She shut her eyes. ‘Why is my safety the only thing you think of?’
‘Because you cannot fulfil your destiny if you are dead.’
Her eyes flew open again. She searched his face. ‘Destiny?’ Chandi also spoke of destiny.
He glanced away toward the tents as if to stop himself from saying words he’d regret. Then he looked back at her, and she could see his confusion. ‘We all have a destiny to fulfil,’ he finally said.
She shivered. Her hand glanced against his embroidered kamarband and she frowned. What a mystery he was. She thought of the sword he gave her. Even she knew it was priceless. ‘Azhar?’ she whispered. ‘Who are you truly?’ Did she even mean him to hear?
After a moment he said, ‘Azhar Sekandar, at your service.’
She caught the irony in his tone and stepped away. She wondered how she could be so annoyed with him and yet also dread the moment when she wouldn’t see him again.
Instantly a thought crowded her mind. ‘Azhar, do you know who I am?’
He hesitated. Then he leaned close.
She smelled the leather he wore and the fennel and spices on his breath.
‘You are a shehzadi …’ He whispered into her ear as she imagined a lover would. ‘Jahani …’ His hands rested on her arms and she felt a searing warmth where his fingers pressed into her. She didn’t even think about stepping away. ‘You will—’
Anjuli pulled on her shawl. ‘What are we doing? I’m getting wet.’
Jahani shook her head as if coming out of a dream. ‘Certainly, Anjuli.’
Azhar drew back from Jahani and took down her bag and sword from Chandi. He left his carpet tied safely to Rakhsh and it saddened Jahani for wherever they’d gone the carpet went, too. It was as if the carpet was his home.
‘Are you coming with the nomads, too?’ Anjuli asked, skipping to match his stride.
Azhar picked Anjuli up in his free arm. ‘I cannot come with you.’ Over her head, he glanced at Jahani. ‘It would look suspicious.’
‘But you’ll be careful?’ Jahani said it quickly without thinking.
He set Anjuli and her bag down near the tents and touched Jahani’s cheek. ‘I am only a prayer away.’ His voice was low.
Jahani squinted at him. Was he blaspheming now?
He grinned; she saw his teeth shining in the darkness. ‘I will not be far from you – do not fear.’
Jahani pulled herself straighter and even though her chest was heaving, she said, ‘I am not afraid.’
‘Good.’ She could hear the humour in his voice as he picked up the bag again and gave her the sword. Then he said, ‘Be careful who you trust, and keep your sword hidden in the bag.’
They moved quickly toward the centre tent. A small fire burned within, illuminating shapes through the tent material made of goats’ hides. As they drew closer, an animal snarled. A white dog bounded out of the tent up to Jahani. Anjuli squealed and hid behind Azhar, but Jahani bent to pat the dog. It rolled onto its back at Jahani’s feet.
Anjuli forgot her fear enough to say, ‘How did you do that?’
Azhar glanced at the sword bag in her hand. ‘Perhaps she’s a pari.’
‘Truly?’ Anjuli turned to Jahani her eyes huge.
She laughed. ‘I have met this dog before, that is all.’
Just then a young man stepped out of the tent. He took one look at the dog and Jahani, and said in Hindustani, ‘Please, come inside and dry yourselves.’
Azhar held the tent flap open for Jahani and Anjuli. She entered without having to stoop and was overcome by the smell of goats’ hides and oily wet wool smoked by the brazier inside. A hawk ruffled its feathers on a wooden perch in the shadows. Jahani could hardly breathe from nerves.
An older man’s voice came from a charpai on the other side of the fire. ‘Khush amdeed, welcome.’
Azhar laid his hand over his heart and bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, hazoor, but I ask a favour of your hospitality.’
The man inclined his head and waved them further inside. When they were settled on cushions, the older man said, ‘I am Tafeeq Baseer, the chieftain of this tribe.’ He waved to the other side of the tent where the younger man stood in the shadows. ‘That is Rahul, my son.’ Tafeeq raised his eyebrows at Azhar as if asking for his name. ‘You look familiar.’
‘You will know us from many summers ago. I am Azhar Sekandar and this is Jahani Baqir, and her friend Anjuli.’
Before Azhar could continue both Tafeeq and Rahul gasped.
‘Jahani?’ Tafeeq asked. ‘Our Jahani?’
Azhar nodded. ‘She has been hidden for nine summers.’
Jahani felt a jolt in her middle. He said she was theirs.
‘Now Jahani is in danger again and she needs a place to hide. She has run away from home to save her life.’
There was a silence, then Tafeeq said, ‘So, Jahani.’ He stood up and walked forward into the firelight. ‘Let me look at you. You were just a small child when we lost you.’
‘Lost’ wasn’t how Jahani would describe the way she came to be separated from the nomads. Like Baqir, the man was old and his beard was also streaked with grey. But even though Tafeeq was taller and more imposing she was disappointed to realise that she didn’t know him.
He regarded her as if he could see the questions on her face. ‘I offer you the hospitality of our people,’ he said.
She murmured her thanks.
‘I am your uncle,’ he continued, then paused.
Was he waiting for some show of recognition or affection? Jahani sighed inside for she could not bring herself to move. Twice she’d had her life ripped from under her feet; she’d be more wary from now on.
‘My son Rahul will be the next chieftain of our people and he is as a brother to you.’ He beckoned to Rahul to stand forward.
Finally the man moved from the shadows into Jahani’s line of vision. She stifled a gasp. He was the same man who owned the white dog that she’d noticed in the fields. Up close, Jahani could tell that he was a summer or two older than Azhar.
‘If you have any worries at all and cannot understand the women, Rahul will help you.’ Then Tafeeq added, ‘Do not be concerned about this for we do not practise segregation or veiling and I am sure Rahul will feel a certain responsibility toward you.’ Tafeeq glanced at his son.
Rahul said politely, ‘Certainly. When I saw you on the road and again in the field recently, I wondered. That is, you reminded me of the little girl I once knew …’
Jahani stared at Rahul with a thump in her chest but was distracted by Azhar tapping his foot. She glanced over and found Azhar frowning.
Azhar said, ‘I am glad she will be looked after, though I had expected the women—’
Tafeeq interrupted. ‘I doubt Jahani will remember our mother tongue at first. Once the women have taught her, then they will take the responsibility. But Rahul will always be ready to protect her, if needed.’ He nodded at his son.
Jahani tried to read Rahul’s expression. Did he welcome this arrangement? Then she switched her glance to Azhar. His face had coloured and she wondered if he was upset with her not being segregated from the nomad men or if he saw himself as her only protector. She decided that soon she’d be able to protect herself; then she wouldn’t need either of them.
Tafeeq offered them bread and chai. ‘This roti is to welcome you,’ Tafeeq said.
Jahani’s first sip brought memories swirling in the steam of her cup, of the smoky chai they’d drunk in caravanserais and forests.
‘Hazoor,’ Azhar said in respect to Tafeeq, ‘Jahani has brought her mare, and her snow leopard may follow the camp at night if he doesn’t return home. Please do not harm him.’
Tafeeq gave Jahani a searching stare at the mention of the leopard.
Then Azhar gave Tafeeq gold coins. ‘This is to feed her horse and possibly the leopard to save your goats from being eaten.’ For the first time Azhar smiled.
‘So,’ Tafeeq searched Azhar’s face, ‘you are truly that boy named Azh
ar? What a wonder.’
Azhar inclined his head.
‘How is your good father?’ Tafeeq asked.
‘He lives and is well, shukriya.’
Jahani listened to their conversation, her mind racing. How strange that they knew Azhar.
For a little while, they leaned against the cushions around the brazier, drinking the chai and answering questions about Jahani’s life. Then Tafeeq stood and it was time for Azhar to go. Anjuli clung to him. ‘Please come, too.’ He lifted her up and whispered in her ear. Her face relaxed and she smiled at him.
Jahani was swamped with a wave of panic. She wanted to discover who she was and needed to be with the nomads, but would she see Azhar again? He said he’d return, but what if he was captured? There was no chance to speak in front of the other men and what could she say? That she’d miss him? Over Anjuli’s head he held Jahani’s gaze and she saw the concern in his eyes, just for her.
She watched Azhar with an impotent yearning as he strode out to Rakhsh. He mounted and rode away into the night, leaving Chandi standing alone in the rain, tied to the tree. Jahani looked around for Yazan, but he had already gone.
Rahul took the girls to another tent, guiding them quickly through the rain. Jahani was tired and she could tell Anjuli was, too. She hoped there was a mat they could share.
Even before they reached the tent a woman rushed out. She looked at Jahani for a long moment and Jahani was horrified to see tears course down the woman’s face.
Rahul said, ‘Her name is Yasmeen. She is my aunt and your mother.’
The woman reached up to cradle Jahani’s face in her hands, and spoke to her. Jahani didn’t understand a word and blinked away tears.
‘It is late,’ Rahul continued, ‘and the women will be sleeping in the tent. I will return in the morning.’
Jahani gestured to stop him, but the woman was speaking again and she drew Jahani and Anjuli into the tent. Jahani had thought that Zarah looked too old to be her mother, but this woman looked even older. She thought of the softness of Zarah’s skin and her easier life in her spacious house, while the nomad women were on the road looking after the animals. It was all so different.
Suddenly the woman touched her chest and whispered, ‘Yasmeen, Ammi.’
Jahani smiled. These were words she understood. She laid her hand on her own chest. ‘Jahani,’ she said, and yet she didn’t feel any more for this woman than she did for Zarah. Hafeezah would always be her mother, she knew that now.
The woman indicated a mat for Jahani and Anjuli to sleep on away from the other women. Gratefully they took off their wet outer clothes and lay down. Yasmeen covered them with a blanket and lay next to them.
That night Jahani dreamed. She was on a high mountain ledge. It was snowing and she didn’t know where to walk to be safe. A person followed her, so she had to keep striding, but with each step she sank deeper in the snow until she couldn’t pull herself out. A man’s hand reached down to her. ‘Alhumdulillah, I found you,’ he said. When she looked up it was Muzahid, his head shaved and bleeding red against the snow. He laughed and she saw he had no teeth, just a gaping black hole.
21
Naran Fields Kingdom of Kaghan
In the morning, Jahani was woken by Yasmeen – her mother. She glanced around and noticed the women were up rolling their mats and making room in the tent. Many frowned at Jahani in suspicion; one in particular made a hissing noise. Jahani lowered her gaze.
With signing Yasmeen showed Jahani and Anjuli that they must wash from a pot of water and dress in outfits she had laid down for them. Jahani’s dress was bright with many coloured squares of cloth, mostly green. Yasmeen pointed to herself and Jahani knew she had made it. Yasmeen had probably even made her little nomad dress that Hafeezah had given her, too. Was Yasmeen waiting for her to return just as Zarah had been? It was all so strange and confusing. With a start she realised Azhar could have told her everything from the beginning. He knew even then about the nomads. A flame of anger rose inside of her until she told herself firmly that it wasn’t Azhar’s secret to tell – it was Zarah’s. But it didn’t halt that cast-off feeling she had constantly now. She was reminded of a line from Rumi:
If Love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
She now knew how it felt to have no wings: abandoned and alone.
With a deep breath, Jahani pulled the dress over her head and arms, and watched Anjuli do the same. Then Yasmeen sewed up the side opening. Suddenly she realised why many of the nomad girls’ dresses were so discoloured: they wore them until they grew out of them. There’d be no getting out of the dress unless the stitches were unpicked. She fingered the embroidery and tiny glass beads on the bodice, and the pink-and-green material of the sleeves and skirt with silver-coloured braid holding it all together. It was like wearing Sameela’s quilt. The thought calmed her.
After the girls were dressed, Jahani peered out of the tent and saw Rahul talking to an armed man and shaking his head. She was pulled inside by a woman who fired a torrent of words. It was the same woman who had hissed at her. Jahani didn’t need to understand the words to know the woman’s intent: she didn’t want Jahani going outside.
‘They don’t like you showing yourself until you cover your hair because of its colour,’ Anjuli said.
Jahani looked at her in surprise. ‘How can you understand them?’
‘My grandmother spoke this language,’ Anjuli said simply. ‘She was once a nomad, but her family allowed her to marry my grandfather in the village.’
‘Could you ask them why Rahul was talking to an armed man?’
‘I’ll try, but they might not understand me as well as I can understand them.’ She spoke a few sentences and one of the women snapped at her. Anjuli paled but turned to Jahani. ‘That woman is called Neema. She said Rahul is the prince and he deals with daily issues.’
‘He’s young to be in charge.’
Anjuli hesitantly relayed Jahani’s comment and the woman answered in the same abrasive way as before.
‘Neema said, “What are summers?”.’ Anjuli gave a whispered parody of Neema’s strident voice, ‘ “He has courage and he keeps us all safe.” ’
Anjuli looked troubled and Jahani was sure there was more she didn’t pass on. Jahani had sensed already by the looks the women had given her and their tone of voice that they didn’t want her there.
Another woman entered the tent with a huge cooking pot and Anjuli told Jahani she had been asked to help fill it with water from the river. Jahani offered to help, too, miming a pot on her head even though she had never collected water before. Neema glared and raised her hand as if to slap her, so Jahani fell silent.
Yasmeen stood in front of Jahani and said many heated words to Neema, but the other women argued with her. Suddenly they surrounded Jahani and pulled her to the pot.
‘What are they doing?’ Jahani asked Anjuli in a panic.
‘They don’t like your hair. They say it is dangerous.’
‘But some of them have brown hair. And I saw a child outside with red hair.’
‘It’s just yours they don’t like,’ Anjuli said carefully.
Jahani tried to get up but two women on each side yanked her down and forced her to kneel over the pot.
‘Maybe they are right,’ Anjuli said.
Jahani could just see Anjuli from the corner of her eye. What had Anjuli heard to make her say that?
The women put cloths around Jahani’s neck and tied them. She hoped fervently they wouldn’t cut her hair. A younger girl who looked like Neema poured water gently over her head until it was saturated and water was running in her ears. Then Neema reached for a small pot, dug her hand in and withdrew her fingers covered in a dark paste.
‘Nay!’ Jahani struggled against the women until one of them slapped her. The sting of it cleared as she felt the dye seep coldly onto her scalp. Yasmeen had tears in her eyes, but she talked to Jahani as if she we
re a child having a splinter out. Jahani didn’t need to understand the words to hear the concern in her voice. She thought about Hafeezah and how she had loved her red-brown hair; now she would be unrecognisable.
Unrecognisable …
She stopped protesting as realisation dawned. That was what the women were doing: making her hidden. They must suspect danger to take such measures. Did they know about Muzahid and that she was a runaway bride?
As she fell quiet a girl spoke gently to her, but Jahani could not understand her words.
Finally they brought Jahani to a sitting position and dried her hair with a cloth.
Anjuli’s mouth fell open in shock. ‘You look different,’ she said. ‘What will Azhar say?’
Jahani frowned, ignoring Anjuli’s comment. Anjuli helped to wipe the paste from her neck and the gentle girl told them her name: ‘Kamilah’.
Jahani smiled at her. ‘Jahani,’ she said. ‘And this is Anjuli.’ Then Yasmeen patted Jahani’s head dry and said kind words to her.
Anjuli interpreted, ‘She said she’s sorry, but armed men are looking for a red-haired girl.’
Jahani stifled a gasp. Could it be Muzahid’s men or Baqir’s? Surely not Dagar Khan’s. With horror she realised so many people wanted her now.
Jahani began braiding her hair into one plait to calm herself, but her hands were smacked away with more sharp words. It didn’t take long for Jahani to figure out what was said: they wanted her hair to look like theirs. For the rest of the morning, Kamilah plaited Jahani’s hair into hundreds of plaits. Even with Anjuli helping it took hours and, to pass the time, Kamilah and Anjuli began teaching Jahani how to speak Gujjari – the nomads’ mother tongue. Kamilah could also speak Persian and Hindustani.
‘But how did you learn?’ Jahani asked, wondering how a tribe on the move could afford a tutor.
‘Rahul taught me,’ she said with a blush. ‘He had a tutor. But we also hear these languages on our travels.’ Jahani watched Kamilah’s face with interest; her feelings for Rahul were plain to see.
After Anjuli’s hair was plaited, Yasmeen produced silver jewellery: a flower for Jahani’s nose, a ring half the length of her thumb, earrings and clips for her hair. A wide woven necklace of tiny green beads was placed around her neck above her taveez. Yasmeen smiled as she proffered each piece, murmuring words which Jahani imagined were endearments or blessings like Hafeezah’s. When Yasmeen realised Jahani had only one set of holes in her ears she called for needle and thread.
Daughter of Nomads Page 14
