The Pakistani Bride by Bapsi Sidhwa

helped her straighten the limbs of her charges. They covered them with blankets.
    At about five o’clock the next morning the groggy men were propelled into two taxis. The fat pimp saw them off, his singlet wet with perspiration even at that hour. The cars wound their
way, one behind the other, through the tawdry, now deserted alleys of the sleeping Mandi.
    That day, Miriam, who took everything in her stride, quietly assumed charge of Zaitoon.
    The girl, stricken by terror, flung herself at Miriam screaming, “Oh, my Abba doesn’t awaken. He is dead!”
    Miriam burst into laughter. Hugging the child to her bosom, she soothed her. She took Zaitoon to the room where Nikka lay sprawled on a charpoy. “See?” she chuckled, prodding her inert husband. “See how he sleeps? They are both tired. Soon your father will awaken, dangle you on his lap, and tickle you like this . . .” Laughing, she tickled Zaitoon, and all fears were forgotten.
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    Qasim and Nikka slept through the day. In the evening, over the tea steaming from his saucer, Qasim asked, “Tell me, how much did you spend in all?”
    â€œAbout two thousand . . .”
    â€œTwo thousand rupees!” exclaimed Qasim incredulously.
    â€œWell, at least now we know how the rich blow their loot!”
    Qasim nodded solemnly.

Chapter 9
    N ikka came to look forward to assignments that required his particular skills. Patronized by the powerful political group that sought his services, he began to enjoy certain liberties. He was no longer an ordinary citizen.
    From the recesses of the underworld right through to the patrolling policemen, everyone knew that Nikka wielded influence. His promises, his opinions, carried weight. Word of his ability to help extended to Qasim. For a fee he interceded with Nikka specially on behalf of tribal petitioners.
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    The following summer, the Leader summoned Nikka into his august presence. “Tell him to bring along the Pathan as well.”
    The interview was discreet. Qasim and Nikka were led through a thickly carpeted corridor, opulent with the gleam of copper and carved mahogany, into a luxurious room. A tall, dark man with a sleekly oiled moustache sat behind a desk. They knew he held most of the power in the land. His bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes appeared to measure them in the subdued light. He extended his hand. Qasim and Nikka padded nervously through the air-conditioned space scented by tuber-roses and expensive cigars. Stiff with awe, Qasim stood, studying the pattern in the Persian carpet.
    With an ease born of generations of gracious living, the leader motioned them to a corner of the study darkened by black leather upholstery. Qasim, who had never sat on anything so soft, sank, he thought, into a cloud. Nikka stammered ingratiatingly, “Yes, my lord, yes, my lord,” to everything the
man said, and Qasim, who had never seen him so obsequious, blushed for the two of them.
    After what seemed an eternity (but was not more than five minutes in fact) the mighty one supplied the cue for their departure. With a humility that won their hearts, he touched his fingers to his forehead and said, “We are deeply indebted to your loyalty and services. Our cause is just, and you are worthy. God be with you.” Fixing Nikka with grateful eyes, he said, “I wanted to thank you myself.”
    Nikka flushed.
    â€œMy lord, it is my privilege and honor to serve you always.”
    An arm across each of their shoulders, the mighty one led them to the door. “My car will take you home. God be with you.” He embraced each in turn, “And don’t forget. My house and my heart are always open to my friends.”
    Flattered, they walked to the waiting car. Nikka was a rooster trying to smooth his puffed feathers. He looked with disdain at the shoddy crowds streaming past the tinted glass of the air-conditioned Cadillac. “I wish the whole of Qila Gujjar Singh were gathered