by Sabyn Javeri
The Urge
It all began the day they put the all-encompassing dark garment on me. It was a passage to womanhood, they said. Now that I was older, I must wear a hijab. And an abaya too. I must be good. A good Muslim. A good, Muslim, woman.
I had just turned thirteen.
‘Here.’ They held it out to me as if it were a prize. And perhaps it was. I tried on the patterned headscarf and the long, black, cloak-like garment that covered me like a tent.
I felt hidden.
‘You are lucky,’ Amma told me later that day. ‘Nowadays, girls in Pakistan get away with so much. In our days, it was a baggy shuttlecock burkha thrown over our heads, with just a few tiny holes to peer through. And then, before we could even learn to walk without tripping on the hem, we were packed off to the husband’s house.’
I fingered the silky material of the abaya. It was smooth, like the chocolates an uncle had once brought us from Jeddah.
Amma seemed to be thinking the same thoughts, for she said, ‘Aye, you remember that beautiful silk your uncle got us from Saudi?’
I nodded, though only the sweets had remained stuck in my memory.
‘I had it made from that material only.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know why, but I felt a sudden pang. The smoothness of the fabric was sensuous. It seemed as if this thing really did have chocolates woven into its texture. I had a sudden urge to taste it.
I put it in my mouth.
‘Chi! Acting like a baby,’ Amma snatched it from my mouth. ‘Why I wasted such a fine cloth from Saudi on you! Ya Allah, have mercy.’ Lamenting, she made her way to the kitchen.
I thought back to the TV show where I’d heard some short-haired women, who looked like boys, tch-tching at the Saudis for not letting women drive. I wondered if that too was a bad thing.
‘Amma,’ I began, but she was already at the stove. ‘Amma,’ I called out, ‘they don’t let women drive in Saudia.’
‘So?’ she shouted back. ‘It’s because they don’t make their women work like these blasted Pakistani men who make us fetch the water, work the fields, do the bazaars and what not. And where did you hear it anyway? Have you been to Saudi? Don’t let women drive! One less chore it is for us women, if you ask me!’
Not that we have a car, I thought, checking the deep pockets of the abaya. I held it up against the sunlight and thought a few metal buttons on the edge would definitely do. I got out Amma’s sewing box and began sewing an assortment of different coloured buttons along the edge. I worked quickly, secretly, keeping one eye on the doorway, should Amma make a sudden reappearance. But I knew it would be a while before she left the stove. She cooked with great concentration and as a result, Amma’s food always tasted exactly the same.
Was that a good thing? I found myself wondering for the second time that day.
‘You are not secretly watching those vulgar Indian channels with the volume down, are you?’ Amma called out from the kitchen. I pricked my finger at the sudden sound of her voice. ‘If your uncle catches you, both you and I will get a good thrashing.’
‘No!’ I cried out, the thought of my holier-than-thou uncle’s relentless slaps blinding my thoughts. ‘No. I … I’m just looking at the hijab.’ I watched as the blood from my finger seeped onto the abaya, then disappeared into its inky blackness. I wondered if it would stain but, no, the dark material seemed to absorb everything inside it. Very carefully, I put the hijab on my head the way Amma had taught me, then wrapped myself in the long, dark hold of the abaya. Something shifted. I looked up to see a lizard on the wall, staring unblinkingly at me.
‘It’s still me,’ I whispered. She seemed unconvinced, so I ran inside for a quick look. In the small, scratched, rusted mirror hung high on the bedroom wall, I stared at my reflection. Someone else stared back at me. Not a girl of thirteen, but a dark, mysterious woman. This was someone else, I thought.
This was a woman.
At first, I enjoyed the freedom the hijab offered. Inside the tent-like abaya, I could be scratching my crotch or unbutton the annoying bra I was forced to wear. Nobody could tell. It was, in some ways, like travelling in your own private marquee. I felt sheltered. Nobody told me not to fidget or to sit still, nobody said good girls don’t pick their noses or scratch their bums, because nobody could tell what I was up to in there. I often wondered if all women did this. How sorry I felt for the menfolk, whose freedom I had envied so much previously. They stood there in the hot sun, so exposed, so raw, so open, doing their business with everyone watching. So many times I had seen men standing on the sidewalk, scratching their crotch in full view of the public or squatting shamelessly on the sidewalks, their limp penis in their hand as they finished peeing. I used to envy their freedom to do what they liked, when they liked, no worries as to who might be watching. Now I pitied them. Poor deprived souls,
I thought.
But then, like most things that one gets used to, this too got boring. I began to miss my colourful clothes.
I missed stealing glances at my reflection in shop mirrors and the thrill of getting compliments. There was no longer any point in trying out new hairstyles or haircuts. Even brushing my hair seemed pointless, for there was no one to see it. No one to compliment or to complain – nobody to notice me at all. I could go out in rags for all I cared; it hardly mattered unless I was going somewhere I could take off my camouflage and stand out.
And that was rare. Even at weddings, unless they were segregated, I had to wear the cumbersome garment.
It was a woman’s fate, I was told.
Make the best of it, I was ordered.
I had heard somewhere that necessity is the mother of invention. In my case, it was the aunt. I tried inventing new games to make life in purdah interesting, and young Aunt, my uncle’s new wife, a girl just six years older than me, joined in. We often played dress-up with her still-new wedding clothes, putting on what little make-up and jewels she had, for a make-believe wedding. We loved make-up, but Uncle called it the devil’s opium, throwing away any cosmetics he found on our person.
‘Good girls don’t dirty their faces,’ he warned us, smoothing his long black beard as he quoted some ominous Arabic verse or the other.
But nobody knew what his Arabic verses meant so we did what we had to behind his back.
Once, in a departmental store, Aunt and I saw a red lipstick. It was fire engine red, too beautiful to pass up. It beckoned me, called out to me, urged me to pick it up. I could imagine my aunt’s reaction if I asked her to buy it for me. She had never worn such a bright colour in her life. But that is not what would stop her. The bigger never-been-done-before factor here was that we’d never bought anything from this store. It wasn’t just the fact that she had no money; even if she did, it was the feeling of guilt – as if we weren’t supposed to be there. To be honest, I’m not sure how she even wrangled the permission. Or why. She brought me here on Sundays when Uncle took the whole family to the promenade for a stroll. I never found out how she persuaded him to let us go. She always insisted that he drop us off here, taking me along as an escort, and my younger brother as guardian. She was still childless, you see, and my mother, with six children to look after, was only too happy to have a few off her plate. But I digress, my youngish aunt, with whom my much older uncle was totally besotted, would somehow convince him to drop us off at the mall by the sea and here, under the bright lights and loud store music, we’d browse the colourful merchandise, dawdling in the fairness creams section, marvelling at the whitening potions and, of course, staring in fascination at the Revlon Red counter – knowing fully well that we could never afford any of it.
It was not the first time I had gaped at the red lipstick, marvelling at its power of transformation as the ugly sales girl tried it on. Nor was it the first time the thought of stealing it had occurred to me. But earlier, there had been no opportunity. A girl of eleven, with no handbag and only her slim kurta-pyjama, has nothing but a fist to hide things in. But a girl in a hijab
has much more opportunity.
And so, that day, I gave in to the urge. And why not? I asked myself. The hijab is a garment that implies purity. Who would think of looking under it? What security guard would risk frisking a girl wearing such a holy garment? Why would such a girl steal? Would you?
That night, I took it out of the folds of my long abaya and there it gleamed, the red devil. I felt seduced. Fire-engine siren, it read. I giggled and stayed longer than usual in the bathroom I shared with my family of ten, my brothers threatening to break down the door if
I didn’t come out soon. When I finally emerged, Amma and Aunt averted their eyes, but after dinner, they sat me down.
I wondered if some telltale red sign had remained on my mouth despite the vigorous scrubbing. Did they know?
My mother cleared her throat while my aunt looked uncomfortable, adjusting her headscarf nervously. Finally, Amma pressed a small book of holy verses into my hands.
‘Beti,’ she said, ‘when a girl reaches puberty, the body is not the only thing that needs sheltering. It is not just the appearance that must be hidden from preying eyes. One must protect the mind as well. If you …’ her voice trailed off. Aunt looked shiftily from side to side, looking more and more uncomfortable as Amma’s face took on a stoic look and her voice acquired the tone of a martyr.
‘Look, beti,’ Amma said in a low, pleading tone, ‘if you get the urge … the urge to … oh you will know what
I mean … you know if you feel you must remain longer in the bathroom…’
I sighed with relief. So this was what it was about. Did she really think that sharing a room with my five siblings and sexually overactive parents had not taught me anything? Besides, the girls at the madrassa had already told me about it, some of us even discussing techniques, debating whether one finger or two fingers were more effective.
I decided to put an end to her misery.
‘Amma, I will say my prayers when the need arises. Thank you.’ I bowed my head like a dutiful daughter. They looked visibly relieved.
I ran out of the room, my fingers touching the reassuring presence of the fire-engine red, then travelling south as I wondered, Did they really start that late?
The urge, I noticed with time, could appear in many forms at different places and disguises. My urges were not physical, as my mother and aunt had feared, but material. Soon, I found it was harder and harder not to give in to them. If I spotted a juicy red apple, my hands itched to grab it and hide it in the folds of my abaya. If
I saw Uncle’s keys, I just couldn’t stop myself from tucking them into my hijab, if for nothing else than to see his face twist into rage as he hunted desperately for them.
But as I grew older, the urge began to manifest itself in different ways. Every time I saw Indian film stars on cable, I wanted to look like them.
‘As long as you do your fashion inside your hijab,’ Aunt, who seemed to experience the same urges, warned me. She taught me how to. It became a secret game between us. We cut off the sleeves of our old shirts and pretended to be wearing western dresses under our abayas. We giggled at the thought that nobody knew how immodestly we were dressed underneath. One day I saw an old Hindi film where the actress sang a sad song wearing a one-shouldered dress and had an uncontrollable urge to tear away my own sleeve. Aunt stopped me, instead snipping away the whole shoulder of an old kameez, making it a one-strap dress like the kind the Indian actress had worn. I made her try it on, too.
She resisted at first, but finally gave in. When she stepped out from behind the curtain we used for changing, she looked different. Her heavy breasts bulged against the ill-fitting, lopsided neckline, her face contorted with shyness. I took out the red lipstick and coloured her lips.
‘There,’ I said. ‘Smile,’ I commanded, and she smiled. ‘Walk.’ ‘Turn.’ Before I knew it, she was making poses and pretending to do the catwalk like those tall, tall models on TV. We laughed and we laughed, and finally we collapsed on the floor. Suddenly, I stopped laughing and looked at her. Something passed between us in that moment. I reached out and touched her breasts. She didn’t shy away. I let my hand explore her skin, a strange urge inside driving us closer.
Perhaps it would have led to something more, but just then, my uncle came home. We froze at the sound of his keys and, before we could cover ourselves, he was in the doorway, taking in the butchered garments, the red-stained lips, and finally my hand on her breast.
‘Get out,’ he ordered.
That night, her face matched the violet of her dress. But what could anyone do. It was her fate.
I was not allowed to enter Aunt’s room again. Uncle called her a bad influence. All outings alone with her were banned. Slowly, the family visits to the seaside also came to a stop. The city’s situation, the bomb blasts and the shootings made it impossible to step out. And even when things got better, it was only as far as down the lane to a cousin’s home and back that I was allowed to venture. My outings were curbed more and more with each passing birthday. Finally, on my fifteenth birthday, I was imprisoned in the house. A suitable match was being sought and I was to be married soon. Till then,
I was expected to bide my time learning the art of cooking and the craft of sewing. Both things bored me to tears.
If I protested, my mother and aunt would tell me to be patient. ‘It’s a woman’s fate,’ they would say in unison, like a pair of parrots. ‘Once you are married, you can do what you want.’
Looking at their wistful pinched faces, I doubted it, but I consoled myself with the fact that my fate would be different. I always found a way, you see.
In the coming days, the smell of fried onions dominated my senses, needles pricked my thumbs, the scraping of meat made me nauseous, and the cumbersome peeling of potatoes made me scream. When it all got too much,
I knew I had to find a way out. And that was when I found a new game.
This time, the urge was the strongest it had ever been. I began to feel as if it were my master and I had no choice but to obey. I should’ve known that this meant trouble.
That afternoon, when everyone was asleep, I crept out to the little balcony overlooking our narrow lane. There was nobody about, except the shopkeeper opposite fanning himself with a newspaper, his pedestal fan turning slowly, miserably, airlessly. I walked up to the edge and looked down, hoping and praying that he wouldn’t look up.
He did.
Before I could stop the urge, I lifted my abaya and flashed him. The shock on his face was enough to make me tremble in my skin. I covered myself quickly and ran inside, panting as if I had been chased. I was shaking.
I couldn’t stop. What would happen now? I had exposed myself to him. What if the man complained to my uncle? What if he went to the police? What if I was stoned to death? Thrown out for being a bad girl?
I was still trembling as I cowered in a corner of the kitchen, when my mother called out to me, ‘Girl, get the afternoon tea ready. Your uncle and father will be
here soon.’
Quickly, I composed myself and, putting on proper clothes under my hijab, I busied myself in the kitchen. And that is when I noticed it – we were out of sugar.
‘Go with your little brother and get it on credit from across the street,’ mother shouted. Precisely what I had feared.
I shivered, shouting back, ‘Why can’t he get it himself? He’s almost four now!’
But Amma shook her head. ‘He can’t cross the road. Those cursed motorcycles come so fast down the alley. Just go, na. As it is, you’ve got your full cover on.’
My hands and feet felt dead cold and my ears were buzzing as I stepped out of our tiny house. Holding my brother’s hand, I led him to the shop across the road.
‘Half kilo sugar,’ he said in his little squeak of a voice.
I looked up to see if the shopkeeper was leering at me but he seemed to be avoiding my gaze. He’s embarrassed, I thought to myself, my face reddening with shame. And then, as I took the pen to sign the credit
note, I felt him brush his hand against mine. I felt him linger a second too long. Something hot flashed between my legs. The top of my spine shivered.
‘Let’s go’, my little brother tugged at my sleeve and we left. But, as filmy as it sounds, my heart remained behind.
From that day on, it became a ritual. Sometimes a leg, sometimes a breast, or a wrist, even a flash of my buttocks. We waited eagerly for the afternoons when I would go up to the roof and tease him with my urges.
I lived in constant fear and I lived in constant excitement. At times, I couldn’t tell what was greater – the risk of being found out or the satisfaction of giving in to my impulses. It was as if I had invented my own world where I made the rules. I was the queen and I was the slave. It was the best of feelings, it was the worst of them. Whatever it was, it was a high.
And then, as it often happens in the love stories on cable, mine too ended abruptly. It should have been a happy ending, for once caught, thankfully not naked, making eye contact with each other, my mother put two and two together and forced the shopkeeper to propose. He was fourteen years older than me and already married, but I didn’t mind. He was after all my first love, my only love.
We were married soon enough, to the joy of my siblings who finally got some space in our overcrowded house. He put me in a separate one-room quarter, away from the prying eyes of his first family – something I cherished at first, till the loneliness set in. But like with the hijab and the abaya, the novelty soon wore off. Everything that he had desired about me turned to fear. I think he was constantly haunted by the fear that I’d flash someone else. But how could I confide this shameful confession to anyone?
The hijab was not enough for him. He made me wrap a large chadder over my hijab and abaya. He got me to swear that I would always wear a bra and a vest. Even in the sweltering hot Karachi summers, I had to don a man’s vest under my clothes, and leggings under my shalwar, lest I kicked my legs and someone saw my ankles.