PRAISE FOR THE TRIALS OF CHAUKHANDI

“A thrilling tale of a strong-minded woman targeting oppressive customs...an engaging read.” Rabia Aamir

*****

The Trials

Of

Chaukhandi

JASMINE YAMMANI

******

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Copyright © 2020 by Jasmine Yammani. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Paperback and eBook 2nd Edition 2024

First Paperback and eBook Edition 2020

Cover Design by Rabia Aamir

Book Design by Askme Design

Editing by Alchemy Author Services

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Thriller—Fiction | Supernatural—Fiction | Mystery—Fiction | Crime—Fiction | Science Fiction & Fantasy—Fiction | Gaslamp—Fiction | Suspense—Fiction | Women’s Literary—Fiction | International Mystery—Fiction | Pakistan—Fiction| Fantasy Sports

****

To

my siblings

and to all the daughters

of Pakistan

****

CONTENTS

PRAISE FOR THE TRIALS OF CHAUKHANDI. 1

CONTENTS. xi

THE MAKING OF THIS BOOK.. xiii

The Three Women. 2

The Driver 6

The Driver and Death. 7

The Shepard Boy. 12

The Protagonist and Arrival 20

The Protagonist and Dream... 26

The Three Women. 34

The Protagonist and Vision. 35

The Protagonist and Aunt Halima. 43

The Protagonist and Dream... 51

The Protagonist and Paper 55

The Protagonist and Ghost 84

The Protagonist and Dream... 87

The Henna Ceremony. 91

The Journey. 94

The Protagonist and Dream... 105

The Protagonist and cousin Zakirya. 110

The Shepard Boy and Zakariya. 116

The Protagonist and Time Travel 118

The Bride’s Family. 121

The Hunt 133

The Graveyard and Time Travel 139

The Protagonist and Totem... 156

The Protagonist and Three Women. 164

The Free. 180

QUATRAINS. 188

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS. 193

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.. 195

NEXT BOOK.. 196

GLOSSARY.. 198

****

THE MAKING OF THIS BOOK

BACK IN 2008, I STARTED A MARATHON drive at dawn. I had taken some time off from work to visit family back there. Coupled with music CDs, radio broadcast, lush green valleys, buttery highways, stunning views of the fall forest reserves covered in a carpet of different shades of oranges, reds and yellows my carriage drove—enough time to kill and enough time to ponder. And then, something struck me. My creative juices at work from the boredom of behind-the-wheel driving monotony, something wonderful emerged.

I made a stopover for lunch at a roadside diner. A Caucasian couple sitting a table away was keenly watching over me. The man facing me, probably in his early sixties, could not help himself. His wife, I assume, had her back on me.

“Why do you look so happy?”

I smiled and replied. “I am a writer.”

The next day, at home at the dining table, I could not wait. I sought out the online archives of the British Council Library in Karachi. Also, sought them out on phone. Researched other libraries online. Found an old friend in Karachi and asked him to check old Dawn newspapers. To no avail, the story I was seeking was wiped out from the surface of this earth. Only vividly remained in my memory.

As a last resort, I researched the human rights website but found nothing. But in my exhaustive research, I found another story that screamed at me.

I had already established the title based on my original story, so I kept it.

I also wanted to bring forth a historical monument of Pakistan called the Chaukhandi tombs. My family visited this site a few times while growing up in Karachi on our way to a plot of land we owned in the Sindh province. The Chaukhandi tombs are known for detailed and ornatesandstone carvings. . Some tombs feature relief depictions of riders, while others are decorated with representations of jewelry. The tombs are often referred to as ‘Baluch tombs’—a name based on local traditions linking the tombs to various tribal groups, namely the Burfat, Kalmati, Jakhara and Jokhiya. The periods claimed range from the fourteenth century to the eighteenth century. Most recently, nearby residents or caretakers of various cemeteries have propagated the view that the tombs are the last resting place of fallen soldiers from the army of Mohammed bin Qasim, the first Islamic conqueror, who entered Sind in the eighth century A.D. (Hastenrath, Salome pgs. 3-9).

I have introduced ethnic vocabulary and have provided a glossary at the end of the book. I hope this helps the non-speaking Urdu readers to learn about a foreign language and culture.

After settling in the United States, most of us whose first language is not English often find ourselves speaking in more than one language. I speak three languages;  Urdu, English, and Gujarati. For instance, I think in Gujrati Urdu when speaking in English. Therefore, to stay true to myself, my writing needed to reflect the melting pot of languages.

THE STORY IS about a girl who is lured into the realm of mysteries, nightmares, and an enchanting journey through time and life after life. Many stories are interwoven and entangled in this mystery of the human condition. Justice is unspoken, unwavering, and unforgiving when it seeks the court of the Almighty.

--JASMINE YAMMANI

***

The Three Women

The hunt continued when finally, they located the target. The jeeps cut off the SUV’s path, forcing the three female passengers and their male driver to a halt.

“Get rid of the two younger ones and if the older one protests, bury her too. Let the driver go.” 

A loud roar on the receiver addressed a bunch of masked men with Kalashnikovs[i], menacing mustaches, and huge turbans. A few bulky gangsters from the squad gathered around the SUV. One grabbed the chauffeur’s front door handle to force it open. It was locked. Dismayed and losing patience, he thrust his Kalashnikov’s bare butt into the window with charge enough to break it, but the glass was too tough for him.“Aik garee ka sheesha nahi hila sakay kya?” (“You have not been able to shatter even a single glass?”) His comrade standing next to him sneered. He fired shots at the heavy steel, but the carriage was bulletproof. Pointed his rifle towards the bottom of the car…

Bang, bang, bang, thud. 

Four articulated shots failed. He emptied the rounds until it clunked. The Benz crumbled with a bang. “You namak harams cannot accomplish a simple task.” Their leader growled at his men, grinding his teeth, watching from the jeep. The metal was too strong and too much aggravation for the boss.  He snarled, “We are losing time. Should I take care of this myself?”

It was not easy to make the bulletproof glass budge. It took the power of a targeted magazine round to shatter it. 

“Get out, you rascal.” One of the men snatched the trembling driver’s shoulders, dragging him out through the jagged, broken window. The sudden displacement mixed with the pain left the driver in terror that would befall his master’s family in absence. Slivers of raw flesh adorned the sharp edges of the driver’s broken glass. His empty leather seat, pooled with blood and painted graffiti on the shiny blackness of the car.  

The man knocked the barely conscious driver out of his agonizing pain with a deadlier blow with his bare fist to the side of his forehead. The driver collapsed onto the scalding sand with a thud. His middle-aged black hair and beard were colored dust. The wind howled in the dusty dunes. A growling coyote was getting restless miles away.

“Who are you? Who ordered you? What’s happening?” A woman demanded as the men slid open the back doors. In her early forties, her elegant physique adorning long brunette hair was covered in a Kashmiri embroidered burgundy chador from head to toe. She appeared to be  the oldest in the group.   

“Who are you?” She repeated with  the ferocity of a  lioness. “Who has sent you?”

“We need you to come with us,” one man barked. “If you resist, we won’t have any choice but to drag you.” This was the same man who had ripped the driver through the window.

“What do you want?” The lioness was unshaken.

“Where do you want to take us?” The youngest of the three women squalled in tune with the first one. She was on the side of the older one, draped in a phthalo blue Balochi gypsy banjara. An ebony  hand-embroidered mirror work shawl and a classy pair of sunglasses adorning her beautiful long nose and sharp cheekbones completed her look.  

“Looks like this will not be easy.” The man, who was the leader of the group, jumped out of his van and barked at the other six men. “What are you waiting for, haram zadon (you scoundrels)? Should I whip you like dogs?” 

Without further ado, one man in the group grabbed the oldest woman out of the seat and dragged her into the arms of his other comrade standing to his side. He slapped the rebellious woman a few times enough to knock her out, still holding her, and pulled her to the back of the jeep, where he threw her on his shoulder, placing her body  upright in one of the empty seats. 

“Where are you taking us?” “Please tell us what we have done?” “Please let us go.” “Please Allah save us.”

The women, completely disheveled, kicked, pleaded, and screamed as the men pulled them out of the SUV and dragged them into the Jeeps speeding away. 

The Driver

THE WIND WORKED its laborious course through the blazing and arid dust. The middle-aged motionless man was slowly feeling his limbs after lying helpless for several hours. The pain was radiating from every inch of his hapless body. The repugnant smell of rotten flesh was filling his senses and a fresh trail of tears mixed with thick sweat were finding their way into the tiniest cracks of his scalding face before trailing down to mix with the sand below.

As luck would have it, the wounds gradually turned to hard sunbaked patches that itched and ached. The sharp painful headache was not bearable. Despite his involuntary tears in reaction to the inexplicable pain and his sufferable state, he couldn’t cry. He muttered incoherently, looking up at the naked sky with bloodshot eyes, staring in oblivion.

“Bibi jee[1]. Sahib jee[2]. Ya’ Allah! Ya’ Allah, khair! (Oh God! May God everything be okay!)”

He was too feeble to think or form any visions. His ramblings continued for a few seconds before his weak nerves overpowered him. Once they did, he found himself unconscious once again at the mercy of the wilderness around him.

The Driver and Death

He felt his temple; it did not hurt, and the headache had left. Thrilled, he ran his hands over himself to examine for injuries. The fingers only touched smooth and supple skin. He sprung to his feet and saw a man lying and recognized that it was him. He squatted before himself and remembered why he was there. His heart shuddered, and tears could not hold themselves back.

He was a loyal servant to his master and a loving family man. He knew his sons would search for him. Hands trembling, he held his head and wailed. How would I face on the day of judgement when he demands answers for the loss of his dear daughters and sister?

Then he noticed the wrecked car, lifeless, just like him. He stood there silently. Nothing stirred for a moment except the wind hopelessly slapping the surface of the bare metal. Then suddenly, shrill sounds of a passenger door created  a stir. Swinging back and forth, as if it was struggling to free itself from a bad dream where the leather strap of a fallen tote bag  became stuck between the floor pan and the doorframe.  The scarves tied to the strap were  ragged shreds alongside the constant beatings and the blazing heat. His ears were still ringing with the wretched sounds of the women being dragged and their shrill cries for help, coupled with the howling wind, gunfire, and the screeching of the tires.  

He covered his ears but to no avail. The sounds became louder when he wanted to block them out. His life had reached an impasse. He looked up at the horizon and stared at the mirage with tearful eyes seeking a trail for the missing mistresses. had never been unjust to his servants. An honest and a good family man did not deserve the calamity that had befallen him.

Mumbling deep in his thoughts, he was startled by a noise that shook him to his core. He looked around and saw a commotion happening in a short distance. He to see what was happening.

A ceremonial trumpet sound had disturbed the desert critters' quiet life. A joyous cobra who had been intently watching the human creatures and their vile act to their fellow beings hissed to invite his comrades. His best friends were the inland taipan, scorpion, porcupine, centipedes, vulture, and hyena. When the party arrived, he glided to the highest peak of the desert hill, raised his head to the sky and pleaded, “Behold this day, thy Lord. Thee who raise the dead from the living. Thee who rendered me venomous. Thee who rendered these friends equally vile.  On the Day of Judgement, I pray to thee, thy Lord, render unto me kindness and render unto them, with kindness.”

“Huh!” The driver was stunned. He shuddered at the very thought of impunity enjoyed by the most poisonous and deadliest of beasts that implicated themselves in the innocent killings of man and brute. But he couldn’t disagree more. Man can bend himself to the most monstrous of behaviors and evil desires.

He felt hands resuscitating his heart, then saw his sons standing next to his soulless body. His youngest was calling him. “Baba, baba, wake up, . We are here for you now. You will be fine.” The driver felt the heat. The throbbing pain returned.

The Protagonist and Flight

THOUSANDS OF MILES AHEAD, above the silvery white, fluffy clouds, a jet glided across the peacock blue seas undisturbed. To take up one’s abode in the skies, the clutter of trays, trolleys, and the soft humming of living beings as they echoed in a live machine carrying hundreds of passengers to their ultimate destination.

“Hello, , do you want veg or non-veg?” My heart had been beating furiously as I rose from my slumber… and I gave a slight cry, my eyes felt weary and unforgiving. Half-awaked, I shuffled for the menu in the top seat pocket and realized the mistake. Replied, “Non-veg, please.” Then secured the unfolded rack in front of me. The airhostess set a hot plate of aromatic food on it. A palate of Chicken biryani[ii], bean salad and rice dessert could satisfy any appetite. “Anything to drink?” “Apple juice, no ice, please.” I arranged an empty glass and a can of juice on the shelf beside the tray from the flight attendant. Dreamingly, I acknowledged “thank you” for the service. I had not been too hungry, but the supper smelled so enticing I ate everything. The food was delish. After I got rid of the disposables, I stood up, stretched my legs, and walked to the restroom. From the hour I boarded the plane for Pakistan from New York, the time had been fleeting. We were flown through Atlantic, yet there were many hours to kill before I would reach Karachi. 

I washed my face and returned to my chair. Oh God, what a horrible dream. I had been awakened from a nightmare. Sleeping early was not the plan. It was a tiring day packing for my trip. My younger sibling, who had wed, moved away a few weeks prior before leaving a trail of memories. Her absence left a void in my side of the chamber. From that point on, I had not used my bedroom at night. I was bunking in my parent’s room and settling on the floor. 

At this moment, my only thoughts were how angelic she looked in her wedding dress. My lips widened at that lovely picture with enormous almond eyes. And before long, I dozed off to a restful siesta. 

The Shepard Boy

DEEP IN THE BARREN DESERT, where good vs. evil was waging a war of pursuit, a young man had been grazing his precious flock of sheep in peace.

Behind a tiny cliff, there was a light sniffle. A baby cap swayed. Eight tender years, the little fellow reaching a little more than three feet, with light brown hair and a plum- round face, surrendered his herd at a scant distance. He started running towards the loud crackling noise.  Soon, he approached the proximity where the shots became louder, so he hid his small profile in the shadows of the dwarfed sandy bluff.

A mammoth size carriage, its metal reflecting in the sun, crashed and crumbled upon its weight. Cars drove on the major road in town, a few kilometers from the village, higher than his height. But a muzzle blast, a thunderous sound, vibrated the ground beneath and frightened every inch of life left in him. He then witnessed several  women being hurled into different jeeps and driven away.

Still horror-stricken… a chilly draft slapped his dry cheeks as he pressed his palm, oblivious to stop anything he sensed moving. It was then he realized it was only the gust of wind playing., and the night had been growing weary. A windstorm had been creeping in the depths of the horizon. He started to turn back home. 

The boy felt a wet tingling in his pants and saw that he had peed himself. A stinging sensation on his bare feet alerted him-- the sensation distracting and annoying. He began running towards his herd, not realizing his hiatus since he first abandoned the animals. And at this minute, they were not in his sight.

He was apprehensive, trembling at the thought of approaching his father and being scolded by him for leaving his herd. He knew the goats were his father’s priced possessions, and he would be whipped out of his wits if the animals were to disappear-- the dream of a city education would be far-fetched.

***

AS THE CLOUDS THINNED, and the horizon changed colors from bright to dull to dark grey and black, the little , Khan’s mother grew worried. She dipped her spatula into the boiling curry cooking on the stove to check the salt. To her dismay, the food had been prepared overly salty. Why did I do that? She pursed her lips while cursing herself, knowing her husband had high blood pressure and extra salt was an omen. Her superstitious mind wandered off to unforeseen calamities that might overtake this good family.

Yesterday, Gulab had been so happy, Mother murmured to herself. “Amma jees, Gulab will sleep at his friend's Mehran’s house. Did he mention he will go directly to his place on his return?” She asked Gulab’s grandma. It is unlike him to do that, she rumbled to herself again.

“Nahi (No), baccha (child) didn’t speak to me.” Grandma responded. “Beti (daughter) boys are very unpredictable. They say this thing and do that thing. He must have gone there. You do not worry. She continued with her spindle and thread, which she was neatly wrapping up. For a few seconds, she got busy, and then stopped short as if she had forgotten something. Turned to her daughter in-law and said.

”

The kids had been very excited as the trip to the train station was a treat. They were to start from Mehran’s home in his bullock cart. Then, they would make a stop at the local mini-van driver’s house, who would give them a ride. The man offered this service to the village folks once every two days on his way to the nearby city. He made deliveries for the pottery his family made in their small hut next to their living quarters. 

They needed to plan the ride with him a month ahead as he had limited space. Many like to use this free service. He upset his family because of this service and the earnings they could have made on each trip. But he believed each rider of his minivan brought blessings to his booming business, and this was his way of thanking them. 

The trip from Mehran’s house to the minivan, then to the train and back, was half a day. For the ride in the minivan, they needed to be at the potter’s place early in the morning. From there, the driver could take them to the station, around forty kilometers away, drop Mehran and his mother off, and then carry them on to the city for his delivery of goods to the local stores and back with Gulab and his friends.

Gulab jumped with joy when his father agreed, but on one condition. He was still responsible for taking the sheep for their regular grazing when he came back.

***

ZAINAB LIFTED A CORNER of her dupatta[iii] (a shawl-like scarf), grabbed the pot with two hands and set it aside. She reached for an oval plate of dough covered with a wet muslin cloth and put it on her side near the stove. After separating the kneaded flour paste into a dozen balls, she leveled them into thin round patties and baked them in a large pan on the stovetop. Afterward, she finished rolling all the chapatis, cooked them, finished rolling all the chapatis, cooked them, and turned off the gas cylinder.  In the neighboring barn, Raju checked the harvest and made bundles to sell at the local bazaar the next day.

“Mehran dropped by to inquire for Gulabu.” He stepped into the courtyard, walked towards his wife, took off his turban, and settled cross-legged on the rope-woven charpai--a bed woven with rattan ropes standing on four wooden legs. “Tell him his friends are waiting.” Everyone called him Gulabu with love. Zainab was done making lassi--yogurt drink for the meal. She started filling the clay mugs with crushed ice and finished off by pouring lassi into each of them. She looked up at her husband and responded. “Gulab never came. I thought he was at his friend’s house.” Then continued with her work and murmured. I am worried for my child.  Hope he is okay. Her face wrinkled, and her eyes sunk with sadness. She drew a prolonged breath and sighed with pain, trying to focus on preparing dinner for the family. 

Minutes later, she brought him a bowl of tepid water to freshen himself, a towel, followed by a platter of piping hot meal of plain wholewheat chapatis that is hand-leveled bread), masoor daal which is a curry made of brown lentils), hari chutney[iv] made of mint and a glass of lassi made of yogurt.

Water in the villages was usually acquired from nearby freshwater lakes. Women and girls of the village would walk miles to fetch water in their earthen pots for drinking and other household consumption uses. Then, they boiled it as needed.

Now, even Raju felt concerned. The sheep had been back with their faithful dog but without their master. While preparing for Maghreb, prayers had preoccupied him, and he blamed himself for his negligence on his son’s part.

As urgency necessitated, he ordered for the kerosene lamp to be primed. His wife refilled the lantern with oil in the base. Then, she installed the burner sleeve and fit the wick into it. Cut its top to soak for an hour before it was ready. Soon, her husband reached out to the neighbors to inquire. Four farmers returned ready with lighted lanterns and watchdogs. The absence of a loved one had created quite a stir. Those who knew Gulab cared for him deeply.

It so happened that one time, when the children were playing on the nearby street, a jeep parked at a distance, and two men stepped out. They walked into a small cottage. Meanwhile, a young lad hopped out of the carriage and caught sight of the kids in the alley. 

A friend hurled a dirty tennis ball that trotted off towards this newcomer. He picked it up and bounced it head-on. The men emerged from the hut and hurried to the jeep. Gulab and his friends approached the boy and asked him for their ball. He refused and jumped into the vehicle. The car hit the road. As it drove from that alley into the next, the kids ran after it…

That ball was precious. A stranger gave it to them while on a visit to the village when he spotted a bunch of boys playing with small stones, pebbles, and colored chalk on the street. Thinking of his own boys, he offered them this gift, which they appreciated. Since then, the five boys, including Gulab, took turns taking care of that ball.

The cocky city boy, who might have many games, robbed them of their only toy…

Gulab followed the car across narrow alleys and detours until it reached the marketplace.  It made another stop. He waited for a chance for the men to leave , and when this kid jumped out bouncing, he took a shot at the ball with his small makeshift bow and arrow of elastic bands and a stone. The hard-round rubber fell off the kid’s hand, bounced off the ground, flew into a winding alley, and disappeared. Gulab ran and rescued it. That is how he saved their prized possession.

***