The Dance of the Peacock, Part 1

Sumaira came out onto the veranda to the shrill scream of a peacock. The bird sat resplendent and angry in the garden looking at the house like a baneful beast. Sumaira was gripped in a flux of emotions as she caught her breath watching the iridescence of its plumage in the morning sun. She also felt a rush of anxiety raise the hairs on the back of her neck.

She stood for a while looking at the bird which quieted down almost instantly upon seeing her. After a few minutes, it flew up into the branches of the Indian laburnum tree, its blue green hues cavorting with the yellow of the flowers that seemed to bedeck its entire body. It was one of those rare, serendipitous displays of nature that arouse awe and melancholia at once.

The early morning newlywed euphoria slowly drained from her body as Sumaira looked at the bird and the tree one last time before turning back into the house.

She blinked brightly and tried to catch at the disappearing threads of quiet joy she had woken up with. But something had trampled along that path in the last fifteen minutes, and she now felt strangely deflated and watchful.

How had a peacock, that beautiful creature, created so much disquiet in her heart? For that was the only vision that had intercepted the flow of good cheer that had of late become her regular daytime companion. This euphoric feeling made her smile effortlessly; she found herself skipping like a giddy school girl when she was alone.

Everything was so perfect! Yes, everything was so perfect, repeated a quiet voice in her head, taking only an instant to relegate all that defined her wonderful life right now into the past.

“Khala! Chai le aain (Aunty, bring the tea),” she said louder than she had intended to. Loud enough to drown out the ominous thoughts whirling around in her head; loud enough also for the great old retainer to have heard her the first time.

The old retainer came into the lounge shuffling behind a tea trolley that carried a single cup of tea. The tea trolley doubled as support for Peeno Khala’s frail frame.

Still, Peeno Khala persevered in her service to the haveli and its occupants with the same tenacity of spirit as when she had first come to the great house as a seventeen-year-old widow. That was almost sixty years ago. She was now as much a part of the house as it was a part of her. 

Sumaira often wondered if, in fact, the bricks and mortar of the haveli were somehow entwined with the sinew and soul of its ancient caretaker.

Sumaira had married the love of her life. It had been a tortuous path – one wrought with moral dilemmas and all-consuming desires. He had been married before and had loved his wife – his ex-wife now – but he loved Sumaira too. He had wanted to make her his second wife.

It had taken five long years of persuasion and infinite wiles and guile to make him see sense. He could only have one; she had passed the ultimatum with strategic precision of opportunity and dexterity.

And six months ago, she had finally been ensconced as Mrs. Zahid Siddiqui in Sakoonat-e-Siddiqui (The Siddiqui Abode in Urdu), the ancestral family haveli in the heart of Sheikhupura. Her nemesis, Zahid’s ex-wife Kulsoom, had since been settled into an apartment in Lahore.

Despite the euphoria of knights in charcoal grey shalwar kameez sweeping her off her feet, and other such romantic dreams come true, Sumaira sometimes felt a pang of conscience, a momentary qualm.

She had broken a home to build her own and the detritus of this washed back to her in waves as she regularly heard driblets of disturbing news about Kulsoom. The tight knit community of the city she now called home ensured that she was made aware, one way or another.

Kulsoom was not doing well, and Zahid was often called to Lahore to attend to her ailments – which seemed more psychological than physical. Sumaira tried to be magnanimous and not feel overpowering resentment at this monopoly of her husband by his ex-wife.

She was still basking in the newness of her beautiful home and the privileges of being Mrs. Zahid Siddiqui, and so she was able to display appropriate concern and compassion every time Zahid bade her farewell for a Kulsoom-related trip to Lahore.

Kulsoom had always been sensitive, a “seer” some claimed. She was an ethereal child, mostly in a world of her own, stepping out only occasionally for festivals and funerals.

She and Zahid had had one son who died when he was eight years old. Kulsoom had never quite recovered from that incident and had withdrawn into a shell which only Zahid and a handful of other people could penetrate.

For Sumaira, the haunting sensation that surrounded Kulsoom had, over time, made her less human, less prone to feeling any great tragedy or joy. And so, she had persevered in her enterprise of taking the Zahid Siddiqui marital crown for herself.

Kulsoom with her faraway looks and her solitary existence would get over it, Sumaira always told herself. But every once in a while, another voice from the deepest recesses of her being would rise up stridently to provoke and condemn.

Today was one of those days.

Read Part 2

While you wait for Part 2, check out these other great reads at the MockingOwl Roost.

• Joy – Heartwarming Diwali Fiction
• Memories from the Past – Challenging, Emotive Fiction
• Too Pointless – a Family Fiction Story
• The Girl in the Sand – an Allegory
• Memories on a Rainy Evening – An Emotive Short Story

Mahvash Mohtadullah

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Mahvash’s stories and poems have appeared in a number of international literary publications including The Rumen, Sequoia Speaks, Recesses, PentaCat, Confetti, Every Day Fiction, Parcham, Blaze Vox and DoubleSpeak magazines.  Her poem, “Veins” was long listed in the Plough 2023 poetry competition. Her short story “The Glimmer” was long listed in the 2023 Zeenat Haroon Rashid writing competition for women.  Her verse “Ravaged” has been selected as part of an upcoming American academic publication. She has published two collections of short stories, a book of poetry and four books in a children’s series.

Find more from Mahvash on her website, Instagram, and Facebook.

• Mahvash Mohtadullah

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  The Dance of the Peacock, Part 2