Read Online The Shadow Of The Crescent Moon by Fatima Bhutto - Free Book Online
Authors: Fatima Bhutto
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and distance from the dead boy’s family were called upon to get rid of the funeral crasher, Mrs Mina.
They took her into one of the empty bedrooms and persuaded her to give them her husband’s phone number. They called Sikandar at work, demanding less patiently that he come and fetch his wife, who had caused a great amount of trouble on the day that Karam’s soul would be carried securely to heaven by the prayers of his loved ones.
Sikandar raced over from the hospital. It was near the university, which was the only one in Mir Ali, and was where Mina had been a lecturer at the department of psychology before she stopped coming to work so that she could invade other people’s grief and sit with crying strangers.
This was the first time that Sikandar had any inkling of Mina’s new life since her self-imposed retirement from academia. He imagined his wife at home, in bed, under the covers watching Indian soap operas on cable television or cooking shows on the Pashto channels. Maybe she cooked a bit, inspired by the recipes on television, or perhaps she visited thetailor to get a
shalwar kameez
stitched, something warm for the winter.
In the car ride home from that first funeral, Sikandar hadn’t asked his wife what she was doing at the dead boy’s home or whether or not she knew the family. He was quite certain she didn’t. He just fixed his hands on the steering wheel and drove while Mina sat beside him and let the tears fall down her face, dragging black tracks of eyeliner and mascara down her cheeks.
At one point he turned to his once caustic and whip-sharp wife and said, ‘Stop it, Mina.’
Mina had only recently taken to wearing a
dupatta
atop her head, and she adjusted it then, a cloak she wrapped like sorrow around her, pretending that Sikandar hadn’t said a word. She acknowledged only the noise that came from the cassette deck and the delicate voice of the legend who had sung to troops during the various wars the country had fought with its neighbour.
Mina pulled out the cassette, hitting the eject button with her bent index finger, and curled the light-brown intestines of the tape round her hand.
‘Whose cassette is this?’ she shrieked.
Sikandar stared at Mina.
‘Now we listen to their musicians? To their women who sang morale-lifting paeans to soldiers? Whose tape is this? I won’t have it here, I won’t.’ Mina shook her head, wagging the
dupatta
off until it fell round her shoulders.
Sikandar gripped the steering wheel tighter. ‘Let it be, Mina. It’s just music, an old tape – it’s not important.’
But she wouldn’t let it be, wouldn’t let it hang between them unanswered. The truth was that Sikandar liked the music, he liked the lady’s voice and the way she bunched her sari – it was always a sari – in one hand as she waved a handkerchief in theother, pausing only to dab her eyes in the black and white videos they showed on PTV.
Mina knew the songs so well that she used to hum the tunes to herself while she worked in the kitchen or as she read her newspapers. She had always kept an eye out for new cassettes. On trips to conferences around the country Mina always stopped at a bazaar and purchased the singer’s latest compilation.
But now she could not be reminded of that memory. Mina lifted her eyebrows, tidily plucked arcs, and rolled down the window.
‘Stop it, Mina,’ Sikandar repeated wearily as he leaned across his wife’s seat to roll the window back up, fighting with her to gain control of the outside world.
He needed a new car, one of those models with the childproof windows and locks that he could operate from the comfort of the driver’s seat. Mina had managed to open the window, just a crack through which she could hurl the cassette.
‘Let it sit on the road, on top of other people’s garbage.’ Mina was no longer shouting, she was snarling now, turning her anger at the tape towards her husband.
‘Coward,’ she hissed.
Sikandar dropped his head.
They took her into one of the empty bedrooms and persuaded her to give them her husband’s phone number. They called Sikandar at work, demanding less patiently that he come and fetch his wife, who had caused a great amount of trouble on the day that Karam’s soul would be carried securely to heaven by the prayers of his loved ones.
Sikandar raced over from the hospital. It was near the university, which was the only one in Mir Ali, and was where Mina had been a lecturer at the department of psychology before she stopped coming to work so that she could invade other people’s grief and sit with crying strangers.
This was the first time that Sikandar had any inkling of Mina’s new life since her self-imposed retirement from academia. He imagined his wife at home, in bed, under the covers watching Indian soap operas on cable television or cooking shows on the Pashto channels. Maybe she cooked a bit, inspired by the recipes on television, or perhaps she visited thetailor to get a
shalwar kameez
stitched, something warm for the winter.
In the car ride home from that first funeral, Sikandar hadn’t asked his wife what she was doing at the dead boy’s home or whether or not she knew the family. He was quite certain she didn’t. He just fixed his hands on the steering wheel and drove while Mina sat beside him and let the tears fall down her face, dragging black tracks of eyeliner and mascara down her cheeks.
At one point he turned to his once caustic and whip-sharp wife and said, ‘Stop it, Mina.’
Mina had only recently taken to wearing a
dupatta
atop her head, and she adjusted it then, a cloak she wrapped like sorrow around her, pretending that Sikandar hadn’t said a word. She acknowledged only the noise that came from the cassette deck and the delicate voice of the legend who had sung to troops during the various wars the country had fought with its neighbour.
Mina pulled out the cassette, hitting the eject button with her bent index finger, and curled the light-brown intestines of the tape round her hand.
‘Whose cassette is this?’ she shrieked.
Sikandar stared at Mina.
‘Now we listen to their musicians? To their women who sang morale-lifting paeans to soldiers? Whose tape is this? I won’t have it here, I won’t.’ Mina shook her head, wagging the
dupatta
off until it fell round her shoulders.
Sikandar gripped the steering wheel tighter. ‘Let it be, Mina. It’s just music, an old tape – it’s not important.’
But she wouldn’t let it be, wouldn’t let it hang between them unanswered. The truth was that Sikandar liked the music, he liked the lady’s voice and the way she bunched her sari – it was always a sari – in one hand as she waved a handkerchief in theother, pausing only to dab her eyes in the black and white videos they showed on PTV.
Mina knew the songs so well that she used to hum the tunes to herself while she worked in the kitchen or as she read her newspapers. She had always kept an eye out for new cassettes. On trips to conferences around the country Mina always stopped at a bazaar and purchased the singer’s latest compilation.
But now she could not be reminded of that memory. Mina lifted her eyebrows, tidily plucked arcs, and rolled down the window.
‘Stop it, Mina,’ Sikandar repeated wearily as he leaned across his wife’s seat to roll the window back up, fighting with her to gain control of the outside world.
He needed a new car, one of those models with the childproof windows and locks that he could operate from the comfort of the driver’s seat. Mina had managed to open the window, just a crack through which she could hurl the cassette.
‘Let it sit on the road, on top of other people’s garbage.’ Mina was no longer shouting, she was snarling now, turning her anger at the tape towards her husband.
‘Coward,’ she hissed.
Sikandar dropped his head.
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