by Dar, Azma;
‘Sorry. I’ve got pins and needles.’ She realised she was talking too much. Her married cousins had advised her to lie down quietly and go along with whatever he suggested. If she wanted to add an extra special touch, she could also pretend she was having fun.
‘No, no, that’s my fault. I’m so sorry. Would you like a cushion?’ He sprang up from the chair and began padding the area around her with pillows, then stopped and put them back. ‘That was silly, trying to prop you up there. Why don’t you take the dress off and then you can rest properly?’ His mouth clammed up immediately and his face flushed a curious burgundy colour. ‘I didn’t mean… I’ll go out if you want,’ he said, sitting down again. He covered his face with his hands.
‘Look, what I want to say is, I know that you’re an educated girl…you don’t really know me,’ he said, after a moment. ‘If you want to wait a few more days, take your time, it’s fine. I mean, I’ll just get changed and go to sleep… in the bathroom. Get changed, that is.’
She let him sit in the misery of his discomfort for a few moments before speaking.
‘I’m not really that modern, you know,’ she said. ‘But at the risk of sounding it, we both know what’s expected so you might as well come here.’
Come here? That was supposed to be his line! When, of course, he chose to deliver it at what he thought was a well judged and appropriate moment, and with a no longer controllable passion. He had never expected her to say it, and in such a teacherish tone. That was her profession, he knew, but he hadn’t thought he would be treated like a schoolboy, especially not in the bedroom. Or maybe… he stopped these unfounded imaginings to look at her, and saw the devil in her eyes and a hand stifling a smile.
Anwar remembered the first and only time it had been demanded of him to become so instantly intimate with a complete stranger. Then there had been poetry, painstakingly practised, and, instead of champagne to share, glasses of buttery green and mauve pistachio slivers swimming in warm sweet milk (decorated with a strand of obligatory green tinsel). But this time, a fear of foolishness had forbidden the spouting of romantic verses, and Gago had been warned in advance that the bride disliked milk. Instead she had filled the mini fridge with bottles of Polly, Coke, and Bubble Up, and left a plate of heat-inducing dates on the table for Anwar, with the intention that their consumption would fire him into action.
As Saika slipped the dupatta off her head, the shadows drew away from her face and he saw she was prettier than he’d imagined. Her tikka, dangling from a tiny pearled string hooked into her hair, had become tangled. He leaned forward to help, his fingers tugging gently, releasing a floral fragrance that he recognised as Rose Herbal Essence shampoo. Gago, having seen the advert on satellite TV, had bought him a bottle a year ago hoping it would have the same ecstatic effect on him as it did on the actress, and inspire in him a sudden desire to be married. It had a very womanly scent – he’d given it back to Gago.
As the gold tikka fell into his hand, he was again reminded of that clumsy, pleasant night all those years ago. Her white face and eyes the colour of that green northern lake, his chivalrous removal of all the various jewels on her body (an idea stolen, admittedly, from his favourite Indian film). It had made her giggle. Whenever he remembered, whether it was that early passion or the later treachery, it was always the wildness of her laughter that came back to him.
The machine beeped as the Begum dropped a globule of her blood on to it, and seconds later flashed a large black 5. Good. She could eat her breakfast with sugar to spare. Porridge with a bit of honey and toast with strawberry jelly. She yearned for a bowl of Coco Pops, but they were out of the question – sugary chocolate and rice, a lethal combination. She limited herself to one helping a month and special occasions. There were four boxes in her trunk, imported at her request from various foreign relatives. They would even wrap them up, idiotically asking her to guess what could be inside, even though she’d asked for them herself, and as though she was deaf as well as diabetic, and couldn’t hear the rattle of the puffy particles.
Gago brought in the breakfast.
‘Number okay this morning?’ she said, with an unusually joyous smile.
‘Yes it’s fine.’
‘Hot cup of tea for morning blues.’
‘Just shut up and get on with it,’ said the Begum. ‘How does my son look?’
‘Teasing, teasing! I haven’t been in yet. But Saabji is downstairs, waiting for her to come down before eating.’
‘He would. Too polite.’ The Begum took a large bite of the jammy toast. She refused to read anything else into the sentiment.
Saika gazed out of the window and around at the walls of the house, still covered in fairy lights, the criss-crossing wires much more visible in the daylight, a net entrapping the building rather than a glitzy decorative feature. To the right she could see the morose-looking tower jutting out at the corner. It was where she would be meeting her new mother in law shortly. Last night Gago had informed them that the Begum was tired and they would be given an audience in the morning. Anwar had insisted on seeing her, but the Begum, in turn, desired that he devoted this first night to his new wife.
So, it was done – the ordeal of awkwardness and embarassment was over. They’d spent a night of politeness and measured abandon. It could only get easier.
Saika wanted to know more about him – her husband, she should think of him as now. The term seemed to her bizarre. There had been no more than five weeks for her to get used to it. Last month she was contentedly trying to teach resistant schoolchildren how to spell and paint in an impoverished village school, and now here she was, a minor celebrity.
She put on her earrings, scratching at her itchy earlobes.
‘Ready?’ Anwar was at the door, dressed in a khaki coloured shalwar kameez. He was fair for a Pakistani, but his hair was too long. She would ask him to have it cut. She looked at him in the mirror, and began to see how familiarity could breed a sense of beauty.
The Begum was dreaming. She was twenty-three – no, twenty-one, why not? She was wearing a long gharara, pale blue with silver sequins, red poppies in her two long plaits – not a hairstyle that she particularly liked, and why was she wearing colours that didn’t match? She was on a swing, and a man, standing behind her, was pushing her higher and higher, his hands firm on her hips, strong arms ready to catch her in the unlikely event that she fell. She considered letting go, just for the sensation of being cradled by those muscular biceps, but it was outweighed by the painful possibility of accidently missing and landing elsewhere. But who was he? If she turned her face she could get a partial glimpse of him. In that flicker he looked like the ex-President, Musharraf. Smart though the General was, especially in uniform, she hoped it wasn’t him. He was in the wrong era, anyway. In the dream, her mysterious playmate could be anyone. She could have taken her pick in those days. Now of course, the choice would be more limited, but who knew…? She bit her lip. It was best not to get too excited.
‘Bhoot bangla, you are thinking, no?’ said Gago, scurrying along the dark corridor that loomed long before them, carrying an oil lantern. There were fours doors on each side, seven of them shut, closing around them like a tunnel.
‘But don’t worry, it’s not haunted. I can vouch for that. I sometimes come and sleep up here, if I’m bored. Never saw anything unusual – no witches, killer children’s dollies, men with electrical tools or burnt faces and long nails.’
Saika looked at Anwar, who shrugged, and said, ‘They watch films on YouTube.’
‘Once I heard scratching, but it turned out to be a bat,’ said Gago. ‘You notice no bijli wiring in this bit of the building. Of course Madam’s room is fully fitted.’
‘No one uses this part of the house – we’ve never had it modernized,’ said Anwar. ‘I’ve told Amma to move to the main house but she likes it up there. You know how old people are with their whims.’
‘It seems a shame,’ said Saika. ‘It’s a lovely building.’
‘When there are lots of children to fill it there will be no excuse to keep it closed,’ said Gago, beginning the ascent up the spiral staircase. ‘We had lots of plans for it last time. Saabji and his lady were going to redecorate everything. In fact, Memsahib spent that tragic morning looking at flocked wallpaper and Chinese rugs.’
‘Alright, Gago, she’s not interested in old history,’ said Anwar testily. ‘Once you’ve settled in, you can do what you like with the place.’
Saika was moved by the words, offered so naturally. Last night he’d given her a set of twelve gold bangles, intricately patterned and inlaid with stones. They were pretty, very tasteful. He said they were chosen for him by one of his female cousins. They didn’t trust him in the ladies’ department. But since then, his quiet, unobtrusive attentions to her, and now this, the assumption, without any hesitation, that everything was immediately hers, a shared life, warmed her heart more.
For now, she answered with a smile, because Gago was there, and she had no breath to say much more.
The Begum appeared to be sleeping to Vivaldi. As they entered, she opened her eyes, and turned off the CD with a remote control.
‘Salaam Ami,’ said the Colonel. He gestured Saika towards the bed. Although she’d heard much about the Begum, Saika had never seen her in person. It was believed she had not left her room for the last five years. Now she thought the Begum had one of those faces where the skull beneath was almost perceptible, taut flesh threatening to melt away to reveal only bone. She had high cheekbones, the skin stretched over them tightly, slight hollows beneath the eyes. She must have beautiful once, and even now would have looked graceful had it not been for the inky blackness of her hair. Its incongruity with her pinched mouth and baggy neck, the places where her age was most apparent, gave her an almost comical look, although as Saika took in the heat of her eyes, she realised only a fool would dare to make this woman the butt of a joke.
Unsure whether to kiss the old lady or simply lean forward and have her head patted, Saika hovered somewhere in between, half bent over awkwardly. The Begum touched her on the head and told her to sit.
‘So. You are comfortable here? Everything to your liking?’ asked the Begum.
‘Thank you, it’s all very nice,’ said Saika.
‘Well that’s good. I trust Gago prepared everything for you as I instructed her to.’
‘Of course, Raani Sahiba. Everything first class for the honeymooners,’ said Gago, who was sitting on the floor in the corner with her eyes shut.
‘There’s no need to call me that in front of Saajida. She is one of us now. No need for formality.’
Gago opened her eyes.
‘Shall I tell her or will you?’ she said, looking at Saika.
‘Her name is Saika, Ami,’ said Anwar.
‘Yes of course. Gago, get me some water.’
‘I can get it,’ said Saika, rising and thankful for something to do.
‘Sit,’ said the Begum, her voice quiet but its tone not needing volume for effect.
Gago was already getting the water out of the fridge.
‘You are not here to do the servants’ work. It gives them ideas.’
‘I think Saika was just trying to help,’ said Anwar. ‘She’s used to doing things for herself.’
‘Well, she’ll have to forget what she’s used to.’ Gago passed her the water, and she drank half of it before handing it back. ‘Put milk in it. A good remedy for heartburn,’ she told Saika. ‘That’s a pleasant colour you’re wearing.’
‘My aunt’s choice.’
‘A little bright for your earthy complexion though. Now, about the house. Obviously you’re in charge. I, useless thing that I am, can’t do much, as you can see. I won’t interfere with your methods as long as there’s not a decline in our high standards.’
‘I’ll do my best to not give you any reason for complaint,’ said Saika.
‘We have a routine about the place, breakfast before nine. Lunch at midday. I don’t expect any changes there. You can select menus daily with the cook. There’s no need for you to worry about any of the housekeeping – Gago has been managing everything quite well. When we see she’s no longer fit we’ll think of an alternative.’
Gago, who had gone back into her corner and was again sitting with her eyes shut, said, ‘Gago is full of beans yet, madam. And certainly not diabetic.’
‘Shut up. One day you’ll go too far,’ said the Begum. She looked at Saika. ‘Before you leave, I just want to impress upon you the importance of being… productive.’
Saika thought about nodding meekly but couldn’t help herself.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘The views are stunning. It’s an artist’s paradise.’
The Begum frowned, but then considered, and smiled.
‘They told me you were a smart girl,’ she said. ‘You’re cheeky too, eh?’
‘What are you getting worried about?’ the Begum asked Anwar, who was looking a little nervous. ‘It’s just mother and daughter having a giggle.’ She lifted her stick and pointed it towards the window. Seeing that she intended to open it, Anwar went forward to help, but she held him off with the cane and pushed it open herself.
‘Painting pretty pictures wasn’t the sort of production I had in mind,’ she said. ‘But you’re right. The views are stunning. They almost make me wish I was young again.’
CHAPTER 2
In Room 007 of the Happy Suraj Guest House, Pervez pushed a sweaty, heaving body off him.
‘You are getting too over,’ he said, rolling over to the edge of the bed and pulling the frosty polyester chenille blanket over him. It was patterned with purple leopard spots and smelt of old mothballs and stale water.
‘But I thought you wanted me to…’ the girl began.
‘Yes, but even I have my limits. Hurry up and go. The old man will be back soon. Take the money on the table.’
‘What about my bus ticket?’
He tossed her twenty rupees with a look that warned her not to ask for more. She made an attempt to end the meeting on a slight note of tenderness, and ruffled his hair.
‘When again, baby?’ she said.
‘I’ll tell your boss,’ he said. ‘You never know. He might have new stock in by then.’ She went to the bathroom and he lay there, looking at the wires running manically around the top of walls, connecting to the tube light, the fan, the television. Sometimes he thought about tidying the place up, making it a classy joint like the Pearl Continental in Burban, but he could never compete and, in any case, his customers never complained. Room 007. He adored the appropriateness of it. He tried to use this room when he could.
She came out, her pale face washed and looking wasted in the cold light, and wrapped herself in a patterned dark blue shawl. Pervez stood up, tying a knot in his shalwar.
‘Help me make the bed before you go,’ he said, but the girl picked up her handbag and left. He grunted and folded the blanket as best as he could, and crossed the moist carpet into the bathroom, thinking that maybe he should get the leak from the room upstairs checked out. You could get the odd asthmatic whinger who complained about the damp. The bathroom now, that was a beauty. Floor to ceiling tiles, hot water in the mornings, a basin, a proper shower, and a chair-toilet. The chair-toilet was a piece of sculpture – light pink to match everything else, and one of only two in the hotel, which had a total of thirty rooms, and probably one of only ten in the whole of Murree. Of course the seat was broken and bandaged with sellotape, and the flush didn’t work – you had to throw a bucketful of water down – but that didn’t matter, there was plenty of water. This was definitely the VIP suite.
He washed his face and combed his hair. The mirror had a crack running down the middle and distorted his handsome face, but he didn’t mind that. A touch of ugliness would ensure he didn’t become mesmerised by his own beauty and give himself the evil eye.
The door to the bedroom opened and he heard the businessman come and fling his case on the bed.
He dried his face and went out.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said. ‘I was just going – I put some clean towels for you. Did you have a comfortable night?’
‘It was all right. I’m not impressed by your electrics,’ said Mr Shah.
‘Was there a problem?’
‘I turned the television on and the lights went out.’
‘That’s the system, sir. The fuse box gets overloaded. You can only use one thing at a time. It’s the authentic Pakistani hilltop experience. It’s why you come here.’ He smiled and pulled the curtain dramatically to expose the fabulous view of pine forests staggering up the hills, woven through with winding roads.
‘Hmm. There was no hot water, either, at six o’clock this morning,’ said Mr Shah, taking off his shoes and massaging his toes.
‘Hot water hours are from eight till ten thirty. In case of emergency, you should ring the bell for the manager.’
‘I did ring the bloody bell. In the end I had to go out on to the balcony and yell. The fool was asleep.’
‘That’s the only disadvantage of having this top floor room – fantastic scenery but sometimes it takes time to wake up the staff. They sleep on the ground level.’
‘There was no one at reception either.’
Pervez soothed Mr Shah, promising to discipline his negligent staff, and left him lying on the bed under the stiff blanket, trying to take an afternoon nap.
Rabia entered the courtyard in a rage, her dark wind-blown robes storming up the dust as she charged buffalo-like into the tranquility of Baba’s lunch hour. The small furtive eyes in the bullish face flashed at him accusingly.
‘What shit did you sell to me, you son of a bitch? I fed it to Munir last night but he was awake again at seven. It’s the second time this month…’
‘Calm down. Sit,’ said Raja Jameel Haider, known to most as Baba.
He pushed a small woven cane stool towards Rabia and sat down on another, beside the small knee high cooker, which was attached to a large gas cylinder. Taking a handful of shiny white dough, he shaped it into a ball, flattened it, then slapped it onto a round wooden board to roll it into a chapatti.
