It was always hot inside the bathhouse, and it was unbearable to stay inside unless the chill of the Islamabad night was available to escape to for periodic moments. Each floor had a communal pool, with the second and third floors providing private pools for parties that came together, or for matters that required some secrecy. Before the doors opened at eight, each floor required scrubbing, the water needed to be salted, and the lanterns needed their oils replenished. They didn’t often serve food but it was required that the kitchen be stocked with an assortment of snacks and spirits, so thousands of peanuts needed to be deshelled on a daily basis, paan needed to be folded into neat bamboo leaves and imli needed to be ground into paste constantly. Lira’s palms wore callouses to prove the hours she spent scrubbing, and cleaning. The salt used in the water had become an inescapable part of her. She would find it in her hair, in her clothes, and oftentimes caked into the beds of her nails. It was grueling work, and even after a decade of it, Lira found it never got easier.
“There you are,” Lira stepped out onto the terrace to find Amna and Khadija cooling themselves with paper fans. The sun was setting in the east, the orange wisps casting a warm glow on the minarets that dotted the city skyscape. The Maghrib A’zaan, the sunset call to prayer, would be starting soon. For a few minutes, the cacophony of city would fall silent to listen to the sound of the Imams around the city reciting the Quran on the loudspeakers. That was before the city came to life for the night, becoming a playground for those disillusioned by faith and civil society. Lira, along with most of the women in the bathhouse, found it safer to exist within the shadows.
“Do you think this is worth anything?” Ayesha, one of the youngest in the bathhouse, was holding a black box of sorts with a series of dials and knobs. Her eyes were wide, brown like Liras. “I found it when we went to the wells to get the water.”
“I told her it’s junk,” Khadija was reclining on the charpai, relaxed against an assortment of silk cushions. “I told her she hasn’t seen the hundred others we’ve found.”
“It’s a ray-dee-oh,” Lira took it from her and turned it around in her hands. She remembered her own wonder the first time she’d seen one, years ago. “sorry, Ayesha. Khadija’s right. It’s junk.”
“I swear it has silver in there. Look at this silver rod thing. We could barter this.”
Lira kneeled down beside the eleven-year-old girl. The earnestness in her eyes often reminded her of herself. Sad, but determined. “The ancient humans used to use it to hear sounds.” The origins of the raydeeoh were often debated in the few libraries that had survived the fires of the revolution centuries ago. Volumes of history had been lost in a day, the stories of all those who had come before them lost just like that, in a day. It had happened centuries ago, after the two universes had collided. A third of the world had just disappeared, they had arrived, and physics as the world knew it stopped working. Religious fanatics, convinced that humans had somehow triggered the end of the world by angering God, had started destroying man-made institutions, sculptures, and creations. Buildings came down in a day, democracy crumbled to the power of monarchs who deemed they knew how to lead best in this ‘new world,’ and the old way of life disappeared quicker than anyone could have imagined. It was insane to even think that anything other than a monarchy had ever existed here.
“Remember when Apa taught you how the ancient humans used to use something called electricity? Apparently, the ancients found a way to steal it. It would make this little box work, and you could hear sounds. I believe what you think is silver is just aluminium, or something.” She never had enough money to go to school. Everything she’d learned, she’d learned it from Apa or from the streets. Hours of conversation with the patrons of the bathhouse had taught her street smarts, and she’d been quick to study the minds of the sometimes brilliant scholars who indulged in the sinful escape the bathhouse offered.
Ayesha blinked at her, “why would you want to hear sounds?”
“I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”
Khadija let a cigarette, “Why are you here? I have a feeling it’s not good news.”
“We have royals coming into the bathhouse tonight,” Lira’s eyes met Khadija. The woman was just as hard of a hustler as Lira, and she knew the news would garner her interest. “They’ll be here in an hour or so, will you greet them?”
Ayesha sat up straight, “I can greet them!”
“No,” both Lira and Khadija responded in unison. “You can help Ali in the kitchen,” Khadija finished, “far away from the royals.”
“But I’m old enough!”
“In what world?” Lira snorted, “you’re only half my size.”
“I’ve beat you at cards two nights in a row, Lira!” Ayesha’s pale skin easily flushed pink when she was frustrated, “and I beat you this morning when we raced.”
“When the bathhouse holds a card and racing competition, we’ll make sure to invite you. Now hurry up and go downstairs to the kitchen,” Lira smacked her playfully in the head, ushering her away from the balcony. She sat down on the charpai in her place, enjoying the momentary peace before the night fell.
Khadija exhaled a steady stream of smoke, the tendrils of which snaked around Lira’s neck and hair. “There’s something going on tonight,” she muttered, looking up at the darkening sky. “Something’s off.”
“You too?” Lira raised an eyebrow, refraining from rolling her eyes fully. “Apa’s off her mind talking about some fortune teller telling her the year of the Markhor bringing havoc upon her.”
“Pfft,” Khadija tapped the ash of her light into the ashtray, “I’m not talking about religious bullshit. I mean, something is actually going on tonight. Look at the lights of the palace. They are darker than normal.”
Lira glanced at the buttressed palace walls, nestled in the near distant mountains that ensconced the city. It was a respectable fortress, built high with stone and mortar. The city’s flag was pulled high on the mast, as was the normal scene. Situated directly the mast was the palace’s mosque, the tallest minaret in the city. Atop the curved dome was a delicate crescent moon which looked over the city’s walls and had become the symbol for Islamabad as a whole. Khadija was right. The palace was usually brightly lit, flames that burned hotly in copper bowls dotting the entire parameter. Tonight, barely a few were lit.
“That is odd,” Lira mused, not knowing what to make of it. She’d never seen the flames go out, even during the daytime. “What do you think that means?”
“Well,” Khadija took a drag, “we can find out from first-hand sources tonight.”
x.x
The scent of incense burned strongly in the room, as if to drug those that arrived with the pull of rose, sandalwood and jasmine. The heat of the pools usually disarmed those who came in feeling nervous or on edge, helping them quickly acclimatize to the haziness and lethargy that the bathhouse asked for. Spirits poured freely from goblets held by women around the baths - a necessary part of the process. The drunker the clients were, the more likely they were to spend money they would have kept to themselves otherwise. The first floor was open to the public, with men free to come and go as they please. The second and third floors were reserved solely for those who had gold and silver to spare, and Lira watched as an assortment of royal guards began to fill the walls. She had stationed herself with the rope pulleys for the third floor, responsible for pulling up buckets of hot water from the wells down below. Maryam, who was helping some guards unload their armor from across the room, caught Lira’s gaze and subtly rolled her eyes at what she was being asked to do. Lira held in a giggle at her brashness and looked away before she descended into laughter.
Chatter began to fill the wooden walls as more men filed in and slipped into the hot pools, their faces and bodies disguised by heavy clouds of steam and heat. Not even a few minutes had passed, and Lira was already sweating, as she did every night. The bathhouse was the one place in the city where it wasn’t punishable by law to let your hair down in front of men and she was thankful. A headdress in this heat would likely kill her. Instead, she had wrapped her long dark hair into a bun atop her head and wore the customary bathhouse uniform: a white, thin shameez.
The sound of Khadija’s sitar began to lazily trickle in the room, played alongside Alina, who was known in the house as a beautiful bansuri blower. Women came in holding platters of fruits, nuts and seeds. There were also the ladies, hidden by thick curtains that swooped across the room, who were there to assist in the consumption of opium and heroin. A pull from below signaled to Lira that a bucket of water was ready to be pulled up and she began the agonizing work of pulling the rope to bring hot water to the third floor.
The most important rule that Apa had installed amongst the girls, one of the few rules that were followed here, was that none of the girls were to prostitute themselves to the patrons of the bathhouse against their will. If the patrons wanted to be intimate, the women of the bathhouse were to provide consent first. Any disrespect against the girls would have the patrons evicted immediately, which happened far less often than one would think. The women of the bathhouse were often revered for being able to provide a harem of comfort and escape.
“Lira,” a smooth voice sounded from behind her, just as she poured the bucket of water into the aqueduct that would take it to the center pool. She turned to see a familiar face.
“Omar,” she nodded to acknowledge his presence, “I didn’t realize you were what they meant when they said the royals were coming.”
“Uff,” he touched his heart, bowing his head. He was shirtless, wearing a white robe around his waist. “Your words sting me.”
“Don’t the palace guards have something better to do than waste time in the depths of shaytan’s lair?”
“We are being rewarded by the Prince for our duty,” he nodded his head towards a figure who was walking up the stairs. Lira had seen him often frequent the bathhouse, often accompanied by women that were not his wife. He wore a red shalwar, and gold glittered around his neck. He wasn’t wearing the turban that he usually did when amongst the public, although the scimitar that he always carried was still tucked at the side of his hip.
Interesting. “The prince joins you tonight. You must be celebrating something big.”
Omar’s hazel eyes glinted, and he sat down beside Lira. “Celebrate with us. Why have you tucked yourself away in the corner with such a mundane task?”
“The water doesn’t stay warm on its own,” Lira was very aware of how close he was but wasn’t bothered. Omar flirted with everyone but was as harmless as a fly. “So what are you celebrating?”
“Ah, you’re prying.”
“How can I celebrate with you if I don’t know why?” Lira looked up at him innocently from her post. She clipped the bucket back onto the rope and lowered down the bucket slowly. “What are you so afraid of? I’m a poor bathhouse maid. Who am I going to tell?”
He laughed, “don’t try to work your magic on me, Lira. I know how you work. The moment I tell you, you’ll be off selling the information to the highest bidder.”
“Your words offend me, Omar.” Lira sighed, turning her attention to the pulley as someone down below signaled another shipment of hot water. “Fine, be stubborn and let me be. I have work to do.”
“Oh come on,” he motioned for one of the girls to bring him a drink, “Sit with us.”
She waved him off, “some other night.”
He sighed, conceding as he stood up. Another woman was there to distract him immediately. Lira watched as Amna playfully pulled on his hand, leading him into the warm water coyly. Amna was one of the most beautiful women here and had a mastery of keeping men that she chose entranced with her charm. As soon as Omar was out of ear shot, Lira caught Maryam’s eye and motioned for her to come over.
“Get Omar nice and drunk,” she whispered in her ear, “he might have valuable information for us.”
“Really?” Maryam bit her lower lip, looking out into the crowd. “I thought I would work the Prince, he seems distracted tonight.”
Lira lowered her voice further, “he might give an extra coin or two, but he would never reveal any secrets. Tell Amna and Ruba to stay with the Prince, they’ll keep him happy enough. I think Omar knows something, we might be able to milk for much more. He’s in better hands with you.”
As much as the two squabbled, the trust between Lira and Maryam ran deep. The two had been brought into the bathhouse at the same time and had grown up together. Despite any hesitations she had, Maryam nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Alright. I’ll keep you posted.”
The night carried on as nights in the bathhouse normally did. Time always felt longer, as if the smoke and heat slowed down the seconds along with the clientele. Clothes became sparser as the hours slipped by, tongues meeting skin and lips kissing flesh as alcohol continued to loosen inhibitions.
It was around four in the morning when Lira finally left her post to get some fresh air on the terrace. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the bathhouse, in which constant debauchery was unfolding. Having grown up around the raucousness of the four walls around her, it took a lot to shock her now. Her sensibilities had been dulled for so long that she felt profoundly detached from it all. Many of the girls in the bathhouse enjoyed participating, but she had stayed on the outskirts. She had nothing against it, but her sense of self-preservation had always prevented her. The less guarded your inhibitions were, the less you were able to hustle. Making enough money was the only way she could ever find a way out of this city, away from this chaos.
She had only been on the terrace for a moment when Maryam slipped outside after her. She closed the glass doors behind her and scurried over to the railings where Lira stood. Her eyes were wide, her lips pinched tightly to hold in a smile. “You won’t believe it,” she hissed, pulling Lira off to the side to hide amongst the shadows. “Two drinks in and Omar has the loosest mouth in the country.”
Lira raised an eyebrow, “He already told you what they’re celebrating?”
“And more,” Maryam’s excited whisper sent a shiver of adrenaline down Lira’s spine. The thrill of wading into territory you weren’t wanted always provoked a sense of excitement in her. “If we could sell this to the right bidder, we’ll never have to sell wares in the bazaar ever again.”
“Well, out with it already Maryam!” Lira hissed, “does it have to do with the lights being out at the palace tonight?”
“They have a prisoner, from the seventh continent.”
“What?”
“They captured him. To bargain with the Idrisi.”
Lira found her mouth parting open. For the first time for as long as she could remember, she was at a loss for words. “They have a prisoner from the seventh continent?” she finally said, “Here?”