Zabo, I still want to run away sometimes! We could disappear into the desert.”
“My father would hunt us down and kill us,” said Zabo. “It can only be as he wishes.”
Shabanu thought of the armed guards always within a few feet of Nazir. They never smiled or spoke. Nazir had reason to fear so many people that he regarded everyone as an enemy.
Shabanu knew Nazir’s cruelty too well. She thought of a late afternoon six years earlier, when the sun left a sheen on the canal like sun-ripened melon. She and her sister were gathering water to take back to their camp at the edge of the desert, where their family had come to plan Phulan’s wedding to their cousin Hamir.
When their pots were full, the girls walked down the canal path, talking. Phulan was saying how handsome Hamir was, and how if she ate plenty of lentils and butter she would have fat and healthy sons that would look just like their father. Shabanu was daydreaming about her own approaching marriage to Hamir’s brother Murad, and thinking this might not be such a bad place to live after all.
“Who is this?” asked a deep voice from the bottom of the bank. Shabanu looked down to see a fat man in a silk tunic and drawstring trousers leaning on a hand-carved shotgun. This was her first glimpse of Nazir. Laughter boomed out from the bushes.
A second man, younger and slimmer than Nazir,stepped out from behind a tree. He also had a gun. Both men wore elaborately embroidered caps, finely woven vests, and gold watches. A third man appeared, and a fourth—a young man, still part boy.
“How about this one?” Nazir asked the youngest man.
Phulan stood defiantly before them, shaking the glass bangles back on her brown arm, a water jar and a basket of wet laundry atop her head. Her face was uncovered and lovely, her nose disk glinting in reflected sunlight, her graceful pale fingers molded around the curve of the water jar on her hip.
“Yes,” said Nazir. “The one who bags the most quails gets that one.”
“What about me?” asked one of the others. “I shot the only blue bull. I should have her. Give the boy the other one.”
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” said Nazir, turning back to the two girls. “Land, jewelry, money—anything you like.”
Shabanu’s heart had raced. Some families would be grateful for the payment and would willingly forget the indignity. But Shabanu had been certain her father and Hamir would not. The thought of Nazir sweating over her sister made her ill, and she snapped her head forward, tossing the water jugs down the embankment. The men scattered as the jars broke, splashing mud onto Nazir’s silken trousers.
Shabanu swung up onto the neck of their cameland pulled Phulan up behind her. Nazir spluttered with rage, and the other men bent double with laughter, slapping their knees and choking on tears as Shabanu and Phulan escaped to the camp at the edge of the desert.
After dark, Nazir and his men came in a jeep to the house where Hamir and Murad lived. Hamir was overcome by anger. Blood was the only redemption he could see for the insult to his honor. He took his father’s old country-made shotgun outside, where darkness had settled around the farmyard.
The landowner and his friends sat in the jeep, laughing and talking. They had been drinking. Their voices were loud, their words slurred.
“Where are they?” Nazir demanded when he saw Hamir.
“They’ve gone into the desert,” replied Hamir. He brought the gun up in front of him and held it under his arm, the muzzle pointing casually toward the jeep.
Nazir was silent for a moment, and the other men sobered.
“Then bring us your sister,” said Nazir.
Without moving a muscle, Hamir squeezed the trigger and a shot exploded into the side of the jeep. Nazir’s friends scrambled out, falling over each other into the dirt in drunken disarray.
Hamir’s mother and brother came running around the corner of the house just in time to see the flash from a large
“My father would hunt us down and kill us,” said Zabo. “It can only be as he wishes.”
Shabanu thought of the armed guards always within a few feet of Nazir. They never smiled or spoke. Nazir had reason to fear so many people that he regarded everyone as an enemy.
Shabanu knew Nazir’s cruelty too well. She thought of a late afternoon six years earlier, when the sun left a sheen on the canal like sun-ripened melon. She and her sister were gathering water to take back to their camp at the edge of the desert, where their family had come to plan Phulan’s wedding to their cousin Hamir.
When their pots were full, the girls walked down the canal path, talking. Phulan was saying how handsome Hamir was, and how if she ate plenty of lentils and butter she would have fat and healthy sons that would look just like their father. Shabanu was daydreaming about her own approaching marriage to Hamir’s brother Murad, and thinking this might not be such a bad place to live after all.
“Who is this?” asked a deep voice from the bottom of the bank. Shabanu looked down to see a fat man in a silk tunic and drawstring trousers leaning on a hand-carved shotgun. This was her first glimpse of Nazir. Laughter boomed out from the bushes.
A second man, younger and slimmer than Nazir,stepped out from behind a tree. He also had a gun. Both men wore elaborately embroidered caps, finely woven vests, and gold watches. A third man appeared, and a fourth—a young man, still part boy.
“How about this one?” Nazir asked the youngest man.
Phulan stood defiantly before them, shaking the glass bangles back on her brown arm, a water jar and a basket of wet laundry atop her head. Her face was uncovered and lovely, her nose disk glinting in reflected sunlight, her graceful pale fingers molded around the curve of the water jar on her hip.
“Yes,” said Nazir. “The one who bags the most quails gets that one.”
“What about me?” asked one of the others. “I shot the only blue bull. I should have her. Give the boy the other one.”
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” said Nazir, turning back to the two girls. “Land, jewelry, money—anything you like.”
Shabanu’s heart had raced. Some families would be grateful for the payment and would willingly forget the indignity. But Shabanu had been certain her father and Hamir would not. The thought of Nazir sweating over her sister made her ill, and she snapped her head forward, tossing the water jugs down the embankment. The men scattered as the jars broke, splashing mud onto Nazir’s silken trousers.
Shabanu swung up onto the neck of their cameland pulled Phulan up behind her. Nazir spluttered with rage, and the other men bent double with laughter, slapping their knees and choking on tears as Shabanu and Phulan escaped to the camp at the edge of the desert.
After dark, Nazir and his men came in a jeep to the house where Hamir and Murad lived. Hamir was overcome by anger. Blood was the only redemption he could see for the insult to his honor. He took his father’s old country-made shotgun outside, where darkness had settled around the farmyard.
The landowner and his friends sat in the jeep, laughing and talking. They had been drinking. Their voices were loud, their words slurred.
“Where are they?” Nazir demanded when he saw Hamir.
“They’ve gone into the desert,” replied Hamir. He brought the gun up in front of him and held it under his arm, the muzzle pointing casually toward the jeep.
Nazir was silent for a moment, and the other men sobered.
“Then bring us your sister,” said Nazir.
Without moving a muscle, Hamir squeezed the trigger and a shot exploded into the side of the jeep. Nazir’s friends scrambled out, falling over each other into the dirt in drunken disarray.
Hamir’s mother and brother came running around the corner of the house just in time to see the flash from a large
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