Shabanu Read Online Free PDF

opalescent moment before sunrise.
    Dadi jumps down to walk and check the camels behind. Guluband senses I am alone on his back and turns his ears. Softly, so Dadi can’t hear, I sing a few lines.
    Friday market, what’s for sale?

Melons, onions, and fat oxtail
.
Sell me your camel strong and brave?

Not for a million rupees, knave!
    Guluband picks up his legs, his bracelets keeping beat with my voice,
kachinnik, kachinnik, kachinnik
. Dadi joins our song, making up a question in his clear, rich voice for me to answer and Guluband to dance to across the desert.
    Won’t you sell me a baby lamb?

On the hoof or in the pan?

Buy my motorcycle, sir?

Better sell me a coat of fur!
    Waves of heat shimmer upward, and mirage lakes glisten among the dunes ahead. We slow our pace, and Guluband’s rocking gait lulls me. Dadi and I take turns walking, making sure the younger camels keep up. The air is hot, but a steady breeze cools our skin. And Mama is right—the
chadr
keeps the sun from my head.
    We pass Maujgarh Fort, destroyed by time and the feet of thousands of goats, sheep, cows, and children. Nearly half of the dome high above the fort’s walls has fallen since we passed this way last year. Piles of rubble have accumulated at the base of the walls, and inside the half dome, beams stick out in silhouette at odd angles, like broken limbs. A few blue tiles still cling to the pinkish brick hemisphere.
    Night falls and we press on to Derawar Fort, where Grandfather fought for the Nawab of Bahawalpur as a young man. Dadi keeps the guiding star on his shoulder. The camels always know where they are. We never worry about being lost.
    Dadi leaves me near the south wall to set up camp while he makes his
salaams
to the villagers and the Desert Rangers.
    A half-moon and the stars light my way to search the heavy brush for wild sage to feed the camels and tumbling clumps of
pogh
for a fire to make
chapatis
and tea.
    The camels are hobbled and lie contentedly, their noses over their dinners. I am kneading dough in a wooden bowl when Dadi returns. He looks happy as he squats to feed the fire.
    After we have eaten, we sit quietly, discussing how we should redistribute our load in the morning. The fire flickers golden on his face, with its strong, square chin and mustache that turns up at the ends, and I think he is more handsome than any soldier in the world.
    The camels grunt, and we hear footfalls outside the circleof our firelight. Three Ranger officers in gray baggy trousers and starched tunics with red shoulder boards step into the glow. Their eyes are hard with the difficulties of life in the desert. Yet, like us, they wouldn’t live anywhere else.
    They are desert men trained by the Pakistan Army to patrol the Indian border. When one of our people is sick, the Rangers’ doctor comes from Yazman, an hour away by jeep track. The Rangers also help find our animals when they stray across the border.
    “Asalaam-o-Aleikum,”
says the oldest of the three, touching his fingertips to his forehead and heart in a formal Cholistan greeting. Their shirts are loose; without their black berets and belts with silver ornaments and buckles, they must be relaxing, just passing time after supper.
    “Are you headed for Sibi?” asks the leader. He is tall and very strong looking, but his eyes are gentle.
    I whisk milk and sugar into tea over the fire for our guests as Dadi tells them the route we’ll take to Sibi: We will spend tomorrow in the desert. Around nightfall we will reach the Khanpur irrigation canal, and our third night we will spend near Rahimyar Khan. Next day we’ll cross the Indus River back into the desert and the tribal area of Baluchistan. We will wait there to join other nomads, for the tribal territory can be dangerous, and crossing in numbers is safest.
    “We hope to reach Sibi in ten days, God willing,” Dadi tells the Rangers.
    Two of the Rangers inspect the camels by flashlight.They return to the fire and motion to their