Thicker Than Soup (17 page)

Sally replaced the receiver and mopped her face with her dupatta. She wished it had been possible to make an international call at Daniel's home instead of in this crude and cramped booth, where her news had been broadcast to anyone who chose to listen. Shouting “I'm staying in Pakistan” and “No, we're not coming home” had cruelly quashed her mother's excitement at the call and imminent return. She'd felt heartless and self-indulgent as she'd tried to explain, at volume, “the wonderful opportunity to understand my heritage.” Above her head a small fan stirred the hot air, clicking at each revolution; tck-t, tck-t. “Oh shut up!” she muttered, and gathering her things, backed out of the tiny cubicle.

*

“You've called your mother? Her health is good?” Taking a nod as sufficient response Yalda pulled her into the living room. “We're going to Abbottabad,” she enthused, “we're going to visit Daoud and Rachel instead of having your farewell party.” In the corner her grandmother beamed too. “Daadi hasn't been to Abbottabad for many years, and she likes it there too much. You know she was married there?” Again, a nod was enough. “We will leave early tomorrow morning, at eight. You must pack something warmer, a pashmina for you and something for Sammy. And some shoes for the hills.” Yalda hugged Sally. “Oh, I like Abbottabad too much, it is too beautiful!”

*

By the time they'd been in the car for four hours and passed through Islamabad, all – apart from Daniel and her – had succumbed to the steady motion of the car. Sammy snuffled, Yalda ground her teeth and her grandmother snored, but fighting eyes heavy with torpor Sally took in all about her. They passed Saeed's book shop, where she'd been told she could get any book in the world, and another Yummy's Ice-Cream Parlour, as in Lahore. Modern, expensive restaurants and cafes hinted at high cuisine from behind trimmed hedges and smoky street grills emitted aromas that made the mouth water. The busy streets, straight, wide and dusty with criss-cross junctions and finger-post signs to F Block and D Block brought Milton Keynes to mind until purple-hazed hills in the distance hinted at something more exotic. Daniel identified the hills as being the Marghalla Hills, foothills of the Himalayas and where, she thought, lay Abbottabad. But hopes for the journey's end were dashed as they left Islamabad and Daniel pulled into a filling station. Waking Jai to take over the driving he said they still had at least two more hours to travel. Such distances were unheard of to her; Bath to London was almost too far and visits to Matt in Glasgow rarely happened. But here they were, driving a distance that took more than six hours, for little longer than a weekend! Her grandmother had prepared well, bringing along cushions and wedged between Yalda and Saima they all slept comfortably. But as the road twisted and turned through villages and followed rivers that meandered through ever more hills she fought sleep's persistence until finally, hypnotised by the seemingly endless journey, it won.

Then Daniel announced they were coming into Abbottabad and everyone stirred. Sally blinked and looked eagerly at her new surroundings. She'd expected something akin to Lahore's old city and was surprised to see traffic moving in an orderly fashion along a street lined with crumbling colonial buildings that still displayed remnants of elegance. They passed a park, complete with bandstand, and then a double storied Victorian building. She laughed in astonishment, “That's a school! It's got separate entrances for boys and girls! Just like at home!”

Her grandmother's beautiful eyes gleamed. “There are many British buildings here; Abbottabad was British garrison town. Your grandfather, he stationed here. We meet at Abbottabad.” She pointed at a gothic church. “Look,” she said, “St. Luke's. We marry here. And near is hospital where your father is born.” She pointed out other memories as they turned first one corner and then another, happily reminiscing. “Oh, it is too many years since I come here.”

Slowing in front of tall, black painted gates, Jai hooted the horn. “We're here!” he announced, and the gates swung open to reveal Daoud, Rachel and all five boys spilling from a small, block of a house. Daoud was helping his mother out almost before the car had stopped, whilst Sammy, alarmed at the sudden excitement, burrowed into his mother's neck and attached himself like a limpet. Noisy greetings continued through a doorway and into a room where a small table containing condensation crazed glasses of fresh lemonade waited for them. The house had seemed small from outside, possibly just two rooms wide and two high, but inside she could see the long ‘L' to the left that she'd thought to be another house was also part of her uncle's home. Around the room, heavy wooden furniture might have appeared dark and inhospitable were it not for colourful kilim rugs and cushions that padded the chairs, sofas and stools, and small hexagonal tables, inlaid with shiny mosaics that reflected light from windows draped with silk fabrics. Curiosity overcame Sammy's shyness and he dared to inspect the silently flickering screen of the largest television set he'd ever seen, leaving Sally to sink into one of the chairs, grateful that the journey was over.

In the evening, conversation turned to possible activities. “You are here at the hottest time of our year.” Daoud held up a hand as Sally tried to speak. “Yes, I know. Lahore is much hotter. But we're coming to our wet season so the humidity here is high. We are fortunate; we have hills around us where it is cooler. You cannot come to Abbottabad and not climb Shimla Pahari. Do you like to walk?” From the corner of her eye she saw Daoud's eldest son pull a face. Daoud saw it too. “Aah Farouq, you don't want to walk eh? Nahin mushkil. No problem. Daadi will go on the bus; you can accompany her and carry the picnic for us all.” Even Farouq saw the humour through his teenage angst.

Rachel tapped Daoud's hand. “And Sally and I will go to Gurdwara Bazaar in the morning to buy chapatti and salad. The chicken biriyani is ready but Sally must see our bazaar whilst she's here.”

Recalling a biriyani of grey glutinous rice, sinewy chicken and viscous vegetable curry she'd once faced in a Bristol Bengali restaurant, with some effort Sally managed to hold back her disgust.

“Oh no, not the baz…” Daoud's voice trailed as Rachel raised her eyebrows. He tried another tack. “Why don't you send….” until realising the futility of arguing he finished with, “Please, at least be back to walk up the hill in time for a picnic, no?” Rachel smiled sweetly at her husband and he turned back to Sally. “Shimla is too beautiful. We will walk up through the woods and from the top we will see the whole town. I think you will like to go there. It will take maybe one hour to walk, maybe a little more with the children.” He looked down at the sandal she dangled from her toes. “You have shoes?” She assured him she had. She'd seen women in the park wearing sneakers with their elegant shalwar kameezes and soon learned that there were times when looks didn't count. Her own sneakers were in her bag.

*

It wasn't yet seven when, with the boys left in Yalda's care, Rachel led her to the bazaar through streets already jammed with rickshaws and carts, trucks and bicycles, buses and trucks, so that, along with other pedestrians, they squeezed through gaps in the congestion and inhaled air tinged with diesel fumes, cooking oil and hot bread. Yet it felt fresher than Lahore and she felt more energetic than she had for weeks. Sidestepping a flat, tyre imprinted bunch of bananas Rachel stopped by a huge urn strapped to the back of a bicycle. “Aha! Tea.” She handed over a white china cup brimming with pale pink steaming liquid. “I don't think you will have had this before. It is Kashmiri chai, made with cardamom and milk and sometimes with almonds too.”

Sally sniffed, then sipped. “It's, er, it's different.” She drank more deeply and gasped as the sickly drink brought tears to her eyes as she sought to swallow the scalding liquid as quickly as possible.

“Oh Sallyji, please don't drink it. I can see you don't like it. Here, give it to me.” Handing a coin and the cup back to the vendor, Rachel said something in rapid Urdu that stretched his walnut wrinkled mouth into a gap-toothed smile.

They moved on, past stalls laden with everything from chickens in cages to plastic buckets to woven hats. Goods were more functional than in the glitz and glamour of the Lahore markets, and more randomly distributed. A tailor, resting against his sewing machine, smoked a cigarette and brushed water from his sandal as the greengrocer next to him watered bunches of coriander and piles of shiny peppers. Another man stirred an enormous metal bowl of white liquid over a brazier and Sally tugged Rachel's hand. “What's that?”

“It's yogurt. Or at least it will be, when it's ready.” A rack of metal shelving contained more of the large bowls. “Look, that's it. Would you like some?”

She looked dubiously at the dirt crusted layer and frowned. “Sammy likes yogurt; is it safe?”

“We'll get it from below the surface. The flies sit only on the top.”

Clutching a small, tightly knotted plastic bag of clean white yogurt, they moved on. “I'm amazed they sell this stuff in bags. How on earth do people get it home safely?”

Rachel shrugged. “People bring bowls. It's normal.”

Along the street a small crowd watched two men seated cross-legged on a raised platform flip and flatten balls of dough into round discs against a paddle, then slap them inside the smoking holes of tandoori ovens. Rachel pushed Sally to the front so she could watch as the dough expanded, balloon-like as it cooked. Toasted flour singed her nostrils as within minutes, the baker hooked and flicked the discs to a youth, who bagged the steaming bread and passed it to waiting hands. A few minutes later they too had acquired a steam filled bag and edging their way through the constantly renewing crowd they shared a hot chapati.

“Mmm, delicious.”

“Irresistible!” Rachel agreed. “Come,” she said, “we'll go home now, but a different way so you can see some more.”

Sally stopped next to an old stone archway. “Look at that! What is it?”

“It's municipal offices.” Rachel rubbed flour from her fingers against the stones. “It used be the Gurdwara. The Sikh temple. It was finished only a few years before Partition, and has been deserted since the Sikhs left. Beautiful, no? It is why the bazaar is called the Gurdwara bazaar.” She pointed to the stones above the arch. “Can you see that writing?” Faded script decorated the stone. “That's Punjabi. It says ‘God lives in this place'.” Eating the last piece of her bread she urged Sally on. “Come, we must go. There are many abandoned temples. You've seen the old Hindu temple in Model Town, near to Daniel's home? Next to the market?”

She'd wondered at the origin of the red brick ruin that gave home to a number of families and considered the stories it and this Gurdwara might tell when, created in faith they'd been abandoned in faith too.

*

Humidity slowed the Shimla Hill walk to a lumbering trudge, and sipping water Sally understood why Daoud had warned her. Meanwhile the twins, oblivious to the heat and energetic as ever, raced backwards and forwards whilst Sammy protested at being held captive in his buggy. Sally was grateful when Daoud instructed the older boys to take turns pushing Sammy up the hill until, as they cleared the trees and arrived on an open, grassy slope, the gentlest of breezes stirred pine scented air, and the majestic vista Daoud had talked of opened itself before them. All was worthwhile. Daoud and the older boys went to meet Farouq and their grandmother from the bus, Rachel spread a picnic rug and, captivated by the views, Sally took out her camera. Tiny yellow flowers poked through the pine-needle carpet and Sally focused her camera on them, then keeping her back to the ugly low hotel behind sought out tiny squares of green roofed bungalows squatting untidily amongst apple and pomegranate orchards below, and further below, the sprawl of Abbottabad that packed itself into the valley floor. She clicked and clicked, capturing the images and trying to imprint it all into her mind to be written into her journal later. In front of her, conifers framed a clear blue sky, and opposite, haze-blurred hilltops fringed the saucer-shaped valley. Delighted to be released, Sammy ran crazily after the twins as she knelt to capture the natural composition of them running into the magnificent scenery that was too beautiful not to record. Absorbed in the moment she was unaware of Rachel's voice. “Sally! Sallyji,” Rachel touched her shoulder. “Meet Arif. He's a good friend of ours. He's enjoying Shimla today, too.”

Looking up towards the sun she saw little more than the silhouette of a tall slender man dressed elegantly in well-cut jeans and checked shirt, but when he moved to cast shade on her face she saw dark – almost black – eyes that smiled into greying temples.

“Assalamu Alykum.” Even his voice was beautiful.

She didn't move. Caught unawares, she hesitated, confused, and felt her eyes widen as his narrowed before reality asserted itself. Rising quickly to her feet and forgetting it was offensive for a man to shake the hand of a woman, she held out her hand. He glanced towards Rachel then placed his hand on his chest, inclining his head slightly as he did so. A blush coloured her cheeks and she dropped her proffered hand to merely straighten her shalwar kameez. “Assal…erm, Wa'alaka salam.” The exchange lasted seconds but each slow motion detail imprinted itself into her mind.

Rachel looked at her curiously and then turned to Arif. “Er…. would you join us for lunch? It's only a simple picnic, but we have plenty.”

He spoke English well, if slightly accented. “That's too kind of you. Shukria, thank you. But we're having lunch at the restaurant. Faiza and the children are waiting for me. I came out to enjoy the view but it's too difficult for the wheelchair out here.” Turning, he excused himself to Sally and made to leave, then paused. “But please bring your guests for tea whilst they're in Abbottabad. Perhaps tomorrow? I'll telephone.”