Pakistan TALAT ABBASI Facing the Light wish to be fair to you,” he says and the head goes up as it always does when he wishes to be fair to her. And in sympathy in solidarity, the eyebrows and nose rise to the occasion, po: tioning themselves upwards. And the mouth tightens into a straight line to underline it all. And together they all say the same thing: And now you may thank us, and now you may thank us. And she, bent over her sewing machine, pricks her finger with its needle which she is pretending to thread and snatches up a tissue, wipes off the drop of blood and tosses it in the direction of the maidservant. The woman springs out of the sea of silk and muslin on the Persian carpet, giggles as she catches it, darts across to the wastepaper basket and still giggling, leaps ‘back into the pile of saris. The room is looking like a smuggler’s den with trunks and suitcases spilling out hoards of dazzling ‘material. And there is scarcely room to stand let alone sit for rolls of geongette are billowing on the sofa, brocades are draped over chairs and everything is flowing onto the carpet where a clean bedsheet has been spread. ‘The seasons are changing. Another few days and summerAnnast/ Facing the Light will be upon Karachi, stretching endlessly like the desert itself from which hot winds are already rising. The brush with cool weather a memory. So they are right in the midst of sorting out her wardrobe, packing away the heavier silks and satins and unpacking the ‘cool cottons and frothy chiffons and she is instructing the little maidservant—these for washing, these for dry cleaning, that black one throw over to me, I have just the magenta and purple border to liven it up. That petticoat for mending. And this whole lot kicked towards her, all that for throwing out. Yes yes of course that is what she meant—that she could have them all. But no, again no, not this midnight blue chiffon sari, most cer tainly not, Is she in her senses that she can even ask again? A thousand, twelve hundred rupees for the embroidery alone, for these hundreds of silver sequins—real silver, each one of them, sprinkled all over like stars. And she, whenever she'd worn it, so like a goddess who on a summer night stepping out of heaven had hastily snatched a piece of the star-spangled sky to cover herself with, For after all, that had been the whole idea, she'd designed it herself with herself in mind. And now give it away to.a servant? Just like that? Throw it down the drain? Prepos- terous. How did she dare ask again? How did she dare even think? Yes even if the silver was tarnished, even if every single star had blackened and the sari no more than a shabby rag. Which shouldn't have happened because she herself had packed it away at the end of last season, with these hands, trusting no cone, wrapped it up in layer upon layer of muslin, buried it like a mummy, deep inside a steel trunk. Safe, airtight. She'd been so certain the Karachi air couldn't possibly get to it and tarnish the silver. But it had and had snuffed out the stars like candies. ‘And now, on her lap, this veil of darkness, dullness. ‘And he chooses that precise moment to rap so loudly with his cane on her bedroom door that the midnight blue sari slithers t 167SupDEN Fiction INTERNATIONAL i to her feet, an inky shadow. She quickly bends over her sewing ‘machine, pretending to thread the needle. What's he doing here at this time, jamming the doorway of her bedroom? Never home for dinner why here even before tea? “Malik Sahib,” announces the woman as though she needs assistance in recognizing her ‘own husband of twenty-two—three—years. And rushes to evict a stack of summer cotton saris which have usurped the sofa. But hhe makes an impatient gesture with his hands and remains standing and immediately begins to be fair to her. So anxious is he to be fair to her. “Go to your quarter,” she says to the woman, for she cannot allow him to be fair to her in front of the servants. Not when he's going out of his way to be fair to her and she can tell that he’s going to outdo himself in fairness today. She can tell by that red flower which has blossomed overnight upon his chest and is now blazing out of his button hole. She can tell by that ‘moustache, till yesterday steel grey, stiff as a rod, today henna red, oiled, curled sofily, coaxed gently to @ fine point at both edges. Like a pair of wings dipped in a rosy sunset! And as surely as a pair of wings ever did fly she can tell that that mous- tache will fly tonight. “But the saris. . .” Such a thrill of excitement has shot through. her, lighting up the saucer eyes in the dark face as though car headlights have suddenly flashed in a tunnel. She must stay, she must listen, She mustn't miss a word of this. “Later.” ‘The woman dares not say another word and hurriedly picks up her slippers at the door. “Tea in half an hour,” she says to the woman so he doesn't spend all evening being fair to her. “The door is closing after her and he is already stretching him- self up to his full height—and beyond—in preparation for ulti 168 <¥ © fo atAppast/ Facing the Light mate fairness to her. Striding over, he will come straight to the point. He will not waste his time blaming her for anything because he realizes that she cannot help herself. And because she will in any case pay for it, regret it all, regrets made more bitter by the remembrance of his own decency throughout, for after all how many men, how many men—but no, straight to the point. Looming over her, smiling, positively beaming down at her in anticipation of her shock at his news, he must tell her that it is too late for regrets. He is leaving. Yes. Leaving and this time iti final. She heard right. She did not imagine it./But in case she thinks she did, he will thump the ground with his cane. Three times he will thump the ground with his cane. And three times the ground reverberates. Final. Final. Final. Yet he will be fair to her. Indeed more than, He will be generous. Large hearted. ‘And so, his chest is swelling, expanding, the petals on it trembling as it grows larger and larger. In any case, he has 2 position to maintain and so she will be maintained in the style which she has always been used to and which—stretching him- self further up, risking a launch into space in his determination to be fair to her—a man in his position can well afford. There- fore car, house, servants, nothing will change. And looking down at her as at a pebble he has just flung at the bottom of a well he reassures her: car, house, servants . Car, house, servants! Tea in five minutes, she should've said. For—car, house, servants—what more was there? Her fault, her mistake, her stupidity thinking a half hour would be needed, thinking there was so much to say now when not a word had ever been spoken before. Is she listening? Is she listening? Noises. Just noises. Two prisoners in neighbouring cells and no one on the other side. Hence the tapping noises. One tap for food, two for money. Short taps, sharp taps, clear taps. And f 169SuppEN FictION INTERNATIONAL a please, not too many. Just enough to pull along, I in my cell, you in yours, His she heard? Car, house, serv ‘The lid crashes down on the sewing machine, the spool of cotton, the thimble, flying to the floor. The other side then! To the far end of the room, to the window, to her big brass bed, there to spread out the sari all six yards of it, give it another look, every inch of it, one last chance, for surely, surely in the bright light of day, the sun shining directly on it, it would look different. Yes it would, of course it would, everything looks different in the light. So there by the open window, she would see it again, the sparkle of a thousand stars, lost here, in the shadows of the room. It would still be salvaged. Still be saved. He cannot believe this. Getting up, walking away, right in the middle of his being fair to her. Leaving him talking as though to himself, turning her back to him Facing the light. The sari laid out on the bed. The curtains drawn aside. The sun streaming through the window, pouring down the skylight onto the bed, warming the brass, setting afire the ruby carpet. Yet here to0, that veil of darkness, dullness, will not yield but instead spreads its claim everywhere. For now she sees that same layer of darkness, dullness, on everything. Nothing is safe then, for itis in the air, the very air. Nothing escapes. Nothing remains the same, The toughest metals suffer. Brass blackens. Silver loses its luster. Gold dulls. This bed. These bangles. Constantly being polished and repolished. Even these grilles on this window. Painted how long ago? A month? ‘Two? And already here, there, in patches, the rust is cutting through. Everything is being a*tacked. As though an unseen force is snaking its way through the city, choosing its victims, the strongest, the most precious, stalking them, ferreting them ‘out as they lic hidden under paint and polish, shrouded in trunks. Strikes them, robs them of their sparkle, their luster, their very light. 170Ampast/ Facing the Light =. as if he isn’t there, as if he doesn't exist. Very well then. Dut through that door. This instant. And some things you simply cannot keep polishing and ‘epolishing no matter how precious they are, Too fragile, the abric. It will have to be discarded, thrown away on that heap sf old clothes. She will have it after all. She will. There is no xelp for it, for it is in the air, the very air. And so, still facing he light, she begins to fold the sari. 7