Shabanu (18 page)

“I wasn’t …” I begin, then I realize he’s joking, and we laugh.

“Most country girls cover their mouths when they laugh,” he says, still joking.

“I have perfect teeth. Why should I cover them?” I bare my teeth for him to see, and he laughs again. I thank him and take my protesting cousins back to our room.

The men talk
late into the night and start again early the next morning. The day seems endless. Around dusk Mama comes from the room where she has sat with Kulsum, Auntie, and Bibi Lal. The children are sleeping, and I ask what we will eat.

“The colonel is sending food. Don’t worry,” she says.

“Mama, what are you talking about in there?” I ask. “If it concerns Phulan, shouldn’t she be with you?”

“Shabanu, really. What we decide for both of you is what you will do. You aren’t old enough to know what’s good for you.”

“What about me?” Mama’s eyes have a strange look about them again. “I’m talking about Phulan. What is it? What does this have to do with me?” Panic rises inside me.

“Never mind,” says Mama, turning to go back to the other room.

“Mama!” But she has closed the door firmly, and the bolt slips into place on the other side before I can push it open again.

Phulan is sleeping on her stomach on the string cot. Sakina sits wide-eyed on the bed. I run to Phulan and shake her shoulder.

“They’re deciding something,” I say into her ear. “Come with me—I want to know!”

“I don’t care what happens,” Phulan says from under the canopy her hair makes on the pillow.

“Phulan, you must! They’re making plans. For both of us. Come on!” I shake her hard.

“Leave me alone!”

I run outside, but no one is about. The door to the room where the men talk is closed. The guards stand smartly at attention in the courtyard at the front of the Wing Command headquarters, their red, fanned turbans sharp in the glimmering light.

I run around to the window of the room where the
women sit talking. I peer in. Bibi Lal looks up and sees me. I put my hands against the glass and press my face between them.

“Please, let me in,” I say, near tears with frustration and fear.

Kulsum comes to the door and opens it a crack.

“Shabanu, please be patient.”

I push the door open and brush Kulsum aside.

“If you are talking about me, I want to know what you’re saying.” I look Mama in the eye.

“Shabanu, you are a child,” she says. “Phulan didn’t have a say …”

“I am not Phulan! I want to know what’s going to happen to me. I’ll sit here quietly and listen, that’s all.” Mama cocks her head and lifts an eyebrow. “I promise.”

Bibi Lal shifts her large frame aside and pats the rug beside her.

“Everything major is decided anyway,” she says. “We should get Phulan then, too.” Mama nods, and I sit in the warm circle women always make, fearful of their decision.

Auntie has been sitting quietly, slightly behind Mama, just at the edge of the circle of women. Her silence is the only thing that gives me hope. If the decision is one that works out well for all of us, she will be jealous and discontented. If it is not, she will crow and try to make me feel ashamed and responsible for the bad things that have happened.

Kulsum unbolts the door and goes to fetch Phulan.

“Go away. Leave me alone!” we hear from the other room.

Mama stands stiffly and goes into the next room. She murmurs softly to Phulan for some time.

There’s a knock at the outside door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I am on my feet before anyone else has even looked up. It’s our captain with two kerosene lamps, one for each room. I put one on the window sill and the other on the mantel over the empty fireplace. I sense by the way everyone keeps silent that I won’t like what will be said.

Phulan comes through the doorway, combing her hair away from her face with her long fingers. She is thinner and paler, but her face is more relaxed and rested. She looks lovely again.

When we are all seated in the circle, the boys playing noisily in one corner of the room, Bibi Lal speaks.

“We have conferred with your father,” she says, looking from Phulan to me. “It is agreed that the wedding will be held as planned after forty days of mourning for Hamir, may his soul rest in peace.”

In the brief moment of silence that follows, I wonder if one of us is to be married to the Holy Koran, as some girls are, so that there’s no question of sharing the land. Dadi wouldn’t do that to Phulan or me, I’m sure of it!

“Phulan will marry Murad. He is old enough and ready to be married. He will be a good husband to her.”

He was meant for me, I want to shout. Phulan’s husband
was Hamir! He was just like her, and Murad is like me. We are meant for each other. My ears burn and my throat tightens, but I sit perfectly still, staring at my hands folded in my lap. I can’t look at Phulan, who also sits perfectly still.

“Nazir Mohammad has agreed that Murad shall keep all of our land, and he promises not to disturb the flow of irrigation water.” Phulan breathes a sigh of relief. I feel ill.

“His elder brother Rahim
-sahib
has asked for Shabanu.”

“No!” I say softly at first. “No! No!” Mama and Phulan take me into their arms. I fight them. “I won’t do it!”

“Shabanu, Shabanu,” says Bibi Lal, leaning forward and taking my face between her huge hands. “He’s a decent man, and he’s very wealthy. He’s a
syed
, and a marriage with him is a great honor for both of our families.” A
syed
is a religious leader who traces his lineage back to the family of the Prophet Mohammed. But Rahim
-sahib
is not Murad,
syed
or not.

“How many wives does he have?” I ask, my chin thrust forward.

“Three,” Mama replies. “But you will be the youngest by nearly twenty years. You will be the last and always his favorite. He will provide well for you and your sons.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s only fifty or fifty-five,” Mama says.

“He’s old enough to be my grandfather!” I say, too
angry now even for tears. “I can’t, Mama. How can you do this to me? You can’t make me.”

“Shabanu, you are still young. You aren’t even of age yet. You have another six months, perhaps a year, to get used to the idea.” Mama strokes my hair, and Phulan kneels by my side, holding my hand. I pull away from them.

“I’ll never get used to marrying a man old enough to be my grandfather. Is he the man who came in the car and held the ladder?”

“Yes,” Kulsum says, a twinkle in her eye. “I think he’s quite good-looking. He doesn’t look fifty-five.”

“If you don’t agree, Shabanu, how can we be sure the landlords will keep their word?” Auntie asks. “If we say no to Rahim
-sahib
, it won’t be long before his brother starts demanding his payments again, and soon enough he’ll turn off the water and the land will be ruined.”

What a trap they’ve laid! Phulan is eldest so she must marry first. She is ripe for marriage. Dadi knows that, and he wants it done quickly. Murad is ready too. Because I am not of age yet, I am to be sacrificed to keep the bargain!

“Shabanu,” says Mama, “when Rahim
-sahib
saw you this afternoon, the first thing he did was ask the colonel, ‘Who was that beautiful girl outside on the ladder?’ Your father was very angry with you for not keeping an eye on the boys and ending up in a tree when Rahim
-sahib
arrived in his car. He was angry enough to beat you.

“But Rahim
-sahib
said, ‘No, she’s lovely and intelligent.
You mustn’t spoil her spirit.’ Dadi says Rahim-
sahib
only half concentrated on the talk. He kept looking out the window hoping to catch another glimpse of you. He is in love with you already. He will cherish you. We couldn’t do better for you with a boy your own age.”

“And we’ll be close together,” says Phulan, her eyes bright. “We can see each other almost every day! Rahim-
sahib
’s house is only a field away from where Murad’s land begins.”

“A minute ago you were grieving for Hamir!” I say to her. “How can you change like the wind?”

“Of course I grieve for Hamir,” Phulan says, looking down at our hands twined in her lap. “But it’s such a good solution! Who knows what might have happened to you if Rahim
-sahib
hadn’t offered to marry you?”

I find it difficult to believe that Rahim
-sahib
would find me so lovely. After I bared my teeth at him. What could I have been thinking? He probably saw I was strong, and he wants someone who can work hard.

“I’ll go to live with Sharma,” I say, and Mama’s slap sends my head flying and my eyes reeling.

“Shabanu,” she says, her face harder than I’ve ever seen it before, “you are to say nothing more. It is done.”

We return on
the camels to the edge of the desert near Mehrabpur five days after we fled our lean-tos in the night. The day is cloudy, and the sky churns and rumbles with the threat of rain.

At first we think we’ve come to the wrong place.

Where our lean-tos had stood there is a small village of neat mud huts, painted all over with camels and birds. Ovens and grain storage cupboards line the joint courtyard,
where a small girl bends from the waist, sweeping the sand with a broom of desert twigs. Each house is tall enough to stand up in and broad enough to walk around in, despite the string cots and trunks that line the walls. And beside each door sits a clay pot with red, orange, and yellow flowers in it.

As we approach, a man wearing a mirrored and embroidered vest and a starched turban rides toward us on a fine white stallion that prances and tosses his long silver mane. The man carries a box of tooled rosewood in front of him on a saddle decorated with silver medallions.

Mama, Phulan, Bibi Lal, Kulsum, and Auntie cover their faces as he rides up, and Dadi and Murad urge their camels forward to meet him. The wind blows some of their words in our direction:

“Rahim
-sahib
sends greetings …”

“Thank you,” says Dadi. “Please send our …”

“…  sorrow for … hopes your daughter will accept these … find your houses comfortable,” says the man in the turban. “This is your home whenever … the servant girl will stay with you …”

I can’t hear the rest of Dadi’s words. I feel Auntie’s eyes sharp on my back, urging me to cover my head and face and to stop eavesdropping so obviously.

The man on the silver-white horse hands Dadi the wooden box and turns. Dadi watches him canter away before he returns to us.

“Rahim
-sahib
built these houses for us to make up for the trouble his brother has caused,” Dadi says. “This girl
is the daughter of his servant, and she’ll stay with us as long …”

“A servant!” says Mama.

I bet a hundred rupees she is a spy for the landlords. But I have learned to keep my mouth shut, and I certainly will when the girl is around.

“We don’t need a servant,” says Auntie. “People like us don’t use servants. It’s a matter of pride.”

The girl stands quietly, the twig broom clasped between her hands, staring at the ground. Her tunic, skirt, and
chadr
are faded but clean, and her hair is pulled back in a clasp. She clearly has been treated well in the landlord’s household.

“We’ll see,” says Dadi. He looks amused, as if he is enjoying Rahim
-sahib
’s efforts to set things right.

“What’s in the box?” Auntie asks, forgetting the servant girl.

Dadi orders the camels to their knees, and everyone but me jumps down. Dadi holds the box out to me, but I am immobile.

“How can I accept a gift from him?” I ask quietly. “Is he buying me?”

“Shabanu,” says Dadi, his voice stern, his eyes commanding me to come to him. “He already
has
bought you. He has paid more than a fair price for a troublesome girl like you. You may as well get used to the idea. Can’t you see he wants you to be happy?”

I cannot move. With all that Rahim
-sahib
has done, I am shocked that he also has paid a bride price! Dadi takes
a step toward me, a threat in his eye, and wearily, as if my body is making a great effort to overcome the laws of nature, I get down from Xhush Dil and stand before my father.

Everyone crowds around me, gabbling like crows with excitement. Only Murad stands apart. He takes the camels to the canal for water. Slowly I lift the lid. Inside the red velvet-lined box are gold bangles wrapped in tissue, a diamond nose pin clipped to a piece of felt, and a small velvet sack. Dadi holds the wooden box as I loosen the drawstring and shake the sack. A delicate gold ring set with rubies and emeralds and diamonds tumbles into my palm.

“Put it on!” says Phulan. I look up at her, and her eyes shine with happiness for me. I am miserable. Everyone thinks something magical has happened. And what’s on my mind? The fleeting hope that Murad has gone to the canal because he is disturbed that I should have a gift from the landowner.

I tell myself to be realistic. Murad must be delighted to be marrying Phulan. She is so beautiful, and under her silly poses she is kind and will be a good wife. She needs patience and discipline—surely Hamir offered neither.

“Come on, Shabanu, put it on!” she urges, and I slip the exquisite shimmering ring onto my finger. “The bangles, and the nose pin, too!” I oblige mechanically, and they all dance around and tell me how wonderful I look. Dadi pulls out his snuffbox with the mirror on the lid to show me the diamond nose pin. It reflects thousands of
pins of colored light. I think vaguely of the blackness in my heart—I am wearing all the light that ever was within me on my nose and finger.

After a while they stop making a fuss over me, and Mama and Phulan go inside the houses and find the belongings we’ve left behind, plus several trunks filled with wedding presents for Phulan: dishes, platters, pitchers, boxes of spices, crates of mangoes, bowls, shawls. Bibi Lal and Kulsum look on quietly, and I can see their thoughts have turned to their own house, and Hamir buried under the floor.

Because we don’t believe in disturbing a body once it’s laid to rest, they will build a new house.