Spirits of Silence

There is a country where the voices of women have not been heard for the last hundred years. Men talk, sing, shout greetings at one another, but the women have learnt to live with silence. It dates back to the Council of Many Voices.

A long time ago, the elders called a council to debate the true meaning of the scriptures. Holy men came from across the land to pray and discuss and agree on the interpretation to be laid on the verses that made up the only holy book they had ever followed. After days of expounding and arguing and pas-sionate voices, all were agreed on everything but one little verse. That one verse explained what a good wife was. The arguments raged for seven days and nights, and finally they honed in on three little words in that verse. Then a vote was cast and the decision made. Silence was indeed a woman’s best ornament. It was decided that, in the spirit of the scriptures, the voices of women must be taken from them.

Silence became a thing that rolled out from that fateful council, to lie deep on the land. It rolled over the protests of sons, lovers, husbands. It oozed under doors. It came to lie heavy on the tongues of women. It became a stone in the mouth of each. And five years after the decree not a single woman in the land had a voice to raise in song or in anger.

But there is always woman’s work to be done. Orders to be given, houses to be supervised. And so the women created a new language of their own. One of eyes and gestures and shakes of the head, one that serves them well enough, and has been so elaborated that men often claim that it is more evocative than speech itself. The men have their poetry and in their rhymes is bedded praise of the eye that speaks volumes, the turn of the wrist that can tell a story. They extol the whole new language of seduction that is spoken with the body. Which uses skin for words, movement for sentences and speaks volumes with a single look. Women run the house with a lift of an eyebrow, a turn of the head. Men retire to their evenings loud with laughter and with music.

A new branch of music has sprung up. It is called “Bezuban”. Voiceless music. It was started, story has it, by a poet heart-broken at the loss of a beloved voice. Now at every evening of wine and instruments wailing in the dark, male voices rise to sing it.

One song, as forlorn as others born of loss, goes like this.

Speak to me
Why do you not speak to me
Your eyes speak,
Your hands speak
Why do you not speak?

Men loll on their pillows, tears in their eyes at the pathos of it. Sigh for the sound of a forgotten voice. But over all they are content. There is peace in the houses. There are no voices raised in contention. And each house keeps its secrets steeped in deep silence.

This is the story of the only woman in the land who had a voice. She retained it by luck and lost it for love.

Najma’s mother Alia came from a family that was very poor. When the old and retired Maulvi made an offer for her they were happy to accept, even though he was more than twice Alia’s age and had married daughters older than she was. Alia stepped timidly into the house and discovered that it was emp-tier than any she had ever seen. No one lived there but herself and her husband and he lived in a silence of his own. A silence that was even more impenetrable than that of his wife. He had been deaf for many years. Scorning to learn the language of women he lived on in the house, locked in a world where there were not even whispers left.

Against all expectations, Alia was happy in that house. Her husband did not scold her. He did not seem to care about anything at all, content if his meals were on time, if the coffee he sipped carefully once a day was hot enough. For the rest she could play all day while he rattled his beads and shaped voiceless words imploring the pity of his Maker.

Alia ran through the corridors, hung out of the windows, lay dozing in the sun. But most of all she liked making music. Before the Maulvi became deaf, his great delight had been music. The house was decorated with instruments of every kind. Alia touched the strings, listening delightedly as the vibrations ran singing through her fingers. She learnt the voice of each one. Some touched her skin. Some echoed deep in her bones. Some ran buzzing in her head long after she had stilled the strings. She was happy there. Only when she became pregnant was she frightened. She had no idea how to tell her husband. He gave no sign of noticing, not even when she grew so big that she could no longer reach up and get the utensils from the shelves, and had to pile them all on the kitchen floor.

Once a week a woman from the village came with vegetables and all else that might be needed in that shuttered house. She saw Alia growing and shook her head. Her hands telegraphed that she would be back when Alia needed her. She was a midwife and felt sorry for the child, heavy and alone in that large house.

One day of deep silence, early waking and uneasy afternoon, Najma was born.

When the pain twisted hotly in her stomach, Alia crawled to her husband, clung with pleading hands to his knees. But he waved her away, not dropping a bead in his running prayer to God. Alia crawled back to the corridors full of instruments and lay down among them. The midwife found her there some hours later. It took all the skill of two generations of birthings to bring Najma screaming from the womb of her mother. The child quietened as soon as she was laid in her wondering mother’s arms. The midwife let her hold her child for a while, listening to the complaining voice that turned to little croonings of delight once she had found the nipple. When the child had fed, the midwife reached for the little box in which her voice fluttered. Alia stopped her. Hands pleaded, eyes screamed fervent messages. Every movement was a plea.

Do not do this to her.

The midwife’s hands were frantic, denying. It was the law. She would be killed if she disobeyed. No one would ever know, Alia pleaded. The old man was deaf. She would see that the child never left the house. The midwife tore the clinging hands from her side and reached again for the baby. Alia struggled to her knees. Her hands beat desperately against the midwife. Then reached out to tenderly touch the midwife’s breast. Many children had suckled at that breast. For each that was female the midwife had wept bitter tears. The midwife hesitated, then she thrust the child at the mother and hastily left the house.

And so, Najma grew up singing in a house that had known silence for many years. It was she who sounded the instru-ments now and laughed in delight at their many voices. The old man noticed nothing. His prayers to God had become a shout within his head. He was close to death and all he heard was death dragging its heavy carcass, gaining slowly on him. He prayed every waking moment, sending his silent screams out to a Maker he was no longer certain was there. The first tortured words that Najma ever learnt was the litany of her father—save me from death, forgive the evil that I have done, remember only the good. Save me Lord. Save me Lord. Save me . . .

They were happy in that house, and when the old man died they were happier. There was a fuss, with people insisting that Alia could not live alone, but in the end it was settled simply. No one wanted Alia and her daughter. Her parents could not afford to have her back. The children of the old man did not want a stepmother younger than them in their houses. Digni-fied in black, Alia signed her decision to stay in her husband’s house and spend all her days in prayer for him until she died. The village allowed her to, proud of the pious widow and her daughter.

When for the next ten years neither Alia nor her daughter was ever seen out of the house again, their pride grew even more. The village marvelled at the piety of the woman. And eventually the head Maulvi calculated the years, said the daughter must now be of marriageable age, and nothing less than the daughter of that most holy of widows would do for his eldest son.

The offer was carried up the hill and returned three times. Then a furious Maulvi decided that, pious widow or not, what right had this woman to deny an offer? Women made no deci-sions. This was against all the scriptures. He and his sons went to fetch the girl themselves.

Parting mother and daughter was difficult. Both wept bitterly, hands clinging together in a desperate dialogue of separation and farewell. At last it was done and the new bride was carried away. So violent was her mother’s grief that no one was surprised to hear that she was dead a week later.

The weeping Najma was handed over to the women of the house for the Laying on of Hands. It was a ceremony in which all the women of the house gathered to touch the bride. Ques-tions buzzed between their pliant hands and her shrinking body. They explored her face, gathered up every shred of knowledge that the open map of her skin revealed. She was led to the inner chamber, bathed, washed and finally, feeling more naked than she ever had in her life, she was accepted.

Her husband’s hands touched Najma that night. So shyly and hesitatingly did he reach out that, for the first time since she entered the house, Najma smiled. He was good looking, this husband of hers. And gentle. As the days passed Najma gave all her love to the man who had now become hers. Her mother’s house seemed distant. And she had almost forgotten that she had a voice. She was content to be a woman. To be part of the household. To accept her position. To be madly, wholly, in love. Her husband brought her so much joy that one night as he worked against her, she called out,

“Oh god I am dying” she said, “help me!”

It was her husband’s love for her that saved her. He loved his young bride madly and dreaded her being taken from him. And so they invented a ghost. One that wandered the upper corridors at night, speaking in a woman’s voice. And speak she did. All that was inside her spilled out night after night, and he listened, entranced, to the rarity of a woman who could talk. She told him of the games that she and her mother had played in their old house—running through those dark corridors, sounding the instruments as they ran. He, in turn, taught her the songs that the men sang in their meeting rooms. The Bezubaan songs of love and silence. He crooned the words softly to her and she tested them with a joyful tongue.

Why do you not speak to me
Your eyes speak to me
Your hands speak
Why do you not speak?

Night after night the ghost mocked at the household with its woman’s voice. The Maulvi swore everyone to secrecy. He was mortified that it had chosen his holy house to defile. He tried several exorcisms, set the whole household to praying, and held a prayer meeting that lasted seven days non-stop. But still the silvery voice sang bazaar songs and nursery rhymes every night. And every night the women of the house gathered in the shadows to hear it. At last the Maulvi was driven to call a council of all the men of the house. The reason for the haunt-ing was clear enough. The newest bride had brought bad luck with her. The Maulvi’s son would be better served with an-other bride. The son was against the idea at first, but everyone talked at him together, and, truth to tell, the novelty was wear-ing off and he was getting tired of all the times that Najma argued with him. He was also afraid that they would soon be caught. It was decided. Another woman would be found for him, and he would divorce this one.

The son brought the news to her that night. Fiercely Najma argued with him. Begged and pleaded. Reminded him of all the oaths of faithfulness that he had sworn. Never would he have another wife while she was alive. Never! Raised in com-plaint the voice, the only one of its kind in the land, no longer sounded sweet. At last he turned to her and said the elders were right—women should not be given voices. He left the bedroom.

Najma woke the next morning to find the Maulvi standing at the foot of the bed. All the village council were crowded into the room staring at her as if she were a ghost. She looked for the face of betrayal that she knew would be there. He was standing by his father and did not lift his head to meet her eyes. “My love . . . Oh my love” she said. Everyone gasped with shock. It was true! The woman had a tongue!

In the early light of the morning she was dragged to the central hall of the religious committee. The interrogation be-gan at once. How had she retained her voice? Who taught her to speak? How long had she been talking? Najma welcomed the questions. The words that had churned around inside her for years began spilling out. She talked on and on, after a while not even needing, or heeding, the questions.

She talked of her mother. Of her childhood. She talked of all the things that were important to women. All the little every-day concerns that for so long had no voices lent to them. How difficult it was to get pepper. How to correctly baste roast lamb. The right way to sew the corners of curtains. She talked on and the council members shook their heads, certain that the woman was mad. The maulvis attending stopped their ears, stumbled deafened from the room. Even with no one to hear, she still talked on.

She talked through the day and through the night. By that time the High Council had arrived to decide her fate. Other people were arriving as well. As the night wore on, the square started filling with women, many of them with babies in their arms. They had walked all night to see this phenomenon, a woman who could talk. Old women and young, grandmoth-ers and new brides, mothers with their children—many of them had left their houses silently in the night, not waiting for per-mission. The news had spread like water spilt across the land. Eyes had flashed it, hands had carried it right across the coun-try in a single day. Every minute the silent, shrouded crowd grew.

Inside, Najma talked on.

The words, songs, rhymes, fell unending from her mouth, jostling against each other. She was unable to stem the flood of words that spilt out of her mouth, swilled around her tongue, rattled against her teeth. She poured a flood out upon them. Finally they bound her mouth and still she struggled to shape words against the gag. The Chief Maulvi himself came to an-nounce her sentence to her. She was to die as soon as it was light enough for the executioner to see.

In the dim light before dawn the Chief Maulvi stepped onto the balcony of the committee house. He surveyed the shrouded anonymous forms that filled the square and had started spill-ing into the lanes on either side. Still more were arriving, the crowd becoming denser with each hour. “Since they have trav-elled so far” he said, “Let them see what they came to see. A woman who can talk. Let them see her die.”

Najma was carried out onto the balcony as the dawn turned the sky to dull yellow. She looked down at the crowded square. “They have all come to see you my dear,” the Chief Maulvi whispered in her ear. “I have promised to let them see you die. Do you have anything left to say to them?” He removed her gag with his own hands and dragged her head upright by the hair. Najma looked at the sea of faces turning up to her.

“Go ahead,” said the Maulvi. “Speak to them. I promise that they shall never again hear anything like it. Speak woman!”

Najma did not speak. Her throat ached. Her tongue shuck to her teeth.

She parted her dry lips and began to sing.

It was a song that every woman knew. A song that the men had long carried home on their lips from their evenings of music and laughter.

Speak to me
Why do you not speak to me
Your eyes speak to me
Your hands speak
Why do you not speak?

The Maulvi dragged her head to the chopping block. Still Najma sang, softly, crooning the words to herself. The song ended when her head was cut from her shoulders in a clean stroke. Instead of words, there was blood. A torrent of it, gush-ing from between her shoulders. And a sound like the rising sea.

The sound came from the square where the vast silent mass had begun to undulate. Women rocked from side to side as the sound grew. It was made by air hissing between teeth, tongues clicking, lips pursing. It grew and grew until it was more than the sea. It was a rushing wind moving through the figures that swayed and keened in the square. It rose streaming skywards, spreading out and away across the land.

Now the country is covered with an uneasy silence. One that is haunted by many ghosts. Ghosts with creaky voices. Ghosts that click and hiss in the night. Ghosts that whistle unafraid in the dark. Ghosts that talk, tell tales, whisper reason. Try to catch them and there is no one there. Run out with a lantern and there is no one there to see.