Uzma Khan - Trespassing

Dia lay on the floor and Sumbul repeated, ‘I think it might be time.’

Dia looked at the clock. It was 5.30 in the morning. Sumbul had stayed awake longer than she. ‘Show me.’

Leaving Sumbul’s baby asleep on the couch, they slipped into the shed. At first it was eerily hushed inside. But the further they crept, the more sounds began to reach them: leaves rustling under the writhing caterpillars, the drone of ventilators, and in the distance, buses on the highway — going north, north to the river in her dream. She shuddered. When they reached the two cocoons, Dia’s mood lifted completely. ‘Look!’ she whispered.

The shells had split. Two tiny heads each with two brown antennae and two stubby palps poked out. They were nibbling the husks, a sound like grasshoppers crunching leaves, or roaches in a paper bag.

And then someone tapped Dia’s shoulder from behind.

She swung around, yelping. It was Shan, grinning, his Kalashnikov pointing at her. He lowered it. ‘I was just joking!’

Sumbul slapped him. ‘How dare you frighten us!’

Shan pouted, rubbing an injured cheek. ‘I just came to tell you the phone’s been ringing in the shack,’ he whined.

‘Well, answer it then,’ Sumbul and Dia snapped together.

‘The door’s locked. It’s that automatic kind, remember?’ He waved his gun, and, half-whimpering, half-threatening, declared, ‘Next time I won’t be joking.’ Pivoting on his bare heels, he stomped off, his soussi lungi billowing about his legs like a petticoat.

Dia returned to the moths. They’d retreated into their holes. She sighed. ‘Who could be calling at this hour?’

‘Maybe it’s your mother,’ said Sumbul. ‘Perhaps I should go.’

‘Yes,’ Dia agreed. ‘You must be sleepy anyway. I’ll wait here. Who knows when they’ll come out again.’ She gazed at the half-bitten cocoons beseechingly.

Sumbul took the keys and left.

Dia sat alone in a chair, waiting. If the larvae were private about spinning their cocoons, the pupae were neurotic. They seemed able to detect her even when she sat motionless, even through the shells of their cocoons, and kept their transformation defiantly to themselves. Dia wagged a finger: I’m going to watch you this time.

The smell was rancid. She held her nose. Out loud, she said, ‘Aphrodisiac. Dizzy Ak.’ The word came from Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Aphrodite tucked her charm into a girdle many other goddesses tried to steal but no, it was hers to keep. She was born with it. So were female moths. A male moth could smell the female from miles away and when he found her, it was called assembling.

‘Dizzy. Dizzy. Ak. Ak.’ Dia fumed at the cocoons.

With butterflies it was the other way around. The male carried the scent, and the females assembled around him. When he chose one, he dusted her with another type of pheromone, an anti-aphrodisiac. This way, after he was done with her, she’d never be desirable to other males.

Obviously to silk moths, people were anti-aphrodisiacs. She sighed, her thoughts continuing to roam. How much better it would be if these were the kinds of things her college taught. Her retake was on Monday. At least the college had shut for the summer holidays now so she didn’t have to tolerate those crammed and dingy classrooms.

She yawned. It was almost six-thirty. The moths made no appearance. Her body ached. But she wasn’t going to give up now. She was going to witness the birth of those stubborn beasts waiting for her to fall asleep.

Perhaps she’d be the first to ever see it. Next time, she should bring a camera. Maybe she could drop out of college and start photographing the mysterious life of bugs on her farm … she yawned again. Seven o’clock. She scowled. Just pretend I’m not here, won’t you? Her shoulders felt like sacks of dirt rested on them. Her throat was dry. It hurt. If only she could have a glass of ice-cold water. And a quick nap on something soft.

No! She shook herself awake.

Seven-thirty. Eight. The workers would be trickling in …

And then Sumbul, looking greatly revived and well nourished, was standing beside her. ‘Nissrine’s on the phone.’

‘What?’ mumbled Dia.

‘Your friend Nissrine is on the phone. It was she who called earlier. She says she must talk to you.’

Dia blinked skeptically. ‘You’re joking. First Shan and now you. It runs in the family.’

‘I told her you were watching the cocoons and wouldn’t want to be disturbed. But she sounded quite frantic. She’s waiting,’ Sumbul added.

‘I don’t believe this.’ Dia stood up. ‘If that Nini spoils this for me …’ She shuffled out, about to keel over with exhaustion.

‘I’ll keep watch,’ Sumbul assured her.

Dia entered the shack feeling stiff as a breadstick. She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi!’ Nini shrieked.

Dia moved the receiver an inch away from her ear.

‘Where’ve you been? I tried calling as early as I could but no one answered. I called the house last night. Your mother told me …’

‘Nini,’ Dia interrupted, sitting down on the bed so she wouldn’t fall. ‘I’m really very busy right now. Is this important?’

‘Important!’ Nini hollered. ‘Of course it’s important. Like I was saying, I tried calling last night. Your mother told me you were staying here. Then my sister just wouldn’t get off the phone. I was so mad …’

There were some people, thought Dia, who shouldn’t be allowed ownership of a telephone. Nini was one of them. In person she was calm, even gracious. She’d been a little uptight since the Quran Khwani, it was true, but she wasn’t shrill or pushy by any standard. Yet the telephone transformed her. She stopped hearing herself.

‘Nini,’ Dia sighed. ‘I really have to go. Okay? Bye …’

‘You fool!’ Nini bellowed. ‘I’m trying to tell you a date’s been fixed.’

‘A date?’

‘I thought you’d be brimming with joy,’ she added provocatively.

Silence.

‘Fine. You said you’d be with me when the boy and his mother visited. So I remembered you. You’re invited for tea on Tuesday. I picked the day with you in mind. Since your retake is on Monday, I thought you’d be free.’ She paused, letting the full weight of her news sink in. Then, ‘If you do care to come, try to dress respectably, would you?’ She slammed the receiver down.

Dia stared at the plastic apparatus in her hand.

She put it back down.

So the doctor’s son had agreed.

Nini was going to let herself be displayed.

Dia would be a silent witness to the humiliation of her best friend.

She had lost her then.

She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan she’d been too tired to think of switching on. It had three screws on each of its three blades. What if the whole thing fell on her, now?

She might see her father again.

Some of the black smears on the telephone might be his fingerprints.

She could see herself in the fan’s shiny center. Small and flat.

She wanted badly to curl up in her father’s arms and have him switch the light off.

And then she willed it. He also switched the fan on. It was cool and she drifted into a deep and comfortable sleep.

At one o’clock in the afternoon Dia walked back into the shed, now bustling with activity. Workers chopped leaves, cleaned trays, recorded numbers. She absently greeted them all, forcing her way into the room where she knew bad news awaited. Sumbul was not there. The two moths were. Each faced her head-on. They’d won. She folded her arms. If Nini had not called, I would have …

Sumbul entered the room with Sana, an expert moth-handler, and Dia’s mother.