Three years had passed since the morning when I had enticed Sultan to pin the chameli garland on my braid, the day that had ended so tragically with his death. His death changed our lives in ways we had not anticipated.
Bhaggan still went to the shrine, but her prayers were not of hope, but rather of solace in her despair—a sorrow that she hugged close, as if releasing it would make her plunge into an abyss. She would not recover from the loss of Sultan.
No longer did she participate in the annual festivities by distributing sacrificial meat at the Eid celebrating the pilgrimage, or by cooking semolina pudding for Eid breakfast after the month of fasting. Bibi Saffiya asked Hamida’s mother to come and help me until, by the third year, I was able to manage it all myself.
Bhaggan continued with the daily cooking, but I had to remind her to peel the potatoes or add salt to the lentils, until I took over those chores, too. She stopped bathing regularly and wore white to remind us that she was still mourning her beloved son.
The day Sultan died, Bhaggan sat all night at the foot of her dead son’s charpoy. His body lay covered with a bloodstained white sheet. Stella sat near his head and fanned the flies away from the white sheet covering his oiled hair.
The next morning, the maulvi washed the scarred body and covered it in a clean white shroud to bury it in an unmarked grave next to his father.
I envied the stamina of Stella and Bhaggan, so dedicated, so loving. I needed to do something to memorialize him, to show I could love like them. The chameli garland was brown and wilted, but it was the only tangible evidence I had of our connection, so, like Stella, I decided to save my memory by pressing the garland in a book.
I chose the purple brocade–covered Holy Book Amman Bhaggan had gifted me, recited the prayers for forgiveness, and closed it on my memory of Sultan with the flowers. Over the years, I’d opened the book and the flowers on occasion, but each time, that prompted the petals to keep disintegrating, until only a few brown, odorless remnants of my first love were left.
Sultan’s death changed us all.
In the three years afterward, Maalik, the youngest, became his mother’s dependable son. He didn’t say much, but he joined Bhaggan when she had to travel to the shrine. He stopped attending lessons with Zakia and decided to leave school. The only time I heard him speak up was in response to Saffiya when she called him in to admonish him for not appreciating her support in paying his school fees.
“I can do more for myself and my mother if I work in the fields, rather than waste my time with books,” he’d say. From then on, Maalik took on the role that his brother Sultan had vacated in death.
Taaj, the second son, disappeared after Sultan’s burial. He ran away. And then, for the next three years, he continued to run away, only to return when he needed food or funds. He’d hitch rides on buses from the main road. Jumping on as they sped by, risking his life, tempting fate, as if in hopes of joining his brother.
On each return, Bhaggan would spoil him by cooking his favorite food, in an attempt to keep him at home and out of trouble, but with each departure he became bolder in the risks he took.
Maria talked less. She no longer asked questions. She smiled less. She spent less time with me and more with her mother.
Stella stayed in bed after the burial, and none of Bibi Saffiya’s remedies could make her return to her daily routine of embroidering pillowcases in her designated corner. She was so listless that we all thought she might die of heartache, until one day Bibi Saffiya decided to take her to the hospital in the city.
Saffiya called for the village taxi because there was no way that Stella would have been able to walk to the bus stop. Maria and I carried her to the taxi and laid her on the back seat. I sat with her head in my lap, and Maria placed Stella’s feet on hers. Bibi Saffiya sat in the front seat, next to the taxi driver. This was the first time Maria or I had ever sat in a car, but by now we didn’t share our excitement about such novelties.
An hour later, we reached the hospital, which was run by doctors and nurses of the same faith as Stella. They wore long white robes and covered their heads, but not with dopattas. Some had fair skin and spoke the same language we did, but it sounded different. Others looked just like us but wore the same dress as the others.
Maria and I waited in the hallway while Saffiya took Stella inside. We sat quietly for a long time, stunned by the misery of the patients around us, who had come with their own families.
In one corner stood a huge glass box. Inside was a tall man dressed in flowing robes, but he was not made of cloth. He was like a huge doll. He stood with both hands raised and tendrils of hair on his face. He looked kind. He reminded me a bit of the maulvi, but he was much younger.
“That’s the savior, Eesah,” said Maria.
I didn’t care that she knew something I didn’t, so I didn’t acknowledge what she’d said. Now that she’d said it out loud, I knew who this was—Christ, the Christian God.
When Saffiya returned, she was alone.
“They will take care of her,” she said.
We returned home that afternoon, without Stella.
SIX MONTHS LATER, Maria and I joined Saffiya to pick Stella up from the hospital. There she stood in the same hall with the huge statue of the savior in a glass box. Saffiya left the three of us outside and went in to talk to the doctor.
“Christ is not a man. He is God. He loves all and is loved by all,” Stella told us, and then she crossed herself quickly in a prayer for the beloved. Maria’s hand brushed mine questioningly, but the words stayed captive inside us.
Stella pulled a small bottle of rosewater from her pocket and sprinkled it on the glass box, a tradition she had learned when she had attended holy recitals at Bibi Saffiya’s house. Maybe our religions were not that different, as Zakia had always taught us. I mumbled a memorized prayer.
The aroma of rosewater and strong chameli attar was the scent of purity, perfection, paradise. “Just like Sultan,” Stella said, facing the statue.
I wasn’t sure whether it was the smell or the statue that she was referring to, but I thought I understood. She had a special bond with Sultan, which I had never felt. The stale coconut oil and sweat engulfed my thoughts, and I looked at Maria. She returned my gaze but chose not to engage longer.
I followed her line of sight to the statue in the glass box, which stared lovingly at the three of us. We stood in a warp of silence as a fly whizzed past us, mesmerizing us with its frenzied flight. As if intentionally, the fly found its way into the glass box through a small opening of broken glass. The statue, unfazed by the intrusion, continued to stare lovingly at Stella.
I knew that Stella would never forget Sultan. I knew, as she stared at the statue of Christ in the glass box, that she was really thinking about Sultan, replacing in her mind’s eye Christ’s long, flowing brown hair with the darkened, oiled hair of the only man she had loved.
Stella told us she had started to learn how to read fluently. She had also begun a journey of deep devotion.
She hugged her sister, Maria, and then turned to me and held my hand in both of hers. I looked at my feet, my mind clear of thought. She hugged me, too, and, without asking for assistance, limped away from us.