The Pakistani Bride (9 page)

One of the men climbed down and, pushing Qasim roughly, threatened, “Will you go—or do I have to throw you out?”

Feigning terror, Qasim stumbled backwards. “All right, all right . . . I'm going,” he mumbled. His heart thudded at his bold histrionics.

The man sniggered. “Sneak up some other night, you lovesick lout. Our masters won't leave till two.”

A riotous burst of laughter came through the closed doors. Qasim wondered if the men inside were drunk.

“Are those whoring pigs drinking
sharab
?” he called insultingly.

There was an angry shuffle. Qasim stumbled down the steps and through the vestibule and safely reached the anonymous jostling main street that flowed between the dancing girls.

“Yes, the bastards drink alcohol!” he thought, his puritanical feelings on edge. “What Muslims!”

Scandalized and humiliated, Qasim grew venomous.

“I'll get them tonight. Damn that Nikka. Why doesn't he do his job? I'll get them,” he vowed.

 

Qasim walked rapidly to Lawrence Road. The luxurious, moonlit neighborhood was hushed in sleep. The faint rustle of a breeze in the peepul and eucalyptus trees, the mellow midnight chimes of a clock, the protective thump of a watchman's
lathi,
all hummed a lullaby of the district's security.

Qasim slipped into the garage plot adjoining the bungalow and in a crouch he slid along the wall, startling Nikka by his sudden appearance.

“What is it?” Nikka gasped.

“Relax. The sparrow won't come to roost till two o'clock. He's at Hira Mandi!” Qasim told of his encounter with their target's henchmen. Nikka was furious.

“You fool!” he hissed. “You're sure to have my throat cut. What if they traced you?”

“I tell you it was too dark to see my own shadow. And what if they did see me? Why would they connect me with the assassination?”

“Well, thanks,” said Nikka, “but do go away now.”

Qasim obstinately settled on his haunches, his back to the wall. “I'm staying.”

Nikka knelt before him. “Qasim, for God's sake, go! I can handle this better by myself.”

Qasim was hurt, but at last he nodded and withdrew.

 

He awoke late the next morning. Zaitoon had left the room so quietly he did not know she had gone. He slipped a shirt over his shalwar and hurried down.

Nikka sat cross-legged and clear-eyed. Customers were collecting their stock of cigarettes and paan for the day. The transistor, perched on the cash-box to Nikka's right, was blaring out the news. Qasim tried to catch his friend's eye, but handing change to a customer Nikka gave no sign of either fatigue or relief.

Suddenly the radio announced, “Sardar Ghulam Ali Hussain, landlord and politician, was assassinated this morning. The Governor has sent a message of condolence. The funeral will start from 217-A Lawrence Road at 11:00 a.m. The police . . .”

Nikka turned off the radio. Offering Qasim a small, green bundle he said, “Here, have a paan.”

Qasim popped the paan into his mouth, smiled, touched his forehead in salutation, and sauntered on.

N
ikka and Qasim spent the next afternoon sprucing up. Sleekly oiled and extravagantly perfumed, they rode by taxi to Hira Mandi.

Qasim fidgeted uneasily. He peered at himself in the rear-view mirror of the taxi and didn't care for what he saw. “I look what I am—an illiterate coolie!” he thought. Scrutinizing his broad, large-nosed face, his uneasiness mounted to terror. Finally voicing his misgivings, he said, “I don't think Shahnaz will care much for the likes of us. Let's go to some less fancy girls.”

Nikka roared with laughter. “Good God, man! Are you afraid of a dancing girl? Don't worry, she'll think you are a grand fellow. This,” he said, thumping his bulging pockets, “makes us as good as anyone. You just do as I do.”

Qasim fondled the crisp bundle of notes Nikka had shoved into his pockets.

“Don't you want to save any of it? And do I have to give all this to the girls?”

“Friend, that's chicken feed. I've got more than twice that much in my pockets. She's not one of your cheap floozies who flash their teeth from the balcony. Stop fretting.”

They paid the taxi at the entrance to the narrower Mandi lanes and walked towards the main street.

“Hold on to your money. It's not for pickpockets.” Nikka, at least, was alert. Walking leisurely, often he stopped to ogle, bandying coarse pleasantries with the air of a veteran. Qasim, by his side, peered at the girls with his customary, moony admiration. Again he was whisked away into a world of sensuality.
A benign smile settled hypnotically on his features. Had he died at that moment, that smile would have stayed.

He had a twinge of conscience when they passed the girl he had promised to visit on payday. She, rocking her jasmine-plaited hair over the balcony, didn't even see him. “Next time,” he vowed to himself, relieved, and he looked back in the hope that she might show some sign of recognition or disappointment. But the plait of hair went on swinging, and she did not turn towards him.

A fat, sweat-drenched man greeted Nikka. “Pehelwanjee, I've been waiting for you,” he cried. Embracing Nikka and Qasim in turn, he led them through a small doorway. They mounted the narrow steps, and Qasim whispered, “Ah! The front entrance!”

Nikka, with a deft backward kick of his heel, warned Qasim to be discreet.

The man ushered them into an oblong, soft-carpeted room that glowed with a garish coat of pink oil paint. A middle-aged woman sat on the floor near some musical instruments, an open silver paan-box spread on her voluminous lap. Chewing on her paan she smiled up at them through red, catechu-stained teeth.

“Won't you sit down?” she invited them, pointing a fat, bangle-jingling arm towards the cushions.

Nikka and Qasim sank comfortably into the downy satin bolsters. It was a small room but it looked spacious. Besides the carpets, pink drapes, and musical instruments, there was no clutter. The woman—she called herself Shahnaz's mother—put the betel-nut box aside and, leaning heavily on the harmonium, levered herself upright. “Can I get my lords some fresh paan? Yes? Excuse me a moment,” she smiled, and left.

“She's the Madam,” Nikka whispered, nudging Qasim. “Must've been quite something in her youth! She still retains the gracious manners of a trained courtesan, doesn't she?”
Qasim, who knew even less about courtesans than he did about kings, nodded sheepishly. Nikka informed him:

“To entertain, a courtesan knows how to elicit laughter. ‘That is our destiny,' a nautch-girl once told me. ‘We automatically smile in the presence of men. We are taught to from childhood. I'd never allow myself to be moody before a man.'”

The Madam waddled up and sat beside them. As if in league with Nikka, to prove the truth of his pronouncements, she channeled the conversation along flippant, laughter-laden lines. Ordering tea, calling for silver trays heavy with dried fruit, almonds and sweets, she put them completely at ease.

All at once she cupped her ears, intent on listening.

“It's them,” she announced, fluttering her lids. The gesture hardly became her age, yet she carried it off with assurance. “I think we can begin now. The other guests have arrived.”

Nikka sat up. “I thought we were to be the only ones.”

“It's just an old American: poor fellow. He is so besotted by my Shahnaz! Poor old fool . . .” she added, to appease Nikka.

“I'll reveal a secret,” she confided, leaning forward. “Shahnaz is like a peacock. The more admirers, the better she dances!”

Two men entered through the curtains and the Madam greeted them effusively. Leading the stringy, middle-aged American by the arm, she made a place for him amidst the cushions. There was no hiding her pride. The foreigner was her prize catch. He was accompanied by a dapper Pakistani.

The newcomers settled with an air of familiarity that excluded Nikka and Qasim. They whispered occasionally in monosyllables but for the greater part maintained a disdainful silence. Nikka squirmed on the cushions. He felt slighted. After a few loud remarks addressed to the uncomprehending Qasim, he subsided into a scowling silence.

The Madam bustled about trying to ease the strain. Each guest was given some Scotch, and a fragrant, elaborately carved hookah was passed around. Two musicians appeared from the
recesses. The drummer, a plump, effeminate man—a rim of long hair fringing his bald head—tapped the edge of his drums with a tiny mallet. The harmonium player, a younger man with smallpox marks, played a few careless notes on his instrument and sat back.

“Let me see if Shahnaz is ready. She shouldn't keep such distinguished guests waiting.” Smiling apologetically, the Madam vanished.

The
tabalchi
snuggled his pair of drums closer and slapped the vibrant skin until his palms found a clear, resonant beat. The harmonium player nodded his long-haired head in approval.

Qasim sipped his Scotch and reclined luxuriously in the pink-and-golden haze. The Scotch smoothed the edge of his anticipation and he grew oblivious to Nikka's fidgeting.

The American and his companion kept talking in English and Nikka's resentment of their presence deepened at the alien tongue. Opening his mouth cavernously, he yawned with a yowl reminiscent of jackals baying in the wilderness. Aware of the attention focused on him, he thumped Qasim drowsily and demanded, “When does our dancing bulbul appear? I am getting fed up with these American crows cawing in my ears.”

Glancing at the strangers, he caught a satisfying flare of their resentment.

Measured, bell-tinkling steps drew near. Parting the curtains, the girl continued with the same balanced tread until she stood before the guests. She knelt, bowing her head and smiling between salaaming fingers. Her eyes, now bold, now shy—black irises shifting in languorous slits—welcomed each in turn. She stood up and walked tall towards the musicians. A thick, black plait of hair bounced on her buttocks. Folding her legs to one side, she settled by the players. She consulted them and began with a popular film song. Shahnaz's voice was
low-pitched and throaty, her expression earnest yet volatile. The whites of her elongated eyes appeared to be blue-white between heavy, black lashes. The nose, slender and smooth, flared delicately. The left nostril supported a gold nose-ring that nestled daintily on curling lips. Every now and again, she would cup her palms in an outstretched, beseeching gesture in character with the words of the song and touch the tips of her earlobes in a charming avowal of virtue.

Next she sang a few romantic
ghazals
by Iqbal and Faiz.

The traditional rhythm of the famous verses pulsated in hypnotic monotony to the tempo of the tablas. The tabalchi's head rocked in rhythm, his oily fringe flaring to the beat. The musicians watched the singer incessantly. At the climax of a particularly well-worded stanza, they looked at each other in wonder. “Ahha—Ahha” they groaned, rolling their eyes in appreciation. The sensual rhythm, the wistful delicacy of the girl,
the swaying musicians, all wove a spell. Infected by the atmosphere the guests, too, moaned “Ahha, Ahha, great! great!” in the age-old manner of ecstatic orientals.

The suave Pakistani held out a ten rupee note as a more tangible sign of his appreciation. The girl stood up and without discontinuing her song, collected the money. The American held a note between his teeth and kissed Shahnaz's fingers as she plucked it. Qasim stuck a note on his turban and blushed unbearably when Nikka shouted, “Tweak his hair! Pinch his cheeks!”

One, five, and ten rupee notes peeped out of hip pockets and shirt fronts. Nikka held a ten rupee note between his crossed thighs and Shahnaz knelt prettily amongst the men, until she could sing no more. Sitting there, laughing, teasing, she charmed more and more money off them. The chiffon chaddar with its silver border framing her face slipped from her head and lay back. The Madam joined the circle. Their conversation in subtle, expressive Urdu, was rich with nuance; intimate as moist tongues mingling. Laughter, Scotch and the hookah caused an inane merriment in which all animosity, all cares, were forgotten.

After a while, adjusting her bells, Shahnaz began to dance. The tablas lashed the air with a savage, resounding beat, commanding the dancer's precise movements.

“Tha, tha, taka-tha! Ta dhin, dhin, na! Taka tha! tha! tha!” The girl's sinuous arms obeyed the beat, her fingers now fanning out in imitation of the fronds of a palm, now undulating like ripples on water. The bells round her ankles jingled to the stamp of her feet, dictating the sedate movement of her neck and eyes. “Tak-a-tha, Tak-a-tha.” Slowly she faces away beating one toe on the carpet. The plait of hair sways severely—side to side. Tablas explode faster. Faster the rhythm of the harmonium: and twirling on flying toes, she slips with relish into the less classic, more becoming dance of the dancing girls—lips
smiling, eyes roguish, silver toe-rings twinkling on hennaed feet. A shimmer of payals swirls beneath the long tight sweep of golden churidar pajamas—and under the flaring skirt, the shape of each thigh flashing. The uplifting of silk-cupped breasts, the blue-black electricity of plaited hair, the sparkle of silver fringes and silver ornaments on a writhing, sinuous body, all induce a mystic gyration. She dances on the money beneath her feet and through the money being pitched feverishly at her. In a blur she sees the Pehelwan hold up a note. “Why doesn't he throw it?” she wonders, until she notices its value. Salaaming, smiling, she withdraws with it, dancing.