“It is written,” they said.
The mullahs marched in procession and damned Taslima as kari, black. They declared Jina Awan, kafir, an infidel, and issued a fatwa to kill her on sight. They condemned the Human Rights Alliance for leading daughters astray.
While the others ate biryani and drank tea late into the evening, I called Faisah.
“We have seen the news,” she said, breathing hard into the phone. “You actually disarmed the gunman with your dupatta? Baji, is that true? Are you OK?”
“It is true, more or less. I’m shaky. And wish you were here. There will be a huge march tomorrow.”
“Are you going?”
“Of course I’m going.”
“What else can you do?” she asked. That was the question I had been asking myself: What else can I do?
“Faisah,” I confided. “I could have stepped in front of that gun and stopped him, but I didn’t. No one did. I hate myself that I could not protect Taslima . . .”
“Baji!” Faisah said. “Don’t.”
“. . . and I could have killed him. When I had the chance, I wanted to choke him to death.” I could recall every sensation of rage I experienced earlier that day. “And Faisah,” I told her. “I’m keeping the gun.”
“You should give it to them, Baji,” Faisah said. Her tone sounded parental. “Give the gun to the police.”
“Faisah, aren’t you the one who said we should learn to fire a gun? Doesn’t the scripture say an eye for an eye? Is it only men’s eyes that deserve revenge? A woman’s eyes mean nothing. A woman’s teeth mean nothing. What would justice for Taslima be now? If the police won’t even register a complaint against her parents, then exactly who is going to get justice for Taslima?”
“What are you saying, Baji?”
“They took her life right there in front of us, Faisah. They just walked into the room and took her whole life.”
“Are you planning something?”
“I’m planning justice for Taslima.”
“Baji, come home. Leave Sindh and come home now. We need to all be together,” Faisah pleaded.
“Something has been set out of kilter today, Faisah. The wheel has turned, and I want to set it right. And, Faisah, I’m keeping the gun.”
Another change happened that day. After many motherless years, I began to talk to Ammi. I needed my mother still and felt her presence near.
“Ammi, is this what you meant when you told me to teach them? First Bilqis, beautiful, dancing, burned Bilqis, who wandered into someone’s story—the story of my cowardice. Then, Khanum, the stranger on a train, another bartered jewel for a rich man. She is the first I would rescue, proof that I would no longer turn away. And now Taslima, who dared to fall in love. I almost died. I almost killed someone.
“Ammi, you said to teach them, and I have. To read and write, to sew, to think for themselves, to use a computer, to add numbers, to value what is unique in a conformist society. And then one student is shot for stepping out of line, the others hear about it, and our work is all undone. So we plant another seed, build another school maybe, or organize a demonstration, and hope sprouts again, until a can of kerosene goes alight or a bottle of acid splashes the bridge of a nose, a knife slits a wrist, and the merciless sun robs us again, taking all that there is.”
I found a black-and-white photo of Ammi in the bottom of a box—not the formal portraits that memorialize her elegance—but a snapshot of her looking angry and determined. I do not know the circumstances under which it was taken. She was bending slightly forward. One hand gripped her hipbone, which was cocked at the photographer. What occurred after the shutter snapped could have been kissing or could have been spitting. There was no way to know.
I built a shrine around that photograph to invoke Ammi as my saint. I had the photograph enlarged to the size of a notebook and framed it in red walnut. I centered it on a table covered with white muslin, and I filled vases with whatever flowers I could find. I lit a candle at night and in the morning. I brought mementos to the shrine—the silk pouch in which Ammi had folded her underwear, a leathery Rumi text, the cotton handkerchief on which her scent lingered still.
I knelt before the shrine for long periods. I read no textbooks. Poured no oil on the doorstep. Took no milk in my tea. No tea. No dusty sandals. No laundry. No letters. No toothbrush. No prayers. No songs. No memories. No soft sisters. No tough sisters. No purpose. No me. For days and days I faded away. I began to sleep late and hold classes in the afternoon. I organized my thoughts into lesson plans in order to give the other teachers everything I knew before I went away. I wanted to empty myself out—to express the role of a teacher in such depth and with such detail that if somehow I vanished, nothing would be lost. I began to keep a notebook in which I wrote about every woman I had known who had been burned, or buried, shot, or silenced, paralyzed, or damaged in any way that made her less able to move, less able to speak, to think, to find peace, less able. I forced myself to write at least a page about each one, and I usually wrote more. Then, for every page of victims, I wrote a page of victors. I wrote about every woman I had known who had run away, faced down, healed, spoken out, or outsmarted those who would make her less able, every woman who not only survived, but lived a life, her own life. On the day I finished the last entry in the notebook, I knew it was time to leave Sindh. It did not take long to pack all that I needed—the shrine, the notebook, the gun.
I longed for the waters of Punjab. I would follow the vein of the Indus River through the heartland one more time. On the night train to Lahore I took a seat in the women’s compartment away from the chatter of other passengers. I made sure that the seat across from me was empty this time. I read and I slept. One word rolled over and over on my tongue: Jacobabad, Taslima’s hometown. The word was a drumbeat in my brain. Tek-Dum- tek-tek. Tek-Dum-tek-tek. I could time its syllables to the rhythm of the rails. Ja-cob-a-bad. Ja-cob-a-bad. Where Jacob abides. Jacob—the twin who stole the blessing that was intended for his brother—the brother who married against his father’s wishes. Ja-cob-a-bad. Where once lotuses rose in their singular way from the mud of rice fields. Ja-cob-a-bad. Where the ones who ordered the death of Taslima, the ones who wounded Jina, now live without bullets in their brains.
When the train crossed the transfer station for Jacobabad, I was asleep. I dreamed of ancient peacocks with wild plumage and snow lions that no one could capture. When I woke in the morning I saw that someone had placed my mother’s folded handkerchief between my cheek and the dusty window.
Two hours later I scanned the crowd at the Lahore train station in search of the tall gray-bearded Sikh with the erect posture and the immaculate turban. He stood in the morning mist behind the others. For a moment I thought I saw Ammi standing beside him. She held a lotus in her hand.
3
Malakwal, 1958
Thirty-eight years earlier
Nafeesa Ahmed was born deep in the orange groves of Punjab—in the haveli, her family’s compound on the banks of the Indus. Her great-great-grandfather had equipped the British with a steady supply of horses, and, in exchange, he was paid whatever land he wanted. Take your pick, they said, as far as the eye can see. Over generations, the compound became, first, Malakwal, a farming village, then—through strategic marriages and resulting partnerships—one village became two, with brick factories and orchards, then three, adding sugarcane and cotton fields, until the Ahmeds became feudals whose influence fingered the flesh of the entire region.
The haveli was a multistoried brick mansion with marble floors and Persian gates. The farm workers were given a restricted section of the field for their dark huts, where string beds were stacked in the daytime and lined up wall-to-wall at night—a dozen people to a room. Their driver carried the Ahmeds down the road in a Mercedes. The farm workers loaded themselves onto a cart pulled by one thirsty donkey who carried them down the road—the road everyone was destined to share.
Inside the compound resided Nafeesa’s pare
nts, her fourteen-year-old brother, Jameel, and Ali, her older brother, and his family. Ali’s family’s quarters were apart from the main house but still within the compound. Truly, Ali could live anywhere he wanted, and seemed to live everywhere. Everything was, or one day would be, his. As a daughter, Nafeesa obeyed her parents, and as a sister, she obeyed Ali. Any of them could forbid whatever she desired, even studying, and she knew that Ali would not hesitate to do so if he had the smallest excuse.
One day he flexed his authority directly. Nafeesa had returned from a week in Multan where she attended university. Ali was standing in the doorway as she approached, which was unusual. Normally a servant would open the door.
“Assalam aleikum,” she said automatically, looking around. “Where is Ammi?”
Suddenly, he slapped her face, knocking her over. She fell to her knees and pressed her hand to the hot sting. He had pushed and shoved her in the past, and called her names, but never had he hit her like that.
Our father would never permit it, she thought. But this time, he caught me alone.
“Your clothes are too tight, like a whore,” he yelled, bloodying the whites of his eyes. “Cover yourself before our parents see you like that.”
Nafeesa was wearing a chiffon shalwar kameez that was cut low and tight across the bodice, and her dupatta swathed only her neck. She had to admit it did allow for a glance at the hollow between her breasts.
After that day she made every effort to avoid Ali.
He accused their father. “You spoil her!” He pointed to their mother. “And you neglect her! She must be trained like other women.”
“Nafeesa is not spoiled. She will do what I say,” Ammi said, but the uncles agreed with Ali.
“You, Ahmed,” they said, turning to their father, “You are wasting your money on her education!”
“And, Yasmeen,” the aunties predicted, “letting her travel to London will only assure she drifts away. She’ll come back wearing blue jeans and bobby socks. You just watch.” Their heads bobbed to confirm that they all shared the same opinion.
They discuss my life as if it belongs to them, thought Nafeesa, like so many kilos of oranges, so many goatskins.
She brought the teapot into the sitting room and began arranging the china cups without a clatter, without a chip. Relatives filled every seat, women wrapped in multicolored silken cloth with metallic embroidery. Since they were with family, their dupattas were relaxed across their shoulders. Exotic makeup and French twists revealed their vanity and attention to style. The men, too, mimicked the British, with their little moustaches, pocketwatches, and waistcoats.
The hypocrisy in the room was thick and, as far as Nafeesa was concerned, she was having none of it in her future. They are the perfect example of everything I want not to be, she thought, looking around the room, estimating the situation. And she realized that for now she had to be clever.
“If my future is just another crop to be bartered,” she said, “I will negotiate for myself.”
“Nafeesa!” Yasmeen pursued her lips at her daughter, turning to the guests with a reassuring voice. “She will marry soon and marry well, but first she must complete her education. My grandchildren must be well-spoken, and she will be their guide. Remember the old slogan: ‘Educate a Pakistani woman and you educate a nation.’”
“But she has turned down every proposal made to her,” Auntie Beezah continued. “We all know that the boys’ parents have stopped calling.” Her lips puckered to emphasize her point. Yasmeen recoiled.
“Puuh!”
“Foolish girl,” her father sighed, watching Nafeesa pouring tea like a lady.
“Sugar?” she addressed Auntie Beezah.
“As you wish,” she replied, looking pleased. Beezah thought she was bringing Yasmeen back to her senses.
Nafeesa slid a thin stream of milk into the cup and sprinkled the sugar with a tiny silver spoon. She took her time. She stirred the mixture without making a sound, looked her auntie in the eye, and lifted the cup and saucer onto her palm. Auntie accepted the tea, turned her head, and sipped.
“We must admit that we live in heaven,” she sighed, sounding bored with heaven. “I have fifty servants. One massages me and my mother-in-law, one irons my clothes, another cooks, another cleans . . . and so on . . . and so on.”
Oh, no, thought Nafeesa. Here comes the bragging.
“But nothing like they have in the U.K.” Auntie said, turning to face her niece. “Right, Nafeesa?”
Nafeesa recognized the trap and glanced into her lap, not taking the bait.
“We love Pakistan, do we not, Nafeesa?” Auntie needled again.
Nafeesa could hear the unspoken demand: Look at me, girl! She raised her vacant eyes, looking at no one.
“I am too young to understand what love means, Auntie,” she said. She turned to her father, “But Pakistan is my home and always will be.”
Nafeesa saw the corners of her mother’s mouth turn up slightly. She could feel Yasmeen’s pride, watching her daughter maneuver this tight situation.
Clever girl—my clever girl, thought Yasmeen.
Yasmeen had connived so that Nafeesa could travel to London to complete her graduate studies in education, something Yasmeen had always wanted for herself. In exchange she brokered her daughter’s agreement to accept whatever marriage arrangement they made when she returned from London.
“It will have to be a bargained-for exchange, Nafeesa. It’s the only way,” Yasmeen said. “The point is to find the best husband we can and, if possible, one that you like as well.” Yasmeen was looking forward to marshalling all the parts of the marriage transaction. She sealed the deal with her husband by proposing that Nafeesa live in London with her older sister.
“She can stay with my Baji Najma,” Yasmeen said. “She and her husband are strict, very devout. They will watch over Nafeesa, then she will return to us.”
“Even with your Baji watching over her, if she goes to the West, Nafeesa will never be the same.”
Ahmed wanted his daughter to stay in Pakistan, but he could not deny her anything she asked. Ali is right about that, he thought. She is my only daughter. I do spoil her.
“She’ll study hard, Ahmed. She’s a good girl,” Yasmeen continued, chipping away.
“Who cares if she studies?” Ahmed replied, buttoning his cardigan and walking away from another argument. “It is as you wish, Yasmeen. But mark my words. In London, she’ll forget Pakistan.”
Car doors slammed as aunties, uncles and cousins filled their little Mehrans and trailed the family town car to the airport to send Nafeesa off for her year in London. Nafeesa would always remember their faces on the other side of the chain link fence at the entrance to the terminal. She stood inside the fence with her parents and her brothers and turned her back to the rest of them. She nestled against her mother’s coat. Her father held a handkerchief to his nose. Nafeesa hugged Ali halfheartedly, but held Jameel’s hand for as long as she could. She could tell that he was embarrassed by the nakedness of his devotion to her.
“Baji, you’ll be gone a whole year. You must write to me every week,” he said.
“I will,” Nafeesa replied, placing her hands on the top of his head, blessing him, and knowing at the same time she was making a promise she probably would not keep. “And never forget me,” she whispered in his ear.
Jameel turned suddenly and ran back to the car.
“Look for Baji in the baggage claim area,” her mother said. “Oh, and remember, do not call her Auntie. She always hated that. Said it makes her feel old.”
“What should I call her then?”
“Call her Baji, like I do. She’ll like that. Ibrahim and their driver will be with her.” Yasmeen’s voice became dreamy. “Baji will stand out in the crowd—so elegant and—oh, her silver hair. She’ll probably wear gold. She always liked fabrics with the sheen of precious metals—such a beauty my Baji was.”
At Heathrow Nafeesa saw no one like her mother had desc
ribed. A bevy of strangers crowded the gate to the baggage area. But there, hand-printed on a large cardboard, she recognized her name, written in big square letters. The sign was held in one hand by a skinny woman in a tight suit. With the other hand, she was smoking a cigarette. She had short, curly black hair and carmine fingernails and matching lipstick. She was wearing nylons and spiked heels.
“Baji?” Nafeesa asked, looking into the woman’s face to see if her auntie was in there.
“Call me Najma,” her auntie said. The woman’s low voice sounded mysterious. “Come with me.” She grabbed Nafeesa’s hand and tugged her through a mass of taxi drivers. “I got us a taxi,” she said in a monotone. “They are expensive, but how often does one’s niece come to stay with poor Najma? Huh?”
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