A Beggar at the Gate (25 page)

Disregarding Safiya's second lesson, she had taken her own blessings for granted. Like the beggar prince who had forgotten to give away his second silver coin while he ran after the unknown lady's palanquin, she had forgotten what she owed Hassan and his family, and allowed herself to be seduced by suspicion instead.

While caring for the desperate young mother who came to the haveli, she should have learned Safiya's third lesson: that doing the right thing often required self-discipline. Ignoring this truth, she had abandoned her uncle and aunt at Shalimar, pretending that the cure for his cholera was her only reason for returning to Qamar Haveli.

She must improve herself, before it was too late. She glanced across at her small, silent companion. Now that she was a beggar, she suddenly wanted to offer the opportunity for blessings to as many people as possible. What a pity that her audience consisted of one lonely hunchback

She sat straight. But the hunchback had given
her
charity. He had shown her the water in the mosque. He had told her a story. What else did a keeper of shoes have to give?

She regarded him with a softer eye as he leaned on his elbows, his long face puckered with discomfort. Although she must still smell far worse than that young mother in the upstairs room, he had shown no sign of disgust when he approached her with his offer of safety and water.

Here was a man of charity and discipline. With only a cotton sheet to keep out the cold, he had made no move to steal the clothes of the dead. Although he certainly had seen her thieving, he had made no reference to it.

She dropped her head onto her upraised knees.
Please,
she prayed,
let the haveli doors open soon. Let Safiya possess the cure for cholera, as the woman had told me. Let the cure arrive at Shalimar in time. If I have failed once in my duty to Uncle Adrian, let me find a way to save him in the end….

“Look!” The hunchback raised his head and pointed toward the edge of the square.

A group of men had started across the square, carrying something in a sling between them. Whatever it was, it appeared to be heavy.

As she watched, the men put their burden down and began to argue among themselves and point toward the haveli. When she craned forward, trying to hear what they were saying, they saw her and dropped their voices.

Although she could not hear their words, she was certain they were speaking Persian. Their earth-colored clothing and their coarsely tied turbans told her they were Afghans, like the ones she had seen speaking to the Vulture outside his tent when she arrived at Shalimar. Each of them had one or two elaborately decorated guns strapped to his back.

Their argument resolved, they bent to pick up the object they had been carrying, and strode away. As they did so, Mariana saw that it was the blood-soaked body of a man.

Just after they disappeared from the square with their grisly cargo, the sound of muffled footfalls followed by a heavy scraping came at last from behind the haveli door.

Before one side had creaked open enough to allow a man to look cautiously out, Mariana had jumped to her feet and hurled herself against the door.

“Let me in,” she ordered, while behind her, the hunchback rose, grimacing, to his feet.

The guard leapt aside as if he thought she might be a ghost. Taking advantage of his hesitation, she pushed her way inside.

The high, brick entranceway of the haveli with its single, carved overlooking window looked exactly as it always had. Amazed at such extraordinary normality, Mariana stopped short, then realized that her little companion had not followed her.

“Wait!” she cried to the guard, then turned and flung herself past him and out into the square.

The hunchback must have saluted her before he left, but she had missed that politeness, for in her haste to reach the haveli, she had turned her back to him. By the time she rushed outside again, he had started away toward Wazir Khan's Mosque.

“O Keeper of Shoes,” she called after him, “please come into our house!”

He looked over one bent shoulder, then shook his head. “No, Begum Sahib,” he replied in his high voice. “Qamar Haveli is no place for me.”

Coarse shouting erupted in a nearby street. The soldiers were returning. Heedless of the pools of blood or the broken glass that glittered on the cobblestones, Mariana ran after the little man.

Begum Sahib.
He had used a title reserved for the highborn. He must have known who she was all along.

“The soldiers are coming back,” she panted as she reached him. “Listen.”

But he shook his head once again and moved to pass her. As he did, she opened her arms and barred his way. “Please. We must hurry,” she pleaded, walking toward him, her arms still spread, forcing him to retreat, knowing he would not allow her to touch him.

The shouting grew louder. She stepped forward again. His long face puckered with grief or shame, he backed away from her, toward the haveli door, where a crowd of staring guards had now collected. Knowing they were all watching, but too desperate to care about the little man's feelings, she flapped her hands in his face.

“Hurry,” she repeated, shooing him inside.

“Look after him,” she commanded the guards, then raced outside again, tearing off her stolen shawl as she flew toward the small domed structure in the square.

She stopped only long enough to fling the length of stained fabric down beside its dead owner, then darted back again, as a mob of yelling soldiers appeared alongside the mosque and boiled into the square.

By the time she gained the haveli, the great double doors were closing. An instant after she had rushed inside and the sweating guards had forced the iron bolts home, something thudded heavily against the doors from outside.

“We were ready to lock you out,” grumbled one of the guards, glowering at Mariana, who stood, trembling, inside the arched en-tranceway. “Do not think we would risk the lives of the Waliullah family for the convenience of a beggar woman.”

The little Keeper of Shoes opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A guard jerked his chin toward the hunchback. “I know this man,” he added, over the din of hammering fists. “Take him over there and give him food.”

“May Allah protect you.” The little man saluted Mariana before he was led away.

Another guard pointed to Mariana. “What shall we do with her?” he asked carelessly.

“She can wait here,” the first guard replied. “When we opened the door,” he shouted to Mariana, as if she were deaf as well as dirty, “we were expecting to find a lady of our house. Have you seen anyone who—”

“I
am
a lady of this house,” she snapped. “I have been waiting outside this gate for hours.”

Chilled to the bone, she tugged her chador more closely over her head and strode on her filthy, bandaged feet toward the inner courtyard.

As the guards stared after her, a small figure arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

“An-nah, An-nah!” Saboor shouted as he hurtled toward her. “You have come!”

T
he upstairs corridor with its filigreed shutters was nearly as cold as the outdoors, but a brazier of hot coals stood in the center of the sitting room. As Saboor dragged Mariana to the door, a score of ladies and several older girls looked up from their conversations.

The gap-toothed aunt stared. “How has a beggar woman gained entry to the house on this day of violence?”

“It is An-nah!” The only person who had recognized Mariana danced up and down, still grasping a handful of her chador.

She had no shoes to remove before entering. Instead, drooping with exhaustion in the doorway, she lowered Akhtar's chador from her face.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, not for the first time, swallowing nervously as Safiya Sultana pushed herself to her feet.

“She has come back!” Saboor panted, tugging her into the room with all his strength.

Beyond him, the room with its innocent, seated women appeared so peaceful that it might have been a dream. Mariana reached dizzily for the doorframe, wondering how to explain herself.

As Safiya Sultana approached, a deep frown between her eyes, all the ladies began talking at once.

“Why did Mariam leave the house?” they cried. “Where did she go? Why is she wearing such dirty clothes? Look at her feet!”

“Akhtar, Firoz,” Safiya called over her shoulder as she approached the doorway, “bring food for Mariam Bibi, and heat water for her bath.”

She nodded to Mariana. “Peace,” she offered in her man's voice. “How long have you waited outside?”

“Since early this morning,” Mariana whispered.

“Hai Allah, how she has suffered!” chorused the ladies. “But why did she leave us? Why?”

So they knew at least part of her story. But what did it matter? Mariana must offer her confession here. She must tell these ladies that she had unjustly accused Hassan of plotting murder. She must beg them all to forgive her….

“It was wrong of me to run away,” she murmured faintly. “I have made many terrible—”

“Not now.” Before she could say more, Safiya lifted a silencing hand. “Mariam has endured much,” she intoned. “We will hear her story later. Saboor is right to be happy,” she added, nodding seriously toward the dancing child as she laid an arm about Mariana's shoulders and guided her toward the brazier. “You might easily have been killed. Several times we sent men to look out through the front windows, but they could see only the corpses of the dead. When something seemed to move on the ground below, the men opened the door, thinking an injured man might be seeking shelter with us. Come.”

Fighting tears, Mariana nodded and stepped onto the covered floor, Safiya treading heavily beside her.

“Akhtar tells me that your uncle is unwell.” Safiya pointed to a place before the brazier.

“He is ill with cholera.” Mariana sniffled as she sat down. “Someone told me that you had a cure.”

She glanced up anxiously as Safiya, too, lowered herself to the floor.
Oh, please, let it be true. Let her at least be able to save Uncle Adrian….

“Sit with your back to the brazier,” Safiya ordered. “What is his condition?”

“Early this morning the heaving and purging had ceased, but he still had a raging thirst and horrible cramps. I left him just after sunrise.”

Afraid to hear the truth, Mariana lowered her eyes.

Safiya nodded. “Then there is hope, provided that he did not relapse badly during the course of the day. I have a store of crystals that were sent to me by a European doctor. They are quite effective, but they may only be given by someone with proper training. I will gladly send our man to Shalimar, but we must wait until it is safe for him to travel.” She sighed. “Even though your uncle is now a member of our family, I cannot risk our man's life.”

A member of our family.
What was Safiya thinking beneath that powerful serenity of hers? Surely she knew of the terrible scene Mariana had made

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Mariana hugged herself inside her chador. “Is Hassan at home?” she heard herself say.

“No. He left late yesterday afternoon. His friend Yusuf came, then his two Afghan traders arrived and the four of them went off together. Hassan told his father he was going to see Sher Singh.” Safiya signaled Akhtar to approach her. “Bring the ewer for Bibi to wash her hands,” she ordered, “and then take that disgusting chador away.” She turned to Mariana. “I do not know where Hassan and the others have gone,” she said, seeing the unhappiness on Mariana's face, “but you must eat now. While you are eating, you will tell us your story.”

Mariana swallowed nervously as she sat in front of the tray of rice and
dopiaza,
one arm around Saboor, her unspeakable feet tucked out of sight beneath her. “I left the house yesterday for two reasons,” she offered, so softly that the ladies around her nudged closer in order to hear. “First, my uncle was unwell, and second, I mistakenly believed there was to be an attack upon the English camp at Shalimar.”

“An attack on Shalimar?” Safiya frowned. “Who told you such a thing?”

“No one told me,” Mariana replied lamely. “I overheard someone talking outside the windows, and thought they were discussing a plot to kill the English people. I was wrong to believe it,” she added, dropping her eyes.

Why did Safiya say nothing? Surely she knew of Mariana's fight with Hassan, and his decision to divorce her?

“Bhaji!”

As Mariana struggled over what to say next, a young girl with a braid to her knees turned breathlessly from an open window in the verandah. “The alley outside is full of soldiers!” she cried. “They are crowding about the back door. They are shouting something about ‘the enemies of Prince Sher Singh’!”

“Come away from there, Khadija!” implored one of the ladies.

Her mouth full of rice and curried goat, Mariana sat straight.

“Girls, leave the room,” Safiya ordered over the clamor of voices. “Nadir,” she added, deftly collaring a small boy, “you must go quickly and call Yahya from downstairs.

“I made the guards practice yesterday.” She turned to Mariana, and gestured for her to continue eating. “First they are to call every man, woman, and child in from the kitchen courtyard, and then they are to bring the old elephant doors and close off the kitchen from the rest of the house. My grandson, Yahya, is to give the signal. But why,” she asked, “are those soldiers calling us Sher Singh's enemies?”

As the little boy dashed off, several adolescent girls hurried into another room and closed the curtain. A moment later, a leggy youth with a weak little mustache appeared in the sitting-room doorway. Safiya motioned for him to enter.

“Soldiers are outside the back door, Yahya,” she told him. “You must go to the stables and tell the men to put the elephant doors in place.”

“Wait,” Mariana said urgently as the boy prepared to leave them. “What of those windows?” She pointed past the sitting-room door to the verandah whose balconies overlooked the narrow alley below. “If the soldiers bring ladders, they can easily get inside.”

She turned to Yahya. “There were some long wooden planks downstairs, near the stables. Are they still there?”

He nodded, his widening eyes traveling to the verandah and back again.

“We will need one for each window,” Mariana told them.

“And how will we use these planks of yours?” Safiya inquired, after a single nod of her head had sent the boy hurtling away and down the stairs.

“If the soldiers try to climb inside, we can use the planks to push them out again, even without the help of men,” Mariana replied, as confidently as she could, aware that all the ladies had stopped talking and were now listening to her.

As Safiya nodded thoughtfully, something landed heavily outside the sitting-room door.

“They are throwing bricks through the verandah windows!” a woman cried out.

Where was Saboor? Mariana pushed away her tray, leapt to her feet, and raced out through the curtained doorway.

The brick lay on the tiled floor. Near the pile of women's discarded shoes, two little girls huddled, round-shouldered with fright. Saboor crouched between them.

Guttural shouts came through the open window. As Mariana launched herself toward the children, she caught a glimpse of a soldier perched on a ladder across the alley.

He raised his arm. Mariana hurried the children into the sitting room, protecting them with her body as one brick, then another and another, crashed to the floor around them.

Moments later, Yahya appeared, bent double with the effort of dragging three heavy boards up the stairs.

“Please,” he panted, “Allahyar is with me.”

Understanding, Mariana got up and jerked the door curtains shut, shielding the ladies from the eyes of Allahyar, Shaikh Waliullah's personal servant, as the planks clattered to the floor outside, accompanied by more crashes and a muffled curse.

“Nani Ma!” Yahya called through the curtain, his voice thin with excitement. “Do not come out! I am bringing more men to protect you!”

Mariana crossed the sitting room and peered out through the shutters. Below, in the family courtyard, male servants hurried to and fro carrying bedding and foodstuffs, while a crowd of female servants and their children squatted beneath the courtyard tree, as if waiting for instructions.

As Safiya Sultana sat calmly in her usual place against the wall, missiles continued to land beyond the closed curtain, evoking gasps from the ladies, who crouched together in anxious groups, clutching their children.

One daring old aunt had stationed herself with her eye to the gap in the door curtain. “Look!” she cried suddenly. “They are coming inside!”

Mariana hurried to her and peered out.

Empty of any protecting men, the verandah was now littered with thrown bricks. Dust motes danced in the light from the middle window, where, framed by filigreed shutters, the top of a bamboo ladder wavered back and forth. A pair of brown hands grasped the top rung, followed a moment later by the sweating, bearded face of a Sikh infantryman.

“Quickly!” Scarcely thinking, Mariana tore open the curtain, caught hold of the three nearest women, and shooed them through the doorway to where Yahya had dropped the wooden planks. “We must use one of these to push him out,” she ordered, then reached down and began to tug at one of the boards.

The women nodded. Panting with effort and haste, they lifted the long, heavy board and turned together to face the window.

The whole man had now appeared in the opening. At the sight of four uncovered women, the soldier reached, grinning, for the window frame.

“These enemies of Sher Singh are women,” he shouted to his companions below. “This will be easy!”

“When I count three!” Mariana shouted.
“Ek, do, teen!”

All four women rushed forward. Gripped between them like a battering ram, the plank caught the soldier so squarely in the chest that he toppled backward, his eyes bulging, and disappeared, just as a loud, effortful sound came from one end of the verandah.

“Ugh-gh-gh!”

Mariana and her companions turned toward the sound.

Framed in the opening of the far window, a second soldier stood poised to enter, a bloodstained
tulwar
swinging at his side, one foot on the windowsill, the other on a bamboo ladder.

Below him, Mariana saw the turbaned head of a second man.

“Be quick!” the second man shouted.

Safiya Sultana stood alone in front of the window, the end of one plank wedged firmly into her midsection, the other end balanced upon the windowsill.

Before Mariana had time to go to her aid, Safiya threw her considerable weight against her end of the plank.

The infantryman had taken a firm grip on the window frame, but Safiya, who stood squarely, feet apart, on the verandah tiles, had the advantage. Again and again, while he scrabbled, grunting, to keep his balance, she drove her plank into his body. At last, his fingers slipped from the window. The soldier below him let out a cry and the two men dropped, their aims flailing, from sight.

Safiya Sultana laid down her plank and wiped her scarlet face. “Well, that's that,” she decreed.

“Cowards! Owls!” Little, bird-like Akhtar appeared from nowhere, rushed to the window, and spat through the opening. “Attack women, will you?” she shrieked, waving her fist. “You will see how we fight!”

“No, Akhtar!” Mariana hobbled forward and caught hold of the girl's arm as the women and girls ran excitedly to surround Safiya Sultana. “Do not throw the bricks yet. We will need them if the soldiers return.”

Male voices echoed up the stairs. The girls hurried away when Yahya bounded up once more, followed by several men, all of whom halted and spun on their heels, their backs to Mariana, who stood, dirty and disheveled, in the center of the verandah, Akhtar's brick still in her hand.

Yahya stared at her, then turned to his grandmother. “What has happened, Nani Ma?”

“The soldiers have been repelled,” Safiya Sultana replied, still breathing hard. “That is all. Go and tell Lalaji that there is no need to worry about us.”

LATER, AS she washed her filthy feet, Mariana imagined what it would have been like to live in this house forever.