Shabanu (25 page)

Shabanu followed the child to the stand of trees past the pump, where Mumtaz stopped. On the broad veranda, beyond the wide silver pipe with water dripping in sparkles from its mouth, stood bamboo cages in which desert birds blinked their fiery eyes.

The birds came from the dunes of Cholistan, where Pakistan meets India, a land of magic and camels where Shabanu had spent her childhood. Mumtaz never tired of her mother’s stories of the desert’s wizards and warriors. She was fascinated by her father’s birds. She loved to come in the first morning light to help the old
mali
remove the linen covers from the tall domed cages. Shabanu stopped to watch her daughter approach, her hands stretched out toward the feathers that shone brightly from between the thin bars. The
mali
returned with pans of maize, clucking and mewling to the birds, and asked Mumtaz to lift the cage doors.

When the birds were fed, Mumtaz turned again toward the gray weathered gate leading to the canal. Shabanu was about to call to her when a tall, dark figure sped from the veranda. In two strides the figure
was behind Mumtaz, and a long, pale hand with crimson nails flashed out from under a dark green
chadr
. The hand grabbed the child by the hair and yanked her from her feet.

“You filthy urchin!” It was Leyla, Mumtaz’s eldest half sister. “How dare you spy on my father’s house!”

“He’s my father too,” said the child, her voice piping. Leyla flicked the wrist of her hand that grasped the child’s hair. Mumtaz bit her lips and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her scalp. Leyla turned back toward the house, pushing the child before her like a prisoner of war. Mumtaz was small but strong, like her mother, and when she struck out at Leyla with her wiry arms, Leyla tightened her grip on the child’s hair to keep her moving along.

“Thank you,” said Shabanu, appearing at Leyla’s side as if from thin air. She took Mumtaz by the hand and stepped between them. Leyla’s mouth, the same deep, shiny red as her nails, went slack with surprise for a moment. She shook her fingers loose from Mumtaz’s tangled hair and withdrew her hand gracefully under the folds of her
chadr
.

“How can you let her run loose like a street rat?” Leyla asked. “She’s wild. She scares the chickens.”

“That’s enough, Leyla.” Shabanu’s voice was calm.

Mumtaz’s eyes remained tightly shut against tears as Shabanu knelt before her and held her by the shoulders.

“I’m here, pigeon,” she said, turing toward
Mumtaz again. “That will be all, Leyla,” she said without looking up. Mumtaz slumped into her arms and buried her face against her mother’s neck. Shabanu held her for a moment, then removed her to arm’s length and brushed the hair from her eyes. Her gaze held the child’s.

“Come, we’ll feed the ducks, and then you can bathe in the canal,” Shabanu said, as if Leyla had ceased to exist.

It was Shabanu’s refusal to defend herself, as if she had nothing to defend herself against, that drove the other women of Rahim’s household—Leyla, her mother Amina, the other wives, Leyla’s sisters and half sisters—to hate her. If only she would
say
that Mumtaz had as much right as the others to run about the courtyard, and ask what harm the child caused. But Shabanu refused even to acknowledge their resentment.

Shabanu was the favorite of Rahim—“the Merciful”—their powerful father and husband, the landowner and patriarch of the clan. The other wives hated her pretensions to dignity.

Each wife had her own private grudge. Leyla’s mother Amina, the first and most important of Rahim’s wives, was the eldest, the best educated among them all, and the only one who was his social equal. Amina also was the mother of Rahim’s only surviving son, a poor quivering thing called Ahmed.

Amina had borne two other sons, also sikly and
defective in one way or another. Like all of Rahim’s sons, with the exception of Ahmed, both had died in infancy.

Amina had long since stopped sharing Rahim’s bed. While her position gave her an unquestioned advantage over the other wives, she guarded her jealousy with a keen eye.

Ten years after Rahim had married Amina his attentions began to wander, and that is when he took a second wife. She was Saleema, who had captured his fancy one hot July when he visited his family at their summer retreat in Dinga Galli in the Himalayan foothills.

Saleema had come to see Amina, a second cousin, with her elder sister. She was a shy, slender girl with large dark eyes and a serious mouth. Saleema was far from beautiful. She inspired no jealousy in Amina, who had grown weary of her husband’s physical demands. They culminated in pregnancy after pregnancy, each of which ended, to everyone’s great disappointment, with a defective son or a daughter—three girls in all.

Then there was Ahmed. And by then Amina had had enough. It was such a relief not to have Rahim come to her bed at night when she was tired and wanted only to sleep! She had borne a healthy son. It was much later that Ahmed’s weaknesses became apparent.

Saleema bore three daughters and two sons, both
of whom died within a matter of months. Rahim’s disappointment seemed to diminish Saleema with each birth. Amina watched with satisfaction as Saleema grew thinner and paler, until there seemed to be nothing left of her but her large black eyes and a straight line for a mouth.

Eight years later, under similar circumstances, came Tahira, who at the age of fifteen became Rahim’s third wife. Tahira still was beautiful. After five years she too had borne three daughters and two feeble sons, both of whom died within a year. In that time she had been the chief co-occupant of Rahim’s bed.

While Saleema had lapsed into bitter resignation that she had been replaced in her husband’s affections, Tahira still harbored hope that Rahim would tire of Shabanu, return to her bed, and give her a healthy son who would inherit his father’s land. For it was not at all certain that Ahmed would survive. And although Tahira was eight years Shabanu’s senior, still her skin was smooth and her waist was slender, and the need for a viable heir should have been of paramount importance to the aging leader.

But from the time six years ago when Rahim first met Shabanu, a girl of twelve with budding breasts, wisdom beyond her years, and a dazzling smile, he had eyes for no other woman. In truth it had been too long since he’d had any appetite for his third wife, whose dainty approach to love made her seem insipid to him.

When Shabanu produced only one female child, those close to Rahim advised him to divorce her and take another wife who would produce a healthy heir. But Rahim demurred. His total indifference to all women but his fourth wife could only be explained as witchcraft.

Amina could not conceive of anyone else’s happiness being achieved without expense to her own, and she viewed anyone who made her husband smile and whistle as he walked about the farm—as did Shabanu—with the deepest suspicion and contempt.

The women of Okurabad couldn’t understand what attracted Rahim so powerfully to Shabanu—the way she went about barefoot, wearing the heavy silver ankle bracelet of the nomads, and no makeup. She, a lowborn gypsy, dared to regard them with contempt! They were all daughters of landowners like Rahim, holy men, tribal leaders whose ancestors had descended directly from the Holy Prophet Muhammad Himself, peace be upon Him!

Shabanu’s father was a camel herder. She was a daughter of the wind.

They all knew how to dress and behave in the best houses of Lahore. Shabanu walked about the courtyard singing gypsy songs in her wood-smoke voice in Seraiki, the language of the desert. She’d never even been to Lahore!

They said among themselves that she practiced evil magic.

They were frightened of Shabanu, of the levelness in her eyes which they mistook for a conceit, a certain knowledge that Rahim would side with her against his elder wives.

For many weeks now the entire household had been preoccupied with preparations for Leyla’s approaching marriage. Although the ceremony was not to be for several months, Leyla was busier than she ever had been before, and for some time had not followed Mumtaz about the garden as once was her custom. Shabanu cursed herself silently for letting down her guard.

Leyla growled low as a cat and turned swiftly away, her
chadr
swirling out around her like a green flame. When she was gone, Shabanu shook the child gently by the shoulders.

“You mustn’t go to Papa’s house until I’m awake and can go with you,” she said.

Mumtaz said nothing, and Shabanu pressed her fiercely against her breast for a moment. Then they walked holding hands to the canal, which ran like an opal ribbon through the morning haze.