Shabanu (21 page)

After checking that the kabob and sweets makers are ready for the feast, we pack the camels Dadi has given Phulan for her dowry with things for the house where she and Murad will live: a stone wheat grinder, goatskin water buckets, clay pots, butter churns, a string bed with carved wooden legs, clothes, reed mats, goathair carpets with saffron-dyed cords, woven bags for spices and rice. We leave the camels waiting in the shade of a canopy, their bells jingling.

I leave my cousins bustling in and out of the house carrying last-minute gifts, and go to the clearing behind the houses, where the rest of our camels eat from bags of fodder.

Mithoo gambols over to me, his head stretched out for a treat. I hold out a
jelabi
. He curls his lip at the syrupy twist of dough, then snatches it from the flat of my palm before dashing away. It’s been several days since I’ve visited him.

I sit on the ground, my pink silk dress a brilliant circle around me. Mithoo comes up quietly behind me and plucks at my hair.

There is nothing I can do about losing Murad, just as there was nothing I could do about losing Guluband. Then without bidding, as I sit stroking Mithoo’s neck, my heart
releases Murad. For the first time I feel free—free to be happy for my sister, free to think about my future without him.

From the farm the large bronze drums beat, signaling that a camel race is about to start. Dadi and Uncle have been there with my boy cousins all morning, watching the dancing camels. The quavering melody of a
shenai
wafts across the desert on a breeze, and for the first time since Hamir’s death I am at peace.

“There you are!” says Mama. “They’ll be here soon.”

“I’m ready.” I get up, brushing the sand from my skirt, and follow her into the house.

Phulan sits squirming as Sharma brushes her hair. Her skin glistens from oil and sandalwood paste.

“Sit still!” says Sharma.

Mama lifts the
chadr
from Bibi Lal out of its box and unfolds the heavy red silk with butterflies and flowers embroidered in gold and green thread, the stitches so tiny they’re barely visible. Phulan touches it delicately, as if it will crumble under her fingers.

Sharma pins Phulan’s thick hair up, twisting the strings of rubies and pearls from Rahim-
sahib
into the strands around her face.

“You’re hurting me!” Phulan says, a quaver in her voice. When Sharma is finished, Phulan is near tears.

The effect is a tremulous beauty that I am certain will seize Murad’s heart the second he sees her. The
chadr
is the last thing to be put on, and Mama adjusts it so that
it extends well over Phulan’s face, hiding her in a demure cocoon.

Outside, the singing, dancing, jostling procession from Murad’s house crosses the canal. The line snakes toward us slowly to the beat of drums and pipes and
shenai
.

Dust from the feet of hundreds of people in the procession seeps through the reed door. When we hear the music just outside, Dadi pokes his head in and looks at us.

“Your groom is here,” he says to Phulan. “God go with you.” It would be unlike Dadi to offer a compliment, but his eyes shine as he stands a second longer, looking at Mama, Phulan, and me before letting the door fall back into place.

Phulan is the last to emerge, Mama and I leading her by the hands. Her shoulders tremble under the red
chadr
, and I remember the nights under the quilt, when she cried in fear.

We deliver Phulan to Murad, who stands waiting with garlands of flowers, rupee notes, and gold threads around his neck.

A
maulvi
chants the call of the faithful in a high, nasal wail, and their vows are exchanged three times, with Phulan nodding her assent. Her face is hidden by the red
chadr;
her head is bowed, barely at the level of Murad’s chin. She looks frail beside him.

When the ceremony is finished, Mama and Dadi pass baskets of dried dates among the guests, and the marriage is solemnized.

Mama and I lead Phulan to a platform with mirrored and embroidered bolsters scattered over red carpets. Garlands of roses and jasmine form a canopy overhead. Murad sits beside her. They do not touch or look at each other. They seem oblivious of the singing and dancing around the platform. Bibi Lal hands him a glass of sweetened milk. Murad drinks from it and hands it to Phulan. She dips her head and drinks, her first act of obedience to her husband. Bibi Lal holds a silver mirror under the red and gold
chadr
that hides Phulan’s face. She and Murad peer shyly into the mirror, and their first glimpse of each other as man and wife is a reflected image.

When it’s time for them to leave, Bibi Lal pulls the veil back from Phulan’s face. She continues to stare down while Mama and I lead her to the camel where Murad waits to take her to her new home.

Our aunts hold the Koran overhead between them, making an arch through which Phulan passes. The women wail their sadness at Phulan’s leaving. Mama’s face is streaked with tears as she and I lead her to the waiting camel. Phulan’s eyes are steady on the ground before her. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of the heavily embroidered silk, but her fingers are firm as she holds Mama and me by the hands until the very last second.

The huge, white silk turban on Murad’s head reminds me briefly of the boy with the skinny neck and big ears. But now he wears a handsome mustache, and he holds out his hands to take Phulan’s from Mama and me. He helps her onto the camel and climbs up in front of her.
The huge beast lurches to his feet, and my sister leaves her old life behind.

Mama, Sharma, Fatima, and I walk silently back to our house, our arms around each other’s waists, all of us crying. The musicians leave with the procession, Murad’s male cousins dancing and singing, their voices hoarse.

The next day at the feast given by Murad’s family, Rahim
-sahib
waits with the other guests. My heart lurches when I see him, his eyes fastened on me as I walk with Mama and Dadi. He wears an elaborate striped turban. My shoulders are straight and my head is high. I meet his gaze for a moment, then turn my head to look for Phulan. I feel Rahim
-sahib
’s eyes on the side of my face, half hidden in the shadow of my
chadr
, and they follow me through the afternoon. I don’t look at him again, but my face burns, half in pleasure, half in discomfort. My belly tightens and my mouth is dry.

As soon as
the wedding is over, our relatives return to the desert much as they arrived, in a symphony of animal bells.

Sharma and Fatima are among the last to leave. I visit them where they gather their sheep and goats amid bleating and thumping hooves from the scrub bushes at the edge of the desert. We sit under a thorn tree, and Sharma holds me close to her.

“Oh, Sharma, I would have been lost if you hadn’t been here!”

“Remember when the time comes that you have a choice, pigeon,” she says. I shake my head against her shoulder. “Don’t make any silly mistakes now. You have important decisions ahead of you.”

I lie against her for some time, taking comfort from her large brown hand stroking my hair and the earthy, desert smell of her.

“But there isn’t any choice! I must marry him, or his brother will ruin Phulan’s life.” I pluck at her skirt, my fingers pleating and unpleating the soft, worn fabric. “Even if I’m desperately unhappy, I can never leave him.”

Sharma looks at me steadily, her fingers firm on my shoulders. The shade of the tree dapples over us, softening the deep lines on her forehead.

“No matter what happens, you have
you
. That is the important thing. And as long as you have you, there is always a choice.” I can’t answer.

“I watched Rahim
-sahib
during the wedding,” she says. “His eyes never left you. They begged you to look at him. And when you did, his face softened. He’s in love with you, Shabanu. He’ll want you to be happy.”

“But don’t you see? If Rahim
-sahib
loves me, it will be even worse. His other wives despise me already because I’m a desert girl. If he loves me, they will make life unbearable!”

Sharma nods and is quiet for a moment.

“You will have to be very wise and guard his affection closely.”

“But once I’ve started to have babies, by the time I’m sixteen I’ll look like Adil’s wife or Kulsum. He’ll start looking for another woman younger than me to fall in love with.”

A secret smile steals over Sharma’s face, and she leans back against the tree trunk.

“You don’t have to look like Adil’s wife or Kulsum. He already has sons. He doesn’t need children from you. But you’ll need a child of your own for him to adore. There are ways of keeping your body strong and healthy through childbearing. You will be beautiful long after Phulan is old.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you when the time is right,” she says. “You have enough to worry about now.”

“I want to know! I’ve watched babies being born and people die …”

“Soon enough, child,” she says. “But remember: you will always have a place with Fatima and me near Fort Abbas if you want to come.”

“Oh, Sharma, should I come? Tell me what you think!”

“I can offer you help, regardless of what decision you make. But you are the only one who can decide.”

“We must make a plan!” I say, panicking at the thought of Sharma leaving.

“That is for you alone to do,” she says. “Keep your
wits about you. Trust yourself. Keep your inner reserves hidden. You know where to find me if you need me.”

My panic rises again as Mama, Dadi, and I say goodbye to Sharma and Fatima, and I stand looking after them long after her herd has disappeared among the dunes.

There is danger along both paths I might take, and I am confused and unsure of myself without her.

Our return to Cholistan fills me with a double-sided happiness, my joy in the desert the dearer because I dread what lies ahead.

Dadi tries to cheer me by singing the rhymes we’d sung on our way to Sibi. I join him, with Mama and my cousins clapping the rhythm. Xhush Dil lifts his legs in an elegant, musical walk. At almost the same moment, Mithoo’s feet kick out in a clumsy, adolescent dance. Dadi’s head whips around at the sound of the small camel leg bells behind him, and he loses his balance. He falls from his seat in front of Xhush Dil’s hump, landing on his backside in a bush beside the trail.

Mama laughs until tears spill as he struggles to free his
lungi
from the bush and then to catch up with the dancing camels. I laugh, and the tightness in my throat relaxes.

I hear Sharma’s voice saying “Fold your happiness deep in your heart,” and I tuck this moment away in my reserve of happy memories.

No matter how hard Dadi shouts for Xhush Dil to stop, the great beast senses the joke and dances faster, kicking
his feet higher, his ears pitched forward, his head turning from side to side for his audience to admire. Even Auntie and Uncle whoop with laughter, and the boys collapse against each other.

“When did you teach Mithoo to dance?” Dadi asks, his breath coming in great gulps as he regains his seat on Xhush Dil’s back.

“I guess it came naturally to him,” I say, smiling.

I know Mama and Dadi miss Phulan, and their efforts to be cheerful make me feel close to them.

Just as the weather had cleared for the wedding, it begins to rain again as we near the
toba
. Returning home during rain is a good omen, and everyone is in high spirits as we ride into our little settlement.

Much of the sand from the storm that sent us fleeing to Derawar has blown away, and the area looks more familiar than it did when we left it.

Mama, Auntie, and I rush to unload the camels before our belongings get soaked, and Dadi goes off to see if the wind has blown the
toba
clear of sand and whether it will hold water.

We unload the reed mats first, and Uncle climbs onto the roof to secure them over the holes torn by the storm. Auntie, Mama, and I pull our bedding inside the huts. I set out a row of empty jars to catch the rain, which falls in great, sweet
plips
against the red clay.

I make a fire, and the smoke rises and twists in a fine strand to escape through the thatch. My heart gives a small lurch of happiness.

The house seems both smaller and larger. We’ve grown used to being able to stand up straight in the mud house Rahim
-sahib
built, and yet without Phulan, Grandfather, and the dowry trunk, there is more room than before.

Tea is ready by the time Dadi comes in.

“The
toba
has blown nearly clean,” he says, peeling off his tunic. “We can clear out the remaining sand in a day or two. If this rain keeps up, we’ll have more water than last year.”

“Next year we’ll be hoping for enough water to stay until it’s time to leave for your wedding,” Mama says, looking at me.

I don’t answer, and Dadi pokes at the fire.

“If Phulan has a baby before then, can I go to her?” I ask. Dadi and Mama look at each other, the firelight dancing across their faces.

“She is part of Murad’s family now,” says Mama.

“But if Bibi Lal were to ask us?”

“We’ll see,” says Dadi. “It’s a long time from now, and we have your wedding to plan.”

I sigh and pull a camel harness in need of repair into my lap.

The next morning the air is cool and clear for summer because of the rain. I fold my quilt, and just as I duck out the door Dadi calls me back.

“Where are you going?” His voice is stern.

I’m not sure how to answer. Every morning of my life in the desert I’ve been the first one up and out to see the camels.

“You stay here and help your mother prepare breakfast,” he says. I step back inside, staring at him.

“But—”

“It’s time your cousins begin to look after the camels. And it’s long past time you learned how to look after a house.”

“They aren’t old enough to—”

“Shh, shh,” says Mama. “Come here, Shabanu.” As I go to her, Dadi gets up in a single, fluid motion and walks outside.