nut-brown skin, and she looked like a jacaranda tree in bloom. Approaching Dia Sumbul swayed, carrying a baby on her hip and a clipboard in her right hand.
‘Salaam Baji,’ Sumbul greeted her.
‘Waalai-kum-asalaam.’
‘How is Aba?’
‘Oh fine,’ answered Dia. ‘Mischievous as ever. He sends his love. How’s your husband? Is everything okay at home?’
Sumbul smiled, tugging the braid that had slipped over her shoulder. It was so long and thick she’d twisted it in a U-turn. ‘His mother’s gone back to our village for a few weeks. Things are better. But,’ she looked away, ‘I think a fifth is on the way.’
Dia sucked in her breath; Sumbul was only her age. ‘And you still don’t want Ama to give you pills?’
‘What if he finds out?’
‘Keep them here, at the farm. He’ll never know.’
Sumbul sighed, adjusting the baby to her other side. ‘No, Baji.’
Dia shook her head but said nothing; the choice was Sumbul’s.
Together they entered the shed.
The interior was hot and humid, fanned with a continuous stream of fresh air. It was divided into four sections. The first, empty during this season, would soon hold the eggs laid by the current batch. In the second room was a long table with trays of wriggling larvae feeding on finely chopped mulberry leaves. Dia walked past the trays, greeting the women who tended the maggots. As in the days of the Chinese Empress, now too silkworms were bred by women. With the exception of the gardeners and the security guards, the farm was entirely run by them, which was why they were allowed to work at all.
When they first started, the sight of the larvae had made the workers squirm. Touching had been out of the question. But now the insects were handled as mechanically as braids and babies; sliding a handful down the shirt of any farm worker would never produce the effect it had on Nini. Despite herself, Dia smiled.
Sumbul, guessing the reason correctly, asked how the plan had worked.
‘Well, unfortunately Nini overreacted. She has marriage on the brain.’
‘Marriage?’ Sumbul adjusted the baby again. ‘Well it’s no surprise, is it? Nissrine is so beautiful!’
‘Is it her beauty that’s made her change? She doesn’t even know the boy she’s after.’
‘Most women don’t,’ replied Sumbul. ‘Inshallah, she can make it work.’
But why should she?
Dia wanted to scream. Why should Nini accept the limits that others so maliciously placed upon her? Why was it up to her to make it work, with a man who was a complete unknown, no less? Not wanting yet another argument with a woman she liked, Dia again said nothing.
They walked down the length of the table. The larvae were white and blind; their only activity was eating. But having been bred for so many centuries, they’d all but forgotten how to eat. The women had to chop up their food in tiny slivers and change the supply nine times daily or the fussy creatures would starve. If in their wilder days, they required no hygiene, now the perforated paper beneath them had to be scrupulously cleaned, or this too would elicit a hunger strike.
Toward the end of the table were caterpillars that had molted a fourth and final time. It always happened this way, thought Dia. An insect’s life was so measurable, and yet so mysterious. Perhaps the paradox was the allure. As diligently as she studied them, there would always be details – like thechanges inside a cocoon or the moths mating at birth – which escaped her.
She studied the sheets stacked on the clipboard. On top was the tally for this year. The news was not good. Fewer caterpillars had lived through the fourth molt than ever before. Watching them slither on a bed of leaves, she made believe they talked to one another. They whispered: Let us vow never to spin our fine threads for these wretched humans again!
Sumbul’s baby woke. He writhed and rubbed his eyes with tiny fists, threatening to holler. Sumbul swiftly opened her kameez and
‘Salaam Baji,’ Sumbul greeted her.
‘Waalai-kum-asalaam.’
‘How is Aba?’
‘Oh fine,’ answered Dia. ‘Mischievous as ever. He sends his love. How’s your husband? Is everything okay at home?’
Sumbul smiled, tugging the braid that had slipped over her shoulder. It was so long and thick she’d twisted it in a U-turn. ‘His mother’s gone back to our village for a few weeks. Things are better. But,’ she looked away, ‘I think a fifth is on the way.’
Dia sucked in her breath; Sumbul was only her age. ‘And you still don’t want Ama to give you pills?’
‘What if he finds out?’
‘Keep them here, at the farm. He’ll never know.’
Sumbul sighed, adjusting the baby to her other side. ‘No, Baji.’
Dia shook her head but said nothing; the choice was Sumbul’s.
Together they entered the shed.
The interior was hot and humid, fanned with a continuous stream of fresh air. It was divided into four sections. The first, empty during this season, would soon hold the eggs laid by the current batch. In the second room was a long table with trays of wriggling larvae feeding on finely chopped mulberry leaves. Dia walked past the trays, greeting the women who tended the maggots. As in the days of the Chinese Empress, now too silkworms were bred by women. With the exception of the gardeners and the security guards, the farm was entirely run by them, which was why they were allowed to work at all.
When they first started, the sight of the larvae had made the workers squirm. Touching had been out of the question. But now the insects were handled as mechanically as braids and babies; sliding a handful down the shirt of any farm worker would never produce the effect it had on Nini. Despite herself, Dia smiled.
Sumbul, guessing the reason correctly, asked how the plan had worked.
‘Well, unfortunately Nini overreacted. She has marriage on the brain.’
‘Marriage?’ Sumbul adjusted the baby again. ‘Well it’s no surprise, is it? Nissrine is so beautiful!’
‘Is it her beauty that’s made her change? She doesn’t even know the boy she’s after.’
‘Most women don’t,’ replied Sumbul. ‘Inshallah, she can make it work.’
But why should she?
Dia wanted to scream. Why should Nini accept the limits that others so maliciously placed upon her? Why was it up to her to make it work, with a man who was a complete unknown, no less? Not wanting yet another argument with a woman she liked, Dia again said nothing.
They walked down the length of the table. The larvae were white and blind; their only activity was eating. But having been bred for so many centuries, they’d all but forgotten how to eat. The women had to chop up their food in tiny slivers and change the supply nine times daily or the fussy creatures would starve. If in their wilder days, they required no hygiene, now the perforated paper beneath them had to be scrupulously cleaned, or this too would elicit a hunger strike.
Toward the end of the table were caterpillars that had molted a fourth and final time. It always happened this way, thought Dia. An insect’s life was so measurable, and yet so mysterious. Perhaps the paradox was the allure. As diligently as she studied them, there would always be details – like thechanges inside a cocoon or the moths mating at birth – which escaped her.
She studied the sheets stacked on the clipboard. On top was the tally for this year. The news was not good. Fewer caterpillars had lived through the fourth molt than ever before. Watching them slither on a bed of leaves, she made believe they talked to one another. They whispered: Let us vow never to spin our fine threads for these wretched humans again!
Sumbul’s baby woke. He writhed and rubbed his eyes with tiny fists, threatening to holler. Sumbul swiftly opened her kameez and
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