The House of Djinn (6 page)

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Authors: Suzanne Fisher Staples

BOOK: The House of Djinn
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hoda Baksh pulled out into the heavy traffic after dropping Omar at his office and headed back toward Anwar Road. Muti hugged herself and took a deep breath. Her heart felt like a yo-yo—thrilled at one moment that she was about to see Jag, and plummeting the next because she knew she must resolve not to see him anymore. Sooner or later she and Fariel would be caught. But the excitement had been too, too irresistible. And, Muti thought, what had started out to be fun was turning into something much more significant—something much more dangerous and difficult to end.
The car turned into the welcoming, chaotic courtyard off Mustafa Road in the Cantonment area of Lahore, where Fariel lived with her widowed mother, her older sister Shaheen and Shaheen's husband, two married brothers and their wives, and at least, it seemed, a dozen children. The noise and dust of the traffic-clogged road were replaced by billowing mountains of bougainvillea, thick-trunked palm trees,
the sparkle of a fountain in the center of the courtyard, and the piercing shrieks of the children, who ruled the gardens as fiercely as the ayah ruled inside the house.
Fariel sat on the veranda with her mother under the shade of a vine-laden pergola. Fariel's legs were drawn up in the rattan swing, and she hugged her knees. Fariel's mother held open her arms for Muti. Fariel jumped to her feet and took the duffel bag so Muti could lean down and receive her hug.
“How are things, darling?” Fariel's mother always treated Muti as a daughter, and to Muti it was like a cool drink of water to a thirsty traveler. She returned the hug with an extra squeeze. “Sit, sit,” said Fariel's mother. “I'm sending you off with a thermos of tea, and it's not ready yet.”
Shaheen's son, Rafiq, raced past with his cricket bat poised, and snagged the handle of a wicker basket that sat on the table. The ayah had filled it with Fariel's favorite lemon cream biscuits. Muti chased Rafiq down and pinned his elbows to his sides. She brought him back laughing and squirming, the basket unharmed in his hand.
“I never get special biscuits made for me,” said Rafiq, scowling.
“Hah!” said Fariel. “You steal them before they're out of the oven!” She took the basket and selected two of the fragrant lemon biscuits, which she put on a plate and handed to Rafiq. “Now sit, and eat them like a human being.” Rafiq snatched them up and stuffed them both into his mouth. He ran off laughing, crumbs flying.
“That boy was naughty from the moment of birth,” said
Fariel's mother, shaking her head. “So, Mumtaz, tell me. Do you miss Jameel?” Muti felt tears sting at the back of her eyes and her throat tightened. She nodded and changed the subject. Yes, she missed her cousin, who did more to make her feel at home in the house at Number 5 Anwar Road than anyone, more even than Baba, who had to defend her all the time. Jameel was always happy to see her and loved her just as she was. He thought she was funny and smart—not a problem.
They talked about the weather: more rain in the afternoon, the radio had said, so they'd best get their tennis in while it was nice this morning. Muti and Fariel exchanged looks. A chill of guilt trickled down Muti's back like a drop of cold water. She loved these normal conversations that happened without a hint of rancor, their only aim comfort and sharing. She loved this house, where children were safe even when they were naughty.
Sometimes when Leyla seemed close to evicting Muti with one of her manipulative schemes, Muti fantasized about coming to live with Fariel's family. In reality there was not an inch of spare space in the crowded house.
Shaheen came downstairs from the suite of rooms she and her husband shared with their children, and they all stood. Muti hugged Fariel's mother again. The family's old ayah came out with a new basket packed with biscuits wrapped in a napkin, and now, too, a bundle of roasted chicken, and a battered thermos of iced tea. Fariel's mother inspected the basket to be sure they had everything they'd need, and
added a bunch of grapes from a plate on the table. Then they were off with Shaheen driving the white Pajero, Muti and Fariel in the backseat.
Their first stop was the Shahnawaz Tailor Shop in the old Anarkali Bazaar. Shaheen stopped at the end of one of the cloth alleys. Muti and Fariel adjusted their chadors over their heads and stepped out into the stifling morning heat.
“I'll pick you up at nine-thirty sharp,” Shaheen said. Parking near the bazaar was impossible, and Shaheen was off to run errands while Fariel and Muti were being fitted for three school uniforms apiece. They hurried down the dim alley, which was covered with ragged tarpaulins stretched from rooftop to rooftop to keep the rain and blazing sun from the shops below. They linked hands and ran, dodging handcarts filled with bolts of cloth, spools of thread, metal tins, and clay jars.
They waited on the bench in the front room of the cramped tailor shop while in the back room the darzi danced around one of their schoolmates and her sister, his mouth pursed around a bunch of pins, clucking and marking the pale blue fabric he'd draped about them with a nub of yellow chalk. An old, white-painted ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the linty dust and heat.
“Jag called this morning,” Fariel whispered close to Muti's ear.
“He called you at home?” Muti asked, looking around to see if anyone could hear. Nobody was paying attention, but she lowered her voice anyway.
“Rafiq was supposed to have a tennis lesson this afternoon,
and Jag had to change the time. It happened that I answered the phone. He asked if we were coming this morning, and I told him we were. He sounded relieved.” Muti studied the tips of her toes.
“I told him last time,” said Muti, “that I might not be able to come today. Omar is fine with our tennis. He covers for me by taking my clothes in to the laundry so Leyla won't see them. But she never misses anything. I know she suspects—she always suspects me of something.”
“It's not as though there's anything wrong with playing tennis,” said Fariel. “Half the girls in the school play.”
“You know it's not the tennis,” Muti said. “She disapproves of everything I do. And the others aren't sneaking around to meet a handsome tennis coach afterward! If they found out, Jag could lose his job, and she would send me away.” Fariel cocked her head, but said nothing. Muti knew Fariel thought she was exaggerating.
Jag was nice and funny and he had the most beautiful eyes. Muti wasn't sure when their playful conversations had turned serious. Sometimes she felt as if Jag were a sea and she were lost in him. The thought of ending their friendship put a lump in her throat and made her eyes sting. She had tried to tell Jag the last time she'd seen him, but he wouldn't let her.
Muti hadn't even been able to tell Fariel how she felt—Fariel, who had known every secret of Muti's heart since she came to Lahore. Fariel still thought they were just having a good time.
After they had tried on their uniforms they threaded their
way back through the bazaar. The Pajero was stopped halfway down the lane, which was blocked by donkeys and people pulling carts into the bazaar. Fariel and Muti pushed and jostled their way through the crush of bodies and loaded carts.
They got into the back of the car, and Muti's heart began to race. It was partly excitement at the thought of seeing Jag, but it was also dread at the thought of telling him she must not meet him anymore. She thought of what Fariel had asked a few weeks before.
“Do you like Jagdish all that much?” Fariel had asked. “Or are you rebelling against your family?” Muti hadn't answered immediately. She wanted to think about it, to answer her friend honestly. She was certain now that the danger of being found out was a terrible thing, an impediment to—and not an exciting element of—her feelings for Jag. Whenever she thought of the things that stood in their way her heart felt heavy, because Jag—well, Jag was the most unsuitable person she could ever have fallen in love with. She knew nothing about love, but she was certain she had fallen in love with him.
It felt as if she'd stumbled, and before she could catch herself she realized she didn't want to. Falling in love in itself was forbidden and dangerous. But there was more. His name was Jagdish Sethi, and he was a Hindu. His father was from India, and Jag was here visiting his mother's family for the summer. Muti thought that even her grandfather would disapprove of her having a Hindu boyfriend.
Shaheen let Muti and Fariel off at the entrance to the Lahore
Club. Teak fans turned overhead, stirring the fronds of the ferns in planters on the front porch. The girls made their way to the chintz-smothered ladies' changing room, which smelled of camphor from mothballs that stood in the drains, and ginger blossoms, which were bunched into vases on vanities and tables. They changed from their shalwar to churidar, and sat on white wicker chairs to tie their tennis shoes. They retied their long, white-lawn dupattas loosely, the tails hanging down between their shoulder blades.
They walked out onto the veranda and sank into more chintz-cushioned rattan furniture that had been drawn together under a green canopy. From there they could see every one of the tennis courts.
“You're so quiet,” Fariel said. “Is something wrong?” Muti sighed deeply and looked into Fariel's cinnamon-colored eyes.
“I can't do this anymore,” said Muti. Fariel cocked her head and Muti went on quickly before her friend could object. “I'm beginning to care too much for Jag. I think I've fallen in love.” Women were coming off the courts, taking chairs at small tables and ordering nimbu pani with salt-not-sugar, and dabbing at their sweat-damp faces with small white towels.
“Oh, oh!” said Fariel, lowering her voice so no one could hear. “I was afraid this might happen. Are you telling him today?”
Muti nodded. Her unruly heart lurched around in her chest, and for the third time that day she felt tears burn in the back of her throat. “If I can summon the strength,” she
said. “But I have to. Today I heard Leyla telling Omar she wanted to arrange a marriage for me in Okurabad.”
Fariel's eyes grew wide, but their coach had come out and was motioning them onto the court. By the time they lined up on the baseline with two other girls, Muti's resolve had begun to falter. Jag waited on the next court for three boys to take their rackets out of their bags. He studied the strings of his racket, adjusting them with his thumb. He looked up and saw Muti as their coach instructed them to stretch. He looked at her for a moment before walking over to stand before his students on the foul line. He wore a white knit shirt and creased white linen trousers.
Muti could not take her eyes from his tall, lanky frame. When he spoke to the boys she studied his sweet, gentle face. He smiled broadly as he greeted his students. Muti and Fariel's coach announced that they would work on their crosscourt backhands today. They took turns dashing from corner to corner of the court until they were breathless. Muti kept thinking of the deep cleft of Jag's chin, the glossy curl of his hair, still wet from his morning shower.
The class was a high intermediate level. Jag had told Muti she had potential to be an excellent player. Her own instructor said she was the best of her class, although the others had played for years, and she'd started only at the beginning of the school summer break. Muti thought it was her determination to run down every ball, no matter how impossible the get seemed, that made her a good player. Jag had said she was a natural with her muscular body and her athletic coordination. And quite apart from her attraction to Jag,
Muti loved the sport, the competition, the concentration and mental acuity it required.
Afterward Muti and Fariel ordered nimbu pani, and carried their sweating drinks to the risers near the white tent at the side of the court where the tennis pros kept their things. The sour of the barely diluted lime juice made Muti shiver, even in the humid monsoon heat. Muti waited until no one else was around, and ducked into the tent, leaving Fariel on the bleachers waiting for Moby, a club pro who was her cousin, and two girls from their tennis class. Fariel kept her eyes open for anyone headed for the tent while she and the others watched a match begin on the next court. Jag sat in a chair wiping his arms with a towel. Muti was relieved that he was alone. He had only a half-hour break, and they could talk without interruption.
“You were burning up the court today,” Jag said. Muti felt heat rise in her throat and cheeks. “Where did you learn that backhand? It's as good as your forehand. I know you don't have anywhere else to practice. Really, Muti, you should be taking tennis more seriously.”
“It's so much fun,” she said, as Jag stood to pull a folding chair next to his wooden one. “I wish I could play all year.”
“Well, maybe your family will reconsider,” he said, draping his towel over his knees. “I'm sure you can be persuasive.” She smiled, but didn't respond.
He leaned forward and took her hand and held it in both of his. She loved the feeling of their warmth and largeness.
“What are we going to do, my dear Mumtaz?” he asked.
“School starts in a couple of weeks,” Muti said. “Jag, I
have to stop this. I … we can't take such a risk. You could lose your job, and I …” Jag's face didn't change, and she couldn't quite get out any more words.

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