The makeshift fitting room was nothing but the corner of a storeroom cordoned off with a shabby pink curtain. The walls were plastered with posters of calligraphic Quran texts and the Pakistan flag was stuck behind one of them. Next to these was the image of the Kaaba in a gold frame, garlanded with plastic purple flowers. Above it was a hand-written notice:
DON’T ASK FOR CREDIT, IN ALLAH ALONE WE TRUST.
Underneath this was an outdated calendar advertising cheap flights to Mecca. In the corner was a folded prayer rug.
Farah Ahamed
These days you can’t trust anyone, most of all those who are closest to you, especially if you live in Lahore. Once you tell someone your secrets, they have a power over you, and even though they could be teasing when they say they could blackmail you, there is always the fear it could turn out to be true. Sometimes, even the most ordinary thing becomes the biggest fiasco and you’d wonder how it was even possible. Take the neighbors, for instance. No one could have ever predicted that Mrs. Musa, a simple woman, could end up in jail. According to Mrs. Musa, it had been a normal, everyday argument that evening when she’d said to her husband, “Swear on the Quran, that you’ll never hit me again.” The Quran had been lying on the table and he’d laughed and without thinking, he put his hand on it and said, “There you go, do you think that this will stop me doing what I want?” and in her anger, she’d picked up the holy book and hit him on the head, and the next thing she knew, her husband had gone down to the police station, complained that his wife had struck him and accused her of breaking the Blasphemy Law. The fact that he’d been drunk, and Mrs. Musa had explained her side of the story a dozen times, made no difference. She was charged with being a traitor of the faith, and a shameless woman. The police jeered at her, calling her “beshaaram,” and locked her up. No one in the neighborhood defended Mrs Musa or spoke up about how her husband used to regularly abuse and beat her. No one knew when or if she’d ever get a proper trial and no one really cared.
But after this episode everyone in the neighborhood told each other, “Don’t forget what happened to Mrs. Musa, she was Muslim, so think how easily it could happen to you.” We began to suspect those inside our houses and in the basti more and more, and when we went outside, we wavered between believing in strangers completely or not at all. But how does one navigate one’s life without being able to trust anyone?
When Sarah left the house that morning to start her new job at the university, her mother had made the sign of the cross on her and cautioned her, as she had so often before. “Be careful, don’t take risks.” Sarah had waved off the warning as she usually did, “You worry for nothing, Ma.” Now, standing at the curb, she waited for the traffic lights to change. The November sky was gray, the sun hidden by smog. The two women in niqabs next to her were discussing the cover story of every newspaper: the Supreme Court’s verdict on Asia Bibi.
“They should keep Asia in prison,” one said. “It’ll teach them all a lesson.”
“This is a Muslim country and if they can’t respect our Prophet, they shouldn’t be here.”
“But they’re born like that, ungrateful. They’ll never change.”
Sarah turned the other way and pretended she hadn’t heard. When the light turned green, she let the two women walk ahead to cross the road. This wasn’t about Mrs. Musa. This was about being a Christian woman in an Islamic state. Hundreds of Christians had been prosecuted by the state for things they had supposedly done or not done. Women were more targeted. Sarah’s mother had been right when she’d said today was not a good day to be out walking on the streets. “People are unpredictable,” she’d said. “You don’t know when they’ll flip.” Even at church every Sunday, the priest reminded them, “Never forget you’re a Christian, don’t go making trouble. Be a peacemaker, like Jesus.” At school she’d been called names like “chura” and “filthy Christian.” Sarah had accepted this was what it meant to be a Christian in Pakistan; to live with an internal anxiety about who you were and never feel wanted even in your own country. Being a peaceful person meant keeping silent; accept that you would never be equal to the others. Especially not a man. You were a woman, and a Christian. Know your place. Stay within your limits.
Sarah walked along the narrow pavement towards the bus stop, stepping aside to let a woman with two children pass. As she did, she caught the sleeve of her jacket on a nail protruding from a dead electricity pole. This was another problem with Lahore, everything that was broken and defunct was never cleared away to make place for the new. Wherever you were you could smell the sewage and rot from the Ganda Nala canal and the rubbish lying in heaps at the street corners. And now her jacket was ripped. Damn it. Today, of all days. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to get it repaired. She turned onto a side street remembering that it had a row of fabric shops. Maybe one of the tailors there would help her fix it.
In the entrances of the shops, floor boys were draping mannequins in the windows with bright sarees and fabrics. Others sprinkled water on the pavement and swept the entrances. It was still early; she would be their first customer. She made her way towards the shop which had a large sign in bold red letters:
AL SAKEENA FABRICS.
LADIES TAILORING
ALTERATIONS WHILE YOU WAIT.
WE FIX HEMS, BUTTONS, MISSING THREADS.
MADE TO MEASURE, FOR YOUR PLEASURE.
An old man sat on a stool by the door. He had a long, white beard. He beckoned to Sarah, squinting at her through his thick glasses. “Salaam, beti, how can we help?”
She returned his greeting, and cast a quick glance around the shop. From floor to ceiling, the shop was filled with reams of textiles. The back of the shop was in darkness. In the middle, busy behind a sewing machine, was a man with his left arm in a sling. The whirring stopped, he fixed a cold stare on Sarah, while his fingers turned and smoothed the fabric under the needle. That was another thing about Lahore, men were always watching you. But you never got used to it. She pulled her handbag strap across her middle.
“Well,” said the old man. “Was there something you needed?”
She showed him the tear in her sleeve. “Can you help me repair this?”
“What you need is a new jacket.” He gestured to the rolls of colourful material behind him. “Choose any fabric you like and we’ll make it for you. Made to measure.”
“Not today,” she said. “I’m in a hurry.”
From behind the sewing machine, the man gave a loud smirk. Sarah was tempted to ask him what his problem was, but his head was bent over his sewing machine. Better to ignore. You couldn’t argue with every man who whistled and snorted at you.
From the street came the sound of cars honking and a couple of loud shouts.
“What is that you do, beti?” the old man said.
“I’m starting a new job,” she said. “At a university. I’m teaching a course on how to dress like a business professional.”
The old man laughed. His whole body shook and he looked like he would fall off the stool. “Now isn’t that an irony? You’re talking about what to wear when your own jacket is falling apart.” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the corner of his salwar. “Did you hear that, Bilal? All my life I’ve been advising customers for free on what to wear, and now she’s getting paid for it.”
Bilal rotated the fabric around the needle and snipped off some threads. “What does your husband think about your job?” he said, looking at Sarah.
“My husband?” Sarah said. “It’s really none of your business.”
Bilal broke off a piece of thread with his teeth. “Ha, from your answer I can tell you’re that type of woman.”
“What sort is that?” she said, in spite of herself.
“The modern kind.”
“Bas karo, Bilal. Don’t start first thing in the morning.” The old man smoothed his salwar over his knees. “Yusuf,” he shouted. “Where’s that good-for-nothing boy?”
A skinny teenager in a white kanzu came running from the back. “Yes, Baba.”
“We’re waiting for you to say our morning prayers.” Baba lit two camphor sticks and fixed them on a stand. “And make sure today you add a special one for Pakistan.”
This was too much. “My class starts in an hour. I can’t be late,” Sarah said, looking at her watch. “Leave it, let me take my jacket and go, I’ll come back later.”
“The prayers will take only two minutes,” Baba said, calmly. “Be patient.”
Yusuf took a white skullcap from his pocket and put it on his head. He pulled out a stool from under the counter, sat down and began chanting verses from the Quran, rocking back and forth as he recited them in a monotonous tone.
Sarah folded her arms. She should have gone to another shop. She ought to just leave.
All through the recitation Bilal kept on with his sewing; the intermittent whirring and snipping a backdrop to the prayer and Baba stood with his hands folded and his eyes shut. When Yusuf had finished, Baba said, “Take her to the fitting room and bring me her coat, I’ll repair the tear myself.”
“I can do that here,” she said, and began taking it off.
Baba said quickly, “No, no, not here. Go to the back.”
She would never understand some people’s modesty rules: it was only a jacket, she still had her salwar kameez on. It wasn’t like she was getting undressed or anything. She followed Yusuf to the back of the shop. He switched on the light.
The makeshift fitting room was nothing but the corner of a storeroom cordoned off with a shabby pink curtain. The walls were plastered with posters of calligraphic Quran texts and the Pakistan flag was stuck behind one of them. Next to these was the image of the Kaaba in a gold frame, garlanded with plastic purple flowers. Above it was a hand-written notice:
DON’T ASK FOR CREDIT, IN ALLAH ALONE WE TRUST.
Underneath this was an outdated calendar advertising cheap flights to Mecca. In the corner was a folded prayer rug.
Sarah took off her jacket and gave it to Yusuf. He folded it over his arm and stood watching her.
“Is something the matter?” she said, irritated. He continued his insolent stare and did not reply. She loosened the scarf around her neck.
He couldn’t have been more than 15 years old and his face had a mean look. As she took off her scarf, the chain and crucifix which she always wore, became entwined in its tassels. He snickered as she tried to untangle them.
“Yusuf,” Baba shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Coming, Baba, coming,” Yusuf said, and left taking her jacket.
Sarah waited a few minutes in the fitting room, trying to compose herself. Something about this shop made her uneasy. Bilal or Yusuf, she didn’t trust them. As soon as her jacket was ready, she’d be out of here.
She went back to the front of the shop. Baba was seated on his stool, rummaging in a box filled with coloured threads.
“How long will it take?” she said.
“Patience beti, patience,” Baba said. “One or two minutes, that’s all.”
Bilal gave her a sly look, slung a measuring tape around his neck and reached out his good arm for the radio. The newscaster was giving a summary of the Asia Bibi trial. He turned up the volume.
Pakistan awaits the verdict of the Supreme Court. Ten years ago, Asia Bibi, a Christian and mother of five, was picking fruit during the harvest season when the landowner asked her to fetch some drinking water. This annoyed her Muslim co-workers who accused her of contaminating it because she had touched the bucket. During a heated exchange, the woman called Asia an infidel, and later that evening thugs entered Asia’s house and attacked her family. The following day she was charged under the Blasphemy Law. At the trial, the judge found Asia guilty, and sentenced her to death. Since then, Asia has been in solitary confinement, without access to her children or husband.
Baba fumbled in the box, and held a reel against the jacket trying to match it.
“Do you know beti,” he said. “I’ve a daughter just like you. But she’s refusing to marry because she says she wants to study. What good will it do?” Baba sucked the end of a thread, and drew it through a needle. “In the end she has to stay home.” He jabbed the needle into her jacket.
“Well, she could be a career girl,” Sarah said. “Like me. She could work.” She had been lucky. When her father had fallen down a sewer and broken his neck, her uncle had taken charge of their family and insisted she be sent to a convent school. Her grades had been excellent so the church gave her a scholarship to attend a teacher training college. Now, she was starting her first job and her mother would relax. She had worked hard as a single parent to raise Sarah, doing domestic work and babysitting. All of that was over now, with Sarah’s new salary they were looking forward to happier days. In fact, Sarah thought, looking at the floral patterned fabrics, she ought to take the pink patterned one for mother. She would like that for a night dress. Her thoughts were interrupted by the FM 101 jingle from the radio.
Breaking news. The Supreme Court of Pakistan finds Asia Bibi not guilty of the charge of blasphemy. The three-judge bench found no evidence to support the charge and ruled Asia should be released. Chief Justice Nisar told a packed courtroom that the decision of the high court and trial court were being reversed and Asia’s conviction was being set aside. He said, “The prosecution has categorically failed to prove its case beyond reasonable doubt.”
She watched Baba thread his needle again, when all of a sudden, from the street came the sound of gunshots, shouting and people running. “What’s happening? Allah have mercy.” Baba jumped off his stool.
“Shut the shop,” Bilal shouted.
Sarah ran to the door.
“Get back in,” Bilal pushed her aside and Baba caught her hand.
“Let me go,” she said, pulling her hand. “You can’t keep me here.” His grip was firm.
“Bilkool nahin, nothing doing,” Baba said. “Allah help me,” he said. “I don’t want your blood on my conscience.”
On the street, the traffic piled up; cars and buses honked at rickshaws and motorbikes tried to edge their way through the narrow spaces between the vehicles. A cyclist navigating lost his balance, a man leaned out of his car window and swore. From the distance came the sound of police and ambulance sirens. Bilal dragged the mannequins into the shop, yanking one under his bad arm and hauling the other with his good one. The head of one dummy fell off, and he kicked it inside. Dumping the figures on the floor, he pulled down the window shutters with a hooked stick and locked the door. With the windows boarded up, the stench of sweat and dusty textiles was overwhelming. Baba pulled out a stool from under the counter and pointed at it. Sarah hesitated but then sat down, placing her handbag near her feet.
“I need to ring my mother,” she said, taking her mobile phone from her purse. There was no signal. She tried the university admin office also, to tell them that she’d been delayed, but no luck. She told herself, whatever it was, it would pass in a few minutes. Lahore was like this, full of drama, people got excited for nothing and then things settled in a few minutes. Just like the weather at this time of year, a passing thunderstorm, followed by sunshine in the same hour. The atmosphere in the shop was taut, and she didn’t trust Bilal, but she needed to stay calm. It was a question of a few minutes. A few feet away Bilal sat cross-legged on the floor listening to the radio, his chin resting on his good hand. Now she looked at him properly; he must be about 30 years old. He had a pencil-line moustache and thick hair oiled into a wave above his brow. When he turned his head she noticed the brown dirt ring around the inside collar of his white kurta. He caught her staring and his eyes narrowed, and he smiled maliciously. She looked away.
On the radio the newscaster was giving an update:
Breaking News. Rioters led by extremist parties have refused to accept the Supreme Court’s judgment and insist Asia be hanged. All roads around the Supreme Court are under police control and major cities are in lock down. The government asks citizens to stay calm and not panic. The army is in charge.
“The army, always the army,” Bilal said. “Who else could it be?”
“Where’s Yusuf?” Baba wiped the back of his neck with his skullcap and replaced it on his head.
“He must be in the basement,” Bilal said.
“Ring him,” Baba said.
Bilal picked up his phone. “The government’s switched off mobile signal, Baba,” Bilal said, after he’d tried.
“All the lines are dead,” Sarah said. “The army must have switched off the internet. How long will we be here?”
“Don’t worry, beti,” Baba said. “It will all be alright.”
Bilal smirked.
They sat listening to the radio.
Asia Bibi’s lawyer told FM 101, this is “the biggest and happiest day of my life because it shows minorities can get justice in Pakistan.” In the meantime, Prime Minister Imran Khan has asked all citizens to stay calm and maintain decorum.
“Alhamdulillah,” Baba said, “inside here we’re safe.” He took a tasbih from his pocket, and raised the beads to his forehead. “Out there, who knows what could happen.” He began telling them about the time he’d been caught in police crossfire near the Masjid Wazir Khana. “Eleven people died that day,” he said, shaking the rosary beads at Sarah. “I was near the mosque at my barber’s getting a shave. I’m alive only thanks to Allah’s mercy. I told my daughter she’s born under a lucky star, or she’d have lost me that day. You’re too young to understand,” he said, kissing the beads. “Anything can happen at any time, Allah alone knows our destiny.”
Sarah did not respond. She was wondering what her mother was doing at that moment and what she’d say when she’d tell her about Baba and Bilal.
Baba asked Bilal to serve them some tea. Bilal lifted a large basket covered with a cloth from under the counter and Baba took out a flask. He poured the pink milky tea from it into a chipped cup and pressed it into Sarah’s hands. He offered her a greasy samosa from a plastic container. “Take one, beti,” he said. “My daughter made them.”
She reached out to take one, but then withdrew her hand. She was hungry, but her instinct told her she’d better not.
“Why, beti?” Baba said. “Why did you change your mind?”
“I’m fine with this,” she said, taking a sip of tea. It was cold and sweet.
‘I’ll have two,’ Bilal said, and dipped his hand into the container. His nails were broken and dirty, and Sarah looked away.
On the radio, the newscaster said the situation in the city center was getting worse.
While Amnesty International has described the Supreme Court decision as a “landmark verdict,” protestors have blocked the Rawalpindi-Islamabad road. In Karachi and Peshawar, police have urged demonstrators to disperse peacefully. In Lahore, paramilitary troops and 300 policemen have been deployed outside the Supreme Court and Parliament House.
“Ya Allah,” Baba raised his hands. “Why are people so ignorant?”
“Not everyone is,” Bilal said. “It depends whose side you’re on.” He crammed a samosa into his mouth. “Asia should’ve known better; who does she think she is?” He wiped the crumbs around his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a lesson for anyone who tries to be too smart.” He turned to Sarah. “Don’t you think so?”
Sarah put down her cup, her hand shook slightly. “I’m not sure.” She tried to keep her tone light.
“Come now, beti,” Baba said. He was sitting on the stool with one leg folded under him. “If someone spoke against our Holy Prophet, don’t tell me you’d keep quiet?”
“I bet you, she would,” Bilal said. “Why isn’t her head covered?”
“Bas karo, enough Bilal,” Baba said. “Don’t start now, this isn’t the time for arguments.” He paused then said, “On days like this I wonder: what does God want from us?”
Sarah stared at the chipped cup in her lap, looked up and said, “For us to recognize our common humanity.”
“Bilkool,” Baba said. “You’re right, beti, you are absolutely right.”
“No good Muslim could deny that,” she said.
“If you say so,” Baba said, “I must be.”
Just then, Yusuf came running from the back of the shop. “Don’t trust her, Baba; she’s Christian.”
“Choop kar, be quiet, Yusuf,” Baba said, getting up. “This isn’t the time for your silly, little games. There’s a big fiasco in Lahore and you want to make jokes.”
Sarah bit her lip.
“Don’t be fooled, Baba,” Yusuf said. “She’s wearing a cross on a chain, ask her to show you. I saw it myself. She’s got it around her neck.”
“I knew it the minute she walked in,” Bilal said with a furious cry, and with his arm, swept the plastic container and cups off the counter. “You’ve contaminated us, you bloody chura, infidel.”
Sarah got up and walked to the door. “Open the door,” she said. “I need to get out.”
“Wait beti, you’re one of us, aren’t you?” Baba said. “Tell me Yusuf is lying.”
Before she could answer, Bilal jumped up and pulled a gun from his pocket. “Allahu Akbar. If you’re a Muslim, prove it,” he shouted, waving the gun in the air.
“Put that away,” Baba roared.
Bilal hopped from one foot to the other, his hand shaking as he handled the gun as though it were a toy. He kept it pointed at the ceiling. “Liar. You’re a liar. Besharaam, chura, liar.”
Sarah covered her ears.
“Give me the gun,” Baba said.
“Never,” Bilal said. “It’s mine, I paid for it.”
Yusuf lunged at Bilal and tried to grab the gun.
“Fuck off,” Bilal said, and kicked him.
“Shut up, Bilal, Yusuf, the both of you,” Baba shouted.
They fell silent.
“Now Bilal, give me the gun.” Baba held out his hand and after some hesitation and swearing Bilal passed him the gun.
Beads of sweat ran down her back. Her hands were damp, her heart pounding.
“Sit down all of you, and not a word from anyone,” Baba said.
Bilal and Yusuf settled on the floor glaring at her, Sarah sat down on the stool.
They listened to the update on the radio.
Riots continue across the country. Police have advised citizens to stay inside their houses to avoid being arrested.
After a few minutes, Sarah said, “Baba, please let me out, my mother will be worried.”
“Your mother?” He said the words slowly, as though he recognized for the first time she was somebody’s child. He ran his hand through his long white beard, his eyes soft and watery. “What’s your name, beti?” He shifted the gun on his lap.
“Sarah—I’m called Sarah,” she said, but she’d hardly said the words when Bilal got up.
“Yesterday Asia,” he sneered. “Today Sarah. Tomorrow someone else. They’re all the same.” With a quick movement he pulled off her scarf. “Besharam, chura.”
“Stop,” she cried, and covered her chest with her arms. “How dare you?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Yusuf pointed at her chain and crucifix.
“She’s a shameless hussy,” Bilal said, “Really—did you think you could fool us?” He snatched the gun from Baba’s lap and holding it at arm’s length, aimed it at her.
“Stop, Bilal,” Baba shouted. “Ours is a religion of peace. What the hell are you doing?”
Bilal put his finger on the trigger. “Yusuf, check her bag.”
Yusuf snatched and turned it upside down; her phone, wallet, and mother’s blue rosary fell out. Yusuf picked it up and twirled it on his fingers. “I told you. This isn’t a tasbih, what is it? Kya hain?”
“Proof,” Bilal said. “She’s a nasty Christian whore.” The gun was pointed at her, his finger on the trigger. “Bloody chura.”
“Come here, Sarah,” Baba said. “You’re like a daughter to me.” He held out a dry callused hand.
“Yes,” she said, her voice low, “I’m also your daughter.”
The deafening sound of a gunshot.
Blood on Sarah’s hands. Her dress. Baba’s salwar. Baba’s kurta.
Baba on the floor moaning. “La illah ila allah. Today’s my last day…” His hands were red where he held the side of his stomach.
“What have you done?” she turned to face Bilal.
“Shut your mouth, bitch.”
“No—no, I won’t,” she said. “Christ have mercy on us all.”
The gun in Bilal’s hand trembled with the pressure of his grip; she watched his finger on the trigger, the dirty fingernail as he pressed harder and harder.
