Shahana hurries to pack the embroidery she has done for Mr Nadir at the cloth shop. If she is late she might not get paid for her work, and she needs the money to buy vegetables, and medicine for Tanveer.
‘Shahji?’
Shahana smiles. It is what Tanveer has called her since he was little.
He pokes his head around their carved door. ‘Are we going to the village yet?’
‘Ji hahn, yes.’ She puts the last dupatta, a long silk scarf, into her backpack and stands up. ‘Rope up Rani, Tanveer.’ She watches him from the doorway as he ties the goat under the house. Rani shakes her head and bleats in time to her bell.
‘A jao, come, let’s go.’ Shahana walks down the log ramp as Tanveer skips up to her. They pass their grandfather’s roses, and the spring where they wash their plates and pots. The water slaps onto the rocks and white froth flies up.
Tanveer runs ahead and swivels to look at her. ‘You’re slow, Shahji.’ It is not raining today, although the grass is wet and slippery; soon there will be slush from snow to walk through. She is about to warn him to be careful when his face changes. The grin disappears. ‘Look.’ He points up the mountain behind them. ‘There’s a big dog.’
‘It’s probably wild. Ignore it, Tanveer.’
He keeps twisting to see the dog as they make their way down the forest path on the mountain slope. ‘Stop worrying about it, Tanveer. We must hurry.’
‘You don’t like them either.’ It sounds like an accusation. She takes his hand until they come to the log bridge over the stream. Here they have to walk in single file.
The bridge is made up of two logs reaching from one bank to a rock in the middle of the stream and another two logs joining the rock to the other side. Planks of wood are nailed across the logs. Every time they put their feet down, the planks groan and shudder. Glancing down, Shahana can see the white water clawing up to the bridge. The roar of the water is almost as loud as the Neelum River. She hesitates, but Tanveer pulls her forward. Shahana tries to think logically. Grown men heavier than her use this bridge every day and it holds them. She gives Tanveer a smile as he looks back at her; no need to show him her fear.
They reach the dirt road that leads to the village. They don’t come this way often, so there are many things to capture Tanveer’s attention. They pass almond trees, and fences made of logs. A man smacks his horse with a piece of leather to make it move. It carries two heavy baskets of wood across its back, although it doesn’t look much stronger than Rani. Some children are sitting by the roadside selling apples. If there is money left Shahana will buy one for Tanveer on the way home. They pass houses pockmarked from shelling and gunfire, and smelly gutters, where Tanveer screws up his nose. Finally, they stand outside Mr Nadir’s shop. It is the only shop in the village that doesn’t show signs of the fighting, for he has enough money to fix it. If Irfan were alive he would bring the embroidery and Shahana wouldn’t have to do business with a man like Mr Nadir.
It is early, so there are no customers inside. The counter has a computer on it, and stacked around the walls are many carpets and namdah rugs made from felt. Shahana puts the backpack on the counter in front of Mr Nadir. He moves some papier-mâché boxes and carved wooden plates out of the way. Shahana’s gaze follows the boxes. She has one, in the shape of a heart. It was her mother’s. Her father found it after the fighting. She chases the thought away with a little shake of her head, and her round silver earrings jingle. They, too, were her mother’s.
Mr Nadir doesn’t say anything at first. He puts his cigarette between his last two fingers and carefully lifts out a dupatta. He checks the tiny stitches around the border, then he takes out the red pashmina shawl, the side panels embroidered with orange thread. Shahana has tried especially hard with the chinar tree pattern. The shawl looks like the forest when the leaves change colour. Mr Nadir grunts.
Shahana holds Tanveer’s hand so he remembers to stay silent. She watches Mr Nadir’s face. It is difficult to tell whether he is pleased or disappointed.
He takes out the other dupattas. ‘Accha,’ he finally says, ‘it is good enough.’ His praise is grudging but Shahana lets out a breath.
Mr Nadir stares at her. ‘You are Zafir’s granddaughter in talent, it seems. More skilful than your father at least.’ His tone darkens as he speaks of her father. He has never said anything like this to her before and she doesn’t know how to reply. Nor does she like the look in his eyes. She stares at the counter to avoid them.
He reaches under the counter and brings out a grey woollen robe. ‘Soon I will need to sell embroidered pherans for the winter. You can try this one in green thread. If you do a good job I will give you silver thread to use.’ He takes a skein from the glass case under the counter. ‘Just embroider here and here.’
Shahana tries not to show how pleased she is to hear of the silver thread. Nana-ji had taught her how to embroider a pheran. Some of the shawls and pherans that Mr Nadir had given Nana-ji to do were stitched by her, especially when his eyes failed before he died last winter. Mr Nadir had never guessed.
Mr Nadir measures the green thread out carefully. ‘Do not lose any.’ The sharpness in his tone makes her tighten her grip on Tanveer’s hand. ‘Or it will come out of your pay.’
His gaze lingers on Tanveer. ‘Does he have your family talent too? His fingers are just the right size for making carpets. He can work for me.’ Mr Nadir tilts his head to the door behind him. Shahana looks up at him in horror. Mr Nadir uses the boys who are sold to him to work on his carpet loom. They also weave the shawls that Shahana embroiders. Their families can’t find the money to buy the boys back. She could never think of selling Tanveer to Mr Nadir.
She shakes her head and tries to speak calmly. ‘Nay, janab, he helps me look after the goat, and collects firewood. I cannot spare him.’
Mr Nadir sneers at her. ‘You will bring him one day. You cannot survive here in Azad Kashmir by yourselves.’ His voice takes on a speculative tone. ‘How old are you now?’
Shahana doesn’t answer but asks for her payment instead. Mr Nadir counts out the rupees. It isn’t as much as Nana-ji received for the same amount of work but it will be enough for their food. She puts the pheran and thread into her backpack and steers Tanveer out of the shop. She won’t bring him next time.
‘I could sew as well as you and Nana-ji,’ Tanveer says.
Shahana smiles at him. ‘I’m sure you will. You just have to keep practising.’ Already he has a flair for colour, and she has taught him the simple stitches Nana-ji started her on.
Tanveer skips ahead. There aren’t many proper shops left in the tiny bazaar. Like the school, many haven’t been rebuilt since the earthquake, and that was years ago. Shahana was only seven then. After that came more fighting; always there has been fighting. There was so much on the day she was born, the forest caught fire.
Tanveer stops outside the teashop. Some men are inside, drinking chai. The teashop is one of the few places in the village with a satellite dish, and the TV is showing the morning news. ‘Let’s watch,’ Tanveer says.
Shahana hesitates, as she always does. It is a man’s place and she can’t go inside. Her mother once told her that before Kashmir was divided between Pakistan and India, women and men worked and prayed together, but it is different now. Shahana decides it won’t hurt to watch from the window; Tanveer has little to fill his mind. Other times they have seen Angrezi, English cartoons, cricket matches or programs on how to pray.
A pretty lady with a shawl over her hair, just like Shahana’s, is speaking. ‘This morning in Srinagar men are throwing stones,’ the lady says. A boy not much older than Shahana appears on the screen. ‘We don’t want conflict. We want azadi, freedom from the Indian forces and foreign militants. We want to govern ourselves. I throw stones not to hurt but to tell the army and militants to leave Kashmir.’
The footage shows men and boys throwing stones at soldiers in the streets. There is much shouting, and the soldiers fire their weapons.
‘I could throw stones a long way too,’ Tanveer says. He has never been allowed to throw stones and Shahana pulls him away. A jeep full of Pakistani tourists roars down the bazaar, taking them to one of the bigger villages. They may be the last visitors before the weather closes the valley.
‘Come, we must buy our food.’ Shahana guides Tanveer past the chickens in cages and goat meat hanging on hooks. All the best cuts of meat will have been bought by now, but she doesn’t even check. Her embroidery money is not enough for meat. At Eid when her parents were both alive they had lamb or goat chops cooked in milk, saffron and herbs. Her mother decorated them with pure silver leaf.
They pass the clay pots and stop at Mr Pervaiz’s shop, a stall he sets up outside his house.
‘Assalamu alaikum, Shahana, Tanveer.’ Mr Pervaiz nods at them.
‘Wa alaikum assalam,’ Shahana gives the required response. Mr Pervaiz has sold vegetables to her family since long before she was born.‘Some of your best onions, potatoes and beans, janab,’ she says in the same way her mother used to. Nana-ji said if you have rice and greens, you have everything you need. He said that’s what their family had eaten for generations, even though he always bought meat for Shahana and Tanveer to eat.
When Mr Pervaiz tells her the amount, she argues. ‘But that is twice the usual price. You know I have little money.’ How dare he try to force more from her! If only Nana-ji were here.
Mr Pervaiz spreads his hands. ‘I am truly sorry but there has been fighting on the road near the LoC.’ He spells out the Angrezi letters that everyone uses to refer to the Line of Control. ‘Trucks cannot easily get through, and the one that did charged me danger money. I have to recoup it.’
Shahana knows it is Mr Pervaiz’s son-in-law who brings him goods to sell, but Mr Pervaiz truly looks sorry. She sighs and buys fewer onions than usual. Perhaps they can survive with one onion in their curry. Fortunately, she still has aniseed, cardamom and cinnamon. She has some cumin left too – that is the flavour she thinks is tastiest. She buys the tiniest bit of saffron to colour the rice yellow. Tanveer likes that. Mr Pervaiz hands her the saffron in a twist of paper.
‘And some rice, please,’ Shahana says. Mr Pervaiz pours a jugful from the big hessian sack into a paper bag and weighs it.
‘Seven rupees, fifty paisa,’ Mr Pervaiz says.
Shahana counts the money out. She lets Tanveer help. He has to learn how to count or he will be cheated in the bazaar. Mr Pervaiz throws a bunch of coriander into her backpack. At least coriander is so cheap it can be given away. She smiles politely at Mr Pervaiz as they leave. He has a concerned look on his face, as though he wants to ask her how she is, but he just lifts his hand in farewell.
She stops at a stall selling second-hand clothes, for she has seen a woollen cap. It has ears like a leopard and costs one rupee. ‘Here,’ she says to Tanveer. ‘This will keep your head warm, since winter is coming. Now you will look like a chitta.’ He puts it on quietly and she sighs. It is so hard to make him laugh. The children selling apples are still sitting by the road. Shahana takes out a rupee. The children look as if they need it. A boy not much older than Tanveer hands her two apples. ‘Shukriya, thank you,’ she says. Behind the children she can see a mound of rubbish with grass growing over it. She pulls Tanveer away before he notices. The mound is where their family home used to be.
At the edge of the village they pass her friend Ayesha’s house with its shiny tin roof and small satellite dish, slanted like a hat. Shahana wishes she could talk to Ayesha, but ever since Ayesha’s father disappeared, her mother has been called a half-widow, and hasn’t opened the door to Shahana. She is too sad and ashamed.