Haveli (14 page)

T
he next day was a blur of heat and activity, with Selma at the center of it like a police officer directing traffic from the pedestal in the mall. She gave orders in the kitchen, then dispatched boys in new white
lungis
and turbans with reminders to houses throughout Lahore that there would be music in the
haveli
tonight. She sent Rahim and Omar to the bungalows in the Cantonment, where Omar was very much in demand.

And she sent Yazmin with Shabanu and Zabo to see Mahmood in the fancy-cloth bazaar. Selma’s car was waiting in the lane beyond the courtyard. As Shabanu stepped into the sunlight, glints struck her eye from the mirrors sewn into the black velvet vest worn by the driver, who stood with his back to them holding the sedan door open.

“Ibne!” said Shabanu. The servant touched his starched white turban with his fingertips in a formal, unsmiling salute.

“Good morning,
Begum
,” he said with elaborate dignity.

Shabanu could not keep a happy smile from her face. She stepped into the car, her heart singing to have Ibne back. They drove through the noisy, crowded lane to the cloth bazaar, and neither she nor Ibne spoke again. It was as if she’d seen him only the day before. She wanted to ask how he’d come to Lahore, but his silence let her know it was better to forget the extraordinary events of the month before.

She was puzzled by Rahim’s capacity for both the chilling callousness with which he’d imposed a life sentence on Zabo, and the compassion with which he’d secretly reinstated Ibne—even promoted him, from white horse to limousine.

Ibne stood outside the door of the shop. As the three women entered the hot, dark room, Shabanu saw Zabo’s two bodyguards take their places on either side of Ibne. Her heart took an extra beat—she hadn’t seen them all day. But as the clatter of
tongas
and donkey carts and the white, vaporous heat receded behind them, Shabanu realized they had been close-by the entire time.

Mahmood, a tall man with betel-stained lips, greeted them, bowed deeply, and peered up from under his turban. He turned on the lights, and a fan began to twirl lazily overhead, stirring air laden with lint from the bolts of cloth behind him.

Zabo was relaxed, laughing as she and Shabanu sat
with the cloth shop owner sipping tea and poring over silks and cottons woven by hand in India and smuggled across the border. Yazmin sat wide-eyed behind them.

“The pale green will be wonderful with this,” said Mahmood, holding up a length of pink silk with diagonal stripes of the same green. “You must wear a string of cabochon peridots with it. My cousin has a set …

By noon they were hungry, and Mahmood sent a boy with a fistful of rupee notes to fetch
pakoras
from the bazaar. It should have been fun, but Shabanu could not relax with the bodyguards standing just outside the door. She was glad Ibne also was there.

Zabo selected a red shot-silk skirt for the wedding itself. Shabanu marveled at her calm as she examined the mysterious deep red folds and the heavy border of gold embroidery.

“Rubies are to be sewn here,” said Mahmood, touching a tobacco-stained finger to an oval space in the midst of the pattern. “And here,” he said turning the fabric, “and here.” The stones were to be a gift from Selma.

The boy came in from the bazaar balancing a round brass tray atop his dusty, tousled head. He set it down, and Mahmood smacked his crusty red lips as he poured more tea and offered the spicy fried dumplings to Zabo and Shabanu. When they had finished, Mahmood wiped his greasy hands on his
lungi
and pulled down more matched pieces of cotton and silk. Zabo selected one more suit and sat back wearily.

“I’ve had enough,” she said.

“But you’ve selected only four suits,” Mahmood said. “That will be enough only for the
nukkah
.”

“You misunderstand,” Zabo said, standing to her full height and meeting his eyes, “I have good taste, or I wouldn’t be here, but I am not wealthy enough to spend a fortune on wedding clothes.”

“But surely an influential family like yours …”

“Please have the
darzi
come to the
haveli
tomorrow morning,” she said, brushing past him.

Mahmood followed them to the doorway, wringing his hands.

“But
Begum-sahiba
said you should buy at least a dozen suits …”

“At ten o’clock,” Zabo said with finality as she stepped out into the heat and dust of the street. Shabanu could have hugged her.

They spent the afternoon resting in the
haveli
. Shabanu lay on her silver-legged
charpoi
with Mumtaz curled in the curve of her waist. She tried to persuade herself that if a betrayal was committed in order to save someone’s life, it was not a betrayal. For she was convinced that she must save Mumtaz from Amina and Leyla. But her heart would not be still.

Choti lay at the side of the bed, her delicate hooves tucked under her. Not a breath of air moved
in the room, and the mosquito netting hung dry and limp around them without a promise of relief from rain or breeze.

Shabanu heard a soft groan as the door moved slightly, and she raised her head. Zabo pulled up the netting and settled at the end of the bed, her slender brown arms hugging her knees. Small strands of wavy black hair had come loose from the ribbon tied around her head, and the tendrils framed her face softly. Her eyes danced.

Shabanu propped her head on her hand.

“What are you plotting now?” she asked.

“How can we get away from Selma? If she takes us to the gold bazaar …”

“Shh …” Shabanu whispered, looking over her shoulder at the door, which still stood open a crack. Zabo climbed out from under the netting and closed it.

Choti raised her head and followed Zabo with her bright eyes. Mumtaz stirred but remained asleep, and the fawn lay her head down again and closed her eyes when Zabo climbed back under the netting and settled beside Shabanu.

“Selma’s sympathetic,” said Shabanu, still speaking in a whisper. “But we can’t risk telling her. Perhaps she doesn’t know how much money you have to spend. Maybe you can tell her you have less. But stop looking happy. She’ll suspect something!”

Zabo laughed, covering her mouth with both
hands. Shabanu put her finger to her lips. “Zabo, we must be careful of the bodyguards. I have the feeling they’re always within listening distance.”

“They’re ax murderers,” Zabo said, hunching her shoulders forward.

“They certainly look it.”

“No, truly! I saw them come back with bloody axes after my father accused some poor farmer of taking water from a canal that didn’t belong to him.” She lowered her voice further. “They found him months later, stuffed into a well!”

Shabanu shuddered. She wondered whether the farmer was Lal Khan, Phulan’s brother-in-law. His wife had found him in a well, with his embroidered slippers pointing toward the sky. How many farmers could Nazir have killed? She leaned closer to Zabo.

“God help us,” she whispered with a shiver. “We will have to be so careful.” Mumtaz woke up and squirmed to get beyond the heat of her mother’s body.

They talked then for a while of normal things in normal voices, while Mumtaz played with the fawn.

Yazmin called them early to tea, and Zabo arranged her face somberly. She said little and ate less.

“Come, child,” said Selma. “You have to eat. You’ll be sick, and that won’t help anything.” Zabo sighed and nibbled at a biscuit. She was masterful! She didn’t overact—she was simply somber and restrained.

She’s probably starving, thought Shabanu.

The next day Ibne dropped Shabanu, Zabo, and Selma at the edge of the jewelry bazaar, its narrow alleys lined with shop after shop of velvet-cushioned glass cases.

Before some of the long, glistening cases sat customers, wealthy women whose strong European perfumes overpowered the bazaar’s scent of spices, wood smoke, and roasting nuts. Behind the cases sat prosperous-looking men in clean white shirts, who offered tea and effusively proclaimed the virtues of their jewelry. The customers acted dramatically unimpressed, pointing out the flaws in the stones and faults in the designs.

The shop owners who were without customers busied themselves arranging and rearranging velvet display stands beneath the polished glass. Gold chains the thickness of a single strand in a spiderweb glinted among displays of dome-shaped earrings encrusted with emeralds and rubies that, in their brilliance, rivaled the feathers of Rahim’s caged birds.

A group of women wearing hand-dyed
chadrs
draped over their heads stood before a case of gems that shone more palely than the others. The youngest, a girl of twelve or thirteen, stood on one bare foot, the toes of her other foot rubbing her shin above a heavy silver tribal anklet.

Shabanu thought of the day she’d gone with her father to the gold bazaar at Rahimyar Khan to buy Phulan’s jewelry. They’d been simple desert folk like
these. She’d been this girl’s age, and the sum of money her father laid on the counter had staggered her. It represented nearly half the proceeds from the sale of their finest camels, half the family’s wealth. But it also had represented her sister’s life insurance. A good dowry should ensure a girl’s future with her in-laws. Phulan was lucky—her husband’s family would have been kind to her regardless of the dowry. She wondered how it would be for this girl.

When they reached Selma’s favorite shop, the man behind the counter stood and bowed formally.

“Asalaam-o-Aleikum, Begum-sahiba,”
he said in formal greeting. This man was not obsequious, as Mahmood had been. He seemed genuinely happy to see Selma. His eyes crinkled easily as he spoke, and his smile was natural.

“This is my niece,” said Selma, and Zabo kept her head bowed. The man nodded. “She’ll be married in just a few weeks, and we need to see a nosepiece and chain, earrings, a head ornament …”

The shopkeeper brought out several purple velvet boxes and opened them under their eyes. The head ornament was suspended on gold chains that would be pinned to the hair. It was a gold disk the size of Shabanu’s palm, set with pigeon-blood rubies and diamonds, and enameled with ground emerald, pearl, and ruby. Tiny pearls were suspended on chains the thickness of hair from its outer perimeter, and a longer chain was attached to a nose ring of sculpted
gold with diamonds and rubies outlining it like a halo.

Zabo reached out from under her
chadr
and touched Selma’s arm.

“I beg your pardon, Auntie,” she said in a shy and tremulous voice. The shopkeeper stepped back to give them privacy.

“I don’t believe women should spend their fortunes on jewelry like those poor desert women,” said Zabo. She kept her voice low, but it had grown in intensity. She looked into Selma’s eyes and tightened her grip on her arm. “It’s not right to put a price on a woman’s head. This marriage will happen, with or without jewelry.”

Selma watched Zabo closely as she spoke, her lips parted slightly. She then looked at Shabanu, who stood holding her breath and watching her friend with admiration. Selma looked back at Zabo’s unflinching eyes.

“I see,” said Selma, and Shabanu believed she really did understand. Everything. Selma turned to talk to the shopkeeper.

Shabanu slid her eyes toward Zabo, who continued to look straight ahead, her face earnest, while the shopkeeper folded away the velvet boxes and took out others that were smaller.

They settled on an intricately molded gold hoop with a single clear ruby that lay just against the nose. Zabo chose an enameled pendant on a red silk cord
to wear around her neck. She couldn’t decide on earrings.

“Never mind,” said Selma. “I have a lovely pair from my own wedding, and you may wear them. It will be a wedding gift to you.”

Zabo looked up at the older woman with glistening eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, and Selma squeezed her hand.

That evening Selma served a grand dinner. From the bazaar she’d borrowed cook pots large enough for Mumtaz to hide in and servants from all the neighboring houses.

Rahim’s other wives and daughters came from their bungalows, dressed in silk and sequins, their jewels glittering from behind pale georgette
dupattas
drawn demurely across their faces.

After polite greetings murmured at the front gate, Shabanu and Zabo strayed to the kitchen, beyond the range of the other women’s scornful eyes. Rahim, Nazir, Omar, Mahsood, and all the other male cousins and nephews sat together, talking earnestly of land and politics.

It was a time of few intrigues for the men, and they were able to relax. The sealing of the brothers’ children’s weddings and the reuniting of their lands signaled to their enemies that they stood undivided and strong. No rival would dare challenge them in their time of strength. Shabanu caught glimpses of
Rahim; he smiled often and openly, like a king secure on his throne.

It was after eleven when the musicians began to tune their instruments in the courtyard. Everyone moved outside. A thousand tiny
divali
lamps surrounded the fountain, gleaming from the ancient tiles and burnishing the brick walls of the outer perimeter of the courtyard; copper oil lamps glowed from niches spaced every few feet. Dozens of jewel-colored carpets had been spread over the paving stones of the courtyard for people to sit on. Mirrored and embroidered bolsters were placed like large kabobs about the courtyard for the listeners to rest against for the long night ahead. Tuberoses perfumed the air and the night seemed to have been planned by fairies.

The musicians sat on a raised platform decorated with flowers in tall crystal vases, fine red Persian carpets, and a shower of tiny electric lights on a velvet curtain behind them.

A man in a plain white
lungi
raised a bamboo flute to his lips, and a clear melody floated out over them, reminding Shabanu of the shepherds of her childhood calling their flocks out to graze in the desert. She could almost hear the animals respond with a soft symphony of muted bells as they moved off among the dunes.

Two other men joined the flute player on the platform. Silver rings gleamed from a pair of hands that kneaded and coaxed the skin head of a tabla,
making the drum speak eloquently, as if it had several tongues. Beside the tabla player, a man in a turban that glowed with silver threads had been tuning a sitar, sending out shimmering notes from string after string. When he and the instrument were ready, a chord fanned out like the tail of a peacock, and several voices from the men’s side of the courtyard murmured,
“Bismillah!”
The audience was lost in a
raga
.