huddled against the mighty wind. Qasim crouched, protecting the tiny Zaitoon with all he had of arms and clothes. The child clung close. Qasim held the flap of his shirt against her mouth. “Breathe through this,” he shouted, spluttering.
The wind roared like an airplane taking off.
“O, Pathan! Get the child away from the tree!” someone shouted close to his ear.
Pushed hard by a savage gust so that he almost fell, Qasim scuttled away, hugging Zaitoon. The gigantic branches of the mango fought and slashed at the phosphorescent dust. An instant later, wrenched from its roots, the whole tree heaved and crashed slowly to the ground.
Debris hurtled through the air. Bits of wood, empty cans scavenged by the refugees, aluminum utensils, struck Qasim with the force of bullets. String-beds, their frail wooden frames askew, thrashed along, limping like grotesque animals. Flashes of lightning lit the scene as all across the city mattresses, beds, and mosquito nets took off from rooftops. Signboards, tree branches, windows, and odd bits of furniture were flung about. Thunder grew insistent, exploding louder and quicker. The wind worked up into a heightened frenzy. Qasim closed his eyes, blocked his ears and every nerve screamed, “Allah! Allah! Allah!” A huge drop of rain at last plopped on his back, then another. The wind slackened with the moisture. It began to pour. The rain cleared the air, washing the dust off their hands, hair, and clothes, and soaking the parched earth. Cool, clean and sweet, it sucked away the heat. The air grew luminous. The suddenly newly bright-green, rich-brown city was bathed in soft, evening light.
A man walked up to Qasim. Dripping gloriously, arms akimbo, he grinned, “Well, Pathan, I certainly saved you from that tree!”
He was about thirty. A black cord, stringing a silver amulet, hung from his neck. He was shorter than Qasim but magnificently built.
Qasim touched his forehead in gratitude. Must be a wrestler, he thought, noting the cropped hair and the smooth, well-oiled face.
“You a pehelwan?” he asked, diffidently.
The man nodded.
“Ah! I thought so.”
“Nikka. They call me Nikka Pehelwan. Come, let’s have a look at the tree,” he said in Punjabi, his even teeth gleaming in a vigorous smile.
He strutted ahead jauntily and Qasim followed.
The rain exhilarated the camp. Irritated, bitter tempers gave way to camaraderie. Men and women teased each other, laughed and romped around like children. Naked children wallowed in foamy cushions of mud, splattering the slush, dancing and shouting.
“Put me down. Put me down,” cried Zaitoon fretfully, but Qasim, enthralled by the confident stride of his newfound friend, did not hear her. The wrestler reminded him of a velvet-brown pedigree pony that is reined in to keep its neck arched and high.
They reached the fallen tree and Nikka tried to lift a branch. Each of his gestures combined grace with a hint of arrogance. “This would have flattened you like a chappati,” he said impassively.
Zaitoon beat Qasim on the chest. “Abba-a-a, put me down, Abba-a-a-a.”
“Hush, child,” he said absently. For a flash, his heart constricted. Was her “Abba-a” directed at the stranger? No, she was looking at him. He was flooded with a sense of relief and tenderness.
Zaitoon smiled happily at the affection shining in his face. “Put me down. I want to play.”
“All right,” he said, lowering her.
“Is she your daughter?” the Pehelwan asked.
Qasim grew tense. “You heard her.”
“Where is your wife?”
“Dead.”
“Was she also Pathan?” Nikka inquired. “The girl is dark.”
Qasim glared at the wrestler. “Look,” he snarled, with a sudden hold on the man’s wet, muslin shirt, “nothing about my wife concerns you . . . And I am not a Pathan. I am a Kohistani.”
“Calm down. I was only asking. What’s the harm in that?”
Qasim loosened his grip.
“You don’t ask a hill-man anything about his womenfolk, understand? I would have slit your throat for less had you not saved me and my child from that tree.”
“Lay off, friend, I meant no harm,” the man flashed a warm smile. “I’m not a hill-man. I don’t know your ways.”
Qasim’s anger subsided as quickly as it had begun. “Let’s sit down.” He offered a placatory gesture, clearing away a few twigs. Then he asked, “Where do you come from?”
“Pannapur, near Amritsar,” Nikka paused, and Qasim waited attentively.
Then Nikka said, “Do you know what those swine did in my village? They herded the Muslims into a camp for protection . . . Protection, mind you . . . because of some fool rumor—Allah grant it be true—that a trainload of Hindus and Sikhs had been slaughtered near Wagha. Once inside the camp, a Sikh police inspector—the dog’s penis—picked up a machine gun and went “tha-tha-tha-tha!” He killed them all. By Allah’s grace, we had already left.”
They brooded awhile. Qasim was the first to look up.
“You had no land?” he inquired hesitantly.
“No, only a small paan and betel-nut shack.”
“Any family?”
Nikka probed the simple, inquisitive face, and a wide grin stretched his mouth.
“I have a wife. Does it offend you to hear me tell of my own womenfolk?”
Qasim glanced at him sheepishly.
“She’s barren.”
Nikka detailed the probable causes of her barrenness, mentioning her ailments, her temperament, her age, and Qasim blushed up to his pale eyelashes.
“Women are strange. I know she cries her eyes out thinking I will get myself another wife. Why should I? It’s Allah’s will. I’m content.”
He flashed Qasim an irrepressibly mischievous grin.
“Hah! I forgot to mention my other profession! You must have heard of the Shiv shrine at Benares?”
Qasim nodded.
Nikka affected the mien of a Brahmin priest and chanted: “Hey Bhagwan—Harey Ram, Harey Ram . . .” He sighed, rocking cross-legged on the wet tree trunk. He rolled his eyes sanctimoniously to the clouds. “Every year I was summoned to Benares for the Holy Spring Puja. Childless women flock to the temple to invoke Shiva’s pity and assistance; plump young things married to dotards. There is much chanting of mantras, burning of incense, distribution of sanctified sweets and drink; until the women get stupefied—quite stupefied. You can do with them what you like. The Brahmins have a good time. But you know those lentil-fattened Hindus, they don’t have much seed. I was paid handsomely but, I tell you, I had to work hard at being Shiv—a circumcised Shiva! Hai, Hai . . . I wonder if I will ever get there again.” He pulled a long, droll face.
Qasim guffawed. He fell against Nikka in helpless mirth and clung to him laughing. He was secretly incredulous of the wrestler’s boast, but here was a man after his own heart. This was one up for the lusty meat-eaters. Identifying with Muslim virility, Qasim’s pride soared. His acceptance in these new surroundings was, as it were, assured by the wrestler’s ribald Punjabi humor. He now told him how he had traveled from Jullundur. He told him about the girl.
Nikka at once sensed his anxiety.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re her father. There is no need to tell me or anyone all this. You’ve done a noble thing, leave it to Allah’s will,” he said, endearing himself to Qasim.
It was growing dark. Throughout the camp chappatis and potato