Razia

by Abda Khan

  Razia told Farah that she rarely went shopping in Pakistan, for she, along with her family, worked long hours at the brick kiln, all day, every day. And if she wasn’t at the brick kiln, she would be at home, preparing the food, or washing the clothes, or carrying out other household chores. She had certainly never been bought the sort of clothes that Farah insisted on buying for her. At first, Razia was extremely reluctant to agree to Farah paying, even though she could not have paid herself, but Farah managed to talk her round. Farah also insisted on buying Razia a handbag and a small suitcase that she could carry on the plane, and Farah filled the latter with clothes for Razia and her mother. These acts of generosity meant that there were sporadic moments of tearfulness on Razia’s part, but also phases of fleeting joy, and Farah got the distinct impression that being happy was such a rarity for this girl that it was almost unnatural to her; it was so alien that she had to keep checking herself to see if it was real – yes, someone was talking to her kindly, yes, someone was taking her shopping, and yes, someone was buying her gifts. They settled on two pretty pastel-shaded floral lawn suits for Razia, along with one special occasion outfit in lilac georgette and silk, stitched with delicate pearl embroidery at the neck, hem and sleeves, and two matching pairs of sandals. To this Farah added for Razia’s mother an unstitched creamy beige cotton/linen mix suit and a beautiful taupe and ivory coloured jamawar chaddar.

  The afternoon was a great excuse for Farah, and consequently Razia, to enjoy a plate of spicy samosa chaat at a local eatery; it was one of those places that look very basic and unassuming, but where the food was so tasty it popped in your mouth with a song and a dance. There were a multitude of dusty, old-fashioned pictures on the walls, depicting rural village scenes, that looked like they had been there since the 1970s. There were framed newspaper cuttings of various articles that had been written about the place over the decades, awards that had been won in years gone by and snaps of local celebrities visiting the restaurant for their curry fix. The tables and chairs looked even more ancient than the pictures and photographs that clung to the walls. The glasses were the type that reminded Farah of the ones they had with their school dinners, and the paper napkins were literally paper thin. But this deceptively primitive little restaurant was one of those that served the best, most authentic food. Early on a Sunday morning, the queue was usually out of the door as people waited for the freshly stewed spicy chana handi served with sugary sweet halwa and, just out of the karahi, deep-fried puffy piping-hot puris. But today, the girls settled happily for plates of spicy tamarind-chutney-soaked samosa chaats. These dishes, with their tangy, chilli kick, were followed by the rose syrup indulgence of hot gulab jamun served with pistachio ice cream. And there was more, for all of this was washed down with a delicate cup of pink Kashmiri masala tea each.

  They sat at the table in the corner towards the back of the restaurant, and waited for their tea to cool. A tall waiter walked towards their table; he smiled at Farah, and gave her a cheeky wink as he walked past. Farah rolled her eyes.

  ‘You did not like the man winking at you?’ Razia asked.

  ‘No, I certainly did not. No man has the right to be so presumptuous; I would rather just come and eat my food in peace and quiet, and not be winked at.’

  ‘But that is nothing compared to Pakistan.’

  ‘Really? How do you mean?’ asked Farah, as she continued to blow on her scalding hot tea.

  ‘I don’t get to go the bazaar very often, but when I do, I never return home without having been touched or pinched by the some of the men that I have to walk past.’

  Farah’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it is a regular occurrence.’

  ‘Tell me one thing, how do they get away with it?’ demanded Farah.

  Razia thought about it for a second.

  ‘The bazaar is a very busy place. Everyone is rushing past one another, and they just seize any opportunity they can get. Obviously not all men do that. Most do not. But a lot of them do.’

  Farah listened in disbelief while Razia recalled one time when she had gone to the market with her mother. The bazaar was teeming with the usual stalls and carts selling all manner of goods and customers rushing around from stall to stall. She was walking behind her mother. One of the men coming from the opposite direction approached her, and when they were side by side, he quickly raised his left hand and cupped her left breast. She was only fourteen years old. It lasted just a moment, but it left her upset and angry. She was mortified that this man could invade her body in this way and there would be no repercussions. She couldn’t tell her family; she didn’t even know who the man was, nor was she able to remember what he looked like. She soon realised that this was one of the perils of being a young woman in a place where some men didn’t think much of women at all.

  ‘It happens, but you don’t say anything, you just put up with it,’ added Razia, looking down at her tea.

  Farah was mortified to hear Razia talk about the level of overt physical sexual harassment that she and other women like her had to endure. Yes, there was sexual harassment in her world, but thankfully she had never experienced anything like this.

  ‘I feel like I’ve eaten a week’s worth of calories; but, oh my goodness, it has been so worth it,’ Farah told Razia, changing the subject; she didn’t want Razia to become upset again. Razia looked perplexed and then confessed that she didn’t know what ‘calories’ were. Farah suddenly felt bad for speaking without thinking; of course, Razia and her family would never have to worry about counting calories, for they probably barely had enough to eat at all. There she was wittering on about food, and how full she was, when this girl had probably hardly ever had a square meal in her life. Yet another thing that she always took for granted, Farah thought to herself.

  They stumbled into the apartment, placed the bags in the middle of the room, and then flopped, Farah on the sofa and Razia on the armchair. A few minutes later, while Farah put the kettle on, Razia opened her first ever brand-new little suitcase and laid it open on the living room floor. Soon scattered all around it lay the purchases of the day. Farah brought the tea over and then talked Razia through the best way to pack her items, and sort out her handbag.

  Farah despised packing, but she could see that this was a thrilling experience for Razia, who placed each item carefully into the small suitcase. It was almost like an act of love, Farah observed, as Razia laid down each item with the utmost care and pride.

  Farah’s mobile phone rang with an unknown number.

  ‘Hello, is this Farah?’ asked the lady on the phone. She had a high-pitched voice, and a mild Pakistani accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am from the travel company that arranged Razia Begum’s flight to Pakistan. We were given your number as the point of contact.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. Is everything OK?’

  ‘There has been a slight change of plan. Unfortunately, there has been an administrative oversight, and due to this, Razia does not have a seat on the flight to Lahore tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. I was told she would be on that flight to Lahore,’ said Farah.

  ‘We can only apologise for this, but the request for the seat was made very last minute.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but I was informed by the High Commissioner himself that this had all been sorted. There must be something you can do?’

  ‘As an alternative, we have managed to book Razia on the flight to Islamabad, which leaves at four-thirty p.m. From Islamabad she will be placed on the next internal flight to Lahore. As this is a diplomatic issue, she will be looked after at all times by a member of airport staff, and will be assisted closely throughout the process. Is that OK? I am really very sorry, but this is the best we can do in the circumstances.’

  ‘Just hold the line one moment,’ said Farah, and placed her hand over the mouthpiece. She knew it wasn’t ideal, but the fact that they had managed to arr
ange an alternative route for Razia was something.

  Farah conveyed the gist of the conversation to Razia quickly. Razia didn’t hesitate for even a second. She confirmed she was happy with the changes, if it meant she was able to leave for Pakistan tomorrow. She was grateful to Farah and Mr Amin for all their help, but she didn’t want to stay in England even a day longer than she had to. She wanted to go back home, to her loved ones.

  Farah went back on the phone and confirmed Razia’s agreement to the revised travel plans.

  It was a relief to Farah that Razia would soon be reunited with her family, and thanks to Mr Amin’s help they would be leaving the brick kiln. But Farah knew she could not rest easy until Razia was on her way back home, and a long way away from the terrible clutches of Zaheer Mansur.

  20

  The car arrived promptly the following day, as the time came for Razia’s departure. Although Mr Amin had told Farah that the driver would accompany Razia into the airport, help her to check in and see her through to the security point, Farah still explained to Razia what she should expect at the airport, and the procedure for catching a connecting flight once she got to Pakistan, although she had been assured by the travel company, and by way of another phone call from Mr Amin, that Razia would be looked after the second she set foot on Pakistani soil at Islamabad Airport.

  Farah had offered to accompany Razia to the airport, but Razia had assured her that she would be fine, there was no need for her to go to any trouble, and that she had done enough already. In all honesty, Farah felt that she ought to go with her, but Razia’s insistence on doing it alone made Farah think that this was probably the first time in her life that she was going to do anything independently, that never before had she had any freedom of movement, thought or decision making. Farah knew that she had to give Razia the chance to do this in her own way.

  Farah helped Razia with her suitcase as they left the apartment. It was a pleasant, sunny day, with only the faintest streaks of cloud obscuring an otherwise vivid blue sky. Before she got into the back of the black Mercedes, Razia turned and gave Farah a great big hug, taking her quite by surprise, and almost knocking her off the pavement and into the road.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Farah. I will never forget you, and everything you have done for me and my family. May Allah bless you with eternal happiness.’

  ‘Thank you, but really, I haven’t done anything, only what any reasonable person would do. Now you take care of yourself over there. Have a safe journey, and give my salaams to your family, especially your mother.’

  ‘Allah hafiz,’ said Razia.

  ‘Allah hafiz,’ replied Farah.

  Farah closed the car door, and watched the car drive off. Although she felt certain that she would never see this girl again, Farah nevertheless felt a pang of sadness as she watched the car disappear around the corner. Her life had, for a short time, become unexpectedly entangled with Razia’s; ever since she had seen her cowering in the kitchen that day, so much of Farah’s existence had been consumed by the quest to free Razia. Moreover, the experience had brought into sharp focus for Farah the privileges of her own life, which she had before now taken for granted. Farah was content that she had done as much as she could have to help Razia out of her terrible situation. She hoped that this young woman’s life would now change for the better.

  21

  The next morning, Farah sat on her sofa with a half-eaten slice of toast in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She switched on the television to check the morning news. It was Monday, and ordinarily she would have just about been getting into the office around this time, but today she was not going into work. Whilst she was overjoyed at the eventual outcome of delivering Razia to safety, she was still seething. Paul obviously knew this, for in fact he had called her, and suggested she not only have today off work, but informed her she was welcome to have the week off. Farah didn’t protest.

  He clearly felt embarrassed about the whole thing, although he didn’t say that in so many words. Farah had observed that apologies didn’t come very easily to certain men, and he was one of them. He sounded uneasy about what had happened, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to apologise to Farah for having dismissed her concerns with such flagrant disregard. Allowing Farah to have a week’s paid leave was his way of trying to make it up to her, and it was a substitute for that elusive word ‘sorry’.

  ‘Anyway, as far as I know, he has been summoned back to Pakistan for some sort of disciplinary action,’ Paul had told Farah when she had asked about Zaheer during their telephone conversation, ‘and if he hasn’t left already, I expect he will be leaving very shortly. So, I guess that is that. I just hope that we aren’t going to be affected too badly at the office. He has passed a lot of work our way this last year.’

  Typical, thought Farah. Poor Razia had suffered so terribly at the hands of his best friend, but all Paul could think about was the potential loss of business.

  ‘But on the upside, the introductions have meant a steadily growing list of new clients, and we are getting a healthy amount of word of mouth referrals from the new clients themselves,’ Paul continued insensitively. ‘His departure will impact us, but I dare say we are in a much better position to cope with it now than we were a year ago, especially as the efficiencies we’ve made have now had an effect.’

  Farah rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut; she had little to say in response, and cut the conversation short.

  She wasn’t used to having days off work, and wondered what she should do with her time. There was only one thing that came to mind; go home to Solihull, and visit her parents. But she wasn’t sure if she was in the right frame of mind for that, for it would mean the inevitable conversations about marriage, and finding a husband, and how she needed to hurry as time was ticking away, and she would miss the boat, and the longer she left it the harder it would become. Farah’s recent experience with Razia had taken her mind off the issue completely, and whilst it was something that she was keen to turn her attention back to at some point, right now, she couldn’t give it the same importance she had before; somehow it seemed trivial when she considered Razia’s circumstances. She didn’t want to go home and hear stories about all the latest betrothals and upcoming engagement parties and nuptials, or receive unwanted advice as to how she should go about finding a suitor, or hear all about how so-and-so up the road had managed to bag a real catch.

  As she chewed over some other alternatives for the week – a quick last-minute booking for a holiday in the sun, or perhaps going up north and visiting her old university friends, whom she hadn’t seen for some time – her mobile phone rang. There was no caller ID, so she guessed it would probably be someone promising her compensation for a car accident she’d never had, or wanting to talk about PPI she had never taken out, or a charity wanting her to sell raffle tickets. But she could never not answer in case it was important.

  The line was fuzzy, but she could discern that it was a man on the other end of the line. He spoke in Punjabi, but it wasn’t her mother tongue. It was a very strong dialect.

  ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said.

  ‘Wa alaykumu as-salam,’ replied Farah.

  ‘My name is Karim. I am Razia’s father. I was given two numbers by the officials at the airport for people I could contact in the UK. And your number was the first one.’

  ‘Oh, nice to speak to you, Uncle. How is Razia? Has she arrived safely? I did say to her she must ring or get someone else to phone me to let me know when she touched down.’

  ‘No, beti. She has not arrived. We have not seen her. That’s why I am telephoning you.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why has she not arrived?’

  ‘What can I tell you? A terrible thing has happened.’

  The man’s voice was shaky; he was finding the words difficult to spit out.

  ‘What is it? Is Razia OK? What have you been told?’

  Farah’s heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t imagine what ‘terrible thing’
might have occurred.

  ‘Please, tell me from the beginning, as clearly as you can; what has actually happened?’

  ‘We went to Lahore Airport to fetch my daughter. We were there on time. Me, my wife and my son. My wife especially was so very excited about seeing Razia again. She has longed for her to be back home since the day our daughter left. We were met by someone who had been sent by the government people. He waited with us. We all waited for a long time, and there was no sign of Razia. Everyone from the flight had come out, and still there was no trace of her. We asked around, and we were told by the officials, after they made a few enquiries, that Razia has been arrested in Islamabad and taken to the police station there, because they found drugs in her suitcase.’

  Farah felt numb; she couldn’t quite take in what she had just heard.

  ‘I do not know what is happening, but I know for certain that my daughter does not know anything about drugs. We don’t know what to do. The man who came said he is going to make some enquiries, but he gave us these telephone numbers if we want to contact people in the UK who might know something he didn’t. Please can you help us?’