Part three: A Doll, a Harem, a Eunuch And a Slap

….and finally the finale……..

Kiki’s dramatic exit on the back of an imposing stallion had left the Chief, his brother, hell, the entire village staring in awe at the dust cloud slowly settling behind the kicking hooves of the majestic arab horse. When Kiki returned, a few minutes later, the horse was as tame as a kitten and the villagers crowded around her cheering and clapping.

‘The minute I was in the saddle some boy whacked the horse on the bum and it shot off with me hanging on as if my life depended on it. Luckily, just before we reached the boundaries of the village the horse ran into a sort of enclosure and stopped. In fact, I later heard it was the execution courtyard which might explain why it felt so eerie. After that it was a cinch to get him to return to the village square where a welcoming crowd stood cheering and clapping, clearly surprised that I was still sitting on that harried horse!‘ she later recalled laughing.

My mother’s apparent interest in the skilled needlepoint of the women had not gone unnoticed; the Chief had a suggestion. He knew a local doctor in a nearby town who was a collector of rare tribal and nomadic textiles famed for their intricate embroidery. The Chief asked Badruddin if we would like to go and go see. Everyone was keen except Willi. He still wanted us to leave and head on back to Karachi, uncomfortable in the midst of a tribal conflict and so many weapons.

‘Deez people will slit your sroat for nussing,‘ he told my parents with a nervous laugh staring intensely at my father whose concerned face soon cracked into a smile. He slapped Willi on the back and laughed. Clearly my father wasn’t bothered.

The majority vote won in favour of visiting the doctor and we all piled into the cars with guards hanging on outside, rifles swinging merrily on the bumpy dust roads. Willi was mortified but refused to be left alone in the ‘Vild Vest’ as he put it.

The town where the doctor lived consisted of a main street lined left and right with shoddily built red brick houses along a dusty, littered road. The doctor’s house was next to a small shop, more like a kiosk with an open front. An ancient looking man was peeping from behind a counter that was stuffed with small packets of sewing needles, cotton threads, pincushions, zippers and colourful buttons. The shelves were packed from floor to ceiling with bits and bobs needed for sewing.

The elderly doctor, who originally came from the Punjab and had attended medical school in Lahore, answered the door and greeted us politely in English. He wore a dusty dark green suit with a white shirt and shiny black tie. His clothes contrasted sharply with the favoured shalwar khamis, the baggy trousers and long shirts, worn by both men and women alike. He was clearly delighted to receive guests and ushered us into what must have been his sitting room. There was no furniture, only a very large carpet on the concrete floor on which we sat down having first removed our shoes at the door.

‘Chai?’ he asked, smiling and then shouted instructions to a servant boy hovering in the hallway to get the tea.

The doctor was a kind, soft spoken man. He was very knowledgeable about the history and culture of his people. He wanted to preserve some of it and had started collecting embroidered garments and wall hangings; some more than a hundred years old.

‘Before I begin I must tell you that nothing I will show you is for sale.  All items will go into the museum I will build one day,’ he told us looking over his half moon glasses. We could tell he meant it.

The collection was magnificent, one by one, a boy would bring in a new item that was first handed to the doctor who explained the significance of the designs, all deftly sewn by tribal women. He knew the origin and exact age of each item that had always been handed down in one family from generation to generation. He would pass it on to my mother sitting to his right for closer inspection. Each individual piece was an exquisite work of art with intricate stitches, designs and vibrant colours.  Even Willi was impressed, for the first time that day he relaxed. When we were about to leave he asked the doctor if there was a bus in town that could take him back to Karachi!

‘Of course, we have busses. They stop along the main road at the end of town. Just stand by the side of the road and flag down any bus coming your way’, the doctor informed him.

‘How long must I wait?’ Willi inquired clearly not prepared to stand around all night.

‘You wait as long as it takes for a bus to come,’ answered the doctor clearly amused by the question.

There wasn’t much of the town to see so soon we were racing back to the village, again our bodyguards hanging on tightly on the outer side of the cars. They had patiently waited by the wayside whilst we had been visiting. Suddenly the car with Willi and Badruddin stopped and my father had to hit the brakes. Willi stepped out and walked over to us.

‘I have decided to take a bus home tonight so Badruddin’s agreed to drop me off on de main road. If you want to stay, den I wish you good luck!’ he added and stepped back into Badruddin’s car.

My parents were shocked. The buses were not air-conditioned, luxury coaches with onboard toilets and mini-bars. They were antiquated shells of their former selves, decorated like Christmas cakes with bells. The drivers were renowned for chewing mountain loads of beetle nut to stay awake and plank gassed their way through life till a road accident abruptly ended it. On these buses only the lucky few had a seat, most passengers sat on the roof.

‘I think he has more chance of falling off the bus and killing himself than being killed by a trigger happy tribal chief,‘ my father told my mother who could not believe someone could be so foolish.

Returning to the village we noticed a police car parked by the gates entering the village. Badruddin was sent off to find out what was going on, whilst Willi went to pack his bag. Badruddin returned a few minutes later, looking a bit pale.

‘It seems that last week a man was executed here, you don’t want to know how,’ Baddruddin added, clearly disturbed by the news.

‘And the police are here to arrest the Chief?’ my mother wanted to know.

‘Oh, no! The Chief has every right, he is officially a judge and has the full authority to pass sentence. If he says you should die, you die!’ Badruddin added.

My parents now looked upon the Chief through new eyes. A man who had the power to decide between life and death and had no scruples to pass a death sentence was not someone they cared to hang out with. Willi who had packed his few belongings joined us but no one spoke. He assumed it was because he was about to leave, had he known the truth I think he would have run right then and there. Instead he gladly shook the Chief’s hand waved everyone else goodbye and stepped into Badruddin’s car happy that he was going home. After he had left my parents stood quietly discussing whether we also should leave, but they decided against it. We had planned to spend the night, it was dusk and the area was dangerous.

We spent the night in the village, outdoors, sleeping on primitive rope beds constructed of simple wooden bed frames within which lattices of ropes were stretched. We had taken along our sleeping bags but the beds were not very comfortable and nobody slept soundly.

The following morning we were woken up by a commotion. My father was chasing an overzealous cockerel around the village square. He was trying to hit him with his shoe. Apparently the cockerel had woken my father time and time again once he had finally fallen asleep at the crack of dawn.

We were planning to leave after breakfast and start heading back home to Karachi. Because everyone had slept fully dressed, it hadn’t taken us long to get ready for breakfast. Delicious thick slices of fresh papaya and mangos with juicy flesh were served with ink black coffee, bitingly sweet.

During breakfast, the Chief approached my parents and with Badruddin translating asked them something so unexpected that both my mother and my father were lost for words. The Chief had asked for my sister Kiki’s hand in marriage, not for himself but for his brother, who still only had one wife. Her riding skills the previous day had clearly impressed the brother. Badruddin quickly added a warning, ‘They are dead serious, be careful.’

My mother thought fast. She had no intention of leaving one of her daughters behind with this murderous lot and a quick glimpse at the shining execution axes propped up against a wall close by dissuaded her from saying to him what was on her mind. The Chief was waiting for an answer.

Suddenly she knew what to do. Looking the Chief straight in the eye she asked Badruddin to translate.

‘My daughter is still too young. In our tribe girls do not marry till they are a woman,’ she said forming the shape of a pregnant belly and then wagging her finger to emphasize Kiki was not yet ripe for childbearing.

‘But within a year she will be a woman  and we will come back then. All right?’ she offered and Badruddin translated.

The Chief and his brother who had been hovering in the background exchanged a few quick words and then the brother rushed off to return with a pitch black cloth intricately embroidered in a myriad of bright colours. It was a wedding shawl. He gave it to my mother, grinning from ear to ear. It was a token of their agreement. Hands were shaken and the brother looked terribly pleased. Kiki and I had thankfully not heard any of the exchange; I hate to think how horrified Kiki would have reacted had she known that her lot was on the line!

‘Shukran, thank you,’ my mother thanked the brother for the shawl and to my father she added, ‘let’s go!’

Papa sprang into action. He sternly told me to get into the car with Kiki and lock the doors. My parents then said their farewells. My mother dashed into the haram to shake the wives’ hands and of course her new best friend, the eunuch. For the last time guards hung onto the outside of the car. My father sped away from the village and the ominous situation. No one spoke a word till we hit the main road where we waved the guards goodbye and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

‘So how many camels did they offer for Kik?’ I asked trying to break the tension after our parents had told us what had happened.

‘None,’ was my mother’s answer.

‘How insulting!’ said Kiki and we all laughed.