“I guess you could say I forgot the three rules,” Ujala said at last. Faisah squinted.
“What?”
“Remember rule number 3?”
Faisah wrinkled her nose.
“Don’t get caught!” said Ujala.
“Oh, right. Right,” said Faisah. She realized she would have to be the ballast to Baji’s rising energy. Just as Baji would lift up her spirit when she was low. They had been doing this for each other all of their lives.
“Are you getting enough to eat?” Faisah asked. She thought Ujala looked gaunt. The prison-gray shalwar kameez was so thin that Faisah thought she could see Ujala’s skin glowing through the cotton.
“I’m OK. No longer in solitary, thanks to Jabril,” Ujala said.
“Good!” Faisah was looking for any reason to reassure her sister, whose legal situation she had concluded was close to hopeless. “But what do you mean, exactly, that you forgot the three rules?”
Ujala smirked. It was fun to play with Faisah again, even if the stakes were so high.
“Well . . . I kept rule number 1. I told no one about taking the girl out of Chitral—except you, of course. And I kept rule number 2—I did nothing illegal. I merely defended myself from an acid attack. They tell me he has the scars on his hands from the burn, so he can’t deny it—”
Faisah interrupted. “—It may be forbidden under Shariah, you know that—”
“But I’m not charged under Shariah.”
“Not yet,” Faisah said. “Yep. Rule number 3 is the one you broke. You got caught.” She looked worried.
Ujala did not like that Faisah’s tone all of a sudden had become solemn. “Any more questions for me, Counselor?” she asked. Ujala slipped the edges of her dupatta behind her ears and shifted the conversation. The sergeant-guard made another phone call. “I want to hear about New York.”
“New York was extraordinary,” Faisah began. “We were asked to join a global leadership planning session—NGOs like Amnesty and the U.N. are starting to define violence against women as a valid human rights issue—right up there on the list with jailed journalists and political prisoners. The argument goes that violence is the one issue that unites women everywhere.”
“It doesn’t take Americans to tell us that,” Ujala said. She worried that maybe Faisah was moving on without her. Forgetting Pakistan, the way Yusuf had.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Faisah said, squeezing Ujala’s hand. “But they want to fund our media project—a radio network to link Central and South Asian women’s NGOs—in Singapore, Delhi, even Katmandu.” Faisah’s voice came alive. “Baji, you don’t realize it, but you are becoming a celebrity. They asked about you in New York. We are getting calls and letters every day—from health care workers, shelters, legal aid, women’s resource centers, even the media. Wanting to know what is going on and how to help.”
Ujala was not excited by her notoriety. This talk of politics seemed distant, irrelevant, counterproductive even. When she spoke, her voice was controlled.
“Faisah, remember how Ammi said that in the late seventies, when General Zia promulgated Hudood Ordinances, nobody resisted it because everyone’s attention was diverted to Bhutto’s murder trial?”
Faisah nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, people become fascinated by the dramas of trials. We can’t make the same mistake now.” Ujala untwisted their hands, and a fresh smile spread across Faisah’s face.
“At least we can expose the government in the press.”
“And the press doesn’t blow with the political winds?”
“When they learn how you rescued an innocent girl and how someone then tried to burn you with acid—well, everyone loves a hero, you know, and everyone loves a victim.”
“For a while, they do.”
“It’s only the tabloids that are hostile—” said Faisah. She slowed down. She scratched her nose.
“I know,” said Ujala. “I’m the schoolteacher with loose morals, a rowdy female who travels alone around Pakistan, packing a gun and hating men . . . It’s a cowboy, or should I say, cowgirl image, Faisah.” She laughed, imagining herself dressed like a Texan.
Now Faisah was annoyed by Ujala’s cavalier attitude.
“Not so funny, Baji. The image of a violent, faithless teacher infiltrating the schools and corrupting girls strikes a fearful chord—and not only in conservative quarters.”
“People distort facts to fit their own versions of reality,” Ujala said. “What can we do?” She was tired of this dead-end conversation, but Faisah continued.
“Well, Amir is setting up our website, so we can get our version of events out in the public.” She spoke quickly, before Ujala could protest. “And I found someone in New York who wants to help—it’s Yusuf, Baji,” Faisah blurted out. The back of Faisah’s hand swept toward the door. “Yusuf Salman—he’s right outside.”
Ujala twisted her neck and stared at the door.
“And he wants to see you.”
Ujala swallowed hard. Yusuf?
“Not now. Tell him I can’t see him now, Faisah. I just can’t. It has been so long, and I’m not ready. Just look at me—ugly clothes, my hair unwashed, even my fingernails are a mess. It’s been more than ten years since we have set eyes on each other. I just can’t.”
Ujala’s insecurities always surprised Faisah. She looked at her older sister and saw a beautiful dark woman—thin, yes, but with clear eyes, color in her cheeks, and shining shoulder-length black hair. She really doesn’t know how lovely she is, Faisah realized.
“The clothes are bad, Baji, but for goodness sake, this is prison. And you—you look simply wonderful. In fact, you look better than I’ve seen you look in years.”
“OK. I’m being neurotic, but indulge me, will you? Tell him that I do want to see him—next Friday. Tell him I’m not allowed visitors today—only lawyers—which is true, by the way.”
The guard pointed to her wristwatch. It was time for Ujala to return to Rahima Mai’s office. Faisah bent over and reached into her bag.
“Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot. Yusuf asked me to give this to you. He said you would understand what it means.”
She handed Ujala an ordinary orange.
“I am ashamed of Pakistan’s failures as a nation, its pretentious and cruel customs, and its ruthless dictators,” Yusuf Salman wrote in his departing New York Times commentary. “I hoped for a return to the Constitution of 1973, but now—my disillusionment is complete. The imprisonment of Baji Ujala is Pakistan’s final betrayal.”
Before the Times newspaper truck had dropped off the last copy of the final edition at the end of the line somewhere in Brooklyn, Yusuf was onboard a flight from JFK to the other side of the world—Islamabad. He took out his spiral pad and began to make notes:
Islamabad—where Islam abides, a city with one foot planted in the past, one stretching into the future.
White and spacious, shady boulevards, classic government buildings, gardens teeming with hibiscus and flaming jacaranda.
Heavy traffic, littered bazaars, unsightly slums kept apart from the showcase that is Islamabad.
In Lahore Yusuf was at loose ends, having to wait seven days before seeing Ujala. At the Women’s Radio Network office, Meena was producing a program. She handed Yusuf a tape recorder and microphone and said, “Here. Make yourself useful. I’ve arranged for an interview with Rahima Mai, Women’s Prison Supervisor—so far she has been quite helpful. At least it will get you closer to Baji.”
At Adaila, Rahima Mai led Yusuf up the exterior staircase to a security platform. Yusuf noticed that she had difficulty climbing. She put both feet on each step before she moved them one by one to the next. The effect slowed them down, so she stepped aside, as if comfortable doing so, to let Yusuf pass. From the first landing he got a good look at this women’s supervisor. There was a little pink in those cheeks—perhaps from the exertion of climbing—and a slight glint in those brown eyes. Her hair was cut short, and she was w
ell-nourished. She smiled at him as she approached the landing, pleased that the press was interested in the women’s prison. Together they viewed the interior courtyard, the center of Adaila’s life.
“Virtually all of these women in here have been abused by someone,” she said. “And those who are here for family offenses under Shariah, they are not really criminals. They may have run away with a neighbor, or killed their husbands, but they give us no trouble.”
She pointed to a makeshift classroom in one section of the open area.
“Baji’s volunteers are reestablishing our school programs—one for the women and one for the children,” she said. “The prison has no funds for programs.”
“So when Baji leaves, something will remain of what she has started?” Yusuf asked. It was the first time he’d referred to Ujala aloud as Baji, as everyone was now doing.
“If she leaves,” Rahima Mai replied. Her eyes stared at the wall.
“Of course she will leave,” said Yusuf. “Look at the public protests. And they have no evidence.”
“Who knows what evidence they have?” Rahima Mai said, raising her eyebrows.
Yusuf saw her point.
“And,” Rahima Mai continued, “protests could affect the outcome either way, could they not?” She glanced at his tape recorder and whispered, “Bringing volunteers inside could backfire, too.”
“So which is she? Coconspirator, or government functionary?” Yusuf asked Meena when he returned to the radio station. But Meena was too busy to listen. She was poring over newspaper clippings that littered the room. She motioned him away while she finished what she was doing. As he waited, Yusuf examined the snapshots that covered the office walls. Photos of lawyers, writers, human rights workers in groups of three or four, each one posing, looking young, serious, committed. He was surprised how often Benazir Bhutto’s creamy complexion appeared in the photos.
And I wonder what Benazir is up to these days? he thought. “What has Benazir done for women lately?” he asked aloud. Meena stood up and turned her attention to him.
“You asked if she was a coconspirator or government functionary? Who? Rahima Mai or Benazir?” She smiled at Yusuf, the Pakistani with the American accent who might have been her brother-in-law.
“Both,” they said in unison.
“Benazir ultimately will be loyal to the ruling class from which she comes,” said Yusuf. He wanted Meena to know his political stance. He wanted to impress her, the girl who might have been his sister-in-law. “Rahima Mai will be loyal to those who sign her paycheck.”
“Maybe,” Meena said, returning to her chair and to the clippings. “But Abbu says that God’s will always prevails, it is just that we don’t have His view, so how can we know what His will is? What would you say is God’s class interest?”
Yusuf pressed his lips together.
“Intriguing question,” was all he could say, but he wanted to scream. All this talk about God, he thought. Allah—the main character in the movie that is Pakistan. I’ll have to get used to it again.
When Saturday arrived, Yusuf left his Levis in the closet and dressed like a Pakistani, in a white shalwar kameez and crocheted prayer cap. And when Ujala opened the door of the interview room, he was at the table wiping his wire-rimmed glasses with a handkerchief. He looked up at her smile, and saw the familiar gap between her front teeth.
“Assalam aleikum,” she said, touching the back of the metal folding chair across from him. He grinned.
“And peace to you also,” he replied. “My eyes are so happy to be looking at you again, Uji. Diamond happy.”
Ujala’s blood rushed through its vessels as if it could not decide where to go. She sat at the table thinking, here is Yusuf with his winning ways, already showing touches of silver in his hair.
“I wish I could hold your hand,” he said.
Ujala blushed and held his gaze.
Yusuf thought she was even more beautiful now in these plain surroundings. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, thick and shining, covered by a simple white dupatta. She looked feverish and saintly, like an ancient Sufi. He saw in her eyes the spark of fervor she carried for those she loved.
But Ujala was neither saint nor mystic. She could not stop looking at him. She said, “You look so mature, so elegant . . . so . . . so Pakistani.” They laughed, and relaxed. Yusuf leaned back, tilting the legs of the wooden chair.
“Faisah has been telling me about your work, Uji—about everyone’s work here in the trenches, while I have been safely ensconced in the U.S. I feel cowardly when I think of the many risks you have taken. You must tell me what I can do to be of use.”
“If you’ve been talking to Faisah, I am sure she has given you assignments already. Or if she hasn’t, someone soon will.”
“Of course they have,” he laughed. “Meena put me to work right away.”
“Doing—?”
“Interviewing ‘collaterals’ to your story—the side people.” He grimaced. It was difficult to believe that his Uji had become the story, was becoming an international celebrity, an icon for human rights. “It was not difficult. I’ve done some radio interviewing in the States. The recording equipment here is quite good.” He did not know what she wanted to know, or if he should say what he wanted to say. He just kept talking. “I interviewed the women’s prison supervisor the other day.”
“Rahima Mai?”
He nodded. Ujala rolled her eyes. Now Rahima Mai would figure out who this Yusuf is to her.
“There is something you could do, Yusuf. I have been writing letters, but I cannot get them out. But, since you are a male and a reporter, they probably won’t search you for contraband. But they might. That’s the risk.”
“Never mind that. I’ll do it,” he said.
“There is a letter in my pocket,” she said. She maintained her focus on his face as she spoke. “When I stand up to leave the room—”
“Don’t leave yet,” he said. He could not get enough of looking at her.
“No, not now, but when I stand to leave, drop your book and papers as if by accident, and I will drop the letter at the same time. You can pick the letter up with your things. Take it to Faisah—to use on the radio, or the website, or however she likes.”
Yusuf beamed.
“I love the intrigue,” he said playfully.
She could see that he did not fully appreciate the perils involved. “But, Yusuf, be careful. This could be dangerous. This is real.”
“Of course,” he said. “I can be so blind.”
“Blind?” she asked. “Better to be dumb, but keep your eyes open. See everything, but tell no one you have done this—there is no need to.”
Tell no one.
“I can see you are used to plotting,” he said, picking at the edges of his papers.
“We have to be.”
“Yes, it is we now, isn’t it, Uji? I mean Meena, Faisah, all of us.” He paused. “But you in prison, Uji. I just can’t get used to it. We will get you out of here. We will.”
“I am counting on that,” she said. Then she spoke the words she had spent all week gathering. “Yusuf,” she began, loving the pleasure of speaking his name aloud, “so often I have wondered if you were living the life that we had planned for London.” He looked away as she continued. “And if you were living it without me, then who were you living it with?”
Less than a second, only one heartbeat, less than a breath passed between her question and his response. In that moment, he flashed on the knowledge that the mistakes he had made in his life had been mistakes of missed moments, of not realizing what was rare until it was gone, or had become ordinary. He kept at bay others who wanted to be close to him. He failed to acknowledge intimacies that occurred. He had not been without offers, but he continued waiting, postponing, considering, evaluating, holding back, wanting something else, something more, wondering about the quality of the offers made to him. He recognized in the question Ujala was asking him, in its simplicity and trut
h, that his procrastination had come to an end. She was not trying to trap him or claim his banner for her own. This was not the usual power struggle. This was love.
“And I wondered about you, too, Uji,” he replied, because it was the most simple and true statement in his heart. He slowed down to listen to what he would say next. “I lost track of your family after Clifton. I drove past your old home—it still has that purple bougainvillea over the front arch.” They brought to mind together the place where they had last seen each other—outside of her family’s home. “But you were not there,” he said, and she heard a twinge in his voice. “The neighbors said you moved to Punjab, but they did not know where.”
My Sisters Made of Light Page 6
