Haveli

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  “If Rahim’s not killed on the road, he’ll work himself into the grave,” said Selma. “It’s a good thing Omar has come to help.”

  Selma was wheezing again by the time they reached her sitting room on the second floor, where she heaved herself into a tattered stuffed chair.

  The shutters were drawn against the heat from the alley below, and the room was dark except for the pleasant light of china lamps that threw comforting soft shadows on the high ceiling. Some of the main rooms had electricity, and this was one of the few with lights.

  In the center of the far wall was a hand-cut crystal fireplace mantel and facing. It was smudged with the soot of long-ago fires and fingerprints, but still it caught the dim light from the lamps and cracks in the shutters and flicked it back in colored pinpoints.

  Rahim’s great-great-great-grandfather had been prime minister to the Mogul emperor Akbar, and the house had been one of the grandest during Lahore’s most opulent period. Now there were only ten rooms in use among the haveli’s dozens.

  The armchairs and carpets had been stuffed with goose down once, covered with rich silk brocades. But now they were lumpy, and the fabric was worn in places to long thin strands that barely held in the stuffing. The furniture was sparse, but the shabbiness and austerity were not unpleasant. Shabanu felt certain that Selma would have chosen to leave the haveli old and comfortable even if she could afford to have it otherwise.

  Selma talked of how happy Rahim was that Omar was here, how good it was to have young voices in the house again.

  “Of course we’ll keep dinner until Rahim comes,” she said. “I’ve been cooking half the day, and there are six servants in the kitchen now. Tomorrow we shall …”

  But Shabanu was contemplating how she could get Selma away to herself, so she might talk to her about Zabo. She was worried that Zabo might try to run away in the middle of the night or, worse, that she might harm herself. Perhaps Selma could send the young servant girl to sleep near Zabo’s bed.…

  “… flutes, shenai, sitar, tabla.… There will be music until God knows how late,” Selma was saying. “So we must sleep early tonight. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate!”

  Shabanu looked away with a start when she saw Omar’s eyes on her. He sat on a sofa beside Selma’s chair, where he’d been watching Shabanu intently while his aunt talked. She felt her face go warm. A soft rushing in her ears sounded like a distant river.

  When Selma got up to check on the kitchen, Omar unfolded his long frame from the sofa and came to sit in the chair beside Shabanu’s.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house? It’s like a museum—at least that’s how I remember it.”

  Shabanu nodded. He helped her from the chair, and the touch of his large, soft hand sent shivers through her.

  He took the flashlight from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “I’m used to candles,” she said.

  “I brought dozens of these from New York,” he said. “You’ll need it going up and down the stairs.” He pressed it into her hand.

  Shabanu walked behind Omar through the door of the parlor into the main salon. She felt acutely aware of the air that touched her skin, the blood that went through her veins, the feel of the floor under her feet. The brightness from his flashlight outlined the hard, angular planes of his shoulders and neck and chin in front of her, and Shabanu realized it had been a very long time since she had even seen a young man.

  He spoke to her in his foreign-sounding Punjabi, and she gave up concentrating on what he said just to take in the smooth texture of his skin and the rich timbre of his voice. And the idea that he touched her so easily. She knew her feelings meant trouble—but her fingers still felt his touch.

  He turned and shone the light on her face.

  “Are you listening?” he asked. She was startled, but she realized she hadn’t heard what he’d been saying.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in Seraiki, which she was sure he understood from having grown up on the farm at Okurabad. “I speak Punjabi very badly.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, smiling at her face in the glow from the flashlight. “I love speaking Seraiki.”

  She managed a smile.

  In the main salon on the first floor a rich silk rug hung on the wall opposite the wrought-iron fireplace. Despite decades of exposure to smoke, dust, and the grime of the city, the vivid phoenixes, dragons, and tigers seemed to leap in the brightness of the flashlights as if they were alive.

  Off the courtyard was a bath, with a series of tanks and fountains. The tanks were tiled with interlocking octagons and squares of black and white marble that formed mazes with stars of oxblood stone at the center.

  Pitchers of opalescent Persian glass stood in niches in the walls, and Shabanu imagined that in the old days servants had poured scented oil from them into baths for the women of the household.

  Dust had collected in the corners of the bathing tanks, and Shabanu wondered how long it was since they’d been filled with water. The bronze fountain-heads in the center of the tanks were blue with corrosion, and they looked as if they were too clogged with dirt and white mineral residue ever to run with water again.

  Shabanu could almost hear the tinkle of water as it ran into the tanks, which were surrounded by walkways of ancient marble tiles in geometric patterns bordered by tiles inlaid with flowers of lapis, carnelian, and tiger’s-eye, and leaves of tourmaline at the center of each design.

  The room after the bath was a broad hall that led into the old dining room, where glazed tiles of cobalt and turquoise almond buds, stars, and chrysanthemums reminded Shabanu of the mosques and shrines at Derawar Fort in the Cholistan Desert, where her grandfather lay buried. A low wooden table covered much of the floor.

  “How many servants would have served dinner in those days?” she asked Omar.

  “Even when I was a child, there were dozens of servants,” he replied. “Now there are only four, and three of them are very old: Shaheen, Selma’s old ayah, who can barely walk; the cook; and Ali, the old one-eyed bearer. And of course there’s the girl Yazmin, who is Ali’s niece, and there are always boys around to run errands and help Ali. The others in the kitchen are all relatives of the cook who come when they’re needed.”

  “What was Daoud like?” Shabanu asked. “Do you remember him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Omar. “He was a wonderful man.” Shabanu listened to him talk, and it made her happy to hear his voice and watch his face.

  Selma’s husband had been an expansive man—generous, wise, and sympathetic, Omar said. He and Selma were happy with each other, despite their having had no children. That was what the others said.

  What Selma said was this: “I am only the sister. My children would always be lowest on the ladder. Let my brothers have children! Why ruin a perfectly nice love affair? My life is good because there are no children.” And, Omar said, Daoud shared her feelings completely.

  Shabanu thought Omar talked as if he understood Selma’s thinking and would have agreed with her had he been Daoud.

  The husband and wife had a picnic dinner in a different room of the haveli each evening, Omar said. One night they would sit at the desk in the study, a candle burning over the white linen cloth that covered the green leather writing surface. The next evening they’d face each other over a bench covered with a large banana palm leaf in the courtyard.

  Every day when Daoud came home from work they would walk through the chowks to a different part of the old city. One afternoon they would go to Bhatti Gate, which had been the Hindu quarter of the city before the bloody partition of India and Pakistan. There, inside the ancient wooden gates, generations of widows had left their handprints before throwing themselves on their husband’s funeral pyres. Large prints rested beside tiny prints, with marks made by the hands of children in between, as if there had been so many of them rushing to their fiery deaths all at once that they couldn’t find enough space for all to leave their marks.

  S
ometimes they walked to the gates beside the shrine of some unnamed Hindu saint, where women once tacked their sick children’s slippers after praying for their recovery in the small neighborhood temples; to the lanes of the sweets makers to buy kulfi to have with their tea; to the man who made Selma’s eye shadows of powdered lapis lazuli and amethyst, her skin creams from mutton fat, powders of gold and pearl, and perfume, and her eyeliners of charcoal; to the mosque, where they left their shoes at the door and entered for late-afternoon prayers.

  If one or the other was unwell, both of them went to the hakkim, who sat talking with them about the symptoms, then prescribed some powder or herb to be mixed with milk or brewed in tea for a cure.

  They went everywhere together.

  “I would like to share a love like Selma and Daoud’s,” Omar said.

  “It’s usually not so simple,” said Shabanu sadly. “They were unique for their time—perhaps for any time.” She was thinking of Zabo and Ahmed and the countless marriages that never had known and never would know joy because they were made for political expediency, or for land, or for some other reason not connected with the suitability of one heart to another.

  Omar stood silent and immobile for a few moments, and Shabanu wondered whether he was brooding over his own marriage. Could he be thinking he might share a love like that with Leyla?

  “As they walked Daoud would tell Selma about his day in court,” Omar went on, taking up the tour again.

  Although she had never studied law, Selma’s mind was quick, and her knowledge of legal matters was extensive from these shared confidences. Daoud was in awe of the unshakable solidity of her logic and her natural sense of justice, and he sought her advice on many matters.

  So Selma had known about the murder of Abdul Muhammad Khan. From the very beginning she had suspected his brother. The men were Pathans, wealthy merchants who had made a fortune in goods transshipped across Pakistan to Afghanistan, so that no duty was due, then turned back at the border and smuggled back into the bazaar at Peshawar to be sold at bargain prices to tourists who came from all over Pakistan.

  The brother’s defense had been that it would be unthinkable for a Pathan to kill his own brother. They were in business together; the fortune of one man was the fortune of both. It would mean a life of exile and fear, for the sons of the dead man would never rest until they had avenged their father’s death.

  But Daoud had uncovered a motive: Abdul Muhammad Khan had mortgaged the trucks used to transport the goods to purchase a flat for his mistress, who lived in Lahore. What Abdul Muhammad Khan didn’t know was that his mistress was also his brother’s mistress.

  The entire court was impressed by this motive, once exposed. Yes, perhaps the fortune of one was the fortune of both. But it could never be that the mistress of one was the mistress of both; that would be a blood matter. The defense was in a shambles.

  After a short deliberation, the court found the brother guilty. But sentencing was a delicate issue. The government had signaled its intention to increase the powers of the Shariat, or Islamic law. There was some question as to the secular court’s finding, and so there had been no death sentence. The brother was sentenced to life imprisonment in Pindi Jail. Selma and Daoud forgot about the case.

  But only two years later, through another lapse in the system due to a moment of political vulnerability, the governor of the Punjab had commuted the sentence of the brother of Abdul Muhammad Khan. Unbeknownst to Daoud and Selma, the Pathan was set free.

  One premonsoon night, after weeks of nearly unbearable heat, the servants prepared beds for Selma and Daoud on the roof of the haveli, where they would catch any breeze that happened past.

  The couple talked for a while, unable to sleep immediately in the stupefying heat. But after half an hour, overcome by the exhaustion of days of heat so overpowering it seemed impossible to move their swollen limbs, they fell into unconsciousness without even bidding each other good night.

  Selma never forgave herself that moment of neglect that deprived her of saying good-bye to the person she was to love most in this life.

  For in the dead heat of that still, dark night, Abdul Muhammad Khan’s brother stole up to the roof of the haveli and buried his dagger in Daoud’s heart with one blow so deft that Daoud died in an instant.

  Selma didn’t awaken until morning, when the servant came with bed tea. Seeing the haft of the Pathan’s dagger protruding from between Daoud’s shoulder blades, the servant dropped the entire tray, and the silver serving pieces clattered across the roof’s terra-cotta tiles. Only then did Selma feel the stickiness of her husband’s drying blood, which had been cooled by the night air.

  The Pathan had disappeared, probably into his ancestral village in the tribal land on the Afghanistan border, where the only law was Allah’s.

  “None of the servants has ever been to the roof of the haveli since,” said Omar. “They are certain Daoud’s ghost still roams about up there, waiting for his death to be avenged. The door leading to the roof has been locked ever since that day.

  “And the most Selma could ask of justice was that Abdul Muhammad Khan’s sons would find their uncle in his bed and exercise their ancient right to vendetta.”

  chapter 10

  I expected you to be very different,” Omar said. By then they were back in Selma’s study, left alone when Selma rushed off to deal with some kitchen crisis.

  “You heard I was a country girl,” she said, looking at him directly.

  “Most country girls do look at the floor,” he said, smiling.

  “Do you disapprove?” she asked, sticking her chin out.

  “No,” he said. “I do not.”

  Shabanu knew what he’d heard: that she ran about barefoot, with her head uncovered; that Rahim had married her for sex—you could tell by the way he looked at her; that she was stupid and couldn’t read or write; that she was unrespectable. Omar may even have heard of the Ibne incident.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m proud to be a country girl.”

  But Rahim came then, interrupting her, and she was glad. Omar stood and went to him, his arms wide. Rahim embraced his nephew as a father embraces a son, clasping him by the back of the neck and kissing him on either cheek before folding him into his arms.

  Mahsood came a moment later, and his embrace was awkward and slightly embarrassed. Perhaps it was because he knew that his son was fonder of his uncle than of his father. Mahsood was taller than Rahim and less fit, with a stomach that showed roundly through his waistcoat. His face was creased with years of having had to deal with difficult issues more harshly than his gentle nature might have found comfortable.

  Shabanu left them in the parlor sipping orange juice to help in the kitchen while the servants put the food on the table. Selma sent Yazmin to fetch Zabo.

  Zabo opened the door to the parlor quietly, peering around the edge of the doorway as Selma gathered everyone to the table. Zabo greeted her uncles politely with brief little nods. Omar’s face softened when he saw her.

  “How is my favorite cousin?” he asked, coming to her. She smiled briefly. It was the only smile Shabanu saw on her face all day.

  Shabanu was pleased that Omar chose to say nothing about Zabo’s marriage to Ahmed. It showed he was sensitive to Zabo’s feelings—that he really did care for her.

  When they were all seated at the long dining room table, Rahim asked Omar to continue the story of his voyage from America.

  “But the ladies have already heard this, Uncle. Let’s hear news of the farm.” Whenever the conversation turned to things that did not interest the ladies, Omar changed the subject to something that would.

  “We can discuss crops later, Uncle,” he said. “How about the horses? Do you ride?” he asked Shabanu. Again she heard the faint rushing in her ears.

  By the time dinner was served, Shabanu no longer felt hungry. Omar continued to include her and Zabo and Selma in every conversation.

  Zabo sat quietly at the table, seldom to
uching her food. She never spoke once, and Rahim looked at her several times, his mouth in a straight, disapproving line. He looked as if he was trying to catch her eye to scold her.

  Selma asked which of the cloth sellers they would visit the next day.

  “You must go first to Mahmood,” she said. “He has samples, and he’ll bring others as he comes to know what you want. He will arrange for the darzi and for shoes to match what the darzi sews. I will take you myself to the gold bazaar.”

  The atmosphere around the table relaxed as the women talked together, and Rahim and Omar and Mahsood talked of the farm and politics.

  Zabo sat, fidgeting distractedly as she had in the car, then asked to be excused as the table was cleared.

  “Can’t you even sit politely through dinner?” Rahim asked, banging his hand down so that the teacups rattled. But Zabo stood without answering and left the table,

  “Excuse me. I’ll go look after her,” Shabanu said quickly, and followed Zabo.

  “You can’t do this,” she said catching up with her on the stairs. She switched on Omar’s flashlight, and Zabo turned to her. “You have to at least put up a front, or Rahim will.… ”

  “What can he do to me that’s worse than what he’s already done?” she demanded, and stalked up the dark stairway, the beam of the flashlight bobbing as Shabanu ran to catch up with her again.

  “I’m afraid he’ll forbid me to be with you,” Shabanu said, catching her on the upstairs landing. “You can see he’s angry.… ”

  “He’s angry! What have I done?” Zabo turned and ran to the door of her room, swinging it hard behind her. Shabanu caught the heavy door before it could slam. Zabo sat on the wooden edge of the sagging string bed. Shabanu was breathless, the flashlight still bright in her hand.

  “I don’t think Rahim likes what he’s done to you. That’s why it upsets him to see you unhappy. I’m afraid he’ll separate us—that he’ll make me go back to Okurabad. Please try, Zabo.”