“Will the trip be dangerous?” Muti asked. “Will Ibne keep it secret from Uncle Nazir?”
Shabanu sat up straight and looked her daughter in the eye. “Do you remember the wild desert birds in the cage of the veranda at your father's house in Okurabad?” she asked. “He kept me like one of those birds for seven years. And for the last ten years I've been a captive like the pigeons here.” She motioned toward the screened enclosure that held the birds beside the pavilion. “I am still a wild desert bird, Mumtaz! I have come to feel I can no longer exist without seeing the dunes of the desert and its blue luminous stars. I cannot let fear keep me here any longer. And I can't let fear keep you where you are, with Leyla mistreating you.”
Muti looked from her mother to Auntie Selma.
“Are you telling me I must come to Cholistan with you?” she asked. “And will we stay there? I thought you wanted me to go to school!” Muti thought of leaving Fariel, and St. Agnes Academy, and not spending summers with Jameel. These were the solid things in her life. “And how do I know you won't leave me again?”
Selma leaned forward and put her hands on her knees as if to rise. “Nothing has been arranged yet. Nazir is unwell, with no alliesâa toothless tigerâand I don't think he has
the means to harm you. We must be as sure as it's possible to be that we can do this safely, but we must act quickly. If the opportunity arose, Leyla would dispose of you like an old cabbage leaf, Mumtaz.”
Muti nodded. She needed time to think about this. She felt very uncomfortable with her mother: part of her wanted to throw her arms around her and hold her forever, and another part of her wanted Shabanu to go away. The mixture of anger and love and fear that she'd be abandoned again and guilt and a kind of dislocationâas if time had reversed itselfâlurched around in her mind, leaving her unable to trust herself to speak.
“I know,” Selma said, struggling to her feet, “you need time to get used to this. But remember, Mumtaz, we want more than anything for you to be safe and happy. You have to trust us about that.”
Muti left the haveli with her head feeling heavy. She paused a block away from the bus stop, traffic blaring in the street, pedestrians jostling her, and pirated CDs blaring from a shop next to her. Think of one thing at a time, she coached herself. And the first thought she settled on was Jag. She decided she must say goodbye to him properly so she might put him out of her mind. Perhaps then she would be better able to think more clearly about having a mother again.
Muti started with a more resolute step for the bus stop. She took a transfer for the Cantonment area. She sat in the women's section of the bus, and the tang of fresh vegetables from the bazaar mingled with the sweet smell of bodies doused liberally with talcum powder against the heat. She
stood, her body swaying along with the bodies of other burqa-clad women, and fought her way to the exit door when the bus reached the Cantonment. She stood by the side of the road and hailed a motor rickshaw painted red and green and black with small silver chains and medallions hanging from the frame for its side curtains. She asked the driver to go to Mustafa Road, and pulled the side curtains around her. The rickshaw darted and swerved, lurched to a stop and started again with a jolt, its horn bleating like a distressed lamb. She paid the driver ten rupees and told him to keep the change. By the time the chowkidar swung the courtyard gate open, Mumtaz felt better.
“Hi!” Fariel said, opening the front door. “You're just in time for tea.”
“Ummm,” Muti said, not wanting to be rude. “D'you think we might go somewhere and talk?” Fariel looked over her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Muti pressed her lips together and blinked back tears. “Please bring the tea to my room,” Fariel said to the bearer, who nodded. Fariel linked her arm through Muti's and led her into the front hallway, where the children were coming in from play for their tea. The smell of curry pastries and sweet vanilla biscuits filled the air.
They sat in the little parlor area at the end of Fariel's bedroom. Like everything in the house, it was simple; the cover on her bed was rough homespun cloth in faded blue and white stripes and the curtains at her window were rough white homespun cloth. A dusty three-blade fan twirled lazily
overhead. Muti was drawn in as always by the cool, calm openness and simplicity of the house and the people in it. She and Fariel settled onto floor cushions and leaned against bolsters, and Fariel poured green tea into delicate china cups.
For a moment Muti didn't know where to start. She couldn't tell Fariel about her mother, but she had to have at least one thing settled in her mind, and so she began with Jag. She told about her attempt to say goodbye to him, and remembering the sadness on his face brought tears to her eyes again.
“Muti, you must go back and say goodbye at least!” said Fariel. “I'm such a dummyâhow could I not see how much you've grown to care for him?”
“It's all so hopeless,” Muti said. “I guess I didn't want to admit how involved I was. But yesâI do want to say goodbye properly. Will you help me?”
Fariel nodded. “I have a lesson tomorrow morning. Want to come?” They agreed that Fariel and Shaheen would pick Muti up at nine o'clock sharp the next morning.
M
uti sat under the pergola near the tennis courts at the Lahore Club sipping an icy nimbu soda. Fariel had just finished her lesson. Jag was not on the tennis court, nor was he in the tent where the coaches took their break. Fariel had gone off to see if she could find out where he was and when he'd be back.
Muti's drink sat before her on an old wicker table that seemed to be held together with white paint. She contemplated the ice that was nearly melted inside the glass, and the condensation that had pooled on the glass tabletop. Fariel burst around the corner of the clubhouse, startling Muti.
“Omar says Baba has fallen ill!” Fariel said, almost shouting. “He's here to take you to the hospital.” Muti looked at Fariel as if she'd been speaking a foreign language. “Come on!” Fariel picked up her duffel and pulled on Muti's hand to heft her out of the chair.
“Did he say what's wrong?” Muti asked, rising from the
cushions and pulling back against Fariel's hand as if resisting would keep Baba from being seriously ill.
“I don't knowâhe didn't say.” Fariel led her along the path from the tennis courts into the clubhouse.
“Oh, God help me!” Muti wailed. She stopped and covered her face with both hands. “It's my fault!”
Fariel looked back at her in amazement. “How could it possibly be your fault?” Muti was sobbing into her hands, the tears leaking out between her fingers. Fariel set down her duffel and put her arms around her friend.
“I knew something was wrong. He's stayed in bed every morning this week. Usually he's out of the house before the servants are awake. And sometimes he seems confused. I was thinking about saying goodbye to Jag and I was mad at Leyla because she has all these lunches and partiesâand I'm the servant andâI wasn't thinking!” And since yesterday Muti had been so preoccupied with thoughts of her mother that she hadn't even thought once about how serious Baba's disorientation might be.
“Why should you have known?” Fariel asked.
“Baba has had headaches, and he looks terrible. Sometimes he's confused, but other times he's fine. Nobody seems to pay any attention. I mentioned it to Omar, and he said Baba is just getting old ⦠But I should have known something was wrong. I couldn't bear it, if he ⦔ She couldn't say what she feared. A silent prayer played through her mind, asking Allah to spare her baba, who was old and wise and fun-loving, a child in his heart that loved so deeply, who was incapable of speaking anything but the truth.
“Muti, you are not the adult in that house,” Fariel said fiercely. She held on to Muti's hand and led her more gently down the path, which was shaded by palm trees and lined with ferns. Inside the clubhouse they blinked against the cool, dark calm of the reception lounge. They found Omar looking out through the large picture windows into the garden, his back turned to them.
“Omar?” Muti said softly, brushing the tears from her face. She hoped he would tell her that Fariel was mistaken, that Baba wasn't really ill, perhaps that he was only tired, or had a bout of indigestion. But when Omar turned toward her his face looked pale and he did not smile.
“Your baba had some kind of spell this morning, Mumtaz,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. Omar spoke calmly, but Muti could see that he was extremely worried. She wanted to believe his voice, but she knew his face told the truth, and she could not keep a sob from rising through her throat. “Asrar is taking him to Jinnah Hospital now,” Omar went on. “He's asleep, and we haven't been able to awaken him. When I telephoned Dr. Ghafoor he said it might have been a stroke. We'll meet them there.”
“This is my fault,” Muti said through her tears, which dripped now from her chin. “I should have realized he was sick. He hasn't been himself, and I should have insisted you take him to a doctor before this!”
“Nay, Mango,” said Omar, circling her shoulders with his arm and drawing her toward the door. “You've been telling me for a week. Every morning I've phoned Leyla after I reach the office. Today she sent Asrar to Father's room to get
him down for his breakfast. He woke up, but he wasn't feeling well. He bathed, and Asrar helped him down to the dining room. He was alone just while Asrar got his orange juice. He fell off his chair onto the floor, right there at the dining table. When Khoda Baksh and I got to the house, Father was awake. He asked to see you and Jameel. Then he went to sleep and we called the doctor, who said he'd meet us at the hospital.”
While he talked, Omar guided Muti through the humid heat and bright, misty sunlight toward the car, steering her with his arm around her shoulders. Fariel followed behind.
“Is Jameel coming?” asked Muti, stopping halfway across the parking lot.
“I've telephoned Nargis in San Francisco,” said Omar. “They're trying to get a flight. I told her I'd call later to see when they'll be here. We should know more thenâperhaps Father will be better after he sleeps.” Omar pulled her gently along. Muti still hung back, as if going to the hospital would make this real.
“Come, Fariel,” said Omar. “We'll drop you at home.”
Omar took Fariel's tennis bag and put it into the trunk of the car. Khoda Baksh's face was a blank mask. He had served as Baba's driver for many years. He and Asrar had been his faithful servants and confidants since Baba was a boy. Many evenings Baba had sat with Asrar, who was his secretary, and Khoda Baksh in the study, arguing about politics. Every once in a while one of them would smack the tabletop with the flat of his hand to make a strong point. Often laughter leaked through the keyhole and the crack under
the door. They had been best friends as boys, when Khoda Baksh's father drove Baba's father and Asrar's mother had been Baba's ayah.
Muti and Fariel sat in the backseat, and Khoda Baksh and Omar sat in front. No one said a word as the car weaved its way through the traffic to the hospital. Muti felt as if her life was being pulled apart at its loosely stitched seams. Ever since she saw her mother the day before, she'd felt angry and depressed and guilty. Why couldn't she simply be filled with joy that her mother was alive? Why couldn't she feel safe finallyâand be close to her mother as she had been when she was small?
And now Baba's falling ill and Leyla's threats to marry her away felt like a storm growing in her heart, which was seized by a fear she hadn't known in a long time.
Muti thought of Baba's kindness when she'd first come to Number 5 Anwar Road as a frightened orphan ten years before.
When she and Omar got out of the car after the long drive from Cholistan, Baba had been there to greet her. He spread his arms wide, and instinctively she ran to him. He'd scooped her up and twirled her around. It was the first time Muti had smiled since she and Omar had left the desert many hours earlier.
Baba often took her into his study while he worked, and placed photo albums in her lap, carefully turning the crumbling black pages. One album held photos of her father when he was a boy playing cricket with his brothers and cousins in the park near Shalimar Gardens. In an old photograph
of Auntie Selma, their one sister stood tall and slim in a knee-length dress, one hand resting on the other arm, her dark hair curling down around her shoulders, her smile broad and filled with promise.
There were other albums with school photos and wedding photos, including one of Shabanu in a beautiful hand-embroidered shatoosh shawl. Her eyes were cast down and her mouth was set softly, pensively, unsmiling. When Muti saw this picture she remembered the special red-rose scent of her mother as she sat at her dressing table while the old ayah Zenat curled her hair with an iron heated in the fire.
Baba let Muti sit on his knee while he ate breakfast and lunch, sharing pieces of roti and bites of egg with her because she refused to eat otherwise. He taught her to ride the Arabian horses he kept in the stables at Okurabad by settling her into the saddle in front of him when he rode.
The reason Muti refused to eat when she was at Number 5 Anwar Road was that the women of the householdâLeyla and her mother, Amina, and their servantsâacted as if having Muti there was the most annoying aspect of their lives. When Baba wasn't at home they took her to the kitchen for the cook to keep an eye on her. They left her sitting on the floor, stepping around her, sometimes cursing under their breath when they tripped over her. The women never failed to remind her that she was alone in the world. Muti missed her mother, her father, and her mother's Auntie Sharma.
Muti tried not to cry when Leyla and Amina were nearby. One day she sat on a swing in the garden, where she picked small white flowers and braided them into a wreath. She had
made halos for her mother of these same flowers at her father's farm. Remembering made Muti's eyes leak tears.
“Stop being a nuisance,” said Leyla, who had come into the garden without Muti's hearing. “You have to get used to being here. And we have to get used to having you here. None of us has any choice.”
Leyla refused to buy Muti new clothes. She and Amina would rummage through piles of clothing that had been discarded by their relatives to be taken to charity. “Your cousins hardly wore these,” Leyla would say, holding up a mended shift and a shalwar with no matching top. And so when she was small, Muti wore clothes that were mismatched, or had been bleached to colorlessness in the laundry, dresses that were so large she tripped over them, or so short she had to pull at the hems to cover her legs.
From the beginning Leyla had made a fuss, insisting that Muti call her Auntie. She wanted her son, Jaffar, who was five years younger than Muti, to call her Madame instead of Mother. Between the photos in Baba's study and what Muti observed of the sometimes stormy relationships in the house at Number 5 Anwar Road, she slowly pieced together the relationships in this strange and unstable family.
Until Baba insisted the others treat her like an equal member of the family, Muti was allowed at the table only after everyone else had eaten, and was given their leftovers. Baba spoke sharply to Leyla for making Mumtaz clear the table after dinner.
“She is not your servant!” he had roared, drawing himself up to his full six feet. Leyla had looked stunned, but she did
not reply. And from that time forward, Muti had not been forced to work in the kitchen or to serve at or clear the table unless Baba was not around or was too busy to notice. After that, Leyla and Amina devised and perfected the death by a thousand pinpricks, and Muti was made to look after the smaller children, deliver messages, and serve tea when Baba was not in the house. They let Muti know in every way they could that she was not their equal.
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In the backseat of Omar's car, Muti's heart swelled with fear. She had always trusted Baba and Omar to take care of her. If Baba dies now, she wondered, will Omar stand up to Leyla? She could not imagine it. Omar was a conciliator, but without Baba, Leyla's power might grow.
That was the thing about being a captive bird, Muti thought. You learned to adapt, and before you knew it your captivity seemed normal. If you were free once again, you would become confused and miss the security of your captivity. For the first time since she'd seen her mother she felt the bonds of anger loosen around her heart. Next to her mother, no one had loved Muti the way Baba hadânot even her father. But she wouldn't think about that now. She would concentrate instead on praying for Baba's recovery.