by Owen Mullen
The question made Jameel uneasy.
‘Split it up. Some in one pocket. Some in another. Even keep some in your shoes. Only bring out a few coins. People will be watching, make them believe you have nothing of value or soon that will be the truth. I’ll drop you near the train station. Go to the left-luggage counter and leave your case. They’ll give you a ticket. It won’t cost much. If you go around carrying a suitcase, you may as well shout out ‘Come and rob me, please!’ Don’t go with anyone or wander down alleyways or side streets. Okay?’
None of this had occurred to Jameel. Could Lahore really be so different from Mundhi village where everyone knew everyone and crime was unknown?
Mazur wasn’t finished. ‘And always walk straight and tall, as if you know your way. Anything else will tell these sharp-eyed jackals you’re a stranger. They live off the unwary. Ask someone who looks respectable to point you to M M Alam Road, near Gulberg. As I say, there are fine restaurants there. If your great-uncle is indeed an important man they may know him.’
The driver saw fear in the boy’s eyes.
‘Do you understand? The city has enough lost souls. Make sure you aren’t one of them.’
Jameel’s hand closed over the money in his pocket.
Mazur hoped the boy would heed him. His mother’s tale sounded like the kind of glamour that girls often saw in an older male relative – a loving but inaccurate assessment of character and achievement. Lahore was a big city. What happened there happened in any big place. People arrived believing a better future was waiting for them. For a few that dream came true. For many, the good life would elude them as day by day they accepted less than their expectations, until their existence was worse than the one they’d fled. With nothing to stay for and nothing to return to, they filled their days waiting for death.
Mazur glanced at the wreckage of their meal. ‘Finished? Then let’s go.’
The transport cafe was busier than it had been; drivers came and went all the time. As they were leaving, the man behind the counter produced a brown paper bag containing four warm and greasy roti and handed the parcel to Jameel. ‘Here. You’ll need this later.’
They made their way to the lorry, avoiding the coming and going in the unlit parking ground. Fifty yards away, traffic sped to unknown destinations. Jameel hoisted himself up easier than the first time. The cabin door wasn’t locked. He pulled it open and scrambled in. Mazur turned the key, the engine rumbled into life and the monster edged through the dark towards the road. It seemed hours since they’d left it. They built up speed and rejoined the race through the night.
‘So, Lahore,’ Mazur said. ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but your great-uncle’s waiting for you.’
He forced certainty into his voice, grinning at his subdued young passenger. Jameel didn’t answer. He crushed the bundle of money tight against his thigh and tried to remember why he’d ever wanted to leave the village.
A car zoomed past and disappeared into the future. Jameel watched it go and caressed the reminders on his wrist. Resentment at Afra’s mother and sorrow for his lost love were powerful emotions, but no match for the fear stirring in him.
He stared stone-faced, wishing he was in Mundhi.
-------
In the early morning light, a thick grey cloud hung like a gathering storm over the city. Further off, the sky was clear. Lahore was defined by the darkness above it. Mazur pointed to the ominous blackness. ‘Smog. Lahore Dust they call it. Smoke, dirt, and production waste. It covers Lahore like a tent, so bad sometimes you can only see a few yards ahead.’
‘And what do people do about it, Mazur?’
The driver lit a cigarette with one hand; it glowed and filled the cabin with blue smoke. ‘They do what I do. Admit it’s killing them without believing it.’
‘How many people live here?’
‘Too many. The truth is no one knows. Ten million they say, though there’s no way of telling how many Afghan refugees or immigrants from Iran have settled in Lahore.
‘Ten million?’
‘Ten million plus. Lahore is an overcrowded, polluted hellhole. I love it.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘I don’t live here. I often stop here. Today my business is small. I’ll be in the city only a short time, then on to Islamabad. But I know Lahore well. I’ve walked in its gardens, eaten from its tandoors and whored in Heera Mandi many times.’
Mazur grew quiet, revisiting his past. He pulled the truck off the main road and crawled to a halt behind cars, lorries, bikes and carts. ‘Traffic’s a problem, that’s why they have so many underpasses. They help, but only a little.’
Mazur’s words were a commentary on the scene outside. Jameel had never seen so many people or vehicles, so much activity, crammed into one place. Everyone was hurrying somewhere. The streets were like canyons, carrying one human tributary after another.
‘Do you know what Lahore is famous for?’
‘No.’
‘Carpets.’ Mazur paused for dramatic effect and failed to get it – his passenger was only half-listening. ‘Carpets.’ He tried to generate interest. ‘Hand-made. Carpets are big business in Lahore.’
Mazur let the history of carpets go untold. Jameel’s jaw hung open, his eyes fixed on the pageant so different from Mundhi village. His new friend studied him while they waited. A nice young man. He hoped he’d find his relation and escape whatever he was running from.
They made progress through the crowded streets. ‘I’ll let you out here. The Central Railway Station isn’t far. Do as I’ve told you. Get rid of the case, and be careful in this place. Then you can begin your search. What’s the name?’
‘Gulzar Hafeez.’ Saying it made it seem more real.
‘Okay. Here, don’t forget this.’ Mazur handed him the parcel of roti.
Jameel opened the door and climbed down. No one paid any attention to his arrival in the twenty-third largest city in the world. His friend for a day passed the suitcase to him. Jameel looked up into the cabin. Mazur smiled. ‘Good luck, and remember, walk straight and tall.’
‘I’ll try.’ He was afraid to let this good man go; the bump in his shoes didn’t reassure him. ‘Thank you, Mazur.’
He closed the door, stepped back and was swallowed by the crowd. At first the truck didn’t move then it joined the flow and disappeared.
For a night, the cabin had been Jameel’s world; he’d felt safe. Now where he stood was noisy, bustling and intimidating. Wild-eyed people hunched behind steering wheels, only interested in overtaking whatever was in front. Every expression was taut and intense.
The young man from Mundhi might as well have been invisible. He put the case under his arm, gripped the bag of roti and let himself be swept in the direction Mazur had pointed, in step with strangers for the first time in his life.
Chapter 7
Fatimah and Shafi lay curled on Shafi’s cot, one at each end, watching their sister fold her few clothes into a battered canvas bag. The atmosphere was solemn. Now she was gathering her things together they realised in a way they hadn’t before.
Afra was leaving.
Shafi was the least affected, tugging strands of stray thread from the bedcover. He was too young to feel the pain his sisters felt but he managed a sad face. It was hardest for Fatimah. She was about to have her role model, big sister and best friend drift out of her life and she was miserable beyond tears, unable to imagine a day without her guiding hand and calming words. Afra pretended to be cheerful for the others.
Jameel was gone from Mundhi; she didn’t know where. Walking home from the fields talking to him might never have been. Life had shaken them apart.
‘When?’ Fatimah asked.
‘Soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘An hour, maybe less.’
Fatimah put her face in the pillow. The less definite ‘soon’ sounded further away. In the room next door, their mother struggled to stay resolved. She knew the sorrow she’d brou
ght to her family. They would never understand none of this was of her choosing and that force of circumstance had dictated the road. How much better, how much easier it would have been for them to live together in Mundhi. She imagined her children grown, married with children of their own. Climbing onto her lap, their trusting faces shining up at their grandmother. She pushed the images from her mind. Mrs Dilawar Hussein was returning today and though she wished it could be different, it couldn’t be.
Better to let the girls have their moment together, there was no telling when they’d meet again. She made tea and stared into the unlit fire. Her daughters thought her heartless. If they only knew. In the Punjab it was common for a girl to marry into a family far from her own. Sometimes, the new bride would leave and never see her parents or brothers and sisters again. Although that was the way of it, custom didn’t lessen the pain.
Afra collected the little she had and drew the strings of the bag together. ‘I’m going out. I want to take a last look at the village. There will be nights when I’ll want to be able to make Mundhi appear in my head. I need to remember it. I won’t be long, I promise.’
Outside in the yard, the chickens squawked and ran around, fussing over nothing. Uncu the donkey lolled in the shade, his slow movements so different from the behaviour of the birds. His eyes were untroubled, to Afra, almost wise. Donkeys weren’t clever creatures yet Uncu accepted his life without struggling against every turn in the road. He didn’t complain, he made the best of it and, in the heat of the day, slept when he could.
Perhaps this docile beast – too dull or too enlightened to worry – had something to teach. She opened the gate and went into her village for the last time, walking to the end of Mundhi and back again winding between the houses to where she and Jameel had been together.
How she’d hated to see him sad and cast down, not the Jameel she’d always known. But even in his anguish he’d found the strength to give her the bangles and tell her their story. Afra caressed the six carved hoops at her wrist.
“As long as we believe, the bangles will not fail us.”
She gazed at the deserted dwelling; this was where they would have lived and been happy. Without him, just bricks and mud.
-------
Everyone heard the car pull up; its tyres crackling over the earth, louder than the powerful engine under the bonnet. Fatimah tensed at the sound while her older sister pretended to be unaware of the vehicle’s arrival. The opening and closing of a door made denial impossible.
They’d come for her.
Afra picked up the bag, tucked it under her arm, opened the door and went into the yard. Her mother came through the other door. A stillborn smile passed between them. A man with the same hooked nose as his brother lounged by the driver’s door. In the back seat, a veiled figure sat upright, detached from the scene. Her son walked round the front of the car and nodded to Afra’s mother. He took the bag from her daughter, his eyes lingered on the face under the nib he’d heard so much about.
She caught his interest and the hairs on her neck rose. The family stood, gripped by the finality of it. No one spoke. Even Shafi had gone shy, hiding behind his sister, his childish way of dealing with unpleasantness.
‘So?’ Afra tried to sound positive.
Her mother hugged her. ‘I’ll miss you, we all will.’
‘I know.’ She turned to her brother and sister. ‘Look after our mother and each other. Next time we meet I’ll know if you’ve been good, so be good.’
Shafi peeked out. ‘We’re always good.’
His big sister fell to a crouch, level with his face. ‘I know you are, Shafi, because like me, you’re afraid of Fatimah.’
It would take a lot more than that to cheer Fatimah today. Afra put her arms round both children as their mother looked on in stoic wretchedness. The driver pressed something into her hand. She took the wad of dirty notes without looking at it, knowing the bargain was complete.
Fatimah cried, ‘Tell me, Afra! Say it!’
Afra took the child’s hand in her hands. ‘Wherever you are I am.’
Fatimah’s eyes filled with tears. ‘And wherever I am you are, too.’
‘Firdos!’ The woman called from inside the car, bringing the magic of the moment to an end. The youngest of her three sons held the door. Afra got in. The engine thrummed into existence, the car turned and passed the group standing in the dust outside the house. Afra waved. They waved back and were left behind. Mrs Dilawar Hussein didn’t acknowledge her in any way; her face remained hidden behind her nib and Afra felt her heart beat faster. She tried to relax, wondering how long it would be before she saw her family again.
And Jameel, where was he?
All she could do was take hope from his words, borrow wisdom from Uncu, and make these her travelling companions. She touched the wood, wishing its power would work for her. His name slipped from her lips. ‘Jameel.’ Stern eyes fell on her. She pretended to sleep.
By the time they reached Lahore, day had become night and the mother of her future husband hadn’t spoken. The city glowed in the dark, an orange aura radiating from it. Despite her sadness and fear, Afra had slept part of the way. Now they were in the city Firdos slowed the car, mindful of his passenger. There wasn’t much to see; the well-lit streets were quiet. Perhaps it would look better in the day. Would this woman be better? She doubted it.
They drove on through the city, for what seemed almost as long as the journey from Mundhi until the car stopped outside a house where lights were on, the only one in the street. Firdos opened the door on his mother’s side. Mrs Dilawar Hussein levered herself off the seat using a cane. Afra had forgotten how fat she was.
The son and his mother behaved as if the girl didn’t exist. Firdos carried the canvas bag, hurrying after the older woman. She took his arm for support and said something. He replied – the only words either had exchanged since the irate call when she’d grown tired of the touching goodbyes.
Afra let them go on at their slow pace and studied the house that was very different from a village house: bigger, with a flower garden in front. A man appeared at the door, the light from within sketching the outline of his frame. He came forward to welcome Mrs Dilawar Hussein, offering unneeded assistance. She heard the woman tell him to stop, that she was all right and still he hovered and fussed round her. Now, Afra was ignored by all of them.
The others went inside, one holding his mother’s arm, the other smoothing imagined obstacles out of Mrs Dilawar Hussein’s path. If Afra had had somewhere else to go she would’ve fled there and then, but she didn’t, so she followed them. The room was smaller than she expected, with threadbare carpets and ugly furniture. It smelled like someone ought to open a window. The two sycophants busied themselves settling the matriarch into an ancient armchair while a woman stood ready with a cup of something, her shoulders hunched, tired and unhappy. Could this be Chandra? She held the cup with both hands, afraid to spill even a drop, and glanced at the new girl, then away.
Afra’s mother had said this family were rich and lived in a big house. This couldn’t be it. Nothing about it said money had been spent here. In truth, she had no idea what rich might look like but, like everyone everywhere, assumed she’d recognise it. Mrs Dilawar Hussein accepted the drink without thanks, her eyes boring into Afra above the rim of the cup. The men watched the older woman, waiting her instruction. Her voice and her power filled the room. ‘You’ll stay here until the wedding. Bilal will be responsible for you.’
A sly smile from the man who'd opened the door identified him as Bilal. His gaze lingered on Afra a moment too long. There was something feral in the black eyes, the pockmarked cheeks and the oiled hair, plastered against his head. Someone who slept in his clothes and was a stranger to soap and water.
‘When will my wedding be? Will it be soon?’
‘Soon enough. Until then you’ll help Nadira, Bilal’s wife.’
The driver got up, keys dangled from his finger. ‘You’re tired, m
other, I’ll take you home.’
‘Not just yet, Firdos. Bilal, call your wife.’
Mrs Dilawar Hussein gave out orders like a general. The men accepted it. Bilal clapped his hands. ‘Nadira!’ His wife reappeared in the doorway. ‘Take her to her room. And her bag. Tomorrow she can work with you.’
Nadira motioned Afra to follow. No one said goodbye, good night, sleep well or any of the usual words of welcome or friendship. Bilal’s wife was already halfway up a staircase, the canvas bag bumping against each step. At the top, three doors led off the small landing. Nadira opened one, turned on a light and went in. There was nothing except a small bed with a single sheet and a sink. If a carpet had ever covered the floor it was gone, leaving bare boards, marked in places where heavy furniture had rested on them. Nadira laid the bag down and pointed, her wrist was thin as a reed. She didn’t speak to the guest. She was afraid; her whole being shouted it. A voice seeped through the floor – Mrs Dilawar Hussein, grumbling again. Nadira trembled and ran from the room.
Afra sat on the hard bed; rust peeled from its iron frame. The sink was blocked and something brown pooled on the bottom. Then there was the smell.
She put her head in her hands and cried.
Chapter 8
Lahore Central Railway Station in the heart of the city was built during the British colonial era. Jameel hadn’t seen anything like it. Inside people were everywhere; hurrying, carrying luggage, clutching tickets and checking the timetable suspended from the roof. Signs meant nothing to him. A soldier in uniform showed him where to go.
Jameel lifted the suitcase on to the counter. ‘I want to leave this here.’
The attendant gave him a ticket and carried the luggage into the back. During the whole transaction Jameel was the only one to speak.
