TAHIRA NAQVI

Educated in Lahore at the Convent of Jesus and

Mary, Tahira Naqvi graduated from Lahore College
and went on to Government College, Lahore, to do
a masters in psychology. In 1972 she moved to
America with her husband, expecting to return after
his post-graduate work, but they stayed on. After
her third child, she enrolled into a masters
programme in education and wrote her first short
story-about Pakistan in 1983, during a creative
writing workshop. She has continued to write fiction
since. She has clung tenaciously to images of
Pakistan and says ‘My writing moves from my
hyphenated, fractured, wonderfully kaleidoscopic
immigrant world, to my world as a Pakistani in
Pakistan, a role that relies greatly on memory. I am
greedy with memory; I take everything it offers me
and more, and I keep writing’. Her stories have
appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Journal
for South Asian Literature, Calyx and other literary
journals, as well as a text book and many
anthologies.
Her first collection, Attar of Roses and Other Stories
from Pakistan (1997), will be followed by her
second, Beyond The Walls, next year. Tahira Naqvi’s
extensive work as an English translator of Urdu
fiction includes Another Lovely Face:
The Life and Works of Saadat Hasan Manto (1985),
and several books by Ismat Chughtai: The Quilt and
Other Stories (1990), US edition (1994), The Heart
Breaks Free, The Wild One (1993) and The Crooked
Line (1995).
As a visiting writer at Columbia University, she has
taught a course ‘Women Writers and the Urdu
Short Story.”

LOVE IN AN ELECTION YEAR

(1)
Benazir Bhutto has a notion she will win. The
mullalts, their hands raised ominously, their eyes
glinting passionately, are up in arms because, as
they see it, a woman cannot, and if they can help it,
will not, hold executive office. There are pictures in
every newspaper. Pronouncements are inked
everywhere. But the gaunt-looking young woman
with large piercing eyes and dark sweeping
eyebrows, seems determined to become our next
Prime Minister. She reminds me of another woman
who had, in a similarly brazen move, wished to be
the president of the country her brother had helped
found. That was many years ago. That winter, I was
only fifteen and the mullahs hadn’t been given a
voice as yet.

Winter in Lahore was one’s reward for having

suffered through summer and having survived the
ordeal. Friendly sunshine offering warm, tantalizing
embraces, a furtive chill in the evening, lurking in
the darkness, never threatening; plump. Tangy
tangerines that looked like balls of pure gold;
afternoons of story-telling after school on the
veranda where the bricks on the floor lit up with
terracotta lights when the sharp, bright sus filtered
through the holes in the latticed balcony; and Baji
Sughra. Baji Sughra was in love in the winter of that
year and I was her confidant and ally. Since she was
twenty-one and I only fifteen, I had to call her baji,
but the years between us were a mere technicality;
we were friends. And it wasn’t that we had become
friends overnight. We have always been good
friends, the way most cousins are; even when she
and her family left for Multan and were gone for
three years, we knew that as soon as we met again
it would be as if we had not been away from each
other. That’s how it was with cousins-they were
always there.

Within an hour of her arrival from Multan we were

chattering without pause like two myna birds. Uncle
Amin had been transferred to Lahore again, and
until their bungalow in Mayo
Gardens was ready Baji was to stay with us.
Although I tried not to show it, I was amazed, no,
overwhelmed, at the change I saw in her. As if
magic, by some process I had no wit to fathom. She
appeared so beautiful. Like a sultry actress in an
Indian film, like a model in a magazine ad for Pond’s
Cold Cream. Her hair, which used to hang limply on
either side of her face in thick dishevelled braids,
was now neatly pulled back and knotted with a
colorful paranda into a long braid down her back,
while little wisps danced on her wide, shiny
forehead with wild abandon. She also smiled
constantly, as if something was making her happy
all the time, as if there was some joke she kept
remembering, again and again. Her lips, which like
mine, were once perpetually chapped and sallow,
seemed fuller and soft. I could have sworn she was
wearing pink lipstick, except that Auntie Kubra, her
mother, would have killed her if she had. Lipstick
was for secret dramas enacted in your rooms when
the adults were having their conferences, or for
when you were married. I think there was
something the matter with her eyes as well. They
twinkled and glimmered as if there were secret
lights in them. As for the lashes, they were thicker
and sootier than I remembered, while her
eyebrows, without a doubt, were longer and darker.
Later that day, when I found myself alone for a
while in the bedroom I shared with my younger
sister and now with Baji Sughra, I examined my own
face closely in the dressing table mirror. Front, the
sides, then three-quarter angles. Sadly, nothing I
saw in the mirror was changed.

At first Baji and I cleared dust from old business.

Cousin Hashim had run away from home twice,
Aunt S was pregnant with her first baby, Meena was
to become engaged to Hashim’s older brother who
was in medical school, and Aunt A’s cold- blooded,
unrelenting mother-in-law was a witch whom we
would have all liked to see tortured, if not killed. I
had seen Awara, the latest Nargis-Raj Kapoor film,
and we, at our house, were all rooting for Fatima
Jinnah, who was running against President Ayub
Khan in the 1964 elections. As for the news about
Multan, it was skimpy at first. Baji Sughra said the
weather was dusty and hot as always, but she had
made new friends in school, the

Mangoes in summer were sweeter and plumper

than anywhere else, and yes, she too was rooting
for Fatima Jinnah.

“A woman president for Pakistan. Can you believe it

Shabe And she’s running against a general too. But
she’s so like her brother Jinnah, how can anyone
not vote for her! She’ll win Baji Sughra looked even
more beautiful when she was excited I wanted to
ask her why she was surprised we might have a
woman president; sometimes the finer points of
politics eluded me. But I knew she had something
important to tell me, so I let the query pass.
And finally, when the sun had settled beyond the
veranda wall and we had been talking for nearly an
hour, she broke the news to me. She was in love.
With Javed Bhai, another cousin, a Multan cousin. If
I had done my calculations correctly, he was three
years older than she was, twenty-three. In his
second year at the Engineering University in Lahore,
he was one of our cleverest cousins, the one who
showed the most promise, the elders had been
heard to proclaim. On a visit to his parents’ house in
Multan, he and Baji Sughra met. It was at one of
those family gatherings when the adults are too
absorbed in conversation to keep an eye on what
the children are doing, or even know where they
are. Suddenly Baji and Javed, who weren’t strangers
and had known each other since childhood, felt
they were more than just cousins. This rather
overpowering revelation led to secret trysts on the
roof of Baji Sughra’s house while everyone was
taking afternoon naps. Promises were extracted and
plans made. Later, after he returned to Lahore, Baji
wrote to him, but he couldn’t write back for obvious
reasons, she explained. I didn’t ask her to elaborate;
if the reasons were so obvious they would reveal
themselves to me sooner or later.

‘We’ll be married when Javed gets his degree,’ Baji

Sughra informed me with her dimpled smile. “In
two years.”

I knew Javed Bhai well. He came to our house

frequently as did other cousins, especially when
they were visiting Lahore from elsewhere, or were
students away from home, as Javed Bhai was. He
was good-looking, tall, fair-skinned, with a
windblown mop of hair, a few locks hanging
carelessly over his broad forehead. A thick, black
moustache jealously hugged his lips so you didn't
see much of them ever. And what a voice he had!
He sang film songs in a way that made you feel
nervous and mysteriously elated all at the same
time. He sang willingly, so we didn't have to beg and
beg as we had to do with some of our coy female
cousins with good voices, like Meena, for instance.
There was no reason to be amazed at what had
happened. Baji Sughra and Javed were like Nargis
and Raj Kapoor, like Madhubala and Dilip Kumar.
They belonged together. I began to envision Baji
Sughra as a bashful bride, weighted down with
heavy gold jewelry, swathed and veiled in lustrous
red brocade and garlands of roses and chambeli.
'He'll come to see me Shabo, so you have to help.
Baji Sughra held both my hands in hers. "What can I
do?" I said, excitement at the thought of secretly
helping lovers, rising to form a knot in my throat.
'How can I help? I repeated hoarsely. 'We'll be in
your room upstairs and you just keep watch. make
sure no one comes up while we're there." "But
what if someone does, what will I say, and... I
couldn't continue because all of a sudden I realized
this wasn't going to be easy. I had to think. Baji
Sughra and I had to make plans. 'Shabo, you have
to promise you won't tell anyone about this, not
even Meena, not even Roohi, promise. Baji Sughra
looked at me as if she were a wounded animal, and
I a hunter poised with an arrow to pierce her throat.
Her eyes filled with tears. I put my arms around her.
'I promise I won't, I won't tell, Baji. please believe
me, 1 won't. I hugged her, feeling older than my
fifteen years, imbued with a sense of importance I
had never experienced before. Perhaps that is how
Fatima Jinnah feels, I told myself, empowered and
bold, ready to take on not only a general but the
whole world. The rendezvous went smoothly. After
lunch my parents, Auntie Kubra, and Baji's father
Uncle Amin, left to go to our grandparents' room for
their usual talks. I couldn't understand how their
store of topics for discussion was never depleted
There was so much to say all the time. Politics,
family quibbles, who was being absolutely,
ruthlessly mean to whom, and who should marry
whom and when. Well, finding ourselves alone,
Salim (another cousin who had come with Javed
Bhai that day, as advisor and helpmate, no doubt),
Baji Sughra, my sister Roohi, and 1, all took up
Javed's suggestion that we play carom. Four people
can play at one time, so we selected partners and
found we had one person left over-Roohi. She was
the youngest in our group and hadn't quite grasped
the intricacies of carom strategy as yet. 'No, no,
Roohi can play. Baji hastily intervened when I tried
to coax Roohi into observing first and playing later.
'She can be your partner, Shabo. I'm going up to
finish putting the lace on my dupatta. I'll be back
soon and then Roohi can be my partner and Salim
can watch. Buji had instructed me that I was not to
act surprised; assuming a rather nonchalant tone I
was to say, All right, but hurry up, which I did. "Yes,
I will, I only have one side of the dupatta to do.' She
left quickly. All of us sat down at the carom table
which always remained in the same place on the
veranda, right across from the windy gully
separating the veranda's east and west sections.
Even now, when it was cold, we kept the table
there, because that was also the sunniest spot on
the veranda. What was a little gust of bone- chilling
wind every now and then when the sun was bright
and warm on our faces? Within minutes we had
formed pairs. Quickly and expertly, Javed Bhai
sprinkled some talcum powder on the board to
make it slippery and slick, and Salim arranged the
black and white disks in a circle. A large red disk,
called the 'Queen,' resided safely in the centre of
the circle. The Queen, over-sized and radiant,
carried more points than its austere black and white
companions. I got the first turn. Slouching, my eyes
narrowed, assuming the posture I had seen Javed
and the other boys use, I aimed at and hit the
striker, which was white and somewhat bigger in
size than the other disks. I watched gleefully as it
first hit and then scattered the other disks all over
the board’s sleek, yellow surface. Soon all the disks
were darting frantically across the wooden board;
some, under the expert hands of our male partners,
fell into the snug, red nets hanging from the corners
of the board, disappearing as if they had never been
there in the first place. The Queen, everyone’s
target at one time or another, was waiting calmly
for its turn to disappear. Finally Roohi was given the
opportunity to ‘push’ it into the net.
The first game was over so quickly I began to feel
apprehensive. How many games could we play? As
Salim began rearranging the disks, Javed said, ‘I’m
going to run down for a pack of cigarettes. You
people go ahead without me. I’ll be back soon.”

Of course he was gone a long time. Roohi began to

show impatience and said the game was no fun
with only three players. She was learning quickly.
Salim said, ‘I think this is better, you can have more
disks to hit. Javed was taking them all away from
us.” Roohi gave him the look children reserve for
adults when they think they’re being duped. But,
finding him placing the disks together with a solemn
air, she turned to give me a stare, discovered I was
gazing intently at the carom board, and gave up.

All right, but where’s Baji Sughra?” she muttered.

“She’s in her room, where else? Now come on, pay
attention.” I was getting irritated with her. If we had
been in a mystery novel, she’d be the unwanted
and unexpected interloper, and would have been
knocked down senseless by now.

After a second game in which Roohi won because

we more or less forced her to, I asked Salim if he
would sing for us. He too, like Javed Bhai, had a
strong voice and the uncanny ability to imitate
Mukesh, my favorite playback singer. He put on his
Raj Kapoor smile and nodded.

Awara hun, (I’m a rogue) he began after pausing

solemnly for a few seconds with his eyes closed, his
head tilted to one side. Before I knew it, he was also
tapping the carom board.
Rhythmically, keeping beat with his long fingers and
the heels of his hands as if the carom board were a
tabla. Roohi sat back slumped and sullen since she
wasn’t into film songs as yet. I could see she was
getting more and more restless, and very soon she
would offer to go and bring Sughra Baji down from
her room.

‘Well, what’s going on here?” It was Sughra Baji.

She silently made an appearance from the back of
the gallery so we didn’t see her right away. I was
too engrossed in Salim’s singing to hear her
footsteps. And where’s Javed?” she asked boldly,
raising her eyebrows inquiringly without looking at
any one directly.

‘He went to get cigarettes, Roohi said petulantly,

and we can’t play anymore with only three people.
Why did you take so long?”

Roohi was still grumbling when Javed Bhai

reappeared. Within minutes we were engrossed in
another game of carom Roohi won again. After two
more games we decided to end the game; the sun
had wandered off somewhere and it was getting
chilly. I noticed Sughra Baji was flushed, and
couldn’t stop smiling, while Javed Bhai hummed
and hummed. What was that song? They never
once glanced at each other, except in the most
indifferent, casual manner. Such subterfuge! I was
impressed.

(2)

We were making streamers to decorate the front

door and the areas along the balconies. The paper
flags were twelve inches by six inches and the string
was about twenty feet long. Aunt A. who was
visiting, had cooked flour paste for us to use for the
gluing: Cousin Hashim, after having run off a few
times from home because of fights with his father
over the subject of academic failure, was now
staying with us for a few days to allow his father to
cool off, and had been entrusted with
Obtaining twelve dozen, tissue-thin paper flags
from a stationary shop at the corner of Allama Iqbal
and Davis Roads. We were working feverishly so we
could have the streamers ready that afternoon. One
more day would be needed for everything to dry
and elections were only two days away.

Our work wasn’t going too well. After all, this was
the first time we were making streamers ourselves.
The idea was simple; apply the glue to the narrow
white strip of the flag (which represented the
minorities in Pakistan), attach it to the string,
overlap part of the white strip over the string so it
came over and deftly press the two edges together.
But our hands were sticky, the tips of our fingers
numb and caky from the starchy globs that
remained on them and dried. The process was slow;
we weren’t going from one flag to the next as fast
as was necessary to meet our deadline.
There was no shortage of help. Aunt A kept the glue
coming. And when Abba came back from work in
the afternoon, he too got his hands dirty stringing
up flags. All this time Dadima and Dadajan watched
us closely, she from her place inside the quilt, he
from his easy chair, gurgling his massive, copper-
based hukkah, occasionally twirling the ends of his
large, white moustache between draws. Amma,
meanwhile, was concerned mainly with how much
mess we were making, and with the possibility that
we might come to supper without washing our
hands thoroughly first.

Suddenly, around three, there was a noise at the

front door and I was surprised to see Auntie Kubra
and her husband walk in with Baji Sughra in tow.
They had moved to their bungalow in Mayo
Gardens only a week ago, so why were they here
today? True it was Sunday, and anyone could be
expected to drop in for a visit. But I started like a
guilty thief. I suppose scheming in secret makes you
nervous. However, I was relieved to see Baji Sughra
not worried at all and smiling. Soon I forgot my
discomfort. When she joined us on the floor and
told me to start handing her the flags one by one,
began slapping glue on the flags with alacrity,
handed them to Hashim so he could affix them to
the string, I realized we had set up an effective
assembly line. Now we were really moving with
speed. We were having so much fun I even forgot
Javed Bhai. Then, just as we had almost ten feet of
string ready and only ten more to go. Baji's parents,
Abba. Amma, and our grandparents trooped out of
there, one by one. They were heading for the room
we used as a dining room and living room, which
meant they were going to have tea and a
conference. I didn't like the way they all went in
together. If i was a dialogue about Fatima Jinnah's
future they were planning they would have stayed
on the veranda and conducted the discussion right
here. Allah Rakha, the houseboy, would have
brought tea and samosas on a tray, and he would
have alsn refreshed Dadajan's hukkah with fresh
water and more coals, Obviously the elders had in
mind some other topic, not suitable for our ears.
Once again I was gripped by the same feeling of
dread that first assailed me when I saw Sughra Baji's
parents walk into our house this afternoon. Cousin
Hashim, perhaps anxious to run out for a quick
cigarette, suggested we take a break. Roohi, her
frock front soiled with a combination of glue and
dirt, agreed; Sughra Baji said she had a whole batch
of the party's pins for us, so we took the unfinished
streamer up on the parapet to dry, and washed our
hands. The pins were small, but the lantern, Fatima
Jinnah's emblem, was clearly visible in all its detail. I
had thought it odd that General Ayub's emblem
should be the rose. A military dictator had little use
for flowers. A sword perhaps, or a canon would
have been a more appropriate symbol for his party.
"He's just trying to look benevolent, show people
how gentle he is, how harmless, but it's just a front,
Sughra Baji explained when I took my puzzlement to
her. "But you see why the lantern is important? It's
a symbol of light, of enlightenment. Also, the
lantern is a poor man's source of light, so there are
social implications too. Sometimes Baji Sughra
forgot I was so much younger than she and said
things I did not grasp easily. But happy in the
thought that she trusted my intelligence to address
such complex matters to me, I often pretended to
comprehend more than I actually did.

The streamer went up the next day with the joint

endeavours of Cousin Hashim and Allah Rakha. It
looked so short and adequate at first, especially
when you compared it to the rows and rows of
ready-made flags, colourful banners and streamers
that decorated shop fronts and other buildings up
and down our road. But after a while we ignored its
length. Filled with the satisfaction of having created
it all by ourselves, we congratulated each other on a
job well-done. Dadajan and Abba went further.
They boasted about our endeavours to any one who
came to visit. All done right here, they worked hard,
Dadajan told uncles and aunts whose visits were
increasing as the day of the elections drew close.
We were quite proud of ourselves after all.

Election day came and went. All night, as the votes

were being counted, we stayed up. Even Dadima,
who usually couldn’t keep her eyes open after ten,
huddled in her quilt, was awake late into the night,
listening to songs, dramas, news bulletins, vote-
counts. Roohi, stubbornly fighting sleep, was curled
up under Dadima’s quilt. We gathered around
Dadajan’s Philips radio, a small, plain-looking,
unpretentious box on the surface, but of such
immense import this night, holding so much
excitement. Rounds of tea for the grown-ups were
followed by milk and Ovaltine for Roohi and myself,
and Cousin Hashim, in deference to his grey stubble
I suppose, and because he was a guest, was offered
tea instead. Aunt A had made thick, granular carrot
halwa for the occasion, and there were bags of
roasted, unshelled peanuts for all of us.
(3)

Fatima Jinnah lost the election. The voting was

rigged in such clever and inventive ways that no one
could prove it had actually happened, or how. There
was a picture of her in the newspaper the next
morning in which she looked sadder than any tragic
heroine in any movie I had ever seen. She seemed
to have aged twenty years. Her face had crumpled
in one night, and in her

Eyes was an empty, faraway look. This is how

Jinnah, her brother, must have looked as he lay
dying. I thought, from a disease no one could cure.

Celebrations in the streets consisted of cars tooting

their horns, tongas hitched with loudspeakers
blaring away film songs and war songs, anthems
about soldiers surrendering their lives for the
motherland, paeans reeking of patriotic fervor.
Young men on motorbikes, obviously elated by the
victory of the handsome general, raced down the
road in front of our house, in both directions,
recklessly and dangerously weaving in and out of
traffic that was frantic enough on ordinary days,
and was tumultuous this morning.

A pall hung over our house. Dadajan had begun by

cursing heavily, calling Ayub Khan names that made
our ears burn, and then had lapsed into unhappy
grunts as he rummaged through the things on his
desk, going through the contents of his drawers as if
he had lost something important. Dadima
continued to mutter, ‘She had no chance, the poor
woman, no chance to begin with, ahh…”

Amma and Abba put up stoical fronts and went

about their business with long faces and deep sighs,
but no harsh words. As for me, I had a sinking
feeling in my stomach, the sort of feeling one
experiences after poor marks on a test or a
disparaging remark from one’s favorite teacher. I
also wanted to take a club to General Ayub’s head.
Our sweeperess, Jamadarni, proclaimed angrily,
waving her straw jharu before her like a baton,
‘Someone should go and pull his moustache, the
dog!’ Roohi, a little overwhelmed by the expression
of grief she saw around her, burst into tears. Cousin
Hashim was restrained with great difficulty by Allah
Rakha as he threatened to go out and cuff the man
who was attempting to break into two a large,
cardboard lantern that had adorned the entrance of
the little tea shop right next to our front door. And
so we mourned.

That evening Baji Sughra came to visit us with her

parents. She wore a sad look, and seeing her face so
pale and her eyes wet with unshed tears I thought
how beautiful she was when saddened. I also
envied her. She was feeling the same emotion!
Was, but she could feel more deeply than I and
that’s why there were tears in her eyes. She wanted
to go upstairs, so after the preliminary salaams and
what a terrible thing had happened, and may God
curse Ayub Khan etc., etc., she and I slipped away,
leaving the adults to their intricately philosophical
analysis of Fatima Jinnah’s crushing defeat.

No sooner had we entered my room than Baji

Sughra fell on the bed and began sobbing. I was
startled by this unexpected show of emotion and
then, because I wasn’t altogether stupid, I realized
her anguish had its origin in something other than
Fatima Jinnah’s failure to rise to the leadership of
our country.

“What’s the matter, Baji?” I bent over her prostrate

form anxiously. “What’s happened?’ In my head,
like words from a screenplay, a voice whispered
warnings about love gone awry. My heart knocked
against my ribs as if ready to jump out of there.
“Oh Shabo, my life is finished, I’m going to die,” she
said brokenly. “Abba and Amma have arranged a
match for me, they had been making plans all this
time and I didn’t know. They don’t like Javed, Amma
said it would be a long time before he was ready for
marriage, ohhh… what am I going to do?” She
covered her face with her hands, flung her head
down on her knees and wept as if her heart were
breaking.

I was stunned. This was just like in the movies, Cruel

society and equally cruel fate.

Taqdeer ka shikwah kaun kare (Who can complain

about destiny)

Ro ro ke guzara karte hain. (I spend my life crying)

Lata’s soulful voice ambled into my head so clearly I
could even trace the musical notes. Ahh, poor Baji!

‘But did you explain? Did you tell Auntie you love
him and you can’t marry anyone else?” I shook her
arm.

‘Yes, yes, but Amma said this was just foolishness,

oh Shabo, she doesn’t care about my feelings, no
one does, and neither Amma nor Abba like Javed…
I’ll kill myself if they force me to marry someone
else,’ Sughra Baji wailed.

(I spend my life crying) Lata’s soulful voice ambled

into my head so clearly I could even trace the
musical notes. Ahh, poor Baji!
‘But did you explain? Did you tell Auntie you love
him and you can’t marry anyone else?’ I shook her
arm.

‘Yes, yes, but Amma said this was just foolishness,

oh Shabo, she doesn’t care about my feelings, no
one does, and neither Amma nor Abba like Javed…
I’ll kill myself if they force me to marry someone
else.’ Sughra Baji wailed.

‘But why don’t they like Javed?’ How could anyone

not like

Javed?

‘He’s too young, he has no means of supporting a

wife as yet, such nonsense! And that bastard
they’ve found for me, he’s a businessman, he has a
big house, he has a car, oh Shaho they think he’s
perfect. But how can I marry him? What about
Javed? A new wave of anguish swept over her; she
smacked her head with her fists.

Frightened by her despair I said, ‘Maybe we should

talk Dadima, she’s the only one who can help, and
she’ll talk to Dadajan and no one can go against his
wishes. Suddenly I fek better. Dadima had come to
my aid in moments of crisis many a time, and her
influence over Dadajan was indubitable.

“They’ve already talked, they’ve discussed

everything Dadajan has given his approval. Oh
Shabo, my life is over, I’ kill myself, I’ll be a corpse
instead of a bride, they’ll see.”

‘Don’t talk like that Baji. I said fearfully, visions of

her dressed in her bridal garb and laid out like a
corpse careening madly in my vision. ‘There must
be something we could do.”
“What? What can we do?” she asked, looking at me
with

Pleading eyes. “What about Javed Bhai? Why

doesn’t he come and beg why doesn’t he tell Auntie
and Uncle that he loves you and he’ll take good care
of you and…’ I realized how foolish my words must
sound. If we were in the movies Baji Sughra would
have indeed killed herself by taking poison which
someone like me would have supplied to her, or she
would have run away at the last minute, just as the
maulavi sahib was getting ready in the other room
to conduct the nikah. But this wasn’t the movies,
alas. And I was in no position to supply poison or
any other form of assistance. All I could manage
was unhappiness and tears. It didn’t amaze me that
in the space of one day I had experienced the urge
to take the club to the heads of two men.