‘Compellingly told . . . Mansab’s debut brings to mind Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah’ The Hindu

THIS

HOUSE OF CL AY AND WA T E R Faiqa Mansab ‘Mesmerizing’ Times of India

PENGUIN BOOKS

THIS HOUSE OF CLAY AND WATER Faiqa Mansab has an MFA in creative writing from Kingston University London. This House of Clay and Water is her award-winning thesis, and was longlisted in 2018 for the Karachi Literature Festival Getz Pharma Fiction Prize and the Karachi Literature Festival German Peace Prize. She lives in Lahore with her family.

PRAISE FOR THIS HOUSE OF CLAY AND WATER ‘Mesmerizing . . . Mansab’s book brings to light a fresh brilliance from Pakistan, with a storytelling so sophisticated, it exudes radiance . . . [Her] narrative excellence can be measured out in her language, and the book offers a heart-wrenching tale of forbidden love from a multitude of yearnings expressed through the mind, body, and spirit. A must-read’—Times of India ‘Compellingly told . . . Mansab’s debut brings to mind Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah’—The Hindu ‘Mansab’s prose is elegantly poetic’—New Indian Express ‘Mansab carves out a bold tale out of the society’s inadequacy and inhumanity—her story is told with sensitivity and, sometimes, rage’—Scroll ‘[Mansab] writes with fine flair’—Tribune ‘Mansab’s prose is limpid, restrained, on occasion rising to great finesse as she talks of the chief character in her novel: the city of Lahore’—Open ‘Mansab does a good job of layering her characters and giving them distinctive voices, giving the novel a depth that helps set it apart’—India Today

‘A compelling tale’—ThePrint ‘As [Mansab] masterfully weaves the lives of three protagonists to create a delicate fabric of love and desire, we are left with a definite page-turner of a novel that speaks volumes of the human struggle to find its one true place’—Indian Nerve ‘Amidst cruelty, religious hypocrisy, and political corruption, two outsiders—an elite lady caught in a loveless marriage, and a poetic, self-loathing hijra—embark upon a romance that threatens to provoke impossible violence from both their worlds. A gorgeously written evocation of Daata Darbar, one of the world’s great shrines, of the city of Lahore, and of love itself in defiance of all odds’—Molly Crabapple, bestselling author of Drawing Blood ‘A poignant debut novel’—Biblio

THE

THIS NATION H OAS USE

MOTHER OF CL AY and Other Visions AND of Nationhood

WA T E R Faiqa Mansab

PENGUIN BOOKS USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com Published by Penguin Random House India Pvt. Ltd 4th Floor, Capital Tower 1, MG Road, Gurugram 122 002, Haryana, India

First published in Viking by Penguin Random House India 2017 Published in Penguin Books 2018 Copyright © Faiqa Mansab 2017 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143442752 For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro by Manipal Digital Systems, Manipal

Printed at Repro India Limited

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

BISMILLAH AR-RAHMAN AR-RAHIM For Ami Jee, my maternal grandmother, Begum Mairaaj Malik, who bequeathed to me the spiritual path, For Abu Jan, my father, Rai Mansab Ali Khan, whose forbearance and fortitude are an example to me, For Ami Jan, my mother, Saeeda Sultana, whose extraordinary courage and sense of humour are even now a guiding light, For Mamoo Jan, my maternal uncle, Malik Abdul Qayyum, a true Sufi, who followed the Path without feeling the need to announce it, For Arooj Mansab, my sister, who showed us that death is not to be feared but embraced as the final act of faith, I carry you in my heart. Till we meet again. With all my love.

In this house of clay and water, My heart lies waste without you . . . Diwan-i Shams-i Tabrīzī

1

NIDA

It had all begun so well, just like how things ended in fairy tales. The tea shop I shouldn’t be sitting in thinking of fairy tales gone sour was situated in the narrow alleyways of Anarkali Bazaar, named after the slave girl who’d dared to love a Mughal prince. She’d consequently been buried alive in a wall nearby—a convenient and constant reminder to women in Lahore of the relationship between love and walls. This wasn’t the most fashionable district in Lahore, but it was where I could lose myself and think—usually about Saqib. Perhaps, I’d become incapable of any other thoughts. He was completely unconcerned with what went on inside my head—a noisy, haunted place full of ghosts and goblins. Saqib complained that I thought too much, felt too much, and too deeply. As if I had a curable disease that I refused to get treated. Like love. Love, my mother had insisted all her life, was a foolish concept best left to dreamy movies and dreamier poets. Only the most foolish girls believed boys when they proclaimed their love, especially without offering marriage first. Such girls were to be reviled and shunned. Girls from ‘good families’ did not display feminine traits that might attract boys. Wearing bangles, henna tattoos and nose pins apparently attracted them. 1

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FAIQA MANSAB

While my classmates drifted through crushes on actors, singers and the neighbourhood boys, I had assumed an air of quiet dignity, falling in love only with characters in books, in the secrecy of my mind. No human man was good enough for me. Good morning, Mr Darcy. Goodnight, Mr Rochester. Turns out, I had harboured the notion in secret (even from myself ) that the lovely dream, the myth of love, the handsome man who’d fall deeply and irrevocably in love, might not be true for others but would be true for me, because I was different. Somebody should’ve bitch-slapped me at Lakshmi Chowk or, at the very least, Liberty Chowk. And Saqib should’ve been deported to a galaxy far, far away, before his family had come by with a proposal six years ago, which my parents had accepted on my behalf, without consulting me. Saqib and I were allowed a phone call every week for the duration of our three-month engagement. He used them mostly to make declarations of love. I was quick to believe him. I also believed in the possibility of alien life-forms back then. A boy came over to my table with a handwritten bill—a few scribbles on a piece of paper, the total dominating its otherwise rough blankness. He was twelve or thirteen, his clothes stained, his fingernails dirty and a face made hard with experience. There were millions like him in this city I loved to hate, despite the resilient voices that insisted that ‘anyone who hasn’t seen Lahore hasn’t been born yet’. Or the equally baffling ‘Lahore is Lahore’—just in case someone confused it with Las Vegas. Making a carnival out of nothing, the defining quality of the ‘vibrant-hearted Lahoris’ translated into eating cholesterol-laden food in a perpetual state of carpe diem and eventually killing themselves ten years sooner than their natural lifespan, which wasn’t that long in any case. After settling the bill I walked out of the shop towards the long queue of rickshaws. An inevitable scuffle ensued amongst the drivers when they saw me. Some called out, inviting me—their sister—to be the first customer of the day. To honour me one of them promised to charge a rupee less. I walked to the closest one and heaved myself in.

THIS HOUSE OF CLAY AND WATER

3

The cacophony of the tiny engine bursting into life rent the air, nearly drowning out the ringtone of my phone. ‘Hi, Saqib.’ Every time my husband’s name left my lips, I imagined my tongue stained dark with it. ‘Yeah, hi. So where are you?’ ‘Out.’ ‘Obviously. Where?’ Sometimes I wished I could just vanish, evaporate. God knew it was hot enough. ‘Are you coming home?’ I prevaricated. ‘No. I wanted to tell you that I’ll be late. Shareef-ud-din and his men want to meet. He called this morning. I had a half-hour slot in the afternoon so I’ll go. I have to go see the MPA in Multan. He invited me and a few other politicians to lunch. Do you know Haider Ali Shah and Jameel Rajput?’ I said no. Saqib’s voice oozed satisfaction, with a trace of victory: ‘Ask your brothers. They’d know. Tell them I’m having lunch with these men. They’re from very old political families. I’m surprised you don’t know them. Anyway, I’ll invite them over next week. Their families are also settled in Lahore and these guys travel to their constituency like I do. Become friends with their wives. It’s all about contacts these days.’ ‘Okay.’ There was silence. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, but knowing Saqib like I did, I knew he wanted to hear something. I could feel the pressure of his expectations in the silence. His voice a tad low, almost tentative, he said, ‘They were very keen for our families to meet. I’m surprised your brothers aren’t on similar terms with them. Why’s that? Don’t they think these people are good enough for them?’ The familiar panic of being wrong descended upon me. I hastened to explain my brothers and their ways to him: ‘Not at all, Saqib. They’re old-fashioned, you know. Not like us, like you. They don’t socialize as much because they’re old-fashioned.’

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‘Hmm. Both men are from very good families. It’s not like they’re rabble. Your brothers think everyone is rabble.’ ‘No, Saqib, of course they don’t . . .’ ‘You’re still defending them. After all they’ve done to me.’ The heat was beginning to drain me. I felt slightly nauseated. ‘Have you forgotten how Khalil treated me at your father’s qul ceremony?’ he asked. The horns blared around me, loud and grating. The splutter of the rickshaw bore into my heart. How carelessly we used words, thoughtless of the trail of slime and sludge they left behind. Mouth, tongue, teeth, all sullied with the rot of misused words. ‘He’d just lost his father. Maybe he can be forgiven for being negligent towards you?’ Saqib remained silent. After a pause, I added in a softer tone to pacify him, ‘You know how difficult it is to lose a father, especially for boys . . .’ ‘Didn’t you lose your father too? Where does all your feminist crap go when it comes to your brothers? All that philosophizing’s just for me, is it?’ ‘No, Saqib. Khalil Bhai is not as mature as you are. You’re already a seasoned politician . . .’ ‘No thanks to your family.’ I slumped back against the seat. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘no thanks to them.’ The fake leather of the autorickshaw seat was giving off a rancid smell in the sun. My eyes behind the thin black veil of the burka were stinging with the heat and from the sweat that trickled into them from my scalp and forehead. I wanted to jump out of that tiny space that I had found to carry me to temporary freedom, and which was now my prison again as Saqib’s voice pinned me down. I thought an apology might set me free because the truth never did. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Yeah . . . well. Anyway, see you soon. Allah Hafiz.’ The phone went dead. The city stretched out before me—austere, mismatched, tired.

2

BHANGGI

My body, ji, isn’t my own. It’s a communal vessel for lust that finds expression in dark corners. I learnt that early in my life, na. I am like the spaces that belong to no one; a dirty thought never acknowledged. This cage of bones and flesh that holds me prisoner . . . makes a mockery of me and my desires, destroys me daily. How can anyone be held responsible for the body they’re born with, ji? Who can help that? Growing up, I’d watched men haggle with the older hijras, over the price of an hour of guilty pleasure. It’s the price of a life they squabble over, and it’s cheaper than an old chicken. Few hijras live past the age of forty. We trade our lives for a few rupees, ji, agree to bear the burden of desires, confidences and diseases that no one else will. Women are more trouble. More expensive too. Hijras are simpler; no questions asked, even if caught by the police—some of whom are regulars too. Some prefer about anything else to a woman. I watch the Nightingales every night. Once the streets are empty and everything is quiet and even the dogs stop barking, the silence is broken only by the sounds of occasional cars passing by, or a drunkard yelling at a cat underfoot; the hijras known as the Nightingales 5

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emerge from the few houses in the alley, a space that is only ours: the hijra chawl. There are five of them, and their haunt is the crossing, where the narrow alleyways meet. Twinkling like fireflies in their sequined shirts and shiny synthetic silks, they laugh and chat as they wait for the regulars. They are prettier than the other hijras, whose job is to beg in the streets by day; they act as pimps for the better-looking ones. The beggar hijras look different. Their powdered faces look grey, and the exaggerated thick eyebrows and painted red lips only accentuate the hardness of their features. It is a poor disguise. As soon as one looks into their eyes, one knows. They all said I was pretty too. I would be a Nightingale when it was time, not a pimp beggar. I could hardly wait. The Nightingales are important. They bring in the big bucks, so everyone treats them well. They get the best bits of meat in the curry, and the best clothes. The Nightingales stand together at the corner, talking, laughing, and at times a hearty guffaw would carry in on the night air and thrill me as I lay in the small room, listening. They were happy, I thought. As a child, laughter is all you need as proof of happiness. As a child you don’t know there are so many different kinds of laughter—like different varieties of birds. Some are flightless. They share a bidi, and the ends glow in the darkness. Sometimes they share a bottle of home-made liqueur. And I long to try both. Even though I know it is Shaitan’s drink. Or maybe because I know it is. Gulabo, the master, the Guru of our community, found me as a newborn, wrapped in a filthy bloodied towel outside the door of Daata’s Dargah. She took pity on me, she says. She fed me and clothed me, yes? She looked after me, even when those who’d helped me abandoned me. They didn’t want me. They didn’t want the shame that comes attached to me, a hijra. Gulabo took care of me. She was also the one who sold me the first time, when I was eight. I was nothing more than an investment, an object to barter for little conveniences: indemnity from the police

THIS HOUSE OF CLAY AND WATER

7

and a discount at the grocer’s for an hour every night, maybe a few rupees sometimes from a street wretch, if times were hard. That is the only life I am entitled to. There is nothing more, nothing else. Growing up, I found refuge from the neighbourhood boys in the dilapidated junk shop with the kabbadiya. I hid there because, by then, I already knew why the bigger boys chased me. No one followed me into the dark alley where the kabbadiya lived, usually passed out on his piles of outdated books, magazines and newspapers. There was always a lantern burning low, hanging on the wall inside the shop, the corrugated-iron shutter only half closed. Two gigantic piles of newspapers, so old they were stuck to the floor, held the runner of the shutter up. I squeezed in between those two columns of newspapers, panting, listening to my thudding heart, waiting for the dreaded whispered insults of the eldest boy with the cruel eyes. Often the boys didn’t follow. They were afraid of the kabbadiya. People said he was a jinn. Few people had seen him in years. But the kabbadiya found me one night. I’d gone to sleep looking at the colourful pictures in a tattered, yellowing magazine. It was the smell of his breath that awoke me. It was hot and sharp. I’d smelt it on men before, yes? It was Shaitan’s drink. I woke up with my hands reflexively covering my head to avoid the blows I knew would follow. But they didn’t. The kabbadiya pulled me out of the corner. ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’ I nodded; I couldn’t get my tongue to detach from the roof of my mouth. ‘You leave the magazines lying around. You wouldn’t make a good thief. You know who I am?’ I nodded again. He was the junk-shop owner. The jinn. His eyes were sharp, dark. ‘You don’t know.’ He gave a short laugh and said, ‘That’s new. I used to be the gossip for years. Whose shame has taken over mine, I wonder, that people no longer talk about me. Well, what does it matter? There’s plenty of that to go around.’

‘A gorgeously written evocation of Daata Darbar, one of the world’s great shrines, of the city of Lahore, and of love itself in defiance of all odds’ Molly Crabapple, bestselling author of Drawing Blood Set in Lahore, This House of Clay and Water explores the lives of two women. Nida, intelligent and lonely, has married into an affluent political family and is desperately searching for meaning in her life, while impulsive, lovely Sasha, from the ordinary middle class, willingly consorts with rich men who can satisfy her frantic longing for designer labels and upmarket places. Nida and Sasha meet at the famous Daata Sahib Dargah and connect—their need to understand why their worlds feel so alien and empty bringing them together. On her frequent visits to the dargah, Nida also meets the gentle, flute-playing hijra Bhanggi, who sits under a bargadh tree and yearns for acceptance and affection, but is invariably shunned. A friendship—fragile, tentative and tender—develops between the two, both exiles within their own lives; but it flies in the face of all convention and cannot be allowed. Faiqa Mansab’s accomplished and dazzling debut novel explores the themes of love, betrayal and loss in the complex, changing world of today’s Pakistan.

‘Mansab’s prose is elegantly poetic’ New Indian Express

Fiction

Cover illustration by Archana Sreenivasan Cover design by Ahlawat Gunjan

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