by Abda Khan
It was now time for Razia to go, and as she left the brick kiln, she also left behind the negative thoughts and focused on what lay ahead.
Today, it was scorching hot; the mid-afternoon sun was relentless in its pursuit of spreading its brutal light across the land.
When Razia reached the edge of the stream, she took off her sandals and carried them in one hand, and with the other she gently lifted her salwar well above her ankles, and stepped nimbly across the blue grey stones so aptly placed along the shallowest crossing of the stream. The water twinkled as the sun’s rays caressed its steady flow. Once she was across, she placed her feet back into her sandals and walked through the tall field of corn, until she reached the small round clearing in the middle. She was now out of sight from any prying eyes from her side of the village, and with the height of the long-eared corn on all sides of the clearing, she was in fact invisible from any angle. She felt safe, and she was excited to be back here again.
He stepped out of the tall corn, grabbed her arm from behind and pulled her towards him. She felt his arms wrap tightly around her waist. She turned around and returned the embrace; she circled her arms around him, and breathed into his neck. His familiar scent was hypnotic, and comforting.
Razia felt him move away from the embrace, and she looked at him inquisitively.
‘It’s been two weeks since I last saw you! Why didn’t you come and see me the last three times?’ Ahmed asked her, and then he pulled Razia back towards him; she could feel his mouth seeking hers, and longed to feel close to him, she longed to taste his kiss again.
‘Javed is suspicious, I’m sure of it. He’s been acting really strangely lately,’ replied Razia, as she pulled away with a slight frown.
‘When is your brother not acting strangely?’ Ahmed teased. But Razia did not laugh in return.
‘It’s not funny, I’m scared. I think he may suspect something.’ Razia went and sat on the small dry mound in the middle of the clearing. She screwed up her nose, annoyed that Ahmed was not taking her concerns seriously.
Ahmed came over and sat next to her. He held both her hands in his, and now talked softly.
‘OK, OK. So, why are you so worried, my love? If anything bothers my Heer, then it is cause for concern for her Ranjha. What has happened?’
‘Nothing … really.’
‘Has he said anything?’
‘Not directly, no.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘He’s just acting differently. He’s asking me more questions about where I’m going. I can’t seem to go to the well to fetch water, or to the neighbours to get milk, without him asking fifty questions. He scrutinises my every move. I hate lying about where I’m going. I told them all I was going to my friend’s house today to help her prepare for her nikah. I only managed to get away from the brick kiln early today because he himself is out of the village this afternoon; he had to go into town to fetch medicine for Amee. Mother hasn’t been well. Her asthma is very bad these days. I keep telling her to stop working so much at the brick kiln, but she doesn’t listen. Then again, we all have to put in all the hours we can manage. Even so, after all these years, we haven’t scratched the surface of the debt.’
‘It’s the same for us too,’ remarked Ahmed, ‘only there’s more of us in our family, so it’s easier to share the load, which you will find out, Insha’Allah, once we are married!’
Razia imagined such happiness; such fulfilment. Would they really be married soon? Could she ever really feel so complete? She wished and longed for this day to come. The day that she would be his bride.
‘I want nothing more. But what about my brother? If he finds out about us, he will kill you!’
‘I don’t think so!’ Ahmed snorted. ‘I’m one of five brothers. And he’s an only son. There’s no competition. He wouldn’t dare.’
‘OK, so he will kill me then!’ Razia said.
‘I will never let that happen to my Heer! What would Ranjha do without you, my love?’
‘Before it ever gets to that, why don’t you speak to your father and get him to come over and ask for my rishta? Either you come and ask for my hand in marriage, or we stop seeing each other, and you can go and marry your stupid cousin!’ Razia said. She really wanted him to take her seriously.
Ahmed gently stroked Razia’s cheek.
‘I have no intention of marrying anyone other than you, my love. Anyway, I have a plan.’
Razia quickly turned her head to look at him. She gazed into his eyes hopefully, and clasped her hands together in anticipation.
‘Really? What’s the plan?’ she asked.
‘I have to go away with my father to visit his eldest brother, as he is practically on his deathbed. He has a couple of days at the most; that’s what his family have said. We leave first thing in the morning. Whilst I’m there, my other uncle will also be visiting. I will speak up and tell my father and uncle that I don’t want to marry my uncle’s daughter. They won’t like it but I know that ultimately my father will back me. Anyway, there is another cousin that she could marry. Once that is sorted, I will be back, probably in a few days, and upon our return my father will come to your house and speak to your father.’
‘But your uncle’s village is so far away! You could be gone for ages!’
‘Calm down, I will be away for a few days only, one week maximum. You know we both can’t be away from the brick kiln for too long. I will return as quickly as I can, and the next time we meet, we will be betrothed. You have my word.’
Ahmed leaned over and they started to embrace. Their lips touched, and once again they fell into a passionate kiss. She knew that in the eyes of her family and community, and indeed in God’s eyes, what she was doing was wrong. But when she was with him, all those thoughts left her mind, and all she could see was the man she loved deeply. And she believed with all her heart this was the man she was going to marry, and spend the rest of her life with.
Razia suddenly pulled away.
‘Did you hear that?’ Razia jumped up, and spun around in search of something, although she didn’t know what.
‘Hear what?’ Ahmed asked. He stayed where he was, perched on the mound, and looked puzzled.
‘That rustling – there was somebody or something here, listening to us, or worse still, watching us!’ Razia’s heart was racing, as she continued to wonder what the noise was.
‘It was probably a snake, or some other creature. Relax. Stop being so paranoid. Come here.’
Razia didn’t register his words instantly. But when she looked at him, she saw that his arms were wide open, and she went over to him, and sought sanctuary in his lingering embrace, and a soft, tender kiss.
‘One week at the most, that’s all, and then we will be at your house, asking for your hand in marriage,’ Ahmed reassured Razia.
‘One week? No longer?’
‘Yes, one week. Nothing much will happen in one week. Just sit tight and wait for me to come.’
Razia’s face softened, as she thought about the prospect, the idea that he would come with his family, mitai in hand, to ask for her hand in marriage. How jubilant she would feel on that day.
But it was now time for them to part. It was always so; they could not risk being missed by their families, so their meetings were always short. She now dared to hope that this would be their final clandestine meeting.
‘One week. You’re right; it’s not long. Have a safe journey. I will wait impatiently for your return,’ she said, trying to reassure herself; she was going to miss him terribly, but the pain of parting would all be worth it when he got back and came to seek the betrothal.
‘Insha’Allah. And I will see you as soon as I get back.’
‘May Allah protect you and bring you back safely to me.’
16
The village in which Razia and her family lived was very primitive, much like many of the other villages around Lahore, and indeed much of the Punjab. On paper, Punjab was the wealthiest province i
n Pakistan, but that wealth had not seeped into the lives of ordinary people. Most of the inhabitants of this and the surrounding villages consisted of the workforce which produced the bricks at the local kilns. Razia’s village, the outlying land and the brick kiln were all owned by Choudhry Fazal Mansur, although he was always addressed by the workers as Choudhry Sahib, to denote his superior status.
The Mansur family had been feudal landowners for centuries, and Choudhry Fazal, being the elder of two sons, and now in his late fifties, had carried on with the system just as his father had left it when he had passed away over ten years ago. His younger brother had chosen to seek a formal education, and work outside of the ancestral undertaking, which the wealthy family could well afford. Zaheer was educated abroad and worked in the diplomatic service out of choice, not necessity. The family owned several houses, or rather mansions, in Pakistan, and overseas, although, Zaheer always regarded the large family haveli as his permanent home.
Razia’s late grandfather had taken a loan from the Mansur family many years ago; he was an illiterate man, and had had no idea at the time of the details of the document that he signed. Nothing had been explained to him about the exorbitant interest rates and charges, which continued to pile up over the years. Over the decades, the family had been forced to take out more loans, mostly just to meet ordinary living expenses; for food, bills, medicines, and indeed any expenditure that was out of the ordinary. Now, years later, his son and grand-children were saddled with the ever-increasing debt. After the landlord took what he was owed each week, there was barely enough for subsistence living, but until the loan was paid in full, Razia’s family were tied to working in the brick kiln, having to produce over a thousand bricks a day just to have enough to eat.
Razia often wondered why they had been dealt such a bad hand in life. No matter how hard they worked, the ceaselessly turning wheel of debt continued to spin round. No end ever seemed to be in sight. Her only ray of light was her hope of marriage to Ahmed.
Razia’s house, if one could call it that, was situated at the lower end of the village. The paths that led down towards it were narrow and uneven, and dirty water trickled along them as it drained out from each dwelling, and joined the scummy, polluted flow. Sometimes, the bumpiness of the path caused the smelly water to flow in different directions and gather in the holes. Razia skipped her way through the slender, crooked paths, and jumped nimbly over the wet patches as she made her way home.
Their house was a tiny, single storey construction, consisting of only two rooms and a small yard, which had a cooking area in one corner and a washing area directly opposite. The food was cooked over a wood fire, and the rotis in the tandoor. The washroom was extremely basic, with just a latrine, and a tiny space for bathing. The house was crumbling and decaying in patches; bits had fallen away from the walls to expose sporadic holes. But to Razia, this was home.
By the time Razia reached home, she had forgotten about all the negative thoughts that had charged through her mind not long ago, about what would become of her and Ahmed, and she smiled quietly to herself as she remembered his soft touch and hypnotic voice. In a few days, a week at the most, she thought to herself, Ahmed’s family would come over and seek the betrothal. Hopefully, her father would be agreeable, and even if her brother wasn’t keen, her father would have the final decision, and she was quietly confident that he would say yes; her family did not have anyone else in mind for her, and as long as Ahmed was able to break free from his current betrothal to his cousin, she could see no reason why her father would object. Then the sneaking around would all be over. She would marry the love of her life, and she would live in bliss. She was sure that she would be the happiest girl alive, for so very few women in these parts ever managed to marry for love. Most of the girls in her village were given away in matrimony as part of arranged or forced marriages. Their opinion was never considered to be worthy or even relevant enough to be sought, let alone their consent ever obtained; they were simply told who they were to be married to, and when. It was all a matter of quiet acceptance of whatever fate had in store for them, for every single aspect of their lives was mapped out by the men; firstly, by their fathers and brothers, and then, after their marriage, by their husbands and their fathers-in-law. Razia was grateful that the family that would be coming to seek her betrothal would be the family of the man that she loved fervently; she would be blessed indeed, as her love for Ahmed would naturally lead to a loving bond between her and his family.
When Razia stepped into the small courtyard, Nusrat was sat on the peeri by the stove. When she wasn’t at the brick kiln, her mother could usually be found here, on the low handmade stool, preparing the next meal. However, today, she did not appear to be cooking. In fact, she had her face down in her chaddar. Her whole body was drooped forwards. Her shoulders moved up and down rhythmically. Her asthmatic wheeze was the only audible sound, like a soft intermittent whistle. This worried Razia; she wondered what was wrong.
As Razia walked closer, her mother sat up from her slouched position and uncovered her face. She silently stared at Razia. Her eyes were puffy and tender-looking; something was terribly wrong, thought Razia.
And then her mother began wailing, quietly yet melodically. She wailed in hushed tones, and the words were indistinct. It sounded as though she were singing the saddest lullaby in the world. Razia’s initial assumption was that someone had died. She rushed over to console her mother, but stopped dead in her tracks before she quite got there. For just then, right at that second, Razia knew. She just knew. No one had died. But someone might as well have died. It would all amount to the same thing.
‘Amee, what’s wrong?’ Razia asked feebly.
Her mother looked straight at her. The wailing had now stopped. Futile tears slid down her hot cheeks, but they could save no one and nothing. Though Razia had seen it day in, day out for her entire life, it was as though she was noticing her mother’s wrinkled face for the first time; it was a face that depicted a lifetime of hardship. Razia knew that each deep line was a testament to injustice and strife: the loss of three children in their infancy, the endurance of four miscarriages, the never-ending servitude towards her husband and the toil of the brick kiln – each and every one of these adversities was embedded in the grooves in her face. They were permanent reminders of the difficulties that she had borne, and they were reminders which could not be smoothed away.
‘Amee! Speak to me!’ Razia implored her.
Her mother rubbed away a stray tear from her right cheek.
‘What is there to say? I have no words. Or at least, I do not have any words that will be of comfort to you now. I am powerless, my child. Powerless.’
The gate swung open, and before she could twist around to see who it was, Razia was hit fiercely from behind. The sudden shock of the powerful blow to the back of her head sent her spinning off her feet, and she collapsed into a heap on the dusty ground. She cradled the back of her head with one hand, as she squinted and doubled over with pain, and then she looked up and saw that her brother was towering above her. Her father stood a couple of feet behind him.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you hitting me?’ Razia sobbed.
Javed howled, ‘Did you think that I wouldn’t find out! Do you think I am such a fool?’
Razia felt a powerful sense of dread gush through her, causing her to feel dizzy.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, fearing what his answer would be.
‘I saw you with that Ahmed boy!’ barked Javed. ‘How could you play with our izzat in this way, and in broad daylight! Do you have no regard for this family’s honour? We may be poor, and we may not have much, but the one thing we do have is our honour.’
Javed pulled Razia by the arm. She screamed and cried out for her mother and father to help her, but neither of them stepped forward. Javed dragged her along the ground with disdain, as though he were dragging a lifeless rag doll. Her clothes sucked up the dust from the ground as he carted her i
nto the smaller room. And then he locked the door from the inside.
Razia’s screams escaped from the small room of torture, and hurt Nusrat’s ears. She placed her hands over her ears and closed her eyes, wishing she could not hear her daughter’s cries: Razia begging her brother to stop, begging him for mercy.
‘Please, that is enough. Go in there and tell him to stop!’ Nusrat pleaded with her husband, as her tears flowed. But Karim was unmoved by her words, and stared into the space in front of him, as though he were temporarily paralysed; as though he was deaf and blind for as long as he deemed it necessary.
More excruciating, scream-ridden moments passed. Nusrat’s heart raced uncontrollably; her body shook with fear.
‘This is the way it has to be,’ Karim finally said. ‘This is the way it has always been. You know that. She cannot do what she has done, and there be no consequences. She was having a relationship with a man out of wedlock. Thank God, Javed spotted the problem in time. Imagine if someone else had seen them. I wouldn’t have been able to show my face for miles around. And Javed would most likely have killed her. Be grateful that it is just a beating.’
Javed finally emerged from the room, after what had seemed like an eternity to Nusrat. He closed and locked the door from the outside, thus ensuring Razia’s incarceration. His face was calm; Nusrat wondered how he could remain so serene.
‘Stop crying, Amee,’ he said, as he bent to sit on the manji next to his father, flipping the back of his light brown kurtha upwards behind him before he sat down. ‘She had it coming. To be honest with you, I’ve let her off lightly. I could easily have broken every bone in her body for what she’s done, but I didn’t. Families have killed their girls for much less. She should consider herself fortunate.’
In the end, Nusrat was somewhat relieved. Her daughter would be sore, and upset, and miserable, but at least she was still alive. She knew full well it could have been much worse. She could console herself knowing that at least.