Haveli

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

  “I know there was no room in the nawab’s cemetery for a poor desert nomad. But would there be a place for the daughter of a nobleman?”

  Shahzada sat back and laid a finger beside his nose.

  “Perhaps for the wife of Rahim-sahib,” he said. “With all respect to your friend, may her soul rest in peace, perhaps we should say this is your grave. Since her father does not even care to look for her …”

  “But then there would be no grave for Zabo, and her spirit would wander about.”

  “You must believe me when I tell you your life is in danger,” said Shahzada, his gray eyes wise with age but young as the day he was born. “Nazir will have men all over Derawar keeping watch for you. He thought you would be traveling on foot, and so he was not expecting you as early as you arrived. He had just arrived himself.”

  Shabanu’s mind raced. Her stomach churned. What had happened to Omar? Had he too been killed? Too many killings. Oh, I beg of you, Allah, let there be no more! Her heart would hold no more grief.

  “Won’t the Rangers help?” she asked.

  “Bah!” he said. “The new commander is a corrupt and greedy man. Nazir has befriended him so that he can hunt whenever he likes in the game preserve.”

  “I must get to my family and warn them. If the Rangers can’t protect them …”

  “Listen, little Begum,” said Shahzada. “If Nazir-sahib thinks you’re dead, he will not bother your family. If he thinks you are alive, however, he will employ the best desert trackers the Rangers have. He will never rest until you are dead or captured.”

  “But my family must know I’m safe …”

  “For their sake, I’m afraid they too must believe it was you who was killed.”

  “But if everyone thinks I’m dead, what is the point of living?”

  “The point is that you will be alive. And there is hope as long as you are alive. There is always the possibility that Nazir-sahib will—Allah forgive me—not survive for long.”

  Shabanu knew that her family would grieve for her. But it was Mumtaz she worried about. It was one thing for Mumtaz to be happy and free in the desert when she also had the security of her home, including a loving mother and father. But suddenly to find herself in a wild and desolate place and to learn that she no longer had a home and that both her parents were dead …

  Then Shabanu thought of the alternatives: She might be a prisoner at Mehrabpur, without Zabo, dreading every day that Nazir would come to her bed; or if Omar did rescue her, she and Mumtaz would be enslaved at Okurabad, forever under the power of Amina and Leyla.

  And that decided for her. Never, she thought. Never, never, never.

  They buried Zabo that night in a simple grave in a corner of the deserted stable yard. They marked it with a huge mound of straw so that it would be difficult to find, even for someone searching for it. They said the prayers that would speed her on her way to heaven.

  And Shahzada and his sister left Shabanu to mourn her only friend quietly until it was time to decide how she would live her life as a ghost.

  Shahzada and his sister took her back to the small dark room behind their quarters. It was decided that she would be safer hiding in the fort than trying to leave just now, when Nazir and his men were looking for her. Meals were delivered to her on a covered tray. She was not to go outside the room unless Shahzada or his sister came for her, and that happened only at night.

  When she was allowed outside, she searched the stars, the billions of stars that dazzled like diamonds in the sapphire desert sky. These were the same stars, she thought, beneath which Mumtaz slept. And she wondered whether Omar might be looking up at them as well.

  She was grateful for the time to concentrate on the thoughts she’d begun but never finished, the hurts she’d begun to feel but never dealt with before the next catastrophe was upon her in these last weeks.

  Shahzada kept watch for danger. And each morning when he visited the well, he and the herdsmen exchanged stories.

  It seemed a caravan of nomads had found the body of a small woman, the little begum who once was a Cholistani girl. The nomads remembered her—she married a wealthy zamindar the year the drought had ended. She was the daughter of Dalil Abassi, the keeper of the finest camels in Cholistan.

  A tall, slender girl whose father also was a landowner kept watch over the body of the little begum, the nomads said. Her father had beaten her and murdered her husband, and so she asked a family of gypsies to take her into the mountains with them.

  That was the story that made its way around Derawar, although nobody was able to say exactly where the story had come from. Shahzada visited the well of a neighboring village, and he heard the same story. And by the time a week had passed, the Desert Rangers had stopped looking for the two young women.

  And then something strange happened. A tall, handsome young man came to Shahzada, saying he was the little begum’s brother.

  Shahzada recalled that Dalil Abassi had not been blessed with sons. The young man blushed and looked down at the ground.

  “I loved her very much, sir,” he said to Shahzada. “Can you tell me, please, who would know where I can find her grave so that I might pay my respects?”

  Shahzada asked him to come back.

  “I will have to go to the village to ask,” he said. “Please come tomorrow.”

  That evening he told Shabanu. She asked what the young man looked like. When Shahzada told her, she lowered her eyes. Her eyes, which already this week had shed more tears than she would ever have guessed her body could hold, spilled over yet again.

  “Please,” she said. “Please show him the grave. For he is one who will never believe until he sees. But, Uncle, I want to see him,” she said.

  And so it was arranged that Shabanu was led to a loft over the stable, where the winter fodder was stored, to wait for Omar to mourn her at her graveside.

  When he came late that afternoon, Shahzada told Omar that the nomads had brought her body to him and that he had buried her in the stable yard.

  “You see, Sahib, no one wants trouble from Nazir. So her grave site must be kept secret. It is only because I knew her—such a good and brave young woman—that I will show you.”

  The young man nodded slowly. His eyes held more sadness than Shahzada knew existed in the world.

  “I too wish that no one else should know,” Omar said.

  Shahzada took him out to the stable yard and moved aside the pile of straw.

  “Here?” said Omar. “But my Shabanu must have a fitting grave! A pile of straw will never do! After I have mourned a year, I shall bring a marble marker with inscriptions. Please,” he said, his voice shaking. “Please leave me alone.”

  The sun was low in the sky. In its red-gold light, Omar’s dark eyes glistened. He leaned forward and put his hand on the head of the grave. He sat for a moment, his hand over Zabo’s head.

  Then he turned his face to the sky. It was wet with tears.

  “Shabanuuuu!” he wailed, like an animal in pain. “Shaahh-baha-nuuuuuuuu!”

  Shabanu wanted to run to him and fold him into her arms, as she had wanted to do with Mumtaz. Her heart ached, her throat ached, and once again she found herself saying silently, For the sake of Mumtaz. For the sake of Mumtaz. For the sake of Mumtaz. And she stayed hidden in the straw of the loft.

  He sat beside the grave until it was almost dark. And then he reached out his hand again.

  “For as many seconds as I live on this earth,” he said, “you will always be in my heart.”

  And with that he leaned forward and kissed the ground under which Zabo’s head lay. And then he stood and gathered the straw in his arms and began to cover the grave again. Shahzada came running.

  “Here, Sahib, allow me,” said Shahzada.

  But Omar held on to the straw, spreading it handful by handful until the grave was covered.

  chapter 23

  Shabanu arrived at the haveli late on a chilly night. She got out of the tonga at the corner
of the lane and paid the tonga-wallah. He and his poor old horse looked as if they would fall asleep on the spot.

  It had been a long and difficult journey. She had begun from Derawar before first light, wrapped in a goathair blanket and piled with dozens of other blankets onto a camel cart. The dust of the blankets had filled her nose, and several times she was barely able to breathe.

  She had traveled that way for many hours, until the camels met up with a caravan. She and the blankets had been transferred to another camel cart that was to take them to market for sale. The driver of the cart did not know she was among the blankets, and he had piled on top a load of water jars. And again she was barely able to breathe.

  The carts creaked along, the drivers singing and spitting into the dust at the side of the road.

  She’d been bruised by the weight on top of her and was dizzy from the bad air by the time the camels reached Bahawalpur. While the drivers stopped in a stall in the bazaar to take tea, she managed to work her way out from under the pots and blankets.

  From Bahawalpur she had taken the bus to Lahore. In the Mall in downtown Lahore she had flagged down an empty tonga and had bargained with the driver to take her to the haveli.

  Now she drew the black chadr around her face as she stood in the doorway of a small shrine to look down the lane. She heard the nightstick of the old neighborhood chowkidar go chunk, chunk on the cobbled paving stones as he made his way on his rounds. She peered around the corner and saw his back retreating from the yellow circle of lamplight outside Selma’s gate. He would not return for at least fifteen minutes.

  She hurried to the gate and stood for a moment in the shadows inside the courtyard to listen for voices and footsteps. There were none.

  Certainly Selma was asleep, the servants were asleep, the chickens in the courtyard were asleep. The haveli itself seemed to be asleep.

  Its old doorways sagged like slack, sleeping mouths. It seemed to wheeze and creak and groan with release from weariness.

  For the tenth time that day Shabanu wondered, Will it always be like this—hiding and then wondering if I’ve been seen when I was unaware?

  Still keeping in the shadows, Shabanu made her way to the bottom of the old stairway that led up, up through the center of the house, through the open well that went from the courtyard to the top floor, which had been sealed off after the death of Selma’s husband, Daoud.

  She climbed in the dark, keeping to the inside of the curving staircase, where the steps had the most support and were least likely to creak under her weight. She stopped every few steps to listen. Still there were only the groans of the sleeping house.

  She was weary when she reached the roof. She unfastened her neck chain, removed the key, and unlocked the door to the pavilion. She lit one of the small brass oil lamps. It was exactly as she’d left it, with dots of cheerful light from the cut-crystal chimney dancing from the surfaces of the wood she’d polished with care.

  Even the needlework she’d had in her lap when Rahim had come to Selma’s parlor to summon her back to Okurabad still sat in the little basket at the foot of her Swati chair.

  Her heart tumbled again when she went to the corner of the room where the small charpoi she’d found for Mumtaz made an L with her own.

  She found the books she’d brought up, even before she could read well enough to get through them, and she felt unaccountably happy.

  But then she found a picture Mumtaz had drawn for her, and she thought that now Mumtaz would never study to become an engineer. She would be a little desert girl, married to a cousin—perhaps one of Adil’s sons—with a small farm like Murad’s. And she fell into a mood so black and devoid of hope she feared she might never again emerge into the light.

  Is this what despair feels like? she wondered. A dark and featureless landscape with only fear and pain and loss to occupy the heart? This time she permitted herself the thought.

  She spent the rest of the night mourning in this way. She was unable to sleep, seeing Omar’s face as he wailed her name, and wondering when she’d ever see Mumtaz again.

  By now Dadi would have told Mumtaz that her mother and father were dead. She wanted to hold her, to tell her that her mother would always be alive for her. What grieved her most was the thought of her daughter’s grief.

  Her heart felt as if it was full to overbrimming with jagged pieces. She was desperate to hear news of her family and of Omar.

  Is this how Anarkali felt, she wondered, suffocating slowly in her tomb? No, I am not like Anarkali, who died for love. I have denied love, and wonder now if life is worth living without it.

  Well before dawn, she crept down the stairs to Selma’s quarters on the second floor. The massive door creaked on its hinges as she let herself in, and she called to Selma.

  “Who is it?” Selma asked, sounding alarmed.

  “It’s Shabanu.” She laughed a small mirthless laugh.

  “Ay, ay, ay,” said Selma, and the bedclothes rustled as she scrambled and tore at them, trying to find the light. “What happened that you are alive? And how did you get here?”

  When the light came on, Shabanu went to Selma, who struggled to get into a robe. Shabanu sat beside her on the bed. Selma took her face in her hands and studied it to be sure it truly was Shabanu.

  “Do I dare trust my eyes?” Selma whispered. “They’ve seen too much grief …”

  “Oh, Selma!” said Shabanu, relief washing over her. “I had no choice. I’m sorry you worried about me, after what happened to Rahim.”

  Selma blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and composed herself.

  “Begin at the start, and don’t leave out a thing,” said Selma.

  She interrupted Shabanu only twice—once to ask her to repeat Nazir’s horrifying marriage proposal, and once to hear again how Zabo died. Selma cried again, and Shabanu wept too. The only detail Shabanu did not tell was of Omar crying beside Zabo’s grave.

  “So,” said Shabanu. “As long as Nazir is alive, he must think I am dead. To protect my family they all must believe it was I who died, and not poor Zabo. Can I stay here, up in the pavilion, without his knowing?”

  “Of course, child,” said Selma. “You yourself know that nobody goes to the pavilion. They’re too afraid of the ghost of my dear late Daoud. That would have given him such a laugh! Samiya can bring your meals. Nobody else need know you’re here.”

  “Now,” Shabanu said finally. “Tell me what you know about my family. And I want to know what happened at Nazir’s.”

  Selma heaved herself up from the bed. She paced a few moments, and then let herself down into her rocking chair.

  “Let me start from the beginning. Omar returned to Okurabad with Rahim’s body in the car. Within a day he had gathered the clansmen and formed an army of five hundred men. That boy will be a fine leader. Rahim, may his soul rest in peace, would be proud of him.

  “They had six mortar guns, and almost every man had an automatic weapon or a grenade launcher. Big guns, nasty guns—I don’t know what all they had.

  “Omar assembled a convoy of lorries, vans, and minibuses. He gathered provisions for several days of fighting. And then he assembled all of the old warriors who have always followed Rahim. He was wonderful!”

  “But why did he wait so long?” asked Shabanu. “It seemed forever before he came!”

  “He let two days pass. There was no way Nazir could summon as many armed men on his side. So Omar expected a trap. He thought if he waited Nazir might think he’d not been able to get the support he needed.

  “Omar was right. They came in the early morning and waited until dawn, when the guards were changing. And then they attacked. Nazir’s men fought valiantly. Nazir ordered them not to surrender, and then he slipped away.

  “Nazir lost more than a dozen men, and the house was nearly destroyed by mortar fire. It was lucky you and Zabo escaped. Two or three of Omar’s men were wounded. But Omar will get Nazir, I’m certain of that.”

  “That means more bloodshed,
” said Shabanu. They sat quietly for a moment.

  “Thank God you are safe,” said Selma. “I am so glad you are here. And when Nazir is gone, you can bring Mumtaz back and stay if you would like.”

  “Insh’Allah,” said Shabanu. “God willing. I should be grateful just to see Mumtaz again. Tell me what news you have of my family.”

  “Word reached them that you had died on the very same day. By morning they were gone, back to the desert with Mumtaz.”

  “And my sister?”

  “Omar has posted guards at her husband’s farm. For now at least they are safe. But I think Nazir believes you are dead. As long as he does, I think he will leave them alone.

  “Now, child, you must get rest. You look more tired than I am, and that is considerably tired.”

  The weather had turned cooler, but the pavilion was pleasant. Shabanu found blankets and a small heater in the storeroom where her furniture had come from. As miraculously as the open lattice walls captured the summer breezes, they also held in the heat, as if they were made of solid stone.

  In the afternoon Samiya brought Shabanu tea. Samiya was proper and formal as she entered the room, as befitted a good servant.

  But Shabanu wept when she saw the small birdlike woman. She thought of the happy days she and Mumtaz had spent with her, learning to read, learning to think, as Samiya did, that all things were possible once you had access to words in books.

  “Oh, Samiya,” she wept, and Samiya set down the tray without a single rattle and came swiftly on her bare feet to Shabanu’s side.

  “Little Begum,” Samiya said, taking Shabanu’s hands. She held Shabanu as she wept, and when she was finished crying she felt better.

  “What else can I bring you?” asked Samiya then.

  “Books!” said Shabanu. “I don’t feel like reading yet, but I will soon. And a pan of coal for the heater. And more oil for the lamps. Can you do it without anyone’s knowledge?”

  “Don’t worry,” Samiya said. “Begum-sahiba has said you may have whatever you want.”