The End of Innocence

by Moni Mohsin

  Rani gasped. Was he mad?

  ‘So you haven ’t, ’ he mocked.

  ‘Of course not. She’d … she’d lock me up. Do your, er, people know?’

  ‘I’m a man.’ His lip curled. ‘I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission. I’m seventeen. I make my own decisions.’ There was a moment’s silence. And then he asked: ‘If you’re so scared of your grandmother, why did you come?’

  Put on the spot, Rani blushed. ‘I don’t know.’ But she was lying. She did know. She was curious to meet the enigmatic stranger at the gate. He intrigued her with his silent scrutiny, his expensive clothes. Why did he come, day after day? Why did he single her out with that steady stare, the stare that made her feel hot all over one second and gave her goose bumps the next? Did he like her? Did he think she was pretty? A little like Heer, perhaps?

  For the past few days – in fact, ever since she had been to see the film – Rani had been restless. The cinema had brought home to her all that she was missing. She had never been beyond Colewallah. The things that Laila and Sara spoke of – airports, swimming pools, circuses with Chinese acrobats – were as remote to her as the moon. And likely to remain so. A bleak future awaited her. She knew no young men she could marry. No one would come looking for her. Even her own mother had abandoned her. Guarded by her grandmother, she would die in the long shadow of Sardar Begum’s haveli. She would never see Lahore. Never ride in a train or wear high heels or own a suitcase. Never be loved, like Heer.

  That was why Rani had seized her chance. She hadn’t known what this meeting would lead to, but if she had declined to meet him, she might never have another opportunity. Rani knew the risks. If her grandmother found out, her freedom would be slashed altogether. Her visits to Sabzbagh would be stopped. She would be removed from school. Locked up, flogged, even. But still she wanted to lift the curtain and glimpse the forbidden.

  ‘I wanted to know, to see for myself,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What I would be like?’ He smirked at her. ‘And do you like what you see?’

  Blushing, Rani looked away.

  ‘It’s good you are shy. Brazen women who look you in the eye are bad, shameless,’ he observed approvingly.

  ‘Is that … is that why you wanted to meet me? Because I am shy?’

  ‘That and other things also,’ he grinned. ‘I liked the way you looked. Your hair, your eyes. That’s why I came to your school for so many days. To see you. Just to see you.’

  ‘Just to see me?’ breathed Rani.

  ‘You don’t know, but I followed you almost all the way home that first day. I kept back and hid behind trees and bushes so the other two girls who were also coming that way wouldn’t spot me. That’s how I knew you were from Kalanpur. Myself, I’m from Sawan. That’s the village across the canal close to Bridgebad, where that fat white woman lives. We are landowners. One field of rice and another of vegetables. We also have three cows and eight goats. My mother tends them. She also does embroidery and from the money she gets, she makes these special clothes for me. She says I look like a prince. You think so too? She gives me money to spend behind my father’s back. My father is strict. He works in the milk plant near Sabzbagh. Your Sardar Begum’s son lives there. Did you know?’ Without waiting for her response, he continued: ‘My elder brother’s a soldier. This wide, and strong as a bull. I bet the Indians run like squawking chickens when they see him.

  ‘I also want to join the army and go kill those bastard Bengalis, but my father says I’m too young and he can only spare one son at a time.’ He kicked a stone, and for a minute he looked like a sulky child. ‘But I can fight with my bare hands if need be.’ He held up his slender, hairless hands, and Rani was glad that his father had intervened.

  ‘So are you at school?’ asked Rani.

  ‘School?’ he scoffed. ‘School’s for kids. I work. My father wants me to be an electrician. He says there’s good money in that. He pays a man in Colewallah to teach me. But I hate it. Fiddling around with wires all day. That’s no life for a man. A man should be out and about being strong and manly, not hunched over a table like a woman doing embroidery.’

  ‘What do you do then?’

  ‘My father gives me my bus fare every morning. With that and the little bit extra my mother gives me on the side I go to Bridgebad, Sabzbagh, Champa, even Colewallah, when I feel like it. I roam the bazaars, sit at tea stalls. Sometimes I just wander wherever the road takes me. That’s how I came by your school.’

  ‘And that electrician man doesn’t tell your father?’

  ‘He’s not a man. I told you, he’s a woman. Walks like one and talks like one. As long as he gets his money, he keeps quiet, the little sissy.’ He spat on the ground in disgust.

  Rani gazed at him admiringly. She didn’t have the guts to play truant from school.

  ‘Why didn’t your father send your brother to the electrician instead of you?’

  ‘Because my brother is a blockhead, only good for heavy work,’ he sneered. ‘It’s just as well, though, that he’s away, otherwise, he would have followed me and told on me. And then my father would have thrashed me. Can’t stand anyone having fun, my father,’ he grimaced. ‘But worse than any thrashing, I wouldn’t have met you.’ He smiled and half lifted his hand to her face.

  Rani watched, mesmerized, as his hand neared her cheek. She should turn away like a decent woman undoubtedly would. But at the same time, she yearned for him to stroke her face. She could not remember the last time an adult had shown her affection. When his hand dropped to his side, she almost cried out in disappointment. Had she displeased him? Was she supposed to have stepped closer to show her willingness? But hadn’t he said bold women were not nice?

  She wished she knew how to behave. In the film it had been so easy. Heer and Ranjha had looked into each other’s eyes, music had struck up in the background and they had fallen into an embrace. Rani studied him covertly. She saw the quiff, the grey drip-dry shalwar kameez with its big, fashionable collar, the chunky watch on his slender wrist, the shiny leather sandals, and she was smitten. That such a sophisticated, affluent man should single her out in the entire school was beyond anything she could imagine for herself.

  ‘What is your name?’ There was an intent look on his face.

  ‘Rani,’ she whispered.

  A cow lowed in the distance. The animals were being driven home for the evening. The sky was orange, and flights of mynahs, crows and parrots were returning home to roost.

  ‘I m-must go,’ she stammered. The afternoon had slipped by unnoticed. What if someone saw her? What if they told her grandmother? She had never lied to her before. She looked despairingly at the cane fields behind which lay her village. It seemed so remote in the fading light.

  He came up close behind her.

  ‘Stay a while,’ he murmured. His breath was warm on the back of her neck. Rani shut her eyes and savoured the feathery caress of his voice. Every inch of her skin was aware of his presence. She had never felt more alive.

  ‘Look what I’ve brought you.’

  Rani opened her eyes. He was holding out glass bangles. A deep cyclamen pink, they were flecked with gold. Even in that dim light, they glowed translucently.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ breathed Rani.

  ‘Here, give me your hand. Let me put them on for you.’

  It was not within her at that moment to refuse him. He grasped her trembling hand and eased the fragile glass bangles over her wrist and on to her forearm. Her pulse throbbed visibly in her upturned wrist. Long after he’d slid the last of the dozen bangles home, he continued to hold her. With their heads bowed towards each other, they gazed at his fingers encircling her narrow wrist. The silence stretched between them like a thin, taut membrane.

  4

  Laila threw open the drawing-room door. Her parents were sitting by Tariq’s Philips radio. The silver radio was the size of an overnight case, with a tuning dial as large as an Olympic medal. She could tell from Tariq and Fareeda’s
posture that they were listening to the BBC’s World Service. Again. They leaned towards the radio, foreheads knitted in identical frowns, heads held at an angle like intelligent birds.

  ‘I wanted to ask if I …?’

  ‘Shush.’ Tariq put a finger to his lips.

  Fareeda didn’t even look up. Of late, her parents had become obsessed with the news. Often, she caught them speaking to each other in hushed voices, with the same frowns and tight faces with which they listened to the radio. More than once, Laila had heard the word ‘war’, but they brushed aside her queries with false smiles and a swift change of subject.

  But the servants spoke of the trouble in East Pakistan freely in her presence. In the kitchen the talk would often turn to Shareef, the driver’s son, who was in the army and whose regiment had been sent four months ago to East Pakistan to quell the rebellion there. Barkat, the driver, was worried. He’d asked Bua to pray in her church for Shareef’s safe return.

  ‘It’s not fair.’ Laila stamped her foot. ‘No one speaks to me!’

  Slamming the door, she stomped out of the house. She wished she could visit Kalanpur and see Rani. Sardar Begum had taken off for Sargodha on one of her quarterly visits to her daughter. She had taken Kaneez with her, but Rani was still in Kalanpur. Laila knew, however, that it would be pointless to ask permission to visit Rani, for there was no question of going to Kalanpur in her grandmother’s absence. And she didn’t want to play with any of the servants’ children closer to home. Compared to Rani, they were all boring and babyish.

  Reaching into her pocket, Laila extracted a letter Sara had sent for her two days ago, when Fareeda had returned from a trip to Lahore. She had read it three times already, and its contents had driven home to her the necessity of establishing beyond any doubt Rani’s undivided allegiance before Sara’s arrival. She read the letter once again.

  Dear Laila,

  How are you? I am fine. Yesterday I went to Uzma’s birthday party. There was a cake like a big heart. Inside it was choclate. Lots of girls had come. I won the prize in the treasure hunt. The prize was hidden in a watering can in the garden. Lots of girls passed by it but no one found it except me. My prize was a ping-pong set with two bats and three balls. The balls look like small round eggs and are very light. I have learnt to play it and got very good at it everyone says so. I will bring it with me when I come to Sabzbagh. Then Rani and I can play and you can watch. If you meet Rani please give her love from my side and tell her that I miss her too and I have lots of secret jokes to tell her when we meet. Two days ago Nani took me to Bookworm. She bought me a grown-up book called Little Women by Louisa May Allcott. I have read sixteen pages and will tell you the story when I see you. It is very nice. Nani wanted to get you a present also. So I chose Naughtiest Girl in School for you. I am sending it for you with Ammi. It is by Enid Blyton. Your favourite. I hope you like it.

  Your loving sister,

  Sara.

  PS: I miss you.

  PPS: Please give my love to Bua. And Dadi.

  Laila was sitting on the swing in the garden when Tariq came looking for her.

  ‘Sorry for snapping at you, darling, but I was listening to something important on the radio.’

  ‘You’re always listening to something important these days,’ mumbled Laila.

  ‘How would you like to go on a picnic?’

  ‘A picnic? Where?’ Laila jumped up from the swing.

  ‘Near Kalanpur. We could ask your Dadi and Rani to join us if you like.’

  ‘Is Dadi back?’ enquired Laila.

  ‘She got back the day before yesterday.’

  ‘When can we go?’ asked Laila, slipping her hand in her father’s.

  ‘Today. Now. I can also check on my saplings there. Yes, a picnic will be good. Let’s see what your mother thinks.’

  As Fareeda did nothing by halves, soon the entire household had been mobilized in the preparation of an elaborate picnic. Hampers were brought out of the storeroom, thermos flasks were filled with juice and tea, beakers were enfolded in newspaper, and plastic-handled cutlery was wrapped in cotton napkins and tied with string. In the kitchen, Rehmat, the cook, prepared cucumber and egg sandwiches, crumb-fried drumsticks and lamb cutlets. A basket of fruit was packed separately, and a tin was found for Rehmat’s carrot cake. Cushions, rugs, a canteen of iced water and a towel and soap dish were added to the mound of stuff to be packed into the car. Laila contributed her ball, binoculars and magnifying glass to the pile. When Fareeda asked teasingly why she was taking along the binoculars and magnifying glass, Laila looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘To solve a mystery, of course. The world is full of them, you know.’

  Tariq had already despatched Amanat, the gardener, on a bicycle to Kalanpur to request the presence of Sardar Begum and Rani by the tube well.

  Sardar Begum’s reply came as the Azeems were setting off in their white Zephyr. They encountered Amanat on the driveway. Barkat slowed the car down to a halt. Tariq wound down his window and mouthed, ‘Well?’

  Wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, Amanat dismounted from his bike. He frowned as he tried to recall the exact words of Sardar Begum’s crisp rejoinder to her son’s invitation.

  ‘Sahib, Big Begum Sahiba says – let me remember what she said, for she said I must repeat exactly – yes, she says that she does not appreciate such short notice for big journeys requiring early planning. She also said,’ and here he flushed and his voice dropped, ‘did you think she was sitting swatting flies that she could get up and come on a picnic just like that?’

  Tariq nodded and wound up the window. Smiling wryly at his anxious daughter, he remarked, ‘Don’t worry, they’re coming.’

  But when they reached their destination, there was no sign of Sardar Begum. So Laila and Tariq went for a walk. Barkat and Bua unloaded the boot while Fareeda chose the picnic spot with her customary diligence.

  ‘No, no, not there, Barkat,’ she wagged a finger at the driver. ‘Can’t you see that anthill? Here, under the shade of this peepul. Yes, just here. Bua, place the cushions in the shade. You know how Big Begum Sahiba dislikes the sun on her face. Don’t unpack the food just yet. It’ll go off in the sun.’

  Fareeda worried occasionally that her punctiliousness might be tiresome for others, but even if she had wanted to relax her standards, she couldn’t. Such was the power of her mother’s example that perfectionism was now a reflex with Fareeda. Fareeda’s mother, Mrs Yasmeen Khan, wife of Ambassador C. P. Khan, had run a model home. Ambassador Khan’s diplomatic postings took his family to a new country every three years, but so smooth was the household’s transition that it was like the flow of water. Mrs Khan’s household was a sparkling stream – clean, clear and energetic. It seemed effortless, but behind the lavish hospitality and impeccable service lay the discipline and organizational skills of a field marshal. Yasmeen Khan took her duties as the ambassador’s consort very seriously indeed. A soiled napkin, a single cobweb reflected badly not just on her husband but on her country. And when it was a country they had fought so hard to liberate, the slightest slip was intolerable.

  As a teenager, Fareeda had found her mother’s discipline irksome. But she had understood the necessity of vigilance when she had come to Sabzbagh. Here in the anarchic household of one of Tariq’s cousins, she had seen servants gossiping in grimy kitchens, children screaming obscenities, dripping taps, ripped curtains and greasy doorknobs. At the heart of this unloved home she had found the obese lady of the house reclining on grimy cushions while a bored-looking maid kneaded her yellow feet.

  Fareeda, with her prim, polite upbringing, had been appalled. She had concluded then that control was crucial, not only as a safeguard against her household’s decline into disorder, but her own corruption. She need not maintain the strangle-hold of her mother-in-law but, nonetheless, discipline – no, not even discipline, for that was far too harsh a word – vigilance was required in all things pertaining to her life i
n Sabzbagh. She would run a tight ship in her home. Bring up her children decently. And she would be productive, do things that fed her soul. She would not let herself go.

  She had succeeded, she reckoned. Her household was efficient. Her children had good manners. Her life, what with the house and her good works, was reassuringly full. She was busy, she was in control. Her achievement was all the sweeter for the fact that nobody had thought it possible. Her society friends in Lahore had been astounded at her decision to wed Tariq and live in Sabzbagh.

  ‘Sabzwhere?’ they had shrieked. ‘You won’t last a month. No shops, no cinemas, not even a decent bakery for fifty miles. And his family lives in the Stone Age. If, by some miracle, you do end up staying, you’ll become just like those women – fat, lazy and vacant.’

  Even her parents, who knew her better, had voiced concern.

  ‘You do know, darling, that Tariq’s background is very different,’ they had murmured. ‘His female cousins still do purdah and they haven’t been to college. You’ll be a fish out of water.’

  But what neither her family nor her friends knew was that Sabzbagh fulfilled Fareeda’s deep need for repose. An only child, Fareeda had led a pampered if peripatetic life. She had spent her life trailing her parents from one temporary home to another in a succession of glamorous cities – Cairo, Moscow, Rome, Istanbul. Her childhood had been defined by the din of airports, the smell of packing straw, different schools and alien tongues. In her mind, she was forever the new girl, frozen in the doorway of the classroom of yet another school, with the speculative gaze of twenty unknown children trained upon her.

  On the surface she seemed happy enough. She was sociable and charming. Among her small group of friends, she was even gregarious. But she nursed deep within her the longing to belong, to settle, to matter.

  And then, on a visit to Lahore, she had a chance encounter with Tariq. It changed everything for Fareeda. While he talked of Sabzbagh, Fareeda watched his face grow animated and enthusiasm creep into his measured tones. So vivid was his account that she heard the bells as cows were driven home in the evening amid a gauzy cloud of golden dust. She closed her eyes and imagined his mother’s haveli, in which generations of his family had lived and died. She let herself soak in the serene silence of the long, still evenings, punctured only by the whirr of cicadas and the velvety flap of a fruit bat’s wing. She wanted to be part of it.