by Moni Mohsin
‘Rani!’ she called, and pushing past Bua, she ran towards the girl. But Sister Clementine got to her first. She called over her shoulder at the congregation.
‘You, all! Stop staring and sing. Play, Sister. Play!’ With that, Sister Clementine dragged Rani out into the sun.
The nun’s fingers crashed into the keys, and the congregation burst into song. Bua called out to Laila. But Laila ignored her and slipped out of the church. She saw them at once. They were under the mango tree by the gate. Sister Clementine had Rani by her heaving shoulders and, though Laila couldn’t hear what was being said, she could see that the nun was speaking firmly. Rani was crying. Her hands fluttered like poplar leaves in a gale. Laila crept up behind.
‘You’ve got to help me,’ Rani sobbed. ‘No one else will help me.’
Sister Clementine changed tack. She spoke soothingly, as if calming a startled horse. ‘Child, I’ve told you, I can’t help you. It is against my religion. I will burn in hell for it. You must tell your mother. She …’
‘I can’t!’ Rani shrieked. ‘She’ll die. And I’ll be killed too.’
‘Shush!’ Sister Clementine shook her. ‘You want the whole world to hear of your shame? You tell your mother, she’ll get you married, and you will be fine. You’ll see.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Tears coursed down Rani’s face. ‘You just don’t understand.’
‘Rani?’ called Laila.
Rani’s head jerked up. Laila had never seen her like this. Her bloodshot eyes were swollen, and the glossy hair she normally parted in the middle and wore in a neat plait clung to her blotchy face in wisps. Her sweat-drenched shirt was plastered to her slender frame.
‘What are you doing here, Laila?’ Sister Clementine spun round. ‘Go inside at once. Where’s Bua?’
‘Here, Sister,’ Bua puffed as she reached the mango tree ‘Here only.’
‘Take the child in.’
‘No,’ Laila shouted. ‘I want to stay here. Rani, why are you crying? Has anyone hurt you?’
Rani shook her head, her eyes darting from side to side. ‘You didn’t see me here,’ she said in a hoarse voice, backing away from Laila. She turned and fled, banging the wooden gate behind her.
Laila wanted to run after her, but Bua had a firm grip on her arm.
‘What’s happened to Rani?’ demanded Laila.
Sister Clementine pursed her lips and exchanged a look with Bua.
‘Shush, Lailu,’ admonished Bua. ‘Small mouth, big talk. It’s rude for children to question grown-ups.’
6
Laila watched her mother apply make-up at her dressing table. She liked the sounds and smells of this ritual. There was a grown-up allure about the snap of her compact, the discreet cloudburst of hair spray, the whispering squirt of perfume. Dressed in her flannel pyjamas, Laila sat cross-legged on her parent’s bed. She rubbed her bare foot against the jade-green brocade of the bedspread. Laila liked this coverlet much more than the cream jacquard one Fareeda used in the summer. Whereas that was a blank sheet, this was a rich tapestry of stories.
It was woven in a repeated pattern of pagodas with smiley roofs. A river meandered by the pagoda and a bridge curved over it. A willow tree leaned its shaggy head toward the river and, in the foreground, two tiny figures clad in baggy pyjamas and mandarin jackets flew a kite. Laila had always thought the figures were girls and had once rashly confided in Sara that in her mind the smaller one was herself and the bigger one flying the kite was Sara. The pagoda behind them was their house, to which all grown-ups were barred entry.
‘Those are not girls, stupid, they are boys,’ Sara had snorted.
‘No, they’re not. They’re girls. They’ve got pigtails. See?’ Laila had jabbed a finger at the fine curving line of a plait just discernible on the bigger figure. ‘They’re girls.’
‘No, they’re not. In China, boys wore pigtails. Like Red Indians. You don’t even know that.’
‘I do,’ Laila had quavered.
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Scenting blood, Sara had chanted, ‘You’re a stupid little cry-baby. Cry-baby, cry-baby.’
‘I’m not a cry-baby,’ Laila had howled, furious with herself for her ignorance and her tears. Laila’s torture had continued for weeks, during which all Sara had to do was whisper ‘pigtail’ to reduce Laila to a writhing mass of embarrassment. It had been a cruel lesson, and Laila had resolved never again to confide her more fanciful thoughts to Sara.
Laila covered the pigtailed figures with her foot and said, ‘I saw Rani today.’
‘Rani?’ Fareeda’s chin was tilted towards her chest, her raised hands inserting a pin into her chignon. ‘Kaneez’s Rani?’
Laila nodded, her face blank. She did not want Fareeda to glimpse her inner agitation. Since sighting Rani at the church earlier that day, Laila’s insides had churned with guilt, fear and shame. When she had first seen Rani sobbing under the mango tree, she had been too confused to understand what was happening. Later, after Rani’s abrupt departure when had tried to question Sister Clementine and been rebuffed, Laila had begun to suspect that she was to blame.
During the service, her suspicion had grown and solidified into an awful conviction that she was the cause of Rani’s distress. Why else would Rani have ignored her, no, dismissed her, before fleeing? What had she said? ‘You didn’t see me here.’ She hadn’t said it to Bua or even Sister Clementine but to her, to Laila. That could only mean one thing. Rani didn’t want to be her friend any more. She had been too hurt by Laila’s jealous outburst at the picnic. But, even so, why had she come to the church? Surely not to report her to Sister Clementine? Rani knew she could get Laila into much greater trouble by telling Fareeda. So why come to the church? Perhaps Rani had come to the house too, but Fareeda wasn’t telling her.
Laila watched her mother carefully in the mirror, alert to the slightest hint of subterfuge.
‘Where did you see her?’ Three Fareedas lowered their arms and gazed at Laila from the triptych of the dressing-table mirror.
‘I saw her when I went out with Bua today,’ Laila mumbled, reluctant to mention the church.
‘Here in Sabzbagh? What was she doing so far from home?’ Fareeda turned her face this way and that to examine her round bun of hair in the mirror.
‘I don’t know. She looked … sad. She was crying.’
‘Did she tell you why?’
Laila shook her head.
‘What was she doing here?’ repeated Fareeda. ‘Was she alone? Where exactly did you bump into her?’
So Rani hadn’t come to the house. Had Fareeda wanted to keep Rani’s visit secret, she would have changed the subject. Or told Laila off smartly for sticking her nose into issues that did not concern her. To pretend ignorance like this was not her way.
Laila changed the subject. ‘Is Mrs Bullock going to have a big dinner party tonight?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. She’s inviting the new colonel who’s arrived at Colewallah Cantonment in place of Colonel Jamshed.’
Hester Bullock, one of a handful of the British who had elected to stay on after Independence, lived across the canal from the Azeems. Though divided by a twenty-year age gap and a profound difference in sensibility – Hester was an un-apologetic Raj relic, while Fareeda’s parents had struggled for national independence – an unlikely friendship had sprung up between the two women. Initially, Fareeda had been wary of the Englishwoman’s brusque manner and frequent rants against ‘these bumbling fools’, as she called all Pakistani politicians. But, despite herself, Fareeda had grown to appreciate Hester’s gruff sincerity and unexpected acts of generosity – an invitation to stay after a bad storm snapped the electricity cables in Sabzbagh; pony rides for the girls during their holidays; Christmas dinner with turkey and the trimmings. And, if truth be told, the social isolation of Sabzbagh had forced Fareeda to reconsider some of the prejudices she could afford to indulge in cosmopolitan Lahore.
Fareeda dabbed Diorella at her throat and replac
ed the bottle on the dressing table, exactly in line with the can of hairspray and the jar of night cream. She liked her things to be just so. She caught Laila’s eye in the mirror and winked at her.
Laila had heard it said by the older ladies in her family that Fareeda had salt in her face. Laila didn’t know what that meant, but she thought Fareeda very pretty. Her eyes were large and expressive. In repose, they were clear, tranquil pools, but Laila had seen them freeze into ice cubes. Her face was defined by jutting cheekbones and a square chin, but its angularity was offset by a cushiony mouth and a rounded forehead. Fareeda’s face looked softer when framed by her wavy, shoulder-length hair. But she found the swing of her wayward locks irksome and preferred to have it out of the way, if not swept up in a chignon, then pulled back with a tortoiseshell clasp.
Fareeda raised her bare arms to push back a stray lock of hair. Not for the first time, Laila wished she had her mother’s apricot skin and rounded, creamy limbs. But of the two sisters, it was Sara who took after Fareeda. Laila had inherited Tariq’s height and slender build. Laila pulled back the sleeve of her pyjama jacket and examined her gravy-brown arm. Her upper arms were scarcely wider than her wrists, which made her jagged elbows seem huge. There was a scab on her elbow. Laila prodded it, testing to see if it was ripe enough to be pulled.
‘Don’t, darling.’ Fareeda was standing above her. ‘It’ll scar.’
Laila straightened her sleeve. She’d wait till she was in the privacy of her room to plunder the scab properly. She watched as Fareeda shook out the pleats of her pale-green sari.
‘You look pretty.’ Laila flung out her arms.
‘Thank you, little squirrel.’ Fareeda dropped a kiss on top of Laila’s head. Her emerald pendant brushed against Laila’s face.
‘I like your sari.’ Laila fingered the trailing pallu of Fareeda’s sari.
‘It’s a jamdani. It’s a bit chilly for jamdani, but I thought I’d wear it one last time before packing it away for the winter.’
‘Did you buy it in Lahore?’
‘No, I got it on our last visit to East Pakistan,’ said Fareeda.
‘When did you go?’
‘Oh, about five years ago. Yes, I think it was 1966, the year you got measles.’
‘Why didn’t you take me?’
‘Because you’d just started school.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘What, Chittagong? It’s lovely. All lush and green. That juicy green we get after the monsoon? All day long a soft, salty breeze blows in from the sea. When you run your tongue over your lips, you can taste the sea.’
‘Will you take me one day so I can also taste the sea?’ asked Laila.
‘I hope so. Now, you must go to bed. Shall I take you to your room?’
Laila’s bed was turned down. An Enid Blyton paperback lay face down on a pink satin quilt.
‘Which one is this?’ Fareeda removed the book from the bed.
‘The Adventures of the Wishing Chair. Can I have new curtains?’
‘Why? What’s wrong with these?’
‘They have teddy bears on them. They’re for babies.’
‘What sort do you want?’
‘Flowered ones like Sara’s.’ Laila scrambled on to the bed. ‘I also want you to put away all these dolls. I’ll keep Monopoly and Ludo and the carom board, as well as my paint box and my books and my treasure box. But the rest you can put away.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to be grown-up. Like everyone else.’ Laila slid down under the quilt, pulled it up to her chest and folded her arms over it.
‘You know, you should enjoy your childhood as long as you can. When you are older, you’ll realize how precious it was.’
‘Does that mean I can’t have new curtains?’
Fareeda’s lips twitched. ‘We’ll see.’ She kissed Laila’s cheek and moved to the door. But at the door, she turned back, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘Why are you, all of a sudden, in such a hurry to grow up? Has something happened?’
Laila hesitated for a moment but then shook her head.
‘You know, darling, that if something bothers you, you can always tell me, don’t you?’
Laila nodded. ‘Could you please send Bua to me?’
‘Of course. Good night.’ Fareeda turned the handle and made a moue of distaste. It was greasy. She made a mental note to tell Bua off.
‘The Empress sent her servants to search for the girl. They scrambled over high mountains and waded across rushing rivers, but the girl had vanished, like breath on a mirror. She’d jumped on to her magic horse …’
‘Bua, why did Rani come to the church today?’ Laila lay on her stomach across the bed. Her chin was cupped in her palm.
‘Baba, I’m telling you such a nice story.’
‘I want to know about Rani.’
‘Know what about Rani?’ Bua yawned and stretched out on the rug. She tucked a cushion under her head, clasped her arms over her dome-like stomach and shut her eyes.
‘Don’t pretend to be asleep, because I know you’re not. Why was Rani there?’
‘Uff, baba, it’s so late.’ Bua’s eyes were still closed. ‘Soon your parents will be home from memsahib’s dinner. Shut your eyes and go to sleep.’
‘I’m not sleepy. Why did she come?’
‘Why did who come?’
‘Stop acting stupid,’ Laila shouted.
Bua’s eyes flew open, and she reared up in indignation.
‘Is that any way to speak to your old, sick ayah? Hain? After everything I’ve done for you, washing your nappies when you were a baby, feeding you, bathing you, getting up ten, ten times a night to see that the jinns hadn’t taken you …’
‘I’m sorry.’ Laila slid off the bed and snuggled into Bua’s lap. Bua smelt comfortingly of snuff and starch. ‘Can I have a pinch of your snuff?’
‘Look at you!’ Bua cuffed Laila gently on the side of her head. ‘Next you’ll want a drag of my hookah. And Bibi will say, “Bua, you’ve taught my little girl bad things like smoke and snuff.” And she’ll kick me out with a big kick on my bottoms.’
‘No one will kick you out. I won’t let them.’ Laila rested her back against Bua’s stomach and toyed with the cross around her neck. ‘Why won’t you tell me about Rani?’
‘Because I don’t know anything to tell.’
‘When Rani left, you and Sister Clementine stood whispering together.’
‘So? We were whispering about other things.’ Bua shrugged.
‘Ammi also wanted to know why Rani was crying.’
Bua spun Laila around to face her. ‘How did she know Rani was there? You told her?’
‘I didn’t say where I saw her,’ said Laila.
‘What did you say then?’
‘I saw Rani when I was out with you and she looked sad,’ explained Laila.
‘And what did Bibi say?’
‘I told you. She wanted to know why Rani had been crying.’
‘Oh, Lailu. I wish you hadn’t. Now we’ll all get into trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Bibi will find out that I took you to the church and she’ll get angry with me and she’ll find out about Rani and …’
‘Find out what about Rani?’
‘Tchah! You’re like a puppy with a bone. Going on gnawing, gnawing. All right then. Rani has been a bad girl.’
‘But Rani’s not a bad girl.’ Rising to her knees, Laila brought her face close to Bua’s and enunciated deliberately, threateningly, ‘Don’t call Rani a bad girl, Bua. She’s a good girl.’
Taken aback, Bua retracted. ‘You’re right, baba. She’s not a bad girl.’
Mollified, Laila rested her back against Bua’s stomach again. ‘Bua,’ she asked casually, ‘could Rani be upset because someone had been mean to her?’
‘Could be.’
‘And could that person who’d been mean – could it by any chance have been a girl?’
‘A girl?’
‘
Mmm, say, around eight years old? Could Rani have come to the church to tell on that other girl who’d been mean to her?’
Bua’s arms reached out on either side of Laila to enfold her in a plump embrace.
‘No, my baba. All eight-year-old girls should rest easy, because they have nothing to do with Rani’s … er … problem.’
‘What’s her problem?’
‘Her situation … Her problem is something she’s done herself.’
‘Done herself?’ Laila tried to imagine an action peculiar enough to land Rani in church. As far as Laila knew, Rani had no truck with the nuns. Unlike Sabzbagh, Kalanpur had never been a focus of missionary activity. It had barely any Christians at all. The few girls who attended school in Kalanpur went to the Kalanpur Model School. No one came to the convent, where it was feared they would be made to sing hymns about three gods.
‘But what has she done that she needed to tell Sister Clementine about? She doesn’t even know Sister Clementine.’
‘Some things you can’t tell children.’
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Ammi you took me to the church.’
Bua gave Laila a hard stare. ‘All right then. I’ll tell you what she did. But only if you promise not to tell your mother or Rani.’
Hester Bullock’s dining room was lit by a chandelier. It was the only chandelier in Colewallah district. It had been brought out from Waterford in 1934 by Gerald O’Brian, at the special request of his neighbour, Thomas Rambridge. Tonight, with only seven of its sixteen bulbs working, it still managed to cast a mellow glow on the dining room, which had changed little since Thomas Rambridge had assembled that tinkling crystal bouquet.
The Turkish rug on the dark wooden floor was more than a little frayed from successive generations of pointers and retrievers cutting their teeth on its tassels. Above a stucco fireplace was the stuffed head of a leopard, minus one of its yellowed canines. A carriage clock ticked on the mantelpiece. A shisham sideboard stretched along one wall. Displayed on it was an assortment of silver objects – a punch bowl the size of a bird bath, a Kashmiri samovar with a matching tray, a Victorian tea service and a jumble of silver trophies won at horsy conclaves all over the subcontinent.
