Spring comes early to Cholistan, and already the days are hot. The puppy is panting in his basket. I dip my cup into the water jar and offer him a drink. He tries to wriggle out of the basket and looks at me with bright black eyes. He hasn’t had attention since we left, so I pull him out and hold him in my lap for a while. He bites at my fingers. I tap his nose, and he stops biting and looks up at me. He’s a smart one. Instead he licks my palm. I tap his nose again, and he looks at me as if to ask “Now what?” He drinks more water and falls asleep in the crook of my arm. I put him back in the basket. He barks for a long while before falling asleep again.
Our trip passes in a dull routine of walking, sometimes riding the old female camel, and stopping to eat and sleep.
Dadi has given up trying to talk to me. He walks along, singing in his husky voice, and sometimes talks to the camel, sometimes to the puppy. He calls the puppy Sher Dil, which means “lion heart.” It’s a good name, for the puppy is strong and unafraid. When Dadi lets him out of his basket at night, he tumbles and tugs at the edge of our quilts and runs in circles before collapsing between us.
I have thought about Guluband often since we left Sibi. I summon his image and want to feel sad or angry or lonely. But apart from moments at night when I sit up in stark fear, waking from a dream of guns raining bullets down on him, I feel strangely detached, as if he’s with a part of me that now is gone. The only feeling I have left is of weight and heat and the white dusty air as we walk through the desert on the alien side of the Indus River.
On the eighth night we reach Rahimyar Khan. We must finish shopping for Phulan’s wedding. Since we have just the one camel, we go straight into the bazaar. It’s strange to see so many people after a week alone in the desert.
In the bazaar, Dadi leaves me to look for shawls for Phulan’s dowry, while he goes off to find Uncle and a place to tie the camel. I finger the prickly polyester and wool shawls arranged in bright stacks of red, green, turquoise, and yellow, folded to show clumsy stitching. I don’t like any of them. The shopkeeper thinks I’m a child and tells me outrageous prices.
I leave the shop and walk down the crowded lane to another, where an old man who reminds me of Grandfather sits peacefully on his floor, staring out into the daylight. He starts when he sees me, staring as if he’s seen a ghost.
“I’m looking for fine shawls for my sister Phulan’s dowry,” I announce. The old man invites me inside.
“What color?” he asks. I rub one bare foot over the other, thinking about it.
“Well, what color are her eyes?” asks the old man, his eyes surrounded by skin crinkled with kindness.
I haven’t thought of it, but Phulan’s eyes are a tawny color like liquid gold. I try to explain, and he lays a finger against his lips, thinking a moment.
“Wait here, child,” he says, and jumps down from the platform of his shop floor, slips into his sandals, and disappears around the corner.
I walk through the shop, looking at the woolen shawls stacked neatly, the soft colors mixed together unlike in the other shops. I see a pale green the color of desert shrubs and pull a woolen shawl from the pile. As I hold it up and the folds shake out, my breath catches. The embroidery at the ends is like the flowers on the trellises in the landowners’ gardens—deep, dark red like desert roses, and delicate pink like the blossoms of kharin.
The kharin should be blooming when we reach Cholistan, and for the first time since Wardak led Guluband away, I feel a stirring in the place I’d thought my heart had left.
When the old man returns, he has a packet wrapped in crumpled yellow newspaper under one arm, a stack of pale-colored shawls under the other.
“How much is this one?” I ask, holding out the soft green one.
“It’s very expensive,” he says. “It’s pashmina from Kashmir. It was made for my mother before her wedding.”
“How expensive?” I ask impatiently. I want this for Phulan. It will be beautiful with her tiger eyes.
He looks at my desert nomad’s clothes, the glass bangles on my arm, and the tribal silver bracelet on one ankle above my rough bare feet.
“Eight thousand rupees,” he says.
My jaw drops. My ears burn with shame, and I turn to walk out of his shop.
“Wait,” says the man. “What’s your name, child?”
“Shabanu.”
A smile starts slowly at the corners of his mouth and grows until it lights up his entire brown face.
“It’s the name of a princess,” I say, lifting my chin and looking him in the eye.
“It also was the name of my mother,” he says, and unties the packet of yellowed newspaper.
His hands are gnarled and his beard wispy. He folds back the last piece of paper and pulls out an exquisite gray-colored piece of cloth as light as a spider’s web.
“My father gave this shatoosh to my mother,” he says. “Would you like it?”
Pale pink and green embroidery so fine I can’t see the stitches curls along the edges of the gossamer shawl. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen or touched.
“I could never afford this,” I whisper.
“Nor could I. They don’t make shatoosh anymore. There are so few wild goats, and nobody has the patience to gather the chin hairs from the bushes where they graze. So even the richest man in Pakistan can’t afford to buy a shatoosh. There are no more.”
“But you could sell it for a fortune!”
“If I can’t buy a shatoosh, how can I sell one?” he asks. “My wife is dead and I have no children. My mother visits me in dreams to ask what I’ve done with her shatoosh. I was ashamed to tell her it lies wrapped in newspaper under my bed. I’ve been looking for someone to give it to. I believe I have found the right person.”
“But my sister Phulan …”
“Ah, Phulan of the tawny eyes,” he says, resting his finger against his lips again. He turns to the stack he’s carried with him and sets them out between us on a clean but worn cloth.
They are dull colors, and I protest that Phulan likes brightness. As he unfolds each one I feel the wool. It’s so soft and the embroidery so exquisite, I want them all.
“When Phulan is grown, she’ll dress in bright colors,” says the shopkeeper. “She needs a white shawl to cover her bright dresses for special occasions and a fawn shawl to keep her warm in the day, so the gold in her eyes will show.”
I know he’s right, and we sit down to choose which is better embroidery, which is the finer weave, the better color for Phulan’s eyes. When Dadi finds me, we have settled on the white and fawn shawls. While Dadi and the shopkeeper talk about prices, I return to finger the pale green pashmina.
“This is my wedding present for Phulan,” says the shopkeeper, handing it to me. “May she have many sons.”
As we leave I try to think of a special way to thank him, to tell him I’ve always dreamed of having a shatoosh but never imagined I would.
“Thank you,” I say. It comes out in a whisper. The shopkeeper puts his hand on my shoulder and looks at Dadi.
“She really is a princess, your Shabanu,” he says.
I wonder if God has sent this man to show me I still have a heart, after all.
We go next to the gold bazaar, where Dadi buys earrings for Phulan and a necklace for Mama, who has never owned gold.
By the time we leave Rahimyar Khan, the camel is loaded with brass pots for Auntie and other gifts from Uncle, so Dadi and I will have to walk most of the next four days until we reach home.
We enter the Cholistan Desert as soon as we leave the edge of the city. The heat shimmers from the ground shortly after Dadi and I set off at sunrise.
“Are you sorry you have only daughters?” I ask. Dadi has been silent for some time.
“God has been very good to us, and I’m not sorry about anything.” Dadi leads the camel, and I walk beside him, swinging my arms, listening to the tinkle of my glass bangles. I’ve learned to keep the chadr in place, and even to like the way it b
lows out behind me as I walk. I’ll never wrap it around me like a shroud, the way Phulan does.
We stop to rest under a stand of thorn trees, and Dadi sits on a branch that runs along the ground. He unwinds his turban, and I notice the lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes.
I feel better, and while the camel kneels, eating in the shade, I take the puppy out of his basket so he can relieve himself. I walk to the other side of the camel to take out chapatis and tea. Sher Dil pounces on the corner of my chadr, yanking my head back and landing me on my backside in the sand.
Dadi throws his head back and laughs as I haven’t heard him laugh since we left Cholistan. I try to be dignified, but Sher Dil leaps on me as if I were another puppy. I laugh too.
That night I wrap the shatoosh around me. For all its lightness, it’s warm as my quilt. I look up at the stars and am surprised at how brightly they pulse. I haven’t noticed them in a while.
I scatter pieces of onion around us on the ground. Sher Dil climbs under the quilt. As I fall asleep I hear the ancient symphony of the animals coming to the nearby toba to drink, the gong and plunk of their large brass bells muffled by the dunes.
Cholistan, I am home!
Dowry
Phulan and Mama come running to meet us, their chadrs flying out behind them when we are still half a mile from home. Loping along behind is Mithoo, bigger by a head than he was when we left, his legs still too long and flying out in funny little kicks. Tears spring to my eyes, and I run, arms wide, to Mama and embrace her fiercely.
Dadi joins us and we walk toward our hut, all talking at once.
“We have dozens of new baby camels,” says Phulan, who wears a red chadr over her hair, her face lovely and golden in the full sun. I’m so pleased she has shed her pretensions and her black chadr that I hardly mind her insinuating she’s been looking after my job.
As we near the huts Auntie waddles out, puffing noisily, my two cousins in tow. They’ve grown too.
“Are these my pots?” asks Auntie, thumping the shining brass with her knuckles.
“They’re good, heavy ones,” says Mama. “They’ll last longer than you will.” We use only clay pots.
Auntie sniffs and inspects the rest of our cargo to see what else Uncle has sent from Rahimyar Khan.
Sher Dil announces his presence with a loud “Yap! yap!” Auntie leaps backward and pulls her chadr over her nose. Phulan and I try not to laugh, but Phulan has to turn her head away.
Mama reaches up and unlashes the basket, and my cousins jump up and down, squealing and clapping their hands. Sher Dil pushes the lid aside with his wet, black nose, blinks once, and recognizes the boys as what he’s been looking for: puppies to play with. They chase one another, and Sher Dil takes turns jumping on each cousin, licking their faces and barking with joy to be out of the basket. The boys turn him over to inspect him and rub his round belly. Sher Dil paws the air, whining happily.
“We’ll have to keep our eye on him every second when we get to the settled area,” Mama says. She had been fond of the dog that was poisoned last year.
We unload the camel, and I carry our cooking pots through the neatly swept courtyard. The curved mud walls and spiky thatch of the hut are welcoming, but I feel like a stranger. I stoop to enter, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Metal cups and serving platters stand in neat, shiny rows against the wall. The reed mats feel fresh and smooth underfoot. A baby goat is tethered to a stick along one side, a stack of bright quilts just out of reach. And the large metal trunk for Phulan’s dowry takes up a great deal of space—everything as before.
I step back out into the courtyard to fetch more of our gear. In the shade of the mud mound where we keep milk and wheat flour, Grandfather sits, shading his eyes with one gnarled hand. I think for a moment he doesn’t recognize me.
“Shabanu?” he says, a long-toothed smile spreading under his white mustache. “You’ve grown a foot!”
I bend to kiss his hand, and he pulls me down beside him.
“Tell me, what did you see at Sibi?” This is the old Grandfather, back again after periods of frailty and seeming distant. Sometimes I worry that we’ll never see the old Grandfather again before he dies.
Phulan looks over her shoulder as she carries my quilt inside, but she says nothing and returns to help carry sacks of flour and lentils from the camel.
I tell Grandfather about seeing Derawar and thinking of him there, and about the Bugtis, the carnival, the Afghan Wardak, the celebration, the trip back, the remarkable man in the bazaar at Rahimyar Khan, and the shatoosh. I talk quickly, with animation, the words tumbling out faster and faster, until I am breathless and have nothing left to tell. He covers my hand with his to make me be quiet and tilts my chin up so I’m looking into his kind, old eyes.
“We are proud people, and there is nothing that gives so much pride as our animals. You can grieve for your Guluband—he was the finest we’ve had.”
The tears come slowly, leaking out over my cheeks, down my chin and neck. I weep quietly, Grandfather patting my hand the whole time. I lower my head onto my arms, folded over my knees, and rock back and forth, the grief spilling out.
Phulan drops a load of camel blankets in the middle of the courtyard and runs to put her arms around me.
“Shh, shh, shh, Shabanu,” she croons, as Mama had sung when I was a baby.
Mama brings me a cup of tea, and this time the salty-sweet liquid is a comfort. Dadi joins us, and we talk of Guluband and how we’ll miss him, everyone being very kind and acknowledging that in truth he’d been my own camel. Gradually the yapping of Sher Dil and the boys’ laughter from outside penetrate the courtyard, and I feel less like a stranger, but still as though I’ve returned after a long time.
“Come, let’s go see the new babies before it gets dark,” says Phulan, standing and tugging at my hand.
The mothers and babies gather at the toba for protection from the night. Their bells ring a fluid melody as natural to the desert as the wind. Mithoo follows, nuzzling me as we walk. I put my arm around his neck. He is growing strong and fine.
As we cross over the last dune to the toba, I’m alarmed at how much water has disappeared: it’s half full. Along its edge spiky kharin, brillant green sticks joined end-to-end at odd angles, are covered with yellow and pink flowers that look like small dragon faces. Their smell is sweet as desert honey.
I count the babies, twenty-two in all. Most of the females have given birth. In view of Tipu’s amorous activities, probably half will drop calves again next year. Most of the little ones nurse, flicking their tails.
Phulan has brought a goatskin bag she has made to feed Mithoo. She loosens the mesh sack that covers the udder of a weaning mother. I keep her yearling offspring away while Phulan draws milk into the feeding bag. The udder is small, the milk drying up. When she finishes I let the yearling go, and he nearly knocks Phulan over to get to his mother’s teat.
Mithoo bucks and grunts, and I feel a little jealous when he gambols after Phulan, who takes his bag to tie to a branch of the thorn tree.
“He’s so tall I can’t hold my arms high enough,” Phulan explains. “I’m happy you’re back. My ribs are bruised from this one poking me while I try to feed him,” she says, nudging Mithoo away with her knee. I grab his straining neck while Phulan finishes tying the goatskin to the branch. She unwinds the cord tied around one corner.
As she steps aside, Mithoo takes a sideways lunge, and has his nimble lips around the Phulan-made nipple before a single drop can fall to the ground. We laugh as he grunts, butting the bag with his forehead.
A soft pain jolts beneath my ribs as I watch Mithoo nurse, and I think my heart is beginning to mend.
We return at dusk to find Auntie has slaughtered a goat to celebrate our return. Dadi skins it for her, the boys standing by, their eyes hungry. Mama cuts the meat into cubes to be roasted on the fire. It’s nearly dark, and my stomach is grumbling. It’ll be a while before the meat is ready.
Mama bites her lower lip when Dadi fastens the new gold necklace around her neck. He takes out his snuffbox with the mirror on the lid so she can admire the way it nestles in the hollow of her brown throat.
Auntie sits at the edge of the fire circle, watching quietly. Even she gasps when Dadi holds up Phulan’s nose ring. The fire gleams off the golden circle and glows in the tiny rubies that dangle from its edge. We are struck silent, and concern for the cost of what we’ve bought creases Mama’s brow.
Dadi looks from face to face, disappointed at the silence.
“We’re rich now,” he tells us, and stands up to dance around the fire. Phulan joins him, clapping out a rhythm, her new gold bangles jangling on her arm. Mama clicks her tongue, and Auntie picks up the nose ring to inspect it. Nobody in our family has ever had such a dowry.
“Come on,” says Dadi, lifting Mama to her feet. Even Auntie claps her hands and we all give thanks, singing and kicking up clouds of dust as we dance around the fire in our bare feet.
Phulan and Mama leave us and sit down again to go through Phulan’s new jewelry and clothes. They pack them away while Auntie and I make chapatis and take the meat from the fire.
The meat is yeasty and smooth. We eat until we can eat no more, and Dadi tells Mama stories of our trip. She listens with a faraway look in her eyes, visiting where we’ve been through his remembering.
Grandfather snores beside Phulan’s trunk, and the boys sprawl, Sher Dil between them, on the mats. Auntie and Phulan pick them up and carry them across the courtyard. Auntie shoos Sher Dil out with her broom.
Phulan and I try to wake Grandfather, but he is sleeping too soundly, so we cover him with his quilt. From the looks Mama and Dadi gave each other over the fire, we know they want to be alone, and we share Grandfather’s twine-strung bed in the courtyard under the stars.
Shabanu Page 6
