The Pakistani Bride (17 page)

He had not understood a word, but he grasped the scorn in the woman's demeanor.

Carol's anger flared into blind rage. His stare held the same alien, ruthless capacity to humiliate that she had seen in the tribal's glances that morning. Turning to the Major, she rasped out, “I'm sure he is not her father. They look too different. Ask him! Go on, ask him!”

Mushtaq, glad to sidetrack any impending quarrel between Carol and Farukh, leaned forward. “I believe the girl is your daughter?”

“She is my daughter, sir.”

The Major's eyes slid over to the girl and back to Qasim.

“And, maybe, she isn't your daughter, Barey Mian? The Memsahib here thinks not.”

Qasim raised his head and glowered at the probing face. He thought of a similar question put to him by Nikka years ago at their first encounter—the earth had been cool and wet with the passing of the storm; he had been hotheaded then and closer to the proud standards of his youth. The intervening years had taught him the ignominy of his illiteracy, and an awe of educated men of position. These men held bewildering power over the likes of him and could upset his plans at a whim. He little understood their ways.

“My lord,” he spoke with an anguished stare, “I got her when she was four or five years old. Ever since I have cared for her like my own and she has been a devoted daughter.”

“You got her? Where from?”

“We were on a train from Jullundur at the time of Partition. The train was ambushed. Her parents were killed. I had jumped off the train before the mob attacked. After the killing, when I ran along the tracks to Lahore, the child called to me, thinking I was her father. I carried her to Lahore.”

Qasim spoke slowly, carefully, his drawn face and sad brown eyes full of candor.

Mushtaq knew he was telling the truth. A few paces from him the girl sat still, her chin resting on her knees.

“So be it, Barey Mian. I didn't mean to pry. Forgive me.”

The Major was sorry for having forced up a piece of information that perhaps had been kept from the girl. The tribal's talk touched him, and he was weary.

Qasim wondered if he ought to leave. He awaited a sign.

“Whom do you work for?”

The question came from behind him and Qasim swung his shoulders to see who had spoken. It was Farukh.

“Sir, I am night-watchman for Rehman & Sons. I mind their steel ware godowns.”

The doctor, sitting opposite the fire on the far side, asked, “Where do you stay in Lahore?” He was an angular, sober young man.

Qasim, still squatting in the center of the room, pivoted on his heels.

“At Qila Gujjar Singh, Sir.”

Sorely wishing to establish some sort of an identity before the buffeting superiority of the strangers, he said, “I live next to Nikka Pehelwan. We are like brothers.” He raised two stiff fingers to illustrate the closeness of their relationship. Pride
surged through him and he sat up straighter. He would have given much for Nikka's reassuring presence now. The deep social chasm between them would have been bridged by the fearless set of Nikka's strong neck, his reckless smile, and his witty bravado.

The officers, indulging Qasim's pride in his friend, bombarded him with questions. Qasim, swivelling obligingly on his haunches, answered each one, sensing a certain jocular acceptance of himself.

Meanwhile, Carol noticed a movement in the girl's shoulders. Why, the child was crying! The discovery filled her with remorse. Hadn't she known all along that the old tribal was not her father?

Zaitoon cried silently, unseen tears spilling on her knees. In her subconscious had lain a dim suspicion of the truth, a hint of pain closeted away and buried. All of it now lay brutally exhumed, and, tears soaking her shalwar, she kept thinking inanely, “Just the same he is my father . . .”

On an impulse, Carol reached out to touch her. She stroked the coarse shawl covering her head. Startled and embarrassed, Zaitoon's crouched body stiffened.

Carol slipped out unobtrusively and went down the corridor to her room. She returned with a paper bag containing an embroidered chaddar, a slab of chocolate and some oranges. Quietly she resumed her seat.

“Take it,” she said gently to Zaitoon. The shadow cast by Carol's body shielded the girl from view. Zaitoon raised her head slowly and was full of gratitude for the woman who sat on the edge of her chair to screen her. In the instant their eyes met, the green and black of their irises fused in an age-old communion—an understanding they shared of their vulnerabilities as women. For an intuitive instant Carol felt herself submerged in the helpless drift of Zaitoon's life. Free will! she
thought contemptuously, recalling heated discussions with her friends on campus. This girl had no more control over her destiny than a caged animal . . . perhaps, neither had she . . .

Zaitoon wiped her wet face and shyly slipped the gifts under her shawl. An orange rolled down her thighs and nestled against her belly. She blew her nose into her chaddar and wiped the residue with the back of her hand. Her face once again was composed. Except for her red eyes, there was nothing to disclose that she had been crying.

Carol sat back feeling drained of emotion.

“That was nice of you,” Mushtaq whispered.

She bit her lip and frowned ruefully. “Hardly. I feel so ashamed.”

“It's not your fault. We didn't know she'd take it so hard. I imagine her mind must have erased the memory of her parents' slaughter . . . obliterated the horror . . . an act of pure self-defense on its part. It's a pity though. She looks quite wretched.”

Mushtaq reflected on Carol's behavior. Farukh shouldn't have provoked her. There was no need for remarks like “Our women are modest . . .” He was such a prig. But Farukh wasn't the only one to blame . . . they had all, at different times, flaunted attitudes that must appear hypocritical to her. Not considering her feelings, they had perhaps ridiculed the values she held dear. She must miss her own people, he thought. He'd hammer some sense into Farukh . . . All considered, she had come out rather well; with spontaneity and courage and warmth . . .

His glance slid to Zaitoon and the need for redress nagged him too. He bent towards her.

“Your father,” he whispered, “is a remarkable man! He loves you dearly, doesn't he?”

Zaitoon nodded, not raising her eyes. Her gravity affected Mushtaq. “You've been to school?” he asked.

“I studied up to the third class,” she said, looking up.

“Intelligent eyes!” observed the Major to Carol. He smiled at the girl and, smiling shyly, she looked down.

 

Qasim was talking to the others, richly narrating Nikka's exploits until the pehelwan's blustery, brawling presence was tangible in the room. “Ah, yes,” he said in reply to a question put by the doctor. “Nikka did spend four months in
gaol.
That was almost six years ago. It didn't mean a thing though,” Qasim indicated the triviality of the charge by a flick of his wrist. “Just a mild reprimand from the mighty one. You know the man I mean. It taught Nikka a lesson all right!” During a lull in the conversation, the Major called to him, and Qasim, shuffling on his haunches, moved closer.

“Barey Mian, I congratulate you. You have a well brought-up daughter.”

“It's God's will, Major Sahib,” said Qasim, touching his turban. His heart drummed with pride.

“You've found her a husband?”

“Sir, she is grown up now and must be married soon.”

“Is the man from your village?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What terms have you negotiated?”

“He's well off for these parts, sir,” said Qasim, evading the question respectfully.

Mushtaq did not press the point.

“I see.”

Mushtaq had been in the tribal regions long enough to be well acquainted with the marriage formalities. A wife was a symbol of status, the embodiment of a man's honor and the focus of his role as provider. A valuable commodity indeed, and dearly bought. He glanced at the girl. Her head was bowed. He could see nothing but the line of Zaitoon's hair beneath her chaddar.

“Do you think she will be happy with the tribals?” he asked, trying to conceal his compassion. “It's a hard life for your people.”

“We've had a hard enough life on the plains as well, sir.”

The tribal's reply echoed finality, and Major Mushtaq realized it would be futile to air his misgivings further. He called to the jawan who had been hovering in and out, and said, “Ashiq, see that they are well cared for.”

He stood up. “God be with you,” he said, dismissing Qasim and Zaitoon.

 

Ashiq Hussain led the way to a dank, cluttered storeroom. He placed the lantern on an upturned crate and cleared enough space to lay two straw mats.

Like most conscripts, Ashiq was tall and sturdy. He was twenty-two and his family as yet had not got down to seeing him married. Of peasant stock, from the Mianwali District, his skin was burnt dark as the earth of the fields in twilight. His bright, black eyes were set wide apart in his handsome face.

Ashiq raised a quilt and Zaitoon catching hold of the other end helped him spread it on the mat. She studiously avoided his eyes.

He knelt on the bedding, smoothing it, reluctant to leave. Lighting a candle, he allowed the wax to drip and stuck the candle on the crate. There was nothing more to be done. Lifting the lantern, he said, “I have put a box of matches by the candle, Barey Mian. I am only two rooms away. I sleep in the pantry. Let me know if you want anything.”

He glanced at Zaitoon, who was looking at him. She smiled, and said swiftly, almost under her breath, “Thank you.”

Ashiq Hussain's heart missed a beat. He stumbled from the room.

Zaitoon spread Carol's glamorous gift on the quilt. Two and a half yards of bright green nylon embroidered with flowers in
gold thread. She traced the delicate work with her fingers and the smooth cloth beneath the gold felt wondrous. She draped the chaddar over her head and shoulders.

“How does it look, Abba?”

She knelt beside Qasim, who lay beneath his quilt watching her. Qasim, not used to such finery, felt the material gingerly.

“It's very beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“The memsahib gave it to me when you were talking to the others.”

“It's beautiful,” he repeated. Taken by the gold thread, he traced the pattern delicately with his fingers. “Did you thank her?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “What a strange memsahib. She was wearing trousers!” Zaitoon giggled.

“Their ways are different, child.”

“Abba, she was drinking something with a strange smell. Her breath was awful. Was it wine?”

“Probably.”

“God forbid! Toba!” muttered Zaitoon, scandalized by the revelation. She touched both ears in quick succession to ward off the possibility of such a sacrilegious calamity happening to herself.

“But Abba, she sat alone among all those men, drinking wine . . .”

“Their ways are different from ours, child. Put out the candle and go to sleep now.”

Zaitoon folded her precious chaddar carefully, snuffed the candle, and slipped into her bed. It was cold. Much colder than it had ever been on the plains. She lay shivering until her body warmed the quilt.

After a while, repeating Qasim's words in the dark, she asked:

“Abba, her ways are different from ours?”

“Yes, child,” replied Qasim perfunctorily, already half asleep.

“As different as my ways will be from those of your people in the hills?”

“Hush, Zaitoon. What nonsense you talk.”

“But, Abba, I am not of the hills. I am not of your tribe. I am not even yours,” she said quietly.

Lying in a strange room, surrounded by strange objects and persons, suddenly faced by a future unknown and baffling, her voice sounded forlorn; as desolate as the arid, brooding mountains to which she had come.

A tenuous echo from the past surfaced to her consciousness. Tonelessly she said, “My father and my mother are dead.”

The words rocked eerily in Qasim's mind, conjuring up memories. He groped for her in the dark, accidentally brushing the tears she had concealed.

“Zaitoon,” he said, “Zaitoon, why d'you say that? Am I not your father? Haven't I loved you dearly? I had three children, once. But now you're all I have in the world. Munni, please stop crying. Am I not dear to you?”

“Forgive me, Abba,” she sobbed, touching Qasim's gnarled hands to her cheeks. Kissing his fingers, she wept, and weeping she fell asleep.

A
fter dinner, while they sipped coffee around the dining-table, Mushtaq directed the arrangements for Farukh's next day's excursion to the glacier.

He then called for Ashiq. The jawan stood at attention, while the Major, resting his elbows on the table, picked his teeth thoughtfully.

“Tell the girl, if she ever requires assistance, to come straight to us. She may ask her husband to see me sometime. We could give him work. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ashiq Hussain saluted and withdrew.

 

Qasim listened to Zaitoon's regular breathing. He felt a phase in his life was at an end. It was strange that he should suddenly feel so old. There, in Lahore, amid good friends and unchanging surroundings, age had come upon him graciously, like the touch of petals. He had known he was growing older but now, lying among the strangers of this camp, he felt old. “Honorable elder” they had called him, “Barey Mian!” And tied up with the realization was the certainty that this was the end of a phase. His life had been given meaning and direction by Zaitoon's presence: seasons had roared and surged in him like waves swept high by the powerful currents of Nikka's life. Now, their force spent, the waves retreated, leaving him a frothing edge of memories.