Their Language of Love

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  On the second night of our arrival I was shocked awake by the fearsome thunder of an ear-splitting explosion. The windows and doors of our room rattled and a tremor shot through the brick floor beneath my feet as I sprang up. It felt as if the bomb had exploded quite close, at most a few furlongs away, though later we learned it had fallen in the fields beyond Satellite Town, nine miles to the north. I heard glass splinter and shatter elsewhere in the guest house and the tramp of feet as the guard and the awakened servants began moving about the house and compound. There was a great deal of shouting from the sentry box across the road; orders flying back and forth. Within seconds Abdul was knocking on the door, and as I turned on the flashlight to let him in, there was an eerie whizzing sound followed, after what seemed like an age, by a blinding flare of light and an earth-shaking explosion.

  I have turned deaf; I can barely hear the children scream. Feroza has groped her way to me and is clinging to my legs in terror. Holding her close and dragging her weight, I clumsily grope my way to the baby’s cot. I am certain the bomb has dropped in our compound or on Vine Cottage next door. Most likely, the Brewery is flattened.

  As it happened, the bomb destroyed several houses in Satellite Town, a scant nine miles from our house.

  ‘Is Sethji back?’ I shout hysterically, using the appellation the servants use for my brother.

  No.

  I angrily assume my brother has been seduced by the tranquility of the tree-spangled hills—not to mention the cosseting of Sarahbai’s doting friends—to spend another day in Abbotabad. The leaves must be starting to turn. My brother and my mother should be with us, I think with a proprietary sense of angst. Don’t they know we are in Pindi, and Pindi is being bombed? I carry the shrieking baby to my bed, stroking her and Feroza and whispering calming words, soothe them to fitful sleep. Propped up on pillows I sit awake all night long. I must have dozed off because close to dawn I am awakened by another crashing explosion; but this time, thankfully, it seems further away; somewhere in the Margalla hills perhaps.

  Cyrus calls the next morning. He sounds exultant and excited, ‘So, did you enjoy all the bombing in Pindi?’

  I finally let go of the control I have exercised to keep the children and servants calm, and begin to sob. I shake so much I can barely hold the receiver to my ear.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jaan? Are you okay?’ Cyrus shouts anxiously, his exultancy sapped.

  ‘Yes….’ I say.

  ‘Are the children all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes we are all fine!’

  ‘I told you not to go! The Indian jets dropped bombs but not a single bomb exploded in Lahore!’

  ‘Lahore has Data Sahib’s protection,’ I say, shakily wiping my nose, vaguely thinking of the aggregate of stories I’ve heard about the saint’s miraculous feats in defending our city. These stories are credited to awe-struck Indian fighter pilots, young Hindus and Sikhs who are said to have seen Data Sahib’s disembodied hands pluck the plummeting bombs from the air and gentle them to the ground. I had discounted the stories as a frightened populace’s wishful fantasy, and attributed the unexploded bombs found near his shrine, which is close to Ravi Bridge, to poor manufacture. There is not all that much difference between India and Pakistan—the Indians are as capable of producing defective arsenal as the Pakistanis are.

  However, right at this moment, in Pindi, I’m credulous.

  ‘I believe the stories,’ I say, speaking with conviction into the phone.

  ‘What …?’ says Cyrus, sounding confused.

  ‘I said—the stories about Data Sahib are true! I believe them … How else can you explain the unexploded bombs near the bridge? Indian bombs can’t all be duds!’

  ‘Zareen, what are you talking about?’ Cyrus says, unable to follow my thoughts.

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. Their bombs aren’t duds! They damn well explode!’ I shout. I know I’m sounding garbled and unreasonable and hysterical, but it’s all right—I’d be insane not to be hysterical and I trust Cyrus enough to know that.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Cyrus, trying to soothe me: ‘Of course, the bombs aren’t duds … they exploded didn’t they …? Who’s with you? Has Rustom returned?’

  ‘He’s still in Abottabad!’ I catch the whine in my voice but I cannot help it; I begin to cry helplessly.

  ‘Zareen, you’d better come back. I’m coming to fetch you and the girls.’

  ‘Jana, don’t you understand?’ I say, speaking between my sobs: ‘I can handle the bombs, but I can’t bear the thought of an occupying army—of soldiers tramping through our house.’

  ‘No one’s going to occupy Lahore,’ Cyrus says. ‘An Armoured Division is at the border guarding the city.’

  It is rumoured that the Indian generals have vowed to toast each other with the finest Scotch at their old pre-Partition haunt, the Gymkhana Club in Lahore, within ten days of the start of the war. It is no idle boast. The Indian army, seven times the size of the Pakistan army, better equipped than Pakistan’s, can occupy Lahore with the ease of a knife slicing through cake.

  Cyrus knows all this as well as I do, and I’m in no mood to reiterate it. ‘You can come to Pindi if you like, Janoo,’ I say. ‘But I’m not going back with you.’

  Late in the afternoon I hear the thud of car doors, the scrape of shoes on gravel and the small commotion attendant on the arrival of my mother and Rustom at Vine Cottage. As I pick up the baby and, Feroza in tow, scurry across the small field of young wheat between the houses I am dimly aware of the image I must present—that of the distraught refugee mother with her babies. The servants are carrying their luggage in. I exchange the requisite hugs and resist the impulse to fall sobbing into my mother’s arms. My mother is not the type into whose arms a sobbing woman can impulsively fall; at least, not yet: she mellows with age. In any event, Feroza has staked her claim and is clamouring to be picked up by her grandmother.

  ‘What took you so long?’ I complain, trying to control my tearful voice. ‘Didn’t you know I was here? Alone with the children? I needed your support.’ I turn to my brother: ‘Did you have to spend another day in Abbotabad at a time like this … enjoying the scenery while we were being bombed?! We could be dead for all you care!’

  Sarahbai looks up from bending over Feroza and I notice the deep lines between her eyes. She looks drained, stricken with remorse. I have not seen her react to me this way before and something catches in my heart. She turns her distraught face to Rustom. His face and ears have reddened and he appears contrite and bewildered. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t know you were here,’ he mumbles. Our family is not given to emotional outbursts and my uncharacteristic behaviour has disconcerted him. Rustom is the only one in the family who is light-skinned enough to actually turn red. To break the awkwardness my eruption has created, he turns to Feroza and stiffly bends over her: ‘Are you frightened, Feroza?’ he says, gingerly patting her head. ‘You are a big girl now, you mustn’t be frightened.’ He is uneasy around children.

  Feroza’s unambiguous, hazel-eyed stare embarrasses him further. I have seen the effect of that stare on my friends; it’s unnerving. ‘Feroza, run into granny’s room and get me a tissue,’ I say, coming to his rescue.

  It is the sixth day of the war. The call is out to contribute to the war effort; to donate money, quilts and clothes for the alarming accumulation of war-widows and village refugees.

  The newspapers blazon the amounts donated by various businesses, and two days after their return to Pindi, my brother and I escort our mother on a gallant mission of mercy on behalf of the brewery company.

  It is all rather stagey. At nine o’clock on a cool September morning we await the Brewery’s ancient Daimler, a coach-like relic with running-boards, and sporting the Daimler’s signature radiator grill. Bequeathed by the Brewery’s British owners, it is hand-cranked to life and chugged out on special occasions such as this. Mother and I climb into its spacious interior, which smells of boot polish and varnish, our inco
ngruous evening-saris rustling and puffing up with the electricity generated by the friction of the leather cushions against our silks. We avoid touching each other because of the tiny shocks delivered by the static.

  Up front, in a dark suit, a white handkerchief blooming in his breast pocket, my brother appears to be composed. I can tell, though, from his scarlet ears, the frequency of his bland social smile and faintly abstracted air, that he is already projecting himself into varying scenarios of his imminent meeting with Field Marshal Ayub Khan and generally nerving himself for the occasion. He has already met him briefly at two State functions, so he has acquired some substance on which to base his imagined scenarios.

  The ancient Daimler crunches up the gravel drive and rumbles past the guard standing to stiff attention at our modest gateway. It humps a long-snouted passage across the strip of road that separates Vine Cottage from an imposing pair of gates set in a tall wall and comes to a jolting halt. To one side of the gates is a brass plaque emblazoned: STATE GUEST HOUSE. Topped with jagged glass and strings of barbed wire, the wall surrounds the estate as far as the eye can see. The gates of Vine Cottage and the State Guest House are diagonally across from each other. Had we walked, even accommodating our pace to Sarahbai’s totter in her heels, we would have covered the distance in about ten minutes. But, given the significant nature of the occasion, that was out of the question. The services of the Daimler had to be corralled.

  A conscript in khaki uniform and red-crested turban detaches himself from a similarly attired group of military guards. Eyeing our antique vehicle with suspicion, the man saunters up to the driver’s window and peers in curiously.

  Leaning across the driver and clearing his throat, my brother speaks with the brusque authority he has acquired since our father’s death: ‘Arrey bhai, General Sahib is expecting us,’ he says. And, impatient and on edge, with small, assertive waves of his hand, he peremptorily dismisses the sentry and simultaneously directs him to open the gate.

  A callow twenty-one at the time our father died, Rustom had to quickly learn certain mannerisms and modes of speech in order to function in a world ruled by the dominant and the assertive; an environment beset by sharks circling to wrest the Brewery from his control at any lack of vigilance or sign of weakness on his part.

  The suspicious sentry, impervious to dismissal or compliance, stands his ground before the snout of our odd-looking transport.

  ‘You should have taken your Dodge,’ reprimands our mother, primly pursing her mouth and stroking her ear-lobe, a habit she acquires when she is nervous. She is referring to my brother’s year-old Dodge.

  The Brewery’s grey-bearded driver intervenes: ‘We come from there, brother.’ With a turn of head and flick of hand, he indicates Vine Cottage, and establishes our credentials as worthy neighbours. The sentries cannot have helped but notice the Daimler emerge from the gates of Vine Cottage. Even if they rotate duties and have not seen the ancient vehicle before, they are bound to have seen our driver go in and out of Vine Cottage in the Dodge at least twenty times a day.

  Tall, good-looking, impeccably attired and sporting stylish Ray-Bans, my brother steps off the running-board of the Daimler into the sunlight. On seeing him emerge in all his glory, a superior officer wearing earphones leans over the railing of the sentry box above the gate-post and barks an indecipherable order to the sentry.

  The conscript immediately stands to attention to salute Rustom, and smartly marches off to help the other guards push open the green-painted gates sporting the battalion’s embossed brass insignia held within the arch of two crossed scimitars.

  I’d never imagined I’d feel such a perfect stranger riding up the once-familiar drive of the Pindi Brewery estate. Lush with the overhang of trees and flowering creepers, expanses of a fine-bladed variety of American grass and tall, trim hedges, the asphalt drive is flanked by a fresh crust of red earth. Swathes of colour blaze from the flower-beds and bougainvillea as we approach the main mansion, its sandstone facade partially covered with ivy. The long summer is almost over, the lucid air fresh with scents of mown grass, magnolias and jasmine.

  Sarahbai, Rustom and I are escorted up a short wide flight of curving steps by an impressively good-looking young major with a baton tucked under his arm. His uniform has a lot of gold and red braid on it and also some medals. He conducts us courteously through a sumptuous chamber furnished with ornate desks, stuffed leather chairs and small tables, with ashtrays and tea-cups waiting to be cleared. The years have not dimmed my memory. I exchange involuntary glances with Rustom and Sarahbai as we recognize each familiar detail with a proprietary sense of surprise and nostalgia. Our eyes are shining too brightly perhaps; the young officer glances at us with a mixture of curiosity and bafflement as we drag our steps, clearly wishing to linger.

  The diffused light that filters through the stained-glass windows ignites the teak panelling and parquet floors with a mellow glow; the two windows still feature the oval-shaped poetic likenesses of Wordsworth and Shelley, their names spelled out in calligraphic flourish beneath their dated torsos. The gleaming mahogany furniture, thickly carved and embossed with the shapes of long-legged, oval-bodied birds and bulbous fauna, match the artistry on the panels of the two stately doors.

  ‘This way,’ the major says, prompting us to follow him.

  ‘This used to be our home,’ says Sarahbai, her voice tinged with pride and a bashful tremor.

  The major shifts his eyes from her to Rustom, his raised eyebrows respectfully awaiting an elaboration, should there be one.

  Rustom looks acutely embarrassed and perturbed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he mumbles.

  Holding a hand to his heart and slightly bowing, the major ushers us through a stately door into a large oblong room, and directs us to a table that has to be the stretch-limousine of all tables, ambushed on three sides by tall-backed chairs. He pulls out a plush-covered chair for Sarahbai, and then one for me. The maroon pile is worn at the seat. I can’t for the life of me recognize the room: either the dimensions have been altered or my memory is failing me. A slightly uneven row of framed watercolours and charcoal sketches hangs to one side. An ornate mirror decorates the wall behind us, reflecting them.

  As soon as the major leaves, my brother, too restive to remain seated, walks over to scrutinize the pictures. As he shifts from one painting to the next, I vaguely recognize them. Sketched, I believe, by British artists during the Raj, they were once distributed in various rooms of the Lodge. Such artefacts of the Empire are quite valuable, and I wonder that my brother did not move them when he removed himself; he was probably too naive to appreciate their value at that time.

  Mother and I continue to sit, uncomfortable in our finery, as stiff as the straight-backed chairs upon which we sit. We look quite forlorn at the far end of the long table reflected in the mirror.

  Her exuberance tamped by the grand dimensions of the room that renders us so inconsequential, and also, I suspect, tempered to suit the occasion, Sarahbai is solemn. At fifty-five she is still beautiful. Her stylishly cropped hair, partially covered by her sari, is naturally dark, her skin velvety. She has never covered her head except to visit the Fire-Temple, and the petit point border pinned to her hair is one of the perplexing manifestations of her transformation from the sexy young Sarah to the regal Sarahbai. It is as if she is testing out new roles more suitable to her station as a wealthy widow; cautiously switching from fetching-lovely to modest matriarch.

  Fingers stiff, Sarahbai’s hand presses down on the manila envelope she has placed on the table. Her fingers look unexpectedly stubby with her nails clipped. She wears translucent, anaemic-pink nail polish instead of the brighter colours she wore before her transformation.

  The cream-coloured envelope is flamboyantly sealed with congealed red wax and stamped with the company’s lion logo. Perennially balanced on one graceful paw, while the other three paws and a tufted tail dance in animated suspension, the tiny embossed lion guards the million-rupee cheq
ue.

  Mr Bhutto is suddenly in the room. The Foreign Minister looks slight, stoop-shouldered and abstracted. I barely recognize him from the robust and bronzed young man whose genial presence seemed to fill the Punjab Club bar only three years ago.

  Hovering close to the door from which he has emerged, his demeanour makes it clear he is in a tearing hurry.

  Hastily pushing back our chairs we move precipitately over the Persian rugs to where he stands, the trodden-upon borders of our saris sagging and brushing the floral patterns on the rugs.

  His hair is thinner, his face almost grey. The war is taking its toll.

  Mr Bhutto smiles. ‘The President is busy in a meeting. He’s very sorry he cannot see you. He told me specially to convey his salaams … What can I do for you, Sethi Sahib?’

  My brother leans forward with all the ceremony of a courtier at a Mughul Durbar and mumbles something that sounds like a greeting, and then something appropriate about the gift we bear. His left hand hovering near his solar plexus, his right extended palm upwards, he slightly turns to ceremoniously present our mother.

  ‘Mrs Sethi would like very much to contribute something towards the war effort …’ he says, leaving the formally begun sentence dangling.

  Her deceased husband’s training standing her in good stead, Sarahbai hands the envelope to Mr Bhutto with equal proportions of grace, modesty and gravity. She enunciates as clearly and solemnly as a child at a school presentation: ‘This is our contribution to the President’s War Fund … May God bless him and crown his efforts with success.’

  Mr Bhutto takes the envelope from her hand with as much courtesy as his rushed state and preoccupation can abide. Raising wry eyebrows at the red lions embossed on the wax, he breaks open the seal and examines the cheque.

  ‘Thank you Mrs Sethi, this is very generous,’ he says with edifying warmth. Turning to my brother and me he thanks us also. Communicating with a subtle movement of his eyes the complicity powerbrokers and politicians share, his smile dissipating the cynicism implicit in his choice of words, Mr Bhutto says to my brother: ‘I’ll bring it to the Big Man’s notice.’