Secret Arts

by Dar, Azma;

  ‘Now, have you been resting? What have your cravings been? I liked to eat chalk when this one was coming along. And sheep’s brains. Look how intelligent he turned out.’

  Saika expected a long lecture about eating habits, weight gain and pain relief, but the Begum moved swiftly on to another topic.

  ‘How’s business?’ she asked Anwar.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Any trips planned in the near future? Weren’t you meant to be going to Lahore?’

  ‘It’s been postponed.’

  ‘There’s a wedding I want you to attend. In Karachi. The beginning of next month. My cousin’s daughter. I can’t go and I don’t think Saika should in this condition. Close relatives. I would like you to represent me.’

  ‘I won’t be able to. There is a conference I have to organise and be part of,’ said Anwar. To Saika’s surprise, he added, ‘And maybe I shouldn’t leave Saika, either, to go to a wedding of strangers.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said the Begum. ‘She’s not alone in the jungle, is she? And they’re not strangers. They are family. You know what our traditions are.’

  ‘Sometimes we have to move with the modern world. I’ve never met them, and I doubt they’ll care. What’s the worst that can happen? They’ll stop talking to us. And anyway, as I said, I can’t escape my work commitment.’

  The Begum pinched up her mouth and looked away. She took out her pocket watch.

  ‘It’s time for my injection,’ she said. ‘Please go away.’

  The silence during the descent was broken by Anwar.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like you to return what you took.’

  She gripped the railing, not wanting to miss any of the narrow spiralling steps as she looked up at him.

  ‘Why on earth do you want it back?’ she asked. She felt appalled that he would even ask for it.

  ‘You know as well as I do,’ said Anwar. ‘This childish game has to stop. Do you think it’s funny?’

  Saika didn’t want to speak to him any more. She walked faster, crossed the hall downstairs, climbed up the main staircase and went straight to the bags under the table. She took out the doll and gave it to him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said. She sighed.

  ‘Did you make it? Who’s it supposed to be?’

  ‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ she said. ‘You just told me to give back what I took from Zareena’s room. Here it is. Why don’t you get into bed with it?’

  She regretted saying it, but at the same time relished the look of amazement on his face. His mobile rang. His face looked weary as he listened.

  ‘We’ll talk when I come back. It was the Inspector. He’s arrested Farzana.’

  CHAPTER 10

  There had been four of them: Sharif, two others, and a Lady Inspector. Arshad had shrunk at the sight of them, receding into the corner and mumbling something about offering up his life’s savings to find her a good lawyer. Munir had tried to stand firm, piping up about how Farzana had been with him at the time of the murder, massaging his back with Tiger Balm, but the Lady Inspector had pushed past him, telling him to save it for the court. Rabia, Farzana had noticed, had been unusually quiet.

  Farzana didn’t feel particularly scared or disgusted. She’d entered a state of mind that was now calmly accepting everything that happened, knowing that it was just a very detailed nightmare. She sat aloof, interested in her surroundings as an observer, not as a fellow member of the rabble in the jail.

  Two of the women had babies, both red-faced and screaming. Farzana wished she had a couple of dummies to shove into their mouths. It might be a good idea to keep a supply in her handbag, she thought, in case she came across a situation like this again. One of the mothers was a pick-pocket, the other a beggar who’d been too persistent in her pursuit of a tourist out shopping on the Mall Road.

  An old grandmother was complaining about how she’d been stitched up by her sister, who, after thirty-seven years was still jealous of the man she had married. She was accused of stealing a gold necklace belonging to her sister. It had been found in her kitchen, in the flour bin. Did the police not see the evidence? Her sister had obviously planted it herself and had even left behind a red hair. The old woman’s own hair was grey.

  There were four women in the prison charged with adultery. One was a prostitute. Another, pretty and little more than a teenager, had been brought in by her uncle after attempting to elope with her boyfriend, who wasn’t approved of by the family. A stint behind bars and some lashes of the whip would teach her to play with their honour. The other two women weren’t saying much, but from their little conversation and from alternating quips and pitying comments from the granny, Farzana gathered that they claimed to have been raped. Both, at separate times, had come in to report the attacks, and had been locked up themselves for their efforts. Neither was able to produce the required four witnesses to prove their stories, so the men they were accusing were untouchable by law. The women, however, had admitted to having unlawful sexual relations, and would have to face the punishment.

  Farzana regarded the women curiously, trying to imagine what they had endured, and wondered if they were telling the truth. They were either extremely naïve, or desperate to escape their normal lives. Farzana thought the runaway girl, like the others, was out of her mind. Why try and break out of traditions that you know will hound and inevitably destroy you? Yet she was the tiniest bit impressed by the girl’s daring, slightly envious of how she’d gambled away her life for a man. Farzana wondered what he looked like.

  It was the fourth teaspoon of Calpol that Arshad had given the howling baby in the last two hours, in the hope that it would put her to sleep. He contemplated asking his mother for help, but when he looked over the balcony, she was already growling in her dreams down in the courtyard.

  He gave the baby a third bottle of milk, but she began to choke. His oldest daughter woke up and took the baby from him, calming her considerably, though she was still sobbing quietly. The girl began to sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, and the baby stopped immediately, lifted her head to look at her sister’s face, then rested it on her shoulder, satisfied. A few minutes later her eyes began to close.

  ‘It’s probably because you don’t pick her up normally,’ whispered his daughter, not meaning to blame him but making him feel guilty anyway. It was true, he did avoid holding babies until they were a year old and could at least say ‘daddy’. Until then, they were unresponsive, unpredictable, noisy and damp.

  He kissed his daughter and she looked at him for a moment before going back to the other room, where her two brothers were sleeping on the floor. What did she think of him as a father? Had he ever done anything special, personal, that made him a more attractive, fun, loving parent than all the millions, billions of others she could have selected if she’d had the choice? He couldn’t think of anything. He bought them sweets and presents, but so did most other men for their children. He didn’t smack or shout at them –Farzana was normally there to do that. Sadly, he decided he wouldn’t have been picked as an ideal father. He thought of his own father, who had been more alive in the week since Pervez’s death than he had ever seen him. While Rabia slept, Munir was marching up and down the courtyard, like a comical soldier. In the morning he’d professed a wish to get fit, and was entertaining the possibility of entering the Mr Murree body building competition, if only he could get his hands on a pair of dumbbells. But Arshad knew his mother had been out yesterday. He doubted Munir’s newfound sprightliness would last long.

  Arshad went to the wardrobe and took out a poster tube. He flattened the rolled-up paper and laid it out on the bed. The architect had delivered the plans for the hotel yesterday, drawn up according to Farzana’s ideas. It was a shame she might not be there to see them coming to life. He felt bad – he was, of course, anguished that she was gone, and he was going to do everything to get her back. But at the same time… he couldn’t help feeling just a little freer. He was a grea
t believer in things happening for the best, and if a few days apart meant he would gain a little mental respite, and toughen himself up, then it could only be of benefit to them all. Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to abandon the Princess Towers Project. His mother was still keen, and had been on the phone that afternoon discussing black bathrooms with a man who made marble tiles.

  The least he could do for his children was give them a moderately decent life and educate them. The girls would do Matric, and the boys, college at least, if not university. It was all for them. The Princess Towers Project was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to waste.

  Saika was perched on the top step of the main staircase, looking down. Anwar had gone out after the Inspector’s telephone call. She still felt slightly dazed at Anwar’s earlier eruption. The view down the stairs made her feel worse. She pictured herself falling headlong down the marble steps.

  Saika wished she could think about Zareena in a more detached manner. She admitted she hadn’t been entirely unjealous of her, but now she wanted to consider if her death was more than a tragic-but-accidentally-lethal stumble. She couldn’t bear the notion that Anwar was anything but the innocent, bereaved old widower he was supposed to have been. Yet, though it amounted to little, she couldn’t discount how, though he avoided talking about her, he’d kept a very permanent and visible reminder of her upstairs. Then there was his other recent odd behaviour, his mournful silences and today’s enraged outburst. According to Gago, Zareena had enjoyed winding him up. What if she had, rather ill-advisedly, decided to fire an artillery of taunts at him while she was poised beside the bannisters?

  She stood up. Here she’d been, Zareena, on this very spot, seconds before the last breath had left her lips. Why had she fallen? A careless trip or an irate, murderous shove? She thought of Anwar’s eyes during their argument earlier, maddened and unpredictable.

  The stairs began to blur as the unthinkable came to mind, and a hand touched her roughly from behind.

  ‘You must stay in bed for a while,’ said Gago, tucking Saika in under the quilt. ‘What were you doing standing there? Good thing I came when I did, thank God, to save you from making a repeat performance.’

  ‘It was fine,’ said Saika. ‘I was just feeling a bit dizzy.’

  ‘Yes, well, you should expect these new sensations in this condition, and be extra careful. Spinning head, gassy heart burn, nasty taste in the mouth. All part of this extraordinary journey.’

  ‘You describe it all so well.’

  Saika knew from Anwar that Gago had been married in her early days of service at the haveli, and had a child that had died in infancy from tuberculosis. Her husband had been killed in a bus accident shortly after. Saika had never spoken to Gago about her son.

  Gago smiled sadly.

  ‘I remember it all clearly,’ she said. ‘I had him longer on the inside than I did in my arms. He was only three months old when his little life when out in a pouf.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But that’s a tired old story now. We need to think about the happy things that are coming.’

  Saika took her hand and held it, and they sat in silence for a minute, then Saika asked Gago to order her a taxi.

  ‘After all that lecture you still want to go out?’ said Gago. ‘I don’t think you should.’

  ‘Please Gago, it’s important,’ said Saika. ‘And I’m fine, honestly. I wouldn’t go if I wasn’t.’

  ‘At least take our own car, Memsahib,’ said Gago reluctantly. ‘Nathoo is free.’

  ‘You know what Nathoo’s like. He follows me around sometimes, I want to do some ladies’ shopping. Personal things.’

  ‘I’ll tell him not to,’ said Gago.

  ‘He gets tired. There are quite a few things I need. I’d rather go alone, and do it in my own time.’

  When Gago had gone down to arrange the taxi, Saika looked through the drawers and found Dolly’s address.

  It was a lie. The pain never wore off, completely. The vicious cruelty of the memory faded, the decades sweetening it until it was possible to think of her little darling with more fondness than agony, but the tiny pin-pricks of grief would never entirely disappear.

  Gago knew Saika had meant well. She was a sweet girl. It was the Begum’s behaviour when baby Sajid had gone to heaven that had stung her. After an initial display of compassion, the Begum had cut short Gago’s tears with the suggestion that she could easily ‘go and breed another one.’ As though her precious son was so easy to replace. It had taught Gago a lesson. She had been careful not to show emotion in the Begum’s presence again–indeed it had toughened her up all over.

  The Begum had taken advantage of the lost child by foisting even more of Anwar’s care on Gago, while she went out to picnics and parties and cinema trips to the city. Then one evening she had demanded that Gago’s husband Javed go out on in a storm to the neighbouring town of Nathiagali to collect an emerald necklace she’d ordered. Javed protested and even the old master had told the Begum to wait till morning, but she was adamant she needed the jewellery. There hadn’t been a car and Javed had taken a horse-drawn cab. The horse had got frightened of the thunder and jumped, sending both Javed and the driver plummeting over the edge of the road and down the rocky hillside.

  There had been no more babies.

  Gago considered, not for the first time, how the Begum would cope with having a child snatched away from her.

  The room was clean, white, bright, though Anwar thought it smelt like a hospital. Sharif recognised it as the reek of Dettol. A string bed was pushed up against the wall and silky patchwork cushions, jigsaws of gold threads, pink and green taffetta, beads and tiny shells, were scattered over it. Opposite it was an old mulberry-coloured velour settee, also brightened up with cushions, but of a simpler design, black and beige, patterned with bold block prints. Sharif was a little jealous of the sofa. He’d been looking for one in a similar fabric since moving to Murree, but could only find floral nylons. It was comfortably squashy, too, he thought as he settled himself down.

  The woman sat on the bed, a stiff, starched white dupatta balanced on her head like a piece of paper.

  ‘Now, where is your… boss?’ asked Sharif.

  ‘He’s gone. Didn’t the woman downstairs tell you?’ Her voice was soft and girly, unlike her lined face with its shadowy eyes and downturned mouth, its cracks visible beneath her thick purple lipstick.

  ‘She said he was out.’

  ‘He’s gone to India. Mumbai. He goes there for shopping and ideas. If you know what I mean.’

  Sharif looked at Anwar, expecting support, but Anwar was immobile. Sharif cleared his throat.

  ‘When is he expected back?’

  The girl shrugged and lay back on the cushions, smiling, and swinging her feet up on to the bed. The Inspector took a moment to collect his thoughts. He hadn’t questioned a potential suspect in such a position before.

  ‘We’re not here to bully you, or to catch you, or… anything you need to worry about,’ he said. ‘All we want is for you to tell us what you know about last week’s events. Start with your name,’

  ‘Raani,’ said the woman. ‘Although queen of what, you might well ask my gentleman callers.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us about Pervez will be helpful,’ said Anwar.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Sharif, in English. ‘So where were you last week? I’m sure you know the time and place by now.’

  ‘Here. There was a party of officers requiring entertainment,’ she said, stroking the bed. ‘Are you sure you two aren’t here for the same thing?’

  Anwar pursed his lips. Sharif said, ‘Of course not, madam. Please, it will better for all of us if we stay respectful to each other. Please, give us your memories of that evening.’

  ‘How much detail would you like?’

  Sharif tapped the baton on his knee.

  ‘That’s enough! Don’t be cheeky. You know what I mean. Were you at the Happy Suraj Guest House on the 25th?’

  ‘No
.’

  ‘Did Bashir send anyone else there?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. Not any of the girls from here, at least.’

  ‘But you have been there in the past?’

  ‘Yes, that I have.’

  ‘And how would you describe your relationship with Pervez? Did you see him regularly?’

  ‘Pervez liked to keep up with new arrivals, with the young blood. Fresh. He didn’t have any long-term regulars, except, as it happens, for me.’

  ‘Why do you think he liked you?’ The Inspectors eyes strayed away from her face, trying to find other appreciable assets. Her face, he thought, was unlikely to bring her any long-standing admirers. She smiled.

  ‘Would you like to investigate me further, Inspector saab? I’d like to say I’ve never been close friends with a policeman before but that would be fibbing. You’re right, he didn’t fancy me for my looks. Maybe he enjoyed some of my special techniques, but I think he liked me because I made him laugh.’

  Sharif grabbed onto this piece of information for safety.

  ‘You have a singular sense of humour, eh? I suppose it must help not to take yourself too seriously. It can’t be fun complaining about your misfortune all the time.’

  She sat up suddenly.

  ‘What do you know about our life? We all have to laugh at our own fate.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it like that,’ said Anwar. ‘Please go on. So you were his friend?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘He’s dead. He used to pay well.’

  ‘If you really care that he’s dead then you’ll want to know who did it to him,’ said Sharif. ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Alright. He was a horrible man. He paid us the best, but he made sure he got a full measure of humiliation out of us. I’m not talking about physically – that was only part of it. He liked to make us feel degraded, worthless.’

  Anwar looked at her kindly and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Please, don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t care.’