by Bapsi Sidhwa
Crushed by such curtness, Misri Khan salaamed with affronted dignity. He had hoped to draw the young man into talk. Turning his broad back on them he strode to the open depot cluttered with machinery.
A truck reversed, pointing its nose to the road, and Misri Khan ran up to the driver. “Can you take me to Dubair? I have the officer’s permission.”
“Sure, get in,” the driver leaned across the front seat and obligingly held the door. Kohistanis trudged wearily along the road in straggling groups, bent almost double with heavy loads of salt and maize in goatskins and sacks tied on their backs.
Looking at them the driver said, “You’re lucky to get a ride.”
Misri Khan grunted and nodded, “I’ve ridden before.”
They had been bouncing along on the shingles for an hour when Misri Khan artfully broached the subject of his mission.
“I believe your camp was visited by a young girl from the plains?”
“Ah, yes . . .” said the driver. He changed gears for a steep ascent.
Misri Khan had expected the man to elaborate. He glanced at him stealthily. Obviously, his attention had been distracted in negotiating the steep, unsurfaced curves.
“About the girl. I . . .”
“What of her?” the driver cut in, and again Misri glanced at him in surprise.
“I—I heard she came with an old tribal.”
“You probably know more about her than I. After all she was being taken to your territory.”
Misri Khan felt sweat dampen his forehead. The way the man spoke could mean he knew something. Perhaps the girl was already in Dubair, telling stories and spreading their humiliation.
Misri Khan feared the worst.
The jawan by his side drove with sullen concentration. Misri Khan dared not ask any more—his agitation was such that he might blurt out something best left unsaid. In any case, he would know the truth at Dubair.
They drove in silence. When they were only twenty minutes from their destination, the driver relented. Trying to break the ice, he inquired, “What takes you to Dubair?”
Misri Khan looked sharply at the polite, inquiring eyes. He breathed easier. The question was in good faith.
“I have some relatives nearabouts. Got to see them on business.” Then, unable to contain what was paramount in his thoughts, he asked, “The girl must have been here about eight or nine weeks back? Have you heard of her since?”
Ashiq Hussain’s grip on the wheel tightened. “No . . . Have you?” He studied the old man with a sudden hostile interest.
Disconcerted by the scrutiny, Misri Khan shook his head and looked out of the window at the jade-blue river.
“What’s it about? Why does an old man like you ask so many questions about a young girl?”
Misri Khan trembled in silent anger. The man was a fool. He did not know of the knife he had inside his waistcoat. It would take but a second to slit his throat! The undirected machine, of course, would crash down the gorge.
Ashiq judiciously refrained from provoking the old man any further.
At Dubair, Misri Khan stomped straight to the Officers’ Mess and demanded to see the Major. His excitement and the dire conclusions his galloping imagination invoked, left no scope for tactical maneuverings.
Starting from the kitchen orderly and still refusing to state his business clearly, he was pushed up the scale of military rank. Each officer, intimidated by the bristling, importunate tribal, sent him on.
They knew the symptoms of tribal bloodshed and judging adroitly the measure of Misri Khan’s murderous wrath, politely ushered him into the Major’s room.
Major Mushtaq looked up from a graph, indicating to Misri Khan a chair across the desk. The tribal tested its stability with a suspicious shake, and climbing on to the seat, squatted to face the Major.
“I wish to talk to you alone, Major Sahib,” he said, and Mushtaq motioned to the orderly. The moment the door clicked, Misri Khan demanded: “Where is she?”
The old man’s presumption had raced ahead at such a pace that by now he was convinced that the whole camp, the Major included, were part of a conspiracy to hoodwink him and whisk the girl to the plains.
Mushtaq wished he hadn’t asked the orderly to leave. The word “she” gave the interview an unexpected gravity. He wondered frantically who “she” was, fearing that any wrong move on his part might incite the tribal to draw his knife. The Major knew that his authority and power carried no weight before an accusation of this nature.
“Who?” he asked carefully.
“The girl. The girl my cousin from the plains brought for my son.”
He expects me to know where the girl is that his cousin brought for his son! And I don’t even know the bastard! Mushtaq mused cynically.
He studied his fingernails, and then he raised his eyes to meet the Kohistani’s with as much candor as he could summon.
“A tribal brought a girl from the plains. He said she was his daughter. I think it was a month or so back. Is that the girl you mean? The Kohistani passed through here. If I recollect correctly, he meant to marry her off in your territory.”
Misri Khan swallowed. He tried to judge the Major’s honesty. This much was, of course, the truth. Moreover, Mushtaq appeared sympathetic.
“She married my son,” he said gruffly. “She has run away. I was led to believe she might be here.”
“Not that I know of—and she can’t be here without my hearing of it at once.”
“You’ll know what to do if, perchance, she turns up in Dubair?”
“Of course.”
“My honor is in your hands, Sir.” Misri Khan was respectful for the first time since the interview began. “I’ll be grateful if you will inform me at once if you have any news of her. She’s my son’s wife. My duty will be done once she is found. After that he can handle his own responsibility.”
“Rest assured. I understand these matters,” Mushtaq promised. “Now I will arrange for transport to convey you back to Pattan.” Mushtaq tapped the call-bell on his table.
He made a mental note to instruct whoever was on duty at the bridge to keep a lookout and bring the girl to him as quickly and as quietly as possible. If she made it across the river, he could easily slip her off to Lahore without anyone being the wiser.
On his way out Misri Khan stopped to observe the Angraze woman sitting on the verandah with another man. When she looked at him he lowered his eyes. So this was the Major’s woman! The one his son had talked about. Turning to walk away, the old man grinned until the gaps at the back of his mouth showed. Ah, but the Major was a good man . . . he deserved the woman—such a woman with hair that recalled ripe, sun-touched maize and eyes the color of pale green Kabuli grapes.
Late that evening, back in Pattan, Sakhi saw his father tramp through the dust and step on to the bridge. He leapt from the ledge and rushed to meet him.
Misri Khan looked up wearily at the figure blocking his path. Recognizing Sakhi, he took a quick step forward and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s all right. She’s still with us, son. She hasn’t crossed the river.”
“But she still lives!”
“Maybe . . . how can one tell?” The old man’s heart ached at his son’s misery. “You need sleep,” he said gently. “Go. I’ll keep watch.”
“No, this requires young eyes.”
“Right now you are older than I am. Go on, you’ll need your strength tomorrow.”
Sakhi glared at the old man. Then, lowering his eyes, he turned down the track towards his village.
Chapter 25
It looked like a rock: a solitary stone rising from the frozen ground—and then it moved! In the gray light of dawn, its outlines inflated perceptibly, there was a slight stir and, as if breathing out, the stone resumed its former shape.
At a distance of twenty yards, Zaitoon, touching the cliff behind her, cringed back in fear. Her nerves were raw. The slightest movement, the softest sound, the rattle of a loosened pebble, squeezed the breat
h from her lungs.
The stone had moved! Zaitoon stood still, praying for light. Rooted to the brown wasteland, the moving stone stuck out like a milepost, like the black slabs dug along roadsides, but without the white numbering.
The air grew brighter and again the rock stirred. A thin bare neck rose awkwardly from massive shoulders and the creature opened a wing.
It was a vulture. It roosted clumsily like one half of a bird. A disheveled span of wing flopped quivering to one side. A breeze fluffed it and a few of its feathers, exhibiting their coarse quills, stood up in an ugly display.
The girl rubbed her arms to smooth the goose pimples that had erupted all over her. A fetid whiff set her teeth on edge. This was the vilest, the most obscene thing she had ever looked upon. In its drowsy, slovenly state, the bird appeared to be diseased, its matted wing abominably maimed. The sight filled her with revulsion; it condensed in her a horror of all things ugly and filthy and predatory. Hating the bird, she sensed in a flash her own repulsive condition. She had scarcely eaten for days and had finally run out of her carefully portioned supply of bread the day before. A part of her perceived with painful clarity the vulturine length of her scrawny neck, her gaunt protruding shoulders, and the ragged blanket shrouding her hunched body as the feathers shrouded the bird’s. The grotesque image filled her with self-loathing, and venting her hopeless fury, she screeched, “Get up. Get up. You filthy, polluted devil!”
The bird craned its denuded neck, its red eyes fixed on the girl. Zaitoon picked up a stone and threw it at the soft, oozing thing. The vulture scrambled awkwardly to its feet. Its brutish eight-foot wingspan awry, it staggered towards her demonically like a monster.
“You want to eat me? You want to eat me?” cried Zaitoon. “I’m alive . . . look, I’m alive!”
With dust swirling under its enormous wings the vulture rushed headlong towards her and in a thundering flurry was airborne over the cliff.
Hands spread-eagled, holding aloft the wings of her blanket, Zaitoon looked like a bird about to fly yet permanently grounded. Having swooped down, the vulture banked past the cliff. Soon she saw the sleek silhouette of wings spiraling in the white sky and slowly she crumpled to the earth.
Hills and more hills. Countless swollen mounds of tan earth studded with rock. Boulders as big as houses upended at improbable angles on weird slopes. Sheer sides coated with granite. Smaller stones gathered in hollows like water in pools. Arid and bleak.
Zaitoon saw a gigantic, sawn-off tree trunk. Only a few paces from it she realized it was a circular rock, the hue and grain of wood. Nature conspired to deceive her. She felt light-headed with fever and, moving, she submerged her tormented protests beneath a spate of dreams, drifting in a congenial mist of companions and conversation. Often, skipping ahead of her oppressed body, she chided it as if it were someone else. “Oh, stop moaning,” she told her stumbling legs in exasperation. “Come on. Move.” And when she came upon a shallow streamlet she scolded her stomach. “Don’t growl. Every time you feel thirsty, Allah provides!”
She would rest an arm jauntily on one hip, then thrust it forward in an expressive sweep, and her mouth moved ceaselessly, now smiling and coy, now angry and reproachful. In a recurring daydream she kept coming unexpectedly upon Sakhi . . .
She spies him high on the crest of a ridge ahead of her. Climbing a rock, she moves into the range of his vision. His face glows with incredulous joy. Staggering across the ridge he runs and holds her close. “Oh, my God, I was afraid something had happened to you . . . You don’t know how scared I was.” Lifting her weightless body in his golden arms, he carries her to his village. “Were you lost?” he asks.
“No,” she says with forgivable reproach, “I ran away.”
“Oh! Then I must kill you. You know I must.” Tears streaming down his face, he fumbles with the knife blade.
“No. No!” Zaitoon’s cry echoes amid the boulders and her hands fly protectively to her throat.
Late in the afternoon, Zaitoon arrived at a stretch of flat ground, still walled by the mountains but ending in a straight fall. She went along the precipice, her eyes seeking a path to take her down and on to the next hill.
Guiding her descent were giant terraced layers of several ridges, and while she debated her route, a man appeared from between the rocks and stood on a ledge far below her.
Careful not to dislodge the pebbles, Zaitoon crawled to the edge of the overhang, and terror paralyzed her. On a narrow outcrop between her and the man crouched a snow leopard, its small sleek head and lightly spotted body aimed straight at the hunter. The man started climbing and the animal, coiled to spring, slithered backwards and glanced up. Zaitoon felt an electric panic from the animal transfer to her. She was sure the leopard, in one easy leap, could reach her level. Her arm groped blindly and finding a stone, she held it ready. She wanted to scream, but lay immobile and mute on her stomach.
Securing the gun strap and gripping the stony rock-face, the man scrambled over the cutting brim. He was face to face with the leopard which was backed against the cliff. Inching his hand to his shoulder, he slowly lowered the gun. Before he could fire, the cat, in a sudden flash, streaked through the blue air with the vividness of lightning.
The mountain silence exploded in a discordant series of inhuman howls and echoes. Stones and dust flew into the air, and when the leopard lifted its gory head Zaitoon clamped her mouth shut with her hand. But she could not control the puling moans that gurgled to her throat.
A shot ripped the air. There was an insane roar. Sliding forward, Zaitoon once again peered down and saw that the cat had been wounded. Curling in on itself it mewed and growled, snapping viciously. Another bullet sent it leaping into the air before it fell and lay clawing the cliff. It kept tearing earth and rock, and then it lay still.
A tribal, whom Zaitoon only now noticed, stood up. Moving cautiously, he threw a stone at the cat. Then he approached the mangled body of his companion whom the leopard had killed. Turning the body over, he looked at the face. From the rim of his ledge, cupping his hands to the mouth he shouted a message. There was an answering call from someone Zaitoon could not see. The man sat down to wait by the body.
A short while later a distant clamor rose. The wailing and screeching grew closer, and the mourning party arrived—men rushing ahead, women and children scampering in their wake.
Two younger men climbed to the ledge. Wrapping the body of the mangled hunter in a blanket, they carried it to the family. The wailing increased. A sturdy middle-aged man with a broad, clean-shaven face broke away and, keening fiercely, climbed to the ledge. He fell to cursing the dead leopard, whacking its thick fur with immense blows. Then he crouched and with bloody fingers gouged out its eyes. He spat on the leopard’s face and pounded the gory mess with a stone. He castrated the animal. The men who had followed him stood by respectfully. Finally, separating him from the carcass and supporting him between them, they led him down.
A fly, abnormally bloated, circled her, and Zaitoon rolled away from the stale puddle of greenish bile she had cast up. The mountains now were silent. The bereaved had left with the remains of their clansman, taking the carcass of the leopard as well.
Gathering the blanket to her, Zaitoon found a way down to the path the mourners had taken. Her terror of wild beasts drove her to seek the even more fearful nearness of man. Picking the easiest descent, she came round a hill and had her first glimpse of vegetation. An isolated fence of tall pine edged the spine of a hill opposite, the slope of which bristled with thorny scrub and scraggy olive trees.
She moved closer, and the trees took on definition. The sun shot twilight darts, and the young pines, holding their arms poised like dancers, turned the trapped air golden. Zaitoon stepped among the cool, scented trees. The ground beneath her bruised feet was springy with pine needles mellowed by dew and soft as feathers. A little breeze moved, mingling the scent of grass and pine. The spicy, bittersweet scent brought the sensual bite of pepper-hot pa
koras to her palate. Spasmodically the air was charged with a delectable warmth sifting through the cold. It felt like the air in the bazaar streets of Anarkali on a cool evening, when the aromatic heat from pakora frying pans, from open braziers barbecuing kebabs, alternated with the chill from cavernous hardware and metal shops. She realized with an elated start that she must have moved a long way downstream. In this enchanted world of golden shade and caressing scents, her privation and fear of the past eight days appeared bearable; yet on this same day she had met with the vulture and the leopard.
Zaitoon heard a distant bellow, and glimpsed a faraway settlement in a wide, green, cattle-dotted valley, divided by a faintly etched stream. The hollow horizontal logs channeling the water for cultivation resembled the irrigation system of Sakhi’s village. The hill across rose in fresh green terraces, and into the slope small rooms had been dug, of stone and mud and wood.
Slowly she moved through the darkening trees, touching them. She chewed pine needles and bits of stalk and grass that pushed through the carpet of needles. Her body responded gratefully to the caress of nature and she lay down in the softness, feeling the decayed vegetation cool her burning skin.
At night sounds of lament kept reaching up into the stillness, and she felt she knew the inhabitants of that village.
Zaitoon awoke before dawn. The settlement below, except for the faint rustle of the stream gurgling through it, slept quietly. The wind had died but a dull roar persisted in her ears. Zaitoon shook her head. She was damp with sweat, and though her fever had subsided, she blamed it for the humming in her head. Or was it caused by hunger? She plugged her ears. When she removed her fingers, the muffled roar was still there.
She sat up blinking in the dark. Holding her breath she listened intently. Again she plugged her ears, and the hum returned when she removed her hands. Turning her head she tried to follow the sound. Through a gray film tinting the air, touching the dew-drenched tree trunks, she groped her way, but it was as yet too dark. She sat a while waiting for dawn.
