Free Their Language of Love by Bapsi Sidhwa

and anger. ‘Memsahib, you so little understand our ways!’ she had said with scathing finality and, turning her broad back on hermistress, trudged ahead with a curiously stiff-legged dignity.
    Confronted by so much authority, Ruth didn’t dare argue. She had felt like a rebuked cub that had put itself in harm’s way.
    Ruth could hear Chikoo barking fiercely at the entrance door. A whiff of fear emanated from Billo: it was uncharacteristic. ‘Who is it?’ Ruth asked.
    ‘He say he is police Inspector.’
    ‘You left a police officer standing in the porch?’ Ruth said, mildly exasperated.
    ‘Show him into the sitting room.’
    ‘No. Better you talk outside.’
    Billo held out Ruth’s calf-length robe. Ruth—who had initially been infuriated by what she considered Billo’s condescending attitude in frequently correcting her—had learnt enough not to question her judgement on matters of apparel. Her pants and sweater suitably concealed by the robe, Ruth followed the staid, stumpy figure chugging ahead.
    Billo opened the entrance door just wide enough to allow her mistress out and keep the dog in. Then she stood guard, bulging ominously through the partially opened door.
    The man was not in uniform. He wore a long cream linen shirt over his matching shalwar and stood modestly behind Ruth’s black Buick. He was a strapping, broad-shouldered fellow, well-fed and well-tended, the sheen on his face and exposed skin hinting at a recent almond oil massage: one noticed such things in Pakistan, she thought.
    After a brief glance at Ruth, the man politely averted his eyes and maintained a diffident distance. Clearly he was not accustomed to mixing with women socially and certainly not with Western women. To put him at his ease Ruth stepped up to him instead. She did not hold out her hand as she would have when she had first arrived in Pakistan. Ruth was glad she wore her robe: up close he emanated an almost feral air that was mildly disturbing. ‘Yes?’ she said, pleasantly.
    ‘Madam, you are Ruth Walker?’
    ‘Yes?’
    The man removed a laminated plastic card from his shirt pocket and politely gave it to Ruth. ‘I am sub-inspector Junaid Akhtar from ISI, Cantt. Sector.’
    Ruth scanned the information briefly and handed the card back. What was a secret service man doing on her porch?
    ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’ He spoke better English than she expected. ‘It won’t take long.’
    She could tell from his voice and mien that the man was making an effort not to offend or intimidate her. She wasn’t afraid.
    ‘You had an Indian woman staying in your house as guest?’
    The question caught Ruth off guard. The distrust between Pakistan and neighbouring India bordered on paranoia. Ruth disguised her unease by adopting a defiant air. ‘Yes—is that a crime?’
    ‘Yes, it is.’ The sub-inspector’s voice took on a subtly menacing edge. ‘Don’t you know foreigners, Indians, are not allowed to stay in the Cantonment? This is a sensitive military area, a restricted area.’
    Even as the answer confirmed her misgiving, it shocked her.
    ‘Oh,’ Ruth said, ‘I didn’t know.’ She felt a little breathless. It occurred to her to say: ‘But aren’t my husband and I foreigners …?’
    He had anticipated her remark and cut in before she completed her sentence. ‘Your landlord took special permission from the Cantt Board when he let his bungalow to Americans. You are okay. Don’t worry.’
    It figured. Their landlord was a retired General. The army was in charge of the country and General Zia was Head of State.
    Ruth had met the Indian woman, Uma Bhat, at a party and found her lively and fun to be around. The family with whom Uma was staying were suddenly expecting a hoard of relatives from their village and were looking for someone with whom Uma could stay. Uma was to return to Delhi in a couple of days and Ruth had gladly volunteered her hospitality.
    ‘Didn’t you notice our red Suzuki?’ the man