Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [7]
“I want you to play with me,” I ordered.
“You want to play now?”
The darkness made me bold. “Yes. We will play here. I will be the husband.”
“I don’t know…,” she said in a voice drenched with reluctance.
“It will be all right,” I assured. I grabbed her by the hand and took her to the lawn. The moon, full and fourteenth, had broken out of the clouds, and her skin and eyes were glowing. “So, let’s see,” I said, stalling for time as I came up with a scenario. “How about we’re at a picnic?” I clinked an imaginary glass with her. “Drink!”
She mimicked, but without any eagerness.
“Come on, show a little joash,” I demanded. “You’re out on a beautiful day with your powerful husband! Show some desire!”
She didn’t respond. After sipping my imaginary drink for a little while, I became annoyed by the silence.
“I think we need more dialogue. How will you feel if I tell you that your beauty is like that of a Night Princess?”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking genuinely bewildered.
“Look,” I said, becoming the director. “You have options when someone says that to you. You can do nakhra, like whine and complain, to convey that you’re very shy. Or you can be my enemy who gets angry—”
“I’m ashamed,” she interrupted.
“Don’t be!”
I pulled her close, more from affection than perversity. As she struggled against me, I made her fright a part of our role-play. She became the damsel in distress and I was her protector. As I held her body against mine, her hair spilled droplets on my arms. Her clothes were damp and sticky. My mood suddenly turned.
“Take off your clothes,” I instructed. Then I paused for a moment, hearing the swishing of the trees, checking for the sound of footsteps in the driveway, listening to the laughter of oblivious adults safely lodged deep inside the belly of the bungalow. “I want to see your girl things,” I said. “I will show you my privates in return.”
It was a command. She was a servant: she obeyed. She pulled her shalwar to her knees and lifted up her shirt to her neck. The blue light danced on her scrubbed nudity. I stood back on my knees and pulled down my shorts for a brief moment. Then just as quickly I pulled them back up but let her remain naked so that I could touch her stomach.
While stroking her skin I made melodramatic filmi comments about her body, the moonlight, and fragrant roses. Then my mouth sought her chest, stomach, and thighs. Because I was not yet familiar with the concept of kissing, my movements were just that, actions that represented affection.
Yet, for all my interest in maintaining the integrity of the game, I couldn’t bear to keep my lips against her body. Her smell oozed out of her skin and burned my nose. It was the smell of her poverty and servitude; of her caste and lower station. It disgusted me. In a sudden move I pulled away from her and stemmed a wave of nausea by holding my breath.
My withdrawal was an act so savage and sudden that it cut through the conditioning that over the years had made her obedience personified. It sliced through her submission. She pulled her clothes into place and writhed away, turning violently like a stepped-on worm. One pink chappal, hanging off her foot as she pulled away, dragged against the white marble as she disappeared into the dark.
Then she went and told on me.
The next day I was playing in the backyard when the adults came to punish me.
“Good boys don’t play games with girls,” Ammi said. “It is gunah to play games with girls. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Have you become Shaytan?”
“No. I am Abir ul Islam.”
“You sure aren’t behaving like it.”
“Put out your left hand,” my aunt said.
I obeyed.
Upon it she placed a piece of paper and a pencil and told me to write the penitential sentence—“I ask