The Man in Shalimar Gardens

The three women sat in the corner of the upper terrace of Shalimar Gardens which during the Mughal era had been the special space reserved for Emperor’s favourite harem. But for the women that day, because of the heavy smog which descended on Lahore every December, it was torture, The women were expected to make two hundred garlands for a wedding party and supposed to finish by sunset so that the flowers could be hung in the arched walkways of the garden.

The women sat close together on the cold marble floor, their brightly coloured cotton dupattas covering their heads, their deft hands stringing the pearls and flowers together. Every now and again they sprayed the small, white blooms from the gunny sack with rose water. The flowers revived but when the women sprinkled their faces, it did not lessen their discomfort. The morning the air was dense, and their eyes stung. They joked about the bride and groom coughing in each other’s faces during the ceremony.

By eleven o’clock, the atmosphere was grey and thick with a burning smell. The women checked the lower terrace to see if the mist there was any less, and indeed it looked like it was getting clearer. But they knew from experience it was just a mirage, and in reality, there was very little difference.

At noon, there was still a light haze in the atmosphere, but at least now the women could see their fingers. They could also see the other workers around the gardens, sweeping the marble floors and dusting the cobwebs from the lattice in the arches.

‘Look there.’ Shaan sounded annoyed. Her arm pointed to the lower garden where a man had taken off his shirt and was exercising in a pair of tight-fitting gym shorts. His hair was tied in a bun. Even with the distance, it was easy to see his body was toned and muscular.

Arzoo stood up to get a better look. She was seventeen. Her mind was filled with romantic ideas. ‘Is he a body builder?’

‘Whatever he is, if he doesn’t watch out, he’ll be reported to the police,’ Rafia said. She was the oldest and twenty-three years old. She had four daughters. Her husband insisted she keep giving birth until they had a son. She felt exhausted just at the thought of it. ‘This garden is for families. It’s indecent for a man to be posing like that, half-naked.’

‘He doesn’t seem to care,’ Arzoo said. The man lifted a set of dumbbells from the ground and began working his biceps. He was too far away for them to hear if he was making strenuous noises.

Shaan whistled. ‘Waah. He must be a model; he’s got the perfect body.’

‘Everything that glitters isn’t gold.’ Rafia sat down, arranged her kameez around her knees and filled her lap with flowers. She poked a needle into the base of a flower and threaded six flowers followed by six pearls.

Shaan and Arzoo watched the man doing his bicep curls until he’d finished and placed the dumbbells on the ground.

‘He must be rich if he’s got nothing else to do but show off here all day,’ Shaan said. ‘Just because he’s got money, and a good body, he thinks he’s God.’

The man wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Arzoo shouted. ‘Hey, there.’

‘Shut up, you stupid girl,’ Shaan said, pulling her down. ‘Do you want him to come here?’

The man did not turn or look in their direction.

‘You’re both shameless,’ Rafia said.

‘Sometimes you act like my seventy-year-old aunty.’ Shaan sat down beside Rafia. ‘Nothing wrong in having some fun.’

‘What about your husband?’ Rafia said. Shaan was newly married, about two months.

‘What about him?’ Shaan said, her tone defiant. ‘What about yours?’

Arzoo sat down and said nothing. Her mind was full of the man’s body. Her parents had arranged her engagement to a stranger who lived in a village on the outskirts of Lahore. She’d seen his photograph once on her father’s phone for a few minutes, before her he’d snatched it back. Her fiancée had a thin, unsmiling face, and a pencil-line moustache. It was impossible to know, just from a man’s appearance whether you could walk over the bridge from your home to his and live with him for a hundred years. But now, standing here in the ancient, romantic gardens, Arzoo felt this man, this wonder of a man, with his sculptured, heavenly body, exercising without his shirt, was possibly one on whom she could take such a chance. She smiled to herself.

Shaan shook the bottle of rose water and sprayed the flowers. Droplets of the perfumed water landed on the women’s faces and filled the air with the delicate fragrance of roses. The women’s fingers moved nimbly. The garlands were placed in a pile on a white sheet laid on the ground, and covered with another, to protect them from withering.

‘What kind of man keeps going like that, for hours, exercising without getting tired?’ Rafia said.

‘He’s doing push-ups now,’ Shaan said. ‘I counted thirty already.’

‘What a shame you’re stuck here with us,’ Rafia said. She bit off a piece of thread between her teeth and kept her head bent, ‘You’d make a good fitness instructor for him.’

‘You can look too, Rafia,’ Arzoo said. ‘No one’s stopping you.’

‘Exactly.’ Shaan sat down and crossed her legs. ‘Where’s the harm in looking?’

Arzoo’s eyes stayed fixed on the man. ‘Hello, hello there.’ She gave a loud wolf-whistle. The man did not react, so she waved her arms trying to get his attention.

‘So he’s decided to ignore us?’ Shaan said. ‘This is how men are. When they think they’re cool, they play hard to get.’

‘He should be inviting us to go closer to watch him,’ Arzoo said. ‘Which man wouldn’t like an audience of three beautiful women?’

‘If he’s married, his wife wouldn’t like it,’ Rafia said. Pretending to yawn, she stood up, stretched her arms and looked around the gardens as though she were indifferent. But Arzoo saw Rafia’s eyes lingering on the man’s bare physique. No one could blame Rafia – the man had a body that could make even the coldest woman’s pulse race. He was now applying some kind of oil or lotion to his chest.

‘Uff,’ Shaan said. ‘If he was my husband, I’d never let him parade himself like this. I’d drag his sorry ass home and lock him up.’

‘Why is he showing-off here in the middle of the day?’ Rafia said. ‘What’s he trying to prove?’

‘Who knows what men really want,’ Shaan said. ‘Anyway, I don’t really care. I’m more interested in what women want. What do you think, Arzoo?’

‘I think he doesn’t look married,’ Arzoo said. ‘He looks free-spirited.’

‘Wait till you settle down, you won’t be thinking so kindly of those so called ‘free-spirited men’,’ Rafia said, her tone bitter. ‘I know all about them. And speaking of what women want, Shaan, for me, all I want is to be free. To live my life as I wish.’

The women fell silent. From the distance came the hum of the traffic. Then Shaan said, ‘When will that happen?’

Rafia’s eyes clouded. ‘Never say never. My children are still young, but maybe one day.’ She paused. ‘What about you?’

‘Choices,’ Shaan said. ‘I want to have choices. I don’t want a man to decide my life for me.’

‘I only want a handsome one like him,’ Arzoo gestured with a small nod towards the man, ‘to love me.’ The man was flexing his triceps.

Rafia gave a bitter, short laugh. ‘Dreaming is pointless.’

‘Leave her be,’ said Shaan. ‘It costs nothing.’

At around two in the afternoon, the women stopped working. It was time for lunch. They ate the previous day’s leftovers: vegetable curry and chapatis. When they finished, they washed their fingertips with water from their bottles, and put away the food containers in their cloth bags.

When Arzoo checked, the man was still there in the garden. He seemed to have superhuman energy and appeared to be exercising even more intensely than before. Now he was jogging on the spot.

‘His body’s like John Abraham’s in Pathaan,’ Shaan said. ‘Is this how they do it? Exercise for hours and hours? It’s not normal.’

‘No,’ Arzoo said, her voice dreamy, ‘he’s extraordinary, like that actor in Ram Leela. What’s his name?’

‘Ranveer Singh,’ Rafia said, flatly.

Arzoo undid her plait and shook out her curls. Notice me, she seemed to be saying, I’m different from the rest. She ran her hands through her hair, lifted it from the base of her neck and let it go. The breeze lifted a few strands and they fell across her face. By now she was in love. She was the heroine, adored by a mysterious hero. Here was her Mahiwal and she, his Sohni. She imagined him tying a garland around her ankles, his fingers brushing against her skin.

‘I’ve got a good mind to report him to the caretaker,’ Shaan said. ‘Enough is enough.’

‘Why?’ Arzoo said. ‘He hasn’t done anything to you.’

‘If he was my husband, I’d teach him a lesson,’ Shaan said. ‘He’d know he can’t flirt in the gardens, shamelessly like this.’

‘But he isn’t your husband, is he?’ Arzoo said, sticking a flower in her hair. The two girls were childhood friends, and Shaan was usually easy going, but today she was irritable. ‘What’s your problem, Shaan?’

‘You’re wasting your time, Arzoo,’ Rafia said. ‘Stick to the man your parents have found you.’

‘Why should I? You’ve both been telling me about wanting to live life in your own ways and making choices.’ Arzoo clapped her hands. ‘Maybe I should whistle again, so he knows it’s me.’

‘You’re the only one who did,’ Rafia said. ‘And he knows. Now just sit down and stop making a fool of yourself.’

‘Shaan whistled too,’ Arzoo said, her gaze fixed on the man.

‘Shaan?’ Rafia frowned. ‘Shame on you, and you’re newly married.’

‘So what? You’re a mother of four and you were gawking,’ Shaan said. ‘Maybe my husband would be amused if I told him I spent the day spying on a muscle man. What about you?’

‘You won’t understand what it’s like to be with a man who thinks you’re an ATM machine for babies,’ Rafia said. ‘My husband thinks whenever he wants, he can just press a few buttons and he’ll get what he needs.’

Shaan bit her lip. ‘Mine’s completely useless. He just lies on the chaarpoy all day smoking.  He won’t even try and look for a job.’

‘At least he’s not a peacock, like that one,’ Rafia said, nodding towards the man.

‘He’d need feathers to do that,’ Arzoo said, making a face.

They laughed. ‘Watch this,’ Shaan said standing up. She whistled and yelled until her face was red. But the man did not respond.

‘Jerk,’ Shaan shouted. ‘Are you deaf? What the hell’s wrong with you?’ She looked like she was about to burst into tears. ‘It’s not fair that men always get to choose. Why must we accept it? What about our feelings?’

‘Sit down.’ Rafia pulled the corner of Shaan’s salwar. ‘You’re married. What will people say? They’ll think you’re desperate.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what they do or don’t,’ Shaan said, her voice shaking with anger. ‘No one’s putting food on my table or warming my bed at night.’

‘Where’s your husband, then?’ Rafia tied a knot in a thread.

‘He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t touch me.’ Shaan went and dragged the gunny sack with white flowers from the corner to where they were sitting. ‘I’m still a virgin.’ She tipped the sack onto the floor and began separating the damaged flowers from the fresh ones. ‘Arzoo, you’ll learn what men are about, soon enough.’

‘That she will,’ Razia said. ‘That she will.’

But Arzoo was only half listening. She was concentrating on the flowers in her lap. If these two weren’t here, she was thinking, I’d have gone over to him by now, even though I don’t know what I’d say. Maybe there’d be no need to say anything. He’d understand my feelings instinctively because they’d be mutual. Maybe he was thinking about her this instant. She stood up to check.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, almost breathless. She felt as if all the life had been pumped out of her body.

‘His wife must’ve called him home,’ Shaan said. ‘And about time too.’

‘Maybe he’s lying somewhere collapsed,’ Rafia said. ‘Serves him right.’

But after a moment, the man reappeared from behind the trees wearing a white vest. His hair was untied and it flowed down to his shoulders and around his face like a lion’s mane. He looked exactly how Arzoo had imagined he would.

‘He’s still here,’ she said softly. The man looked straight at them. First he frowned, then he scowled. Arzoo decided it was because the other two women were there standing next to her. Of course, he preferred to see her alone. The mist had cleared, and she could see him more clearly. He was young and handsome. He dabbed his face with a towel and threw it in a small sports bag lying on the ground. He bent to look inside the bag.

‘He’s leaving,’ Arzoo said. ‘He can’t be.’ Her voice stuck in her throat. ‘He mustn’t.’

‘What are you going to do? You can’t stop him,’ Rafia said. ‘He has a wife and kids, probably half-a-dozen of them.’

Arzoo glanced at the sky; she was running out of time. If she didn’t act, she’d end up like Rafia and Shaan, miserable and frustrated. No, her life could be different. She still had a chance. She stood up, the flowers fell from her lap. The other two watched, shocked, as Arzoo opened her plait, combed her fingers through the ringlets, and crossed the terrace boundary over to the man in the garden.

When he saw Arzoo walking towards him, the man wiped his face on his shirt. As she drew closer, he tilted his head back and took a swig from his bottle, letting the water overflow from his mouth, down his chin, onto his neck and chest. His body was shiny with oil and sweat. His shoulders and chest were open and broad. He stood with his legs slightly apart.

Arzoo took a sharp intake of breath. Standing in front of him, she felt silly, and shy. ‘Hello,’ she said and trying to sound more confident, ‘Hello, there.’

The man observed her with a serious face. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘We’re working over there.’ She raised her arm and pointed to her friends. ‘I thought you’d like to make our acquaintance.’

The man gave a small shrug. He put down his water bottle and picked up the dumbbells. ‘Go away,’ he said, flexing one bicep, then another. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

Arzoo stood there, transfixed. ‘I’ve been watching you the whole day.’

‘Listen,’ he said, stopping his exercise. ‘If you like staring at men so much, then go to the cinema.’ His lips parted in a cruel smile. ‘Go watch a film, whistle, clap and scream as much as you like.’

His words did not register properly, but she could tell from his expression that he’d dismissed her. Maybe if I keep standing here, she thought, he’ll change his mind. The man continued looking at her and raised his right arm to the side. Ten repetitions. Then his left. The minutes passed. The tension mounted. His unfairness stung her. A sudden breeze caught her hair, and she looped the stray curls behind her ear. What should I say next? she wondered. The man was watching her more intently. He placed the dumbbells on the ground. She smiled. He had succumbed, like she knew he would. He reached into the pockets of his shorts and drew out a thousand rupees. ‘Get lost,’ he said. ‘Go to the cinema. Take your friends with you.’

Resentment took the place of every feeling. ‘What do you think? I’m not a beggar,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Who do you think you are? I don’t need your money.’  She drew herself up and levelled her gaze at him.

The man’s arm dropped.

‘I was mistaken,’ she said. I thought you were different. But I realise now, you’re just like the others. Ordinary.’ Arzoo lifted her chin and flicked her hair over her shoulder. The man looked surprised by her outburst. She turned and without a backward glance, returned to her friends on the terrace.

They did not ask what happened. Arzoo went back to threading the flowers. The three women worked steadily in silence. It was almost six thirty by the time they had finished making all the garlands.

At dusk the terraces were lit with lanterns. From the marble fountains scented rose water flowed through the gardens and red petals floated on the surface of the small pools.

The three women exited the gates of Shalimar Gardens with their empty baskets. Arzoo plucked the jasmine which she’d tucked behind her ear and tossed it into the gutter. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t God.’

Later that night, a full moon smiled on the wedding party. The guests admired the lingering fragrance of jasmines, the garlands hanging in the arches, and the enchanting atmosphere, saying it was ‘as romantic as Mughal times.’