Shabanu: Chapters 1–3

Bhutan and I step gingerly through the prickly gray camel thorn, each of us balancing a red clay pot half filled with water on our heads. It was all the water we could get from the toba, the basin, that is our main water supply.

Our underground mud cisterns are infested with worms. We’ll dig new ones when the monsoon rains come—if they come.

Our underground mud cisterns are infested with worms. We’ll dig new ones when the monsoon rains come—if they come.

In the courtyard that circles our round, thatched huts, Mama and Auntie have made a fire, and a kettle keeps warm beside it for tea.

Grandfather leans against the courtyard wall, chin on his chest, his turban nodding in rhythm to his snores.

Mama sits with yards of yellow silk in her lap, stitching one of Phulan’s wedding dresses. She has embroidered silver and gold threads, mirrors, and tassels into the bodice.

Mama holds up the tunic and measures it against Phulan’s shoulders and chest.

“I worry,” Auntie goes on, her fingers flying over the yellow silk. “You’ll spend your life’s savings on two dowries and two weddings. Without a son, who will bring a dowry for you? And who will take care of you when you’re old?”

When hot summer winds parch the land, we must move to desert settlements where the wells hold sweet water.

Dadi says nothing. His face is tired from worry, and his black hair is disheveled under his turban.

I secretly count the hours until we leave for Sibi! It will be just Dadi and me and the camels. Phulan hasn’t gone since her betrothal to Hamir.

Dadi brings us camel harnesses to mend, and Grandfather tells stories about his days as a great warrior in the Army Camel Corps of the Nawab of Bahawalpur.

I climb up behind his hump and twine my fingers into curls of rough brown hair to hold my seat while he lurches to his feet.

Without a signal from me, Guluband turns toward the toba, his feet whispering in the powdery sand, his powerful legs unfolding and stretching in a loping rhythm as ancient as the desert.

My dress is soaked with sweat from the effort, and I wonder if the inert baby has been poisoned too and whether if he survives the birth he will find a foster mother.

I don’t know how long it takes, but by the time his back legs are free he is bleating and wriggling, trying to stand.

I rub his legs and chest briskly until his soft white fur curls tightly as it dries in the sun.

Slowly he becomes more active. All the while he nuzzles me, looking for a teat to suckle.

Now that she is betrothed, she can’t leave the house without the billowy veil—and she still can’t get down from a camel gracefully while keeping herself covered.

Phulan picks up her milk pot and heads toward a female with a yearling that’s nearly weaned.

Phulan picks up her milk pot and heads toward a female with a yearling that’s nearly weaned.

His belly is high and tight, the muscles along his back and haunches bulge from his strenuous mating activity.

All pretense of protest gives way, and with a quick flick of her tail, she kneels down. He moves astride her back, his front legs over her shoulders.

All pretense of protest gives way, and with a quick flick of her tail, she kneels down. He moves astride her back, his front legs over her shoulders.

Each herd has one dominant camel. Only he mates with the females. The others must suppress their ardor.

Tipu roars again, lowers his head, and charges. Kalu is ready with a deft feint.

Tipu roars again, lowers his head, and charges. Kalu is ready with a deft feint.

They’re so large that they seem to move with unnatural slowness, but Phulan and I have to run to keep up with them as they hurl each other about, the ground shaking under our feet, their roars reverberating in our chests.

I look back over my shoulder to see the camel toss back his brown domed head, shooting Dadi’s turban into the air as if it had weight, then dashing it to the ground like a broken body. He falls on it with a roar so terrifying the female camels bolt, nudging their babies into the center of the gamboling herd.

Tipu pestles the turban to shreds in the sand with his knees and the pad on his mighty chest.

Grandpa is far behind, hobbling on his stick.

But Mama’s dark eyes hold my face so intently that I know she really is afraid for me, and I say nothing.

Phulan is the one to be married. How can I forget, the way she arranges her chadr around her, languid and important with her new status?

I mend harnesses and spin their hair into twine, watching the herd while the sun skids across the sky. I can’t abide anything that keeps me from the animals, from running free and climbing thorn trees.

The smell of smoldering embers is comforting.