Northern Boy - bonus material

TAPE 1 I would get up as the cockerel crowed, the sun still to rise, helping Ammi light the fire. There was no hitting a switch and, boom-bang-a-bang, the flame comes on. It was chopping wood in the dark, trying not to catch my leg with the axe. Throwing on dried cowpats to make the fire last longer. My Nabila cannot even touch a piece of raw chicken – imagine if she had to get her hands dirty shaping the dung into big rotis, sticking them on the wall to dry in the sun? Ai-hai-hai, she would run away screaming. The children complain about the bath being outside. Oof, they are spoilt! They have garam-garam water from the tap. A fine shed in which to bathe. Back home, we boiled water on the fire. Water from a well, the bucket harder to wind up with each plunge. It took so long to fill the pan and heat it up, with the steam and fire scalding you. We only used hot water for cooking and washing up. For washing ourselves, it was cold water from the big oil drum. Scooping water out with a coconut shell, I hardly dared tip it over myself, shivering and willing for it to be over. Milk in a bottle? Bread sliced in a packet? Butter in shiny parcels? How I wondered at these things when I came here. Back home, there were no supermarkets. Nothing as wadhiya as Khan’s Korner Kabin. My fingers getting cramp from milking our cows, knees stiff from crouching. And always the danger of being kicked. No simple opening of a packet and taking out soft, white-white bread, no corny flakes or unwrapping a fresh block of Anchor butter – just a chapatti every morning, slapped in the tandoor, peeled off a minute later and brushed with melted butter. Ammi would make the butter every morning, using a wooden bucket and a bamboo stick with a strap wound around it. She would spin the stick upright on the spot until, slowly, the cream came together. I taste it still in my dreams. With no school in the village, there was nothing to break up the day, no respite from the hard work. When the little one complains about going to school ... I would have welcomed the opportunity. Such a gentle boy, he would have struggled in my shoes: the endless chopping of wood; keeping the oil drum topped up with water from the well; helping Ammi harvest the fields, usually with just our hands and a few simple tools; walking three miles to the bazaar to pick up spices, beans, flour, balancing the sacks on my head if the oxen were at work, the sun beating down, the pebbly road throwing up great clouds of dust as my sandals dragged behind me; keeping the fire fed; picking out grit from the rice and lentils; sharpening knives on the whetstone; grinding spices in the pestle and mortar; helping Ammi to catch, kill, pluck and chop a chicken every Friday, to celebrate Jummah prayers. The preparation of food alone took up many hours. As did the laundry. Taking it down to the river each day, a bundle knotted in a sheet and carried on the top of my head. No Daz – what a wonder this powder is! – just a rectangle of hard, green soap. Rubbing it repeatedly over the wet cloth, struggling to make it give up its lather, like a miser with his money. Massaging it in with knuckled hands, before pounding the clothes on the flat rocks. My feet and hands as cold as kulfi. The slap-slap-slap of the wet fabric on the stones sending soap into my eyes. With fish nibbling at my ankles, the mound of wet clothes slowly built up on the bank as the suds flowed away. My fingertips like swollen raisins by the time the last sheet was twisted dry. Laundry is only slightly easier in this land of plenty. Their father refuses to pay for a machine or give me money for the launderette. He says they do not clean well. Pfft! He has never even washed his socks himself. If he had to scrub his own collars ... the dirt in them – is he working in a mine, not a factory? He is a kanjoos, through and through. That man remembers every half penny owed to him. Hai, ya Allah. Days without end. Nights without comfort. Is this to be my kismet? TAPE 2 She is strong-headed. Obsessed by fashion, jewellery and make-up. Always doing her hair. Pretty as a doll, she draws a lot of attention – the little madam enjoys it! How have I produced such a vain girl? I pray she does not attract burri nazar from jealous people. Yesterday, I got her to help me with her salwaar kameez. It is important she learns how to sew and use a machine. Why spend-spend on clothes when you can make them yourself? “Slower with the pedal, beti,” I tell her, “otherwise you will make the material bunch up. And use your hand to guide the material through the machine.” She wants sleeves made from a net fabric she has seen. And she wants to wear churidhar pyjamas. What is wrong with a salwaar? Lots of room to breathe. But, no, she wants her legs to look like matchsticks in tight-tight trousers. I have never seen the like! But she will not be told. And she wants everything straightaway. She will learn life does not always run to her beat. When I look at her, I see Ammi. Sometimes, it catches me unawares, and I am filled with such joy and then sadness. The same nose, cheekbones, thick hair and a crease in the forehead when she is not happy about something. From him she has height, long lashes, delicate lips and a fair complexion. Although I am biased, she is a beauty. Of course, I cannot tell her this. It would fill her head with all sorts of baqwaas. This girl of mine needs to chandna down and think about other things and not just make-up-shakeup. She lacks common sense. When I ask her to get sabzi for dinner, she often comes back with altu-faltu things – last week, it was little cucumbers – except they weren’t cucumbers. What would I do with those? I sent her straight back for saag and gobi. I worry for her. The boys here are more forward than in Pakistan. Her head is easily turned. She is clever in so many ways, but not as wise as she thinks. Just two years older than my baby Rafi, she is a little woman when it suits. At other times, especially when she does not want to do something, she is a little girl again and my heart softens. She will soon be the age I was when I had to marry. I would not want such a fate for her. Time enough to wait – maybe when she is eighteen, nineteen. For now, she needs to focus on her education. Look what was denied me – I can barely even … well, I do not want the same for her. She needs to get her head down and spend less time on her make-up. Sometimes she runs around like a little junglee. Her father says to leave her be, as she is young. Others do not see it this way. “She was parading like a peacock in front of three or four boys, her head uncovered,” said Mrs Kapoor the other day. “But I suppose she learns this from those around her.” And she looked at my dupatta, which I always wear around my neck. “I have always told my children it is better to be kind than pious,” I said back. I don’t like speaking to my elders like this, but that woman tries my patience. My Taleeb could be more kind. He is such a like boy – always helping me and his father by filling in forms and reading the letters from the gas or council or school. But he has a side I do not care for – an unkindness, especially to my little one. He is always teasing him. He believes he is doing the right thing – being a big brother to him. Showing him right from wrong. But it upsets my Rafi. The little one … the sunshine of my soul, the love of my life. Just as with his sister, he thinks he is older than his years. He is very like me – my heart swells when I see his khubsurat face. He is so-so serious when he tells his stories and acts out the parts, like he is in a Bollywood film. I often join in his ghaana or naachna, and we sing and dance like they do in the films. It does us both good to escape to our dreams. But, the older he gets, the more people will talk. I do not want them to say bad things about him. What was it Ammi used to say? “The ants are biting.” They cannot wait to spread gossip. I am not displeased with how I have raised my children. I had no help from anyone, certainly not from their father. As the children have got older, so I have grown up with them, merely a few years separating us. Even now, people think I am Taleeb’s sister! Can you imagine? The years pass so quickly. I want my babies to have what I could not: their childhood. To know they are loved. To keep them safe, away from evil eyes and harsh words. But how they try me … was I like this with Ammi? I cannot believe it was so. The little one is never happier than when putting on make-up and trying on some of my dupattas, which he wraps around as skirts and dresses. Playing-shaying is fine, but he is at an age when he needs to think about how others might see him. Ever since I have been in this country, people have been quick to judge me. And this will be one more thing they will count against me. They will say I have raised a khusra, a boy who wants to be a girl. Thoba, thoba! The shame of it. Behind closed doors, my little bulbul can play to his heart’s content. But, outside, he needs to think of our izzat and how people like to talk. I have returned to Pakistan just once since they were born, when they were young enough to fly for free. Six or seven years had passed since I had seen Ammi, but age had befriended my dear mother for twice that period of time. Lines creased her face, she was deaf in one ear and there was a faraway look in her eyes. We both could not stop crying. The resentment I’d held all these years vanished. It took just an instant to forgive Ammi. Where was I … ah yes, tomorrow, I will show my dear girl how to cook. I do not want her in the same situation I was. After that, everything else is easy. Who will marry her if she is unable to keep herself and her husband? I will start looking at rishthas for her. You can never be too early – the decent boys go quickly. I will find her a good match. She can choose who she likes – from a list I will make for her. A mother knows best. Ammi did what she thought was right for me, but she gave me no choice. I will find the fairest boys. It would be good if they were doctors, lawyers and engineers, but I am not unreasonable. Mr Khan has mentioned two of his boys. She could be the lady of the shop. Just imagine! What would people say to that? TAPE 3 Anjam, Zubeida, Ruksana; Shabnam, Fareeda, Najma. Shabnam, Ruksana, Fareeda; Anjam, Najma, Zubeida. The names go over and over in my head, like a long-forgotten rhyme. The Seven Sisters, they called us, as we spent so much time together. When our chores were done, we met by the river or in the orchards or at the bazaar. We walked the dusty alleyways together, arms linked, dupattas fluttering in the wind, chitter-chattering away like the parrots that flew overhead. Najma, Shabnam, Zubeida; Ruksana, Anjam, Fareeda. The years spool back. I am no longer in the dark, smoky kitchen of my Now, but in the sunshine-flooded alleyways of my Then. The hiss of the hob has been replaced by the chirping of crickets. In place of the earthy, cumin-heavy scent of the dhal, the air is full of woodsmoke and dried cowpats burning in the yards. The cine-camera in my mind races over the streets until it swoops down into a jumble of shacks and shops. I am back in the bazaar. “Did you see him looking at you?” teases Anjam, nudging me in the ribs. She means the boy who helps his father run the spice stall. His handsome Pathan features – straight nose, arched eyebrows, strong cheekbones – look out from behind towers of cumin, cayenne, turmeric and paprika, his skin pale behind the vivid reds and yellows. My heart beats like a dhol drum as his green eyes catch mine. All thoughts of what I am meant to be buying leave my head. I wonder what his soft brown hair feels like. Hair the colour of cloves and cinnamon bark. I long to push back the little curl over his forehead. It takes several more nudges from Anjam and the others for me to come out of my daydream. I stutter out my order and watch him scoop various powders and herbs into a brown paper bag, moving small rusty weights around until the pan scale balances. My fingers shake as I count out the paisas and rupees into his hand. He asks if I want anything else. I shake my head, blushing. I have to look away from his emerald eyes, worried he might be able to read my thoughts. As he hands me the paper bags, our fingers touch. I do not want to draw my hand away, nor does he. It is all I can do not to drop the spices. He leans forwards and I catch the fresh scent of mint. “Come back soon, fair one,” he whispers, in a sing-song Urdu, every word exotic to my ears. “Maybe we could go to the baagh?” I can think of nothing nicer than spending the day in the park with him. He lays his hand on top of mine, letting it rest there for a few seconds, before his father appears from the curtained area at the back. The girls giggle and drag me away. As I turn my head, his gaze follows me through the powdered stacks, his eyes like a pair of new-season cardamoms. A waft of cinnamon reaches out in the breeze. Then he is cut off from my line of vision as a creak and the hiss of a whip is followed by a cart and ox clattering past. We round the corner – a sudden gust hits us, like a dancing shaitan, carrying grit in its path. Eyes shut, the sound of cockerels flapping and fighting in their wicker cages, the dirt thrown up making me sneeze. Hands held in a long chain, we slowly walk past the pots and pans stall. An explosion of metal on metal, coarse language, smoke and heat from a blazing fire. Somewhere nearby a radio blares out ghazals, sung rather than spoken. My heart trembles each time the wind carries the romantic words in our direction. We spend many hours exploring the winding alleys. Picking up glass trinkets, cooing over brightly coloured Kashmiri fabrics, trying on squirts of perfume with exotic foreign names such as Rochas Femme and Hermes Caleche. Running excitedly between the stalls, like mynah birds chasing the next shiny attraction. My fingers trail over the flapping cloth, bamboo poles and crumbling stone that make up the walls of the bazaar. Everyone talks over each other. “Did you see him looking at you?” repeats Anjam, tugging on my arm. “Who?” says innocent Najma, distracted by a black-and-red butterfly that flies in front of her before settling on the rough bricks. “The way he put his hand on yours!” squeals Zubeida. “He has such long, elegant fingers,” says Fareeda, admiring her own hands. “What did he say to you?” says Ruksana, biting into the sugar cane she held like a staff in her hand. She chews and chomps the juice out, her jaws working hard, before spitting out the mashed fibres. “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell the others.” “Oi!” come their response. “No secrets among friends!” I smile and shake my head. Some things are not meant to be shared. “She is going red!” says Shabnam. “And it is not from the blusher.” The girls squeal. “What did he say?” “Did he ask to meet you again?” “What did you say?” I smile to myself. The boy with the emerald eyes makes life so much brighter. Even now, with the seven of us squashed into a rickshaw like guavas in a can, knowing there are chores waiting for me when I get back, nothing can keep the smile from my face. The rickshaw weaves in and out of the traffic. Petrol fumes waft over us. The rickshaw swerves to avoid a cow in the road. Ruksana accidentally swallows the strip of cane in her mouth. Her spluttering, with the phut-phut-phut of the engine and the non-stop tooting on the road, drowns out any further conversation. I lean my head on Najma’s shoulder and close my eyes, soothed by the sweet scent of coconut oil in her hair. Words from the ghazals I have heard drift back to me. “… those days that glowed with the reflection of the Beloved’s face, that hour of meeting, that would bloom like a flower …” TAPE 4 While Rafeeq and I sit under a peepal tree, the girls play panj-geete nearby, keeping an eye on us. Other courting couples walk hand in hand around the rose gardens, or read to each other, laughing and joking. Families picnic in the shade or sail on the lake in swan-shaped pedal-boats; children scream as they flirt with the spray from the fountains. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, trailing a daisy around my face. My head in his lap, I gaze up at him. I lose myself in his green eyes, wondering how anyone can be so handsome. The dappled sun dots his hair golden. I trace a finger over the back of his hand. “How I never want this to end.” Even as I say it, I know how impossible it sounds. Girls are not allowed to see boys. It has always been so. Only when they get married. And then you marry a man of your parents’ choosing. If Ammi saw me now she would drag me home by the hair, telling me off every step of the way. Worried about what the neighbours will say about me being seen in public with a boy. “How you lift my spirits after a hard day doing chores. How I look forward to seeing you each time I am in the bazaar with my friends. Should I continue?” He reaches down and brushes a loose strand of hair from my eyes. “Just seeing your smile gladdens my heart,” he says, his face inches from mine. “I wait for you each day, hoping you will come and stop by. And when you do, my mind goes blank and I forget everything. I get through the rest of the day in a daze. My father tells me off for giving too much turmeric away, or confusing coriander powder with cumin, or mislaying one of the weights.” He laughs and lowers himself down on his elbow, his face even closer. “But I am in my own world, walking among the stars, just so happy you have gifted me with your precious smile.” His finger traces the outline of my lips and my body trembles at his touch. “Praising the Almighty for bringing you into my orbit, if only for a few moments. And that your light has shone into my world. When you look at me, nothing else matters.” I could burst with joy. He talks just like the actors in the films, but his Urdu is more musical, carrying with it the sounds of his native Pashto. He is as handsome as Dilip Kumar or Rajesh Khanna. Unlike them, he is real. And he is sitting with me, rather than with any other girl in the park. I close my eyes and pinch myself. I feel his breath on my skin. With a touch as delicate as a butterfly landing on a flower, his lips rest on mine. The world stops. I hear the rustle of the insects in the grass. A mother calls to her family. The girls cheer and whistle. He smells of warming spices: cardamoms, nutmeg, cloves and mace. The curl on his forehead caresses my skin. I hold him tight and wish it could be like this forever and ever. A shadow falls across my closed eyelids. I open my eyes and find the girls have invaded our space, ready to drag me home. As they pull me up, they giggle uncontrollably. Leaving the park, I look back and he has stepped out of the shadow of the peepal tree. He is ablaze in the evening light, golden and fiery. All around, shimmering green hummingbirds flit in and out of the bell-shaped blooms of the hibiscus bushes. As I feast on him, his hand waves goodbye while the other touches his lips and a ball of heat rolls around my body. I reluctantly put one foot in front of the other, desperate not to invite normality back in too soon. Little do I know that our secret meetings in the park are on borrowed time. My future will arrive a month later: a man more than twice my age, a stranger, welcomed into the house like a maharajah. A cup of sweet tea, a plate of samosas and a handshake, and the deal will be done – he will claim me for his own. Within days, I will be married and spirited away, far from everything I have known and loved. The girl I am will be left behind on that soon-to-be foreign shore, forever fourteen. I will awake in a cold, alien land stripped of colour, smells and words, born again as a woman and a mother. TAPE 5 I know something is wrong when Ammi makes me stop brushing the yard and tells me to get changed as we have visitors coming. “And wear a dupatta – over your head, not just round your neck.” By the time I return, the chairs are laid out in the courtyard; sitting in the shade are three people I have never seen before: a man of about thirty years old and an older couple. I assume they are his parents. Taking me by the hand, Ammi whispers in my ear for me to keep my head down and to not say a word. She hands me a tray of nimbu paani to offer to our guests, while she offers them nimki and samosas to nibble on. “For your long journey,” says Ammi. “Drink, eat. It is not every day we have visitors from Inglend.” I take the remaining chair next to Ammi, facing our visitors. I stare at my hands, which twist and writhe in my lap like a knot of snakes. As the conversations between Ammi and the visitors unfold, I feel myself tremble. With embarrassment at first, from being made to sit there like a doll, mute and lifeless. Not even allowed to look at our guests. And then with anger, as the parents move away from small talk and begin talking about me as though I am not in the room. “Is she matric passed?” asks the older man. “Not that we mind, of course, but other people always ask.” I open my mouth to tell him I am a year shy of getting my matriculation certificate, but Ammi nudges me and speaks on my behalf. “Yes, yes, she is very like. She has already. She is a clever girl.” “Good, good,” says the man. “It is important to know what you are getting.” What you are getting? I am aghast. They are discussing me as though I am a piece of furniture that they can haggle over in the bazaar. My heart begins to speed up. I wipe my hands in my lap. “Can she cook? Clean? Make a home?” asks the woman. “They don’t have naukranis there, of course, so she will need to look after him.” Mother reassures them that I am suitably qualified, and offers them more snacks. I stare at my hands in increasing horror. They are not here discussing my achievements for the good of their health. I am being presented to them as a possible match for their son. “She is lovely and fair,” says the woman. “And a good height. So important for their family.” I struggle to think how my height could have any effect on Ammi, before realising what she means. My breakfast threatens to come back up and I lurch in my seat, raising a hand to my mouth. Ammi quickly passes me a glass of water. “Is she okay?” says the woman. “She looks a little –” “She is as strong as an ox,” interrupts Ammi. “It is just the heat. She has been working since this morning. She sometimes does too much and –” “She is a pretty little thing,” says the man. The room goes silent. My head still bowed, I feel his stare boring into me. My cheeks flush and I imagine them turning the same shade as my dupatta. The younger man has remained silent throughout, so I don’t know what he thinks, or even what his voice sounds like. “That is a blessing,” says his wife, unscrewing a lid and taking a big sniff, presumably of naswaar. “We have seen some girls – well, we did not know what to say. The colour of night they were!” She takes another sniff, her glass bangles tinkling in sympathy. “How old is the guddi, by the way?” asks the man, referring to me as a doll. Ammi leaps up with a start and offers him some more nimki. He scrabbles up a handful and, speaking with his mouth full, adds: “She is very fresh of face.” “She is older than she looks,” says Ammi. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty – something like that. It is a long time ago – we did not keep records then. And they grow so quickly these days, as you know.” She giggles, a sound I have never heard her make before. A wave of sadness washes over me. The man belches, before noisily clearing his throat. “And now the dowry. We come with a good proposal. Our son is working in Inglend and makes much-much money. So many rupees he sends back to us. Our home is like a palace now. And two, three, four bunglas he will be making over there.” “As the Almighty himself said: ‘Spend, oh son of Adam, and I shall spend on you.’” quotes his wife. “Not that we are those kind of people, you understand,” says her husband. Despite everything, I have to try hard not to laugh. I fake a cough, and Ammi taps me on the back. “Ai-hai-hai, we are but humble folk, we ask for little,” says the woman. “We are born with nothing, we leave with nothing.” Then, after a short pause in which to let her words sink in, she adds: “But did you have a figure in mind?” I want the earth to swallow me up rather than hear the price Ammi has put on my head. I had heard about dowries but did not really believe people traded in them. And now I am going to hear my own worth as though I was a goat being sold at the market. Ammi waits a few moments before answering. The crickets chirp so loudly I feel my head is going to explode. A flock of green parrots flies overhead, screaming as they go. “We do not have much,” says Ammi, taking a slow sip of water. “Not since their father died. We work, work, work, but keeping the house and food and clothes takes everything. Except for my beautiful daughter. And two oxen. And a goat. And this.” I risk looking up and around. Ammi slips off her gold bangle: the only one she has left, having sold the others over the years to make ends meet. She hands it over, slowly, as though her hand is moving through mud. The woman inspects the bangle closely, weighing it up in her hand, then going to bite it before being nudged by her husband. “A pretty bracelet,” she says, trying it on. “It is a little big for me – I have very delicate wrists – but no matter.” She parades if before her husband, who makes admiring “Wah-wah” noises. Twenty minutes later – though it has felt like twenty years – they get up to leave. As Ammi sees them off, the son finally speaks, his voice finding its way back to me in the courtyard. “I will give her a good home. You need not worry. She will want for nothing.” I realise I did not see his face once during the time he was in the courtyard. TAPE 6 As I hug Ammi, my face wet, a part of me falls away, like a crumbling cliff sliding into the sea. “Be brave, my darling girl,” she says, her hand stroking my hair. “You will be back before many summers have passed.” We both know this to be a lie. He has mentioned several times how dear the flights are and how lucky I am he has flown all this way to take me as his wife. Ammi continues: “Think of the life you will have there. You will live like a queen.” Another lie, I will soon learn. “I don’t want to go,” I sob into her shoulder. “It is not too late. You need me here.” “Shhhhh. It will all be fine, my little one. It will all be fine.” Having said my goodbyes to Zubeida, Shabnam and the others last night, it is impossible to imagine there can be any tears left inside me. And yet they keep on coming. The bulbuls in the trees echo my cries. The more Ammi comforts me, the more the tears fall. In the end, he takes my arm and leads me to the waiting van. As I look back, Ammi has covered her face in her chadhar, her shoulders going up and down. I do not remember much about the drive to the airport. My mind is as dark and restless as a monsoon sky, my eyes sore, my breathing choppy. The real Rahmat has been left behind in the dappled courtyard, sweeping the dusty ground with a home-made besom, laughing at something Ammi says. The van is like an oven and the sweat pools under my arms. The open window just lets in more hot air. My head pounds from the qawwalis blaring out from the cassette player. The men talk for the whole journey, while I retreat into myself. The gulf between him in the front seat and me in the back becomes a continent wide. After what feels like a hundred years, we reach Islamabad Airport. So many people. So much dhoom-dhadka. I shrink back into the clammy seat. He opens the door, telling me to stop behaving like a little girl. I refuse to move. He tuts and levers me out. My legs are as shaky as a newly born calf. I hold my dupatta to my nose and mouth, hoping the scent of Ammi and the house will soothe my broken heart. It is no cooler outside. The smell of diesel, sweat and scorched earth washes over me. I keep the dupatta at my face. I am a tiny ant before the airport building. Where are all these people going? Surely the whole of Pakistan must be here! Porters run around, shouting for custom, struggling to shoulder large suitcases. The surge of people threatens to knock me off my feet. I instinctively move back towards the van but it is already driving away. “Come!” He snaps his fingers at me. I trail after him, through the mouth of the giant, my brown suitcase clutched to my chest. It contains everything I think I will need for my new life. It has been impossible to know what to take. We join the heaving masses, shuffling between one endless queue to another. A babble of noise bounces around the shiny tiled walls and floors. Stern-looking officials bark questions at us. I cower, holding my case up like a shield. They inspect our passports, hooded eyes scanning me up and down, then stamp the pages with a series of thuds. They dismiss us with a brisk “Next!”. As he leads me away, still the hordes continue to pile in after us. Finally, we are on the aeroplane. I do not want to sit by the window – that would make the going away seem even more real, seeing everything I have known retreat from me. A kind air hostess who looks like Vyjayanthimala shows me how to use my belt and brings me water and pats me on the arm. Throughout the flight, whenever I feel myself panicking, I seek her out. She is an angel! As the aeroplane lifts off, I am convinced it will fall apart, throwing us all spinning to the skies. I clutch his arm. I feel him tense. I keep my hand there for a few more minutes, unable to risk removing it until I am satisfied the plane won’t crash. I look at him from the corner of my eyes. His head leans back against the seat, his eyes closed. It is difficult to imagine how anyone can sleep through this, but his deep breathing indicates that he is indeed resting. I turn and take him in properly. His dark brown suit is new, judging by the sharp creases in his trousers. The hands clasped above his belt show evidence of hard work, the joints red and the nails short and chipped. His generous black hair is oiled and swept back. I notice a cleft in his strong chin, just like Rajesh Khanna’s. A thin moustache hovers above his upper lip. Long lashes curve on to his upper cheeks. I cannot deny he is a handsome man. His pale skin, straight nose and delicate pomegranate-red lips remind me of somebody. But who? I have seen those same features on another, and recently. Where was that? Then it comes to me: the boy with the emerald eyes. Except this man could be his father. I remove my hand from his arm. I spend the rest of the flight with my eyes shut, my mind imagining the mountains, fields and rivers below us that we are leaving further and further behind. I shiver as we come off the plane. The wind threatens to carry my dupatta away. My cardigan offers little relief from the cold. I look enviously as the others leaving the plane pull on thick coats. I am one of hundreds of brown faces coming down the steps. They talk excitedly in Urdu, Punjabi and English. They are as much strangers to me as he is. Nothing looks familiar. I don’t understand the English. I do not want to leave the plane. I am lost. Even the smells are different. All colour has left my life. Everything is black and grey and white. I stifle a sob and lift my dupatta once more to my nose and mouth. As we enter the airport building, he tells me to keep my head down and to wear my dupatta over my head rather than around my neck. We wait in the queue. Even though we have been sitting for nine hours on the plane, I long to lie down. People speak in familiar languages all around me, even some of the same Punjabi as spoken in our village. This should comfort me but it makes me feel even more lonely. I do not belong here. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. My body trembles and he grabs my wrist and tells me not to draw attention to myself. Finally, the man behind the counter calls us over. In my ear: “Let me do the talking. Keep your head lowered.” The man asks me something. I am too frightened to say anything, even if I understood him. The man asks me again. As I shake my head, your father answers on my behalf: “She no speak English. She eighteen.” The man looks at my passport and then at me. He asks something else and once again I am denied my voice: “Yes, we just marry. She my wife. She living England now.” The man looks between us several times. He stamps the passports and waves us through. And, just like that – with another strange man’s say-so – my kismet is sealed. I am sick twice in the van from the airport. “Welcome to your new home,” their father says, sweeping his arms before the house we have pulled up at. I am unable to speak. My mind still churns over everything that has happened. I am on the other side of the world with a man more than twice my age. I am still a girl. I know nothing. How has Ammi allowed this? Unable to look him in the eye, I struggle to accept it will be just him and me from now on. The house is joined to many other houses, all in a long line, with another row of houses staring back from across the street. I look around but cannot see any mountains or trees and barely any sky, only more joined houses. The road is covered in strange bumps that hurt to walk on. The chilly air tears through my lungs. The only comfort is the smell of woodsmoke, rising from the roofs before it disappears into the grey sky. There is no outdoor space – no stairs leading up to the roof, just a tiny overgrown patch in the front. Inside the house, it is dark, even when he puts the lights on. A silence hangs in the air, broken only by the whining of the refrigerator in the kitchen. There is no gentle whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a fan, no noises of Ammi making lassi in the kitchen while regaling me with village gossip, no slap-slap-slap of sandals as Shabnam and the girls pop round to see if I am free – just the muted screams of children playing in the street. I move through the rooms as though in a dream, holding on to the walls as I don’t trust myself not to collapse. My breath tumbles out in front of me. Patches of mould grow in the corners, where the wallpaper has peeled away. Thin net-like fabrics cover the windows, dancing like ghosts each time the wind gets in from between the gaps in the windows. Threadbare carpets cover the floors. One end of the settee is propped up on a stack of books. I glimpse a yard through the back, enclosed by tall brick walls. My heart hammers inside my ribcage. This is the English dream? This is what I have been given away for? I stifle the howling sobs that threaten to erupt from inside my chest. The rooms smell of brackish water and damp fabric, stifling my lungs and enveloping me like a shroud. I shiver and hug myself, drawing my cardigan around me. Walking ever more slowly through each room, I notice stairs leading up to the bedrooms and shudder. No amount of warm clothing can keep out this chill. The cold is deep inside me. TAPE 7 Ammi, your letters fill me with such joy. The colour floods back into my world. I am back home with you, sitting on the charpoi, having you braid my hair. You said for me to stay happy. I try, for the sake of the little ones. But it is not easy. I fight many small battles each day. I am always in danger of going under. Their father is never around. He is not a bad man. He works and provides for us. But he is as much a stranger to me as he was when he stole me away. I thought the love would come. It never did. It has taken me years to feel comfortable in his presence. For the first year or two I could not even bear to be in the same room. He must have thought me a poor match. But I wished him nothing but ill. This man who had come and taken me away from you, away from everything I had known. It took me time to realise it was not all down to him. I forgive you, Ammi. You wanted the best for your little girl. You believed he would provide for me. I understand. For many years I hated you. I could not even look at your photograph in case the anger boiled over like a pan of tea left unwatched on the hob. Oh, forgive me, Ammi. How ungrateful and wretched I must sound. I am cold. Tired. The children are getting older. Even my little one is growing up. I worry for him. What will become of him? The Qur’an tells us how difficult it is to raise a family. I am being truly tested. Each day, he gives me more to worry about. His childish fancies threaten to follow him into his older years. What was once charming is now bad for our reputation. He wears make-up. He dresses in my clothes. The other day he asked if he could wear my high heels. What kind of boy have I raised? Would this have happened had he been brought up in Pakistan? Did I keep him too close to me when he should have been spending time with his father? But his father was never around – he was always at the mill. The other evening, I caught him … oh, I cannot say what I caught him doing, as I am so embarrassed, Ammi. He was … oh, I cannot say, and yet I must as I do not want secrets between us. You have already been denied so much, by my being here. The other evening, I caught him – and another boy – at the canal, together, holding each other, and … and … and kissing! I feel pleeth just saying the word. The image is burned into my mind. Each time I shut my eyes, I see him, and the boy, in each other’s arms, mouths touching, just like Dilip Kumar and Vyjayanthimala. But boy-boy, not boy-girl. We do not have such things in Pakistan. I should never have come to this country! He has been given too much freedom. It has turned his head. When he heard me, he went back into the boy’s arms, wanting to be held some more, refusing to come home with me! The besharam! He did not care who saw them. I am trying to teach him right from wrong. No more music, I say. His teacher puts ideas into his head, telling him he can do this and that and go to a fancy school. The little one thinks I am horrible by not letting him do these altu-faltu things. But I am being cruel to be kind, as they say in this country. He will thank me one day. But it is not just him. I am unhappy with so much. The years do not make things easy – the pain grows with each passing year. Again, I sound ungrateful. I have food on my table, a roof over my head, a new outfit to wear every day and three beautiful children. I would be a queen back home. And yet … and yet I feel empty. Alone. I go to the supermarket – a big shop, Ammi – and I walk up and down, up and down. It is full of life, full of people. Some of my thakat comes back. But then they stare at my clothes. They ask me things I do not understand. I take too long to count the money and the lady has to help me and shakes out the coins from my purse and I feel stupid. Remember me to my dear friends. They will be old women now, like me. They are all married. With children. They write such happy letters and the sunshine floods back into my life. I live for our memories and long to make new ones with them, but how – when I am torn apart from everyone? Time has given me grey hairs, lines in my face, aches in my joints. But in my dreams, we are forever young. Oh, my beloved friends: how I miss them. As the sun sets on their faces, so the cold enters my bones. This house will be the death of me. Some days, I take to my bed and do not want to get up. I feel myself unravelling, like a ball of wool. Years have passed, and still more will pass before their father saves enough money for the air tickets. You write your health is not good. I should be looking after you. You should be here, looking after me. I need you. Oh, I must not cry, I must not cry. Forgive me, Ammi. Your ungrateful daughter. TAPE 8 I am fifteen years old: a child myself. And here I am, holding my darling Taleeb, kissing his wrinkled forehead, trying to shush his kitten cries. I cannot stop crying: joy, from what I have created, unable to take my eyes off the wriggling bundle the nurses have placed in my lap; and sadness, from what this means for me. I am a woman now. He waits outside. He has taken the day off from the factory to bring me to the hospital. The nurse asks me something, but the only word I understand is “Father”. I shake my head, and she asks again, speaking slower. My response is the same. The nurse smiles and touches my cheek gently, before leaving the room. I want this precious time with my baby on my own. I need not have worried. As days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, I care for Taleeb all by myself. His father goes back to the mill, becoming invisible once more. I spend the day cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, my fingers red like radishes by the time I have washed the little one’s nappies. And always trips to the shops for food while struggling with the big pram he has found for me at the place he calls Auction. With the little money he gives me, I do my best to get what I could. The shopkeepers take pity as I shake the coins out – they give me dhaar, which I pay a little off each time I visit. He returns in the evening, tickles the little one’s chin, then washes himself and performs his namaaz, before expecting his food on the table. Always two chapattis, always some meat even if I have made dhal or sabzi. He soon realises I am no cook. How could I be, when I was just fourteen when he stole me away from my beloved Ammi? With ill grace, he shows me how to brown the onions, when to add the spices, how to tell the tadka is done by the oil separating from the mixture, how to joint the chicken, and a hundred other things. Who knew a man could cook? His hard shell softens as the lessons go on. I no longer flinch when he walks into the room. Not because I enjoy being in his presence – how can I forgive such a villainous man, who has taken me away from everything I have known? But it becomes easier. He teaches me when he can. Some days he comes home exhausted, going to bed as soon as he has eaten. Other days he is out visiting his relatives. I stop accompanying him, preferring to stay at home, away from the probing eyes and prying questions. Two months later, I have mastered the final dish: sath range chawal, the hues of the jewel-coloured rice making my heart sing. My darling Taleeb enjoys this dish so much. It is the last time his father spends time in the kitchen. After that, he only comes in to drop off a glass or to ask how long it will be for dinner. The sadness I feel at his absence puzzles me. Then I realise: I am lonely. I am hungry for company, from whichever direction it comes. He shows me intimacy, of a sort. He breaks the routine of the day. He is all I have in this cold, colourless country – apart from my darling Taleeb. I tell myself to be strong and to shed no more tears. Crying will not bring my old life back. The kitchen becomes my domain, somewhere that is mine alone. Yes, it enslaves me, but it also provides a sense of belonging. I spend many hours inside its four walls – at the sink, doing the never-ending laundry because he is too kanjoos to get me a machine; at the counter, rolling out a never-ending line of chapattis; at the hob, my hair damp from steam and my clothes taking on the scent of frying onions. I try not to think of when he and I lie together as a man and wife. It can send me into a blackness lasting several days. I am a chit of a girl. I have barely even thought about boys – only the boy in the bazaar with the green eyes, remembering what his lips felt like as they pressed against mine before shushing the bad thoughts away in case the angels on my shoulders write them down and ask me about them on the Day of Judgement. And here I am, trapped in a room with a man more than twice my age as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, while I lie on the metal-framed bed, turned to the wall, knees drawn and arms crossed. I remain fully clothed. My heart beats so fast and loud I do not hear the creaking springs as he comes to bed. As the mattress dips, I send up a prayer. I call out for Ammi. I will myself to faint, but I remain cruelly awake. As his hands undress me, I do the only thing I can do: I lose myself in the world of my beloved films. I imagine roses strewn on the bed. Sweeping romantic music as Rajesh Khanna and I both burst into song. The camera swooping up as we hold each other and our faces move closer, ready for a kiss. In the black-and-white of my real world, among the damp walls and the mice scrabbling in the skirting, I keep my head turned away, unwilling to accept what is going on. The bed creaks and groans and I bite the end of my dupatta and try not to scream. Huge waves of shame and revulsion sweep over me. How will I face him in the cold light of day? Why has Ammi allowed this? I keep my eyes screwed shut. The music in my head plays even louder as I imagine myself running up a Kashmiri mountain with my filmi lover, a camera swirling overhead. Afterwards, as he turns over and begins to snore, I cry quietly into the crook of my arm. I weep for myself, for the physical pain as he enters me, for the feelings of disgust that crawl through me each time he presses down on me. I cry for Ammi, whose betrayal has sent me off with this man. The night is long. My muffled sobs join the sounds of his sleep. Eventually, I drift off. I get up in the early hours and clean myself at the kitchen sink, not daring to turn on the geyser in case the firing of the flame wakes him. Shivering from more than just the cold water, I curl up on the sofa and fall into another troubled sleep. In the morning, nothing has changed. I am back at the hob, boiling up water for his tea, making parathas and packing his tiffin boxes. There are many more nights. Many more tears. And two more children. Of course, I do not regret my precious babies. They are, all three, my pieces of the moon. But what a price I have had to pay. And what a lonely road I have travelled. England: he calls it the land of plenty. It has taken so much from me. Ya Allah. TAPE 9 I was a happy child. Always smiling. Always laughing. Ammi said I grinned with joy from the moment I woke to the moment I lay my head on the pillow. As I got older, and chores and responsibilities took over from play, I smiled and laughed less. Lines began to crease my face and a permanent frown formed between my brows. I took comfort in bright colours, baubles, trinkets, my hair, make-up, clothes – anything that would make the working day bearable. I discovered a talent for making clothes. The other girls were amazed at how I could transform a salwaar kameez with just a bit of thread and scraps of fabric. I learned to use Ammi’s pedal sewing machine. They asked me to alter their outfits, too, and soon we were known as the Lahori Girls, for the fashioni way we dressed. We saved our best outfits for when we went to the bazaar. Our skin glowed from the turmeric and yoghurt face masks we put on each other before we left, amid much giggling. We plaited our hair and entwined it with strings of sweet-smelling jasmine. We used sakhra twigs on our teeth, leaving them coconut white and our lips stained orange. Walking seven abreast, we moved aside only for stray bullocks that wandered into our path. After fifteen minutes, out of earshot of unfriendly ears, we sang and danced and enacted filmi songs, free from anyone who might accuse us of being bathameez. Not that we had any reason to feel shame. In the bazaar, my tortoiseshell comb or red glass bangles or sakhra-tinted lips did not go unnoticed by the boy with the green eyes. I made sure to visit his stall, whether or not Ammi needed spices. It was worth the telling off Ammi gave me for wasting her money for the joy of seeing him. I observed the pale skin on the inside of his wrist as he measured the spices, noticing how his elegant fingers held the scoop. How the wind flicked up the front of his hair from under the embroidered topi he always wore. A flutter of butterflies took off inside me and I would get so tongue-tied the others had to rescue me. How far away those days seem. Here I am, a mother, a wife, living in a country I had not even thought about before. The girls would not recognise me. I could not blame them. I am a stranger even to myself. Some days, the pain of what has been left behind becomes too much. As fast as a downpour in the rainy season, a sheet of blackness crashes down on me. With no warning, day turns into night. But there are no stars, no moon, just a darkness that eats into my soul. The only thing I can do is to take to my bed. But sleep eludes me. My mind is a scramble of thoughts and images. Like in a film, scenes come and go – cut, cut, cut. But instead of songs and dancing, flashes of light tear through the pitch black, making me shut my eyes even tighter. Violins scream in my ear. I sing to myself, to drown out the noise, rocking myself, holding my head in my hands and biting the pillow to muffle my screams. In the morning, as he snores beside me, I drag myself downstairs to wash. Only traces remain of what tormented me during the night. A lingering feeling of unease. A dull ache pounds in my head. I do not want to leave the bed. I feel like a child once more. I fear being eaten up by one of the churails that Ammi threatened me with when I was naughty. I tell myself to stop being silly, yet through the rumble of the geyser I hear the scaly claws of the banshee as she walks outside, her feet pointing backwards. The effort of getting on with my day leaves me breathless. But I have no choice. Cries cut through the air. My darling Taleeb needs me. I must go to him. His father is saying something to him, but as his voice gets louder so do the cries of my little prince. When he has been fed and his father leaves for another long day at the mill, I tend to my own needs. With the end of my dupatta, I wipe my face at the sink, and sponge myself through the kameez. There is no bathroom in the house. Everyone talked of villaith as a land of plenty – how wrong they were. A familiar tune finds itself on my tongue – a song that was often played at the bazaar. I cannot remember the words. I try singing louder, but the words remain out of reach. The melody catches in my throat. I grab Taleeb from his cot and hold him tight. My heart races. He yells and demands to be put down. I rock him as I start singing again – the same tune, but this time with words I make up. I complete any number of chores, yet the clock insists it is just after noon. There are at least another six hours before his father returns from the mill. Maybe longer, if he stays late. There is a TV, but I tire of the black-and-white images. Although the TV is colour, the people on it are always dressed in greys, browns, blacks and beiges. This country runs scared of colour. My breathing is ragged again. I run to the mirror and dab rouge on my cheeks. I use surma to line my eyes and reward myself with a couple of beauty spots just above my upper lip. The pounding of blood in my ears retreats. Pale green eye shadow the colour of fresh sugar cane, smeared generously on each eyelid. Plum-coloured lipstick applied in two quick strokes. My breathing is almost level. A mango dupatta to replace the one I used at the sink, and an electric blue salwaar kameez from the top of the wardrobe. I shore up my arms with glass bangles, reassured by their weight, then shake them, delighting in the ghungroo-like sound, shedding any remaining tension as I do so. Spotting a splash of yellow in the yard, I go out into the rain and return with a flower with a tube-like stem and a strong smell. I slowly thread it into my hair. I gaze into the mirror and let out a sigh. My heart beats at its normal rate. I pick up the pile of ironing and take it to the table. Laying a cloth down, I begin to work my way through the clothes. The iron makes little impression on his overalls, but I do not mind. It is something to do. As the sun dares to come in through the window, a golden shaft cuts through the gloom like a heavenly ladder. The breath catches in my throat. Dust specks tumble and dance in the light. I move my hand through it and delight in the heat. I put down the iron and dance slowly in the rays, humming the melody from earlier. This time, I remember the words. As I sing the chorus, in my mind’s eye I journey back through distance and time, bridging the thousands of miles between Here and There. The sights, sounds, smells and colours of the bazaar are balm for my soul. They energise me from my toes to the top of my head, like a candle wick taking up oil. As I turn a corner, touching the flapping calico walls of the stall on the corner, the familiar towers of paprika, turmeric, cumin and coriander greet me like old friends. My heart threatens to burst from my chest, a caged bird set free. And then – dare I even hope? – the colours I have longed to see more than any others: the jade green and tawny brown that have haunted my dreams for all these years. “Rafeeq, I am come home.”