Daughter of Nomads Read Free

embrace.
    â€˜Ouch,’ Jahani gasped.
    Hafeezah pulled away and noticed blood on Jahani’s qameez. ‘You’re wounded! I’ll send for the hakim.’
    Before Hafeezah stood, Jahani grabbed her hand. ‘What did Sami’s father mean, Ammi? About Sami and me – was there a choice?’
    But Hafeezah didn’t answer and hurried out to the courtyard.
    An hour later the hakim arrived.
    He rolled up Jahani’s left sleeve. ‘You have been fortunate,’ he declared. ‘The blade only sliced through the skin of your arm and has not caused lasting damage.’ His face was full of questions, but Jahani had no answers.
    â€˜A man pushed me – we fell. I didn’t feel the knife.’ Her arm was throbbing now.
    â€˜You have another scar on your arm,’ the hakim said. ‘How did this happen?’
    â€˜Ammi said I had an accident riding a pony when I was very young. A friend saved me.’
    â€˜You have been fortunate again, it seems. Your friend saved your life today with her own.’
    Jahani’s heart ached. It should have been her. She should have stopped the knife for Sameela. ‘But Sami was to be married!’
    The hakim said nothing more, just returned his potions to his bag.
    And that was the moment that Jahani finally acknow­ledged the truth: now, Sameela would have a funeral instead of a wedding.
    The funeral was held late that afternoon as was customary, but Hafeezah didn’t want Jahani to attend. ‘You are weak from your wound,’ she said.
    â€˜But, Ammi, I have to go! Sameela’s my dearest friend. Please!’
    â€˜It mightn’t be safe.’
    Jahani sighed. Always Hafeezah worried about safety. ‘We will only be in the house. You’ll be able to see me all the time.’
    Finally Hafeezah relented and dressed in her best white outfit and embroidered cap under a white dupatta. Jahani wore a white shalwar qameez with matching dupatta. They didn’t wear any jewellery as expected, though Hafeezah made sure Jahani wore her taveez, hidden beneath her qameez. Hafeezah prepared a special Hahayul dish called maltash butter as a gift.
    A cloud of white-clad mourners descended on Sameela’s house to the blowing of bronze horns. Sameela’s parents wouldn’t allow professional mourners to attend. ‘We were planning a wedding,’ her father said, ‘so we shall celebrate Sameela’s life, not wear black and blue, nor wail and mourn.’ But as soon as Sameela’s mother saw her daughter wrapped in the white shroud, she clutched Sameela to her chest and wailed as loudly as the best paid mourner.
    To Jahani’s horror, Sameela’s mother had to be dragged away as the men took the body to be buried and, at that moment, the shroud fell away. Underneath, Sameela was dressed in the red-and-gold skirt and long tunic that would have been her wedding clothes. Seeing her like that made Jahani weep for the thought of what would have been.
    Sameela’s betrothed was allowed to attend the funeral to mourn his bride-to-be. He had not seen Sameela since they were children, but he looked as aggrieved as if they had been married for years. Jahani watched tears roll down his cheeks and knew he would have been a good husband.
    At the wake Jahani helped serve food to the guests, but she was brushing tears from her eyes so often she forgot what she was doing. Everywhere she looked she was reminded of Sameela and their friendship: the rooms where they’d played games, the desks where they’d had their discussions about poetry. Even glancing out the window brought to mind the horse riding and sword lessons they’d had with Sameela’s brother.
    Hafeezah was also in a state. Jahani heard one of Sameela’s aunts say, ‘Anyone would think it was Jahani who died. Why is she so upset?’
    Jahani watched Hafeezah as she laid platters of sweet rice on the table. Hafeezah was weeping,