Out of the Silence

by Owen Mullen

  The driver talked to a woman across the compound. Whatever was said sent her back to her house. His brother strolled in the sun, prowling the dusty earth like a jungle cat, scanning the ochre rooftops, assessing the modest dwellings. Jameel saw the challenge in his eyes and knew in his bones he didn’t like this man. The stranger sensed it, tossed the cigarette away and ground it in the dirt.

  The woman returned with three plastic bottles filled with water and gave them to the driver. From the squares of land in front of each house, people marvelled at the car: a sleeping beast in the middle of their village. Afra – her face uncovered, her hair hanging long and black – was just as curious as the rest. She tossed more feed over the wire fence while the insatiable birds complained. The older brother saw her though she didn’t notice him at first because her attention was with the car. The driver said something and both men grinned. Afra realised they were talking about her and drew back. No man in Mundhi had ever looked at her that way.

  Jameel saw the strangers enjoy the effect they’d had on the girl. More words passed between them then the elder brother got into the vehicle while the other laid bottles of water on the back seat – extras for the journey – and closed the door. He spoke to Mirvat Khan, wife of Yusuf, pointing to where Afra had been. She answered his question and, a minute later, tread-marks on the baked earth were the only sign they‘d ever been there.

  Jameel observed it all: the arrogance of the man, the coldness in the eyes. And the face. A face he’d prefer to forget.

  Chapter 5

  The land was sold. Without thinking it through he’d given away his only source of income. There was nothing for him now; he would leave Mundhi.

  Hour after hour he lay on his bed, staring at the overhead fan, listening to the whir of the blades cutting through the air, taking stock of his situation. Afra would never be his no matter what his mother had said. The tale of the bangles had been a necessary distraction from reality.

  As the only male in his family, he’d worked while others learned to read and write. Where could a young man like that, without money or property, find a place in the world?

  Jameel was afraid.

  Morning brought little change. He mooched around his house; the house no one wanted to buy. And all the while, her words drove shafts of terror through him.

  nothing in the world

  He considered ways to end the whole hopeless mess. Each solution brought pain for Afra. He disregarded them, save one. Jameel remembered the rabid dog and how far it had fallen. If he threw himself down the well who would know? He brushed the nonsense away. What would his mother make of her brave boy, then? Or Afra? No. He wouldn’t give in so easily.

  ‘Afra’s mother is wrong. Her opinion doesn’t matter.’

  For the first time in days he felt hungry. When he’d eaten he went for a walk through the village; the sounds of children playing and the smell of coriander, garlic and onions frying in cooking pots, floated on the air. Evening was falling.

  At the common ground in the centre of Mundhi, his brain refused to accept what he saw. The car was back, outside Afra’s house. Big and black in the gathering dusk. A light shone behind the gossamer window hangings. Jameel crept to the courtyard wall; chickens stirred behind the wire fence. He felt ridiculous crouched where he had no business to be. Voices drifted from inside, too low to make out. He heard the murmur of females and the deeper bass tones of a male.

  An hour passed. It was dark now; the back of his legs ached. Chairs scrapped the floor telling him that whoever was inside was leaving. Time to retreat. And not a moment too soon. The door opened and three people came out – two women and a man. Jameel couldn’t see clearly yet he saw enough. One of the women was Afra’s mother. The man was the stranger who’d stared at him with unspoken disrespect.

  The tail-lights disappeared. Jameel stepped from his cover. He knew the reason these people were in Mundhi – they were arranging a wedding. Tears streamed down his face; he made no attempt to brush them away. This was the final nightmare in a week of bad dreams. His shoulders slumped in defeat. With the strangers gone, Mundhi was quiet. The silence folded round him.

  ‘What has changed?’ he said, and answered his own question. ‘Nothing.’

  -------

  It was too early for sleep. Afra sat on her bed in the room she shared with her sister and brother. When she heard the knock on the door that evening she’d answered it. A fat woman with steel grey hair and a severe expression stood in the fading light. She looked Afra up and down, taking her time. ‘I wish to speak with your mother.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The woman squeezed herself past. Afra noticed the car and recognised it. Someone was inside. Her mother wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped forward to meet the visitor. She bowed her head. ‘Jee ayan nu.’

  The visitor returned the traditional reply in a flat voice and maneuvered her bulk to the wooden seat that doubled as a bed. The children watched, subdued. She sat down, unsure of its ability to take her weight and spoke. ‘What I have to say is only for you.’

  ‘Of course. Afra, Fatimah, Shafi. Go. I’ll call when you can come back.’

  The children went to their room. Shafi scrambled on to his cot and Fatimah sat on the edge of the bed. Their sister lay on the other side with her hands over her eyes.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘Strangers.’

  ‘Who is she, Afra? Why is she here?’

  Afra didn’t want the children to see her face. ‘We’ll know soon enough, Shafi. Soon enough.’

  The younger ones began some game their bigger sister couldn’t follow. Afra had lied. She realised why the woman was in their house, and what she wanted. Before the night was out, she’d know her name. They heard the front door open and close. Whoever had been in the car was next door being presented to her mother.

  Afra shuddered. Her fingers caressed the bangles on her arm, trying to find comfort in them. They felt heavy and cold; pieces of carved wood; only decoration. Later, a door slamming wakened her. She opened her eyes; it was dark. Fatimah was beside her and Shafi snored in his cot. How could she sleep while her whole life was being decided a few feet away? Her mother called. ‘Afra, come here!’

  She tiptoed from the sleeping children. Her mother stood in the middle of the room, smiling, happy, the burden carried for years had been lifted.

  ‘Sit down. A lot has happened tonight.’

  Her daughter did as she was told.

  ‘Since your father died I’ve lived with a terrible dread. Without a man to look after us, we’ve never been far from disaster. One hard winter, one failed crop or a broken leg, enough to cast us down. If your father had had a younger brother, I would have married him. Not for love. For security. Night after night, I’ve prayed good fortune would find us, and it has.’

  Her daughter listened, saying nothing.

  ‘The woman who was here is Noor Dilawar Hussein, mother of Quasim. He’s her eldest son – she has three – and a daughter, Chandra. They drove many miles to be here. They’re very rich and live in a big house. You’ll meet them all soon.’

  Afra played her denial of the inevitable to the end, asking her question in fading hope. ‘Are they coming to Mundhi?’

  ‘No, they won’t come here. You will go there, to Lahore. Quasim wishes you to be his wife and I have said yes.’

  -------

  Even if she was allowed a voice, telling her mother no would’ve been too hard. Her dreams had been answered – a rich husband for her daughter. True, it meant her oldest girl would move far away but that was a common thing.

  The family would receive the ‘bride price’ in exchange for her fertility and the loss of her labour, ensuring Fatimah, Shafi and their mother would be released from threat of ill fortune, real or imagined. It was a happy day.

  For Afra it was the end of her world.

  Jameel: it had taken so long to appreciate his worth. She saw him, tall and handsome. Lost to her forever. Th
is Quasim was just the latest lash of the whip. She threw herself on her bed wishing she was dead. Shafi snored in the corner unaware of his older sister’s despair. Fatimah felt Afra collapse next to her and spoke, her voice an urgent whisper in the dark. ‘Afra, what did they want?’

  The big sister told the little sister her news. ‘And what about Jameel? You can’t marry him too, can you?’

  ‘I’ll never marry Jameel. That was a dream. That dream is over. In a few days I’ll leave Mundhi.’

  ‘So where will you go?’

  ‘They say to Lahore.’

  ‘Can I come too? Can me and Shafi come to Lahore with you?’

  ‘No, Fatimah. I’m going to my new home, to my new family, and I must go alone. Besides, who would look after our mother?’

  ‘But Afra, when will I see you?’

  ‘I’ll visit you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Often.’

  ‘Every week?’

  ‘No, not every week. When I’m settled in my new life, I’ll visit you here.’

  The little one insisted. ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I’m able, trust me.’

  The girl fell silent. She fumbled to find her big sister’s hand in the dark. Her fingers brushed against the rings. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A present from Jameel. A beautiful gift. Let me tell you about it.’

  And the legend of the bangles worked its wonder on Fatimah as it had on others before. When Afra finished the sisters lay still.

  ‘You mustn’t lose them or you’ll never find Jameel.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The quiet between them was something they’d remember the rest of their lives. Afra broke it, pressing home the advantage the tale had given, setting a child’s worry to rest, even for a time, unaware Jameel had used the story to calm her own breaking heart.

  ‘And anyway, when they’ve worked for me and I have all twelve, I’ll give them to you so you’ll find the man of your dreams.’

  ‘You’ll give them to me? They’ll be mine someday?’

  ‘One day, yes, they’ll be yours.’

  ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Where is Lahore?’

  ‘North. It’s in the north.’

  ‘Will I ever go there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will I visit you in your new house? Is it a big house?’

  ‘I’m told it’s a very big house, a fine house, and of course you may visit me there, you and Shafi.’

  Fatima was satisfied. Afra was glad.

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Why? There’s no need. Have you forgotten already?’

  Fatimah whispered. ‘Wherever you are I am...’

  Her big sister replied. ‘...and wherever I am, you are too.’

  Chapter 6

  His battered brown suitcase bounced against his thigh. It weighed little; there was almost nothing in it. In truth, it wasn’t really his. It had belonged to his mother. Jameel had never used it, there was no reason to; he’d never been away from the village. The night air was cool. Low cloud covered the sky, keeping the stars from shining their light on the reluctant adventurer. Jameel heard his footsteps on the dirt road. A lonely sound. Soon, Mundhi was out of sight.

  He might as well have been on the moon; he couldn’t feel more alone. Eventually he reached the asphalt road – his first goal – and set the suitcase at his feet. A lorry whooshed past, pulling at his clothes, dragging him against his will. The speed and power of these machines startled him. He needed to be careful.

  It was surprising how fast two pinpoints of light could appear from nowhere and become a thundering monster, flashing by to be swallowed by the blackness. Drivers and their passengers. Strangers on a journey. Where were they going? What would become of them? The very questions he asked about himself.

  He edged nearer the lip of the road and stuck out his hand. Nobody stopped. They saw him too late and were travelling too fast.

  After an hour he was tired, thoughts of giving up and returning to the village filled his head. He remembered his house as a warm place and his bed a wonderful luxury. But no, he wouldn’t be defeated so early. Another set of headlights shone larger by the second. The lorry approached at the same awesome speed as the others and zoomed past the young man. Jameel forgot it, his attention already on the next opportunity, no more than specks of light in the distance.

  A hissing sound made him turn; the truck had stopped. He ran towards the glow of brake lights and the vehicle humming with power. A tarpaulin covered its load. Jameel mounted the first high step and grasped the handle. The door swung open. The man behind the wheel waved him to hurry and he clambered on to the worn seat.

  The driver said, ‘Lahore?’

  ‘Lahore.’

  The cabin smelled of cigarettes and oil. Jameel was impressed by the multi-coloured ribbons and chaotic colours, the trademark of truckers in Pakistan.

  In Mundhi, Afra and Fatimah lay with their arms round each other. Across the room Shafi snored in his cot. Next door, their mother drifted in dreamless calm for the first time in years.

  And in Lahore, another family slept, satisfied with the bargain they’d made.

  -------

  The driver didn’t speak during the first hour. His face was lean and sallow with thick stubble covering his jaw; the glow from the instrument-panel lit his tobacco-stained teeth.

  Jameel’s eyes adjusted as the road was revealed in golden light. He could make out shapes, gradually realising they were cars and lorries that had crashed. Driving in Pakistan was a dangerous business. The absence of conversation reassured him. The man offered him a cigarette. He refused, happy to watch the ground pass under the giant wheels, glancing at his new friend, and hugging himself in the warmth of the cabin. It was an adventure. He was on his way to Lahore and a new chapter in his life. Mundhi village was far behind him. His fingers played with the bangles on his wrist – not really something a man would wear, but for the moment the safest place – and tried not to think of what he had lost.

  The lorry turned into a large flat area where other trucks were parked. It crunched over the unlit ground and pulled in beside them. The driver pulled on the handbrake and turned off the engine, opened the door and jumped out. His passenger did the same, trailing behind through the maze of stationary workhorses and the smell of diesel oil and cooling rubber.

  Lights shone from a low building. They headed for it. Clearly, this man was no stranger here. Jameel followed him through a door into a bright room where men sat at tables, eating, smoking, and drinking mugs of tea. The driver said hello to people. Jameel felt grown-up. And to think, this had been going on while he was asleep in Mundhi.

  Other lives in other places.

  A big world and he was in it.

  The driver spoke to a man behind the counter. They knew each other. A tray of food and two mugs appeared. He picked up the tray and weaved between the tables towards a space at the back. Jameel tried to look as if he belonged. They sat down and shared the meal between them: a spicy chickpea and potato curry, lentils in coconut milk and aloo paratha. Cooking smells and men talking met in the air, and Jameel sensed the brotherhood of the road. He tore off pieces of roti with his right hand to scoop up the food. After minutes of frantic eating, the driver waved to someone at another table then spoke.

  ‘My name is Mazur.’

  ‘Jameel.’

  ‘And Lahore is where you’re headed? We can travel there together.’

  This was welcome news. Jameel celebrated with a drink of the tea. Mazur said, ‘You know Lahore? You have business there?’

  Jameel interrupted his eating. ‘I have a plan.’

  Mazur watched him devour the bread. One glance told all he needed about his new companion. ‘It’s always good to have a plan.’

  He lit a cigarette while the young man emptied every plate in front of them. They sat like that, one smoking the other eating, with no more talk until t
he driver asked another question. ‘What is your plan, my young friend?’

  ‘Jameel.’

  ‘What’s this plan of yours, Jameel? Maybe I can help you with it.’

  He waited until everything in his mouth had been chewed and swallowed before he replied. Mazur recognised the naive boy. In thirty years on the road, he’d met Jameel many times.

  ‘I’m going to my mother’s uncle. He has a restaurant and maybe a job for me. I hope so.’

  ‘Well yes, that’s certainly a plan. But tell me Jameel, is he expecting you? Does he know you’re on your way to meet him?’

  ‘No, we’ve never met. I only know his name is Gulzar Hafeez.’

  Doubt shadowed his face. Mazur had no wish to feed it. ‘It’s a start. And where does he live in Lahore?’

  ‘He wrote a letter to my mother saying life went well with him. I believe he’s an important man in the city.’

  Mazur drew on his cigarette, hearing hope in place of fact. Jameel tipped the mug to his lips and emptied it.

  ‘Do you have this letter? Can I see it?’

  Jameel fished inside his shirt and brought out a single page, old and dry. Mazur saw the date: the letter had been written before this boy was born. ‘This is good. Your relation prospers. M M Alam Road has many fine shops and restaurants.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette, leaned forward and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Jameel. When we get to the city we’ll go our ways and never meet again. What I say will help you. You’ve never been anywhere like Lahore. It can be a cruel and dangerous place full of thieves and fools who survive by preying on those even more foolish than themselves. Do you have money?’