Rahima Mai gestured toward the exit, directing Ujala back into the van, while Faisah talked to the press.
“We want to talk to Reshma Mohammad,” one reporter said. “It looks like she is the fourth ‘She-lion of Punjab.’”
“Unfortunately, it is not appropriate for a jurisconsult to comment on the case,” Faisah told the reporters. “Mrs. Mohammad has left with her family. She really is not available.”
“Perhaps she would give an interview—not about the case,” another reporter suggested. “We want to know more about her, and the changes she sees coming in Islamic law in Pakistan.”
The reporters pressed her, one after another insisting on a meeting with the fourth she-lion, and Faisah did not want to alienate them.
Lia could see that Faisah was tired. “We’ll be happy to ask her about it and let you know,” she said, taking journalists’ cards. Finally, the swarm of reporters buzzed away.
“You look tired, Lia. Shall we get a cup of tea?” Faisah asked.
“Not tea,” Lia whined. “Please, no more tea.” She laughed. “A bourbon on the rocks, that’s what I’d like. But where, O where, can I find Jim Beam in Islamabad?”
Yusuf received a phone call from Karachi. It was Ujala’s friend, Robina Shahani, with whom Ujala had first started the courtyard school. Robina had an idea.
“Bribe the prison guards?” he said.
“Yes. Do it the old-fashioned way,” she said. “The Pakistani way. They expect it. Probably wondering why it is taking so long.”
“Maybe you’re right. Ujala has made friends with the women’s supervisor. I could approach her.”
“She is probably waiting for an offer. Make her one. That is why I called. I have a leather pouch full of jewels being sent to you by overnight post.”
“Jewels?” he asked. “Where would a school teacher get a box of jewels?”
“Let’s say it’s from one of Baji’s sisters. A woman is always willing to exchange a few bangles or precious stones for freedom.”
“Let me talk to Kulraj Singh about it.”
“Absolutely not!” Robina shouted. “You want to get him into trouble? No. Tell no one—that is rule number 1.”
Yusuf felt naive.
“So if that is rule number 1,” he said, “what is rule number 2?”
“Skip rule number 2,” said Robina. “Go directly to rule number 3. Do not get caught!”
Rahima Mai was furious.
“What do you think I am, trying to bribe me, to involve me in a prison escape? I should report you to the authorities. I am a professional. Do you think that Baji would want you to jeopardize my job? She cares about me!”
“But she may never get out of here,” said Yusuf. “You yourself said it—who knows what kind of evidence they have against her?”
“She never should have carried that revolver. If it had never been fired, she would be free today,” Rahima Mai said, looking for someone to blame. “Why did you let her carry a gun anyway?”
“Me? I didn’t even know she had a gun. I was in the U.S. at the time.”
“In the U.S.? Oh, yes, I forgot, you are famous in the U.S. But here you are nobody.” Who is boy who has never known hardship—this boy that Ujala wants? “Maybe you believe too many of your own stories about government corruption. You just want to have her all to yourself. To take her away from those of us who understand her, who love her, who need her.” Rahima Mai was at the point of tears. She hissed at Yusuf, “You are one whose sweetness is a lie.”
Yusuf stepped back. Ujala shared our story with a prison guard?
Rahima Mai saw the shock on his face.
“Yes, she told me all about you, Mr. Big Shot. She has told me things she will never tell you. Or be able to tell you—she may not get the death penalty, but she will spend the rest of her life here at Adaila with me. I am a better guardian than you ever will be! With me, it is a matter of honor.”
Yusuf realized he was out of his league. He placed a small pouch on the table between them.
“Take these, anyway,” Yusuf said. “If you love her, you will use these in her best interest while she is in your care. Forget about the escape plan. We cannot succeed without your help.”
Rahima Mai slipped the leather pouch into a plastic bag beneath her desk and reached for a seltzer to calm the nausea rising in her throat.
“Stupid boy!” she shouted at Yusuf’s back. “Whatever does she see in you?”
“I need to give the keys of my soul to someone,” Yusuf said to Ujala across the table in the visiting room. “Will you receive them?”
“Yes!” Ujala said, laughing at her own enthusiasm.
“I have another question.”
“I hope it’s as easy as your first one.”
“Will you marry me and come away to London, as we planned years ago?”
Ujala stopped laughing.
“Remember I have a few things I have to do here first? Such as waiting for the court decision, and serving a prison sentence, or being executed?”
She tried to sound light, but in speaking the words, even in whispers, her throat closed.
“You trust the court to be fair?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes.
“Even if we are successful in court, Uji, your life will always be in danger in Pakistan.”
“But I must continue my mother’s work,” she said, realizing that she still thought of her work as being, in some way, her mother’s. She thought she heard a distant, unfamiliar female voice, scolding her: Wake up, Ujala! All of the things you want! You want your work, you want your Yusuf, you want Pakistan. Life is a trade-off. Now tell me, what do you want to keep and what do you want to lose? “Maybe I do have to leave Pakistan,” she said at last.
“Jabril will come for you in the morning,” he said.
“What do Faisah and Lia think about my leaving Pakistan?”
“Amir is speaking to them now.”
“And what about Abbu? How can I leave my father?”
Faisah and Lia approved of the plan Amir described.
“Yes, let Yusuf take her to someplace safe,” Faisah said. “We should have thought of this long ago. I’ve been so wrapped up in her case that I haven’t had time to think about other options.”
“You don’t have to think of everything, Faisah,” Lia said. “You’ve been going every which way like—”
“I know—a chicken with its head cut off, as your mama would say.”
“Seriously, Faisah, maybe you and I should think about following Baji out of Pakistan?” Faisah did not skip a beat.
“Maybe. But we have to finish what we have started here first.”
“You and your plans and your lists,” Lia said, happy to hear the we in Faisah’s answer. “You know, we can have a radio station and a website from almost anywhere, isn’t that right, Amir?”
Amir did not move. He was reluctant to get in the middle of their argument, if it was an argument. He couldn’t tell exactly.
“You really want to go home, don’t you?” Faisah asked.
“No, not so much go home as make a home where we can be safe.”
Faisah turned to Amir.
“But what about Abbu?” she asked.
“Jabril’s talking to him now,” he replied, with an immense sadness. “I do not understand this. First, Baji Reshma moves away, then Ammi dies, you are attacked, then Meena is murdered, and now Baji is jailed. If Baji leaves the country, we lose our mother again. If you and Lia leave, too, then what becomes of Abbu and me?”
“What would Abbu say?” Faisah asked.
Amir sighed. “He would say that pleasure and pain are a set of robes that a man must keep on wearing.”
“Then whether you are inside Pakistan or not, who better than Abbu to guide you?”
During visiting hours on Friday morning, Jabril Kazzaz entered the Women’s Prison with a large shopping bag. He joined the line of relatives waiting to enter.
“Sign in. You must si
gn in,” shouted the guard in a tan uniform. She tapped her finger against the table and from time to time glanced up at Rahima Mai, who stood by the door, overseeing the process. A bound book of signatures lay open on the desk as the people passed a ballpoint pen, one to the other. Jabril had dyed his hair black and shaved his beard, and he was swaddled in a prayer shawl.
The place is busy and crowded today, he thought. God has given us lots of children and distractions. Allahu akbar! God is great!
When Jabril’s turn came, he scribbled a name and listed the prisoner he was visiting: Sadia Mirza, he wrote, Niece. He opened the mouth of the bag he carried.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A cover for my sister’s bed. She says she is cold in here at night.”
The guard was not listening to him. She gestured him on.
The indoor picnic began. Two uniformed guards stood in one corner, picking their teeth and watching the children play. Ujala sat in a far corner near the toilet area.
“Assalam aleikum,” Jabril said as he approached her.
Ujala bowed her head. “Waleikum salaam, Mamou,” Ujala replied, calling him “Uncle.”
Jabril smiled. “I have brought you a burqa,” he whispered. When she looked into the bag, she recognized that the moment of her release had arrived. She could feel anticipation in her throat and had difficulty swallowing.
“Say nothing and stop looking at it,” Jabril hissed, and Ujala complied. “We will simply sit here quietly until we have a plan we both understand,” he said. “Then, inshallah, the journey out of Pakistan will begin.”
“But I have not said good-bye to anyone.”
“It must be that way. Your father sends you every prayer for safety.”
Ujala’s heart ached at the mention of her father. Will I never see your face again? Good-bye, my gentle Abbu.
Jabril continued, “If everyone came to see you all at once, it would attract attention. Now listen to me. We wait until one of the guards leaves the room, which we have arranged to happen in about ten minutes.”
“You arranged to happen? How could you do that?”
“Many people love and admire you, Baji.” He returned to giving her instructions. “As the guard leaves the room, you will go into the toilet with this bag and put the burqa on. I will stand by the door to see that no one else enters. There will be a commotion.”
Ujala stared. “How do you know there will be a commotion?”
“As I said, there will be a commotion. When you hear it, you leave the toilet and accompany me to the door, as if you were my sister. Follow behind me. And say nothing to anyone, no matter what, until you are safely in the car with Yusuf.”
Ujala’s pulse rose at the thought of being outside of the prison walls with Yusuf.
“I understand,” she said, repeating the instructions in her mind. Guard leaves, go to toilet, change clothes, hear commotion, follow Jabril, say nothing, Yusuf. “Yusuf,” she whispered softly.
No sooner had Ujala spoken Yusuf’s name, than Rahima Mai called one of the guards to the door. They surveyed the room and signaled to the remaining guard, who nodded and left the room. Ujala slipped into the toilet. She had just pulled the burqa over her head when she heard a slamming sound and children crying. The commotion had begun! She rushed out to follow behind Jabril Kazzaz, as planned. She saw that a plastic table had collapsed onto the concrete floor, frightening the children and sending food flying in all directions. The guards, the prisoners, and the visitors were all busy trying to restore order and clean the mess. Kazzaz opened the visiting room door, which someone had left unlocked, and they joined a line of visitors exiting the prison. They passed by the table where Jabril signed in.
“You!” One of the female guards shouted, pointing at Jabril. “You must sign out over here.
Ujala followed him to the table where the guard was running her index finger down the page of the book, looking for his name.
“My sister and I were visiting my niece, Sadia Mirza,” he said.
“I do not see it here, Sir. You will have to stand over there,” she said, pointing to a holding area next to the visiting room.
“I will do no such thing!” Jabril said. “Who do you think you are? Ordering me about!”
Rahima Mai pushed through the crowed, shouting at the guard.
“Idiot, what is the problem? Let them through.”
“But, Madam, his sister is not on the list,” the guard protested.
“And who failed to put her name on the list? Hmm?” Rahima Mai asked. She pressed a cloth into Ujala’s hands. Jabril escorted her through the exit, down the narrow hallway, and out the prison door.
Yusuf sat behind the wheel of a rusty Nissan. He jumped out to open the back door while Jabril’s eyes scanned for Rahima Mai, who watched from the gate. She stood with her arms folded across her chest.
In the backseat of the car, Ujala unwrapped the cloth that Rahima Mai had forced into her hands, an orange and pink shawl. Ujala recalled the words she had spoken to Robina, “If you give a shawl to a woman, she is forever your sister and you have the right to protect her.”
Inside the shawl was a leather pouch of precious stones—lapis lazuli, pearls, rubies, topaz, and tourmaline. Underneath the gems, she found a folded paper—a map to Muzzafabad, where Rahima Mai had marked an old donkey path into the back hills marking a way through Kashmir to the border.
Ujala looked back at Rahima Mai. Around her head she had wrapped an identical orange and pink shawl.
The car pulled away, and Rahima Mai’s prayer was lost in the wind, “Allah hafiz, Baji.” May Allah protect you.
About The Author
Jacqueline St. Joan is an award-winning poet, travel writer, teacher, and lawyer. She has worked as a domestic violence activist, county judge, law professor, and children’s rights advocate. Her writings have appeared in Ms., the Bloomsbury Review, Harvard Women’s Law Journal, Empire Magazine, F Magazine, the Denver Post, the Denver Quarterly, and other anthologies, scholarly journals, and online publications. She is the coeditor of Beyond Portia: Women, Law, and Literature in the United States. Her first novel, My Sisters Made of Light was inspired by a Pakistani teacher she met in the United States, who has since returned to Pakistan where she helps women who are survivors of honor crimes and other injuries. Jacqueline traveled in Pakistan to interview victims of human rights violations, including some who were in hiding or living under extreme duress. She met with human rights workers in many organizations, and later became public education chair for the Asian American Network Against Abuse of Human Rights, a U.S.-based NGO that works to support Pakistani efforts to end human rights violations, including sexual violence. She currently teaches “Women and the Law” at Metropolitan State College of Denver, where the germ of this novel was nurtured by her students during a 2002 course titled “Women Writing about the World after September 11th.”
About The Cover Designer
Sonya Unrein is a freelance editor, designer, and small press publishing consultant living in Centennial, Colorado. After earning a B.A. in English from the University of Colorado at Denver in 2001 and an M.A. in Digital Media Studies from the University of Denver in 2003, she won the Colorado Book Award for her anthology, Open Windows 2006, which she designed, compiled, and edited when she was a co-founder of Denver’s Ghost Road Press. Visit her website at sonyaunrein.com.
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