had visited the
haveli
, repairs that were needed, gossip from the servants’ quarters. Shabanu would ask her to bring some mending.

Afterward Shabanu would sweep out the pavilion and trim the wicks on her lamps. She would have to do her own laundry and hang it on the roof, of course, so the other servants would not guess she was there.

In the afternoon Selma came, and Samiya brought them tea. Selma told Shabanu what news there was. A date had been set for Omar and Leyla’s wedding. It was to be later in the cool season, as Amina had wished.

“Amina is furious that she won’t have her parties,” said Selma. Her smile was malicious. “But mourning must be observed.”

Shabanu felt as if she had come home. No place would ever be home as the desert was, but she felt safe and comfortable in the
haveli
.

That evening she sat outside the pavilion looking down at the city. As the last rays of the sun touched
the translucent domes of Badshahi Mosque, lights winked on below as if the rooftops had been touched by thousands of fairies.

In the small mosque at the corner, the muezzin climbed into the minaret and called out over the small parish,
“Allah-o-Akbar!”
summoning the faithful to prayer. Men hurried down the lane, removing their shoes as they entered through the mosque’s one door.

Shabanu realized in that moment on a peaceful evening that the world would go on. Hope crept back into her heart, and she felt she was mending and growing accustomed to her grief. She began to understand that the grief would never go away; she would simply learn to live with it.

She missed Zabo. But gradually when she thought of Zabo she did not see the ragged hole in her friend’s neck or her blood soaking into the fur of the
daachii
’s hump. She thought instead of times they’d spent together: picking flowers beside the canal, walking in the hills together at Dinga Galli, scaring themselves by telling stories about panthers. They’d climb high on the mountains and look out on the villages that appeared so small and insignificant under that enormous sky.

She longed for Omar. She had thought that perhaps he would come to the pavilion to mourn her, that she would see him and that they might share their love. But as she pondered this, the realization
grew that it would put her family and Mumtaz in great danger. She knew now how much he’d loved her—but she could never stand against his commitment to the family. He had pledged himself to the same destiny as Rahim’s, and like Rahim he would sacrifice anything to duty, as Rahim had done with his very life.

She thought of the wonderful angular planes of Omar’s face, the broadness of his hands, the gentleness of his eyes. The longing still went straight to her heart, so deep it seemed to have no bottom. But it felt familiar. There are worse things than longing, she thought.

She thought of Mumtaz, and gradually the stab of loss gave way to pictures of Mumtaz beside the fire with Mama and Sharma, learning to make
chapatis
, kneading the dough and whirling it into flat disks and roasting it on the black pan over the open fire. In Shabanu’s mind’s eye, her daughter’s hands were beginning to look less chubby, and more capable and slender like Mama’s. She would learn to sing the desert songs in a smoky voice, and listen to the magical stories of the desert people.

She thought of Mumtaz running over the dunes with the baby camels, a child of the wind, her hair blowing free behind her.

And Shahzada had been right. She lived with hope. One day, she thought, Mumtaz would be with her at the
haveli
, and she would go to school and
become a part of the larger world, her life far richer for having lived among her people in the desert.

But now, Shabanu thought, Omar is my heart; and Mumtaz, Mumtaz is my freedom.

Glossary