My Sisters Made of Light

by Jacqueline St. Joan

  He knew it annoyed her when he numbered his arguments, but she was listening. He picked up her hand again.

  “And, third,” he said, “death does not want to separate old lovers like us. It is the lovers who abandon each other—the mind of the one who is going moves too quickly into the future. The mind of the one who remains lives forever in the past. Isn’t that how we humans are?”

  “I love the way you say we and us,” she sighed, her eyes filling with tears.

  “And, God willing, I won’t be far behind,” he whispered. “I will meet you out there.”

  She looked at him, suddenly stark and dry-eyed. She went directly to the heart of the matter.

  “No—oh, no. You must stay here with the children. What about Meena and Amir? They still need my attention. Who will be their mother now?” She took her hand away and held it against her mouth to keep from crying out loud.

  “You decide,” he replied immediately, knowing she would say Ujala. She was the obvious choice, and he had already spoken to Uji about it. He felt guilty, having usurped what was a mother’s decision.

  “Uji,” Nafeesa said, squeezing the sound through her throat.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Uji.”

  “Uji listens,” Nafeesa said. “She has a big heart, and learns quickly. Reshma has her own family, and she is so rigid. Faisah is self-absorbed, and too young anyway. Ujala must be their mother now.”

  Later Kulraj Singh laid his arm across Nafeesa’s body, gently over her abdomen. His hand rested on the edge of her pelvis, weightlessly, as it had for almost three decades. He inhaled her body’s fragrances—both the sweetness of jasmine and the sting of rubbing alcohol. She never failed to delight him.

  9

  Lahore, 1996

  On the day of Ujala’s trial a breeze coaxed a few stray clouds across Lahore’s sky. The air was spiced with the sharpness of marigolds. Hyacinth beans twisted their purple leaves around a chain link fence. Plump pods littered the street. Hundreds of supporters gathered outside the courthouse with placards and chants.

  Women’s Rights Are Human Rights! Free Ujala! Free Baji! There is no honor in honor crimes!

  In the holding cell Hasaan Behrani, Faisah’s bodyguard, was at her side, as he had been since the day of the acid attack. Jabril Kazzaz had sent his muscle man to the hospital with a note for Faisah: Hasaan is your bodyguard now. He will watch over you as he has watched over me. And if you will permit, I will pay for his services.

  “Permit it? Bring on the bodyguards!” she shouted, laughing. “Bring on the army! Bring on the nukes!” Faisah longed to feel safe again.

  Hasaan controlled the cell door while they waited for the bailiff to announce the opening of court.

  “Are you ready for this?” Ujala asked Faisah. She wondered if she was ready herself.

  “Am I ready?” Faisah beamed. “Baji, I have been preparing for this my entire life.”

  It had been four weeks since the acid attack on Faisah, and Ujala wondered if Faisah actually felt the confidence she was projecting. She knew that this was not the time to ask. She leaned her cheek into the curve of her sister’s neck, avoiding the gauze taped to Faisah’s cheek and eye. Underneath the bandage, the scab had taken the shape of the nitric splash. Faisah’s right eye was burned shut in one corner. She would probably lose its vision.

  “It’s physical vision you might lose, my lily,” Kulraj Singh said to her the night before the trial. “You will never lose the greater vision you carry in your heart.”

  But the words he hoped would inspire Faisah clanged like a hollow pipe on concrete. At first, and for many days, Faisah had hidden in her room with the blinds closed. She ached for the consolation of her mother’s body. She wanted to roll up in a fleece with Nafeesa and lean into her collarbone, where she had often fallen asleep beside a book of children’s stories. For days following the attack, when they let the morphine flow freely into her, Faisah became that child again. She recalled that the fleece was soothing, dark brown and musty; her mother’s scent was both acrid and sweet. She thought she could hear Mithu squawking. Had he escaped his cage again? Meena and Amir were arguing in the next room, and Ujala was running an iron back and forth over cloth. Faisah could smell scorched cotton as Baji pressed it into a towel. Reshma brought a tray of tea and cake rusks into the women’s quarter, and all was peaceful. Once they took the drugs away, pain became her only sister, whom she shared with no one else. When at last her suffering subsided and her bouts of crying were exhausted, she remembered who she was. She invoked the discipline of her profession to prepare for her baji’s trial.

  “We call the docket in five minutes,” the bailiff announced. The courtroom could barely contain the raw emotions of Ujala’s supporters. Reporters and photographers gathered in the rear. Entering behind Hasaan and Faisah, Ujala scanned the cavernous room. She panicked for a moment, until she caught sight of her father’s turban, Amir’s mop of black hair, Meena’s green dupatta, and Yusuf’s prayer cap. She dared not look around.

  All these people, she thought. A wave of nausea rose from her belly.

  Faisah straightened her posture in her white linen suit, and she focused her good eye on the space several feet in front of her nose. Then a door slammed back against a wall, a gavel pounded, shoes rustled, and the gallery rose as the judge entered. The people murmured, straining to hear. They leaned forward as if they were one body, putting the room off-keel. They would need each other to return to balance.

  Seated at the table adjacent to Faisah and Ujala was the provincial prosecutor. He strode to the podium, and the judge nodded for him to start the government’s case.

  “My Lord,” he said, “a most unusual set of circumstances has occurred in the past twenty-four hours—circumstances that have caused the province to reevaluate this matter.”

  What is this? wondered Faisah.

  “Due to the diligence of Mr. Khan Shazad, father of Chanda Khan, who is now released on bail, new witnesses have come forward who will provide credible evidence that this defendant has been engaging in a deliberate, nationwide pattern of criminal behavior. She has torn asunder a number of marriages held sacred under Shariah. Therefore, the Province moves to dismiss this case and to transfer jurisdiction to the Federal Shariah Court in Islamabad for further proceedings by the judges and the Shariah scholars, the ulemas.”

  Faisah was on her feet at once. Her voice was strong and dramatic. She hoped that the weight of her rhetoric would add heft to the weakness of her legal position.

  “My Lord, the defense graciously accepts the confession of dismissal made by the prosecutor,” she said, smiling at her opponent. “But we object strenuously, I repeat, stren-u-ous-ly, to any transfer. As this Honorable Court knows better than we”—she gave her most serious expression to the judge—“without further evidence, this court’s jurisdiction ends when the case is dismissed. If further proceedings are warranted in Islamabad, let the Shariah Court decide—not ”—she turned to the prosecutor for emphasis—“a provincial functionary.”

  She glared down at the prosecutor with her one good eye, and he rose to respond.

  “Oh, but we can have an evidentiary hearing right now, My Lord,” he said, sweeping his arm away from his chest. His hand led viewers to a row of chairs against the far wall. “The Court can hear not only from Mr. Khan of Lahore, the father of Chanda Khan, but also from Mr. Wazir from Rakhni, the husband of Khanum Wazir.”

  Dread filled Ujala’s heart. How had Chanda’s father located Khanum’s husband in Balochistan? What had Aga Ji told him?

  “This snake woman,” said the prosecutor, “deliberately hid their wives and daughters away from them in defiance of their lawful authority as husbands and fathers.”

  The mumbling in the courtroom required the judge to use his gavel. One strike was enough.

  “Silence!”

  “By what lawful authority,” Faisah’s voice boomed, “may a woman not take steps to protect herself from physical abuse? To prote
ct her body in which a child may someday dwell?”

  The prosecutor stood again.

  “This court is no place to discuss such personal matters, My Lord. The wife owes a duty of obedience to her father, first, and then to her husband. Neither man gave their consent to the actions of his wife or daughter. Not having authority to make these decisions for themselves, the women were legally incompetent to give the defendant their consent, and thus she kidnapped them unlawfully.”

  “If you will indulge me, Your Honor,” said Faisah.

  “Objection. She is out of order.”

  The judge was a patient man, known both for his fairness in following procedures and for his harshness in punishing offenders. His reading glasses were balanced on the front wedge of his nose, causing his gaze to cross the horizon of his cheeks. He waited until the room was perfectly quiet before he said a word.

  “Be seated, Madam,” he said to Faisah, almost in a whisper.

  Here it comes. He’s ready to rule, she thought.

  “I will not indulge either of you any further,” he said. “The prosecution’s last-minute request has inconvenienced many people today, and unnecessarily burdened this court’s workload. And you are right, Sir, this court is no place to discuss such personal matters. But, the Shariah Court is. Thus, in light of the issue you have raised—the meaning of proper obedience of a wife or daughter to a husband or father, this Court hereby dismisses the current charges and, upon the completion of documents, transfers jurisdiction to the Federal Shariah Court. However,” the judge added, “whether or not the defendant remains in custody is a determination to be made by that august body, not by me. The defendant will be released without bond at once. This court is adjourned.”

  He slammed the gavel one last time, and the courtroom erupted. Faisah herded Ujala into the holding cell area, and the family followed. In the courtroom Hasaan’s eyes scanned the crowd, and Rahima Mai, her arms folded across her chest, stood next to him like a rock.

  A man with wild eyes and a thick moustache pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Get the infidels!” he shouted, grabbing Kulraj Singh’s neck. Kulraj slipped his hand inside his shirt to touch the sheathed kirpan. A melee exploded for several minutes, until the moment someone jumped up and grabbed the end piece of the turban from Kulraj Singh’s head. Then, as the turban unwound, as if in slow motion, the room also spun until Kulraj Singh’s naked topknot was exposed. The attackers stepped back, as if to make room for the ignominy.

  Amir, Yusuf, and Zeshan, with their backs protecting Kulraj Singh, extended their arms against the attackers. Hasaan jabbed two of the offenders, and Rahima Mai lifted one of them by the hair on his head. The man bellowed. The bailiffs were shouting, “Clear the courtroom! Everyone must clear the courtroom!” Police appeared with their Kalashnikovs. Zeshan grabbed the white muslin of his father-in-law’s turban and pushed open the door to the holding area, where Meena, Faisah, Ujala, Lia, and Jabril Kazzaz welcomed them inside.

  The family retreated to Nankana Sahib. Hasaan was posted at the street on the edge of the lot. Neighbors delivered dishes throughout the day and into the evening—fried onions and spicy peas, Kashmiri potatoes, sweet rice with yogurt, lentils, plates piled with pistachios, pomegranates, and mangoes. Each time the bell rang, the twins went to the door. Meena greeted the neighbor and passed the dish to Amir, who served it.

  Kulraj Singh left the door to the shrine room open as he began his rituals and songs of praise. He lit candles and sat cross-legged before the photo of Nafeesa—the one Ujala had placed there when she returned to the family from Sindh. Nafeesa looked directly into the lens—a vital, even shocking, effect. Her hair was pulled back, its length and fullness unseen by the camera, but clear in her husband’s memory. The shadows of her eyes created the impression that she had been crying. At the same time she seemed to be annoyed about something, and strict, yet tender enough to kiss. The portrait was both straightforward and contradictory, as Nafeesa had been.

  Kulraj pulled the harmonium close to him, opened the valves, and searched for his texts. He did not turn when he heard the knock at the open door.

  “Yes?” he replied, still searching through the books. He was hoping it was Amir, or one of the others, wanting to join him. “Who is it?” Kulraj asked, and turned to see Jabril Kazzaz standing with his hand on the doorknob. Kulraj Singh rose at once, smiling.

  “Would you like to come in, my friend?” he asked, aware of the puzzle that the moment presented. A famous Muslim like Kazzaz might not want to enter a Sikh shrine. But recognizing the common light in their hearts, Kazzaz said nothing. He just nodded and entered.

  Jabril’s senses were overwhelmed—the smell of incense and ripened fruit, the candlelight, the photo of Guru Nanak above them on the wall. But when Jabril’s eyes fell on the photo of Nafeesa, they softened.

  He fell to his knees.

  “Baji,” he whispered. “Baji.”

  At once Kulraj recognized the profile of the fourteen-year-old boy who had stood over his beloved wife with a sword in Shalimar Garden.

  He sank to his knees.

  “Jameel?”

  Kazzaz shifted and looked into the eyes of Kulraj Singh.

  “I thought I killed her,” he whispered, his throat feeling as if it were filled with the length of a sword. His tears flowed easily.

  “You almost did,” replied Kulraj, recalling the weeks his wife spent in the hospital and the months in recovery. “But she was strong.”

  “I thought I killed her. After that, I wanted to die.”

  Then Kulraj remembered how Faisah had said that Kazzaz slept next to corpses.

  “Nafeesa is the sister you went looking for in the gutters of Lahore?” he asked.

  Kazzaz nodded.

  “It was like a myth others spread, so it became my cover story,” he said. He kept his eyes on the photograph. “After Shalimar Garden, I was a lost soul. The family honored me for what I had done, but I hated myself. I saw the sort of man my older brother was and knew I did not want to be like that. So, I decided to do what Baji had done. One day I took the bus to Lahore, let go of my past, changed my name, and never returned to Malakwal. I knew I would never find her body, but I searched anyhow. Praise Allah, she survived. Praise Allah, she was with you.” Jabril’s tears dropped into his hands.

  “She forgave you long ago,” said Kulraj. Jabril was rubbing the tears between his fingers together and leaning back on his heels. The eyes of Nafeesa stared out at them.

  “And you?” Jabril asked without facing Kulraj. “Did you forgive me?”

  “Me?” Kulraj laughed. “It took me longer to forgive myself than to forgive you. Remember, I was an adult and you were still a boy. I left Nafeesa alone in Pakistan for those weeks after our marriage. Anything could have happened to her and I would not have been there. Meeting in Shalimar Garden was a stupid idea—and dangerous—to think we would not have been conspicuous! Did I think we were invisible? We were young and in love. I was a careless fool.”

  “That one event shaped my life—it led me to God,” Jabril said. He turned to Kulraj, relieved to tell his lifelong secret.

  “Nafeesa had a way of shaping others’ lives,” Kulraj said. “She was a miracle, and I adored her. I adore her still.” He nodded at the shrine, the flowers, the place that reflected his devotion. “Loving Nafeesa was my first serious spiritual practice. She still is my path to God.”

  A speck of a candlewick dissolved into itself and died.

  “I don’t know how to tell the others,” Jabril said. “I am full of shame for what I did. What did you and Baji tell them about Malakwal? About Shalimar Garden?”

  “Nothing,” Kulraj said. He reached for a fresh candle and struck a match. “She never wanted the children to know the truth . . . well, that’s not quite right. She wanted them to know, but was afraid to tell them . . . we could never think of a way . . .”

  “No. No. She was right!” Jabril insisted. His voice was spontaneous
and gruff. He was pleased that the rest of the family did not know. “My family is dangerous. They were proud of me. The only mention of Baji was on her birthday, when my auntie set a place for her at the table and my brother spit on her dishes. The uncles called me a hero, but I felt the chill between our parents. I heard my mother call out Baji’s name in her sleep.” He folded his legs under him and looked up.

  “I had not thought of it that way,” Kulraj said. “I haven’t thought about it for a long time.”