Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Hearing hurried steps behind her she looked over her shoulders, her curls flying around her cheeks and mouth parted open. It was the pagaal woman in the blue chador who talked funny. The greeting of ‘salaam’ died on Shirin’s mouth as the woman dashed into the sugarcane field, thrusting her body through the tall, sturdy sugarcane plants.

  Bemused and shrugging her small shoulders Shirin carried on walking to the termite mound, now armed with a large twig, ready to give the mound crust a really good poke. Her feet wide apart, she was debating where to start – at the top or at the bottom – when a shadow fell on the mound. Frowning, Shirin stood up. It was a tall man, with a huge turban on his head, fair suntanned skin, and a wiry moustache styled to fall to the sides of his face. She had seen men like him knocking at their apartment door in Islamabad, selling goods. This one also had a bag slung over his shoulders.

  He smiled down at her; she gazed spellbound into his startling, liquid-blue eyes.

  ‘What are you doing, my little girl?’ the man asked in heavily accented Urdu.

  Shirin blinked, not wanting to answer – small soft mouth fallen open, very much aware that he was standing too close. Her mother had warned her in the city not to talk to strangers. Nervously, she stepped back. The man’s smile widened.

  ‘Ah, little one, you want to play with the ants – let me help you.’ He took the twig from her hand, ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  Shirin relaxed, watching him poke a very big hole in the crust. To her delight, almost immediately the ants began to scramble out. She giggled and he laughed.

  ‘See … look at them. Now you do it …’ Shirin let him guide her hand to poke another hole, his other hand resting lightly on her shoulders, his body leaning against hers from behind as he squatted down to her level.

  *

  Salma, the quiltmaker’s daughter, was lying on the ground in the cramped space between the sturdy sugarcane shoots, the long sharp leaves digging into her back and scratching her arms. Eyes tightly closed, she waited, willing herself to shut out the pain; it was just a matter of time.

  The blood was trickling down over the sugarcane shoots.

  ‘Forgive me, Mother!’ Feeling faint, a buzzing sound echoed in her ears. Then it was shattered by a startling scream and the words ‘No! No!’

  Salma sat up, heart thudding, listening. Thinking it was her imagination, she closed her eyes again, slumping against the sugarcane shoots, crushing them beneath her body.

  Another piercing scream rent through the air. Salma sat up, alarmed. Staggering to her feet, her blood-soiled shawl caught on a stem was forgotten. Scratching her hands, she thrust her way out of the rows of sugarcane plants and stepped onto the village path.

  Ahead of her, she saw a tall man pulling the landlord’s screaming granddaughter behind him. And then, lifting her up, he threw her onto his shoulders and started to run down the path out of the village.

  Salma screamed, startling the man in his tracks.

  ‘Get your hands off her, you pig!’ she called, running after him, her wrist leaking blood.

  The man put Shirin down and sprinted off. Salma carried on shouting for help, hoping someone was around in the neighbouring fields to hear her.

  ‘Help! Our daughter is being kidnapped!’

  Traumatised, Shirin rose to her feet, body shaking with violent sobs. The man had told her he wanted to take her to see a mela, a fair. When she had politely refused, he had grabbed her arm making her scream as fear took hold of her, her mother’s words of warning, that some men stole children, ringing in her head.

  Reaching Shirin, Salma gave her a tight hug.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Auntie, your arm, it’s bleeding!’ Shirin was frightened of the gash and the stream of blood rushing out.

  ‘Don’t worry! Let’s get you home.’ Salma held her throbbing wrist against her chest, blood soaking into her kameez. Shirin let herself be pulled, but these hands Shirin trusted. And she was going in the right direction – back to the village.

  Her own legs unsteady, Salma tightened her hold of the girl. Looking ahead, she thought fast. The potter’s home was too far; she knew she would not make it there and so she stopped in the village square.

  Salma ignored the young boys playing cricket, gawping at her bloody wrist, and the bearded Imam on his way home after leading the prayers in the mosque. There was no modesty dupatta or shawl around her body. The Imam quickly averted his gaze from the fulsome thrust of Salma’s breasts straining through her thin cotton kameez. ‘Besharm woman!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Has the quiltmaker’s daughter really flipped this time? That she goes without any modesty covering, save a thin kameez!’

  He had heard about her strange hiding jaunts in the sugarcane fields. When a woman passer-by called her name, Salma ignored her and carried on walking, her only concern being the girl’s safety.

  At the hevali gates, she kept her fingertip pressed on the buzzer until a panting Begum, with Rasoola in tow, appeared.

  ‘Hold on! What’s the hurry, you silly girl? Look at you! What?’ Begum exclaimed, stopping dead, her eyes on Salma’s dripping wrist as she clutched tightly onto the terrified Shirin. What was going on?

  ‘Please, take her home – she was being kidnapped.’ Salma spoke so low that they could hardly hear her.

  ‘What?’ Aghast, both housekeepers echoed together.

  Next minute, Salma was on the ground, in a heap at their feet.

  ‘Oh my God! Rasoola, call the doctor! Call Ali! Look at this stupid woman – she’s slit her wrist.’ Pulling off her own shawl and tearing one end of it she wrapped it tightly around Salma’s wrist. Begum did not care; showing the shape of her middle-aged breasts was the least of her problems.

  ‘Take her inside,’ she instructed Rasoola. ‘And you, pet,’ she turned to Shirin, ‘come with me. I’m not letting you out of sight now until I hand you safely back to your mother.’

  Begum thought fast. Master Arslan was at home. That was good, as he could take the girl. So much to do. They needed to let Salma’s mother know. Child kidnapping, slit wrists, and a goorie bride at their door – what next?

  ‘Fetch Master Arslan, Rasoola!’ Begum called, glad to have the other housekeeper with her at this moment.

  Shirin was now sobbing uncontrollably, looking at the woman who had saved her, with her closed eyes and bandaged wrist.

  ‘What happened to her arm, Auntie Begum?’ she asked meekly.

  ‘Nothing, my princess, she cut it by accident …’

  ‘She was in the sugarcane fields … she ran to help me when that man grabbed me!’ Shirin hiccupped to a stop. Begum hugged her tight. The thought of losing her, being abused and sold by some man terrified her. Arslan came sprinting out of the hevali gates as soon as he heard.

  ‘Master Arslan, please take this lovely girl back to her mother’s home,’ Begum instructed. Bemused, Arslan stood staring at the woman on the ground and his niece sobbing in Begum’s arms.

  Shirin slid back into Begum’s arms, reluctant to go into the arms of another man, even if he had visited her mother.

  ‘It’s OK, my princess, I’ll take you home myself! Master Arslan, please take Salma inside. I hope that her husband can take her away from this village.’ She mouthed the words, ‘The silly girl has slit her wrist … the doctor!’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. She shook her head before striding off with Shirin, her arm protectively draped around the girl’s shoulders.

  One street away her young companion timidly requested:

  ‘Please don’t tell Mummy about that bad man … she’ll get angry. I disobeyed her – please, Auntie.’

  ‘OK, but see that you now play inside the village. There are some wicked people in the world who are not kind to children.’

  ‘Oh! I will, Auntie. I promise.’

  Arslan waited for Rasoola to help him to pick up the semiconscious woman, wanting to avoid having to touch her.

  *

  PART THREE
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br />   CHAPTER 20

  The Friends

  Massi Fiza panted into the goldsmith’s lounge.

  ‘Have you heard?’

  Rukhsar frowned above the gem casket, the bead tweezers gripped between her fingers.

  ‘What, Massi Fiza-ji?’ she politely asked, hoping it would be worth it as her husband was waiting for the gemstones downstairs in his workshop.

  ‘You won’t believe this! In our village – kidnapping and slit wrists!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Salma, that quiltmaker’s daughter, tried to kill herself – slit her wrist and then ended up saving the landlord’s granddaughter from a kidnapping. Just guess where she tried to kill herself? In the sugarcane field! Can you believe it?’

  ‘What?’ the frown was replaced by a speculative look.

  ‘I’m now off to Zeinab’s house to see how her daughter’s doing – the doctor came just in time. I’ll pop in later and let you know what’s happened.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Rasoola, Begum’s new helper at the hevali, told me when I returned the laundry. She always enjoys a good gossip. She’s just like us, but she’s mean and malicious, too!’ she laughed. ‘Well, there is no pretending we don’t like a good gossip, is there?’ Rukhsar giggled in agreement.

  Massi Fiza panted out of the room, just as she had entered.

  *

  It was much later, after all her laundry work was finished, that Massi Fiza made it to the quiltmaker’s house. Zeinab’s humble courtyard and small veranda was crammed with women visitors, either perched on or hovering around the two portable charpoys. Salma’s husband, urgently called from the city, stood in one corner, head bowed, arms folded across his chest. With lowered heads and behind the folds of their shawls numerous hushed female conversations were taking place. Whispering women, covertly signalling with their body language and active exchange of secret glances. This was an incredible moment for gossip-mongering, drama and speculation. Massi Fiza eagerly eavesdropped on her two friends and good customers.

  ‘Will the silly girl pull through? First hiding in sugarcane plants and now trying to kill herself! What next? She’s truly mad,’ murmured the baker’s wife. ‘And they said she has a BA, huh! This is not how an educated woman behaves! She is sillier than the lot of us.’ Her last sentence made the women around her frown. One uttered, ‘Cheeky woman!’

  The Gujjar’s wife, hiding her mouth behind her hand, heartily agreed; she had stopped her own pregnant daughter-in-law from coming with her. After all, she could not take a risk with Salma’s perchanvah. Had not the sweetmaker’s daughter-in-law, Faiza, miscarried soon after hugging the ‘unfortunate’ Salma?

  Skilfully sidling past the two women hovering in the doorway, Massi Fiza entered Salma’s room, peeping over the shoulder of the village cobbler’s wife.

  Salma was lying on her bed, unconscious and breathing, her wrist now properly bandaged. Zeinab, sitting on the edge of the bed, was gently massaging her daughter’s forehead. The young lady doctor from the local medical centre was just packing her medicine case when someone pushed Massi Fiza aside. Affronted and about to complain, the words died on her mouth as Zeinab leapt off the bed.

  ‘Not done enough already! Come to see, have you?’ she shouted.

  Zeinab aggressively pushed Jennat Bibi, the sweetmaker’s wife, who stumbled against her daughter-in-law, Faiza, and fell in the middle of the doorway with a thud.

  ‘Ouch!’ Jennat Bibi screeched in pain, having landed on her bottom on the concrete floor, unable to breathe. The women visitors, as well as the horrified doctor, were unable to believe their eyes.

  Faiza bent down to help her up and the lady doctor hurried to Jennat Bibi’s side, her dazed gaze swinging from one irate lady, the host, to the woman she had just pushed. Zeinab remained defiant.

  ‘Sister Zeinab, what have you done?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘It’s these women – they are responsible for the state my daughter is in. They made my Salma’s life a real hell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This woman …’ As she was about to poke Jennat Bibi on the shoulder, the doctor pulled her back, ‘has been victimising my Salma! She made her go mad and want to kill herself.’

  She spat at Faiza, ‘And you, serpent of a friend, lied to protect yourself! See what you’ve done – Salma has cut her wrist and is on her deathbed! You two are responsible for this! If she dies, may all the curses of the world beget your home!’

  Zeinab stepped out onto the veranda and jeeringly addressed all the women in her home, encompassing them in one ruthless glance, her finger pointing to them all. ‘You are all hypocrites! You women have made my daughter’s life a misery. The poor mite was already suffering from the loss of her babies – then you victimised her, by avoiding her and stopping her from entering your homes.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the doctor interjected, looking bewildered and outraged. ‘What’s going on here? Are you saying …’

  ‘This wicked woman blamed her daughter-in-law’s miscarriage on my poor girl!’ Zeinab interrupted. ‘They have accused her of witchcraft, saying that her “evil shadow” made Faiza lose her baby.’

  ‘What utter nonsense!’ the doctor replied, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘There’s no such thing as a woman’s evil shadow. This poor woman has miscarried because of a medical condition. Her womb is weak and unable to hold onto the foetus! What has her body got to do with other women’s pregnancies? Can you women not understand that? Also is this not shirk and against the teaching of Islam?’ The doctor’s challenging gaze swung over the small crowd of women.

  ‘What does she know?’ someone muttered quietly, staring back unabashed, while others dropped their gaze in embarrassment.

  The bricklayer’s wife mumbled to her companion, ‘Let’s get out of here before Zeinab lays into me and pushes me out, too!’

  Too late. As she rose to leave: ‘Yes, it’s women like Jennat Bibi and the bricklayer’s wife who have slammed their doors in my daughter’s face!’ Zeinab screeched aloud from the doorway.

  Her back smarting with heat, and too timid to retaliate in public, the bricklayer’s wife hurried out of the door, followed closely by Massi Fiza. Outside in the lane, the bricklayer’s wife turned round to see who was behind her and smiled.

  ‘Just the person I wanted to see! Massi Fiza, are you going to the hevali for the laundry? If you are, please take me with you. I do so want to get a glimpse of the goorie.’

  Massi Fiza cruelly giggled, ‘Begum won’t be very pleased if I keep bringing visitors with me to the hevali. She says that it’s not a zoo, or that the goorie is not an animal on exhibition for us all to ogle. Anyway, I have already collected the laundry. Out of three women I took with me last time, only one was lucky – she took a glass of water to the goorie.’

  ‘Oh. I would have loved to invite her to my house for dinner,’ the woman preened, missing the disdainful smirk on Massi Fiza’s face.

  ‘She won’t be visiting or having dinners at any humble people’s homes.’ Massi Fiza scoffed at the audacity of the bricklayer’s wife in wanting to invite the Englishwoman into her house. ‘Probably there will be a big party for Master Arslan’s homecoming! You might be able to see her then,’ she ended helpfully, relishing the wisdom of always remaining on good terms with everyone.

  They started to walk back home together, as they lived in the same street.

  *

  Inside the quiltmaker’s house, the doctor was in full flow educating the women and trying to wean them away from superstitions that made them unwittingly cruel.

  ‘This is a good example of a bad old wives’ tale, ladies! Please listen. That poor young woman, lying on the bed, nearly died today. We don’t know what drove her to it.’

  ‘These women did!’ was Zeinab’s shrill answer.

  ‘That might be true, but your daughter could be suffering from post-natal depression also. If you remember, she told me how low she was feeling
the last time I saw you both in the medical centre,’ the doctor hastened to remind Zeinab.

  Jennat Bibi was now groaning aloud and trying to rise. The doctor leaned down to look at her.

  ‘I had better check you over. Are you in a lot of pain?’

  ‘Yes, you saw how this vindictive woman pushed me over! She’s a witch with no manners – fancy pushing her guests? Have I pushed anyone in my house?’

  ‘Manners? Get this woman out of here, Brother Javaid, before I do something else to her!’ Zeinab heatedly instructed Jennat Bibi’s husband who was standing nearby. He had followed his wife to the quiltmaker’s house after he learned of the mishap with Salma and had watched the entire spectacle with a tight face.

  ‘Come, Jennat Bibi, let’s take you home.’ Stiffly, her husband came to his wife’s side. Everyone stared at the tall, dignified sweetmaker, often under his wife’s thumb.

  ‘Come, Faiza. Sister Zeinab is right. Neither of you two women should be welcome in this house. You have both caused enough damage as it is. I would be grateful if you, lady doctor, could come to our house and check my wife in case she has broken a bone or something.’

  He turned to Zeinab. ‘I’m so sorry about your daughter and I hope she recovers fully. I take responsibility for the behaviour of the two women in my family. And you ladies, I hope you have heard what the doctor said. There are no evil shadows – it’s all in your mind. Listen to the doctor’s medical logic, not to some of the rubbish that the pir has been feeding my wife.’

  He guided his red-cheeked wife out of the courtyard. The women moved aside to let them pass.

  ‘Please all go home,’ Zeinab told the women. ‘Thank you for coming, but I don’t need you here. Go and see to your families and leave me to get on with looking after my daughter. In’shallah, with all your prayers, my Salma will get better.’