Free The Pakistani Bride by Bapsi Sidhwa Page A

bungalows.
    Qasim didn’t repeat this reconnaissance. Nikka told him, “You’re too obviously a Pathan. Better stay away.”
    In the early stages of their friendship Qasim had tried to explain why he disliked being called a Pathan; he was Kohistani. But Nikka said, “Friend, all you hill people are Pathan to us.”
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    On the fourth evening of their target’s visit, Qasim, deprived of action and tense with private misgiving, decided to console himself with a trip to the brothel streets of Hira Mandi. He enjoyed the narrow lanes streaming with men, and the tall,
rickety buildings leaning towards each other. He could stroll in these lanes for hours, his senses throbbing . . . the heady smell of perfume, the tinkle of payals on dancers’ ankles, the chhum-chhum of feminine feet dancing behind closed doors excited him. He watched the gaudily dressed, heavily made-up girls lolling on carpets, leaning on bolsters, chatting with each other and with their musicians. Doors flung wide open showed harmoniums and tables waiting to entertain.
    The girls smiled their invitations boldly. Qasim knew he had only to step up with money and the doors would close about him, shutting off the street, intriguing passersby with the sound of music and the tinkle of ankle-bells. He would be inside relishing their charms and dances.
    Occasional seekh-kabab and sweetmeat stores brought a pleasing touch of reality to the incandescent mirage of the area. The men jostled each other, eyes peering behind arching doorways as they looked at the girls leaning from balconies. And from the structures cocooning the girls pulsated the melody of verses sung to the pleading, sweet, high pitch of a shehnai —and with the merry twirl of belled feet throbbing upon carpets.
    The pungent whiff of urine from back-alleys blends with the spicy smells of Hira Mandi—of glossy green leaves, rose petals, and ochre marigolds. Silver braid hems blue dancing-skirts; tight satin folds of the chooridar pajama reveal rounded calves; girls shimmer in silk, georgette, and tinsel-glittering satin. Qasim, like a sperm swimming, aglow with virility up to the tips of the hair on his knuckles, feels engulfed in this female street.
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    A string of black, parked cars suddenly blocked Qasim’s way. The pedestrians swirled, compressed through the narrowed passage. The gleaming chrome and black shapes looked vaguely
familiar . . . and instantly Qasim was alert. He sensed that the celebrity Nikka was after was right here.
    He looked around. It was still a bit early for business and many open doors displayed their merchandise.
    He sauntered up to a girl leaning invitingly on a railing by the first car. Her long, thin plait of hair, fattened by a garland of jasmine, swung forward when she rocked her head and tilted her eyes in rhythm to hummed verses. Noticing Qasim’s interest, she smiled encouragingly.
    â€œLook at those big cars!” he said, eyeing them with exaggerated admiration. “Where are the owners?”
    The girl tossed her head, indicating the untidy tangle of arched windows and balconies overhead.
    â€œWith the grand Maharani Sahiba I suppose.”
    Qasim laughed, feigning a careless, lewd interest.
    â€œCome inside,” she invited him.
    â€œMaharani Sahiba must be quite something,” he said, moving so close he almost touched her. “What’s her real name?”
    â€œShahnaz. But she’s too grand for the likes of you,” she teased him good-naturedly.
    Another girl and two musicians were looking at him with curiosity. The girl inside smiled. She was prettier.
    â€œWhy don’t you come in?”
    â€œI will . . . very soon,” said Qasim. He spread his arms helplessly, “I’ll be back on payday.”
    â€œDon’t forget. You’ll like us. She dances,” she said, pointing her thumb at the girl inside, “I sing.”
    â€œI will definitely come,” mumbled