The Last Queen Read online

  He dances away from the tree, shouting derisively while holding up two guavas. The man bellows and chases after him. He’s caught the farmer’s attention. I slide to the ground. My knee is skinned; my salwar rips further. But I have the bag of guavas. I run and pray. Waheguru, protect my brother.

  * * *

  AT HOME, I LIE heroically to Biji. Sometimes it’s better for mothers to not know the truth.

  “I was at the river, trying to catch a fish. I lost track of time. No, I don’t know where Jawahar has gone.”

  Biji twists my ear but not too hard, because she hasn’t seen the torn salwar yet. Hurriedly, I wash with the leftover water at the bottom of the bucket and change into my school salwar-kameez, a too-large hand-me-down from Balbir, discolored from many washings. I don’t want to be late for school which, unlike my siblings, I love. I feel lucky that Biji gave into my entreaties and let me study. Most of the families here don’t believe in educating their girls. I drink the watery lassi Biji has saved from last night and pick up my slate and chalk.

  Someone’s banging on the door. It’s green turban, dragging Jawahar by a thin arm. My brother’s nose is bloody and one eye is swollen shut.

  I didn’t pray hard enough.

  Green turban describes the thievery with dramatic gestures. Listening to him, you’d think we’d stolen a mountain of guavas. He tells Biji there was someone else with the boy, but he hasn’t been able to get that information out of him. The boy wouldn’t even tell him his name, but luckily one of the farmhands recognized him. He glares at all of us. “If I wasn’t such a kind man, I’d have taken this thieving bastard to the village sarpanch.”

  Balbir, who’s timid and law-abiding, starts to sniffle. I join her because it’s a good strategy, but I wish I could run a kirpan through the man’s fat gut instead.

  When he kicks Jawahar, though, I can’t control myself. I run at him and butt him hard with my head, yelling at him to leave my brother alone. Everyone is shouting now, Biji saying get back here, Jawahar saying stop. I kick at the man’s shins and pull at his kurta, trying to tear it, but the cotton is too thick. He gives me a hard slap that lands me on the ground.

  “Crazy bitch,” he snarls. And to Biji: “A fine way you’ve brought up your children! Even the girl’s no better than a wildcat.”

  Biji’s face grows dark. She grabs my arm and twists it hard. But I don’t care. Jawahar has crawled under the charpai. I’ve saved him, at least for the moment.

  Green turban shakes his fist and shouts some more insults in which he generously includes our entire ancestry. Finally, having run out of breath, he turns to leave. At the door, he tells Biji, “You’d better control your children, woman. Next time I’m going to the panchayat. I’ll make sure the boy ends up in the jailkhana.”

  After green turban leaves, Biji slaps me hard. “Because of you, I have to hear all these gaalis from a stranger!”

  Jawahar crawls out from under the charpai. “Don’t punish her for my fault,” he croaks.

  Biji picks up a piece of firewood. “Your fault! You’re right about that, kambakht! Shaming the family like this. I’ll show you today.”

  He crouches, resigned, shielding his head as she brings the firewood down on his back. “Tell me who was with you! Which no-good loafer are you running around with? Tell me!” She hits him again. We’re all crying now, Biji loudest of all. “Your father’s bound to hear of this, and then what will I do?”

  But I suspect a deeper reason for Biji’s grief. Sure enough, she drops the firewood and crumples to the ground, sobbing. “What kind of mother am I that I can’t even feed my children?”

  Jawahar raises his face a little. With his good eye, he winks at me. Smart girl. I’m proud of you. I know that when all this is over, we’ll slip away to the old kiln. He’ll give me the ripest guava from the bag and call me a clever girl, and we’ll laugh over the day’s adventures. At night, after Biji and Balbir have gone to sleep, he’ll repair my salwar because he knows how to do everything. Maybe I’ll tell him about my strange mountain dream.

  I’m going to remember this moment forever, and my brother’s bruised, smiling face, which I love so much that it feels like someone is wringing my heart like Biji does with our laundry.

  The two of us, Jawahar, against the world.

  2

  Manna

  MANNA SINGH. SOMEHOW I CAN’T think of him as Father. Perhaps because he’s rarely with us. He descends upon our household with a storm’s whimsy, sending no notice of his coming. “Only fools waste money on messengers,” he claims. But I think his real motive is to catch us off guard.

  Today, loud and jovial, he flings open the courtyard door. “Hello, my bride, I’m starving! What’s there to eat? Makki ki roti and saag, I hope, because no one in Lahore makes them like you.”

  Biji’s eyes flash. She knows him too well to be taken in by his easy charm, but she speaks politely. “The grain pots are empty. You didn’t send any money last month.”

  I marvel at how deftly she hides resentment—something I’m no good at. Biji knows that if she angers Manna, she’ll get nothing out of him. He’ll shout and throw things, then go and stay with his cousin, who lives in the heart of Gujranwala. They’ll go carousing. Next morning, he’ll stomp back to Lahore with an aching head and empty pockets.

  Biji’s strategy works.

  “I must have forgotten,” Manna says, compunction on his face. “Hard to keep track of everything when one has as many responsibilities as I do. The Sarkar counts on me for advice, you know.” He scrabbles in his waistband and takes out a fistful of coins. He can be generous when the mood strikes him. He beckons to Jawahar, standing watchful by the door. We all know to be watchful when Manna is around because his laughter can suddenly become a scowl or a slap. “Here, boy, get your mother whatever she needs from the market. And tell the butcher I want goat meat tomorrow. Enough for twelve people. We’ll have a feast!”

  Jawahar exchanges a quick glance with Biji before he sprints away. He’ll bargain hard and save as much of the money as he can. We’ll hide it for leaner times.

  * * *

  AFTER LUNCH, MANNA RELAXES on the charpai. I’ve brought him all the pillows in the house. He leans on them regally and orders us to line up in front of him. He tells Balbir she’s growing too fast; he’s not yet ready for the expense of a daughter’s wedding. Balbir hunches her shoulders to make herself smaller and stares at her feet.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Manna barks. “Stand up straight. I’ll have even more trouble marrying off a hunchback. And you, boy, how are you doing in school?”

  “Excellently,” Jawahar replies, looking Manna in the eye. “Teacher ji says I have a good head for numbers.”

  I admire how skillfully he lies. In reality, he skips school often. I do his homework and go over his books with him before examinations. Still, last year he almost failed.

  “Good, good,” Manna booms. “A skill with numbers is always useful. I’ll take you to Lahore one of these days. Find you a job at the palace. The Sarkar won’t refuse me.”

  Later that night, when the rest of the household has fallen asleep, I make my way over to Jawahar, who is lying on the floor because Manna has taken his charpai.

  “Will he really take you to the palace?” I want what’s best for Jawahar, but I can’t imagine life without him.

  Jawahar shrugs. “Who knows? Half the things he says, he never does.”

  But I hear the longing in his voice.

  * * *

  TODAY, AFTER LUNCH, MANNA focuses on me. “And how’s my little girl?”

  “I’m well, Father,” I answer, flushing with pleasure at the attention. “I’ve learned the times table until twelve. I’ve read everything in my textbook even though it’s only the middle of the year. Bhai Sahib says my handwriting is the best among all his students. I can recite by heart from the Gurbani. Would you like to listen?”

  “Yes, yes, why not!” Manna smiles indulgently as he settles into the pi
llows.

  I kneel and close my eyes to create a mood of reverence. The hard ground hurts my knees, but no matter. I love the ancient words. Singing them is almost like flying. By His Command, souls come into being; by His Command, glory and greatness are obtained. By His Command, some are high and some are low; by His Command, pain and pleasure are obtained.

  Someone taps my shoulder. Jawahar.

  “You can stop now.”

  I open my eyes. Manna is snoring; his mouth hangs open. Waheguru, is it very wicked of me to hope a bug flies into it?

  * * *

  IN THE EVENING, THERE’S a feast. We own few vessels, so Biji sends me to borrow pots and thalis from the wives of the men who have been invited. She cooks all day until her face is red from the heat of the chulha. Karhi and rice, cauliflower, chhole, goat curry. Balbir is a better cook, so she rolls out parathas. I’m stronger, so I fetch water and firewood. Jawahar is dispatched to the sweet shop for jalebis.

  “Don’t let them slip you stale ones,” Manna warns as he sips his sharbat. “Make sure they’re fried in front of your eyes.”

  Manna’s friends bring bamboo modhas to sit on and toddy to drink. Biji piles the platters with food, and we carry them to the guests. My mouth waters. Why must we wait until the men are done? I wolf down a jalebi when no one’s looking and lick the syrup from my fingers.

  After dinner the men crowd around Manna, asking about the big city and his illustrious employer. I take my time clearing away the thalis. I, too, want to hear the tales of the Sarkar. He was born here, in Gujranwala, to the rich and powerful Sukerchakia clan and, even as a child, moved in circles far removed from us. None of us have ever actually seen him. Still, we think of him proprietorially as our own.

  “Does he live in that big qila in Lahore, which people say is hundreds of years old?”

  Manna nods. “He does indeed, when he’s not on the battlefield, routing those Afghan dogs. The Badhshahi Qila is his favorite among his many fortresses. It’s so big, you could fit this entire village inside it three times over. Yes, I live there, too. Do you know how much it cost to build just the Naulakha pavilion, with its winged roof? Nine lakh! Not silver, idiot! Gold pieces. Ashrafis. No, our Sarkar didn’t build it. He has too much sense to waste money like that. He snatched it from the Afghans, just like he snatched the Koh-i-Noor. You’ve never heard of the Koh-i-Noor? Why, it’s the world’s largest diamond, that’s why it’s called Mountain of Light. As big as my two fists put together. If it’s in a dark room at midnight, you won’t need lanterns—that’s how powerfully it shines. The Afghan king used to wear it in his crown, but our Sarkar, he’s a good Sikh, humble. He wears a turban. He’s put the Koh-i-Noor on an armband and wears it only when he has foreign visitors, to show them the might of Punjab.”

  In the firelight, I see a rare awe on Manna’s face as he lists the Sarkar’s other magnificences: the fair-skinned dancing girls from the hills of Kashmir who perform all night for him in the Red Pavilion; his ghorcharhas, a cavalry made up of the bravest young men in all of Punjab, unbeaten in battle; kennels full of the fiercest hunting dogs; enclosures for the royal elephants; and stable upon stable of pedigreed horses, culled from several countries. The Sarkar loves his horses the most. More than his wives, even. He has a thousand horses right in the qila, and more outside. The most famous of them is Laila.

  “I’ll need a whole month to tell you the marvels of Laila and how the Sarkar got her,” Manna says. “It cost him sixty lakh rupaiyas and a war. In the summer, Laila stays in Hazoori Bagh, where it’s cool. She has a room of her own right next to the Sarkar’s bedchamber . . .”

  Is all this real, or is it spun out of Manna’s longing to impress his listeners? In any case, I’ll daydream about it for days to come. For now I stand and listen, my arms loaded with a stack of forgotten dinner dishes. If only I could see all these magical things, even just once.

  One of Manna’s friends who has drunk too much toddy remarks, “Your kudi here, what is she now? Twelve? Thirteen? She’s becoming real sohni. I bet in a couple of years she’ll be as pretty as any of the dancers in the Sarkar’s court.”

  I turn away, blushing. An annoyed Manna orders me to get back to Biji. He chides the man, sternly proclaiming that the women of his household are not to be spoken of in the same breath as those Kanjaris.

  But the next day, as I wash the dishes, or feed the goat, or do my schoolwork, or play hopscotch with Balbir, I feel Manna watching me. When I serve him dinner, he asks me to hold out my hands. He turns over my palms and examines them with displeased eyes. “Keep Jindan out of the sun,” he tells Biji. “I don’t want her getting dark. And no more scrubbing pots. It’s making her hands rough, like a peasant’s.”

  “And who will help me?” Biji demands, no longer bothering to hide her annoyance. She’s upset because when, earlier in the day, she had asked him for rent money, Manna said he didn’t have anything more to give her. “Why did you throw a feast, then?” she cried. But Manna merely turned away from her with a grimace of pain, massaging his aching head.

  “If the girl doesn’t learn housework,” she continues, “who will choose her to be their daughter-in-law?”

  “My Jindan? Why, anyone would be delighted to bring such a pretty girl into their family.” Manna’s eyes crinkle merrily as he smiles at me. “Would you like to go to Lahore sometime, beeba? Would you like to see the great palace where I live?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you!”

  Waheguru, is he teasing me—because he does that sometimes—or does he really mean it?

  There’s a sudden flash of scarlet in the night sky. Is it the last of the sunset? A flock of foreign birds? A fire? I take it to be a sign. But of what?

  In the corner of the yard, Biji, about to serve dinner to us children, becomes still as stone.

  “Well? What do you say?” Manna asks.

  I don’t trust myself to speak. I nod vehemently.

  Manna grins. His teeth are straight and white, rare in a man who grew up poor. “I’ll take you soon if you’re a good girl.”

  “And Jawahar? He’ll come, too, right?”

  “Yes, yes. Now go eat your dinner.”

  I’m not sure Manna heard me. His narrowed eyes pass through me as though he’s seeing the future. Inside his head, I can sense strategies swarming like giant bees.

  Raising his voice, Manna tells Biji, “Woman, make sure you give our Jindan a piece of mutton. I’m stepping out for a little while.”

  He’s going to the village square, where his friends have gathered to play cards. He won’t be back for a long time.

  There are only two pieces of mutton left in the bowl, neither of them large. Biji hesitates over them.

  “Why should she always get the best things?” Balbir hisses. “All of you like her better. It’s not fair.”

  I’m suddenly tired. “Let her have the mutton,” I say. I take my thali to the other end of the yard and lower myself to the ground. I dip my roti in the dal, which is cold and lumpy by now. After a few minutes, Jawahar comes and sits by me. He tears his piece of mutton in two and gives me the bigger part, the one with the bone, because I love to suck on marrow. Together, we sit and eat, chewing slowly to make the food last longer.

  3

  Lahore

  I’M NO LONGER GOING TO school. It’s the greatest tragedy, so far, of my life, but no one understands this. After all, didn’t Balbir stop attending last year, telling Biji she’d had enough of books? Hadn’t the other girls in my year dropped out, one by one? Several of them were betrothed now. Jawahar, too, had stopped going to class and begun hanging around the tea shops instead, though Biji doesn’t know it.

  Perhaps because Jawahar was no longer around, the boys at school started paying too much attention to me. Though we were in different rooms during classes, they tried to talk to me afterward, to walk me home. When I refused, they started following me, singing lewd songs. I didn’t tell Jawahar. I didn’t want him to get into a fig
ht. I collected rocks in my school bag and one day, when their catcalls made me lose my temper, I threw them at the boys. By luck—good or bad, I wasn’t sure which—I hit the leader’s head. There was blood, a lot of shouting. I ran home while his friends milled about him.

  After that, I knew I couldn’t go back to school. When I told Jawahar, he slapped his thighs and snorted with laughter. I wish I could have seen it! He didn’t understand how this abrupt end to my education broke my heart. But he did carry a letter to Bhai Sahib where I explained what had happened.

  Bhai Sahib was distressed because I’d been his best student. It was why he’d kept me in the school this last year, even though I couldn’t pay the fees. But he agreed that I needed to drop out. He promised to send me lessons through Jawahar. We knew he couldn’t come to my house. With two young girls and no male head-of-the-household, there would be gossip.

  But Jawahar soon grew tired of trudging back and forth from Bhai Sahib’s home. He went once in two weeks, then once a month, and then stopped altogether. I was devastated, but what could I do? Everyone around me felt I’d had more education than was good for me. Wasn’t I fifteen already? Even Biji said that too much book-learning made a girl uppity.

  Now I spend my time helping Biji with phulkari work. People like my polite manners and nimble fingers and hire me to make their wedding dupattas. I bring in some money for the family this way. But each day I sense my world shrinking further.

  * * *

  AFTER BEING AWAY FOR almost a year, Manna shows up one day—thinner, with a sharp new crease between his brows. He hands Biji a small bag of coins and tells her there isn’t any more; his eyes shift away from her consternation. He sits heavily on the charpai. I bring him water, but he drinks only a little and then stares into the tumbler. In the evening, after dinner, instead of going down to the village square, he curls up on the charpai and gazes into the flames of the cook fire until Biji comes over to check if he has a fever.