by Owen Mullen
On the porch outside her office watching the sun come up, the doctor had never needed a cigarette so badly. A drink would be even better. The story she’d just heard shocked her. Afra had finally succumbed to the pain. The drugs would give her release, for a while.
But what release for Simone Jasnin? Where was that to be found?
Her beliefs had altered forever. As she wrote, her father’s vision – the epic tales of the past, even ideas about her fellow-man – were swept away. She’d been a fool to believe them.
What good was ancient splendour set against present misery? What good were rulers who allowed injustice to go unpunished?
She was sad, sad for herself. Her world was not as it had seemed and never would be again. Sad for Afra, who would probably die, and soon if there was mercy. And sad for the country, disgraced by cowardice masquerading as honour.
The woman might live – anything was possible – but what kind of life could she have? Simone threw the last of the cigarette into the dark. Soon a new day would speak its name but who would speak for this poor woman? Who would care? Who would cry?
Who would avenge her?
Part I
The Road to Lahore
Chapter 1
Mundhi village, Southern Punjab
Eleven years earlier
The evening sun was warm as it began its descent into night over the lands to the east of the Indus River, a place rich in history passed on in songs, epic tales and romances. Seventy million people lived between the North West Frontier, the foothills of the Himalayas, and the northern edge of the Thar Desert and Rajasthan in India.
Jameel Akhtar was one of them.
The boy neither knew nor cared about the Punjab’s glorious past. His thoughts were with the girl walking beside him. By day, he was obsessed with her, and at night, she dominated his dreams. To him she was the world. The most beautiful girl in Mundhi village. He planned to marry her.
Her name was Afra and she held her head high, scanning the darkening horizon where slashes of blue and grey, orange and red, overlapped in fantastic competition. Every evening, the same procession of men and women returning from tending the sugar and rice crops could be seen throughout the region. The couple strolled, yards apart, Jameel kicking stones in lieu of conversation. Talking to a girl wasn’t easy, they were so different.
Afra did nothing to release him from his awkwardness. She was amused by it, and, though no words were spoken, she knew what was going on with her handsome companion.
Jameel glanced at her face, amazed by its contours and the texture of her skin, warmed by the light that seemed to radiate from within. When she looked at him her eyes were deep and wise and kind. Jameel loved her the way a teenage boy anywhere loves his girl. Except she wasn’t his. Life didn’t work like that here.
She smiled. His heart soared.
Ahead lay the outline of the compact settlement, the domed roof of the mosque in the centre of the village, more distinct than the houses, marking the focus of life in Mundhi. Soon they’d pass under the arched gateway and go their separate ways – Jameel to the house left to him by his mother, Afra to her family.
He kicked at another stone. A cloud of dust rose and fell to the red earth path. Afra knew he’d speak and say the same thing he said every evening. She waited for the familiar question, ready with the well-worn reply.
Jameel pretended to be interested in the stone and followed its progress through the short grass. He shuffled, tense, prepared for rejection. Afra frowned, bemused by his performance. How long had this been going on? How many times had they walked home in a group, laughing and joking, or together in the straggling line of weary villagers? The answer was since they were children. And it would continue like this maybe all their lives.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
His anxiety perplexed her. They lived in Mundhi, where each day was like the one before, no different from the one after.
‘Jameel, why do you ask? Yes, of course. What other answer is there?’
Her voice was sharper than she intended; she sounded cross. Inside, the boy died a little. Could she really not know? Did she really not understand?
The exchange made them strangers. And the girl did understand; she understood too well, that was the problem. Jameel was certain, she was less sure. Of course she was fond of him. He protected her even when there was no danger and made her laugh at his silly jokes, but he was Jameel, just a village boy. Anyway, she had no choice. When the time came her mother would decide, and her ideas, reinforced by centuries of tradition, were mindless of notions of love.
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Afra’s words lay between them as they passed under the arch, leaving the flat verdant plain, broken by trees, and the glint of fading sunlight on irrigation channels behind. ‘Tomorrow then?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she replied, and took the farming tools from him. He hesitated, reluctant to part, then relaxed his grip on the rusty implements and allowed her to have them. She strode to the other side of the compound, clasping the tools, wondering why she felt low.
Her family lived in a house similar to the other houses in Mundhi. Behind a door was a courtyard where their animals were tethered. Two rooms ran off it – a bedroom and a main room where they ate and talked, and where her mother slept on a covered wooden seat converted into a bed each night. The door was ajar. She opened it and her jaw fell in a silent scream.
Shafi stood against the wall, a pool of water gathering on the floor at his feet. Eight-year-old Fatimah was between her brother and a dog. Afra had seen the animal outside the compound, purposeless and lost, wobbling on shaky legs. She knew the dogs in the village; this was a stranger. The mongrel would have been unmemorable in other circumstances, the Punjab had tens of thousands just like it, except not quite.
This one was rabid.
White foam balled at its mouth. It staggered and bared its teeth. Eventually it would strike. Bite and keep on biting. Afra had heard that victims drifted in and out of consciousness, violent and deranged, until death released them. But worse, in brief moments of lucidness they realised what was happening.
Her family would die in this room.
Her fingers scrabbled for the door and found its rough surface. She drew it open and screamed as she’d never screamed, long and loud.
‘Jameeeeeeeelll!’
The dog looked through a bloodshot glaze. Its teeth ground together as a deep growl came from its throat. The stand-off was drawing to a close. Another scream would send it into frenzied attack. Suddenly, the door jarred her hand and cracked against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him.
Jameel hadn’t walked away. When Afra went inside, his eyes followed her. Even then he didn’t go, he stayed, wondering the way every man at some time did, why one small show of impatience could leave him ruined. He was searching for the answer when he heard the cry.
The fever in the canine’s brain made it unpredictable. And indecisive. It didn’t strike. The crazed head moved from side to side. Shafi whimpered; he wouldn’t hold on much longer. Jameel pulled the cloth from the bed and threw it over the animal, scooped it off the floor and ran out the door, across the yard and through the arch, hauling the snarling material behind him to the old well a hundred yards from Mundhi. In the past, it had supplied water for the village. No one used it now.
Jameel swung the insane parcel away from his body, letting its momentum carry it clear of the stone wall around the waterhole. The cover fell into the darkness and disappeared.
In the house the scene had changed. The siblings huddled together, holding each other, crying. Then they threw their arms around Jameel. Little Shafi held on to his leg. So this was what it was like to be a hero.
Later, when everyone had calmed, he went outside. Afra went with him to where they’d parted bad friends. He saw her tear-stained face. ‘Tomorrow then?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said and watched him go. Jameel: just a village boy. Only now she felt the way her mother had
when her father was alive. Was it possible she’d been blind to his worth all this time, and it had taken a mangy dog to make her see.
She stood in the yard to the front of the house, dipping her hand into a brown cloth bag slung round her waist, bringing out seeds and scattering them over the low wire fence and across the flattened earth. As always, the hens ran clucking and scratching after the tiny pieces.
In a corner, tethered to the wall, Uncu – the family donkey – witnessed the commotion without interest. At the hottest part of the day, he lay in the shade, out of the glare.
Afra spoke to the clamouring birds. ‘Easy, easy. I’ve enough for all of you. Don’t worry. No need to fight. You! Let the others have their turn. See, there’s more.’
The hens preferred to squabble. Afra’s mother stayed inside the door. Not the mother her daughter recalled, who had encouraged her children and inspired their interest through a thousand examples and explanations as she taught them about the world.
That mother had gone. Without her the family, like Uncu, lived life out of the sun.
A tired, careworn woman, older than her years, was in her place, her mind always on something she didn’t share.
They weren’t poor. Their house was comfortable, with a ceiling-fan for the hot summers, a refrigerator and a television. The source of her anxiety was fundamental: they lacked a man.
She remembered them carrying his body from the fields, the unlined face showing no trace of pain. The night before they’d made love, quietly so the children wouldn’t hear. In the morning, they’d laughed, not knowing it was their last time together.
Since then, she’d lived with more than loneliness. It would be years before Shafi could take his father’s place. And the girls, what of them? She and Tahir had married in love, chosen each other and been happy. Her parents may have picked Tahir for her anyway because he was the right choice. Now she was alone. Her daughters dreamed of a man to fall in love with. Well, that would never be.
They’d be married by arrangement, and the bride price – first with Afra, and later with Fatimah – would keep the terrible fate so many women in her situation endured, at bay.
She was sad for them. But life was sometimes sad. Who knew that better than her?
Chapter 2
Three years later
The hens chased the last fistful of seeds and each other, squawking and bickering. Afra shook her head. Stupid birds. No matter how often food was brought they learned nothing, preferring to fight, never at peace and always wanting more.
In the village compound, Fatimah and Shafi were playing with Jameel. He’d become their older brother; they trusted him and loved him, just like her. She heard Fatimah and Shafi giggling, trying to catch him and failing – Jameel was too fast and strong. Shafi was ten now and small for his age. He fell.
Afra shouted. ‘Careful, Shafi.’ Nobody heard. The frantic chase ended when Jameel tumbled under arms and legs and laughter. ‘Enough! Enough!’
‘We win!’ Shafi raised his arms in victory. ‘Told you! Told you!’
Jameel sat on the ground, grinning. Sweat ran down his face. He clapped clouds of dust from his trousers. Afra said, ‘They’ll kill you, you’re too old.’
The children went off on a new game, one with no rules, a lot of running about and screaming. Afra chastised them. ‘You’ll hurt yourselves then we’ll have tears.’
‘You’re wrong, I’m not old, not yet, though time won’t wait for me.’
Fatimah whispered in her brother’s ear, her eyes blazing with excitement. ‘Okay? Ready? One. Two. Three. Afra and Jameel! Afra and Jameel! Afra and Jameel!’
Afra pretended to start after them. They ran away, giggling. ‘Those rascals. Sorry about that.’
‘But they’re right. Our names are on people’s lips, even children’s. I don’t want to go on as we are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll speak with your mother if that’s what we want. Is it?’ His eyes filled with hope. ‘If it isn’t, tell me.’
The youngsters reached new heights of hysteria, Afra made a mental note to bring the horseplay to a close; they’d had their fun. ‘I want what you want.’
‘Then I’ll ask.’
In Mundhi, space was a precious thing. The family slept in the same room. One day their mother had announced that in future she would make her bed next door. No one asked why. The children wrangled over how the beds should be divided. Afra wouldn’t have minded being alone sometimes except Fatimah considered it an honour to be close to her older sister. And if Shafi worshiped Fatimah, Fatimah adored Afra, seeing in her everything she wanted to be. Afra indulged her. At night, the girls lay under their rough blanket and talked, sharing all kinds of secrets.
Shafi called across the room. ‘Fatimah! Fatimah!’
The girl got out of bed and crept to his cot to soothe his monsters away. Calling for his sister in the night was common; they’d shared the same bed most of the boy’s life. Any change left him feeling alone and afraid. Fatimah crept back under the blankets and snuggled against Afra. ‘He’s all right, the dark scares him sometimes. He’ll sleep soon.’
Afra was touched by the little mother lying next to her. The bond was strong between her and her brother. She loved Shafi too, and he loved her, but his devotion he kept for Fatimah.
‘Your head is older than your body, sister.’
They laughed. The old bed shook. When their giggling subsided they lay quiet.
Fatimah said, ‘Will you marry Jameel?’
‘I hope so.’
‘If you marry him I’ll see you every day.’ She rushed on, lost in her vision of tomorrow. ‘You’ll live in Mundhi. Don’t go away from me. Don’t go away from us. We need you, we’ll always need you.’
Though she couldn’t see her face, Afra knew Fatimah’s eyes were wide, asking her to reassure her the way she had with Shafi. She kept her voice low and took her sister’s hands in hers.
‘Wherever you are I am. And wherever I am, you are too.’
‘Again, so I’ll never forget.’
‘Wherever you are I am. And wherever I am you are too.’
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Jameel rose later than usual – he wouldn’t be going to the fields today. He fed the animals, thought about breakfast then changed his mind. He wasn’t hungry. He was too nervous to eat. It could be put off no longer. He had to speak to Afra’s mother and today was the day.
The sun had already begun its daily safari. Early morning, with the cool of night still in the air, when the world looked clean and clear, was Jameel’s favourite time. On a morning like this it was easy to be optimistic. Instead, his insides rolled, his legs trembled and he felt sick in his stomach. A dozen times he banished the feeling, while he washed and dressed in a white kurta and loose-fitting pyjamas. When he was ready he sat on his bed. It was too early to be visiting, those not working in the fields would still be at their chores and anyway, he needed to think. He looked around at his mother’s house, his house now; was it right to expect Afra to share a home smaller and less comfortable than her own?
His father died when Jameel was a baby leaving his mother with the task of ensuring they both survived. She honoured the responsibility at a cost. Year after year of grinding labour wore her out. But her son lived.
The end came quickly. Old before her time, her body had no resistance to the pneumonia. Too ill to work, she reluctantly took to her bed. From then, Jameel watched her slip out of the world as quietly as she walked through it. Could he be asking his beautiful Afra to repeat his mother’s life?
He sat with his chin resting on his knees and gazed at his universe. This and the stretch of land outside the village – a legacy from his grandfather – was all he could boast. So little in the eyes of the world.
He thought of the woman guiding him through the first years of his life, refusing to recall her ashen face, fevered and frail. One evening she called him. ‘Jameel, there’s something I want you to do.’
&
nbsp; The boy had learned it was better if he didn’t question her.
‘On the floor in the space where I keep my clothes you’ll find a cloth and a letter. Bring them to me.’
He found them, they weren’t hidden; an envelope with faded writing on the front, and a dull red and grey square of material tied in a parcel. Young Jameel had picked them up and carried them to the bed. The cloth clunked. She thanked him in a rasping whisper.
‘This letter is important. It’s from my mother’s brother in Lahore. He was a village boy like you. Now he’s a successful businessman with a restaurant in the city. If you ever need a place to go, go to him.’
She repositioned herself and pulled on one corner, loosening the knot. She smiled. ‘See this.’
Blue-veined hands unwrapped the treasure. Jameel moved closer, spellbound by the performance. His mother drew the rag aside to reveal the secret. Thirteen-year-old Jameel felt her excitement, and with the last fold removed, the mystery was laid bare.
‘There. Aren’t they the most beautiful things?’
Her son tried not to show his disappointment. On the white sheet lay pieces of wood, round and carved. His mother’s eyes welled with tears, not of sadness, tears of joy.
‘Do you know what this is?’ She shifted her gaze from the prize to his face. ‘I wasn’t always as you see me now. I was beautiful.’
Jameel thought his mother was going to cry but no, she was savouring the moment from a time he’d never known: a past she’d never left. Her outstretched fingers found the wipe at the side of the bed and dabbed the perspiration on her brow with a bony hand.
She patted the bed. ‘Jameel, come closer. Sit here. Sit by me. I’ve a story to tell, and though it means nothing to you now, it will. You’ll be a man then and you’ll understand.’
Jameel edged forward. His mother called on the last of her strength and spoke, clear and unhurried; for a time almost well again.
