Uzma Khan - Trespassing

‘She did not love him,’ Salaamat said, before he could help it.

‘How dare you! Just because of what you heard long ago? It takes courage to go on after a husband’s death. Even more when his corpse is found in the river, with gruesome injuries. Whether you loved him or not.’

Now it was Salaamat’s turn to look away.

Once they’d pledged to always love each other, at any cost. By confessing, he’d force her to break the promise. Even if he shared how he’d practically kissed the ground when it hadn’t been her on the highway, she’d stop loving him.

She was saying, ‘Men have extorted more and more protection money from her ever since. They’re worse than the authorities at the body shop, the ones that bothered you about decoration tax.’

‘How would you know, my innocent one?’ Salaamat replied, wondering why he couldn’t simply let her ramble on. ‘They never smashed your limbs.’

She tossed him another look, but let it pass. ‘So it pains me to know Bibi has even more troubles. And this time, from someone she’d never suspect. Someone I also care about. And someone you do too,’ she looked up, smiling mischievously. And then she couldn’t help it. ‘Exactly what have you seen Dia Baji and the Amreekan boy do?’

Ah! Power to manipulate back! He lay down again, pretending to fall asleep.

‘Oh, you’re evil!’ she cried. ‘But I see through you. You’re dying to tell me!’

He snored.

She clicked her tongue. ‘I’ve tried to ask her but she won’t tell. I’ve even listened at the door when she calls him up but half the time they speak in English. Has it gone very far?’ She giggled, then covered her mouth in horror. ‘Oh but it would be so, so …’ She tried to shake the thought.

He watched with eyes half open. She was more entertaining than anything on television.

‘Aba’s been trying also,’ she went on. ‘But, for once, even he can’t get anything out of her.’

‘Just like a father,’ Salaamat muttered.

She smacked him, hard. ‘Oh this is awful, we can’t make light of it. It’s serious. Serious. It would be bad enough, but knowing what we do, if it’s true.’ Again she shook her head, as if sneezing. ‘It would be almost like … me and you!’ The hand came up again and her face was the picture of shame.

‘Not exactly,’ Salaamat shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Anyway, from what I heard, they never knew for sure.’

‘Well, if they’re not, then I suppose it’s not that wrong to, well, imagine what they do.’

He snored again.

‘Oh what do you know, anyway,’ she huffed. ‘You need a wife to teach you.’

He couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

‘And you’d better marry quickly or no woman will even want to teach you.’ She raised a brow provocatively.

‘Don’t you think I’ve at least twenty more years of good looks ahead of me?’

‘No. Five, maximum.’

‘Well then, I’d better enjoy myself before I lose them. Then I’ll get married.’

But again he found he’d upset her. She was so sensitive, this sister of his, who’d been married to a forty-year-old at fourteen. Kissing her hand, he said, ‘Forget this silly chatter.’

But she wouldn’t. ‘One of us needs to talk to Bibi. Either you, me, or Aba.’

His fingers turned clammy. ‘How can it be me? I’ve barely spoken to her before.’

‘Well, you’re the one who saw her that day. And you’re the one who’s seen Dia Baji with the boy. You can tell her everything you know.’

‘Are you crazy?’ He was shouting now. ‘Why would she believe me? You’re the one she’d listen to.’ Everything you know!

‘Calm down.’ She looked surprised. ‘Just listen. If I tell her what you’ve told me, she’ll still want to hear it from you. The same if Aba tells her. You’re the witness.’

He stood up. ‘That’s always been my curse. But no more. I won’t get involved. No more!’

She clutched his hand. ‘Sit down at least.’

‘Only if you won’t bring it up again.’

‘Fine!’

He sat down.

She put the baby in his arms. ‘Hold him while I fix you a sherbat. Unless you want to come inside?’

He shook his head. He refused to take shelter under Mr Mansoor’s roof. It was bad enough coming to the farm, but a tree at least, in the grand scheme of things, belonged to no one.

The child opened his eyes, aware of an alien scent. If it repulsed him, he was too spent to protest. The lids fell over eyes like tiny specks of ink, and then went back to flickering.

Sumbul returned with a glass of mango squash. Salaamat hesitated. He drank his drink, in his glass. Still, it was a hot day, and Sumbul had made it especially for him.

Outside the farm, Salaamat stood a while on the highway before walking over to his uncle on Makli Hill.

After Mr Mansoor’s body was found, Sumbul had told him Dia wondered often if silk had been the culprit. She needed desperately to find a reason. Business? Rivalry? The dye company that had lost its contract? Middlemen who no longer supplied cocoons? Other factory owners who paled next to Riffat Mansoor? Though they gossiped about her, rich women would pay anything to boast, at parties, that they wore Riffat’s silk. Was it competition, and if so, was it the woman who ought to have been killed?

He’d listen to Sumbul’s reports in silence. If there was a reason, he didn’t know it. Maybe it had to do with Fatah’s law. If there were any other reason, maybe someone else knew what it was. Maybe Riffat Mansoor herself could do some explaining.

Salaamat peered down the highway. The tarmac shimmered in the heat, shooting up into fog. Somewhere beyond the tombs in the mist was the village with the millet and wheat fields. Somewhere in the fields chimed the irrigation canals that, five years ago, had slaked his ears. Perhaps those fields had exhausted their water supply as well. A little deeper into the fog would be the fenced wheat field outside which he’d stood. Egrets had flecked the pasture. They could fly in and out of any fence, but not he. He’d stood watching seven men with guns on the other side of the street turn to fourteen. And then Fatah had whistled and he’d seen the dark car try to backtrack. As if that could ever be done.

They’d stopped for over an hour to eat rewri while Mr Mansoor bled.’ If those bastards don’t hurry up,’ said Yawar, ‘the Chief will never get a look at him.’

Finally, the men returned with a dozen dishes for each vehicle, and again they were on their way. Mr Mansoor’s breathing grew increasingly uneven and he began muttering incoherently to himself. The car swerved unsteadily.

‘This will keep him conscious,’ said Ali, spooning the sweet into Mr Mansoor’s mouth. If he refused it, Gharyaal Bhai wrung the wounded arm and Ali dug into the other with a knife. He’d vomited twice on himself when the car pulled up outside the Chief’s house.

But before that, Salaamat memorized the route. The men had not blindfolded him. He stared outside absorbing every turn, stamping each detail in his mind: left at the spear-shaped rock, right at the flat one. How could he tell them apart? That one had a branch falling mid-way over it. And so on. Twice he got out to piss and mark the spot with stones. His vision was like a telescope. He ceased noting events inside the car. He was going to get on the other side of the fence even if it killed him.

That’s what he told Fatah as Mr Mansoor was thrown into the torture cell. He grabbed his collar and took him around the back. If they were seen, no one interfered. After all, Fatah was First Lieutenant Muhammad Shah’s brother-in-law.