Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [36]
Unable to leave for school in the face of all this drama, I waited, unnoticed, in the courtyard. Marjan’s grandfather and uncle soon came back, carrying Marjan in their arms. He was comatose. His pants were rolled up to his thighs, and his legs hung limply. The length of each leg was covered in blue and black bruises. There was blood dribbling from various blows to the shin. The beaten calves looked clumpy, protruding in some areas, deflated in others. His legs were clearly destroyed.
“Qari Asim!” said the uncle who helped bring him in. “He started beating him and wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.”
“His legs are broken,” the grandfather declared somberly. “Set him down. Ya Allah mercy. Ya Allah health.” He then instructed someone to go find my father. Meanwhile, Marjan’s aunts began mixing butter with brown sugar and glycerin, then heated the confection to rub as ointment. Marjan’s father was more composed than his mother, but he looked like a beaten mule, excusing himself to the walls into which he crashed. After a few minutes, though, the entire house was quiet, lost in prayer.
Suddenly a powerful human conflagration erupted in the house. It was the uncle who had received the electric shock, enraged after learning of Marjan’s beating. “Who is this Qari Asim?” he shouted, his face dangerously red. “Sister-fucking Qari Asim! If I don’t get him back, I have no honor! If I don’t get him back, my name is no longer Farrukh the Stud!”
Grabbing up an old mop he marched around the house, breaking pottery right and left. By this time a number of neighbors had streamed into the house. Having seen Marjan and heard Farrukh’s vows, they became excited at the prospect of a beat-down. This kind of righteous violence was appreciated among us because there were no losers: an avenging relative, a beaten qari, and a satisfied audience vicariously unleashing their latent resentment against the masters of the madrassa. Uncle Farrukh exited the house head aloft, stick held like a broadsword, mouth streaming profanities about Asim’s incestuous anal activities. Children followed him up the street, making rhymes about the forthcoming beating that had already become legendary. I followed.
At the madrassa Uncle Farrukh bellowed a challenge for Qari Asim to come and get his. Students loyal to the qari ran and told him his death was here. In fear, the qari ran out of class, hopped on his Kawasaki, and rode away in a cloud of dust. Uncle Farrukh, upset that he wasn’t able to unleash his wrath, made a great show of strength, shattering the benches, Quran-holders, and pulpits, threatening and intimidating the student body. He made it indelibly clear to Qari Jamil that Asim was not welcome back. Qari Jamil, looking more than a little anxious himself, put up his hands and apologized.
A few hours later word came that Asim had been spotted at the bazar. Uncle Farrukh rushed home, picked up a bicycle, and went in pursuit, spending most of the night chasing the violent qari around various parts of the city, smashing merchandise, hurling rocks.
Marjan was out of the coma by the time Uncle Farrukh returned from his retaliatory spree, but it took him many weeks to recuperate.
One evening after coming home from the madrassa I sat on the rooftop looking at the courtyard below. Ammi was moving a pot of black lentils off the stove. Tai, my older aunt, was bending over the drain, pouring the water out of a big pot of basmati rice. My other aunt was stirring the spiced yogurt in a steel tray with a wooden spoon. Suddenly there was a powerful banging on the doorframe and all three women dropped their pots.
“Ittefaq!” shouted a man from the street. “Ittefaq! Is