Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  They had turned to poetry. Rafeeq was in the spotlight, unsteadily holding the microphone too close to his mouth.

  ‘Where did I not look for her?’ he said. ‘Where did I not look for her? In the hills, in the forest, even in the street. But how was I to climb inside my own liver?’

  ‘Wah! Wah! Kya baat hai!’ The audience was impressed. Nadia and Saika exchanged glances, then both looked away, biting their lips. Saika straightened her face as Dolly came to sit next to her. Anwar was not in the room.

  ‘Read them the other one,’ Dolly called to her husband. She nodded at the people near her. ‘He’s very good. Writes them himself. Of course it helps to have inspiration close to hand.’

  Rafeeq began on another poem.

  ‘Your kameez is covered in red flowers. They kill me with their beauty. Your kameez is covered in red flowers. They kill me with their beauty. What would I do if the trousers were also embroidered?’

  ‘Zabardast! Wah! Wah!’ The compliments were flowing.

  Nadia covered her face to hide a chuckle.

  ‘The one about the snake and the mongoose!’ shouted Dolly. ‘It’s really romantic!’

  ‘Thank you, thank you! Would anyone else like to have a turn while I recharge my batteries?’ said Rafeeq, handing the microphone to a younger man, raising his palm to his face to accept the crowd’s appreciation as he walked away. Saika stood up as the newcomer examined the apparatus with great deliberation.

  ‘Testing one two three.’

  ‘I’ll just get myself a drink,’ said Saika.

  ‘What are you doing? Are the servants dead?’ said Dolly.

  ‘It’s fine. I think I’ll get some fresh air too.’

  She picked up a glass of water and went outside. Nadia moved to follow her but with a gesture, Saika told her she’d be back in a minute and to stay. There were only three young men outside now, most guests having been lured in by the recitals. Knowing that as a lonely bride she would look conspicuous, she sat down and took out her mobile phone, pretending she’d come outside for the privacy and quiet, all the time scanning the grounds for Anwar. Why would he have upset Pervez? She didn’t think they even knew each other. She heard the clink of heels and she saw that Dolly had come out to join her.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ said Dolly.

  ‘Yes, fine, I just needed to cool down a bit.’

  ‘You’re not overdoing it, are you? I mean, at night? How are your legs bearing up?’

  ‘It’s fine, really.’ Saika didn’t want to tell her it was none of her business.

  ‘It can be a shock to the system, the first time,’ continued Dolly. ‘Especially when they can’t have too much. Some men are just like horses.’

  Saika didn’t understand the likeness, but kept quiet.

  ‘You’re a pretty girl,’ said Dolly, looking her over. ‘And intelligent, too, I hear. It’s such a waste.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Saika, becoming irritated.

  ‘I’ve been in Canada with my daughter, for her delivery. I didn’t know this was happening. I only found out two days ago, when I came back. Otherwise I would have stopped it.’

  ‘The age issue really isn’t a worry for me.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the age difference. I’m talking about him being a dangerous man.’

  Saika wanted to say something but was too surprised by what she’d heard. A shadow fell over them.

  ‘Not gossiping about us menfolk, I hope?’ said Rafeeq.

  ‘As though we had nothing better to talk about,’ said Dolly.

  The Begum rallied all her acting skills to give the illusion of gratitude and pleasure as dribbles of guests came and went. These two, however, weren’t making any move to go, completely ignoring her signals, the loud yawns, veiled complaints about late night music, and, as a last resort, echoing burps. The latter only triggered Ibrahim into a monologue about his own gastric problems.

  What a bore the man was, droning on and on, oblivious to the anaesthetic effect he was having on those around him. He’d arrived in the room an hour ago, and although another fifteen people had been to see her in that time, and gone away again, he was still there in the same chair, harping on about a fishing trip to the North. Even his wife had nodded off at one point. The Begum hadn’t spent much time with Saika yet, but she had a feeling she didn’t take after her father.

  She looked at the tweedy jacket he was wearing over his shalwar kameez. The fool had put a silk hanky into his breast pocket. His wife was no better, wearing red lipstick with a pink outfit. Pair of pendoos. She forced herself to stop thinking like that. After all, these two bumpkins were her future. It was because of them she had been given another chance, to live, to drink in every single sensation. It was going to hurt them. But who knew, it might get done without them even realising.

  CHAPTER 5

  Saika felt the mood between Anwar and herself had eased into something more companionable and relaxed. She thought he’d revealed another layer of himself at the valima, and it had led to a new level of openness.

  Anwar had three more days left before he went back to work, and they spent them walking in the parks and woods, shopping, talking about books, politics, their respective childhoods, even the things they wanted to do, tentatively planning on doing them together. Saika couldn’t help noticing how the subject of Zareena was never brought up, even at moments when it was almost unnatural not to mention her, like when she was telling him about some of the other suitors she’d had before him. She accepted it was simply that he found it difficult to talk about, and that he would if he wanted to. Likewise, she didn’t mention Dolly’s comment.

  Saika thought she would try to do some serious paintings once Anwar had gone back to work, to put around the house when they started to redecorate, if nothing else. She liked to sit on the balcony and work, even if she wasn’t using the landscape in the picture. The light was better, she loved being outdoors, and she could leave her materials there, covered, without having to tidy them up continuously. It was from the balcony that she first saw the tall old man, dressed in a white shalwar kameez and black waistcoat with a Jinnah-style hat, walking with a step that was sprightly for his age. It was unusual. The few times she’d seen him at the homes of her relatives, he had always looked quite still, his expression mirthless, eyes dead.

  As Anwar wasn’t at home she thought she should go and see why he was here. Possibly Gago wanted a potion to cure her back pains or Sharmilee had domineering designs on her husband, but it was best to make sure.

  She peeked into the empty living room before making her way to the kitchen. Sharmilee was sitting on the stool, painting her toenails frosty lilac and listening to Bollywood Explosion Remix – 32 Non-Stop Hits, a pot of aubergines and potatoes bubbling on the cooker. A pile of chopped coriander sat in a colander next to a basin of cubed turnips.

  ‘Is someone here? I heard the door,’ Saika asked Sharmilee.

  ‘Gago answered it.’

  ‘You didn’t see? Where’s Gago?’

  ‘I don’t know who it was. She took them.’ Sharmilee opened a bottle of clear polish and started on her fingernails.

  ‘Where? To her room?’

  ‘No she didn’t come through here. Whoever it was, she must have taken him up to see Madam.’

  Baba opened up the blue and white bag as soon as Gago left the room. At the top of the bag were his prayer hat, a red and white Palestinian-style scarf, and a bunch of bananas. From under these things he took out a small newspaper packet. The Begum leaned forward eagerly from her pillow.

  ‘Haa, just hand it over now,’ she said greedily. ‘No need to show me.’ He placed it into her outstretched hand. ‘I think it helps. I feel energy. I’ve a good mind to tell the doctor I don’t need the injections. He thinks he’s too clever anyway.’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t,’ said Baba. ‘Eventually, maybe yes, but it’s a slow process. You still need the worldly medicines.’

  The Begum put the pa
cket in between the second and third of the six pillows towering beneath her head.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think she was in the window when I came. An attractive girl.’

  ‘You could have tried to be discreet. Never mind. Gago knows about the herbal remedies. Did you bring the foot balm?’

  He produced a small jar and got up to put it in the fridge.

  ‘What do you think? About her?’ asked the Begum.

  ‘I’ve seen her before,’ said Baba. ‘She seems…clever.’ He looked at her for a few moments.

  ‘So what? Attractive, clever, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You asked me what I thought.’

  The Begum leaned across and took a sip of water.

  ‘As long as she’s ripe and she doesn’t interfere,’ she said. ‘There’s no way anyone can know, is there?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure it will work this time? I can’t believe it! After all these years… sometimes I think you’re just playing with me.’

  ‘I’ve never failed you.’

  ‘I know. Why do you think I trust you? I’ve seen the unbelievable happen before.’

  ‘Did Mrs Chaudhary come to visit you?’

  ‘Perhaps. A lot of people come. I don’t pay attention most of the time. They whine about their problems.’

  ‘A short lady, reddish hair, likes wearing sunglasses.’

  The Begum thought about this.

  ‘Oh yes she came with her grandson, a very spoilt child,’ she said. ‘He knocked over the cooler and ate all the cake. She was talking non-stop about how the boy was a miracle, how his twin brother had died at birth. Miracle indeed! He was a nuisance. Oh! You don’t mean she…?’

  Baba bowed his head. The Begum rubbed her hands then clasped them together in excitement.

  ‘But still, she’s younger.’ The Begum pouted at him unbecomingly.

  ‘She is sixty three,’ he reassured her.

  The Begum giggled, hiding her mouth under her quilt, then checked herself. ‘Anwar must never know,’ she said. ‘And another thing. I’ll give you a token of my appreciation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘I insist. Here take a little now. Just for the treatments.’ While the Begum delved inside her patent white handbag, Baba sat back and marvelled at his ability to recall names and faces at opportune times, even those like Mrs Chaudhary, who had just had plastic surgery, and to whom he had never spoken in his life.

  Pervez sat in the office, bare hairy feet on the table, smoking a cigar stolen from a crate that had arrived for his mother that morning. Instead of discreetly taking a single box out, he’d savagely torn open a packet and removed a handful of them. He smiled as he imagined her discovering the mutilated new stock and choking with rage.

  What was wrong with his mother? Despite his arguments she refused to give up the preposterous idea of putting Arshad in charge of her new hotel. Couldn’t she how pathetic he was in front of that fat bitch Farzana? His weak wavering smile, oily hair and begging eyes reminded Pervez of a lame little dog standing in the rain. It would be a disaster in every way, not to mention that he himself would not be getting a single anna for all his hard work. He checked the rooms from time to time, he made sure the manager was doing his job properly. He made new contacts, marketed the place through his social activities. How else could they be fully booked that summer two years ago? Most of all he absorbed the atmosphere, the people, and the ways in which things were done successfully, not only in the Happy Suraj Guest House, but in some of the other top establishments in the Punjab, and it was this that was going to make him a millionaire, once his mother saw sense and relinquished the keys to Hotel Hilltop Heaven. He was sure that Arshad wouldn’t even have any ideas for the name.

  His thoughts wandered to the valima he’d gone to at the haveli. A dingy old place, but he’d enjoyed himself. Just for the look of horror on Anwar’s face when he turned up. There was a lucky dog. First Zareena and now Saika. He’d always had a soft spot for Saika. There’d been talk of them getting married when they were children but the old man hadn’t agreed. Pervez had told Anwar as much. It was hilarious. That and telling him what he knew about Zareena. Anwar, quite predictably, had told him to get out. Pervez didn’t care. Nobody had seen. His face hadn’t been blackened in public. He’d just gone out and sat in the car until his mother was ready to go and had come out to look for him.

  His mobile phone rang, and he sat up quickly, putting out the cigar, and picking up a pen, as if the person on the other end could see him. When he read the name he slid back into the reclining chair. It was his manager, Wasim.

  ‘Sir, your… er… lady is here.’

  ‘Haa, theek hai, send her to zero zero seven,’ instructed Pervez.

  ‘I did already. She is waiting for you. Sir, I didn’t know you were doing a new experiment today – she is wearing full hijaab. I didn’t even see her eyes.’

  ‘Good. What are you doing eying up my dates anyway? Mind your own business.’

  ‘Well then sir, I do have to discuss my own business with you. Things are difficult, sir. You still haven’t given me last month’s wages.’

  ‘Do you think this is the time to discuss these things? Make an appointment! Where’s my diary?’ He looked on the table but saw nothing but dirty plates, newspapers and empty bottles.

  ‘Diary is with me, sir.’

  ‘Make an appointment for yourself and tell me later.’ He turned off the phone and sprayed himself with some CK Obsession and started the ascent upstairs, thinking that in the HHH there would be carpets, lifts, and even a honeymoon suite.

  The figure in black was sitting in the gloom, on the edge of the bed, gloved hands in lap. Pervez smiled. This was better than he’d expected. He had to hand it to her, this was original. And he hadn’t even asked for anything special this time. Typically their unique talents lay in performing a dance routine that involved a series of gyrations on the floor and steps that combined head, chest and hip wiggles, which he usually cut short after the first six or seven minutes. He wondered if the cloak was indeed just the beginning of a longer, slower, act, or it would be left up to him to unwrap her. Both prospects were appealing.

  ‘I suppose I should say salaam, seeing the get up you’ve decided to wear. Makes a nice change.’ Pervez flipped the light switch and a feeble glow came on. All the other rooms must be using all the available electrical gadgets. Why did they need lights on if they were watching TV? He locked the door and took his black leather jacket off, putting the key in the pocket.

  ‘You’re very quiet. I like it. There’s a bottle in that cupboard if you want. Coke.’ He unbuttoned his kameez and lay down on the bed, stroking his chest. ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ The voice was a whisper, expressionless but clear and made him slightly uneasy.

  ‘Plenty of time for that afterwards if you must, although that’s not what I pay you for,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you get going, if you’ve got something planned?’ The black figure sat there, unmoving. ‘You’re not one of the new girls, are you? I’m not here to give lessons! All right, come here and we’ll talk. Come here.’ He patted the pillow next to him. The figure shuffled up.

  ‘Didn’t they tell you what you’re supposed to do? It’s not hard, you’ll get used to it. Lie down.’ The figure complied.

  ‘Keep it on a few moments longer,’ he said. ‘Just a while.’ He pulled his visitor on top of him, and started fiddling with the robe. The body stiffened.

  ‘Hmm, you’re a big girl. I don’t mind it. Take the veil off at the end. I don’t want to see your face yet.’

  ‘I think you should have a look now,’ said the voice. He felt the piercing burn in his stomach as the knife was driven in, the dragging of the serrated metal ripping through skin, flesh, innards. He flapped helplessly, trying to get up, but the weight kept him down. Still holding the knife in, the figure sat up and too
k off the veil. He groaned as he saw the face, livid with hatred, and realized why.

  ‘Sorry,’ he croaked. ‘Call doctor. Please.’ His killer didn’t move, holding him there, crushing the blood and the breath out of him.

  Before passing out, Pervez had a vision of that donkey Farzana making reservations in the office of the plush new hotel, wearing, for some reason, a bellboy’s outfit, red with gold buttons.

  It was cold on the terrace, but Anwar liked sitting there in the evenings, with a cup of steaming tea and a piece of warm, loopy pastry to dip into it. He enjoyed letting his face rebelliously embrace the blast of cold while the rest of his body sat deeply immersed in the warmth of a blazer and thick jumper.

  Anwar had come home early, to find that Saika had gone to town to buy groceries. He liked the way she was interested in what he ate – she even forced him to eat vegetables: marrows, sweet potatoes and kerala. He rarely touched vegetables, and the latter he found particularly nasty, its bitter taste not enhanced by its similarity in appearance to a knobbly miniature crocodile, but Saika had cooked them herself once and created something quite delectable.

  Zareena had never had any inclination towards cooking. Her main preoccupation with him had been to treat him like a very large doll, dressing him up in the latest fashions, regardless of how foolish they were. She whispered how beautiful he was, her darling man, envy of all the other girls – naturally handsome and blessed with the advantage of being groomed by an expert with impeccable taste. He’d enjoyed the attention at first, but after a week or two his role as a life-size mannequin had become tiresome, especially when she expected him to go to work dressed in floral shirts and white trousers. The final straw had come when he’d found a headband next to his cup at the breakfast table, on the morning of a big dinner party. Attached to it was a note, giving him an ultimatum: ‘Wear this tonight or I’ll die.’ It had led to their first real argument, resulting in him wearing the sequinned strip as a ‘joke’, pretending to be surprised that the other guests had not turned up in fancy dress too.