The Pakistani Bride. Bapsi Sidhwa
rations. When they returned, Nikka invited Qasim to eat with them. They sat on the ground in a rough circle. Miriam shaded her candid, heavy features with her chaddar, and Qasim did not glance her way even once. When she told her husband, “Ask your friend if he would like to have this chappati,” Qasim, his eyes riveted to the ground, replied, “Thank you, sister. I have had my fill.”
Nikka was reassured by the tribal’s polite ways and seemly behavior.
Next day, as they sat idly in the shade of a crumbling wall, Nikka asked, “Didn’t you do any money lending in Jullundur?”
This reference to a hill-man’s proverbial occupation in the plains irked Qasim. He looked at the Pehelwan sharply, but no insult had been intended and he admitted, “Yes, some.”
“Care to do business with me? I have no money, but I know the guts of the paan and betel-nut business inside out. Two hundred rupees would be ample for a start.”
Qasim’s eyes suddenly were as wary as those of a threatened cat, and Nikka hastily added: “Brother, you can trust me. I have a wife—where can I run? I won’t let you down. Anyway, think about it.”
Massaging the back of his neck, Qasim pondered. At last he looked up. “Neither I, nor my forefathers, have ever done business. But I could lend you the money—on interest.”
“Of course!”
“You said two hundred rupees? At the end of the month you pay me four hundred.”
Nikka glared at him incredulously. “You can’t mean that! Surely no one ever borrowed from you on those terms?”
“They have,” Qasim retorted.
“See here,” said Nikka, dismissing Qasim’s proposal with a shrug, “I will accumulate the interest at ten per cent and give you the whole lump sum when I can.”
Qasim sniggered. “Look at him! Look at him,” he said to the world at large. “Do you think I am a child—a dimwit? I haven’t bitten upon the years so long for nothing. You can’t fool me . . .”
“Oh, Khan Sahib, I’ve not been the leading strong man of my village for nothing either. I have also bitten upon the years! Talk reasonably, man.”
Nikka stood up and Qasim caught him by the arm.
“How can we come to terms without talking?” he said as if he were placating a child.
They came to a series of decisions. Qasim would lend Nikka two hundred rupees. Twice that amount was to be returned to him at the end of six months. Nikka would, in compensation for these easy terms, provide them with food.
“My wife will keep an eye on your girl,” concluded Nikka magnanimously.
At the end of six months, the terms were to be freshly negotiated. Both retired with the drawn expressions of men having conceded too easily. But their hearts were jubilant.
That evening they walked some distance to a secluded spot between a grove of sheesham saplings. Qasim, delving deep under his shirt into the private folds of his trousers, pulled out a soiled cloth pouch. Turning slightly away from Nikka, he withdrew two limp hundred rupee notes.
“Here’s the money,” he said. “Mind, don’t try any tricks.”
Nikka folded the notes and knotted them into the edge of his lungi. Then drawing his singlet down, he said, “Can’t say, but you’ll get to know me better.”
They walked back to the camp.
Zaitoon had not mentioned her parents for a week. She had fretted awhile but, blessed with the short memory of a five-year-old, appeared to be caught up in the excitement of her new life at the camp.
By eleven o’clock all the refugees crawled beneath whatever shade they could find or improvise. The sun struck with white-hot fury. The streets of Lahore lay deserted and the shops were closed.
One afternoon, while Qasim sheltered beneath a banyan tree, a girl, about thirteen years old, ran past. Zaitoon, her head pillowed on Qasim’s lap, was asleep.
Giggling with mischief and defiance, the girl had run only a little further when a querulous voice shrieked, “There she goes! Off to play just when I need her. Come back, Zohra! Zohra, I said come back at once!”
The girl stopped and turned. Zaitoon stirred in her sleep and Qasim, who had been watching idly, smiled at the sulking adolescent.
There was the mother’s voice again, “Wait till I get my hands on her! Zohra, where are you? Come back at once. Zohra! Zohra!”
Suddenly Zaitoon sat up. “Ma?” she cried, and before Qasim knew what had happened, she was racing towards the voice she had heard.
She flitted through the heat-drugged camp screaming, “Ma? Ma? Where are you?” and the burly tribal, floundering behind her, bellowed, “Zaitoon. Munni, wait . . . where are you going? Wait!”
Qasim caught up with her and carried her back screaming and kicking. He was appalled at the coincidence.
When the girl quieted down he asked her: “You told me your father’s name was Sikander . . . You haven’t told me your mother’s name yet?”
“Zohra,” she answered.
“Run, Zohra, run.” A tall peasant moves across the gory tangle. Light from waving torches licks his ravaged, bloodstained face . . .
Oh, the vulnerability of scrawny, stumbling legs—the futile plea, “Run, Zohra,” lost in the dark.
Qasim wanted to say, “I saw your father on the last day of his life. He was a brave man,” but he felt she was too small. He vowed to tell her all when she was older.
Despite Nikka’s reassurances, Qasim was cautious. He watched him carefully. Each morning, when Nikka slipped out of the camp, taking his mug up some deserted alley or into the pampas grass edging an irrigation ditch, Qasim followed with a fistful of toilet-stones. Both disappeared in the reeds, but Qasim was sure to keep the shadow of Nikka’s black hair in sight. At night, he slept as near to Nikka as possible, springing awake at the slightest rustle. He accompanied Nikka in his search for accommodation and helped carry back the merchandise purchased for the business venture: paan-leaves, tobacco biris, betel nuts, cheap sweets and cigarettes. Nikka labored hard, vending his wares around the camp on a tin tray that hung from his neck, and Qasim was surprised by the quick turnover.
One afternoon Nikka asked, “Still afraid I might vanish with your money?”
“No, no! What nonsense you talk. You are my brother.” But he continued his guardianship.
Many hawkers worked the camp, peddling a variety of goods, and among them were a couple of other paan-biri wallas.
Nikka learned of their presence and was offended. He kept an alert lookout, and early one sultry evening, he spied a hawker with merchandise similar to his own. He nudged Qasim and they steered a passage towards the unfortunate man.
Leaving his tray in Qasim’s charge, Nikka sauntered forward. He planted himself squarely before the surprised hawker and, raising his voice, spun off a facile string of practiced Punjabi expletives.
“You incestuous lover of your mother, lover of your sister, son of a whore, imbecile owl, dog, how dare you peddle this stuff here!”
Stepping forward, he slashed the clumsy tray from the man’s arms.
The peddler set up a cry. “Why, you crazy bastard, what right have you to dump my merchandise?” A throng of onlookers gathered. “Here I stand,” he whined, “minding my own business, and this bully scatters my goods! I am a poor refugee. What right has he to harass me, I ask you . . . I ask you?”
He stooped to pick up his belongings.
Nikka glowered at him.
Qasim, holding the tray, edged closer. Three men at the inner ring of the surrounding crowd