The Pakistani Bride

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  She sees the blade flash, and in her terror she leans against Sakhi. The support of his hard body is almost tender. The steel is glacial on her throat . . .

  An icy perspiration drenched the rock Zaitoon was leaning on. She knew she had been standing here all along, pressed against the rock, but she also knew that what she had experienced was not a dream. Then what was it? A premonition? She was suddenly aware she had been given an unexpected insight. She was certain, that in these very moments she had lived through one version of her destiny and that somehow she had escaped it, though at a price. She would remain stamped with its horror. One did not cheat fate. If she had followed her natural inclination to run across the inviting stretch of sand to the bridge, her destiny would have taken the exact shape of what she had imagined. She was certain now that Sakhi was nearby, waiting to kill her.

  She fell back into the dark hollow between the stones, with only a scrap of starlit sky above her. She closed her eyes.

  Chapter 30

  It was a cold, overcast morning. Earlier a fierce wind had gathered low masses of clouds, and now it rammed in sudden gusts against the windows of the Mess. The badly fitted woodwork creaked and somewhere a door banged shut.

  Mushtaq asked the orderly to switch on the lights. At breakfast he was usually in a high good humor. Besides, the fiercer aspects of the elements exhilarated him. The rains would settle the dust and put a stop to the ‘flu and fever which was currently incapacitating his jawans.

  The orderly slid a scalding, butter-soaked paratha on to his side-plate. Breaking a chunk with his fingers, Mushtaq folded it round the curried brains and gulped the dripping morsel with satisfaction. In Carol’s presence he never ate with his fingers.

  He drained a glass of buttermilk, wiped his moustache and folded one end of the table napkin round his forefinger. He dexterously cleaned out some meat stuck between his molars. Carol and Farukh were sleeping late—perhaps on account of its being the last day of their stay. They were lucky the weather had held so long. In another ten days or so, when the weather cleared, Mushtaq’s family would visit.

  The incessant murmur of voices outside suddenly grew to a shrill pitched wrangle, and Mushtaq looked up.

  “It’s all right, Sir,” the orderly assured him. “We have the usual crowd at the door.”

  Mushtaq found it expedient to attend personally each morning to the requests or grouses brought by the tribals. Quickly fastening the brass buttons down his military overcoat, he stepped outside.

  The tribals pressed forward, and out of the corner of his eye, Mushtaq saw Misri Khan and Yunus. Scowling, they stood a little apart.

  Having settled a dispute concerning compensation to be paid to the brother of an injured man, Mushtaq sighed with satisfaction, and the tribals drifted away. At that very moment Misri Khan and Yunus swooped on the Major like birds of prey.

  “Yes?” Mushtaq raised an eyebrow.

  “They won’t allow us across the bridge. Suddenly they’ve decided we’re not to cross at all. The guard pointed his gun with the little sword at us—at me . . .” Misri Khan brushed tears of anger from his eyes. He blew his nose noisily into the hem of his shirt. “I, who am as old as his father! The pipsqueak dared insult me! Look . . .” he thrust his hennaed beard at Mushtaq, “my venerable years won’t abide this insult!”

  Mushtaq shrewdly guessed the reason for the impasse.

  The guards had been instructed not to allow loitering or too frequent passage to tribals. One never knew what they might do, especially if one of them got hold of a stick of dynamite. Any imagined injustice set them off. In Misri Khan’s case, the girl’s peril was known to the guards and they chose to be strict on her behalf.

  “I’m sorry you have been put to this trouble, Barey Mian. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it right away.”

  “You’ll not only see to it, you will come with us!” Imperiously, Misri Khan pulled at the Major’s arm.

  Mushtaq was piqued, but he was too used to peremptory tribal ways to be angry. The wind bit his face and the prospect of a brisk walk beneath the racing clouds exhilarated him. Eager also for a firsthand look, he strode out with the tribals.

  Near the bridge, Misri Khan and Yunus pulled ahead of him. They strutted forward, cockily trying to shame the guards with their vindictive, haughty glances.

  Sakhi, squatting patiently by the bridgehead, got up slowly. Nothing in his manner betrayed his nightlong vigil. He stood erect and strong. Only the red veins in the whites of his eyes told Mushtaq that he must have been staring into the dark all night.

  The sentries glowered balefully at the tribals. At the Major’s approach they drew themselves up straight. Their eyes stared obediently ahead.

  “Why didn’t you allow them to cross last night? Didn’t you get my orders?”

  The sentries continued to stand at attention, looking straight ahead. They knew they were not required to answer. Then Mushtaq turned to the tribals and signaled to them to pass.

  Misri Khan snickered aloud. He spat near the feet of one of the guards and, accompanied by his sons, stalked on to the bridge.

  Mushtaq followed casually, curious as to where they would go. Once they were across, swiftly, without a word, the men separated, and were swallowed by their different trails.

  Mushtaq ambled over the sandy beach to the rocks straight ahead. He sat down almost exactly where Zaitoon had descended the previous night. He looked at the sky. Flashes of lightning tore a distant mass of clouds followed by the faint, prolonged rumble of thunder. The awakening breeze swooshed and whined through many crevices.

  Mushtaq wondered if he had heard something else, and then his blood ran cold. He heard it again, a faint, croaking voice calling, “Major Sahib? Major Sahib?”

  He turned imperceptibly and his glance climbed the crazy stairway of boulders. At a small distance he caught a glimpse of thin black fingers moving against the granite and a fuzzy, bobbing mass of hair. Everything within him was alert.

  “Hush, lie low,” he hissed, grateful to the fury of the winds and the noise of the river.

  He turned to face the bridge, deliberately casual.

  The three tribals had vanished but they might be anywhere: as near as the next rock or the next bend.

  Mushtaq retraced his steps idly to the sand. Zaitoon’s location was fixed in his mind. He started on a circuitous route that would take him up to her. His climb appeared to have no special purpose.

  Once between the boulders, he scanned a projecting semicircle of rocks. He guessed from their shape that this inverted cradle hid the girl. He wondered that the men had not found her already. Perhaps the place of concealment was too obvious, too near the bridge for them to consider.

  A weirdly modulated cry froze his movements—and he waited for the answering ululation. Both voices came from afar. Their distance reassured him, but he knew he must hurry.

  Keeping his head low, he circled halfway round the granite wall and slid through a crack to the huddled, skeletal creature. For a moment he wondered if it was the same girl.

  She opened her mouth, and a croak broke from her dry throat. “Hush,” he said softly, “You’re safe. Don’t make a noise. I’ll take you to safety . . .”

  The girl, in an attempt to cover her nakedness, began to smooth and pull at her torn clothes. Mushtaq felt a surge of pity.

  Careful not to show his head above the rim of granite, he spread first the girl’s blanket on the ground, and then, removing his khaki greatcoat, spread that on the blanket.

  “You’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” he whispered. He pulled the girl down to the coat and helped her arms into the sleeves. He lifted her, huddled in a natal curl in the blanket. He could balance the bundle with one hand. Pear-like in shape, it weighed not much more than his five-year-old daughter. He bent down and gently shifted the bundle to his back.

  One of the soldiers saw Mushtaq with his burden emerge from the shadows of the rock. Bent against the strong wind he trotted towards him. “Let
me take that, Sir,” he offered.

  “No,” Mushtaq snapped, and the man fell in step alongside him. The Major caught his eye and whispered something that the wind dispersed. The jawan inclined his head deferentially, looking puzzled. When the Major repeated the words, he caught them distinctly: “I have the girl. Have the tribesmen returned?”

  The guard shook his head, “No, Sir.”

  “Good. Call those jawans.”

  The soldier signaled and three men loitering on the road started towards them at the double. Ashiq knew the Major was in the habit of collecting odd chunks of rock and wood and as he ran with the others he wondered what had caught his Commanding Officer’s fancy this time.

  They stood at attention a few yards down the bridge.

  “Make way, walk behind me,” the Major ordered. He inclined his head at the guard by his side and the man fell back with the others.

  “It’s the girl,” the guard whispered, indicating the bundle.

  Instinctively, Ashiq looked over his shoulder. His step faltered when he noticed Sakhi on the sand with his back to the bridge. “It’s the husband. You go ahead, I’ll stall him,” he said. He turned casually and walked up to Sakhi.

  “A-salaam-alaikum, friend; any news?”

  Sakhi shook his head. He raised his preoccupied scowl to the jawan’s beaming visage. Ashiq hastily looked off to the mountains. Sakhi followed his glance. He scanned the cliffs. They stood sharp and clear against the thunderous clouds. His eyes for a moment rested nervously on the group of men walking down the bridge.

  Quickly Ashiq asked, “What about the others?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your father and your brother . . . are they back? It will begin to pour.”

  “They’ll be here soon enough,” Sakhi’s tone was curt. He started walking, and Ashiq had to lengthen his stride to keep up with him.

  Maintaining a casual pace, the Major’s group was half way down the bridge. Ashiq noticed a jawan slip ahead of the formation.

  “What is the Major carrying?” Sakhi’s voice was uncertain and tight.

  “Allah knows! He has strange hobbies. He collects things: stones and chunks of wood . . .”

  “Stones? In a blanket? A homespun tribal blanket?”

  “What was that? I saw something move over there!” Ashiq grabbed Sakhi’s arm and pointed desperately at the dark hills behind them.

  Sakhi jerked his hand free savagely.

  “Don’t you dare touch me, you dog,” he snarled. Not even deigning to glance in the direction of Ashiq’s outstretched hand, his suspicious, dangerous eyes reverted to the bundle bumping on the Major’s back.

  Ten or twelve jawans were gathered at the bridgehead.

  Mushtaq stepped on to the road and not far behind him Sakhi called, “Major Sahib!”

  A split second later the girl made a movement, but having sensed it in advance, Mushtaq disguised it by turning abruptly to face Sakhi.

  “What have you got there . . . on your back?” Boorishly caricaturing Mushtaq, Sakhi humped his spine.

  “Old roots . . . and herbs.”

  An escaping strand of hair plastered Mushtaq’s sweating forehead. Otherwise his face was as expressionless as his tone. The soldiers, expecting trouble, crowded close. Sakhi made room for himself with a powerful thrust of his shoulders.

  “Where did you get that blanket?” he hissed.

  Partly improvising on the spur of the moment, partly following a trend of thought that had already anticipated the confrontation, Mushtaq put his strategy to the test. He knew he was going to put Sakhi under immense pressure. The outcome would depend on the youth’s pride, on his intelligence and his reserves of self-control.

  “Is it yours? I found it by the girl’s body. She’s in bad shape; you’d better bury her. I needed something to hold the roots, so I took the blanket. I will return it. I’m sorry to bring you this sad news.”

  Blood drained from Sakhi’s face, and then collected in two spots of color that blazed on his cheeks. Mushtaq felt his awesome menace.

  “Here, leave this at the Mess. Take a jeep, and be quick about it. Bring the blanket back.”

  Ashiq stooped, touching his shoulder to the Major. He carefully transferred the bundle, marveling at its lightness.

  “No!” spluttered Sakhi. He lunged wildly but a wall of khaki uniforms blocked him.

  Sakhi’s eyes narrowed to luminous blue threads and in one swift action, his hand touched the sharp steel beneath his waistcoat.

  Clenching his right fist, Mushtaq hit him. Sakhi doubled over in pain.

  Slowly he raised his head, staring with murderous intent at the Major. His eyes shifted to the blanket receding through the gaps in the uniforms.

  The Major, his voice an angry roar, shouted at his men. “Get away, you shameless bastards. The youth has news of his wife’s death and you stand around gaping!”

  They understood him perfectly and withdrew to a convenient distance.

  Sakhi straightened up, his face twisted by hate. Mushtaq sensed his terrible anguish; the burden was too large for the man.

  “Listen,” he said. Bending the full force of his will over Sakhi, he said, “Your wife is dead. Understand me? You have no option. You have to take my word for it. She is dead.” Seeing the flash of terror in Sakhi’s face he said, “The jawans know she is dead. I swear no one will say otherwise . . . If they make a liar of me they will be blasted like those rocks. I give you my word. Your honor will not be sullied. This is no man’s business but yours.”

  Sakhi’s lips were drawn back from his teeth. His breath came shallow and quick. As understanding dawned, he turned ashen, trembling with the strain of the furious battle within him. A question formed in his eyes.

  “Straight up there,” Mushtaq glanced briefly across the bridge, “there is a kind of well in the rocks . . . right over there.”

  Sakhi rushed off. Leaping up the boulders he looked into the stone-strewn bowl. Immediately he knew a great many things. His quick, hunter’s eyes saw where the girl had leaned, and where she had fallen and bled. He knew the route she had come by, how emaciated she had become and where the blanket was spread.

  Sakhi slid into the hollow and, kicking over a stone, picked up a piece of cloth. It held the faded print of mauve flowers. His fingers brushed the surface and he stood up with a fluffy knot of threads shed from the blanket.

  Burying his head in his arms, crumpling to the stones, he wept. For the first time he faced a humiliation he could not avenge: a sorrow he dared not share.

  While Sakhi was in the rocky hideout, Misri Khan and Yunus emerged from their trails and crossed the bridge. They at once guessed from the expressions on the soldiers’ faces that something had happened. A moment later they saw Sakhi coming towards them.

  Stern with inquiry, Misri Khan and Yunus watched him. He walked past and silently they fell in step. When they were out of earshot of the jawans the men on either side of Sakhi stopped and Misri Khan touched his shoulder.

  Sakhi stood still for only the time it took him to say “She is dead,” and he walked ahead. But Yunus Khan blocked his path. “How?” he demanded. “Where’s the body?”

  Ignoring him, Sakhi swung furiously to face his father.

  “She is dead. It is enough that I say so! I’ve buried her.” His voice was husky and deliberate and he trembled with uncontrollable wrath. He opened his fist and they looked at the cloth with faded mauve flowers and at the fluff of threads quivering in his palm. And then turning upon Yunus he snarled, “Ask your filthy questions of the Major. He found the body.”

  Misri Khan’s face broke into a slow grin. The Major had witnessed the body. His son’s claim was corroborated. The girl was dead! Misri Khan’s massive shoulders straightened. He thrust his chest forward and his head rose high. It was as if a breeze had cleared the poisonous air suffocating them and had wafted an intolerable burden from their shoulders. He was a trifle bewildered by his son’s misery and reticence but then he thought,
“I have forgotten what it is to grieve; I am too old.” He laid a hand on Sakhi’s shoulder.

  The Major, watching from afar, noticed Misri Khan’s back straighten. He saw the triumphant swagger in Yunus Khan’s gait and Sakhi’s relaxed lope as they resumed their journey. Wiping his brow, he smiled. His promise to the youth would hold.

  Ashiq Hussain walked up with the tattered blanket. “You took a long time getting back,” said Mushtaq.

  “I think the girl’s gone mad, Sir.”

  “What girl?” Mushtaq asked stonily. “I thought I instructed you to deposit the roots at the Mess.”

  Ashiq was baffled for only a moment. “Yes, Sir!” he saluted and held out the blanket.

  “There is no use for it any more. Burn it.”

  Mushtaq recalled the girl’s thin fingers pulling torn strips of cloth over her bare skin. She would be all right, he mused. In a few hours he would quietly stow her away in the vehicle taking Farukh and Carol to Lahore. Let Carol take care of her! She could hide her in the States! Or perhaps Ashiq could propose marriage after a decent interval—she would be as securely hidden in his village. Of course, the old Kohistani who had brought her here must never know she was alive . . . a pity . . . he had appeared to love her. Still, he was to blame for imposing his will on something that was bound to end in disaster . . .

  “Isn’t a jeep going to Pattan this afternoon?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I think it could leave earlier. Say, in about fifteen minutes? Those tribesmen are weary, they could do with a ride.” He indicated the three tribesmen far up the road, and as he spoke they followed the road round a bend in the hill and disappeared.

  Bapsi Sidhwa is the internationally acclaimed, award-winning author of several novels: An American Brat, Cracking India, Water and The Crow Eaters. She is also the editor of the anthology City of Sin and Splendour: Writings on Lahore. Her work has been published in ten countries and has been translated into several languages. Among her many honors, Sidhwa has received the Bunting Fellowship at Radcliffe/ Harvard, the Lila Wallace Reader’s Digest Writer’s Award, the Sitara-i-Imtiaz, Pakistan’s highest national honor in the arts, and the LiBeraturpreis in Germany. She has also been inducted into the Zoroastrian Hall of Fame. Cracking India, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, was made into the film Earth by internationally acclaimed director Deepa Mehta. It was also listed as one of the best books in English published since 1950 by the Modern Library. Born in Karachi, Pakistan, and brought up in Lahore, Pakistan, Sidhwa now lives in Houston, Texas.