by Owen Mullen
Afra let herself to be guided by Chandra, after all her family was paying. Chandra forgot she was playing a part, following her mother’s command. She loved spending money on clothes, even if they were for a stupid village girl.
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Quasim hadn’t attended the first event: the mendhi. No males did, only women. There had been no sign of him since he’d visited Mundhi with his mother; he didn’t see the yellow dress Afra wore without make-up. Many of the guests, all friends of the Dilawar Hussein family, wore green outfits in keeping with tradition. Two hours before it began, a woman came to the hotel to paint Afra’s hands with a paste of henna powder and oil, creating art on her fingers and palms. At the mendhi, Afra sat between Chandra and her mother. Mrs Dilawar Hussein nodded and smiled at the sweets and desserts presented to the bride-to-be: symbols of celebration and happiness.
The females ate and danced in the hotel’s smaller reception room. Afra hadn’t been in a hotel and only ever danced with her sister and brother. She thought the whole thing marvellous. Even Mrs Dilawar Hussein appeared to be enjoying it. Hours later, alone in the room at Bilal’s house, she felt low. The dress was gone, left in a bedroom at the hotel where she’d changed at the beginning of the evening.
No one mentioned Afra’s family and though she would’ve loved her sister and brother to attend, it was a hopeless wish. How could they? They were many, many miles from Lahore. The journey and the expense involved made it impossible. Afra would be the only one from her family there. And a sadder thought: her mother must have realised that the day she agreed to the bride price.
Two days later was Shaddi, the wedding day. Nadira woke her to prepare breakfast then the bride-to-be went to her room and packed her canvas bag. She wouldn’t come back to this place, no matter what. Poor Nadira was doomed to spend the rest of her life here, as shackled as any beast of burden, as condemned as the vilest criminal, without hope of reprieve.
She saw the delight on Quasim’s face when she appeared, a vision in gold. Chandra had placed the last of the heavy jewellery round her neck and stepped back to admire her work. ‘Like Cleopatra’s triumphant return to Egypt,’ she’d said, and guided her to a mirror in the corner. Afra had gasped, where was the peasant girl from Mundhi?
‘Chandra, I’m beautiful. Thank you.’
Quasim’s friends stood waiting to accompany the couple to the feast. To Afra they were strangers. Quasim’s eyes shone, he looked her up and down and spoke to his sister. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Chandra.’ He took in the finery but missed the eyes pleading for recognition, appraising her without warmth.
The couple made their entrance. Afra’s smile faltered, she forced it in place. The rest of the day was a blur. A band played, dish after dish was brought to the tables; tandoori chicken, saffron rice with nuts and fruit, naan; on and on. The bride and groom sat on either side of the matriarch, who scrutinised the waiters and the guests as if there was reason to mistrust both. No dancing or singing this time, just eating and talking and laughing. Quasim was relaxed, at home surrounded by his family and friends. Afra could see his brothers: Firdos, the driver on the journey from Mundhi and the shopping trip, and the one who’d asked Mirvat Khan for water. Zamir. Their eyes met and she recognised something she neither understood nor welcomed.
Someone placed a table in the middle of the room. Quasim and Afra walked to it. A priest recited prayers. He asked Quasim if he accepted Afra. Quasim nodded. A witness laid some papers on the table. He signed, his young wife made a mark and a cheer went up around the hall. Mrs Dilawar Hussein joined the newlyweds, supported by Firdos and Zamir.
Chandra answered her sister-in-law’s unspoken question. ‘Photographs.’
Photographs were a novelty. In her whole life Afra hadn’t ever had her picture taken. She smiled, Quasim smiled back. Perhaps it would be all right after all. A man with a camera danced in front of them, calling out instructions, moving the group around. Quasim and Afra stayed at the centre no matter how the others were placed and replaced. She searched the crowd hoping to see a familiar face.
Then she did and was sorry.
Bilal sat at a table at the back. Alone, of course. His eyes undressed her the way they’d done every day in that hellish house. Afra pushed the image of his poor wife away. Nadira was beyond help.
Bombarded by one new experience after another she could be forgiven for not thinking about Jameel and Mundhi, already so far away. Even the bangles were forgotten, under the gold tunic out of sight, eclipsed by shining clothes and cloying sweets.
And then they were on their way home. Quasim leaned forward to direct the driver. The car swept off the leafy boulevard through a set of high gates, over a gravel drive to a grey imposing building set well back from the road and stopped.
“They’re rich and live in a big house.” Her mother’s boast. This was it.
The driver rushed to open the door. Quasim strode up the steps and through the heavy door. Afra followed; as a wife she could expect to do a lot of following. Inside were gorgeous wall-hangings and more cushions and divans than she could count, a staggering contrast to Bilal’s vile hovel.
Quasim took her hand and led her up a long staircase, faster than she could walk. His hand held hers in an unbreakable grip. At the top they hurried along a corridor. She stumbled and fell. Quasim picked her up as if she weighed nothing and headed to a door at the end, threw it back with his free hand and swept in. Afra didn’t see the room, didn’t notice its expensive curtains and carpet, or the chandelier made of a thousand glass tear-drops hanging from the centre of the high ceiling, there was no time. Quasim carried her to the bed and let her fall. She was shocked by her husband’s urgency, he’d said nothing all day, most of the time he had ignored her.
Hands ripped her tunic. Beads scattered across the floor; she felt the chill of gold against her skin. His body knocked the breath from her lungs and blocked the fading daylight. She didn’t fight him. She didn’t respond. An image of that night in Bilal’s house flashed behind her eyes; this was not Bilal.
This was Quasim, her husband.
More clothes were stripped away, his body covered hers, his lips found her neck.
And then it was over.
He collapsed, panting. She was pinned, unable to move. He pushed himself off and lay on the bed, eyes closed, his face hard and unlined. Afra struggled from under him and covered herself with the remnants of the outfit made for an empress lying shredded on the floor, its beauty spent, like Quasim.
‘Wash and come back to me,’ he said.
Behind a door she found a grey and white marble bathroom with a mirror covering one wall. Hot water gushed, condensation frosted the mirror, she rubbed the glass and there she was: Afra, wife of Quasim, naked and empty in an ornate room.
‘Afra.’
It would get better, of course it would.
He called again, louder. ‘Afra!’
She dried herself and went back to the room and the bed. He lay on his side, savouring her body and signalled her to join him. She slipped the bangles off her arm and pushed them out of sight with her foot. They wouldn’t be part of this. He lunged, kissing and biting her, making sounds in his throat. Rough, uncaring fingers scratched her skin bringing a hundred tiny discomforts. Afra released herself. Tomorrow she’d search for the shade, if there was any, she’d find it. Find it and live on. And if there wasn’t: accept.
Across the city, Jameel dreamed, unaware of what was happening just miles away. He’d never know how much she needed him.
Chapter 11
‘Jameel!’ Gulzar Hafeez opened an arm to include the stranger standing behind him. ‘Meet Pir, Pir Ahmed.’
A brisk round-faced man gave a formal, not unfriendly nod. Gulzar didn’t allow awkwardness to take root. ‘Pir comes to us highly recommended. He’ll be with us as long as we need him. In fact, I’ve hired him on a full-time basis. The faster we get you to where you need to be the better.’
He beamed at the tutor,
confident his decision would be welcomed. Jameel’s eyes darted from one to the other. He was missing something. ‘And where is it you want me to be, Uncle?’
‘Not where, Jameel. Not a destination.’
His nephew didn’t know what he was talking about, except he was talking about him. ‘I want you to travel on a journey with Pir. When the last step has been taken you’ll be a different man, standing in a different place.’
Gulzar was accustomed to speaking uninterrupted. He threw an avuncular arm round Jameel’s shoulders. ‘When we met it was a great day for me. At last I had someone. You’ll never know how many times I’ve wondered what my life has been about. All the years, all the work, for what?’
‘But you’re successful.’
‘Am I, Jameel? In some ways, yes. On the outside I’ve made a great show of it. How sad to disagree. What you see here is good. It’s fine, I like it, I chose it. I’m fortunate to have it and, even if I could, I wouldn’t change it. But it’s not enough.’
He poked a finger at his chest. ‘In here, it’s not enough.
‘Building my business was all I cared about most of my life. I swore I’d never be poor. That thought drove me on, disregarding everything else, even cutting myself off from what little family I had. There was only my sister and me. I decided to rise above my background and become a rich man without realising the village was the power that moved me forward. Fear of going back drove me on. ‘So I never went back though I almost did, several times.’
The confession, revealing and profound, was above Jameel’s head.
‘I let my family down. I prospered while they struggled and the more time passed the harder it became to do the thing I knew was right. Go back and help in any way they needed.’
His eyes brimmed. ‘A call from my friend Mohamed gave me a second chance.’
Gulzar sighed and placed a hand on his nephew’s arm. ‘You asked if I had a job for you, remember? Well, I have. As soon as you’re ready two things will happen.’
The light was back in his eyes.
‘I’ll retire and you’ll take over from me. I’m sorry but it’s the only job I’m prepared to offer you.’
Jameel reeled at the prospect. He was being given a position it had taken his uncle his whole life to achieve. Anxiety boiled to the surface. ‘How can I possibly do this? I know less than nothing.’
‘At the moment that’s true, and why Pir is here.’ He beckoned the tutor into their circle of two. ‘Together we will transform Jameel into Mr Akhtar, the businessman. Any questions?’
nothing in the world; nothing in the world. A good boy, but nothing in the world
Jameel rubbed his hands together. ‘When do we start?’
His uncle grinned. Even Pir smiled a little.
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Gulzar stifled a yawn and patted his belly. The inescapable proof of his over-indulgence sat beneath his kurta; he had eaten too much at dinner again. His nephew sat across from him, studying symbols in a book, copying them onto sheets of paper.
‘How did it go today?’
‘Pir’s a wonderful teacher but he expects too much of me.’
‘He expects you to give what you have.’
‘Can I ask you a question? Have you ever been in love?’
‘I’ve been in love many times, Jameel, though never for long. The demands of my businesses always won me back. Many good women have slipped away. I realised too late. Why do you ask? Are you in love?’
‘I was. I lost her.’
‘That happens. Then again, real love refuses to be put aside. The answer to your question is that I’ve been in love many times, but really, never. If I had, I’d be a richer man, whether it lasted forever or ended in a day. Who is she?’
‘A girl from the village.’
‘Well, soon you’ll be able to offer her a life. If it’s love, real love, it’ll wait.’
Jameel considered what his uncle said. ‘She may be already married. Her mother rejected me because I was nothing in the world, that’s why I left Mundhi.’
‘Jameel, let me tell you something. Pir is instructing you in things he understands. Writing, reading, numbers. Important things, for sure. Then I’ll show you how my businesses work. More important things to know. By the end, your head will be rolling around on your shoulders under the weight of it all. You’ll have knowledge, a mountain of it, yet your education will be incomplete.’
‘There will be more?’
‘Much more, so be sure to leave room because it’s gold.’
Working with Pir was hard enough. After that it would be his uncle’s turn, and then? He wasn’t sure he could handle it.
‘Surely everyone can’t need to know all this to get on in the world?’
‘No, indeed. Most people know very little and still struggle by. The reading and writing, perhaps, and haven’t you noticed how even the dullest dullard can count his money? Beyond that, few understand.’
‘What don’t they understand?’
Gulzar shrugged. ‘Themselves. Who they are. Why they feel the way they do.’
Jameel’s face fell; he’d hoped for more. Something he could find in a book.
‘Everyone knows who they are, don’t they?’
Gulzar stretched. ‘Unfortunately, no. Most people have no answer to a question like that. Most have never asked, so how could they?’
His uncle liked to talk and sometimes…. Jameel returned to his study.
‘Pir and I will show you all you need to master business. We’ll be your teachers and you’ll learn from us. By the end, you’ll be further than most ever get. You’ll have knowledge, quite a bit of it. The world is full of knowledge, it’s all around us. But happy people aren’t all around. Have you looked? Did you see many? No Jameel, your education will be complete when you know who you are.’
Gulzar wished he hadn’t gone down this road, it was too early and Jameel was too young. ‘Wisdom, not knowledge. When you have wisdom you’ll be the complete man.’
‘And what’s the difference?’
‘All the difference in the world. Knowledge comes from the outside, wisdom is within.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Of course you don’t. How could you? You’re at the start of your adventure. You don’t know what you don’t know. Let me give you an example. This woman, tell me again what she said.’
‘She told me I was nothing in the world.’ Jameel’s face flushed.
‘Mmmm.’ Gulzar stroked his moustache. ‘And you believed her?’
‘It was Afra’s mother.’
‘And you believed her.’ A statement not a question.
‘She’s known me all my life.’
‘Wrong. She doesn’t know you, how could she, she doesn’t know herself. She doesn’t know anything worth knowing about you. Her values are material values. Her judgement is flawed. Did she know that soon you’d be a rich man? Did she know that? And if she had what would her opinion of Jameel have been then, eh?’
He knelt beside the young man and his books. ‘You let the views of this woman drive you from your home and your love, yet they’re the worthless words of an unenlightened soul. Do you see?’
‘A little, I think.’
‘If we allow the opinion of others to matter we’re in their power. What they think of us becomes what we think of ourselves. The only opinion of you that matters is your own.’
Jameel yawned and dragged himself to the door.
‘But why do I have to learn so much? Reading, writing, numbers. About business, about myself. Why? I’m an honest man, prepared to work hard, isn’t that enough?’
Gulzar rubbed a tired hand through his hair. It was easy to understand why Jameel, or anyone for that matter, would balk at what was in front of him. Maybe he was wrong to push the boy so hard, so fast. ‘You must find your own answers, of course. All I can do is tell you what life has taught me.’
Tiredness hung on his nephew like the clothes of a larger man. ‘So, I must be smarte
r than everyone else?’
‘No, Jameel, no one is saying that.’
‘What then?’
‘Two things.’
‘What are they?’
‘Trust in God, and at night, tie up your camel.’
Gulzar was a good man. Jameel loved him already. A good man but crazy as a desert storm. ‘Goodnight, Uncle,’ he said and closed the door.
Chapter 12
She lay on the bed listening to the fan whirring above. She wasn’t tired, well, maybe just a little. It was only two in the afternoon. That morning she’d felt unwell. The feeling passed as quickly as it had come. Bilal and the doomed Nadira seemed far away. Mundhi and her mother were even harder to recall. Jameel and Fatimah and Shafi she stored deep in her memory; thinking about them brought too much pain.
Afra placed a hand on her wrist. None of the family had commented on the wooden symbols, too busy with their own lives to pay attention to the new wife. She had no idea what those lives were. The men went off to their business. Chandra was always out somewhere – the relationship she’d hoped for with her sister-in-law hadn’t survived the wedding day. Chandra ignored her, or at best, flashed a diluted smile. Just when she believed she’d found a friend, what a pity.
Mrs Dilawar Hussein never spoke to her. Afra wasn’t unhappy about that; the woman disapproved of everything and spent the day fussing and fuming or complaining about the cook, roaming the house in a state of permanent dissatisfaction.
When she joined the family for dinner, conversation was between the brothers, the women said nothing, at least not to her. The meal was served on a polished table in a room kept for that. Everyone used special cutlery. Afra watched and learned.
Food was prepared by the cook and brought to the table by Zana, the servant. Zana was a teenager. So far, nothing had been asked of Afra. She had no work to do and no one to talk to. The days were long, the nights longer. Quasim’s initial animal enthusiasm had become a more measured toying – no more enjoyable for that. He took his time satisfying himself; it could have been any woman crushed under him. No tender words escaped his lips, nothing to temper his brutish actions.