Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Munir’s asking too many questions,’ said Rabia, taking out a paan from within the folds of her burkha and putting the whole thing into her mouth. Red juice began to trickle from the corners of her lips as she chewed it vigorously.

  ‘Do you think he knows something?’ said Baba.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know…’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! He was only asking where I was going – but still. Imagine it! For the last thirty-seven years no one in my house has dared to raise their voice before me. Now my own husband is asking me how I spend my afternoons. Your magic is wearing off, Baba. I hear you’ve been refusing people.’

  He spun the roti on the griddle pan with a cloth.

  ‘I’m an old man. My time is coming.’

  ‘You think you’ll be forgiven for holding back a few potions here and there? After years of causing chaos in people’s lives? And you can’t escape it now. The sorcery is in your soul.’

  Baba threw the roti onto the naked flame. When it became filled with hot air and puffed up like a mushroom cloud, he tossed it into the basket.

  ‘Have some. I’ve made daal.’

  Rabia stood up.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You better have something to give me.’

  The water tasted of guavas. The whole fridge smelt of them. They sat there, yellow and aged, freckled with brown splodges like liver spots. Pervez didn’t mind the sticky fruit, ate it cut into chunks, but he detested it when all the food in the fridge took on that overpowering, cloying taste.

  There was an unopened litre bottle of Mirinda standing in the fridge door. He took it into the kitchen and drank it straight from the bottle, then looked in the cooking pot. Spinach and meat, beautifully oily and dark green. There was no one here to serve him so he would have to help himself. His mother was on her rounds, terrorising shopkeepers and socialites, and generally any villager that owed her money for the special services she provided, and his sister in law, who should have been here to make sure he was attended to, was asleep with her three scrawny children. You’d expect by looking at her that her children would be heavyweight too, but they were weak little creatures, who looked like she’d sucked the life out of them.

  Pervez had no qualms about disturbing Farzana from her slumbers, but he couldn’t be bothered to trudge all the way up to the third floor, and if he shouted he would wake his father, who was at the moment sprawled on a rope bed in the courtyard, snoring. He’d rather waste his energy in dishing out the spinach and rice into a plate himself than hazard a befuddled conversation with the old man, who spent most of his time languishing in a stupor, despite being a lifelong teetotaller and generally healthy.

  Pervez was halfway through his second helping when he smelt rather than heard Farzana’s presence behind him. She made liberal use of the mouthwash she’d bought on a recent trip to Islamabad – he could swear she splashed it on her clothes along with the manly body spray she used. He turned to face the cloud of peppermint, sweaty polyester, onion, cloves and, he strongly suspected, Brut. Her broad face was glowering at him. Like many of the darker local women, she tried to disguise her naturally tanned skin with layers of white foundation and powder, except around the eyes, which gave her face a panda-like effect. Her buck teeth protruded from between her glossy lips, as though ready to attack.

  ‘Going out?’ he asked. She was dressed in a dark blue shalwar kameez, bursting with glittery silver poppies, with an unbuttoned black cloak thrown over it. Farzana stared at him in silence, hoping to chill him, he supposed.

  ‘Trying a new approach, are we?’ he said. ‘Think I’ll be frightened by this wordless rage, if that’s what you’re trying to express? Well?’

  ‘Petoo! Fat, greedy wolf!’screamed Farzana.

  ‘What? There’s plenty left!’ He took the metal lid of the spinach pan and threw it on to the floor.

  ‘I don’t mean food.’ She looked at the empty Mirinda bottle. ‘It was mine, for me and the children.’

  ‘I didn’t know. If you don’t want anyone to drink it, try keeping the lid on the water bottle so it doesn’t stink.’

  ‘I’ll take action on this. I’ll tell your brother.’

  ‘Here, you stingy old dog, buy another one.’ He put ten rupees on the small square stool by her feet, but she picked it up and threw it back at him.

  ‘Illiterate junglee, you just don’t understand principles!’ she shouted. She seized a knife from a jar full of cooking utensils. ‘This dagger, your body! One day, I guarantee it!’ She plunged it into a potato sitting at the top of the vegetable rack.

  Pervez leapt up and raised an arm as though to strike and she waddled away fast, grabbing the arms of her daughters, one of whom was holding the baby and the other the handbag, on her way out through the courtyard, exiting in a gust of Listerine.

  Pervez went back to his dinner. He wasn’t going to let her ruin his appetite, although he was almost finished. It astounded him that whenever guests came to the house they mistook these vicious exchanges for playful banter, and cited their relationship as an ideal example of the love rarely found between brother and sister-in-law.

  ‘Water, half glass,’ moaned his father from the bed. Pervez continued chewing at a lamb-chop bone.

  ‘Koi hai? Anyone? Feed me some water!’

  Pervez spat out the bones, the juice now well extracted, and poured some water from the cooler into a steel glass.

  ‘Hurry!’ His father, Munir, was now sitting up, hunched over, rocking.

  ‘Can’t you keep still, Abba?’

  The old man lapped the water thirstily, letting it drip over his chin and clothes.

  ‘Is there any food?’ he asked, tipping the rest of the water over his head. Pervez lost his temper.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ He shook his father by the shoulder, upsetting his balance so he rolled on to his side, knocking his other shoulder on the wooden bedknob of the rope charpoy. Munir lay clutching his head in his hands, a soggy bundle of bones and grey cotton. Pervez picked up a dirty rag that was used to clean the floor and threw it at him. It dripped brown liquid as it slapped through the air.

  ‘Mop yourself up.’

  ‘Food,’ whined Munir, dabbing his chest with the rag. ‘Give me some food, my liver’s failing. Go and call the lady doctor.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll get food. Clean your face first.’ Pervez waited until his father wiped his face with the filthy cloth, then dawdled back to the kitchen and put in the saag chawal without heating it.

  ‘It’s cold,’ said the old man, poking his finger into the green puree. ‘It will freeze onto my lungs and coat my throat.’

  ‘Mother will be back soon,’ said Pervez.

  Munir’s eyes popped open and the complaints stopped. He began to eat.

  Mr Rafeeq Rasool took a quick look in his enamelled compact mirror and combed his moustache before replacing both grooming objects in the desk drawer and pressing the buzzer.

  ‘Please ask Rabia ji to come in now,’ he spoke into the little machine. He wasn’t a particularly vain man as a rule – the mirror had been in the desk when he’d taken over the office, and he liked to think that he and whoever had owned it before (quite probably a lady), were both part of the mirror’s life and shared a history together.

  Rabia sat down, her charcoal coloured robes inflating with the movement and then settling, covering the chair entirely like a layer of black ash.

  ‘It seems we have a number of issues to discuss today,’ said Rabia, loosening the ribbon under her throat. Her headdress slipped back slightly and strands of fuzzy grey hair fell forward.

  ‘Firstly, I think I’ve been more than reasonable with you. When can I expect the next payment?’

  ‘Please Madam, don’t worry. At least have a cup of tea before getting down to business,’ said Rafeeq. He wanted the atmosphere to be relaxed if he was going to find the courage to ask.

  ‘Do you have anything stronge
r? Brandy perhaps?’ Rafeeq tried to hide his shock and distaste – he knew that a Hollywood vice squad would have a field day with her, but still he wondered at her readiness to flaunt such unsavoury habits.

  ‘Sorry Madam, it’s not a matter of personal choice, but no alcohol allowed on the premises.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Rabia, coughing. ‘Of course, I only ask for medicinal purposes.’ She tapped her throat.

  ‘Tea will do,’ she said.

  He pressed the buzzer and asked for the tea, and then took out a packet from the desk and passed it over.

  Rabia opened it and counted the money, getting through it in seconds.

  ‘This is only six thousand. You were supposed to pay ten this month.’

  ‘Things were a bit difficult this month…it was my grandson’s birthday. I bought him a go-cart,’ he said, appealing to her maternal instincts. He added, ‘All his friends have one.’

  The tea was brought in. She drank it down in four gulps.

  ‘That’s sad,’ she said quietly, then clattered the cup on the table. ‘Spend the money on baby toys by all means, but remember then, Grandpa will have to give up some of his playthings. My boys will be round to take away your car later today.’

  ‘No, please, I can’t travel on the bus. I have a bad back!’

  ‘Then we will go and seize some of your wife’s new jewellery. Isn’t that what you used the money for? A nauratan necklace plus a green kundan set with matching bangles?’

  Rafeeq took out his wallet and counted out another two thousand rupees.

  ‘Still two thousand behind, so that will add another four to next month’s installment.’ Rabia put both bundles of money into a black Nike rucksack, then sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘So.’

  Rafeeq waited for her to elaborate.

  ‘I heard a little story about you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have been…eating very interesting lunches.’

  Rafeeq had been expecting her to take out her wares, but the conversation was taking an unwelcome turn.

  ‘Whatever’s in the tiffin,’ he said. ‘I’m not fussy.’

  ‘I’ve that these days you enjoy a little extra masala around the midday hour… at the Happy Suraj Guest House.’

  Rafeeq opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off.

  ‘I know it’s true – why deny it? I have an eye witness. If you didn’t want me to know you shouldn’t have gone to my son’s hotel.’

  ‘I thought he was going to be discreet.’

  ‘He is. But he doesn’t hide anything from his old mum. Anyway, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a man, after all.’

  ‘Thank you for understanding,’ mumbled Rafeeq.

  ‘Or it wouldn’t have been… if it hadn’t been for the…’ She began to laugh, exploding with an expulsion of breath at first, then throwing back her head, tossing it about, and further exaggerating her hysteria by thumping her chest and pretending she was choking. Rafeeq watched politely, trying to smile along. She stopped as suddenly as she’d started.

  ‘What did you do with her?’ she asked, frowning at him.

  ‘Please Madam, I regret the whole thing already, please don’t shame me further.’

  ‘Just between us…’

  ‘I did the normal things, that’s all,’ said Rafeeq.

  ‘Liar. I spoke to the girl.’

  ‘You…?’

  ‘I know her. I know everyone. According to her, you only asked for a jhappi, and then you wouldn’t let go!’ said Rabia.

  ‘Did she complain?’

  ‘No, she thought you were very cute.’ Rafeeq exerted all his mouth muscles to pull back a smile. Rabia, however, was intent on demonstrating her total lack of control and collapsed into another fit of giggles, that Rafeeq found disturbingly incompatible with her otherwise forbidding demeanour.

  ‘It’s the most uproarious thing I ever heard! Paying good money just for an extended hug.’

  ‘I was depressed, I just needed… comfort,’ he said, his head dropping.

  ‘You don’t need to explain. But if it’s just friendship and the occasional cuddle you want even I can provide that,’ said Rabia roughly, opening her arms.

  ‘No?’ She folded them up. ‘Well. I just thought I’d let you know... I know. And it does go to excuse why you might need to try out these goods.’ She began to stroke the Nike bag. ‘Not that you need an excuse.’

  Rafeeq cleared his throat. He was glad she’d brought the subject up herself, but he wished something else had led up to it.

  ‘Well, just a sample,’ he said. ‘For a trial run.’

  ‘Of course. I have some complimentary packets here with me – by that I mean they are smaller sizes, but not free of charge.’ She whipped out a handful of white cardboard boxes and, scrutinizing the labels, chose one.

  ‘I think this is good for your age group. It makes all the old men into tigers.’

  He took it quickly, stuffed it under some papers in the drawer, and laid some notes on the table.

  ‘Instructions are inside,’ said Rabia, snatching the money and getting up. ‘Let’s hope you get lucky in the guest house next time.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rafeeq. ‘No more of that. I’m a married man.’

  How seductive the candlelight was, thought Farzana. She liked the way its warming amber glow made the shadows melt and merge, made landscapes out of limbs, instilling beauty into the dips and cracks of tired bodies. It was a shame nobody else thought so. Arshad just complained he couldn’t see anything in the dark, especially since she made him take his glasses off before lying down. He was in bed, under a heavy quilt, squinting at a newspaper, his bare feet in Farzana’s lap, being massaged with Atrixo handcream.

  ‘More bombings in Karachi today. These politicians continue to make money out of corruption while the innocent public gets blown up,’ said Arshad.

  ‘The public is stupid. Why do they get involved in demonstrations?’ said Farzana. ‘They’ll never achieve anything by it.’

  ‘Somebody has to try and change things. People try in whatever way they can.’

  ‘Nothing will change when we are controlled by the Americans. I even suspect they are the bombers.’

  ‘Americans are bombers?’ asked Arshad. ‘What does that mean?’

  Farzana gave Arshad’s big toe a vigorous twist, causing his whole body to turn rigid.

  ‘Oho! What are you doing?’ said Arshad.

  ‘You said you wanted me to make them pop.’

  ‘Yes, make them pop, not dislocate them!’ He reached for his glasses. ‘Don’t say anything about these. I can’t read this properly without them.’

  ‘Put them on, I don’t care, it’s not as if you’re gazing into my eyes anyway. And you can do this yourself too.’ Farzana pushed his foot off her lap and went to lie down on her side of the bed.

  ‘Chal, come on, carry on, I was enjoying it, you have such a… tender touch,’ said Arshad, trying to catch her with his feet but only tangling himself in the quilt.

  ‘I was already upset and now you’ve given me even more tension,’ said Farzana, sniffing into the pillow. Arshad put the glasses and newspaper to the side and placed a skinny arm around her generous proportions.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think? Your brother, your mother, this house! She complained about the aloo tikkies, as usual, said there was too much onion in them.’

  ‘You know she doesn’t like it. Why don’t you just put a bit less in? It would save all the arguments.’

  ‘I like onion,’ said Farzana, taking the Listerine bottle out from under her pillow and having a sip. ‘Then Pervez smacked Binky for drawing on the wall.’

  ‘Well why did she draw on the wall? She’s been told enough times.’

  ‘She’s only a small child.’

  ‘She’s ten years old.’

  Farzana spun round and faced him. ‘I knew you would take their side! What’s the point of me saying anyt
hing? You let anyone beat your children! You’re not a father you’re a chicken! A baby chicken. Choocha!’ She got out of the bed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Farzana pulled the quilt off him and put it on the floor, lay down on half, and folded the other half over her. ‘Get a blanket out of the trunk if you’re cold.’ Her voice was faint, smothered in the depths of the bundle.

  ‘Don’t be silly, come back. You’ll freeze on that floor,’ said Arshad, rubbing his own bare arms. He was wearing a vest and shalwar. ‘Please! The trunk’s outside!’

  Farzana lay still.

  ‘I’ll talk to someone about renting another house tomorrow,’ he offered.

  ‘What about going to the US?’ Now her voice was quite clear.

  ‘You just said you didn’t trust Americans.’

  ‘No, I said they were bombers. Just book our seats to Lahore tomorrow, Arshad. Me and the children are going back to my mother’s.’

  Arshad promised to ask about American visas, and Farzana brought the quilt back. She fell asleep sooner than he did.

  ‘I’m going to collect my clothes from the tailors!’ Farzana shouted to whoever was listening. She checked that her bra was stuffed satisfactorily with money, then put on her favourite pair of walking shoes, a pair of tartan men’s slippers from Marks and Spencer’s in London. Throwing on a burkha, she stepped out into the gali, pulling up the edge of the robe so it didn’t touch the putrid open sewer that snaked around the house like a miniscule moat. Although she’d grown up around them, Farzana would never be comfortable with little piles of filth floating past her as she got on with her daily business. It was something she would definitely not miss if she ever got to Washington.

  To substantiate her claim, she popped into the tailor’s and collected three new made-to measure suits, then set out in the direction of her friend Tanya’s house, moving through the unlit alleyways swiftly, picking out the route automatically, without thinking or needing many visual indications.