Mama and Phulan follow me with their eyes when I emerge from Sharma’s house, but Mama smiles, her look one of admiration and surprise more than disapproval.
We greet the women from Murad’s family with warm embraces.
“You look beautiful … Is this little Shabanu? She’s grown into a woman!” Many of Murad’s cousins are ours as well.
“Come, sit here, close to us.”
They sit and talk with us until the sun sets. Then Bibi Lal leads them back to their settlement, leaving Phulan to a last night with the women of her family.
Our own close relatives settle in rings around the courtyard, Mama’s closest cousins in front. They light fires and candles, and their laughter and talk enfold us.
The mahendi women open the carved wooden box and mix the musty-smelling clay with water. They pour the thick, reddish liquid into little ceramic bowls.
Phulan sits on a small stool in the center of the women. Her yellow chadr surrounds her in a golden glow. She wears no makeup and her skin is delicate and translucent, her lips pale. Her only jewelry is a tinkly silver chain around each ankle.
Mama is the first of seven married women to dip a finger into the bowl of henna and make a reddish dot on Phulan’s outstretched palm.
I am ashamed of my anger that it is Phulan and not me sitting amid our relatives accepting advice on marrying Murad. But I mustn’t feel sorry for myself. I press my shoulder blades together and lift my head.
We serve food and tea as a mahendi woman paints a delicate design around the seven marks on Phulan’s palm.
It will be different when Rahim-sahib and I marry. His people will scorn us and our shoes with turned-up toes and rough cotton tunics. How I envy Phulan the warm circle of our women for the rest of her life!
The mahendi woman dips her slender index finger into the cup of red clay repeatedly, holding Phulan’s palm flat. She bends her head in concentration on the intricate leaves and flowers of the tree of life, her finger deft and sure.
“Tell me, Sharma,” Phulan says softly. “What am I supposed to learn tonight?”
Sharma sits beside Phulan, leaning against the bolster next to her and looking into her eyes. I move close to them.
“Do you know about love between a man and a woman?” Sharma asks. Phulan’s cheeks darken, and she fixes her eyes downward on the Mogul pattern emerging on her palm.
“You must learn to please him,” Sharma continues. Auntie is straining to hear, but Fatima, Mama, and I have taken the spots around Sharma and Phulan. The singing of the women has grown full and rhythmic, the beat marked by their clapping palms, the slapping of bare feet on the desert floor, and the jangle of ankle bells and bangles.
“I’ll please him by having sons,” says Phulan. “Isn’t that what pleases a man most?”
“Bah!” says Sharma. “Having babies only stretches what will please him most.”
Phulan gasps and Auntie puts her hand to her mouth. Fatima and I laugh, but Phulan is flustered, and Auntie moves away, her eyes scanning the closest circles for somewhere else to sit.
Sharma takes Phulan’s face between her palms and looks into her eyes, speaking solemnly.
“Phulan, your beauty is great. But beauty holds only part of a man, and that for just so long. Keep some of yourself hidden. You can lavish love and praise on him and work hard by his side. Yes, and have your sons. That will help. But the secret is keeping your innermost beauty, the secrets of your soul, locked in your heart so that he must always reach out to you for it.”
Phulan looks confused, but she smiles sweetly and thanks Sharma for the advice. Sharma’s words lift my heart, and it soars like a partridge taking flight from the desert floor. I see myself in a new light, with value I’d never attached to myself before. There are secrets that will lie deep in my heart, for me alone. I repeat Sharma’s exact words, committing them to memory, and know they are the perfect gift of wisdom.
Sharma, Mama, and I make room for other women who come to offer advice, and Phulan listens languidly to talk of putting magical herbs under Murad’s pillow at night to stir his desire for her, and how she must look down when he speaks to her.
“I’m afraid your words were lost on her,” Mama says to Sharma. “But she’s beautiful, and I hope Murad will love her well enough. Perhaps he can teach her wisdom of his own.”
Mama’s words stab at my heart. I repeat Sharma’s words, trying to apply them like medicine to a wound. Tears come to the back of my eyes, where I manage to hold them, but the pressure is painful. I swallow several times, and Fatima slips her hand over mine without looking at me.
I sit quietly while the mahendi women paint my own hands and feet. I am soothed by their quiet, steady hands, and by the voices of the singing and laughing women around me. I awake around dawn, without having been aware of falling asleep. The women fold their quilts, yawning, while a lone flute plays. Mama hands me a cup of spiced tea and sits down beside me, the fire crackling behind her. She looks tired.
“It will be time to dress Phulan soon,” she says. I’d as soon dump the henna left standing in ceramic bowls over Phulan as dress her in jewels and silk to marry Murad.
“I know it’s difficult, Shabanu,” Mama says. “But you are young, and there is time for your heart to heal.” She strokes my hair. “Sharma is right. In your way you are as great a beauty as your sister. But you have much to learn before your strength works for you instead of against you.”
I throw my arms around her neck and hold her tight. The tears spill over. If I can be as wise and beautiful as she and Sharma, surely I’ll be happy.
After checking that the kabob and sweets makers are ready for the feast, we pack the camels Dadi has given Phulan for her dowry with things for the house where she and Murad will live: a stone wheat grinder, goatskin water buckets, clay pots, butter churns, a string bed with carved wooden legs, clothes, reed mats, goathair carpets with saffron-dyed cords, woven bags for spices and rice. We leave the camels waiting in the shade of a canopy, their bells jingling.
I leave my cousins bustling in and out of the house carrying last-minute gifts, and go to the clearing behind the houses, where the rest of our camels eat from bags of fodder.
Mithoo gambols over to me, his head stretched out for a treat. I hold out a jelabi. He curls his lip at the syrupy twist of dough, then snatches it from the flat of my palm before dashing away. It’s been several days since I’ve visited him.
I sit on the ground, my pink silk dress a brilliant circle around me. Mithoo comes up quietly behind me and plucks at my hair.
There is nothing I can do about losing Murad, just as there was nothing I could do about losing Guluband. Then without bidding, as I sit stroking Mithoo’s neck, my heart releases Murad. For the first time I feel free—free to be happy for my sister, free to think about my future without him.
From the farm the large bronze drums beat, signaling that a camel race is about to start. Dadi and Uncle have been there with my boy cousins all morning, watching the dancing camels. The quavering melody of a shenai wafts across the desert on a breeze, and for the first time since Hamir’s death I am at peace.
“There you are!” says Mama. “They’ll be here soon.”
“I’m ready.” I get up, brushing the sand from my skirt, and follow her into the house.
Phulan sits squirming as Sharma brushes her hair. Her skin glistens from oil and sandalwood paste.
“Sit still!” says Sharma.
Mama lifts the chadr from Bibi Lal out of its box and unfolds the heavy red silk with butterflies and flowers embroidered in gold and green thread, the stitches so tiny they’re barely visible. Phulan touches it delicately, as if it will crumble under her fingers.
Sharma pins Phulan’s thick hair up, twisting the strings of rubies and pearls from Rahim-sahib into the strands around her face.
“You’re hurting me!” Phulan says, a quaver in her voice. When Sharma is finished, Phulan is near tears.
The effect is a tremulo
us beauty that I am certain will seize Murad’s heart the second he sees her. The chadr is the last thing to be put on, and Mama adjusts it so that it extends well over Phulan’s face, hiding her in a demure cocoon.
Outside, the singing, dancing, jostling procession from Murad’s house crosses the canal. The line snakes toward us slowly to the beat of drums and pipes and shenai.
Dust from the feet of hundreds of people in the procession seeps through the reed door. When we hear the music just outside, Dadi pokes his head in and looks at us.
“Your groom is here,” he says to Phulan. “God go with you.” It would be unlike Dadi to offer a compliment, but his eyes shine as he stands a second longer, looking at Mama, Phulan, and me before letting the door fall back into place.
Phulan is the last to emerge, Mama and I leading her by the hands. Her shoulders tremble under the red chadr, and I remember the nights under the quilt, when she cried in fear.
We deliver Phulan to Murad, who stands waiting with garlands of flowers, rupee notes, and gold threads around his neck.
A maulvi chants the call of the faithful in a high, nasal wail, and their vows are exchanged three times, with Phulan nodding her assent. Her face is hidden by the red chadr; her head is bowed, barely at the level of Murad’s chin. She looks frail beside him.
When the ceremony is finished, Mama and Dadi pass baskets of dried dates among the guests, and the marriage is solemnized.
Mama and I lead Phulan to a platform with mirrored and embroidered bolsters scattered over red carpets. Garlands of roses and jasmine form a canopy overhead. Murad sits beside her. They do not touch or look at each other. They seem oblivious of the singing and dancing around the platform. Bibi Lal hands him a glass of sweetened milk. Murad drinks from it and hands it to Phulan. She dips her head and drinks, her first act of obedience to her husband. Bibi Lal holds a silver mirror under the red and gold chadr that hides Phulan’s face. She and Murad peer shyly into the mirror, and their first glimpse of each other as man and wife is a reflected image.
When it’s time for them to leave, Bibi Lal pulls the veil back from Phulan’s face. She continues to stare down while Mama and I lead her to the camel where Murad waits to take her to her new home.
Our aunts hold the Koran overhead between them, making an arch through which Phulan passes. The women wail their sadness at Phulan’s leaving. Mama’s face is streaked with tears as she and I lead her to the waiting camel. Phulan’s eyes are steady on the ground before her. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of the heavily embroidered silk, but her fingers are firm as she holds Mama and me by the hands until the very last second.
The huge, white silk turban on Murad’s head reminds me briefly of the boy with the skinny neck and big ears. But now he wears a handsome mustache, and he holds out his hands to take Phulan’s from Mama and me. He helps her onto the camel and climbs up in front of her. The huge beast lurches to his feet, and my sister leaves her old life behind.
Mama, Sharma, Fatima, and I walk silently back to our house, our arms around each other’s waists, all of us crying. The musicians leave with the procession, Murad’s male cousins dancing and singing, their voices hoarse.
The next day at the feast given by Murad’s family, Rahim-sahib waits with the other guests. My heart lurches when I see him, his eyes fastened on me as I walk with Mama and Dadi. He wears an elaborate striped turban. My shoulders are straight and my head is high. I meet his gaze for a moment, then turn my head to look for Phulan. I feel Rahim-sahib’s eyes on the side of my face, half hidden in the shadow of my chadr, and they follow me through the afternoon. I don’t look at him again, but my face burns, half in pleasure, half in discomfort. My belly tightens and my mouth is dry.
Cholistan
As soon as the wedding is over, our relatives return to the desert much as they arrived, in a symphony of animal bells.
Sharma and Fatima are among the last to leave. I visit them where they gather their sheep and goats amid bleating and thumping hooves from the scrub bushes at the edge of the desert. We sit under a thorn tree, and Sharma holds me close to her.
“Oh, Sharma, I would have been lost if you hadn’t been here!”
“Remember when the time comes that you have a choice, pigeon,” she says. I shake my head against her shoulder. “Don’t make any silly mistakes now. You have important decisions ahead of you.”
I lie against her for some time, taking comfort from her large brown hand stroking my hair and the earthy, desert smell of her.
“But there isn’t any choice! I must marry him, or his brother will ruin Phulan’s life.” I pluck at her skirt, my fingers pleating and unpleating the soft, worn fabric. “Even if I’m desperately unhappy, I can never leave him.”
Sharma looks at me steadily, her fingers firm on my shoulders. The shade of the tree dapples over us, softening the deep lines on her forehead.
“No matter what happens, you have you. That is the important thing. And as long as you have you, there is always a choice.” I can’t answer.
“I watched Rahim-sahib during the wedding,” she says. “His eyes never left you. They begged you to look at him. And when you did, his face softened. He’s in love with you, Shabanu. He’ll want you to be happy.”
“But don’t you see? If Rahim-sahib loves me, it will be even worse. His other wives despise me already because I’m a desert girl. If he loves me, they will make life unbearable!”
Sharma nods and is quiet for a moment.
“You will have to be very wise and guard his affection closely.”
“But once I’ve started to have babies, by the time I’m sixteen I’ll look like Adil’s wife or Kulsum. He’ll start looking for another woman younger than me to fall in love with.”
A secret smile steals over Sharma’s face, and she leans back against the tree trunk.
“You don’t have to look like Adil’s wife or Kulsum. He already has sons. He doesn’t need children from you. But you’ll need a child of your own for him to adore. There are ways of keeping your body strong and healthy through childbearing. You will be beautiful long after Phulan is old.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you when the time is right,” she says. “You have enough to worry about now.”
“I want to know! I’ve watched babies being born and people die …”
“Soon enough, child,” she says. “But remember: you will always have a place with Fatima and me near Fort Abbas if you want to come.”
“Oh, Sharma, should I come? Tell me what you think!”
“I can offer you help, regardless of what decision you make. But you are the only one who can decide.”
“We must make a plan!” I say, panicking at the thought of Sharma leaving.
“That is for you alone to do,” she says. “Keep your wits about you. Trust yourself. Keep your inner reserves hidden. You know where to find me if you need me.”
My panic rises again as Mama, Dadi, and I say goodbye to Sharma and Fatima, and I stand looking after them long after her herd has disappeared among the dunes.
There is danger along both paths I might take, and I am confused and unsure of myself without her.
Our return to Cholistan fills me with a double-sided happiness, my joy in the desert the dearer because I dread what lies ahead.
Dadi tries to cheer me by singing the rhymes we’d sung on our way to Sibi. I join him, with Mama and my cousins clapping the rhythm. Xhush Dil lifts his legs in an elegant, musical walk. At almost the same moment, Mithoo’s feet kick out in a clumsy, adolescent dance. Dadi’s head whips around at the sound of the small camel leg bells behind him, and he loses his balance. He falls from his seat in front of Xhush Dil’s hump, landing on his backside in a bush beside the trail.
Mama laughs until tears spill as he struggles to free his lungi from the bush and then to catch up with the dancing camels. I laugh, and the tightness in my throat relaxes.
I hear Sharma’s voice saying “Fold your happiness deep in your
heart,” and I tuck this moment away in my reserve of happy memories.
No matter how hard Dadi shouts for Xhush Dil to stop, the great beast senses the joke and dances faster, kicking his feet higher, his ears pitched forward, his head turning from side to side for his audience to admire. Even Auntie and Uncle whoop with laughter, and the boys collapse against each other.
“When did you teach Mithoo to dance?” Dadi asks, his breath coming in great gulps as he regains his seat on Xhush Dil’s back.
“I guess it came naturally to him,” I say, smiling.
I know Mama and Dadi miss Phulan, and their efforts to be cheerful make me feel close to them.
Just as the weather had cleared for the wedding, it begins to rain again as we near the toba. Returning home during rain is a good omen, and everyone is in high spirits as we ride into our little settlement.
Much of the sand from the storm that sent us fleeing to Derawar has blown away, and the area looks more familiar than it did when we left it.
Mama, Auntie, and I rush to unload the camels before our belongings get soaked, and Dadi goes off to see if the wind has blown the toba clear of sand and whether it will hold water.
We unload the reed mats first, and Uncle climbs onto the roof to secure them over the holes torn by the storm. Auntie, Mama, and I pull our bedding inside the huts. I set out a row of empty jars to catch the rain, which falls in great, sweet plips against the red clay.
I make a fire, and the smoke rises and twists in a fine strand to escape through the thatch. My heart gives a small lurch of happiness.
The house seems both smaller and larger. We’ve grown used to being able to stand up straight in the mud house Rahim-sahib built, and yet without Phulan, Grandfather, and the dowry trunk, there is more room than before.
Tea is ready by the time Dadi comes in.
“The toba has blown nearly clean,” he says, peeling off his tunic. “We can clear out the remaining sand in a day or two. If this rain keeps up, we’ll have more water than last year.”
“Next year we’ll be hoping for enough water to stay until it’s time to leave for your wedding,” Mama says, looking at me.
Shabanu Page 16
