Chapter 1

FATIMA AND SHABBIR

11th of Jumaada al-THanny 1416

(November 5, 1995)

Fatima’s cloth left her shoulder blades exposed to the Pakistani sun. A red cloth ran to her knees, her legs and feet caked in mud. She lived in the slums, a wide area stretching several miles in all directions at the base of brown hills. Up in the hills she banged on doors. Many doors had been slammed in her face. She became conditioned to the response. While she searched for homes to clean, she carried a sweeper made of straw that she tied with a string to her waist. The sweeper dragged on the dust covering the roads.

Within Fatima lurked a maze of non sequitur memories. She went to bed within the shelters of the slums below. There the children played in mud, and men brewed tea over fires.

She made efforts to dream of pleasant things, but after a rough day of searching for houses to clean, she lay in the darkness of her small hovel, hearing the cries of children. She thought of the houses on the hills: the carpeting, the stairs, and the voices of the housewives explaining how there was nothing to clean. Some of these women sympathized. They poured shining coins upon her.

She vowed to own a house where the food would be plentiful. She would throw extravagant parties for important people. She thought Allah would grant this if she worked hard. She had seen others in the slums praying, some without prayer cloths, some without stiff, brimless caps. She assumed Allah was with her when she roamed.

She had a different approach to this Allah who lifted the sun during sultry Lahorian days. No need to kneel. She looked up like a child to a father. She opened her eyes to the sky as though in dialogue. She assumed Allah looked into her eyes. Allah may have heard these wishes to end her bad dreams, but surreal nightmares made her perspire until dawn.

The day provided for one meal. She was accustomed to a soggy bowl of rice boiling over a candle. If she received a cleaning assignment, she was set for a week. Although this did not satisfy her, she concluded this was Allah’s way of speaking. Sometimes she became bitter with Allah. She believed Allah should take pride in his successes but also accept his failures. Allah, she thought, had his hands full and replied with either terrible dreams or bags of rice.

The houses on the hill took pleasure in watching the slum expand, filling every corner of the city. The slum dwellers below looked up at the houses on the hill and prayed for fortunes to be reversed.

Each day Fatima noticed transients in the area. Quite rarely would they ever leave, for once they entered, they found it hard to leave, and many looked for an easy escape. The children from their hovels crept up to the thoroughfares, tapping on windows and following housewives with handbags. Some of these children visited Fatima in her hovel. The children would bounce on her. Fatima would point to her rice and twist the children from her back.

Bringing hard currency into the slums was dangerous. Even rice was not safe. Fatima kept the bags of rice by her head. The slums never emptied out. Fatima was an exception. Five miles of land were packed into a chain of ashen cardboard. The naked children cruised the outskirts as well, prancing about and laughing until sucked in by its magnetism. The children born within the slums would die within the slums. The shantytown crept towards the hills.

From the suburbs on a hilltop, Fatima watched her village below and occasionally ran into a friend, also a cleaning woman. The residential areas were large enough for both to support themselves meagerly. Her friend’s name was Shamima. She was shorter, skinnier, and older. She had a flat chest and thin legs. Fatima knew Shamima was not spending wisely.

“You make more than I do,” said Fatima. “You seem to be getting lucky, but you’re withering away,” as they overlooked the slums.

“All of us must make room for others,” replied Shamima.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t have any children. You never told me anything about children.”

“I have children, but they are not necessarily my own,” said Shamima.

“And you spend on them? There is nothing here. I made two bags of rice this week, and you make more than that. I’m not in the best of health, but at least I’m healthy.”

“I give most of what I earn to the children. If I lose out, then so be it.”

“And what forces you to do this?”

“Allah does. He is asking me to give, and so I give.”

“You should be the recipient, not the provider. I knew there was something wrong. I knew it. You should be thinking of yourself.”

“You are too young to understand. Give it time, and you will see.”

“I see it now. You’re starving. You give charity foolishly. It was never meant for that.”

“Look there,” as Shamima pointed to a group of naked children. “The only thing lost in our poverty is the innocence. If I don’t help preserve it, who will?”

“Leave that to the mullahs in their mosques said Fatima.

They gazed upon the frolicking children.

Shamima whispered: “There is joy in life. Joy is everywhere, but only if we look at it right. The damaged sky and the white sun, the dark slums, and the stray animals. Beauty can be everywhere if we just take the plunge and look at it as an entity which Allah has blessed. Never separate parts. It’s whole and complete.”

Fatima caught sight of the far hill girdled by cement walls. She put her arm around her friend.

Fatima then went along one of the residential roads. She took the higher ground and Shamima the lower. The hills carried many servants in lieu of housewives. More cleaning women canvassed the Eastern side. The Western was more lucrative. The residential hills circled the slums.

Fatima drifted far West towards the highest point. She came to a row of houses she had not passed before. The long row called itself Drakni Drive. A calmness stalked the streets. A few cars passed and crickets shrilled. This hidden row had to pay off. Yet the first house intimidated her.

The door was left open. Entering and getting caught could involve the police. She entered apprehensively. She called for a servant. She crossed a lawn of dying flowers. She entered a living room with two sofas. Plants filled empty spaces and lent a fullness Fatima admired. A threshold led to a pantry. She walked carefully, looking at photographs of the Himalayas. She made sure not to disturb anything.

All the homes she had cleaned were stocked with Qu’rans. This home, however, did not carry the item. In the pantry a small island stood in the middle. Affixed to the ceiling a rack of utensils. She went through the cabinets stocked with fifty pound bags of rice. Surely the owners would not mind her taking just one. She could handle one bag if she went West and then straight down. No one on these routes would find it strange. With one big bag she could eat three bowls a day. She could spend time on the hill and contemplate. Instead she closed the door. ‘Rich bastards. Life is not fair,’ she thought. ‘Joy? Where? In the struggle for rice?’ And she walked away.

The road was a welcoming sight, and she vowed never to enter another unlocked home. Drakni Drive was full of rejection. At each door a servant answered. They were refined and kindly. Rejection, however, was still rejection, no matter how calm the servants were. With each rejection came more rejection.

She maintained her anger through the next gate. A long leather strap with three gold bells was nailed to it. She gave it a pull. A bald old man answered. He smiled and stepped into the road.

“And what can I help you with?” he asked.

He was being sincere, and might as well be. The house was one of the oldest. She disliked servants. Apparently few peddlers knocked on this door. The walls of the house were not as high as the others.

“I am a poor woman, and my children are hungry,” said Fatima. “Let me clean your home.”

“We have no money here. We can only give food,” said the servant.

“No money?”

“No money. My offer stands. I can prepare very good food.”

Fatima had never taken a meal. She was not hungry but followed him into the house. No pictures on the walls, no religious hangings. Very dark and cool.

“What is your name?” asked the servant.

“Fatima.”

“My name is Shrika. I take care of this place, but sometimes I welcome people who want to help. It’s a small house, yes, but I could use a break.”

Shrika led her to an empty room.

“Why don’t you start here.”

“But this room is clean,” said Fatima.

“Generally it is clean, but there is a lot of dust. You won’t be needing your sweeper. There is a duster in there. Should you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t be afraid to walk into the rooms. They all need dusting.”

The cleaning took two minutes. Hardly any dust. She ate every morsel of the curried lamb the servant cooked for her. She expected to eat outside. Instead she ate at the kitchen table. The portions were large, and Fatima sighed heavily mid way through the plate.

“How is it?” asked Shrika.

“Delicious, really it is.”

“Work well earned. You are from the lower sections I take it?”

“Yes. Right in the middle.”

“I see. You came looking for work?”

“This is my first time on Drakni Drive. I’ve never been this far up before. It’s really quite nice around theseparts.”

“Yes, Allah has blessed us with peace up here. I haven’t been down that way for some time.”

“You’re not missing anything. It just goes on.”

“Oh I know what goes on. Many years ago I was born down there.”

The servant made it to the hills, and Fatima’s surprise turned into frustration. Too many wanted it too badly. She delved into her food.

“As I recall,” said Shrika, “we were all trying to make it to these hills. Some make it. The key is in our respect for the All Mighty. He alone is the master.”

The shabbiness of the house deceived her. Many could sleep comfortably in its spacious rooms. Fatima took a scoop of rice and lamb gravy and shoved it in her mouth. She wanted to take some back.

“That was really good,” she said.

“Would you like some more?”

“Okay, but tell me one thing. You can’t be this nice to every peddler. Finding a servant like you is rare.”

“Finding a cleaning woman like you is rare too.”

“And why is that?”

“You are so young and full of life. A bit dirty, but we can live with that. You must be a smart one, yes?”

“Smart enough to read, but there are many smarter than I.”

“You deserved this plate of food, and I myself am having a good day. No one is home, and why not do something for Allah’s children. He takes a special liking to you. He thinks about you always. Never forget that he is always watching out for you, but at the same time watching over you.”

‘Rubbish. Absolute rubbish,’ she thought. ‘The old get religious.’ She folded her arms thinking that this servant had to be thankful for his luck. But luck did make him kind to others.

They heard the door. Shrika dropped his plate in the sink and brought out a wet rag.

“Don’t tell her you’ve been cleaning here,” he whispered. “Say you are my niece. What is your name?”

The footsteps became louder, and Fatima readied herself. She assumed the old man had been planning for such an interruption.

“Who is this?” asked the housewife, startling both of them.

“I thought you were coming later tonight, madam,” said Shrika.

“I cut my trip short.”

“This is Fatima. She is my niece.”

“You never spoke to us about a niece! What a surprise! Let me look at her.”

Fatima gave her a quick smile, making sure not to utter a word.

“My name is Sakina,” said the housewife. “So where have you been hiding her?” she asked Shrika.

“She lives in the lower sections. She has been here a few times before. You popped in at the right time,” as he piled more food onto Fatima’s plate.

“Hold on,” said Sakina. “Why are you people eating now of all times? Hold off till dinner. It’ll be ready soon. Shabbir will also be back.”

“Fatima has to be going.”

“Nonsense. Are you still hungry?”

Fatima returned a shy smile.

“You see. She’d rather stay.”

“It’s not that simple, madam. You see they are expecting her for a very important dinner at home. I have to get her back on time, or else she’ll miss it.”

“Oh very well then,” she sighed. “But just to let you know, even though Shrika is our servant, he is also part of our family. So please stay once in a while. Shabbir and I would be glad to have you.”

Fatima followed Shrika to the front gate. She decided to visit the home again, hopefully when the housewife was present. But for now, she had had enough food. She was bloated.

The sun moved to its highest point. The hills were much cooler than the slums. Fatima had only walked but a few feet when she noticed a man coming towards her. He was a young, tall man. She moved to the other side of the road.

“Hey, I saw you coming out of our house,” said the man.

“So what is it to you?” asked Fatima.

“I seemed to have missed you. I’m Shabbir Hussein. I am owner of the house. Did you get any cleaning work done? We usually discourage peddlers. I’m surprised our servant let you in.”

“I am a cleaning woman, but I am also your servant’s niece,” said Fatima.

“So that’s it. Shrika never told us about a niece. Where do you live?”

“The lower sections.”

“I see. Did you meet my wife?”

“Sakina is a very charming woman. She wanted me to stay for dinner, but I’m in a rush.”

“I see. Well, I hope you stop by sometime,” said Shabbir.

As Fatima approached the lower sections, the old shacks were open for business. Goats explored the vegetation. The merchants worked in small shops. Fatima caught some of the merchants holding their brooms and studying her. She had grown used to it. They kept their gaze as she walked towards the denser part of the slums. Small smoke stacks filled the sky with dull smog. The slums melted into the haze of the horizon. The elderly slum-dwellers slept. Children leaned against posts and ran their fingers into the dirt. Some slept in the nude. Mothers sewed. Workers banged on pieces of metal. A gang of children accumulated behind her.

She often took the children to the hills. The children raged with curiosity, but then lost interest, only wanting to play in the open spaces. The line for water extended to the foothills. Young men filled tin pails.

She left the children and walked faster into the thickness. The trail pinched. She tripped over a dead pair of legs. Akbir’s men were probably responsible, she thought, running through the slums with their guns. They had not moved into Fatima’s territory, but she heard talk of their arrival. Many slum-dwellers were warning each other. Some of them purchased cheap pistols to protect themselves. No one had to worry if they paid Akbir’s men, but the price was often steep.

As the shacks grew warped, she thought she’d visit another friend, Mama Khadija. Fatima normally passed through her neighborhood on her way to the South. She had neglected to pay her a visit for some time and sensed her concern. She came upon her shelter in the middle of a long row. A heap of trash had been piled in front of the entrance, perhaps to deter strangers.

Mama Khadija was short and round, and her slow, heavy gait and white hair were reminders of her final days. But Fatima did not heed these signs. Her features were a tribute to longevity. In a crackling voice, Mama Khadija bid her welcome and led her through a tapering hallway. A torn sleeping cloth lay on the dirt. At each corner candles were lit, flooding the walls with shadows. The floor had been swept, and a bowl of water simmered over a flame. Fatima did not want to journey to the South just yet.

Mama Khadija sifted through her clothing and found a small piece of cloth. She spread it over the floor with Fatima’s help. Fatima performed lengthy salaams which added to their comfort.

“Come my child. I’m making some tea. You’re just in time,” she said.

“Sorry for not coming sooner. I have been busy, and today I have been blessed with a home up in the hills. One of the servants took kindly to me.”

“A servant? I don’t believe it,” said Mama Khadija with a chuckle. “So now our little devil will start saying prayers.”

Fatima spotted a fat roach crawling on the wall.

“Leave it be,” said Mama Khadija. “I’ve become used to them. Even creatures so ugly must endure the blessings of life.”

The water came to a boil, and Mama Khadija used a hand clamp to lift the pot. She poured the water into dusty cups weighted with shards of black tea. Fatima noticed her concentration at the expense of her shaking hands. Much of the boiled water spilled into the dirt.

“Don’t let the hills get to your head,” said Mama Khadija. “You have a long life ahead of you, and you are still growing. Hardships will come and go. The triumph in life is found in dealing with these hardships. Even the roaches know how to deal with good fortune.”

“I’m going again tomorrow,” said Fatima sipping her tea. “These hill dwellers are different. The servant feels guilty. All these stocks of food packed in cupboards and closets, you wouldn’t believe it. The servant used to live down here.”

“Many start out from down here. Naturally they feel responsible to help someone like you. It’s not guilt. It’s their way of giving something back. You are still so young, and your intelligence makes you dangerous. You have no understanding as to what this scheme is about. Take your friend, ah, what’s her name? Older than you? Skinny?”

“Shamima.”

“You should take after this woman. She prays daily, five times, even though she’s hard at work. She brings food for the children...”

“I don’t neglect the children.”

“Of course you don’t. But all you do is play with them and take them around like some gang leader. The children need food most of all. And since you are old enough now, you must give some of it to the children.”

“No one gave me food when I was a child. My mother sent me into the roads. I earned my food.”

“And when your mother left?”

“I earned it.”

“Don’t be foolish. My sister and I gathered up food for you children. So many had to go without. But since my sister and your mother were close, my sister always put rice into your hovel.

“You see it takes other human beings to put Allah’s will into practice. You cannot do it alone. No one can do it alone. Even the people on the hill can’t do it alone. They have problems too. There are so many levels to this grand house, and it takes time, and many prayers, before we can all eat in one dining room.”

“You talk so strangely sometimes,” said Fatima. “We all have to eat, and in our dreams we can play on that field, where everyone is happy and each is given a ten pound bag to start their trek through this unknown hell. But suddenly we want to feed mouths. We see this as the vision, and we pray for it to happen, but it never happens. Time we can spend working hard in the hills turns into many wasteful afternoons hoping the stuff will fall from the sky. We have to help our own, but not at the expense of ourselves. Shamima just wants the dream to come true, so she gives the children rice as payment to Allah.”

“At least you admit Allah needs to be paid.”

“No. For me I earned it, and I never worshipped.”

Mama Khadija doused the fire. A vent added more light and also a breeze which blew out two candles. A murky effect resulted, and Mama Khadija found matchsticks.

“You should wait before you go back there.”

“Why?” asked Fatima. “They invited me back, even the man of the house.”

“Don’t be impatient. If you go back too soon, or go back too many times, they will not accept you. Wait a few days, and they will be glad to see you. Visit too often and they will be sick of you. Just stretch it out a bit, so that it lasts longer. Go on with your general routine. Use their home as back up.”

“I’m going tomorrow. They want me back.”

“This servant let you in. It is a sign from the All Mighty. He is looking after you, but he wants you to look after others in that same way. We reap what we sow, and you are doing all of the reaping just as the smallest stems sprout.”