by Moni Mohsin
There was little that Laila would not do for Rani. For Laila, Rani had no equal. Rani alone had the unique ability to make the everyday wondrous and the dull delightful. Unlike Laila, she was not good at her studies. She was in school at Laila’s father, Tariq’s, insistence, and each year she barely managed to pass into the next class. But Rani was clever in ways that Laila envied. She knew how to mend a parrot’s broken wing and get a wild squirrel to eat off her hand. Rani could cut carrots to look like flowers. She could do cartwheels, climb to the top of the tallest tree and weave stories of flying horses, talking snakes and princesses who led armies and fought like tigresses. And there was her talent for mimicry. She could imitate Bua’s waddle, Kaneez’s toothless mumble and Sardar Begum’s characteristic scowls and salty streams of abuse till Laila and Sara were convulsed with laughter.
Rani could, however, be whimsical. Whereas Laila would opt for Rani’s company over almost anyone else’s every time, Rani was less constant in her affiliation when it came to choosing between the two sisters. When they planned great adventures and the twelve-year-old Sara wanted Laila left out of the game (‘Oh, she’s useless, she can’t even remember the rules’), Rani stood up for her. But there were times when Sara and Rani would go off arm in arm to whisper about ‘grown-up things’, and when Laila tried to follow they would giggle and run away. When that happened, Laila felt the misery of exclusion as a physical pain, like shards of glass wedged in her throat.
Now, with Sara at school, Laila had unrivalled access to Rani. In fact, so constant had been Rani’s attention that Laila had begun to hope, albeit tentatively, that Rani regarded her as a friend now and not an acolyte, whom she could indulge or ignore. But Laila knew that her time alone with Rani was limited. Soon the winter holidays would start and Sara would be back in Sabzbagh, demanding and claiming everyone’s attention. But if Laila could pull off this visit to the cinema, it would cement her relationship with Rani and place it, once and for all, beyond Sara’s reach.
‘We’ll go,’ Laila said. ‘I’ll make Dadi take us.’
But convincing Sardar Begum was not easy. Having already declined the invitation, how could she now humble herself by retracting? She, Sardar Begum, who had never, ever eaten her words? The DC would think she was a senile fool. No, she couldn’t bear the thought. Yet how could she refuse her granddaughter, so thin, so wan, so keen?
Her dilemma was resolved by the DC himself, who sent another letter apologizing for any misunderstanding. It had never been his intention to invite a personage as august as Sardar Begum to a public venue when thronged by the hoi polloi. Had he not mentioned that the Rubina Cinema would be closed for that particular show to all except a few hand-picked ladies from the military cantonment and, much more importantly, Sardar Begum and her companions? As for the film itself, while fully appreciating Sardar Begum’s concerns – one could not be too careful in these louche times – he could recommend it unreservedly. Otherwise, he would never have suggested it to the widow of a man he still held in the highest esteem and the greatest regard. He had taken his own good wife and two teenage daughters to see it and had not suffered a moment’s regret. Indeed, had the film not been so sad, he could have said that a most enjoyable time was had by all. It would therefore afford him deep gratification if Sardar Begum would graciously reconsider her decision.
Sardar Begum smirked when she received the DC’s letter. So great was her triumph that she had herself driven the five miles to her son’s home in Sabzbagh.
Unlike many of the villages in the district, Sabzbagh had a prosperous, well-fed look about it. There were no stagnant pools of water, no piles of rubbish putrefying in the sun, no gaggles of half-naked, malnourished children loitering about. The houses looked sturdy, the small, well-stocked bazaar was busy and the pathways clean. Sardar Begum’s face darkened as the car passed the double-storeyed garment factory her son had built in the village. ‘Stupid,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘stupid nonsense. Waste of money.’ She glared at a woman entering its gate. Winding down her glass window, she bellowed: ‘Haven’t you got enough to do in your own home?’ Sardar Begum smiled contentedly as she noted the woman’s startled expression. But the smug smile quickly changed to a disapproving frown as the car sailed past a neat, fenced compound housing a church and school. ‘Heathens. Pig-eaters.’
The car swept past the village and up the tree-lined drive to Tariq’s bungalow. Built in the heyday of the Raj, the house was of weathered brick, draped with deep-pink bougainvillea. The doors and windows looked freshly painted, and the smooth lawn in front of the house was emerald green. The large garden was studded with stately trees – peepul, silk-cotton, laburnum, jacaranda – and boasted wide beds of roses, stocks, gladioli and irises. Unlike Sardar Begum’s austere home, where the curtains had not been changed for twenty-five years, Tariq’s house was full of soft rugs, pretty drapes and flowers in sparkling vases, courtesy of the elegant, spendthrift Fareeda. But as far as Sardar Begum was concerned, expenditure on comfort was a waste of money. Had Tariq listened to her and married a solid girl from a solid landowning family, he’d have cash under the mattress instead of shameless paintings of half-dressed women on the walls.
She found Tariq sitting in the garden immersed in the Pakistan Times. On a table at his elbow sat a silver tray with a bowl of nuts and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Sardar Begum noted with disapproval that the nuts were shelled, salted peanuts, twice as costly as peanuts roasted in their shells. She was about to make a disparaging comment when she saw the anxiety in his face.
‘Do the papers say if we’re going to war?’ she asked instead.
‘No, they don’t. Not yet, anyway,’ he replied, folding the papers.
Sardar Begum sighed. ‘After ’65 I thought there were going to be no more wars with India. But we’re going to fight again, aren’t we? Except this time, it won’t be over Kashmir. It will be over East Pakistan.’ Then, remembering why she was there, she fished out the DC’s letter from her handbag and thrust it at him.
‘See how much they still respect me?’ she taunted. ‘You may want to shut me up in my haveli, but people – and people who are running things, not just sitters-around – want me among them.’
‘Who says I want to cloister you?’ laughed Tariq. Unlike his compact, stout mother, Tariq was a tall man, with a lean build. In his late thirties, he had retained his trim physique through horse-riding and tennis. ‘I’d be delighted if you went to the cinema instead of sitting at home poring over your dreary ledgers.’
‘You speak as if I want to go for myself,’ she sniffed.
‘Don’t tell me you’re doing it for the DC?’
‘Of course not,’ growled Sardar Begum. ‘I’m doing it for my granddaughter. She’s the one who’s been badgering me.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was Laila’s type of thing. Heer Ranjha, eh? Since when has she been so interested in romantic folk-tales? But of course she can go.’
‘You’d better check with your wife first, lest she objects later. Where is she, by the way?’
‘She’s gone to Lahore for the day. To see Sara.’
If Fareeda disapproved of Sardar Begum’s choice of film, it was not conveyed to Sardar Begum. She was merely told that Laila would accompany her to the film and, should Bua’s services be required, she was available.
‘Yes, I suppose she’d better come along, heathen though she is,’ said Sardar Begum. ‘I’ll need someone to carry my tea thermos and handbag.’
The following afternoon, Sardar Begum awaited her granddaughter’s arrival in the haveli. She sat on her daybed, ramrod straight, her hands resting on her elderly leather handbag. Except for three parallel lines on her forehead, her pale skin was butter-smooth. From her ears dangled her customary gold hoops, which, over the years, had elongated her lobes into pendulous pink sacks. Her hair – the colour of carrot halwa, thanks to monthly applications of henna – snaked down her back in a thin plait. In her youth, Sardar Begum�
�s thick hair had been a lustrous black – ‘long enough to sit on’. But, in its natural state, it was now sugar-white. Sardar Begum felt that the colour aged her. Hence the henna.
Kaneez stood by Sardar Begum, holding her thermos flask. Years of arthritis had curved her spine into a sickle. Rani, nervy and fidgety, watched the door as an angler watches his line. They did not have long to wait. A few minutes later, Laila bounded into the courtyard, with Bua following close behind. But when Sardar Begum rose to leave, Laila dropped her bombshell.
‘I won’t go without Rani.’ She lifted her chin challengingly at her grandmother.
Sardar Begum was tempted to call Laila’s bluff. But she was looking forward to the film herself and didn’t want to ruin the mood by arguing. With a grimace, she flicked her fingers at Rani.
‘Koonj, didn’t you hear what Laila Bibi said? Hurry up and get ready. You’re coming with us.’
Rani raced out of the courtyard, slamming the heavy door behind her.
Kaneez recoiled as if she had been struck. ‘No, no,’ she quavered. ‘She can’t go to the cinema. She’s never been.’
‘So?’
‘The cinema is not a good place. She’ll be corrupted.’
‘She’ll be corrupted while in my care? Have you lost your mind?’ barked Sardar Begum.
Kaneez looked away, her toothless mouth slack.
‘All right, all right. If you’re that concerned, you shrivelled old misery, you’d better come along to guard her yourself,’ said Sardar Begum.
Moments later, Rani burst into the courtyard, flushed and breathless, a sunbeam in her cheap yellow cotton. Kaneez pulled her shawl over her head and muttered that she was ready.
The Lincoln bowled along under an azure sky towards Colewallah town. On either side of the road lay fields of sugar cane and groves of oranges and guavas. Tractors laden with harvested cane plied the road. The air smelt of petrol, dust and rotting fruit.
Colewallah was a small market town, twelve miles from Kalanpur. It was a new settlement, having sprung up only fifty years previously around a train station built by the British on the Lahore–Karachi railway line. It now boasted a hospital, a cattle market, a bustling bazaar, a college and, at a discreet distance of three miles, a small military cantonment. It had, however, little to offer its citizens by way of entertainment. Until a fortnight ago, that was, when Rubina Cinema had thrown open its portals with much fanfare to Colewallah’s grateful populace.
Laila was disappointed by her first glimpse of Rubina. An unimpressive concrete box, it had none of the ornamental flourishes of a Plaza or a Crown. Nor did it have a single hand-painted cutout of a film star, which adorned the façades of Lahori cinemas. Laila looked in vain for a billboard. All she saw was a modest Urdu sign proclaiming the cinema’s name. There were no food-vendors, no rows of parked cars in the forecourt, no ranks of bicycles, no queues of jostling, staring men by the two-rupee ticket booth, past which middle-class mothers had to hurry their daughters. Save for a mangy dog lying on its side, the forecourt was deserted. It didn’t look like a cinema at all.
The manager met them at the entrance. He was a rotund man with a handlebar moustache and was flanked by two flunkeys. Primed by the Deputy Commissioner, he was all bows and smiles. He addressed them in English, which he felt befitted the majesty of his guests.
‘Wel-you-come,’ he beamed, leading them up some stairs. ‘This way, please. Straight away to the top.’ He showed them into the main hall. It was vacant. ‘Where would you like to sit?’ he asked, switching to Urdu, now that he had exhausted his limited knowledge of English. ‘You can choose anywhere, you know.’ He waved at the empty rows.
‘I know.’ Sardar Begum stabbed him with a Look. She couldn’t bear people rising above themselves. ‘We’ll sit there.’
Single file, they made their way to her chosen row. Their footsteps echoed on the uncarpeted floor. One of the underlings darted in before them and gave a quick wipe to the first five seats with a duster. Sardar Begum signalled to Kaneez to go first. Kaneez gripped Rani’s hand and pulled her along behind her. Laila made to follow, but Sardar Begum restrained her.
‘No,’ she pronounced. ‘Bua will sit by Rani. We will sit in the row above the servants.’
But Laila wriggled free and, ignoring her grandmother’s flared nostrils, dived in after Rani. Ensconced beside her friend, Laila smiled winningly at Sardar Begum.
‘Please sit with me, Dadi.’ Laila patted the seat beside her.
Sardar Begum complied, albeit with a scowl. When Bua lowered herself gingerly into the seat next to hers, Sardar Begum’s mouth tightened, but she did not comment.
But Laila was too busy drinking in her surroundings to attend to her grandmother’s discomfiture. The hall was small – smaller than her auditorium at school. The lights were bare bulbs screwed into the walls. There were no frescoes, no plaster rosettes, no cornices. Not even curtains to cover the naked screen. And it smelt of just-dried limewash. With a scornful smile, she turned to Rani to express her disdain. But before she could do so, Rani said, ‘Isn’t this wonderful? Look at all those lights. It’s like a mela, a fairground.’
Laila stared at her in disbelief.
‘And see how high it is.’ Rani gazed up. ‘I’ve never seen a roof this high before.’
Laila reluctantly conceded that the ceiling was indeed high.
‘That white wall in front? What’s that?’
‘That’s the screen where the film will be shown,’ Laila replied.
‘Heer and Ranjha will dance in front of it?’
‘No. They’ll be inside.’
‘You mean, they will part it like a curtain and step inside?’
‘Not exactly.’ Laila did not understand the mysteries of projection in enough detail to attempt an explanation. ‘Just wait and see.’
Just then, they heard voices. The manager hurried to the door. Amid the sound of laughter and the tick-tick of high heels, four ladies dressed in flowered shalwar kameezes, sporting identical beehive hairdos and carrying bright handbags in the crooks of their arms entered the hall. Standing out like peacocks in a chicken coop, they looked around with bright-eyed curiosity. Their gaze alighted on Sardar Begum’s group. They nodded politely at Sardar Begum and allowed the patron to bow them to their seats.
Sardar Begum did not acknowledge the greeting. ‘Up-starters,’ she muttered. ‘Army wives, no doubt. Have we been kept waiting for them?’
‘Don’t they look lovely?’ Rani whispered to Laila. ‘Look at their hair. How do they get it to stand on top of their heads like that?’
The ladies’ teased hair reminded Laila of her least favourite schoolteacher’s hairstyle, which looked like a gleaming black helmet. Suddenly, the light bulbs were switched off with a loud chock, plunging the hall into darkness. Almost immediately, the credits began rolling across the screen. Laila settled back to watch.
She was familiar with the legend of Heer and Ranjha. Songs about the star-crossed lovers were played on the radio, and there was a long Punjabi poem about Heer, from which Sardar Begum would sometimes quote when in a mellow mood. But it had been only the evening before that Laila had heard the story in its entirety. Snug under her satin quilt, her head resting on a pillow stuffed with the silk cotton from her father’s tree, she had listened to Bua’s version of the ancient story.
‘Heer was the most beautiful girl in all of Punjab. She belonged to the clans of the Sials. Very wealthy they were, with lots of land and big herds of cattle. And very proud also. Ranjha was also from a good family. But he was a dreamer and spent all day playing the flute. Very handsome he was, with big, big eyes and pale skin. Good families were wanting him to marry their girls, but he was not bothered.’ Bua paused to inhale a pinch of snuff.
‘One day, his sister-in-law scoffed: “If you think you are so much better than anyone else, go marry Heer Sialan.”’ Bua snapped shut the tiny box and stuffed it into her bra. ‘Now, Ranjha was lazy, but he still had a man’s pride. He
said, “I’ll show you,” and set off dressed as a shepherd, carrying only his flute. Next day he reached an orchard. He was tired, so he lay down under a tree and fell asleep.
‘Now this orchard belonged to the Sials, and it wasn’t long before Ranjha was found there. Someone prodded him awake with their foot, and when he opened his eyes he found himself looking up at the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. It was Heer, who had come to her father’s orchard with her friends. Of course, he fell in love, there and then. As for Heer, as soon as Ranjha opened his eyes, she drowned in them. So big they were, with long, curling lashes, and the colour of almonds.’
‘Like Bambi’s?’
‘Whose?’ Bua frowned. ‘Anyway, from then on, they were inseparable. Heer would pretend she was going to see her friends, but she’d sneak out to be with the shepherd. But there was a problem. Heer was already engaged to another man, a fellow Sial. As her wedding drew near, Heer suddenly announced to her family that she did not want to marry him. Her parents were shocked. What had got into their nice, obedient girl?
‘One day, Heer’s wicked uncle, Kaidu – he was lame in one leg, just like Kaneez’s son-in-law, Mashooq – he decided to spy on Heer to find out what she was getting up to. He followed her to the orchard and saw her embracing a shepherd. Kaidu limped back as fast as he could and told Heer’s father. He was furious. Naturally. She had refused the man he had chosen for her and gone out and found someone for herself. She had flouted his authority. When Heer came home, all happy and giddy, he dragged her by her thick plait to her room and threw her in. “Next week you are getting married,” he shouted through the locked door. Heer howled and hurled herself against the door, but no one came.
‘Next day, Ranjha waited in the orchard, but when three days passed and still no Heer, he sought out her friends. “Heer?” they laughed. “Don’t you know she’s getting married next week? Her house is all lit up with candles, and every night there is singing and dancing.” Ranjha asked whom she was marrying. Her cousin, they said, the one she’d been engaged to for years. Heer had never mentioned her engagement. So Ranjha decided he’d leave the world.’
