Maniza
Naqvi captures the dilemma of the
protagonist of her story, a mediawoman, who
finds herself in a land where war has
destroyed the spirit of the people and
robbed them of love.
But she knows that she is unwanted here. She
has had word of that. And she knows how
guests are honoured here, and these are just
platitudes for honouring guests. She manages
to smile back. She is tired, she has been
walking since daybreak, it has taken them
twelve hours through mountain passes to
reach this valley. Their valley. His valley.
Here she will get the story she has come
for. Always in search of a good story.
Always willing to go where no one else
would.
They had said they would just drop her and
come to pick her up a week later. No problem
she had said. She was only worried about one
thing. Who was going to do the translation?
They had made all the arrangements. There's
someone there who speaks perfect English. At
first, the office had said she wouldn't be
able to pull it off, the fighters would
never allow her to enter, then this was
confirmed when the fighters had said that
she was unacceptable when the office had
communicated the gender of the journalist
coming to write.
And then the fighters had relented, because
she was a good writer. They had heard about
her. And the story mattered more than the
hand that wrote it. They needed to be heard.
They needed to be born. She looks around
her, humming under her breath. As far as
they were concerned a midwife has come. It's
a fair deal, they want to be heard, she
wants to write. So what if they don't like
her. She's not crazy about them either! She
loves it! This feeling unwanted is her best
schtick.
That's when she really hums. She looks
around her, happily. Humming under her
breath. All men, all in battle gear, all
fighters. They fit the bill with their long
hair and beards. They are dressed in
military fatigues. Rebels. Their heads are
covered with fidayeen scarves or berets with
symbols on them, there is the Kalma
embroidered on to their lapels, and they
carry Kalashnikovs, they are strapped with
spare magazines and grenades. And she is
among them. Wait till she tells Jack!
A sheep turns slowly on a spitfire. She
hates meat, but loves the smell of it
roasting. But for now she is under an autumn
night sky and the stars seem a stepladder's
distance away. And there is music. The men
start to stand, she watches them transform,
they become creatures of rhythm, swaying to
the seduction of the poetry. They dance.
Arms outstretched, heads held high and
proud, chins up, shoulders thrown back and
hips swaying, pelvis thrust forward.
Slowly moving, bringing their arms inward
over their heads to clap their hands, their
feet stamp, keeping time to the rhythm of
the music of the drums and tambourines.
Stamp, stamp, clap, clap. Lunging forward
towards each other, knees bending, torsos
twirling and whirling. A man sings. He is
singing, 'Rahe man rahe tu.'
The translator leans towards her. 'Our paths
are the same, whatever is my path is your
path.' The soldier turns to her, points to
himself then points to her. 'Rahe tu,
rahe man. This is Hafiz. Do you know
him? He is the greatest of poets,' the
translator translates.
* * * * *
And the shouting begins.
So you are worried about our society.
'Of course I am.'
Why?
'Because we have lost peace and civility.'
And what would you say was peace and
civility?
'A face, un-defaced.'
What?
'Aman and Iman, would be indicators.
Indicators of it would be when people are
able to walk about outside on the streets
late into the evening. Lovers walk hand in
hand at night on main avenues and linger on
in parks and children kick footballs in
alleyways way past dark. Or when, a man lies
down on the floor next to a woman and makes
love to her. Aman and Iman.'
Listen, we brought you in because you
agreed to do the job. We said we needed a
pretty face to cover ours. Do you hear me?
Pay attention! Wake up! We chose your face.
You didn't really think you could do
anything did you? The constitution is not
for you to change. It is ours to abrogate.
'The people will protest!'
Madam, the streets of this blessed
country are quiet! No need for us to even
impose a curfew, no need for army patrols.
There are no protests. The nation sleeps.
The nation rests in peace because a soldier
stands guard. Do you understand? Now tell me
will you cooperate? Will you be a good
little girl and go on television to announce
that you will behave?
There is so much pain. Only darkness now,
pain overwhelms sound.
'Lie down next to me now. Here on this stone
floor. Transport me, whole to that place of
peace to that space, to that being of
completeness of wholeness.'
'It is evening,' he says, 'wait for me
tomorrow.' She understands but she pretends
not to, the look on his face is too urgent,
his voice too full, her knees too weak, it
is too much, and where would there be to go
from there if she says she has understood?
But he looks at her, indignantly, and says,
'What do you mean you don't understand? You
understand everything.' And she had
understood everything. And it was true,
everything in his tone, in that moment,
every gesture of his, had conveyed the
meaning of the words that she didn't catch.
The words would have been superfluous
anyway. The image faded.
She sobbed, 'Wait, please wait come back!
Take me with you! I will never see you
again! I don't even know if you are alive,
or if you are dead and if you are, if you
have a grave?'
'I have a house in the mountains,' he had
said.
'Yes.'
'Where I want to take you.'
'Why?'
'You should rest. Should you need to ever
rest, and get away, to just rest from the
world and be by yourself, then you will come
there.'
'You think I will need to?' she had asked.
'There will always be a room for you.'
'I don't take up much space,' she had joked.
'Then for you I will have a small room!'
They had laughed.
'And I will lock you in,' he had smiled
resolutely.
'Why?'
'I will keep the key.'
'Why?'
'So that you'll stay with me.'
'I am with you,' she had said.
'Stay.'
And she didn't know why prompted from some
other place she had said, 'I don't take up
too much space.' She had said this to him,
who needed no persuasion.
'Then for you, I will have a very small
room, and I will lock you in and keep the
key, you will stay there and I will never
let you go.'
'Never let me go.'
Throw her back in there, let's see how
long she lasts. Throw her back in there and
throw away the key!
'You will get tired of me.'
'Never.'
'You will.'
'You don't understand me.'
'You will forget, that you ever said this.'
He had looked at her with confusion. He
could not understand why she was saying
this. 'You will have a window from where you
will see the mountains, and the snow on
them, and meadows covered with flowers.'
'Flowers like the ones you bring me every
day?'
'More beautiful!'
'Yes.'
'Who gives you flowers there?'
'Friends, and I buy them for myself,' she
says.
'You will never need to buy flowers, you
will never have to rip them from the ground,
the whole world will be your vase full of
flowers when you look out of your window.
Will you come with me?' he asks again.
'I cannot, we are so far apart,' she
replies.
'What do you mean?'
'Our circumstances,' she says.
'What do you mean?'
'Don't you know who I am?'
'I do.'
'Then?'
'Then what? We are the same.'
'How?'
'We have nowhere to go.'
'I have a place to go to!' she protests.
'Is that where you want to be?'
'I want to be everywhere.'
'Exactly. Going everywhere, always
struggling, always alone, always controlled
by someone else's commands. We are the
same,' he says.
Who was she? What did she mean, do you know
who I am? Who was she? When did she say this
to him?
'We should be married,' he says.
'No!'
'We should have children,' he repeats.
'No.'
'Don't you want children?' he asks.
'I did want children. But for that, perhaps,
it is too late now.'
'No, no, never say that,' he protests.
'Why? It's true.'
'Only God knows,' he says.
'Yes.'
'Only God will decide.'
God decided. God decided.
'Why stay when men leave anyway?' she asks.
'For the children,' he replies, simply.
Had you been the child you wanted me to
have, I could have swooped you up into my
arms.
'Men leave, look around you, just look here,
most of the women are without their
husbands, raising children on their own!
These no good men. No thank you, I am fine
the way I am. These no good men!'
He seemed as though she had hit him. And he
had looked at her, his face had become
solemn and he was silent. Then in a soft
voice he had said, 'No one wants to leave
their family, don't be so hard on our men.
Many of our men were killed in the war. Far
too many. Beautiful, brave young men.' His
voice was gentle, as though he was
explaining to a child. 'My brother was shot
during the war and has left behind his widow
and five children. That's when I returned
from Moscow. I bought a gun there and I came
back to fight. So don't say men leave, they
don't always want to. Really, they don't
always want to.'
In the darkness, she asked, 'I did
apologize, didn't I? I was ashamed of myself
I want to tell you that. I would not hurt
you, ever. But where would I be if I had
said I understood?'
Maniza Naqvi
was born and brought up in Lahore and now
lives in the US where she works for the
World Bank. This is her third novel.
This is a disturbing and intriguing story of
torture and survival. The main character is
a journalist who is initially invited by the
establishment and then later tortured when
she doesn't conform to her hosts'
expectations. She finds the strength to face
the ugliness and brutality of torture by
recalling her past experiences. As she moves
in and out of consciousness, her past life
is reconstructed. The reader learns of her
existence as a woman; her ideas, thoughts
and feelings are captured as is the fleeting
and complex nature of existence.
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