by Abda Khan
‘Good God! No!’ Farah gasped.
‘Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,’ Ali said quietly.
‘To Allah We Belong and to Him We Shall Return,’ Farah whispered to herself. She looked ahead at the blank wall in front of her, into nothing.
‘What happened?’ Ali asked the superintendent.
Farah couldn’t speak. She turned her face to one side, and let her tears flow.
‘Just that. She killed herself.’
‘How? When? Where?’ Ali shouted, and banged his right fist down hard on the grotty table with each word. ‘I want details!’
Ali’s violent outburst momentarily snapped Farah out of her trance-like state.
The superintendent let out a long, uneven sigh. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
‘She used her own dupatta to hang herself. It happened just over an hour ago, in her room; the other women and children who she shared the cell with had all gone into the courtyard to eat their lunch. She had refused to go out and insisted that she wasn’t hungry. When they got back they found her hanging, and they raised the alarm.’
Farah sat in a hopeless silence; Ali was now also quiet. The room felt icy cold, and a deathly hush occupied the air. Farah could see a scarf in her mind. It was white; she imagined Razia might have used a white one. She didn’t know why.
‘I really am very sorry; we are constantly making efforts to try and reduce prisoner suicides, but we can’t watch them all the time. It seems that she just couldn’t carry on. Evidently, prison proved to be too much for her.’
‘She told us as much the other day,’ Farah said, turning towards Ali, finally finding her voice. ‘She said she was losing the will to live. She should never have been in prison in the first place! But of course, if it hadn’t been for me …’
‘You mustn’t say that,’ said Ali, jumping in. ‘She was the prison’s responsibility.’
‘I cannot comment on any of this,’ said the superintendent. ‘As I said before, I really am very sorry. We are making the necessary arrangements. Her body will be transferred early tomorrow, to reach her family home around midday, whereupon I assume that they will perform the jannazah and bury her as soon as is practical, should you wish to make your own preparations to go and pay your respects.’
‘Thank you for letting us know,’ said Farah.
Ali said nothing. Farah could hear him breathing heavily. He was still angry.
How was she ever going to face Razia’s mother? What on earth was she going to say to her? These thoughts buried themselves deep inside Farah’s mind as they left the prison.
32
LAHORE
As Ali and Farah queued at the airport, waited at the departure lounge, and then boarded their plane, they did so largely in silence, aside from any comment or remark that was unavoidable. Farah was still trying to make some sense, any sense at all, of what had happened to Razia, and she felt Ali was struggling to do the same.
During the flight between Islamabad and Lahore, which lasted just under an hour, Farah and Ali remained quiet and thoughtful. Farah considered how Ali had only met Razia once, yet he still looked like he was grieving. His reaction was not born of a personal attachment to his client, rather she sensed that it was centred more around the fact that this had happened on his watch. Farah appreciated that he gave her the space and time to grieve. She sat still in her seat, in a stunned stupor. She was grateful for the lack of any small talk, and that he didn’t offer any empty tokens of condolence and nor did he mumble any clichéd phrases that were supposed to show sympathy or empathy. She was just allowed to be. And although she was surprised at this silent patience on his part, she was very thankful.
While Ali had not known Razia well, or for long, Farah felt that in the short time since he had met Farah and heard Razia’s story, he had resolutely made up his mind to seek justice for her. She recollected their many discussions over the past days about how the woeful tale of this girl called Razia was the woeful tale of thousands and millions of girls and women all over Pakistan. Women were not seen as equals in this patriarchal society. They were disadvantaged from the moment that they entered the world – because they were female. But the misfortune of being born into poverty, it seemed to Farah, meant that the existence of these girls would always be all the more difficult. Farah had sensed this to some extent before, but since she had come to Pakistan and dealt with this case, she now knew that girls and women like Razia were always some man’s belonging or commodity; they were always expected to be someone’s dutiful daughter, or obedient sister, or virtuous wife, or devoted mother, or indeed a submissive slave to their master, as in Razia’s case. If they stayed in line, and within the boundaries of what was perceived to be an honourable existence, and if they never strayed from these norms, then perhaps, just perhaps, they would be all right in life. But if they deviated in any way from the accepted rules and customs of the family and the society in which they existed, they would be punished by that same family and society. This would be so even if they were not guilty of any wrongdoing, even if it wasn’t their fault. She could see how Ali had developed a burning passion as a lawyer to help such victims. She could see that he wanted to be a bearer of some light in what was an increasingly dreadful, dark world for such women. But in this case, it had not been possible, and Farah wondered if his silence was indicative of his reflecting on his own sense of failure, just as she sat and reflected on how she had failed Razia in so many ways.
Farah sensed his anguish, and she broke the silence on the flight.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked him.
‘I’m thinking, I should have picked up on the signs earlier.’
‘What signs?’
‘There was more to this case than met the eye,’ replied Ali.
‘You did everything you could,’ Farah reassured him.
‘No, I could and should have done more. I should have gone back sooner to speak to Razia. I should have pushed for a formal interview with the investigating officers, instead of allowing the continuation of the systematic delaying tactics that I knew were being employed. I didn’t move fast enough.’
Ali shook his head despondently.
‘You mustn’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘Mustn’t I? The regret will always remain. The loss of an innocent life that I might have been able to prevent will always stay on my conscience.’
Farah gave him a small, warm smile, and then looked out of the window. Ali was hard on himself, she thought, and that was never going to change.
After their brief conversation, Farah sank back into her own quagmire of reflection and tribulation. Logic told her that she wasn’t to blame, just as she had told Ali that he wasn’t, but deep down in her heart, and in the pit of her conscience, she felt morally responsible for this young woman’s death. There were so many ifs and buts circling around in her head. The thoughts and regrets picked away at her conscience bit by bit.
Perhaps, Farah thought to herself, if she hadn’t intervened in the first place; perhaps if she had kept her nose out like Paul had suggested, then Razia would still be alive today. Yes, she might have continued to receive physical and mental abuse, and no doubt she would have continued to suffer as a result, but at least she would still have been alive, and her family would have seen her again, eventually.
Farah’s mind then turned to Razia’s trip back to Pakistan. She beat herself up again about the fact that she had allowed Razia to travel on her own. How could she have been so naive as to send her off by herself all the way back to Pakistan, especially after the threats that Zaheer had made? She cringed at her own idiotic sense of superiority when she had thought that she had ‘sorted’ it all; she thought she had ‘dealt’ with Zaheer. Nothing could have been further from the truth; her sense of triumph had skewed her perception so much that she couldn’t see the danger that lay ahead.
And then her thoughts turned to the most difficult issue of all: how was she now going to face
Razia’s mother? How was she going to explain that despite her promise to look after Razia, her daughter was now being returned to her in a coffin? She turned and looked at Ali, who had put his seat back and closed his eyes; she was comforted by the fact that he was accompanying her, and she would not have to face the family alone.
The silver saloon hire car and its driver were waiting for them when they emerged from Lahore International Airport. This was the airport that Razia should have arrived at, but she’d never made it. Farah thought about Razia’s family, waiting for hours, worried sick when she didn’t show. And then her thoughts turned to her own parents, and her father in particular. Lahore Airport was also known as Allama Iqbal Airport. Seeing the name of the late poet in large letters reminded her how last year she had accompanied her father – who was a huge fan – to a celebration of the work of Allama Iqbal and William Shakespeare at Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon. There was a rapturous commemoration of both poets. The evening had featured important artists from both cultures, and there seemed to be an overwhelming agreement that both these poets had shared a similar vision, though they were centuries apart; their works related strongly to human emotions that went beyond cultures, place and time. As she squinted to block out the sun from her eyes, she remembered one of her father’s favourite poems by Allama Iqbal: ‘The Message of Dawn’. He would often recite it to her when she was younger, usually when he would enter her bedroom first thing in the morning and open the curtains, and the sunlight would stream in. She never could remember it all, except the last two lines:
Remain lying in comfort still, come again shall I
Make the whole world sleep, wake you up shall I.
Hearing these words had always been a source of comfort to her as a child; they had given her a sense that her father would always be there for her, every morning, every day, no matter what. She suddenly missed her parents. More so today than ever before. She wanted to hear their reassuring words, to feel their warm embrace, to know that they would hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. And then she felt a pang of guilt; how could she feel sorry for herself in this way when she considered the enormity of the situation faced by Razia’s family?
The drive from the airport on the hottest day of the year so far proceeded in the same manner as most of the journey from Islamabad: wordlessly. When their car reached the edge of the village, she got out slowly, as did Ali. She looked at him, as the tormenting sound of weeping echoed from somewhere in the village. She knew they wouldn’t really need to be led or directed as to where they should go; they could simply follow the agonising noise of the wailing. Farah pulled her scarf over her head, and they made their way along the rickety, uneven path.
As they advanced into the heart of the village, Farah could see the small, simple dwelling from where the sounds of the women crying were emanating. It looked more like a mud house than it did any kind of a home Farah was used to, but this had been Razia’s home, the home she never made it back to, until now, in a coffin.
A small, elderly lady came quickly towards Farah, and took her by the arm to lead her to where the women were assembled; she stopped for a second or two to inform Ali that he should to go to the house next door, as this was where the menfolk were gathered. Farah looked at Ali, and in that instant, she felt something. It was the feeling of not wanting to be separated from him. Perhaps he sensed this, she thought, for he gave Farah a reassuring nod, as if to say, ‘you will be OK’.
The old lady continued to lead the way, and Farah followed anxiously behind; her arm was still being held by the woman.
There were many women gathered outside the house, standing around, crying into their scarves and chaddars. Farah entered the house and saw that the courtyard was not very big at all, and it was heaving with mourners all crammed into the tiny space. The sudden increase in the intensity of the noise of the weeping women penetrated right through Farah’s head. She was guided by the old lady through the rows of women, until Farah reached the middle of the yard. Then the sight before her took her breath away, and for a few seconds Farah felt as though her breath would not return.
For there she was. There was Razia, lying in peace. She was a picture of serenity. She was draped in soft, pure white sheets, much like a newborn who is wrapped in white blankets when it enters the world. Only her face was visible. Just as she would have been enrobed when she had entered the world, so she was now covered on her departure. Razia’s face was tranquil, her skin smooth and flawless, without a mark or a blemish, aside from her scar. Her eyes were peacefully closed to the world, closed to all of its noise and pain, oblivious to all of its sorrow and trouble. Sat next to Razia, on a chair, as she could no longer stand, Farah could see a lady who she knew must be Razia’s mother. She was bent over with a hunched back, and cried without tears for she had cried herself dry. She repeated Razia’s name, as she stroked her daughter’s forehead, and wept emptily. Farah thought back to her promises to this woman that she would help her daughter, that she would free her from prison and bring her back home.
Farah swallowed hard and went over. She was going to introduce herself when Nusrat turned to notice her; Farah could see that her eyes were sore, and the look of anguish on her face revealed the relentless agony she must have endured since receiving the news of her daughter’s death.
‘Farah?’ asked Nusrat.
‘Ji. Bahut afsos—’
Nusrat cut her short, and suddenly embraced her, and sobbed. She must have stayed there, holding Farah tightly, for a good few minutes. Then she pulled away, and looked carefully at Farah, who saw that her eyes were struggling to open fully; they were painfully swollen from crying.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Farah softly.
‘Why are you sorry?’ asked Nusrat, turning her gaze back to her dead daughter’s face. ‘You must not apologise. This is Allah’s will. She belongs to Allah, and to Him she will now return. We all will.’ Farah did not always practice her religion as well as she perhaps felt she ought to, but she did have a spiritual connection with the basic tenets of her Islamic faith, and hearing Nusrat say this touched her, and made her think about how, at times like this, their shared faith was a source of comfort in the face of such adversity. ‘None of us will take any of this world or any of our possessions with us. We will go as we came. We came into this world empty-handed, and we will leave empty-handed,’ added Nusrat. She then fixed her eyes back on Farah. ‘I know you were very kind to my daughter, and you tried to help her. But it wasn’t meant to be. Nothing can happen without Allah’s permission. He plans and we plan, and He is the best of all planners. This is what was written for her.’
The words, though spoken kindly, only heightened Farah’s already frayed emotions. She could not believe the sheer courage of this woman. This was a poor, uneducated lady, a slave labourer, from one of the most disadvantaged sections of Pakistani society. Yet here she was, grief-stricken beyond belief, behaving in a more dignified manner than anyone else that Farah had ever come across in her life. Whilst a part of Farah, her spiritual part, believed that there was an element of preordainment and destiny to life, she could not accept it in this context; this was not God’s will, this was down to the evil actions of one man.
‘I’m so very sorry. I had no idea anything like this would happen. That she would end up in prison and …’
Nusrat held Farah’s hand tightly, and spoke to her in a soft, maternal tone.
‘You acted only with kindness; I know that. And my daughter was not guilty of anything other than being poor. If you are poor, and on top of that if you are a woman, then you have the lowest position of all. Who can help you other than Allah? Do not reproach yourself. I do not blame you. This was her kismet. And now she has left me with a lifetime of grief. But it is Allah’s will. We cannot fight the will of the Almighty.’
Nusrat turned and looked at Razia again, and gently stroked her forehead.
‘Look at my daughter; she is at peace now. She looks t
he same to me as she ever did; her face so beautifully round, and perfect like a painting, aside from a scar that was not there when she left me.’
Zaheer, thought Farah. Every other sentence reminded her of the wickedness of that man.
Nusrat looked at her daughter almost as though she were meditating.
‘I could search the whole world over, and you could offer me all the world’s riches, but never would I find, and never could anything replace, that most precious of all things, which was my daughter Razia,’ said Nusrat.
‘Say your goodbyes, Sister, the men are coming to take her for the jannazah,’ said the old woman who had brought Farah in to the house.
‘Alvida, meri ladli,’ said Nusrat, and then bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead. ‘Goodbye, my precious daughter. I will see you very soon in His Kingdom.’
Farah could hold her grief in no longer. She brought up to her face one end of the scarf that was wrapped around her head, and sobbed, unable to say anything further, and unable to watch any more.
Some of the men entered the yard, and four of them, two of whom were Razia’s father and brother, lifted the manji on which Razia lay. Her father was teary, but her brother’s face was without feeling or emotion; he was dim and silent. He didn’t even twitch. Farah felt a sense of anger, of resentment, that this man had the honour of carrying Razia to her grave, when he had been instrumental in paving her path to it in the first place.
The women moved to leave a path, and the men quietly carried Razia away, out of the yard, along the narrow alleyways and towards the graveyard which lay just outside the southerly border of the village.
*
Ali went with the men, towards the field where all the village funerals took place. Ali felt no strangeness or awkwardness at participating, though he had not known Razia or her family. He had partaken in many funerals during his life, and there was a general sense of familiarity; rich or poor, it didn’t matter, the prayers and purpose were the same.