Shabanu: Chapters 19–23

Dadi and Murad stay where they are as Mama and I scurry to tie a shelter to the tent cords to cover the fire, and pull our things inside. They are so engrossed, staring and waiting, that they barely notice the now pelting water.

“Rahim-sahib is a politician,” Mama answers wearily. She too has been up all night, listening to the men talk on the radio. “Nazir Mohammad threatens to take Murad’s land and cut off his water, to turn it back into desert;—out of spite. A councilman wouldn’t want his constituents to know he had a brother like that.”

Spin Gul rides up, water dripping in rivulets from his rain cape, the fur on his camel’s neck matted and clumped.

Spin Gul rides up, water dripping in rivulets from his rain cape, the fur on his camel’s neck matted and clumped.

Again a vision of Nazir Mohammad’s fat flesh wobbling as he sweats over my beautiful sister sends a shiver of revulsion through me.

We are shown to a room that adjoins Bibi Lal’s, and Mama knocks on her door.

The furrows of grief on her face are deep, but she is calm and purposeful.

Phulan lies with her back to us on one of the string cots, and Sakina stands tentatively by the door, biting her lips, her small niece straddling one hip.

Phulan lies with her back to us on one of the string cots, and Sakina stands tentatively by the door, biting her lips, her small niece straddling one hip.

Phulan sits transfixed, and I get up to pour Sakina a cup of water.

The boys are terrified, and I am afraid they’ll fall or try to jump from the branch, I prop the ladder again, its feet in the mud at the base of the tree, and climb to the branch they cling to and coax them to come down.

It’s our captain with two kerosene lamps, one for each room. I put one on the window sill and the other on the mantel over the empty fireplace.

A syed is a religious leader who traces his lineage back to the family of the Prophet Mohammed.

The man on the silver-white horse hands Dadi the wooden box and turns. Dadi watches him canter away before he returns to us.

Everyone crowds around me, gabbling like crows with excitement.

Everyone thinks something magical has happened. And what’s on my mind? The fleeting hope that Murad has gone to the canal because he is disturbed that I should have a gift from the landowner.

“Come on, Shabanu, put it on!” she urges, and I slip the exquisite shimmering ring onto my finger. “The bangles, and the nose pin, too!” I oblige mechanically, and they all dance around and tell me how wonderful I look.

It’s hot and muggy, except when it rains, and I feel trapped in a torpor that leaves us with little energy other than that required to keep a routine of pampering Phulan.

She pushes away Auntie’s hand, which holds a spoonful of cooked sweet carrot pudding with nuts and raisins, and lies back on a bolster covered with embroidery, a gift from Sakina.

Every morning Mama and I massage jasmine oil sparkling with golden powders—turmeric, cumin, and saffron—into Phulan’s skin, which has turned from the paleness of her grief to a glowing copper that shines smoothly around the soft curves of her arms, legs, and face.

The servant girl stays on, unobtrusively at first. She returns to her family at Rahim-sahib’s house each night, and we grow used to having her, especially with Phulan’s extra demands.

They’re all uppity- uppity women. They get along all right. But what about her? Do you think they’ll take a desert girl into their circle?

“But Rahim-sahib is very healthy, and he’ll live to be an old man,” says Mama.
“Bah!” says Sharma, and they break into a raucous discussion, shouting and interrupting each other.

Dadi might allow Mama’s eccentric cousin to criticize, but he won’t let her change his mind.

Sharma laughs heartily. “True!” she says, but her voice turns weary. “You girls know nothing of men. What he sees as spirit and intelligence now may look like insolence and trouble later.”

Sometimes, as I lie under the quilt looking up at the starlit sky, a lone shepherd beckons his sheep with a flute from the top of a distant dune.

In a clearing between our mud houses and the farm, a man with a stick stands guard, occasionally chasing off a swarm of children who descend upon men making sweets in heavy cauldrons surrounded by pungent smells and clouds of flies.

Wearing a dress of muslin, the cloth of mourning, Bibi Lal looks like a giant white lily among her cousins and nieces, who carry baskets of sweets atop their flower-colored chadrs.

Sakina carries a wooden box containing henna. The mahendi women, Hindus from a village deep in the desert who will paint our hands and feet, walk behind her. Musicians and a happy cacophony of horns, pipes, and cymbals drift around them.

It will be different when Rahim-sahib and I marry. His people will scorn us and our shoes with turned-up toes and rough cotton tunics.

You can lavish love and praise on him and work hard by his side. Yes, and have your sons. That will help. It will be different when Rahim-sahib and I marry.

The quavering melody of a shenai wafts across the desert on a breeze, and for the first time since Hamir’s death I am at peace.

A maulvi chants the call of the faithful in a high, nasal wail, and their vows are exchanged three times, with Phulan nodding her assent.

I lie against her for some time, taking comfort from her large brown hand stroking my hair and the earthy, desert smell of her.

Sharma looks at me steadily, her fingers firm on my shoulders. The shade of the tree dapples over us, softening the deep lines on her forehead.

“I know how to make breakfast and look after the house,” I say, my voice shaking with indignation.

In the afternoon, on the pretext of looking for mushrooms, I wander toward the toba.

Every night I curl up under the quilt pretending to sleep. But sleep eludes me.

“I’ll throttle her!”
“What will that accomplish?” asks Mama, her voice an urgent whisper. “She doesn’t want to marry Rahim-sahib. Give her time to come to terms...”

I keep waiting for the enormity of my flight to frighten me or to make me sorry—knowing that I’m letting Mama and Dadi down, that Murad could lose his farm, that I could be caught and beaten.