The mid-day heat of Islamabad’s summer was sweltering. The intense rays of the sun seemed to slither over the city like a heavy blanket, cocooning the populace in a dizzying heat that made the crumbly dirt painfully hot to walk on, and the air difficult to breathe. The heat was palpable, glimmering in the distant in the form of mirages on overbaked sand. The rich fragrance of spices remained subdued, as if they too, were weighed down by the heat, and the sound of the city remained dulled.
Lira sat under a tent made of canvas, watching the marketplace sluggishly come to life after the Friday prayers. Her hair was wrapped tightly in a cotton veil, tied atop her head to allow some air to touch the back of her neck. She was dressed as she normally did to sell wares at the merchant’s marketplace: a white shalwar kameez, to enunciate the idea that she was an honest, and fair vendor. That compounded with the fact she was only 5 feet and 2 inches tall made others believe she was a girl of about fifteen. She didn’t correct them. The younger they thought she was, the easier it was to scam them. People trusted a child; a twenty-three-year-old orphan, less so.
The marketplace opened every Friday at one, or whenever Jummah prayers ended. It was a tradition that had been in place for as long as anyone could remember, since the infamous ‘Day Zero’ that had happened over a millennium ago. It was a day to barter, trade wares, auction, and sell goods to the highest bidder. Haggling was common; haggling until fights broke out – even more common. The streets would be filled by three-o-clock and continue filling with hordes of denizens until the moon began to make itself seen in the sky. By nighttime, the sounds in the streets would be filled with dholkis, bangles, and dancing. The food vendors arrived by five, selling briyani, na’an, shami ka’babs, and Haleem. Those who stayed after nine enjoyed spirits and shisha that were smuggled into the city through underground black markets, amongst other indulgences, the most popular of which was opium. Friday was a holy day, its night however, was very much an unholy type of affair.
Lira slipped on blue earrings as she began to see a trickle of people leave the White mosque, entering the streets of G12 district, where the Friday bazaar began. She hated earrings, but it was a special day today and she would sell more wares if she was seen to be celebrating it. It was officially January 1st, 3050. The year of the Markhor; a year predicted to bestow many good blessings upon the people of Pakistan and protect the country against the mid-summer droughts. The spirit of the Markhor, an antlered four-legged animal, was believed to permanently chase the rain, and every fifty or so years, it chased the rain into Pakistan. Lira snorted at the thought. The shit that people believed...
“Ah, there you are!” Maryam arrived at Lira’s stall panting, her plump cheeks rosy and her forehead glistening with perspiration. The two had grown up together, and looked similar as well with their dark hair, brown eyes and caramel skin. Unlike Lira who was only around five feet and three inches, Maryam was nearly six feet tall, which she often moaned was the reason no man wanted to marry her. She loaded another basket of cloth onto the wooden table. “Ya Allah, why would you pick such a miserable place to sell the silks? The sun is directly above us.”
“Tsk, use your brain,” Lira moved aside on the chairpai to allow Maryam to sit beside her, “the sun will make the fabric look silkier.”
“So?”
“So?” Lira glared at Maryam, who was now fanning herself with a piece of cloth. “So, they don’t realize it’s not silk, you idiot.”
“You’re doing this just to punish me,” Maryam sighed in the dramatic way she often did, the rope creaking as she sat down beside Lira, “because of what I said to Hassan.”
“No, I haven’t thought of a punishment for that just yet,” Lira grumbled, “Although trust me, I will.”
“He’s a nice man, you’re twenty-three – nearly an old hag by society’s standards. All I did was suggest to him that you were looking for a hus-.”
“I’m not looking for a husband. And now he’s writing me love letters and coming to the bathhouse every night!” Lira hissed under her breath, to avoid the attention of onlookers. “Maryam, the poor boy is…” she trailed off as people began to approach their stall, their eyes on the assortment of silks they had laid out. Or rather, they were looking at the spun milkweed they were bartering off as silk. “Salam bhai-saab, are you interested in some fine cloth?” she asked coyly to the man closest to her.
“How much?” the man was young, probably mid-twenties, and none the wiser in terms of quality. “I was thinking of bringing something nice home to my wife.”
“This blue silk would make a gorgeous lehnga,” Lira gave him her warmest smile, her eyes twinkling as she kicked into character. She unrolled the fabric a bit, offering him one end to hold. “The deep blue would be a nice way to celebrate the year of rain, and will also bring out her beauty, I’m sure.”
His cheeks reddened by her attention, and the earnest way she kept her gaze on him disarmed him. “Is it real silk?”
She bowed her head slightly, “Only the finest. Brought in by traders from the Silk Road, who bartered with merchants from China.”
“What do you want for it?”
“I’ll be happy to see what wares you have or accept silver coin.”
“My stall is just around the corner; I’m selling flours that I milled on my farm.”
Lira hid her satisfaction. Flour would be perfect. She would be able to eat naan tonight.
Half a bag of flour was what they eventually decided on after twenty minutes of going back and forth, weighing the cloth, weighing the flour, calling each other names, and arguing about the value and quality of each. It was the first trade of the day, which was a good sign considering it was early in the afternoon. Lira tucked the bags of flour under her charpai, where no one would see it. It was probably going to be her most valuable trade of the day. Milled flour was hard to come by, with some traders demanding coins of gold in exchange for a kilo.
Regardless of the heat, the bazaar began to fill with civilians and traders frequenting each other’s stalls to barter and trade for each other’s goods. Despite being essentially cut off from the rest of the world, the city’s streets were lined with every good imaginable: melons and mangoes, rolls of cotton and wool, eggs and goats, cages of hens, lumbered wood, bottled rosewater, fragrances like jasmine, oak, and akarbati, and spices like tamarind, masala, and cumin.
Lira always stayed till five, before the palace’s traders would come in to check the wares. The last thing she needed was to be led out of the bazaar in chains to be tried before a court for deceiving the public. And just like clockwork, as soon as her shadow began to cast its shade towards the west, Maryam and Lira began to pack up their stall.
“Not bad,” Maryam packed all their wares in a large piece of fabric and tied it tightly in a knot. “We actually did pretty well.” In addition to the flour, they’d managed to barter for a few rolls of wool, a small vial of salt, a glass of distilled rosewater, and some copper coin amongst other miscellaneous items often found at the bazaar.
“Could’ve done without the red paint,” Lira muttered as she hoisted the bag atop her head. Maryam had traded an entire green roll of fabric for the smelly dye to put her on lips. “Who are you trying to impress?”
“What’s it to you?” Maryam followed her ot of the bazaar, the remaining rolls of cloth in her basket. “Besides, you wouldn’t find him handsome.”
Lira stopped and turned to look at Maryam. “Do you actually like somebody?”
“So what if I do?”
“I’m not telling you off, I’m only asking.”
“You’re always telling me off!” Maryam kissed her teeth in exasperation, and motioned for her to keep walking. “Anyways, I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. He made me promise to keep it a secret.”
“You know that means he probably has a mistress, or two. That or he’s not handsome at all, and you’re embarrassed because he’s ugly.” Lira snorted (in her funny way). “Did you meet him in the bathhouse?”
“So what if I did?”
“Oh, Maryam…”
“Oh, shut up, Lira. Don’t make me get started on you. He’s a gentleman.”
“You know what people say. The devil is and always will be a gentleman.”
Maryam rolled her brown eyes. “As long as he keeps bringing me silver, I don’t care if he’s the devil, a djinn or a churail.”
Lira laughed as the two of them walked out of the bazaar, the streets slowly turning and twisting as they walked to the outskirts of central Islamabad. She knew the city like the back of her hand, its inner shortcuts, its underground tunnels, which bridges to cross and which roads to avoid. She loved the smells that came on Friday when the workday ended after jummah prayers. The scent of freshly churned sugarcane being sold on the side of the streets, the headiness of spiced corn being baked in wagons of hot sand, and potatoes being fried in deep wells of oil on the side of the streets. She’d grown up on the streets of Islamabad her entire life and had been taken in by the women of the bathhouse when she was four. Life here was all she knew. It was home.
The lamps of the bathhouse appeared before them; the courtyard empty save for the sight of Rida sweeping away stray leaves onto the sidewalk. It was a three-story colonial building, one of the rare few that had survived the abolition movement of 2050. Religious fanatics who thought they had arrived due to the obsession of the ancient human with technology, had torn down any structure that had appeared modern or technologically advanced. The wall of the bathhouse had survived, painted mahogany with white trimmings. A large balcony jutted over the front courtyard, casting the front gardens in a blanket of shade during the hottest part of the day. The rooms were sparse during the day, the shadows of the night the preferred skyscape for frequenters of its rooms. The bathhouse was known for being used for only the most illicit of affairs; controversial negotiations, recreational indulgences, and other ‘dishonest’ activities that often began in massages, all whilst partaking in the cultural practices of bathing in communal pools. It was a place you came to rid yourself of inner and outside filth by washing in its baths, while drowning in obscene lewdness to mark the occasion. The richest men would pay to get scrubbed down by the women who worked there, while using their free hands to warm the underside of spoons that held absinthe. Conversations that were too risky to be held elsewhere were often exchanged amongst the building’s waters, where it was too hazy to make it who was speaking to whom.
Lira didn’t know a life before the bathhouse. She’d been picked up by one of the women who had worked here at the age of four. Apparently, she’d been wandering the streets of Islamabad, covered in dirt while wearing a torn kameez. It wasn’t a unique story, and she’d grown up learning to accept it without feeling sad. Everyone who worked at the bathhouse was a woman and had grown up within its walls after escaping a life on the streets. They took in strays, as evidenced by the gaggle of children playing a game of cricket in the back gardens (tense problem). As much of a stain as they were to the rest of society, the women here considered her part of their family, and she was proud to be part of it.
Maryam and Lira made their way around the back, entering the staff quarters where they were allowed some peace and privacy away from the hecticness of the bathhouse. It was one of the cooler rooms in the building, the rest of the quarters filled with the hiss of steam and fog.
“Salaam, Apa Saadia.” Lira put down the sack onto the ground in front of Apa, the matriarch of the bathhouse who was currently fanning herself with newspaper while she sat on the futon. “We have flour.”
“Jazak’Allah,” Apa almost moaned, without opening her eyes. She continued fanning herself as Lira unwrapped her veil, letting her dark hair fall in front of her shoulders. Apa, a heavyset woman with an unforgiving brow and an equally sharp mouth, went on. “We will have naan. You are my godsend. What would I do without you? Maryam, tell me what would we do without our Lira?”
“We’d have fewer headaches!” Maryam shouted back as she left the common room to visit the kitchen.
Lira knelt beside Apa, resting her back against the velvety cushions. “Maryam’s in a mood.”
Apa waved a dismissing hand. “She’s always in a mood.”
“What’s gotten you so worked up?” Lira opened a packet of chaat that was lying in wrapped bamboo leaves in front of her. “You’re even more dramatic than usual, Apa.”
The woman let out an exaggerated sigh, moaning as she often did to draw out what she said. “Don’t taunt me. Every room is booked tonight, till sunrise. I’m getting old, my bones ache walking up and down the stairs to serve these rich, arrogant men. How much longer will I have to work? I’m nearing sixty, and I still need to pretend to laugh at the same horrible jokes these men tell me every night. I fear I may vomit the next time I see a bulging stomach with wiry hair leading down to a tiny appendage.”
Lira snorted, “They’re not all tiny. I saw one that was respectable yesterday.”
“Don’t argue with me. I named you Lira to get me out of this mess, why has God punished me by keeping me in this godforsaken place? I’ve spent so many years raising you girls, and none of you have gotten me out of here.”
Lira almost rolled her eyes but thought better of it given apa’s state. Saadia had been lamenting over Lira’s namesake more than often these days, reminding her of it every other day lest she somehow forgot that she’d been named after the ancient currency used by the powerful Ottoman empire before it fell. The golden ingot had made Kings of simple warriors, and Queens of those who had stood by them.
Apa opened her eyes to peer at Lira, “You won’t even marry Hassan.”
“I’d rather stab my eyes.”
Apa groaned, closing her eyes again, and Lira took that as her cue to leave. “I’ll get started on preparing the floors. What rooms need still need servicing?”
“I don’t know, Lira. Figure it out. I’m too sad thinking about all the hard work I’ve wasted over the course of my life.”
“Okay, Apa,” Lira stood, and picked up the papers in front of her to see what still needed to be done. Endless patience was probably the only thing that had kept her sane all these years. That and a quick tongue. “Whining makes the wrinkles come faster. You’ll get more if you keep on this way.”
“Ah, now my children speak back to me,” Apa sat up, her cheeks rosy and eyes flashing, “the najumi told me this would happen. She told me that the year of rain would bring chaos to my home. Now I know what that meant. “
“Don’t listen to those fortune tellers,” Lira said as she walked out of the common room, “They’re bigger scammers than we are.”
Seeing that Lira was leaving, Apa quickly dropped the theatrics, “we have people coming from the royal palace tonight. Make sure to put incenses in every room they attend, and have a girl attend to them the entire night so they aren’t wanting for anything. I want you to overlook what’s happening, you know the younger girls don’t know what they’re doing half the time.”
Lira perked up at the news. Guests from the royal palace were attending. That would be interesting. Men with pockets meant more money for her or rather, more money for her to steal. Growing up in the bathhouse, she’d been taught to work hard for the family of women she’d been raised up with. She’d also been taught to work hard to make money for herself, to make sure she always had something to fall back on.
Tonight, she would be making sure she did just that.