Courage to Say No

by Raana Mahmood

  “You must give me time.”

  “I can touch your feet if that pleases you. Marry me next month.”

  The foot touching ritual as a form of respect and humility was nothing more to me than a broken promise. I could never erase the image of Erfun bowing low and holding my feet, intimating that he would respect me forever. The entire ceremony was fraudulent. For me, there was no honor, no principle, and no integrity in the touching of one’s feet. I needed more than good intentions in a husband. I needed to see more of Osman’s behavior and character.

  “I must have two months to think over my decision.”

  “If we wait too long, you will change your mind.”

  He had a point. If I waited, would I take the quiet moments to nurse my hurts, to rehearse in my mind the many reasons I should never marry again? Maybe I would never be able to love another man again. Then there was this earnest man, Osman, who was someone my family knew. He seemed to be a man of good intentions. I slowly realized we probably could never know another person’s real character. But my sense of who he was, made me think that Osman would be good for me.

  In June 1996, we were married in a simple gathering. I invited Dr. Uqali, who was happy to see me happy. I knew he was about to retire, and he wanted me to have a strong man at my back, a good husband to see me safely through the troubled waters of Pakistani life.

  After we married, Osman moved to my Chapal apartment, and I was ready for a new life together, with more children, and much love and happiness.

  After our Nikah, Osman told me he was impotent, and we would most likely not have any children together. I stared at him—shocked, then confused, then angry. Why hadn’t he told me this before we were married?

  What disturbed me most was that I had shown him everything about me—my medical records, my financial situation, my ID card, my home. I was explicit that I wanted more children. I asked him why he hadn’t been up front with me about his condition. He said he hadn’t wanted to lose me.

  I had heard that excuse before. Did all men use this excuse to get what they wanted?

  “This destroys a dream I’ve had of having a large family.”

  He was sheepish, but he had little to say.

  What could I do? I did not want another divorce. I did love him and wanted us to be together, so I decided to forgive him and make the best of it.

  After that, he left for a few days to travel to Hyderabad for his civil aviation duties.

  That night, I received a call from a woman who introduced herself as Faryal. She claimed to be Osman’s girlfriend. She told me a tale that made my heart sink right down into my shoes. As she talked my knees became weak, and I had to sit down. She claimed she was Osman’s longtime girlfriend. She had four children, and two of them were Osman’s children.

  “But you were never married to him, were you?”

  “No, we were only girlfriend and boyfriend.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him, instead of allowing him to carry on with me?”

  “I am already married. My husband is Dr. Anjum. I didn’t want Osman to marry you, but he did anyway. Now I’m very hurt. I hate that he’s married to you.”

  “Why didn’t you divorce your husband and marry Osman?”

  “My husband won’t divorce me. He’s okay with Osman.”

  The entire conversation puzzled me. How could Osman have children if he was impotent? How could this woman’s husband be happy with such a situation?

  “He told me he is impotent. How can he have children with you?”

  “He wasn’t always this way, but when he decided to marry you, I performed magic on him. He will never have children with you.”

  I hung up the phone, dazed. I stumbled around my apartment. Osman was still away so I couldn’t talk to him. I paced the floor of my apartment almost the entire night.

  Faryal called the next day and the day after that. I told her to leave me alone. I didn’t want to believe her. Finally, the last time she called, she pushed me hard to accept the fact that she had Osman’s children.

  “I will come over to your apartment with the children and show them to you. I will make a scene in your building.”

  “If you do that, people will not like what you’ve done, destroying your marriage and mine.” According to Islam, what she and Osman had done was a sin, but she didn’t seem to care at all.

  The next day after work, I went to Osman’s mother’s house and confronted her. She confirmed that it was true. “Yes, he has two children with that woman. But what could I say to you? I wanted to tell you, but if I had, Osman would have been furious at me.”

  “Better for him to be angry at you than to destroy my life.” I rose and left. She was as weak and as much a liar as her son.

  When Osman returned from Hyderabad, I confronted him about his girlfriend’s calls, his children, and his lying. He slumped down into a chair.

  “I wanted to get away from her, that’s why I married you. I was able to have children with her, so I thought I would with you. But she’s done something to me.”

  The next time Faryal called, I asked her what she had done to Osman that he couldn’t have any more children.

  “I performed powerful magic on him.”

  I scoffed at her. “This is a medical problem, not a magic problem.”

  “You’ll see. In fifteen days, he will leave you forever, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.”

  Each day following that call seemed normal. Osman and I arrived home from work about the same time. The evenings moved along as I expected. Suspecting Faryal might be right, but not thoroughly believing her prediction, I kept alert for any signs of trouble. We never argued. We were still in the beginning stages of easing into our married life. Then one day, Osman came home looking haggard and upset. He said he’d suddenly started having heart palpitations and feelings of dread, as if something terrible was about to happen. His episodes got worse and worse until he thought he might have a heart attack. I told him to see a doctor immediately.

  On the fifteenth day, he did not come home at all. When I returned home from work, there was a letter on the table. He couldn’t escape the fear of dread, and he wanted to live apart for a while and see if the panic would subside. He said he was going to live with his mother for a while. Then, if he felt better, he would return. I searched the apartment, and it seemed more like a robbery than fear that had driven him to leave. He had taken my money, my jewelry, and anything valuable in the house.

  I crashed onto the sofa in tears. We were married for less than one month, and the man had stripped me of everything—my valuables, my dignity, and the tiny bit of faith that remained that I could ever trust a man.

  In the next few weeks, I discovered that he had taken out a loan against my apartment. Now I was deeply in debt and on the verge of another divorce.

  The night he left, I cried into the early morning. I feared I was destined to live alone my entire life. The next morning, I woke up with my face on fire and painful to touch. When I looked in the mirror, my face had turned darker, with patches of skin darker than my normal skin tone. My body had become bloated, and I was hot all over. I had a high fever and feelings of lethargy. How had all of this happened in one night?

  Those symptoms and fever continued for two years. I visited several specialists who gave me a variety of reasons why this would happen, but all the tests came back normal, so they had no definitive answer. I was horrified by my appearance, and no amount of makeup could cover up the story on my face.

  I never talked about my personal life at work with anyone, but it must have been evident from my appearance that something had happened. When people asked me if I was okay, I told them I am fine. Soon the news spread, because Osman began sending letters to my job and family that my marriage had turned tragic. This turn of events shattered me emotionally.

  The general manager, Mr. Waheed, called me into the head office to talk. Once in his office, he asked me directly. “I proposed to you so many time
s. Why would you marry someone you hardly knew?”

  “But you’re already married.” I had it in my mind that my married life would look like my parents, two spouses in love with each other. I had come too far to change that idea. Why was that dream so far out of reach for me? Mr. Waheed didn’t laugh, but he did smile ruefully. Did he pity me that I didn’t understand the nature of marriage in Pakistan? That I didn’t understand it was a man’s world, and men did what they wanted when they wanted. Or that I was just plain ignorant of how things operated in a country saturated with superstition and corruption to the point no one could ever sort out right from wrong, good from bad, true faith from the demons lurking in the shadows.

  I left the general manager’s office confused but more determined than ever to sort out my life. I had a right to a happy marriage, just like any other woman, and I had to have a better grasp of what was going on around me.

  Faryal continued calling, taunting me. She said Osman would send me the divorce papers soon, and she would leave Pakistan with her husband and children. But before that happened she wanted to take Osman from me. I couldn’t believe this woman. Was there no justice in the world? Why was I deprived of happiness?

  I went to Osman’s employer at the Civil Aviation Authority (CAA). I spilled out the entire story—how Osman had left with everything, stealing my money and jewelry, and taking out a loan on my apartment without my knowledge. The general manager Sadiq appeared very concerned. He said he would get justice for me very quickly, and get the return of all my property—if I slept with him for a night.

  I stood in shock. He could have plunged a dagger through my heart, and I wouldn’t have felt more pain that I experienced at that moment. Without answering him, I left. I was so angry I went directly to the office of Director General of CAA, Mr. Amir Sharif, and made a written complaint against him. The next day I received a call from the Assistant DG, Air Vice Marshall Mr. Zulfiqar Shah, thanking me for my written complaint. He complimented me on my bravery. He said they heard many rumors about the man, but none of the women would come forward with official complaints. This time I had and they ended up firing the general manager. At least there is some justice in the world.

  At home, in the quiet when Taimoor was asleep, I began to piece all of the bizarre events together. Why was I experiencing strange incidents—my failed marriage with Erfun because of Shesta, the disappearance of Malik as that magician had predicted, and now Osman’s mistress’s claim of using black magic to steal him away from me? Had Malik been pressured by some unseen forces to leave without even saying a word to me? Had Osman left the house on the exact day that Faryal said he would? His leaving me without explanation shook me so hard that it took me weeks to regain my composure. I scrutinized every detail I could remember from when I first met him up until the last time I saw him. I tried to figure out what had happened between us. Was it something I had said or done?

  And what about Furqan? This man wouldn’t let me go. It didn’t matter how many times I married, the marriages would never work. How could someone be so cruel to wish that on me? All the magic in the world would never make me have feelings for that man. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I told him, he would still show up in my life at unexpected moments.

  All of this left me with an eerie sense that I was under surveillance, that an unseen force was observing me keenly from the shadows. And this observer or supernatural power was not my friend. As much as I tried to rationalize what was happening to me, I couldn’t get my second marriage out of my head. I wanted a happily married life, so I could fulfill my promise to my mother, and not disappoint my father. As soon as a very nice man like Osman showed up, one whom I could trust, this force came and spoiled everything.

  Still, despite everything that happened to me, I wasn’t confident that magic had any power over me. Since my childhood study of the Quran, I believed that God was my friend, that he was the most potent force in the universe. He didn’t want me to live alone, did he? Didn’t I deserve happiness and a peaceful life?

  I kept thinking about this supposed supernatural force. If such a force did exist, I had to find a way to escape it. I tried hiding my plans from people. I learned that those who practiced magic had to know something personal about the person they are targeting. I tried playing hide-and-seek with the mysterious force. But it seemed to turn the tables on me.

  I decided there was still a chance to pray. Maybe Osman would return. Maybe Faryal would leave Osman. I went to Molvi Sahib and asked him to pray for my marriage. I prayed every day for two months. Then Osman returned from London. Soon afterward, I received divorce papers in the mail. Dr. Sheela found out about the papers and laughed at me, but my father was very hurt. Hurt and despondent, I asked Molvi Sahib, “Why didn’t your prayers work?”

  “I prayed and I requested Imam e Kaaba through my friend to pray for you during Hajj e Akbar. He prayed for you over the loudspeaker and every pilgrim was saying, Amin. But your divorce was inevitable. It appears many people must be performing black magic on you. The forces against you are too strong. You must go to a magician to remove the black magic.”

  This was the most surprising conversation I’d ever had with a religious person, especially one who had memorized the Quran and who understood its meaning and message. He would know about the prohibitions against consulting and practicing magic. I feared either he didn’t have thorough knowledge of Islam or God is angry with me for some reason.

  With the divorce in the process of becoming legal, I had to protect my rights under the law. At the time of marriage, the Nikah contract spells out the haq mehar, or amount of money to be paid by the husband to the wife. The haq mehar becomes her property if the marriage contract is broken by the husband. So, I filed in court my right to obtain the haq mehar, the funds promised to me, along with an accounting of all the possessions and funds that Osman had taken from me. The court awarded me almost three quarters of what I asked for, so at least I wouldn’t be penniless. I was able to pay off the loan that Osman took out on my home and purchase a small car.

  After the divorce was final, I visited my father at Eid. He was shocked that I was again divorced. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. His voice was full of emotions and pain. He didn’t want to hear about what Osman had done. He just could not believe I would be divorced after not even a half a year.

  He must have seen the hurt on my face. “Why you are asking me that?”

  “I’m asking because I’m your father. You are my beloved daughter, and my heart cries for you.”

  We both were silent. Tears welled in his eyes. I knew what he said was true. His heart was crying for me. I knew he loved me very much. But I had no good answers for him. I was still angry at the entire catastrophe of my life.

  “Don’t ask me why I got divorced. Ask God. I have no answers to your question.”

  I was shattered. I wanted to just sit and weep, but couldn’t do that in front of my father.

  During that period, whenever I needed something important, it vanished. I was supposed to travel, and one night I put my passport on the table ready to take it with me in a day or two. It just disappeared. After searching the whole house repeatedly, I was forced to apply for a new one. My jewelry and clothes vanished from in front of me. When I needed a document, I couldn’t find it. Much later, I would see it on a side table in another room. How could I have missed it?

  The disappearing and reappearing of items exhausted me. It came to the point I was searching for my things all the time. Was someone trying to keep me busy with useless activities? I decided I needed to search out the root cause of these mysterious incidents.

  Were all of these incidences mere coincidences, or something more? Was someone using black magic on me, trying to drive me crazy? I began to suspect there existed a power I didn’t understand, and knew that I needed to learn more.

  I started my research by reaching out to experts, those who could give me the right answers. I visited so many places and met
so many different kinds of magicians: those who claimed they were simple magicians, those who were called black magicians. Practitioners of Siffle knowledge, numerologists, and experts of Jafar knowledge, those who purported to control djinns. I even visited a magician who claimed to have control over Satan. I learned more than I ever expected about the deep roots of magic used in our culture. My conclusions were simple—most of those I met were charlatans. They used simple tricks to defraud innocent people of their money and honor by raping women.

  There was one thing that was common among all of them: they spread fear and terror among people. If they could get someone to believe that their entire family, friends, and colleagues were performing magic on them, then the magicians would earn big money to provide protection against the powers of evil. It’s a fraudulent scheme that many in Pakistan fall for.

  In the course of my research, I spoke with a very nice man, a Roohani expert, Khawaja Shamsuddin Azimi, who taught me to meditate to find God, but my mind was so agitated, I found it very difficult to practice. I also met Shah Sahib, expert on Jafar and numerology, who answered some of my questions. At the time I visited, a group of executives from one of the most prominent newspapers in Pakistan was seeking help to open a private TV channel. They wanted Shah Sahib to destroy the business of a competing channel. I was surprised that reputable business people sought help from magicians, too.

  Shah Sahib calculated my horoscope. He informed me that my birth was during an alignment of stars that produced a deep attraction to my personality. But because I had a strong character and strong faith in God I resisted people’s intentions, so that they resorted to more nefarious ways to try and influence me. He was surprised I hadn’t gone insane or wasn’t dead.

  I wondered the same things some days.

  I asked him a question that burned in me: if Islam prohibited magic, why did it exist?

  “Magic exists,” he replied. “Our Prophet also suffered from magic spells, which were only removed by the last four surahs of the Quran.”