In an instant, Salma was off the track, following the sound, that red moving through the green. Iman caught a glimpse of her tear-stained cheeks, the excitement in her eyes, and then she was on her own.
Iman continued walking. Without Salma, she found herself slowing down, more in tune with her surroundings, listening and watching. Looking up at a lapwing flicking from side to side, listening to its soft waa-waa sound, she tripped on the protruding root of a tree, stumbled forward and fell. On her knees, the smell of damp earth and vegetation went to her head; the darkness of the forest was womb-like and welcoming. Rest after motion, stillness and laxity. She could give in to this. No more resistance or arguments, no one asking questions, circling her, lassoing her in. She could be what she wanted to be, in a state of existence that was unthreatened, that did not need to be accounted for or earnt. It would be easier that way. No ability to attract or need to repel advances. She would be left alone, to sing if she wanted to sing, a song for the joy of it and not in order to entertain.
The Hoopoe was hovering above her. ‘Stand up, stand up, stand up.’
She started to get up, but then decided not to. He had wasted his time. All that special tuition in her attic room, as if she were a princess. When she took off her hijab, he stopped visiting and she could only find him outside. She could only hear him when others heard him, she could only see him as they did. These were the rules now; she had chosen to become one of the crowd.
So if he was here now especially for her sake, then she must be in great need, maybe even in danger. He too was possessive about her, not losing sight of where she had gone. He too believed she needed protecting and saving. No. No more preciousness. No more responsibility either. The solemnness in which she had been told that her beauty was to be cherished and guarded; hidden and kept from harm. She wanted away from all that. Far away where she could be left alone. Like a sunset was left alone or a flower bed or a butterfly. She would not take any more orders. Stand. Sit. Fetch. Don’t come back. Send us money. Leave that bit of chicken for your brother. Marry him and not him. Make sure you remove every thread of your hair that’s tangled in the shower plug.
‘Stand up, Iman.’
No, she would not.
All she had ever wanted, truly wanted, known she had wanted, was a baby. Was that too much to ask? Her mother had more children than she wanted, and Salma had all the children she wanted. But she was like a doll, never pregnant, always slight and slim. Husband after husband, month after month. All she had ever asked for was a child. And, at first, she had thought it would be easy, just like that, marriage then baby, one following the other, the consequence of the other. Every cycle, she hoped it would be the last time she bled for a long while, but month after month, every month, a disappointment. Iman had always been in tune with her body. Unlike other girls, who could be fussy, who disliked the smell of what leaked out of them, who were terrified of their husbands on that first wedding night. Iman was a natural. She took it all in her stride. Surely hers should be the body to grow ripe with child, the body that was brimming with fertility, the potential for life. Go to school, ensnare a husband, become a receptionist – all to bide time for her true calling, her understanding of the meaning of life.
Yet neither the Hoopoe nor Salma spoke to her about this. They did not face her disappointment head-on. They did not explain to her why Moni was a mother and she was not. Why Salma had four and she had none. They would say it was Allah’s will and she knew that already, but why was it His will? What was the logic behind it, the purpose, the intention? As long as she did not know, she would be bewildered, killing time, waiting to find out the purpose of her humanity.
She had asked Salma once, ‘Is my constipation stopping me from getting pregnant?’ And Salma laughed and said, ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no connection.’ But how was she expected to know what connected to what and what caused what. She had been bored at school, lessons that were too abstract, patriotic songs which meant nothing, all the silly fuss about clean copybooks.
Hands and knees on the ground. Under her palms, the soil seemed to give way, to cave in ever so slightly. Oh, so this would be like the other time when the dog knocked her over. The earth sucking her in and this time she would not be afraid. She would not resist. She did not want to continue walking without Salma, it was not worth it to complete the challenge of the trail on her own. She rolled on her back and saw the disapproval in the Hoopoe’s eyes. ‘Stand up, Iman.’
She smiled at him. ‘I don’t want to, and you can’t force me.’
‘Didn’t I teach you? Didn’t I warn you?’
She did remember the stories, but did he want her to apply them to her life? She had never been good at school, she had told him that, yet he still went on teaching. ‘What was I meant to learn?’ The ground was welcoming, cradling her
