immediate problem which presented itself was how to meet her. He did not generally go up to the ladies courtyard, he contented himself with greeting Tara’s friends and the other womenfolk downstairs when they entered or left the house. He would have to think up a reasonable pretext to go up this evening. Once he was upstairs, he would have no trouble identifying her, he was sure.
But fortune was on his side. As he was thinking over the problem, Tara came rushing downstairs followed by the mysterious lady, whose distinctive fragrance immediately gave her away. As the stranger approached, Bauji realized that she was beautiful beyond all his expectations. She had a pale, white, square face, surrounded by masses of long and dark hair, which fell below her hips. He thought her eyes were green, but he could have been mistaken in the poor evening light. Her nose and cheekbones were clearly chiselled on her face like the sculptures of Gandhara. She came like an apparition, and Bauji was afraid that she might disappear.
He immediately rose to his feet, and his tall frame overshadowed the two women. Bauji was big for a Punjabi Hindu and unlike his contemporaries he had not grown fat with age. His grey hair added to a physical presence, which could not be easily ignored even in a crowd. A glint of pride flashed in his dark brown eyes. It was not the pride of class, nor of worldly success, but a radiation called
raj-tej
by the Hindus. It was an energy radiated by a man of worldly power, usually a ruler. His long ungainly fingers caressed his moustache, the same fingers which could also caress the female body with extreme delicacy, as Bhabo well knew.
Tara introduced the stranger as Anees Husain, her teacher (and friend) from Lahore. Bauji offered her a chair. Tara explained that Anees’ father was the DIG of Police in Lahore, but they had originally come from Kashmir. This explained her fair skin and the unusual colour of her eyes. She must be around thirty, he thought. But why wasn’t she married, he wondered. He immediately placed her family since he knew many people in Lahore. He certainly knew everyone who mattered in Lyallpur but half of Lahore’s society were also his friends. And the other half he had heard of.
Bauji made Anees feel at home. He recounted a brief meeting with her father in Lahore, where he had gone to defend a client at the High Court.
‘Then you must have been on opposite sides?’ asked Anees.
‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile.
‘I’ll go and bring us some fresh lime water,’ said Tara getting up.
There was a brief uneasy silence after Tara’s departure. Curiosity finally got the better of Bauji, and he asked his attractive guest if she had been near Kacheri Bazaar on a certain evening.
‘It was I,’ she said boldly. ‘But I was wearing a burkha. How did you know?’
‘Ah, that’s my secret,’ he said.
‘Does someone always watch unsuspecting women in this manner?’
‘If someone visits the wrong side of town at the wrong hour of the day, she must be prepared to be noticed, especially if she wears Chanel No. 5.’
‘Oh, so that’s how someone knows.’ It finally dawned on her; she was impressed.
‘Someone has a good memory for scents,’ she said.
He smiled, acknowledging the compliment. There was a pause.
‘I have sometimes wondered,’ he said, ‘how it feels to be behind a burkha—to be always a spectator, forever observing the world, and never acting, to be always tantalizing others, to keep them guessing, whether it is a woman of eighteen or of eighty.’
It was her turn to smile. She was struck by the unusual observation.
‘I never thought of it in that way,’ she replied. ‘I have always worn a burkha on the streets. I was brought up to believe that it was the only way. But I don’t like it. I envy Tara and other Hindu girls, who don’t have to wear it. I don’t want to be an observer, I want to be part of the world.’
Bauji was intrigued by her answer. He
But fortune was on his side. As he was thinking over the problem, Tara came rushing downstairs followed by the mysterious lady, whose distinctive fragrance immediately gave her away. As the stranger approached, Bauji realized that she was beautiful beyond all his expectations. She had a pale, white, square face, surrounded by masses of long and dark hair, which fell below her hips. He thought her eyes were green, but he could have been mistaken in the poor evening light. Her nose and cheekbones were clearly chiselled on her face like the sculptures of Gandhara. She came like an apparition, and Bauji was afraid that she might disappear.
He immediately rose to his feet, and his tall frame overshadowed the two women. Bauji was big for a Punjabi Hindu and unlike his contemporaries he had not grown fat with age. His grey hair added to a physical presence, which could not be easily ignored even in a crowd. A glint of pride flashed in his dark brown eyes. It was not the pride of class, nor of worldly success, but a radiation called
raj-tej
by the Hindus. It was an energy radiated by a man of worldly power, usually a ruler. His long ungainly fingers caressed his moustache, the same fingers which could also caress the female body with extreme delicacy, as Bhabo well knew.
Tara introduced the stranger as Anees Husain, her teacher (and friend) from Lahore. Bauji offered her a chair. Tara explained that Anees’ father was the DIG of Police in Lahore, but they had originally come from Kashmir. This explained her fair skin and the unusual colour of her eyes. She must be around thirty, he thought. But why wasn’t she married, he wondered. He immediately placed her family since he knew many people in Lahore. He certainly knew everyone who mattered in Lyallpur but half of Lahore’s society were also his friends. And the other half he had heard of.
Bauji made Anees feel at home. He recounted a brief meeting with her father in Lahore, where he had gone to defend a client at the High Court.
‘Then you must have been on opposite sides?’ asked Anees.
‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile.
‘I’ll go and bring us some fresh lime water,’ said Tara getting up.
There was a brief uneasy silence after Tara’s departure. Curiosity finally got the better of Bauji, and he asked his attractive guest if she had been near Kacheri Bazaar on a certain evening.
‘It was I,’ she said boldly. ‘But I was wearing a burkha. How did you know?’
‘Ah, that’s my secret,’ he said.
‘Does someone always watch unsuspecting women in this manner?’
‘If someone visits the wrong side of town at the wrong hour of the day, she must be prepared to be noticed, especially if she wears Chanel No. 5.’
‘Oh, so that’s how someone knows.’ It finally dawned on her; she was impressed.
‘Someone has a good memory for scents,’ she said.
He smiled, acknowledging the compliment. There was a pause.
‘I have sometimes wondered,’ he said, ‘how it feels to be behind a burkha—to be always a spectator, forever observing the world, and never acting, to be always tantalizing others, to keep them guessing, whether it is a woman of eighteen or of eighty.’
It was her turn to smile. She was struck by the unusual observation.
‘I never thought of it in that way,’ she replied. ‘I have always worn a burkha on the streets. I was brought up to believe that it was the only way. But I don’t like it. I envy Tara and other Hindu girls, who don’t have to wear it. I don’t want to be an observer, I want to be part of the world.’
Bauji was intrigued by her answer. He
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