Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [18]
Sabra wanted to see Black Baloch’s downfall and asked Dadi Ma whether there was any dark magic she could use.
“No!” Dadi Ma said vehemently. “No black magic. We have to think about the afterlife!”
“If you’re thinking about the afterlife,” Ammi countered, “then we shouldn’t backbite the woman either. Those who do gheebat will be made to eat their sister’s flesh in hell.”
That reminder about the severe punishment that Allah would mete out to backbiters was thrown out any time gossip-mongering occurred—which was often. The comment was usually made by the woman who, at that particular moment, felt most guilty about the discussion. The other women, equally guilty of the crime overall if not at that moment, lowered their heads and picked at their trays with a forefinger and thumb, flicking the desiderata that dirtied the lentils. Then, because gossip was a major industry—one that couldn’t be shut down even under threat from Allah—the conversation resumed.
Ultimately, Dadi Ma didn’t need to resolve the tension between Sabra and Black Baloch, because their husband did it for them. He went to Balochistan and brought home wife number three. When he threw Black Baloch out of the bedroom, the ignominy caused Sabra and Black Baloch to immediately enter into an alliance. They often came over to our house, together as friends now, to ask about possible black magic, though Dadi Ma constantly rebuffed them.
One day, late in the afternoon while the men were at work—my father at the small clinic that he was trying rather unsuccessfully to establish—Ammi, Dadi Ma, and the aunts were sitting on the veranda. Suddenly the curtain was swept open by Black Baloch, who rushed in alone. She had a panicked looked in her eye, and her face was white. She was wearing neither a niqab nor anything on her feet, as though she had run out of the house unexpectedly. Dadi Ma summoned a glass of water and told Black Baloch to sit down.
“What is it?” she asked in a calming voice.
“Unbelievable! It’s Sabra! Oh, the end has come!”
“Tell already!” said one of the aunts.
“Everyone is going to find out now! What will happen to the reputation of our men!”
I was on the rooftop, rolling marbles with my cousins, but we all headed downstairs to listen when it became clear that there was drama in the making. By the time we reached the ground floor, the women were wrapping up in chadors and shawls to cross the alley and head into the Balochi fortress.
“We have to do condolence,” Ammi explained to us.
“This is really unbelievable,” said one of the aunts. “I don’t understand how this could happen.”
“That poor creature!” Dadi Ma said, reciting a prayer.
Black Baloch led the caravan of condolence across the street. My cousins and I followed, pleased that finally there was a way into the mysterious Balochi house.
As the yellow door into the courtyard swung open, a rooster scuttled and squawked and several of the countless hens clucked. A small goat scurried past with an awkward limp, making a go at the exit, but one of the boys grabbed its rope. In a corner of the courtyard sat Sabra, rocking back and forth on her straw chowki.
“Evil men!” said my older aunt.
“Poor creature!” said Dadi Ma. “Look at how uncomfortable it looks!”
“Which one was it?” Ammi asked, looking around the courtyard.
“Evil men!”
“Just did her? Just like that?” Dadi Ma asked Sabra.
She wiped tears and nodded.
“You know, Ammi ji,” Black Baloch said to Dadi Ma, “it is kind of funny.”
Dadi Ma looked at her sternly, and then her expression softened. “It is somewhat amusing, yes.”
Suddenly a chuckle erupted from Black Baloch. Then all the women started cackling.
“Which goat was it?” Ammi asked.
Sabra pointed to the limping