A Kaftaesque victim of The Party, Kulsum endures solitary confinement and mental torment in a women’s jail in Pakistan. While the warder and other inmates, even her husband, may think Kulsum is mad, her reflections on religion and hypocrisy make her the voice of reason. When one’s universe shrinks, even God’s smallest creatures provide much-needed companionship.
Farah Ahamed
Lahore prison
Kulsum slept on a thin mattress with a torn blanket. In the corner of her bare cell was a steel bucket and brown sponge which she used to wipe her body and the grey walls. Above her, from the corrugated steel roof hung a bulb which she’d never seen on. The thin river of light that ever entered her cell was through the iron bars of the small, internal window which overlooked the passageway lined with other cells. These were shared by five or six women. Kulsum had her own room. Once a day, before the women were marched outside by the warden into the garden, they sat together on low stools in the passageway, eating pulao and curry. Kulsum ate alone.
“Oi,” she shouted, “can you hear me?”
“What is it this time, churail?” The warden stood outside the door to Kulsum’s cell and rolled up the sleeves of her khaki sweater.
“I’m not a churail.”
“In here, you are. You’re a crazy bitch.”
“Do you see them? Do you see the cockroaches in here?” She clutched the barbed wire in the window. “Vermin everywhere.”
“Stop complaining.” The warden pushed a battered copy of the Quran between the bars. “Read this.”
Kulsum did not take the book. “You think God will help me?”
“Allah forgives everyone, even a kaffir like you.”
“I’m not a sinner.”
“It’s one and the same, you’re a Christian chura.” The warden tapped her forehead with her finger. “Also, some of your screws are loose.”
“I’m not mad — I’m the same as you.”
The warden adjusted the brass buckle on her thick belt. “You’re not like me. I say my prayers five times a day. I’ve never seen you on your knees. God knows everything; you get what you deserve.”
“I keep telling you, there’s been a mistake.”
“I know what I’ve been told, and why they’ve put you here, in solitary confinement. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up. Here are your supplies.” Six boiled sweets, a box of Nice biscuits and a packet of menstrual pads landed on the floor.
“What’s this?” Kulsum picked up the pads. “Clin & Cleer. Made in China. The Chinese don’t even know how to spell. What we need in Pakistan is for everything to be Clean and Clear.”
“Churail, you talk too much.”
At the end of the corridor images flashed on the television encased in a steel cage fixed on the wall.
“Turn that blasted screen this way,” she said. “I need to know what’s going on outside.”
“Bus karo, churail, bahot ho gaya. You’ve said enough. This isn’t your husband’s house.”
It all started on her last birthday, just over a year ago. At the time, they had been living in the UK. She had arranged a special dinner but at the last minute Ehsan had called to say he had an urgent meeting. She’d spent the evening on her own and when Ehsan returned, he told her an exciting new opportunity had come up in Pakistan and they needed to go back. He did not say much about what it was he would be doing, but like always, she trusted him and he reassured her that a teaching job for her at a school was secure.
After their return to Lahore, initially she’d been preoccupied with settling down in their new home on the outskirts of the city. Soon she started teaching at the school which Ehsan had arranged. It had taken her some time to notice that Ehsan was often on the phone in the garden where he couldn’t be overheard or in a room with the door shut. She’d asked him why he was acting so secretive, and he always replied, “Be patient, I’ll tell you when everything is ready.”
She heard the chain and bolt on the door at the end of the corridor being unlocked, shook off the blanket, and went to the window. The door opened and a shaft of sunlight fell across the floor. Two dozen women in their blue and white salwar khameez uniforms, just like the one she had on, entered the hall. The inmates were back from planting in the fields.
“Arrey, hello,” she shouted. “Don’t ignore me. I’m not dead. Main bhi zinda hun. I’m alive like you.” She flung one of the sweets through the bars and it struck a woman on the face. Rubbing her cheek, she came closer to Kulsum’s cell.
“What’s your problem, churail?”
“What do you think?” Kulsum picked up the Quran and hurled it through the bars, just missing the woman’s shoulder. Five women quickly gathered around the door, asking for God’s mercy.
One said, “You’re going to go to hell for that, you bloody chura. How dare you throw our book? We could accuse you of blasphemy, then what?”
“Do I look like I care?” Kulsum said.
“There’s nobody who loves you,” another woman said. “Except those cockroaches sharing your cell.”
“My husband does. He’s coming tomorrow to take me home,” Kulsulm replied.
“He doesn’t,” the woman taunted. “If he did, why would he have put you in here?”
“I keep telling you, there’s been a mistake. He’d never do that.”
The warden appeared. “What’s going on?”
Kulsum glared at her.
“This beshaaram,” the warden said shaking the Quran at Kulsulm, “is a curse on everyone.” She turned to the women. “Get back in your cells.” She faced Kulsum. “Keep quiet and stay away from the women. We don’t want you contaminating them.”
“You’re the ones that are polluted. Your filthy ideas about purity and being good. You’ve no idea what it means to be human so what’s the point of praying five times? Even when you’ve got nothing to lose, you keep saying I’m Muslim, you’re Christian, you’re Hindu and she’s dark and she’s fair. Who bloody cares? What difference does it make? We’re here together.”
“You’re crazy. You don’t sleep. All night you’re pacing this room, waving your hands like this and like that, crying, swearing and shouting, singing hymns, talking to yourself, to the cockroaches.”
“Right now, I’m talking to you,” Kulsum said. “And when you’re not here, I talk to my children. Do you have children?”
“One boy and two girls. What about you?”
“Many, more than you. A whole classroom full.”
Over the warden’s shoulder she could see the inmates listening to their conversation.
“What’s your fucking problem? Where are all the children?” she asked.
Some of the women had given birth in the prison and their children slept in the adjacent nursery hall. She’d heard them complaining that the children had never seen a rabbit, because they had never been outside the prison walls.
“Bring some rabbits for the children, bring a cat, get us a dog, and maybe some chickens,” she said.
The warden poked her baton through the bars. “You better keep your big mouth shut, chura, or I’ll report you.”
Kulsum lay down on the mattress and pulled the thin blanket against her body. The cell was cold, and damp, and she was still not used to the smell of mold. She stared at the floor and wondered about the cockroaches hiding in the crevices. What did these stupid women understand about love? About God? About children? She turned on her side and faced the wall. Finally, Ehsan was coming to take her home. There’d been a mistake. He’d explain everything. She’d forgive him. Relationships were about give and take. She’d adjust to Ehsan’s betrayal. No one said life would be easy if you were Christian and married a Muslim. In fact, they’d warned her, be careful, you don’t know what can happen when things can change. But didn’t they also say, don’t worry, love conquers all?
She turned and fixed her eyes on the broken floor; holes filled with crumbs of rotting food and dirt. A cockroach, almost the size of her forefinger, darted out of one of the cracks, and stopped at the edge of her mattress. She lifted her head to get a better view. It was near her feet, its feelers moving up and down. Poor, poor cockroach. It advanced slowly on to her makeshift bed, up the blanket, and crawled towards her arm. It stopped just by her wrist. Why do people hate you so much? What have you done wrong? You’ve been misunderstood. Misjudged, just because you’re a roach. She opened her palm, the insect climbed on to her hand and ran up her arm. She sat up, the roach quickly jumped off, ran across the blanket and scuttled off into one of the fractures in the floor. Kulsum went down on her knees to look for it. “Come back,” she whispered. “I’m your friend. Don’t be afraid.” But there was no sign.
That morning she’d been late. Ehsan had driven her to school, and when they reached the gate, the main academic block was covered in black clouds of smoke. Villagers were trying to put out the fire with buckets of water. From inside the building the screams of children. Ehsan on his phone. “Do something,” she said. “Save the children.” Frightened, crying, no words to comfort the mothers, fathers running back and forth carrying water in whatever containers they could find. Ehsan trying to reach a fire brigade, but no answer. No one was coming to their rescue.
Later it emerged the fire had been deliberate.
“Who could have done such a thing?” she asked.
“Sometimes it’s better not to ask too many questions,” Ehsan said.
“I’ll ask until I get answers. Those were our children.”
“Don’t get emotional. Your stubbornness will cost us.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is about loyalty to The Party.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Party. They’re my people. They’ve looked after me, paid for my education abroad, given me money, and a place in the new government. I owe them. They are our family.”
“I’m your family.”
“Then do as I say. Understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
“It’s you who must understand, Ehsan,” she said. “Those were our children. What’s happened to you? How can you expect me to not ask?”
“You’re overreacting.”
And after that he refused to speak to her until the following morning when he said, “Kulsum, it’s not safe for you here, anymore. It’s best you go away, best for the campaign, best for us, best for everyone.’ Before she could answer men from The Party came and pushed her into a van and brought her here, to a “safe place.”
Kulsum kicked off the covering and propped herself on her elbow. She scratched her arm, then her head, her hair was a tangled matt. Of course, Ehsan had no idea where she was, that’s why he hadn’t come to see her. It was The Party’s fault. They had kept the information from him. She looked at the cracks in the floor; where was the cockroach?
The silence was broken by shouting in the corridor by the other inmates arguing and swearing. The Muslim women did not want to use the same wash buckets or sleep in the same cell as the Christians.
“Oi, oi. Come share with me?” she said, through the bars in her window. “I don’t mind; Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist, Atheist. Come and sleep here…”
“No one wants you,” a woman shouted. “Only cockroaches.”
“Be quiet.” The warden came over to Kulsum’s cell. “No one was talking to you, churail.” She turned to the squabbling women and threatened to lock them up for a week with no planting, extracurricular activities, gifts or visits to their children. The women retreated into their cells.
“What’s your problem, churail?” the warden said. “Why do you like causing trouble?”
“My scalp is flaking. See how dry it is.” Kulsum pointed at her hair. She held out her arm and scratched the word BASTARD on it with the nail of her forefinger. “My skin itches. I need body lotion; I can’t meet my husband like this. He loves my soft skin.”
“Tell your husband your problems.” The warden opened the door and placed a plate of pulao on the floor. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I know you’re poisoning me in here.”
“Shut up and eat.” The warden locked the door and stayed by the window watching.
Kulsum sat on the mattress with the plate on her lap. She crumbled the mound of pulao in her fingers and put it in her mouth. The bitter taste made her spit it out. They had laced it again; she was sure of that. She’d overheard the other inmates saying the prison cooks were told to put sedatives in the food to keep the women stoned. If they were drugged, they would be easier to control. The authorities were afraid of the women’s desires. Lust, hah. She’d seen some of the women comforting each other. If you found a friend who caressed your body, would you say no? Hadn’t she let the cockroach crawl up her arm, and found the light tickling reassuring? One living being, touching another. This body, her body, that Ehsan had loved. Did he remember it? This body that she no longer recognized. Her mind, jumping from one thought to another, like a mad monkey. She wasn’t the same Kulsum, was she? But it was her; her arm which had felt the cockroach’s feet. Her throat constricted with emotions she could not express.
She took a handful of rice and rolled it into a ball. Then she made another. Soon she had ten small balls. She arranged them in a circle and surveyed her work. Ehsan loved pulao, she’d make it for him once a week. During their happy days they’d talk until the early hours of the morning, eating sticky gulab jamuns, listening to music, teasing each other, sharing their dreams. Every day at noon, he’d phone her to check on her. Of course he missed her, now. You couldn’t forget a person you loved, just like that. Or could The Party do that to you? Tomorrow, he’d come, she’d go home, and they’d discuss everything. There would be tears, arguments, and throwing things. Then things would settle. They would find a new routine. Ehsan would say he was sorry, he loved her, and couldn’t live without her.
She picked up the rice balls, crushed them in her palms, and scattered the grains on the floor. “Where are you, my little friends? Don’t you abandon me.”
Of course, Ehsan had been looking for her all this time. Months had passed and she had had no word. He must have not known where she was, or he would’ve come earlier. Now he’d found her, and he was coming tomorrow.
She went down on her knees, inspected a crack, and filled it with rice. “Here’s a feast, roaches.”
She lay down on the mattress. The happy faces of all the children she’d taught at the school, drifted in and out of her dreams. She recited their names softly, Karim, Abdul, Sahar, Yusra, Talat, Farzana, Amira, and on and on until she fell asleep.
At daybreak Kulsum folded up the blanket, rolled the mattress and arranged them in the corner. A cockroach darted out of a crack and scurried across the floor. Another followed. “There you are.” She knelt and examined the insects — their smooth, shiny wings, sleek brown bodies, and watched how their feelers twitched. “Where were you hiding?”
There was a rap on the bars, it was the warden. “Churail, what are you looking for?”
She got up. “My friends.”
“You’re a crazy chura.” The warden threw in four pairs of knickers; green polyester, white cotton, and black lace. “For you, because your husband is coming today,” she said, with laugh. “An NGO brought them yesterday.”
Kulsum held the white pair to her waist and stretched the elastic. “They’re too small. I wear medium.”
“Be grateful for what you get.”
She rubbed the knickers against her cheek, feeling the soft, lacy fabric. Two inmates stood watching her through the window.
“Churail, what are you doing?” one said. “Never worn panties before?”
She waved the knickers at them. “My husband’s coming today. I’m going home.”
“Which ones will you wear?” another said.
Without taking her eyes off the women, she pulled down her salwars and pulled on the green pair, followed by the white. “There you are,” she said. “I’m loyal to my country; the colors of Pakistan.”
The women laughed. “You’re one hell of a bitch.”
“Take them, here,” she said, removing the knickers and throwing them through the bars in the window. A skinny hand shot out and caught the green pair.
“Everyone knows you’re a traitor,” a woman said and sniggered. “You aren’t loyal to your husband or our country; you don’t deserve to wear our colors.”
“I’m just like you. But you won’t understand.”
“You’re Christian, we can’t trust you,” the woman replied, before another pulled her away.
Kulsum put on the pair of black, lace knickers and her salwar. The tight elastic of the small panties bit into the skin around her thighs and waist. Ehsan liked black lace. What use were memories? A song came to her, “Aitebaar” which Ehsan played in a loop. A song about fidelity. He loved the rock band Vital Signs, and he’d grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and using it as a mic, he’d sing at the top of his voice…
“‘Aitebar bhi aa hi jayega,
Milo to sahi…
Trust will come one day,
At least meet me…”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Milo to sahi,
At least meet me,
And you’ll see, how the road becomes clearer…”
Ehsan would be there soon, and then everything would be clean and clear.
The warden unlocked the door. “Your visitor is here. Ten minutes and no more.” She stepped aside.
Ehsan entered.
“Hello Kulsum.” He looked around the cell, adjusted his tie and put his hands in his pockets. His cheeks were chubbier, and a paunch showed under the grey pinstriped suit. A hint of familiar aftershave.
She got up. “Ehsan.” She expected him to open his arms, to draw her to him, but instead he held out a white box. “These are for you,” he said.
She snatched it and flung it at the wall. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hey, churail,” the warden shouted through the bars. “Don’t go making trouble or I’ll put an end to your visit right now.”
“You shut up, this is my husband, and I’ll say what I like to him.” She turned to Ehsan. “I’ve been waiting for you, for six fucking months.”
“Kulsum, please.” He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Kulsum, I can explain.”
“You said your friends were taking me to a safe place. Is this it?”
“Try to understand. It’s not so simple. The Party…”
“Fuck The Party. They are the ones who burnt the school down, aren’t they?”
“Your memory is confused; I’ve explained it all before, Kulsum.”
“Then take me home.” She clutched at his lapels.
He took her hands, pushed her back gently, and smoothed down his jacket. “Kulsum, you’ve never understood. If you had, we wouldn’t be in this mess. The Party said you were asking too many questions. I couldn’t risk losing their trust.”
“I’m your wife, Ehsan, your wife.” She paused.
“You’re not one of us.”
“Aha, I’m Christian, so that’s why I’m in here?” She went over to the window. “Let us out,” she yelled. “We’re going home.”
“Be quiet.” The warden rapped on the door with her baton. “Do you need help?” she said to Ehsan.
“Yes,” Kulsum said. “Open the door.” She turned to Ehsan. “Tell her to let us out.”
Ehsan placed his hands on her shoulders. “Kulsum, try to understand.”
She pushed his hands off, seized the lapels of his jacket, and shook him. “Take me home.”
“It’s not safe for you out there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I owe them. The Party.”
“I told you, I don’t care about The fucking Party. Just get me out of here.” She fell on her knees and grabbed his leg. “Please Ehsan, I’m your wife. Don’t you love me?”
“Please, stop.” He staggered back. “Let go of me.”
She clutched his trousers. “Take me home.”
The warden knocked on the bars. “Time’s up.” She opened the door, pulled Kulsum away from Ehsan and slapped her face. “Oi, churail! Leave him alone.”
“Don’t touch me.” Kulsum rubbed her cheek. “You’re a bastard, Ehsan.”
He took a brown envelope from his jacket. “I need you to sign these.”
She opened the cover and took out the papers. “So, I had an affair, did I?” she said, turning the pages.
“A divorce would prove my total allegiance to The Party.” He held out a pen. “I must stick with their agenda. A charge of adultery was the easiest way.”
“You cheated on me.”
“There’s no point in arguing. It’s over.”
She looked at him directly. The smell of his aftershave and sweat repulsed her. “Why should I sign?”
He jerked his head back. “You’ve damaged The Party’s reputation. This is the least you could do.”
She shook the papers in his face. “Get me out of here and I’ll sign.”
“The Party is clear. It must be a clean break.”
“You hear that?” Kulsum shouted to the warden. “Clean and clear in Pakistan.” She tore up the papers and threw them at him. “Fuck off.” She began to laugh. “I’ll never sign.”
“We’ll see.” He bent to pick up the papers. “The Party comes first.”
“Fuck The Party.”
Ehsan took a wad of notes from his pocket and gave them to the warden. “Give her shampoo, soap and a towel; she smells like a sick dog.”
“You’re the sick dog, Ehsan,” Kulsum said.
The warden thumbed the notes. “She was complaining her skin is too dry.”
“And no visitors,” Ehsan said. “She’s unstable and we don’t want to upset her.”
“No visitors. No problem.” The warden put the money in her pocket. “She likes to be alone with the cockroaches.”
Ehsan walked towards the door. “Poor Kulsum,” he said, “you’ve always had issues.”
“Churail,” the warden said. “Do you hear that? Even your husband says you’re difficult.” She tucked her baton under her arm. “She refuses to cooperate. She won’t read the Quran. She’s a dirty, Christian chura. She provokes the others, refuses to eat and keeps talking about children.”
“I’m sorry she’s a bother,” Ehsan said. The warden escorted him out and locked the door.
“I’ll never sign,” she shouted after them. Kulsum sank to the floor and scratched BASTARD into her arm until it bled.
Several hours later, she heard music coming from the corridor. She went to the window. The warden was rounding up the inmates.
“The children are here,” she said. “Let’s try and have a peaceful Eid celebration.”
“Can I come?” Kulsum said.
“You don’t qualify. This is for Muslim women who have children outside. Their kids have come to visit. You don’t have children. And you’re Christian.”
“Those students were my children.”
The warden marched the women in a single file towards the door. Sunlight fell across the floor for a few minutes as they trooped out, before the warden locked the door.
Darkness and silence.
Kulsum sat down on the mattress and flipped through the Quran. Words, words, and more words from God saying all humanity was one. But who cared? No one.
She tore out one page after another until the book was completely shredded. She’d be punished for this, charged with blasphemy, and sentenced to capital punishment. What did it matter?
She blew on the pile of papers sending them scattering. Where were the cockroaches? On her knees, she began scraping the dirt out of each crack with her nails and closely examining the crevices.
Then she spied the cardboard box from Ehsan. Inside were twelve gulab jamuns. Laughing aloud, she assembled the sticky, brown balls in a circle around her. She licked her fingers and surveyed her work.
“Aitebaar bhi aa hi jayega,” she sang. “Trust will come; it will come. Aa hi jayega. Eventually, trust will succeed.” She examined the floor closely. A cockroach crawled out of a crack and nudged its way towards her, its antennae twitching. Humming to herself, she pressed her finger down and squashed its soft, brown body.
