Haveli (23 page)

He greeted her with a faint nod and crossed the hallway to the study, holding the door open for her to enter first. The study was gloomy, even with the heavy velvet drapes opened wide.

Rahim’s shoulders were stooped, and he looked for the first time, she thought, older than his years.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?”

“That Amina plans a servants’ apprenticeship and that Mumtaz is to be included?”

Rahim shrugged his shoulders. “Amina handles these matters,” he said.

“A servant’s apprentice,” said Shabanu, “is only a small servant, and Mumtaz should not be treated like a servant.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” he said, holding up his hands to quiet her. “Amina probably just wants Mumtaz to be included in a school program. Of course she won’t be a servant’s apprentice.”

“Since Amina has asked Samiya to teach, does that mean she won’t be teaching in Lahore any longer?” Her heart was pounding with anger. But she spoke calmly and carefully.

“Perhaps,” he said. “If this teacher is talented, perhaps her employment should benefit many children, not just Mumtaz. And there are many more servants here than at the
haveli
.”

“We won’t be going back to Lahore?”

“Of course! You can visit whenever you like …” His exasperated tone of voice let Shabanu know he did not believe Amina would rob Mumtaz of her freedom.

“Rahim,” she said. “I don’t mind if Mumtaz studies with the servants’ children. But I will not—”

“Good!” he said. “The matter is settled.” He turned to go.

Shabanu knew she would not dissuade him now. But she must get Mumtaz away.

“Rahim,” she said. “Before Mumtaz begins school
I’d like to take her to Cholistan to visit my family.”

“Why not?” he said. “Now I must get back.” He turned again to leave, but Shabanu spoke his name once more.

“I’ve hardly seen you at all,” she said softly, and she was surprised at the emotion in her own voice.

“There will be time for us after these weddings are over,” he said, and pulled her close enough to kiss her lightly on the top of the head. And then he was gone.

Shabanu was not comforted. She was very angry with Rahim for going back on their agreement that she and Mumtaz could stay in Lahore. He would allow Amina to treat Mumtaz like a servant. And not least of all he’d dismissed her—his wife!—like a child. But she said nothing. The important thing was that she had his permission to take Mumtaz away.

Shabanu’s mind was aswirl with so many worries they bumped into each other and melted together, each becoming part of the other. Choti’s death threw an ominous gloom over all. Amina’s plan to put Mumtaz into apprenticeship was dangerous. Shabanu was not fooled by Rahim’s reassurance. Once a servant in that household, there was no escape. She was certain of that.

Sending Mumtaz to her family was risky. Rahim would object when she came back without her. She thought of what she might say to him: “Mumtaz will never fit in here. She will always be the daughter of a
gypsy, even if she studies and becomes an engineer. I want her to know her own people so she can be proud of them, as I am.”

Shabanu worried that having Mumtaz safe in Cholistan would forever ruin plans for her education. And the thought of living without her daughter, her jewel, filled her with an unbearable sadness.

Floating in and out among her concerns was Omar, though she managed most of the time not to think about him. For while she did keep him from her consciousness, he lurked beneath its surface. Her longing and sadness made all the other worries seem worse.

But Shabanu was not one of those helpless women who wrung their hands and walked about moaning “What to do? What to do?”

At the moment there was only one thing to do, and she set about doing it. The rest she would trust to Allah.

Shabanu was Zabo’s only attendant for the wedding. The rain had stopped, but the sense of foreboding and gloom that had engulfed the house earlier remained. Zenat dressed Mumtaz while Shabanu dressed. No one spoke.

Shabanu chose a plain
shalwar kameez
in a deep blue that reminded her of the desert night sky. She knew her dress was hardly suitable for a wedding; instead it suited her mood. She wore no jewelry
except for a pair of silver nomad’s earrings and her heavy silver bangles that she had worn to a burnished mellow glow. She and Mumtaz went together to the main house, where Zabo was to dress.

They met in the parlor. Servants bearing trays and last-minute flowers and dishes scurried through the room.

Zabo looked pale, and her eyes had deep dishes beneath them, as if she hadn’t slept in days. But she was calm. She wore a plain cotton tunic. She smiled and bent to hug Mumtaz.

“Did you sleep?” Shabanu asked in a whisper.

“A bit.”

Shabanu longed for the friend to whom she’d once told everything—who understood and comforted her and offered advice. But these days, with Zabo so preoccupied with her own troubles, Shabanu felt from time to time that she’d never been more alone. In these moments her sense of solitude deepened.

Selma came to announce that she had laid out Zabo’s dress in Rahim’s bedroom. She looked at Shabanu’s plain dark
shalwar kameez
but said nothing.

Selma held out her arms to them. Both of the women went to her and bent forward to accept kisses on their foreheads. Shabanu held Mumtaz up to be kissed. They climbed the stairs together slowly, waiting for Selma, who wheezed on the landing.

“The others wanted to come,” Selma said. She sat heavily in the chair inside the door and waited for her
breathing to return to normal. “What you did not need was a gaggle of women in here gossiping and worrying you about omens.” Zabo stepped out of her clothes.

“Who could expect good omens for such a match under the best of circumstances?” Zabo asked with a small, thin laugh.

“You have been courageous, child,” said Selma. “I hope Allah has given you the wisdom to know how to deal with your father as well as your husband.”

Selma looked around, found her purse, and, to Shabanu’s immense relief, moved toward the door again.

“I’ll leave you to dress. But I have a special gift for you,” she said. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

When she had gone, Shabanu untied the knot in the end of her
dupatta
and pressed the darkly curled piece of vine into Zabo’s hand. She explained what it was for and how to insert it to keep from being impregnated. Tears filled Zabo’s eyes, but she breathed deeply and wiped them away.

“You will be all right for two weeks.” It was partly a question and partly a statement. “Selma says Leyla’s wedding should be around then, though the
imams
have not yet fixed the exact day.”

Zabo nodded. She stood still for a moment, as if gathering her composure. She pulled the red satin slip over her head, and her hands paused for just a second
as she smoothed the silk over her waist, where it curved in to fit snugly.

“As long as I know Sharma will come without fail,” she said. But there was a quaver in her voice as she reached for the beautiful wedding skirt with pigeon-blood rubies sewn into its Moguli pattern.

“The plan is very simple. She’ll meet us in Lahore. With the wedding, there will be much confusion. And in case something goes wrong, the assembly will be back in session the following week, so we are sure to be there. I’m to tell Sharma through Aab-pa if we must suddenly return to Okurabad. We’ll work out the final details then.”

She looked at Zabo in the red satin slip, the straps draping against her slender shoulders, the silk molding her lovely round breasts. What a tragedy to waste her beauty, her loyalty, her wonderful gifts for love and laughter on an idiot boy!

Again Shabanu was overcome by anger: at Rahim for making this happen; and at Nazir for being greedy, cruel, and unreasonable. Even Selma in the end had acquiesced. But Shabanu knew she should harness her rage—save its energy for when she needed it. So she ignored the sharp prickles that ran up and down her spine.

Zabo raised her arms, and Shabanu slipped the gold-embroidered red silk tunic over her head.

Zabo crossed to the dressing table and sat before
the mirror, her eyes level on her reflection. Shabanu fastened the enameled pendant’s red silk cord at the back of Zabo’s neck and pinned the ruby and emerald
tikka
so that it hung low on her forehead, the tiny fake diamonds sparking for ten times all they were worth just above her eyebrows. Zabo attached the end of the ornament’s chain to the slender gold nose ring, the
nath
—which means “caught”—and the single real ruby glittered against the rim of her nostril. Selma’s gold-domed earrings with ruby and emerald drops did not diminish the sparkle of the less-than-real stones, and Zabo examined the effect with satisfaction.

She then set about applying gold powder and kohl to her eyes, and rouge to her cheeks and lips.

“How do I look?” Zabo asked, turning her shimmering eyes to meet Shabanu’s in the mirror.

“Like you paid a
crore
of rupees for your trousseau,” said Shabanu. “And you look very beautiful,” she added, bending over to hug Zabo’s shoulders.

Zabo busied herself for a few more seconds, adding more powdered gold to the creases of her eyelids. Then she snapped her makeup and jewelry cases shut deliberately and slowly, inspected herself a final time, and stood.

Shabanu took her hands, and they stood facing each other for a moment until Zabo turned to unfold the red silk and fake gold-embroidered
chadr
. She handed it to Shabanu to arrange over her head.

Selma met them at the foot of the stairway. She
had in her hands a velvet box. She opened it, and inside was a ruby-and-diamond bracelet that glittered on its gold satin cushion. Zabo looked up into Selma’s face.

But Shabanu’s anger swelled in her chest and throat. She wanted to throw the bracelet to the marble floor and smash it with a hammer and tell them how unfair this was to Zabo.

“Daoud gave it to me on our wedding day,” Selma said softly. “May it bring you peace.”

Shabanu realized then how fully Selma had understood all along what Zabo was going through, and what she and Zabo had been up to with their endless days of shopping in Lahore. As suddenly as it had come upon her, her anger toward Selma evaporated. Her deep affection for the older woman returned, and the knowledge that she could be trusted settled over Shabanu for once and forever.

She took one of Zabo’s arms, and Selma took the other. Samiya brought Mumtaz, whose thick hair flowed down her back. Her face was composed and solemn. She looked very grown-up in the cobalt blue silk tunic and long skirt that matched her mother’s. She trailed along behind Zabo, holding her auntie’s skirt and tunic up so that they didn’t drag on the carpets that had been laid over the muddy grass.

Zabo walked slowly and deliberately, her head bent, making the traditional, hesitant, fearful bride’s march to the dais where Ahmed was to join her.

The wedding guests—only a couple of dozen relatives and nearby neighbors had braved the floods—sat under the
shamiyana
, its brightly quilted walls billowing in the stiff breeze.

The rain had stopped about an hour before, but the sky boiled and menaced. The air was cool and damp.

In another chamber of the tent, the men were exchanging the marriage documents and congratulating Ahmed.

The female guests talked quietly of the rain and the unhappy marriage it portended.

“It’s uncivilized to have a wedding in such weather! It’s going to pour again at any second,” said a sister of Amina, leaning across a half-occupied chair to speak to a woman whose ample bottom spilled over to fill part of the chairs on either side of her. “My brother-in-law has taken leave of his senses.”

“Hush,” said Amina, leaning her elaborately coiffed head back from the row ahead. My husband has his reasons.… ” Her voice trailed off in a tragic sigh. Her eyes were lined with sparkling powder, which glittered from the corners like a rivulet of tears.

Most of the women wore georgette
shalwar kameez
sewn with iridescent beads and sequins. The younger ones, whose bodies had not yet expanded, wore the magnificent clothing of their own weddings—
unpacked from trunks and unwrapped from tissue paper each year, as long as they fit, for the wedding season.

Many wore jewels brought all the way from Damascus and Baghdad at the time the ancient caliphs left to spread Islam throughout the world. One wore jade disks the size of rupee coins, which had been carved in China by the emperor’s jeweler; another wore a diamond pendant that looked like a paperweight. All wore strings of gems in their hair, diamonds sewn into the folds of their clothing, and gems in their noses and on their fingers.

They moved slowly and languidly, fanning themselves with bored movements despite the coolness of the evening, and gossiped furtively behind their fans. The breeze blew oppressive clouds of mingled expensive European colognes about the
shamiyana
.

“What would you expect?” asked one cousin. “Marriage to the daughter of Nazir cannot bode well for anyone.”

It struck Shabanu as ludicrous that they should be more concerned for Ahmed’s happiness than Zabo’s! Zabo’s face was completely covered, and her shoulders trembled slightly under the weight of her tunic and skirt. She looked like a proper Punjabi bride, all tremulous and lovely.

Shabanu and Zabo made their way to the dais through the women, who hushed their gossip briefly
as they passed. The dais was draped with garlands of jasmine and marigolds. The tuberoses never did arrive.

In the front near the center aisle sat Leyla, her hair swept up dramatically and caught high above one ear in a comb set with diamonds. Her eyes were heavily made up, and her mouth and fingers flashed a brilliant wet crimson.

When Zabo was seated on silken cushions piled on a carved chair, Ahmed entered through the rear of the tent from the men’s chamber, and the women hushed as he walked down the center aisle to take his place beside Zabo on the dais, where he sat still for a few minutes and then began to squirm. He looked frail in his knee-length
sherwani
, with its fitted waist and high collar, which made his neck look vulnerable and childish.