‘No one can be uninvited tonight,’ said Bibbo. ‘I thought the Nawabzada might be alive to the opportunity.’
Firoz laughed. Bibbo loved intrigue, and it was good for him that she did, because it would have been impossible otherwise for him to communicate with Tasneem. He had seen her only twice, but she fascinated him; and he felt that she must surely feel something for him, for although her letters were gentle and discreet, the very fact that she wrote them without her sister’s knowledge required courage.
‘And does the Nawabzada have a letter in exchange?’ asked Bibbo.
‘Indeed, I do; and something else besides,’ said Firoz, handing her a letter and a ten-rupee note.
‘Oh, but this is unnecessary –’
‘Yes, I know how unnecessary it is,’ said Firoz. ‘Who else is here?’ he continued. He spoke in a low voice. He could hear the sound of a lament being chanted upstairs.
Bibbo reeled off a few names including that of Bilgrami Sahib. To Firoz’s surprise there were several Sunnis among them.
‘Sunnis too?’
‘Why not?’ said Bibbo. ‘Saeeda Begum does not discriminate. Even certain pious women attend – the Nawabzada will admit that that is unusual. And she does not permit any of those mischievous imprecations that mar the atmosphere of most gatherings.’
‘If that is the case I would have asked my friend Maan to come along,’ said Firoz.
‘No, no,’ said Bibbo, startled. ‘Dagh Sahib is a Hindu; that would never do. Id, yes, but Moharram – how would that be possible? It is a different matter altogether. Outdoor processions are open to everybody, but one must discriminate somewhat for a private gathering.’
‘Anyway, he told me to give his love to the parakeet.’
‘Oh, that miserable creature – I would like to wring its neck,’ said Bibbo. Clearly some recent incident had reduced the bird’s lovability in her eyes.
‘And Maan – Dagh Sahib, I mean – also wondered – and I too am wondering – about this legend of Saeeda Begum quenching the thirst of travellers in the wilderness of Karbala with her own fair hands’
‘The Nawabzada will be gratified to know that it is not a legend,’ said Bibbo feeling a little annoyed that her mistress’s piety was being questioned, but then suddenly giving Firoz a smile as she remembered the ten-rupee note. ‘She stands at the corner of Khirkiwalan and Katra Mast on the day the tazias are brought out. Her mother, Mohsina Bai, used to do: it, and she never fails to do it herself. Of course, you wouldn’t know it was her; she wears a burqa, naturally. But even when she is not well she keeps that post; she is a very devout lady. Some people think one thing precludes another.’
‘I do not doubt what you say,’ said Firoz seriously. ‘I did not mean to give offence.’
Bibbo, delighted with such courtesy from the Nawabzada, said: ‘The Nawabzada is about to get a reward for his own religiosity.’
‘And what is that?’
‘He will see for himself.’
And so Firoz did. Unlike Maan, he did not pause to adjust his cap halfway up the stairs. No sooner had he entered the room where Saeeda Bai – in a dark blue sari with not a jewel on her face or hands – was holding her session than he saw – or, rather, beheld – Tasneem sitting at the back of the room. She was dressed in a fawn-coloured salwaar-kameez. She looked as beautiful, as delicate as the first time he had seen her. Her eyes were filled with tears. The moment she saw Firoz she lowered them.
Saeeda Bai did not lose a syllable of her marsiya as she saw Firoz enter, though her eyes flashed. Already the listeners were in a high state of excitement. Men and women alike were weeping; some of the women were beating their breasts and lamenting for Hussain. Saeeda Bai’s own soul seemed to have entered the marsiya, but one part of it observed the congregation and noted the entrance of the Nawab of Baitar’s son. She would have to deal with this trouble later; for the moment she had simply to bear it. But the agitation she felt communicated itself into the force of her indignation against the killer of Imam Hussain:
‘And as that accursed mercenary pulled out the bloodied spear
The Prince of Martyrs bowed his head in gratitude to God.
The hell-bent, brutal Shamr unsheathed his dagger and advanced
The heavens shook, the earth quaked seeing such foul, odious acts.
How can I say how Shamr put the dagger to his throat -
It was as if he trampled on the Holy Book itself !’
‘Toba! toba!’ – ‘Ya Allah!’ – ‘Ya Hussain! Ya Hussain!’ cried the audience. Some were so choked with grief they could not speak at all, and when the next stanza revealed his sister Zainab’s grief – her swooning away – her shock when she reopened her eyes and saw her brother’s head, the head of the Holy Prince of Martyrs, raised upon a lance – there was a dreadful silence in the audience, a pause before renewed lamentation. Firoz glanced at Tasneem; her eyes were still cast down, but her lips moved to the famous words that her sister was reciting.