Read Online Their Language of Love by Bapsi Sidhwa - Free Book Online Page B

the polo grounds later that afternoon. In his zeal to further Islamize the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, General Zia had banished the racecourse to the outskirts of the city. The verdant acreage of the abandoned racecourse was converted into a garden with winding brick-paved paths and dramatically lit waterfalls and fountains. But the grassy spaces used by the polo players remained intact, except for the addition of a newly built cement stand for spectators.
    Ruth and Shahnaz knew almost everyone. They greeted their friends and acquaintances as they climbed the steps and sidled past them to take their seats. There was no sign of Raj. Ruth was soon caught up in the excitement of the match as the horses’ hooves thundered and the polo-sticks, wielded by sturdy men in jodhpurs and turbans, flailed about raising dust. It was hard to keep track of the ball.
    The sun, a cooling, crimson, pollution-enhanced orb, was low in the sky by the time they left. In the fifteen minutes it took to drive to Ruth’s house in the Cantonment it wasalready dark. Winter or summer, it surprised Ruth how abruptly the sun set in Lahore. At times she felt she could almost see it sink as the horizon consumed it.
    Ruth sometimes compared these rapid sunsets to the lingering twilights of her summers in New England. They had seemed like a gift of time—a period of grace in which she could indulge the activities she most enjoyed—hanging out with friends, flirting with eastern religions, protesting Apartheid and the Vietnam War at various campuses, dancing to rock, and avoiding her mother’s calls insisting she return to the church. And after the children came it afforded a precious slice of time—after they were put to bed—in which she could read, listen to music with Rick, or watch TV in an exhausted stupor as she and Rick sipped wine out of the crystal glasses they had received as wedding gifts.
    Billo knocked discreetly and without waiting for a summons entered the bedroom. Ruth frowned; Billo knew better than to disturb her when she retreated to her room after lunch. She held the paperback she was reading face down and raised her head from the pillows. Billo walked over to her with an oddly mincing gait and reserved countenance. The formal way her white woollen going-out shawl was draped around her head and torso gave her an alarming dignity. Billo seldom covered her head in the house; not even when they had visitors. Ruth pushed back the pillows and propped herself up against them.
    ‘Memsaab, he say he must talk to you.’ Her mouth a stern pucker, Billo was cryptic. ‘He not go. You come.’
    Billo usually made short work of the beggars, snake-charmers and hawkers who sometimes got through when the gate was not properly bolted. Sometimes she threatened to set the dog on them. If they persisted, she did. If it was a ragged mullah from one of the mosques dotting the Cantonment, asking for donations and handing out tracts and talismans—and these fellows were as persistent as the Jesuits in Boston—Billo would stand at the door and brusquely say, ‘The Sahib and Memsahib are Christian. They give to their own Girja-church. It is not seemly to disturb the sanctity of the house when the Sahib is away and speak to the women like this.’
    Alarmed by her choice of words and the accusation of impropriety they implied, threatened by Chikoo’s frenzied barking from behind the woman’s shalwar, the poor bearded cleric would confusedly lower his head and saunter away.
    On one occasion, appalled by Billo’s rudeness, Ruth had deliberately invited the man to step into the hall. Billo, clearly infuriated, brusquely signalled her away and slammed the door in the cleric’s face. Then she turned to stare sternly at her naive mistress.
    ‘You could have said the same thing more politely,’ Ruth had defended herself. ‘There is no need to be rude.’
    Billo had stared at her mistress for three mute seconds, her head wobbling slightly with frustration