Sumbul’s baby woke. He writhed and rubbed his eyes with tiny fists, threatening to holler. Sumbul swiftly opened her kameez and offered him a breast.
Dia said, ‘Don’t you half expect the silkworms to form a guerilla alliance and revolt? People have always depended on animals for food and clothing, and then, four thousand years ago, along came a Chinese empress who made insects our property too. Maybe mutiny is the real reason output is down.’
Sumbul laughed. ‘You have such silly ideas, Dia Baji. I can only imagine what you and my father must say to each other all day!’ Her baby was falling asleep in mid-suckle. He loosened his grip on her swollen nipple and a string of milk ran down his chin. She mopped it clean with her shirt, which she then buttoned up.
Dia felt she was looking at Nini, just a few years from now. Too few years.
Sumbul continued, ‘My grandmother always believed my father was the misfit in the family. He was never a very good fisherman. I think he’s much happier at your house than he ever was at sea.’
‘But he still misses the village,’ answered Dia. ‘He talks about it often. He especially worries about the eldest, Salaamat.’
‘Strange that you should mention him. He visited me just this morning.’
‘Oh? How is he? And when will he visit his father?’
‘I can only tell you he’s happy. Look what he gave me!’ Sumbul smiled as she dug out two hundred rupees from somewhere in her bosom. ‘His employers are good to him and he’s good to me. Their son just returned from Amreeka. You’ll never believe it: he was on the same flight as that boy whose father’s Quran Khwani you went to. The boy Nissrine wants! He sat beside him the whole time. Salaamat picked them up at the airport and even dropped the boy home.’
‘Oh!’ Dia exclaimed. ‘Maybe your brother can find out more about this American boy through his employer’s son, eh? If it’s bad news, I’ll pass it on to Nini. If it’s good, we won’t tell her.’
Sumbul chuckled. They left the larvae and hovered outside the third section of the shed. Entrance here was strictly forbidden. Inside lay the silkworms that had begun to turn yellow, indicating they were ready to start weaving their cocoons and hole up as pupae for two weeks. It was a delicate stage. A silkworm wanted absolute privacy as it spun. The slightest interference could result in a faulty cocoon or even in death. Over the years, Dia alone had witnessed the process, for she’d perfected the art of absolute stillness. As a result, her mother allowed her inside. But Sumbul, especially Sumbul with a baby, would have to wait outside.
Dia took a pair of binoculars from a drawer, positioned them over her eyes, and crept inside.
On the tables, thousands of caterpillars were in various stages of spinning. Each had transformed from the drunken, lifeless chunk on perforated paper to an agile ballerina leaning forward on its tail. Everywhere she looked, each nosed the air like a wand and out passed silk. It was more like a scene from a fable, in Sassi’s lakhy bagh perhaps, than something that truly happened. That it happened here, in her mother’s farm, in the middle of the scorched Indus plain, amid the chaos of Sindh, made all her ethical quandaries regarding the breeding of another life form to suit human interests vanish. Standing in a room with eight thousand tiny creatures, witnessing them perform a dance that few humans even knew occurred; this was life. They sashayed to the left and swiveled to the right. They bobbed and undulated, dotting the air in figure-eights. They worked ceaselessly for three days and nights, with material entirely of their own, and with nothing to orchestrate them besides their own internal clock. Each, a perfectly self-contained unit of life. When Dia watched one spin, she came closer to understanding the will of God than at any other time.
By courtesy of another stolen page from a library book, she’d discovered that the ancient Egyptians had believed the dead could see butterflies and moths. Her thoughts always returned to her father when she stood here. He was here too. And he could see inside the cocoons. He witnessed each pupa grow, knew when its head began to turn and point toward the little opening at one end. He saw the creature kick and curl, preparing for the fourth and final stage of its life.
After fifteen minutes, she slid outside. Sumbul and the baby still waited.
Once the cocoons were spun, most were taken to the factory. There the moths were destroyed, or they consumed the silk thread as they ate their way out. To extract the thread, the cocoon was boiled in water, just as the Empress Hsi-Ling-Shih had inadvertently done four thousand years ago.
It was in the last part of the shed that those pupae selected for breeding were stored. Dia found this aspect of the breeding process unsettling. The cocoons moved. They were never found in the same corner where they’d been left. Nor had she ever actually seen the movement. It made her shudder to think the sleeping pupae could not only produce enough force to shift, but seemed to know when they were alone. Even more disturbing was the red liquid that oozed out from the shells. She knew what it was: waste stored in the pupa’s abdomen. But in texture and color it resembled menstrual fluid. As the pupae bled, the stench was overpowering.
Dia walked with Sumbul toward a woman with the last of the moths from the previous batch. The moths were bred to be flightless. They were stark white and wore a fierce expression, enhanced by feathery feelers that arched like indignant eyebrows.
The helper reported that this particular moth had produced about three hundred eggs, which had hatched into the youngest caterpillars in the front room. She was being taken outside, to die. Sumbul stroked her feelers. The moth twitched and glowered with protruding chocolate-brown eyes.
‘What a life,’ Sumbul mused. ‘Larvae for four weeks, pupae for two, moths for another two. It’s over so fast.’
‘Yet the silk they weave lasts for centuries,’ answered Dia.
‘While other creatures leave nothing at all behind.’ Planting a light kiss on her baby’s head, Sumbul added, ‘Except children.’
4
Choice
A strike was announced by the MQM the following day. Since the political party’s leader had exiled himself to London, he had urged his followers to accelerate their campaign of civil unrest and this was the eighth or ninth strike that year. Some of the shops around Dia’s house remained open but in the northern reaches of the city, a curfew-like situation set in: the shutters stayed down; streets were deserted; buses were burned. It was disastrous for both the farm and the mill: the workers would not be able to leave their homes. But as always, Riffat left the house immaculately dressed, determined to put in her hours.
Dia had already missed more than a month’s worth of classes this year because of the strikes. Since no one ever answered the phone, there was no anticipating the college’s closure. She lacked her mother’s stolid defiance. Racked with uncertainty, she performed every ritual – from washing and dressing to a hurried breakfast – as if it weren’t really happening. In the car, she sat in limbo, haunted by what the city said: God decides.
Today the college gates were open.
Nini awaited her inside. Even in their bland uniform, a poorly-fitting kurta the color of cat vomit, Nini moved with the grace and stature of a swan. Her oval face was smooth and chiseled, her lashes thick enough to rustle. It was a miracle really, thought Dia, that Nini had withstood pressure to marry this long. Proposals for her had been flowing in torrents since the day she turned fifteen. But then they’d stopped abruptly when news of her father’s declining business broke out. Dia wondered how much Nini’s eagerness to marry now stemmed from a fear that it was her last chance.
They kissed once on the cheek and Dia swung an arm into hers. ‘We have Pak Studies first period. Let’s skip it.’
‘Fine,’ said Nini. ‘You’ve got crumbs in your mustache.’ She brushed them off.
They crossed the hockey field. On one side loomed the classroom building, also the color of cat vomit. Every morning, students assembled there while the college principal tried to talk to all five hundred of them without a microphone. Most
of the women either skipped the assembly or stood around discussing last night’s TV drama, the various joras made that week, shaadis attended, and who was seen with whom. The principal, a handsome woman in her fifties, was best loved for her saris. When Dia and Nini joined the women, those in the front row had passed their verdict. It was trickling down to the middle rows and eventually to the back, where they stood. Today’s sari was a blazing orange French chiffon with yellow swirls. Very bold. Very bubbly.
The assembly over, the two friends ambled to the far side of the field, passing the stone benches that studded its length. These were claimed immediately after assembly by those who’d passed the verdict on the day’s sari. They wouldn’t get up again till 2.00 p.m., when the college closed. The benches glittered with nail polish, lipstick, hair curlers, thread, wax, combs and clips. The college offered courses in beauty care without even having to hire staff.
Around the corner from the cafeteria was a walkway leading to a Catholic school that Dia and Nini had attended. Students from the two institutes were not meant to intermingle, but the policy was laxly implemented. As children, they’d sneaked over to the college and spied on the women that to them were all beautiful and wise, ruling over themselves like queens, while the schoolgirls were mere nun-toys. They’d grow up to be stolid commandos, just like the women! But now, it was the reverse. College women visited the school with longing, envying the girls that believed in them.
Hibiscus and jasmine bushes bordered the path. Behind these towered trees planted when the grounds were first laid out, in the early 1800s. The pebbled tracks between the trees offered Nini and Dia more space to wander in than all the city itself. Here they were unhampered by the eyes and hands of men, or the women of the white benches. The grove was clean and quiet, and there wasn’t an armed guard in sight. This was not to say there weren’t any – both the college and the school had sentinels at their respective and enormous front gates. But here it was easy to forget they were there.
It had been three days since they’d last met, at the Quran Khwani, and two since their telephone conversation. Dia didn’t know how to start on the topic of the boy.
‘What did you do yesterday?’ attempted Nini.
‘I went to the farm. Then I read. Alone and to Inam Gul.’
‘How’s it going, your studying for the retake?’
‘It’s going nowhere. The books are so stupid.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nini muttered.
Nini, as always, had passed all the tests. She’d always been a gifted student. She did what she had to do – memorize and spew like a parrot – keeping her independent views on what she spat to herself. Nor was she, unlike Dia, at all bothered by the cheating that went on during the exams. She’d shrug and say, ‘God watches us. That should be enough.’ In her English accent it sounded funny: God wolches es.
They’d been friends since the day a teacher brought the terrified child to Dia’s class. Nini chewed her nails when asked to read out loud because her accent provoked giggles. Dia soon learned that Nini had been taught none of the customs her family, recently migrated from England, suddenly demanded she uphold. Nor could Dia, who wasn’t expected to do the same, help. Alone, Nini determined to learn what was desired of her. She visited relatives regularly; picked up key Urdu phrases and used them on cue; learned to cook; excelled in school; groomed immaculately; behaved with modesty. She embodied two conflicting worldviews, modern and traditional. Like the fabled Hansel (or had it really been Gretel?), the young Nini had the presence of mind to mark her way back to a home she’d never been encouraged to know.
And now she wanted to leave it.
And leave it the traditional way.
She’d never bring shame to her family. They’d made what they set out to make.
Dia looked at her. ‘Explain it again. I’ve tried, but just don’t understand.’
‘You don’t want to, that’s the problem.’ Nini spun around. ‘You have fixed notions. Mind blocks. You think you know my future?’
Dia croaked, ‘I’ve never known what’s going to happen. If you don’t know that, you haven’t known me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘What if marrying this stranger makes your life worse? Then where will you be?’
‘Don’t be such a pessimist. What if it gets better?’
‘But that’s a gamble. Think of all the women who’ve gambled and lost.’ She began to recite their names. She was on the ninth – Sana, who’d married an engineer in America, and left her home and family only to find the groom had another wife, and two children besides – when Nini cut her off with a laugh. It was a hard, world-weary laugh. Dia wondered who the greater cynic really was.
She had her answer when Nini said, ‘You and I know nothing about freedom, Dia. Look at us. Always stuck behind walls and in cars. If we step out, what is there? If it’s not physical danger, it’s gossip. Did you see Tasleem’s daughter Nissrine, romping around so boldly on her own? How many times have I been warned never to provoke that? My parents’ image is my headache. You call that freedom? Come on!’
‘My point,’ Dia insisted, ‘is that you’ll have the same headache plus many others.’
‘You haven’t mentioned the ones whose marriages work,’ countered Nini. ‘Some women have more flexibility around their husbands than their fathers. Look at your mother. She blossomed after marrying a man she didn’t know and has been an inspiration to so many other women. Karachi’s becoming a city of entrepreneurial mothers. They get what they want. They just have to give in first. It’s simple mechanics.’
Dia turned away. Yes, her mother had thrived, and yet her warning echoed in the grove. Marry out of love. Not obligation. Dia pictured her parents sauntering between the trees. Strangers, not friends. ‘If that’s as good as you think it can get, it’ll never get any better. We’re more than simple mechanics. It’s okay to aim higher, or have dreams.’
‘And where do dreams get us?’ Nini shook her head. ‘I worry about you. If you’re not careful you’ll end up lonely, like …’
‘Oh please,’ Dia cut her off. ‘Like Ama? She used to be our role model, remember?’ How conveniently Nini used Riffat when it suited her and condemned Riffat when it didn’t. That was just how the public treated her mother – as a useful name to drop. Nini was as two-faced as the rest of them.
They sat in silence on the ground, facing a bed of periwinkles. Behind the flowers rose the school wall, its top a heap of glass shards. Nini took Dia’s hand. ‘You know I love your mother.’
Dia looked at her tennis shoes, then Nini’s. Several months ago, on a whim, they’d sat exactly like this in her garden, under the mulberry tree, feet together, shalwars pulled up high above the knees, and spray-painted the shoes. With eyes clamped shut, they pressed and heard the colors wheeze out. Laughing, they agreed not to open their eyes till the job was done. Dia felt the cold chemicals settling around the canvas on her feet. She favored circles while Nini went for zigzags. Now, feet together, Dia saw how the pattern still fit exactly. Every purple swerve begun on one foot ended on the other. A golden slant rising on Nini’s right small toe descended on Dia’s left small toe.
Dia inhaled deeply. ‘What makes you so eager now? When you got proposals before you weren’t keen.’
‘Why now?’ Nini repeated and shrugged. ‘Time.’
‘Time?’
‘There are things that simply happen when they should.’ Her tendril-like fingers clasped Dia’s shorter ones. ‘I felt it when we left England. It was time for it, somehow. And now it’s time for another move. There are moments when you ought to let yourself be carried away.’
Dia snorted. ‘You sound fifty. Next time let’s spray-paint our hair. I’ll do yours white, and you can do mine, I don’t know,’ she threw up her hands. ‘Orange!’
Nini let go Dia’s hand. ‘I’m doing my best to be sympathetic. You aren’t trying at all.’
‘You’re barely twenty, Nini!’ Dia said aghast. ‘You’ve got loads of time.’
&nbs
p; Nini glowered. ‘After the disaster at the Quran Khwani, his mother’s probably changed her mind. In case she hasn’t – God knows I would – we’re only talking about an engagement now. The marriage will come after his graduation, when he’s got a job.’
Should she bother to ask the obvious? Why not? ‘Since he’s going to be the breadwinner, shouldn’t you be sure he has a job? And a pretty good one?’
‘His father was a great doctor. The son’s likely to follow in his footsteps,’ Nini replied adamantly.
‘Do you even know what he’s studying?’
‘Well,’ she twirled her hair. ‘He’s supposed to be very bright. After all, he got a scholarship to study in America. I’m sure he’ll be hugely successful.’ She gazed absently at the wall, as though it were a crystal ball.
Dia felt vaguely nauseated. ‘So the answer is you don’t know?’
Nini glowered again.
‘Talk about dreaming,’ Dia hissed.
A bell rang. It came from the direction of the college. The first period had ended. ‘I suppose we ought to go,’ said Dia.
But neither moved.
At last Nini stood up. ‘Since your twenty questions are up, I suppose we should.’
‘Eighteen,’ countered Dia, still sitting.
‘What now?’
‘If his mother rescinds, or if for some other reason the engagement doesn’t materialize, and if you feel it’s time, does that mean you’ll simply agree to the next proposal?’
‘I wondered why you hadn’t asked that one yet. The answer is: if it’s as good as this one, yes.’
‘So it’s entirely chance – this man or that. X or Y. Random?’
‘That’s twenty. And yes, dear Dia, chance has a lot to do with it. If I fell in love, chance would have a hand. If I marry at thirty, chance will have a hand. If I have triplets, guess what: chance. I don’t see why this offends you.’
Trespassing Page 9
