Razia

by Abda Khan

  ‘Really?’ Farah asked. She was listening intently; hearing Jabeen now mention Razia’s name confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘Yes. My client told me that she and Razia had become quite good friends and that Razia had entrusted her with a very important letter. She told my client that she must not under any circumstances open it, but that if anything should happen to Razia herself, then my client was to make sure that Miss Farah received this letter.’

  Farah and Ali said nothing. Farah was taken aback. She couldn’t believe it, but then, Razia had always trusted her; deep down, she knew that.

  Jabeen delved into her handbag and whipped out the letter. She placed it on the desk. It wasn’t in an envelope. There was just a piece of lined paper folded around it.

  ‘My client was true to her word and she has not opened it; in any event, she can’t read. But she honoured her promise to Razia and she kept it safe.’

  Farah looked at the folded piece of paper that sat on the desk; the last piece of communication from Razia.

  ‘Well then, I’m going to be on my way, I have to be in court by ten o’clock.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Ali.

  ‘Yes, thank you so much for this,’ Farah added.

  The door closed and they both sat back down and continued to look at the letter. ‘It was meant for you, Farah. You open it,’ said Ali.

  Farah slowly picked it up and took away the outer lined paper. She carefully unfolded the letter, and saw that it had been written in Urdu. Razia’s first language, but not hers.

  ‘I can only read Urdu a little; I can understand it, but I can’t read it very well,’ said Farah, suddenly feeling embarrassed that she couldn’t read Razia’s last message, even though it was addressed to her. She was embarrassed as a lawyer who was used to reading documents for herself, but also as a woman of Pakistani heritage. How little she had bothered over the years with her own culture, she thought.

  ‘Will you read it?’ she asked Ali.

  He took it off her and had an initial cursory look.

  ‘It seems to have been written in very simple Urdu, but of course if you want me to read it, I will.’

  Farah nodded. He cleared his throat a little and began.

  My dear Miss Farah ji

  I hope you are well.

  Firstly, forgive the writing; my Urdu is very poor, and there may be many spelling mistakes. I never attended school, but I was lucky enough in my childhood to have received lessons from a neighbour who taught me up to a very basic level.

  The fact that you are reading this letter means that I am no longer in this world. I have written this letter and told my friend in my cell that if anything happens to me then she must get this letter to you. And so, as you have this letter, that day has come.

  I want to thank you for everything you have done for me. I am very grateful and please know that I do not blame you for my being in prison or anything else that happens.

  I have had time in prison to think about everything, and I believe that I now know the reason, at least partly, as to why Mr Zaheer wants to harm me. Because he does want to harm me.

  If I am suddenly found dead then please know that I did not harm myself, but I was killed. This is because I am to be interviewed soon, and Mr Zaheer does not want me to speak and tell anyone what he thinks I may know; because of this, I fear I may come to some harm.

  When I first arrived in prison, I was visited by a man and a woman who pretended to the prison officers that they were my relatives. But, in fact, they were sent by Mr Zaheer with a warning that if I said anything about him, or against him, then they would harm my mother, or me, or both.

  I wanted to tell you when I saw you yesterday, but you had a man with you and I could not be sure that he was not also sent by Mr Zaheer, that he had not tricked you and made you believe he was here to help, when really, he could have been in cahoots with Mr Zaheer.

  Ali paused.

  ‘Wow, I had no idea. Poor girl, imagine how I must have made her feel,’ said Ali, his voice laced with regret.

  ‘You weren’t to know; neither of us knew the level of control and pressure Zaheer was imposing upon Razia,’ said Farah.

  ‘You can be excused; I should have known better. I should have thought of letting you see her alone first. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Don’t do this to yourself. Like you said to me, regret won’t bring her back. In any event, I think she must have trusted you on some level; she must have known Jabeen would need to contact you to reach me.’

  Ali sighed, and continued reading.

  If I am fortunate enough to see you again, I will tell you in person, and I know you will make sure that my mother is not harmed.

  But in case I do not see you again, I must tell you by way of this letter. Once you have read this, please do not do anything until you can be sure of my family’s safety, especially the safety of my mother.

  When I was in London, I accidently overheard a conversation between Mr Zaheer and another man. I do not know who this other man was. They were in the lounge, and Mrs Aneela was out of the house. Before leaving, she had left me the strict instruction to polish the floor in the hallway. I was getting on with this when I overheard some of the conversation, because the door was slightly open. When the two men came out and saw me there, they were startled. After the guest left, Mr Zaheer quizzed me for some time; he asked me how long I had been there and what I had heard. I panicked, and I lied; I said that I had only been there for a minute, even though I had been in the hallway for a lot longer than that. I don’t think he ever believed me. And it seems that he may not be prepared to take any chances.

  I did hear some of the conversation. The man who had been with him had said something like ‘when the deal is signed, the million dollars will be in your account’. I heard them say that no one must know, even by accident, about the arrangement. They talked about emails and documents, and Mr Zaheer said, ‘don’t worry, I have a friend who takes care of this for me. It’s all stored away safely.’

  The truth is, I do not know what any of this means, but I am sure that it must be important. That is why I am letting you know. I am sorry I cannot tell you anything else.

  Thank you once again. You were very kind to me. I don’t think anyone could have been nicer than you were to me. I feel sad that I will not see my mother again, or Ahmed, who will always be the love of my life.

  Yours gratefully.

  Razia

  Ali and Farah initially sat in stunned silence, and the only noise was the buzz of the traffic coming from the busy street outside the office.

  Farah felt a multitude of emotions, but it was her anger which spilled over first.

  ‘The vicious brute; how could he murder such an innocent, beautiful young woman? This was nothing short of a cold-blooded execution, and yet it looks like he will get away with it.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Let’s look at the evidence. What do you think all this means?’ Ali asked her.

  Farah shook her head.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ she replied. ‘Zaheer referred a lot of work to the law firm, in return for cash payments, and perhaps they weren’t declaring the fee arrangement to the Law Society. But – a million dollars. That’s on another level.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. This is something on a higher scale, international maybe.’

  ‘Can’t we take the letter to the police and have them investigate?’ she asked.

  ‘Not unless you want the mother’s death on your conscience.’

  Farah dropped her head in her hands momentarily.

  ‘That said, if we can get hold of any evidence somehow, relating to what is in this letter, then depending on what we find, we can go to the police and get protection for the family pending their investigations. If we have evidence, then they will have to investigate. They won’t do it on the strength of this letter though.’

  Farah could sense that Ali was concerned; bearing in mind the impulsiveness with which she had
launched the online petition, she could perhaps understand why.

  He leaned over the table towards her.

  ‘You do understand where I’m coming from, Farah? Lives are at stake here.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, you’re absolutely right.’

  Farah sighed. She knew she would not be able to rest until she had done something to bring about some justice for Razia. But what?

  41

  Farah was ready to attend Ali’s sister’s henna function. She took a good look in the mirror in her hotel room before going down. She had really made an effort this evening to blend in with the crowd and play her role in the evening’s festivities; her two-tone emerald and pale green anarkali kameez was dotted with sparkly gemstone work around the neckline and waist. She had done the whole traditional mehndi event look; desi-style jewellery, kajal eyes, red lips. She had even gone and bought some jhumka earrings. She knew she looked very different, and she was amazed at how her usual resistance to traditional dress seemed to have melted away of late. She was very happy with what she saw in the mirror.

  This didn’t go unnoticed by Ali, who came to pick her up.

  ‘You look amazing,’ he said as soon as he set eyes on her. Farah was initially flattered by the compliment, but this soon turned to a feeling of embarrassment. She surprised herself. She liked the fact that he had noticed and liked the way she looked, but she told herself not to make too much of it; she would be going back home soon and that would be that.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, and looked away, aware that she was blushing.

  ‘I was thinking about the letter,’ said Ali. ‘It’s been on my mind.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it too. But it’s your sister’s mehndi today; maybe we should put the discussions about Razia on hold for tonight?’

  ‘I guess so,’ he replied.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure Razia would have wanted you to enjoy your sister’s henna night,’ said Farah.

  Ali gave her a reassuring smile, and they set off.

  It was a short drive to his home, which was situated on an exclusive road in Islamabad. The house, like so many others Farah had seen in the capital, was large, and grand, and sprawled over a very wide plot. Farah thought back to the very first day she had seen Ali; he came across as so scruffy looking, almost impoverished, that she would never have guessed that he came from such a wealthy background or lived in such a huge mansion. Nothing about him ever gave that away. He was always humble.

  The exterior was currently decorated from top to bottom with bright lights, hanging down from the roof to the ground like glittery flower garlands, a sure sign of wedding celebrations. Farah thought of how she had once dreamed of a colourful, traditional mehndi and a perfect wedding day, but now these dreams seemed more and more unattainable to her as time went on.

  When they arrived, the evening’s celebratory activities were just getting underway, and Ali got a bit of a telling off for being late from several people as soon as he walked through the front door. After he had introduced Farah to his mother and some of the other relatives gathered in the large hallway, he ran upstairs, and within two minutes he was back down, dressed in a white salwar suit with a bright green scarf, as per the colour code – green for the girl’s side, red for the boy’s side.

  Those gathered in the hallway were close family – aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins – and they all had a role to play in the evening’s proceedings. They were ready and poised in their colourful outfits, not too formal, but decorative and vibrant, as was usually the case with mehndi parties. When they were all satisfied that they had everything they needed with them – mitai, mehndi thaals, garlands, rose petals, gifts – they started to make their way towards the back of the house.

  The function was taking place in the back garden, in an enormous creamy coloured marquee, complete with flashing and static lights, chandeliers, fresh flower decorations and enough seating for at least 200 people. There was a large stage, decorated with red and yellow flowers and plenty of green foliage, and a good-sized dance floor right in front of the stage.

  Ali escorted Farah towards the marquee. It was a perfectly warm evening. There was a slight breeze that exuded a heady scent of the fresh flowers, particularly roses and jasmine, which were abundant, whether growing in the gardens, freshly picked and used as decorations for the archways and tables, or secured with pins in the women’s hair. There was also the distinctly woody scent of the actual henna, as groups of girls sat around the marquee having their henna designs applied onto their hands and arms. Traditional mehndi music and songs played loudly, and people sat and stood happily milling around, chatting and laughing. Farah didn’t know whether she should feel like an impostor, or really honoured that Ali wanted her to be part of such an intimate family gathering.

  As soon as Farah and Ali walked into the marquee, he was accosted by several of his male friends.

  ‘Hey, yaar. Haven’t seen you in ages,’ moaned one of them, as they shook hands in the manliest of manners. His friends then looked at Farah.

  ‘This is my friend, Farah,’ Ali said, ignoring his mate’s complaint.

  They exchanged salams; Farah could sense that Ali’s friends were curious about her. In fact, she had been receiving quite a few looks, and she could have sworn she heard a few guarded whispers as they had both walked past people. It made her feel a little on edge. On the contrary, Ali was very relaxed; he was enjoying the evening. She had never seen him quite so relaxed before; he was all smiles, and perfectly at ease.

  The female relatives decided that it was time to start the dholki, so they gathered at the front of the marquee, to the side of the stage where they had laid a soft covering on the floor, and scattered the area with plenty of cushions of all different colours, shapes and sizes; some were sequined, some satiny and sparkly, others were soft and velvety, but they were all bright and eye-catching.

  The ladies belted out their traditional folk songs to the beat of the dholki. All those who were not part of the singing party gathered round and clapped and cheered, especially at the funny lyrics in some of the songs.

  Oh Mother-in-Law, five sons you have

  Two of them are bad, and two of them are drunkards

  But the fifth, my beloved, is like a blossoming red rose.

  Farah had heard many of these songs sung at mehndi functions back home in England, and listening to the women filled her with a feeling of nostalgia. She remembered in years gone by sitting next to her mum as she had played the dholki; often Farah used to bang a spoon on the wooden part on top of the drum, as she had tried, although not always succeeded, to keep in rhythm with the beat of the drum. The ladies now sang an old folk song which was her favourite:

  Henna, oh henna

  We sisters have all gathered to adorn you

  With the henna

  Sitting all around you

  With tearful eyes, and happy faces.

  Upon hearing the melodies and words of these familiar songs, Farah found that whilst she didn’t know anyone here apart from Ali, and even Ali she only really knew on a professional level, she was starting to relax, and even beginning to enjoy the evening. She stood amongst a group that comprised Ali, his friends and his cousins, male and female. They were all of a similar sort of age and chatted away. As Farah looked at him, she felt as though she had known Ali for a lot longer than their short acquaintance. It was like they were old school friends, where the familiarity was embedded, and so they found each other’s company easy, and the conversation came naturally. They kept catching each other’s eye; perhaps it was just one of those things, or perhaps it wasn’t. She tried not to look too deeply into it, for she felt happy to be right here, right now, with him, to take pleasure in the moment.

  Ali’s mother got up and left the singing to the other women and came over to speak to her son.

  ‘Come on, beta, it is time for you and your cousins to bring your sister in. Sorry, Farah, I am going to have to take him away from you for a little whil
e,’ she said, with a soft smile on her face.

  ‘That’s fine, of course,’ Farah replied.

  ‘OK, see you in a bit,’ said Ali, and wandered off out of the marquee. The others in the group also drifted off in different directions, the time having come for them to fulfil their own roles and attend to the duties they had been assigned.

  Just as Farah and Ali’s mother were about to start chatting, his father came along. Farah immediately noticed that he was a tall, proud-looking man; he held his head unnaturally high. He didn’t look very happy considering the occasion; his face almost bore a grimace.

  ‘I must introduce you. This is my husband,’ Ali’s mum said. ‘And this is Farah, Ali’s friend.’

  ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ said Farah.

  ‘Wa alaykumu as-salam,’ he replied.

  ‘I’m sorry, I need to go check on things,’ said Ali’s mum.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said her husband, ‘I will keep Farah company.’

  Ali’s mum disappeared off towards the exit from the marquee. Ali’s dad stood next to her in silence for a little while. Farah started to feel quite uneasy.

  ‘So, you are from the UK?’ Ali’s father asked eventually.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘What does your father do?’

  Farah was taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

  ‘He’s a driving instructor,’ Farah replied.

  ‘And what about your relatives in Pakistan. What do they do?’

  Farah was even more surprised at this question but replied out of politeness.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, Sir, but I think they are farmers.’

  ‘Farmers?’ Ali’s father repeated, raising his right eyebrow as he did so.

  ‘Yes, they do kethi badi, that’s what my father always told me.’

  Ali’s father went quiet again for a little while.

  ‘What is your intention now?’ he asked her.