by Bapsi Sidhwa
Ruth and the Afghan
It was the last day of the polo match. The popular Brazilian team had scored a narrow victory over the team from Nepal to win the finals in a tense match. Ruth, who had politely rooted for the Nepalese but had not much cared who won, was nevertheless disappointed. She spotted Raj in the knot of sympathetic onlookers that had formed around the Nepalese players. She noticed him cut through the throng to the Brazilians to congratulate them and had almost been tempted to join them. She would see him tonight, anyway. The handsome Brazilian captain had accepted the huge silver cup with crossed polo-sticks for handles, and held it aloft to enthusiastic applause.
As she walked down the path leading to the parking lot Ruth’s mind drifted to the gala that would take place later that evening at the Punjab Club. It was to bid farewell to the visiting teams. Her friends would be there and the usual anonymous blend of party faces. The teeniest excuse and there’s a party, she thought. Didn’t this lot get tired of seeing the same faces evening after evening? They’d had a grand shindig to welcome the polo players only a few weeks back.
She was wondering absently what she might wear that evening, when she spotted her driver, already holding the car door open to receive her. Bless his heart, she thought—he always managed to find a conveniently close parking spot.
Once she was home Ruth went into the kitchen to ask if Chikoo had been fed. This was more a ritual than a query—an unconscious means of reclaiming the house from the servants and establishing her domain. At times, yearning to have the house to herself as she had back home in New England, she would dismiss the servants—insist they take the day off. It never quite worked as she hoped. Billo would stalk away miffed that her mistress should have so little need of her. The cook, loath to go home so early, would lock the kitchen door and settle on a charpoy beneath a tree with a hookah, ready to pass the time of day with a game of snakes-and-ladders or a chat with whoever happened by. No matter how she barricaded herself the gardener might decide to trim a hedge outside her bedroom window, or Grace turn up to sweep the drive. And always she would hear their muffled voices talking. Did people anywhere else in the world talk so much?
Telling the cook he could take the evening off, Ruth settled down to watch an old re-run of Bewitched. Idly stroking Chikoo as he nestled in her lap she was irked, and at the same time amused, by the eccentricity of the mullah-supervised television censors. At the merest hint of a kiss—even a perfunctory peck-on-the-cheek between Samantha and her husband—the screen became blurred. Cleavage and legs in commercials on CNN were subjected to a similar ambush. Ruth found it ironic that a country with one of the highest birthrates in the world should be so queasy about sex. Her friends kept scraps of muslin at hand; viewed through the fabric they said the images cleared. Ruth had not gotten around to trying this out yet.
Ruth waited for the six o’clock news in English. Ever since her visit to Kabul she liked to keep abreast of events in Afghanistan. The Pakistani newscaster’s delicate face, lightly framed by the obligatory chiffon scarf covering her head and shoulders, looked lovelier for it. She did not smile, as her counterparts on CNN and BBC did—it would be considered indecent in the wake of the increasingly puritanical atmosphere during General Zia’s regime—akin to flirting with men in the audience. The scarf was mandatory on Pakistan television and symbolized modesty.
It was almost four years since Ruth had accompanied Rick on a business trip to Kabul. Ruth knew that the Afghan king, Zahir Shah, had been deposed by the KGB and the delightfully informal couple, who had invited them to dinner in Kabul, had been forced to flee. After several subsequent unstable regimes, the Russians had placed a man of their choice at the helm of affairs to gain complete control.
There were desultory pockets of resistance by Afghan Mujahedeen. In their intended push through Afghanistan and then Pakistan to the warm waters of the Arabian Sea and on to the Straits of Hormuz, a short span of ocean across from Iran, the Soviet Union finally invaded Afghanistan in 1979. Their plan was to cut through to the port of Gwadar in Pakistan and from there to be in a position to control the Strait. This, Rick had explained, directly threatened American oil interests in the Persian Gulf. The newly elected President Reagan, who Ruth had at first considered dimwitted and later, insane, had proved shrewd and even prescient. Reagan promptly branded the USSR ‘Evil Empire’, deployed missiles in Europe and bombarded the communist regime with dire ultimatums. In making the Russians believe he was dangerously deranged and reckless of consequences he evidently terrified and eventually pushed them into compliance. Breathtaking rumours circulated through the grapevine of the expatriate American community in Pakistan. Two Texans, Ruth excitedly learnt, had had a hand in influencing President Reagan and directing the action. A stunning Houston socialite, Joanne King Herring, whom Ruth had met briefly at a party when Rick had been posted to Houston, was befriending General Zia-ul-Haq, President of Pakistan, and throwing extravagant parties at her home to introduce the General to the Houston elite. She cultivated the senator from Lubbock, Charlie Wilson, who was on the Arms Appropriation Committee, and got him to direct the flow of weapons to the mujahedeen. Between them and a couple of CIA operatives they made Reagan aware of what was at stake. Reagan immediately grasped the possibilities inherent in the Afghan resistance and got America fully engaged in their struggle against the Evil Empire. Pakistan, a willing ally at the time, was used as a base to conduct covert military operations of the proxy war and as a conduit to funnel American arms and supplies to the freedom fighters in land-locked Afghanistan.
Ruth was uneasy about her country’s motives in supporting the Afghans. If her Pakistani friends realized the expediency of the American involvement they didn’t mention it. Except for occasionally calling American Capitalism ‘ruthless’, or its democratic ideals ‘hypocritical’ for foisting military dictatorships when it suited them, Ruth had found little anti-American sentiment in Pakistan. Although she agreed with these views, she found herself defending her country’s actions as she never would have done at home.
Ruth could hear Billo go in and out of the bedroom as she tidied up, putting away the washing and hanging the ironed shot-silk skirt and top she had decided to wear that evening. Once Ruth left for the Punjab Club Billo would turn down the bedcovers, turn on the electric heater, place the flask of water on the night table and plug in the mosquito repellant. Ruth heard Billo run the bathwater. She stretched her limbs in a gesture of ease and gratitude before getting up from her chair.
Ruth slipped into her long navy skirt and stood before the mirror to adjust the slim straps of her fitted top. She bent to accommodate Billo as the maid hooked up the clasp of her lapis choker, its three deep blue strands separated by delicate strips of gold encrusted with tiny diamonds. The choker enhanced the handsome set of Ruth’s tanned shoulders and the matching bracelet on her shapely, lightly freckled arm. Rick had bought the jewellery for her from the Gem Corporation of Pakistan their first Christmas in Lahore.
When she last wore the lapis with the same sleek navy outfit she had on now, Rick had told her she looked better than she had on their first date. The compliment had charmed Ruth, and yet she found herself choosing the outfit tonight with thoughts of Raj eyeing her from across the party. With his love for polo, she guessed he would be there. The affair with Raj had fizzled out after their scary encounter with the night-watchman, and his endless travels now that he was Pakistan’s Ambassador at Large. Yet, his absence had left Ruth in quite an ironic state of missing the man who had filled in the holes left by her perpetually travelling husband.
Ruth draped the light pashmina stole around her bare shoulders. She studied her image in the mirror. Her flesh was firm, her stomach flat. Her face had taken on softer, more appealing contours. Her cleavage and the knee-high slit in her skirt were discreet; the tailor had made the outfit out of a sari Rick had brought her from Delhi.
By the time Ruth stepped out into the porch Yussaf, the company chauffeur, had already tur
ned the Buick around in the porch. Rick did not like her to drive at night. Yussaf held the door open while she settled in. She directed him to the Punjab Club, and told him she would find a ride home. At dinner parties at their friends’ houses the chauffeurs were fed from their hosts’ kitchens. Later, huddled in blankets against the wintry nights, they slept in their cars. Ruth did not like to keep Yussaf waiting past midnight. When Rick was in town he drove. Tonight, one of her friends, or perhaps Raj, would drive her home.
The party honouring the polo players and the victorious Brazilian team was in full swing. The reception hall was crammed with women in silk saris and shimmering shalwar-kameezes and men in dark suits or woollen sherwanis that came down to their knees. Waiters in white uniforms and crisp turbans were weaving between the guests with trays of fruit juices, sodas and steaming kababs. Ruth automatically switched into ‘party mode’. Greeting acquaintances, looking for friends, she moved through the crowd. People had spilled into the back garden and had formed small groups around the coal braziers scattered about the lawn. The temperatures dropped below freezing at night. The grass was covered with coarse handwoven wool rugs, and the garden was enclosed by orange marquees, appliquéd with brilliant swaths of red, blue and green colours.
A cheerful man with a prematurely white head of hair handed Ruth a drink. She often ran into him at parties. She took a sip: Scotch masked in Coke. She didn’t like Scotch, but ‘thanks’, she said, raising her glass, ‘great stuff’, and moved on. A little later she quietly abandoned the glass on a side table.
A diluted form of Prohibition had always existed in Pakistan but General Zia had recently enforced its laws. Alcohol was no longer sold in club bars and the wine shops were closed. At parties in public places like the Punjab Club, men concealed flasks of smuggled Scotch or vodka in their breast pockets. At dinners at home smuggled alcohol was freely served but there was rarely any wine: smuggling the bulky bottles of wine was unprofitable.
Non-Muslims could buy a limited monthly quota and Christian servants, therefore, were in demand. Grace and Sadiq, who swept the compounds and cleaned the bathrooms of two other bungalows besides the Walkers’, divided their monthly quota of booze equally between their Muslim employers. Every month they stood in line with their permits to buy bottles of local beer, gin or brandy from the back rooms of the two five-star hotels licensed to sell alcoholic beverages. Scotch didn’t figure in their quota: a bottle cost twice their monthly salary. Bootleggers flourished.
She felt the familiar sly brush of fingertips across her back and turned, smiling, to face the beaming Raj … They hugged lightly, affectionately brushing cheeks. Raj held her at arm’s length to give her an appraising look. The gleam in his eyes flattered her as of old, but the spark it had excited in the past was no longer there and she was glad of it. ‘I saw you at the match,’ she said. ‘You were palling around with the Nepali and Brazilian teams.’
‘Why didn’t you join us, my dear?’ he said, and Ruth smiled to recognize the old caress in his voice. She loved this in him. Though they both recognized that their passion had cooled, the warmth of their friendship remained.
‘What, and have you neglect me while you hung around with players?’
‘My dear, I would have gladly hung around with you instead—you know that!’
‘I know no such thing,’ said Ruth laughing. ‘You’ve neglected me ever since you’ve become Ambassador at Large,’ Ruth pulled a rueful face.
Raj held her face between his palms as he looked deep into her green eyes—the men standing by looked on enviously, aware of the special status Raj enjoyed as a foreigner. ‘As of this moment I’m resigning my appointment,’ he said. ‘I’d never neglect you, my dear—surely you know that!’
‘Oh Raj, I prefer my Roving Ambassador,’ she said laughing. ‘Don’t you dare resign.’
Ruth spotted Sherry and Nasira in the midst of a flirtatious bunch of polo players, and following the movement of her eyes Raj brushed her cheeks with his lips and moved away. Ruth smiled and waved discreetly, but her friends didn’t see her.
As she made her way towards them Ruth glimpsed, between a shifting fence of bodies, an arresting figure. There was something familiar about the person and Ruth edged sideways to have a better look. She recognized him almost at once. The man was transformed. He had lost at least twenty pounds. With his grey beard neatly trimmed and an Afghan cap on his head, the man stood out from the crowd, elegant and debonair. Four years ago, when Rick had introduced them in Kabul, Abdul Abbas had had a fuller, henna-rusty beard and an altogether more rugged and grizzled aspect. Back then, Abbas had been Minister of Trade and Finance, and had held the authority to sanction a sale Rick was negotiating. Rick had found him straightforward and honest. Ruth wondered how true that might still be, after everything that had transpired.
Despite Rick’s praises, it had surprised Ruth when Abdul Abbas invited them to dinner at his home. The two-storey brick structure, with wide balconies and verandas wrapped all around, and rows of doors, was more like a barracks than a home. It could have accommodated enough people to fill a fair-sized hotel, thought Ruth. Later on Abdul Abbas had explained that the rooms were occupied by visiting tribesmen and their families, most of them in some form or another related to him. As the prosperous head of his tribe it was incumbent on him to accommodate the visiting kinsmen.
Abdul Abbas and his wife Nabila, a thickset easygoing woman in her late thirties, received them in the porch of their rambling bungalow. Nabila wore a cardigan over her magenta shalwar-kameez outfit with a matching dupatta draped round her neck. The conflagration of colours so close to her face imparted a dusky glow to her fine features and olive complexion. Ruth had read somewhere that shocking pink was South Asia’s navy blue. Even in the short time Ruth had spent up North she could tell that the woman, despite her almost black hair, was not Afghan.
They were ushered ceremoniously into the sitting room. A log fire blazed in a gaping, soot-blackened fireplace and Rick and Abdul Abbas, almost reflexively, stationed themselves with their backs to it. Ruth skirted a large coffee table to get to the sofa and abruptly stalled. A brilliantly coloured rooster with turquoise and rust-orange feathers was pecking crumbs off the Persian rug as calmly as if he was in a barnyard. The rooster raised his wattle-crowned head to glare at the intruder in beady-eyed umbrage and took an elegant step back.
‘Will you just look at his majesty!’ said Nabila, chortling, arms akimbo. She had a throaty voice and, what Ruth guessed, could be an East European accent that fell agreeably on their ears. She unwound her scarf and waved it to shoo away the bird. The rooster flapped his jewel-coloured wings and hopped on to the coffee table to squawk his indignation. Their hosts laughed uproariously and Ruth and Rick, infected by their hilarity also guffawed. Humiliated by the onslaught of such noisy merriment, the rooster scurried off between the curtains and Nabila settled on her heels to rub off the smears of white bird-poop from the carpet with a rag.
A goat tethered outside bleated intermittently as they chatted. Compared to the mansions of dignitaries in Pakistan, with their onyx floors and expensive European fittings, the Afghan minister’s house, though bulky, was made from simple brick and mud mortar.
Another log-fire welcomed them in the dining room, where Ruth could barely make out the rafters from the thin haze of smoke that had risen from the fire and clumped at the high ceiling. More smoke seeped in from the kitchen as Nabila popped in and out to help an elderly Afghan cook bring the steaming dishes to the table. The meat and vegetables were simply prepared—a welcome change from the fiery spices and rich curries the Pakistanis favoured. Abdul Abbas said something to the cook in Pashtu. The old man stood in the door to shout at someone they couldn’t see and the goat’s mournful bleating faded in a receding series of protests. ‘Tomorrow,’ Abdul Abbas said, ‘I will introduce you to my village.’ Ruth felt a soft touch in her heart, a feeling of being honoured.
The next day Abdul Abbas drove them through a tort
urous dirt road to his ancestral mountain village. The men they passed, recognizing the green Land Rover, touched their fingers to their foreheads in solemn salaams. The women—picking fruit, working in fields hewn out of the mountains or just sunning themselves on the flat roof of their mud huts—hid their faces in their shawls and followed the jeep out of shadowed eyes. On the outskirts of Kabul and in the villages, traditional norms continued to prevail.
Trailing a thick tail of dust, they arrived at a clearing. An immense, fortress-shaped dwelling, made from mud and straw, rose above them.
Ruth and Rick were invited to sit on hand-woven rugs spread on a grassy patch outside the fort. The air smelt of pine and wood-smoke. Banked by a cloudless vault of blue sky, the stark mountains faded into the misty distance. The tribesmen, handsome in turbans and beret-like wool caps with rolled rims, laid out fragrant platters of roast chicken, curried goat and rice-pilaf and poured spring-water from frosted steel jugs into thick, smudged glasses. Once they had served the food, the men, careful to maintain a respectful distance from Ruth, sat down to eat with them. They kept their politely lowered gaze averted from her face.
After lunch Ruth was invited to visit the dingy, smoke-filled rooms in the women’s portion of the fort. There was segregation between the sexes here. They had no electricity. The chattering women led Ruth up the dark steep staircase, which felt like a narrow tunnel, to the roof, now bathed in the chill glare of the slanting afternoon sun. In the larger view the rooftop afforded her, the distant mountains, dark behind the chain of dun-coloured hills, appeared to be closer. The women clustered around her. The older women, with leathery, prematurely aged faces, screwed up their eyes to peer at her. They stroked the softness of her cashmere sweater with their gnarled hands and pinched the material of her slacks and jacket between their fingers. They clapped and laughed as Ruth drolly tried to converse with them in sign language. Hiding shy smiles in their shawls, the pink-cheeked girls peered at her out of eyes that carried a jewelled spectrum of gold-green colours that seemed to reflect the colours of the setting sun. All at once Ruth felt enveloped by the beauty of her surroundings, by the transformative power of her contact with a culture so unimaginably different from hers.
