There was one tree in particular which the Dard-e-Dil royals could not bear to look at — the tree from which the Nawab’s fourth cousin, ruler of a neighbouring state and participant in the Revolt, had been hanged. In Dard-e-Dil you could hear the creaking rope as his body swayed in the breeze. So the story goes. The British hanged all his heirs, too, of course, and annexed his lands. A portion of the lands was given to the Dard-e-Dils in recognition of their loyalty. It was a small portion, far less than that doled out to many of the royals who stayed out of the fray. That seems confirmation enough that the British knew how close we came to switching our allegiances, and wished us to always have a subtle reminder of what happened to the lands and lives of errant princes. And, now that I think of it, couldn’t they have hanged him from another tree, one less visible from miles away in a north-westerly direction?
No surprise then that we wanted no further reminders of that message intercepted and reversed. So we shunned Taj’s mother and we shunned Taj. Until the unnamable prince, who was by now a bare-handed killer of tigers, became Nawab and his wives bore him no children who survived the trauma of birth. As a last resort, one of his courtiers told him of a peasant girl, only fifteen, who was already skilled in midwifery. The Nawab called for her, and when she looked him in the eye with eyes that were his eyes he knew his children would live only if she delivered them and received royal favours for doing so.
For forty-eight years Taj delivered Dard-e-Dils. Delivered her brothers and sisters, her cousins, her nephews and nieces, her great-nephews and great-nieces. Received gold and umbilical cords in return. What did she do with the cords? She took them, that’s all. More to the point, in taking the cords she gave the Dard-e-Dils something her mother had never given them: a reason to remember her name. And then the three boys were born near midnight. At what times exactly? Only Taj knows, and maybe even she didn’t. Of course she left the palace immediately after that. She’d delivered them, announced the timings of their births, taken their umbilical cords. Without a doubt, no question of it, she’d secured a place in the family story.
I looked at the picture that Rehana Apa had sent with her letter. Dadi and the three boys, laughing in the palace grounds. If they knew they were fated to bring misery to the family you wouldn’t know it by looking at the photograph.
I showed Dadi the photograph that evening. She rested it on her lap and hung her head low. I waited for her to look up and when she didn’t I walked over to her and placed my hands over two of the brothers so that all that remained visible was Dadi angling her body towards the boy in the centre.
‘That’s the most romantic picture of you and Dada I’ve ever seen,’ I said.
‘That’s not your grandfather. It’s Taimur.’
She wouldn’t say any more about it, and no matter what I said the rest of the evening I couldn’t make her laugh.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Aliya, sweetoo, you must come over right away. Futafut. On the double take.’ It was Older Starch on the phone, disrupting my evening cup of tea with Sameer.
‘I would have loved to, but Sameer’s over.’
Older Starch clicked her tongue. ‘Bring him also. Where’s the problem? Don’t answer, I’ll tell you. The problem is here. I have out-of-town guests coming for tea with their children who are your age. First, Raunaq and Rusty were coming to keep them company but now Raunaq has piles, poor baby. Have you ever had piles, Aliya?’
I put her on speaker phone. ‘Piles? No. I didn’t think Dard-e-Dils suffered from piles.’
‘Arré, what a thing to say! Although, no, actually, you’re right. Usman is the only one among us who’s had them and that must be from his father’s side. He’s got Pathan blood, you know. But anyway, I said to Raunaq that last week there was an ad in the paper for a doctor who has a herbal cure for piles. No operation and also no need to show the doctor any part of your lower body. What’s that noise?’
It was Sameer choking on his tea. I promised we’d drop in, and hung up. Afterwards, I wondered if Older Starch was wilier than I gave her credit for. Because if I hadn’t been so amused by her comments I would never have agreed to entertain her guests. But with my head full of images of Older Starch, boasting that she comes from a royal family which once owned vast tracts of land and never suffered from haemorrhoids, I walked right into her trap. And walked into it alone, because Sameer took off for a game of squash at the Club, declaring that he’d have to see more than enough of the Starched Aunts once festivities for Kishwar’s wedding to the Ali Shah son got under way.
‘Well, I’m avoiding the wedding,’ I said. ‘Kishwar said some things about Mariam Apa—’
‘Everyone said some things about Mariam Apa.’
‘Okay, more to the point, I’m not getting involved in the Aunts’ ploys to get me married off.’
‘Weddings breed weddings,’ Sameer laughed, and twirled his racket in farewell.
‘Aliya!’ The Starcheds rose to greet me, minutes later, as I entered Older’s drawing room. ‘Have you met the Ali Shahs?’
Starched Aunts-1. Aliya-0.
Mind you, the four-wheel drives parked outside with their tinted windows and armed bodyguards should have tipped me off.
My aunts introduced me to the Ali Shah parents and daughters, then turned in triumph to the two boys. ‘This is Khurrum, Kishoo’s fiancé. You know Kishoo, Aliya. She couldn’t be here, unfortunately.’
Younger Starch whispered, ‘Stays at home when the sun’s out. Wants to look fair on her wedding night.’
‘And this is Murtaza. Just graduated from an Ivy League. Aliya was also in America, Murti. You two have a lot to talk about.’ And with that, both the Starched Aunts pushed me down on the sofa beside Murtaza.
Murtaza and Khurrum’s sisters caught my eye and turned away, giggling. Their father, engaged in a discussion with Older Starch’s husband about the dangers of allowing the masses to have access to Internet porn, gestured to his wife in a manner clearly meant to indicate that she was responsible for seeing to it that her daughters behave themselves. Younger Starch pulled a little bottle out of her handbag and, after instructing the Ali Shah boys to admire the painting on the wall, hastily rubbed concealer over the pimple just above my eyebrow.
Oh, please Scotty, beam me up. I’d rather face Klingons than this.
‘So what did you major in at college?’ Murtaza said.
‘English,’ I replied, quite confident that he would be unable to follow up on that.
‘Really?’ Khurrum leant forward. ‘That was my minor.’
Older Starch distracted him with a plate of sandwiches, and Younger Starch said, ‘Murtaza studied World Politics.’
‘Whirled Polly Ticks.’ Khurrum made a spiralling motion with his finger.
‘The revolving parrot is really a bomb!’ I laughed back.
‘Khurrum, please go and call Kishwar. I need to know who will be at dinner tonight.’ Now Mother Ali Shah was getting in on the act. Attack from all quarters.
Khurrum raised his shoulders helplessly and disappeared from the room with a mobile phone.
‘Always Murtaza was standing up to his professors. Always!’ His mother beamed at me and nodded.
‘Really?’ said a Starch. ‘American professors?’
Murtaza nodded. ‘They’re all idiots there. When they talk about Pakistan, which they almost never do, they say such stupid things. One of them said our biggest problem is feudalism. Other than the usual rubbish about paying taxes, he said we treat the peasants badly. I made him look like such an idiot in front of the whole class.’