Jeena was the young woman who helped with the housework, did some cooking, washed everyone’s clothes, and scrubbed pots and pans after every meal. An orphan from Mariam’s mother’s village, she was a girl of ten when she had first come to live in their house as a young ayah for Mariam’s newborn daughter. Now she was twenty. Since Mariam and her husband were all the family she had, it was up to them to find her a suitable husband and be responsible for the expenses incurred at her wedding.
Her beads still dangling from the fingers of her right hand, Mariam silently nodded. She would have to continue this later, she decided. “I’ll be there,” she told Jeena and, bending over, began folding the prayer mat toward herself.
It would have to be something as precious as her husband’s life, a fair exchange, Mariam mused as she poured hot, steamy milk into Ahmer’s glass.
“It’s hot!” her son wailed, the words muffled by the mouthful of paratha he was chewing.
“It will cool off in a minute,” Mariam said, absently patting six-year-old Ahmer’s head. Was it something she would have to relinquish?
“Amma, I don’t want milk today,” Razia mumbled.
“Drink, drink, don’t make a fuss.” Something so dear to her, giving it away would be the hardest thing she had ever done. “And be careful, don’t spill.” Her life?
“Ohhh . . .” Razia whined.
“Shshsh, don’t act like a baby, Razia, you’re setting a bad example to your brother.” No, that couldn’t be—her life was for her children, they couldn’t be deprived. What then?
“Mariam Apa, shall I bring your tea now?” Jeena’s voice broke into her thoughts. The young woman stood by the stove, one hand poised expectantly over the teapot.
“Yes, Jeena, and make sure it’s really hot.” Mariam looked at Jeena as she poured tea into a cup for her mistress. The luminescence on the red, green, and gold bangles on her slim, dark wrists glimmered tremulously. Like the disturbed reflection of light on water. A strand of sleek, black hair had fallen over one ruddy cheek and caressed it lovingly. When the young girl bent down to retrieve a spoon that had slipped from her hands to the floor, Mariam was astonished to see how her breasts swelled. Strange that she had not noticed the fullness before, or the young girl’s skin that was smooth like a baby’s and shone like burnished gold, or even her long-fingered hands, which worked with such artful agility around the stove.
She should be married soon, Mariam told herself. An unmarried woman in the fullness of youth is like a cow let loose in a pasture; there’s no telling where she might wander off to and with whom. Jeena handed her her tea. “Would you like some paratha, too? I can make it in two minutes, the pan is still hot.”
“No, the tea is all I want, Jeena.” Something that is difficult to surrender, to give up, Mariam thought, cautiously taking a sip of the scalding hot tea.
The sun had already begun to broadly streak the floor of the verandah when the children left for school. Mariam stood at the front door and watched them through the opening in the screen as they half-ran and skipped down the gulley. Ghulam Din, the old caretaker who accompanied them to school, tried to keep pace as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him. On a shop radio in the street outside, the singer Noor Jehan’s voice rose in a deep, resonant lilt. “O chivalrous young men of the nation/ My songs are for you alone.” The morning began with patriotic songs these days and then came the news with special bulletins that made even the strongest hearts flutter in apprehension. Mariam closed the door when, coming to the end of the lane, the children turned a corner and disappeared from view.
In the kitchen Jeena was waiting for her, the spinach for the midday meal, broad-leaved and thickly veined, washed and ready for chopping. Mariam would dole out portions of ghee and spices in appropriate measures, Jeena would sauté the onions and brown the beef, and Mariam would take over from there. The two women always followed the same ritual.
When Mariam handed Jeena the plate in which she had placed tiny heaps of ground red chilli and golden yellow turmeric, along with several cloves of garlic and a knotted clump of ginger root, she glanced at the woman’s face again. How dark her eyes were. Almond-shaped, bordered by thick, sooty-black lashes that gave them a sleepy look. Dressed in clean, well-starched clothes, her hair combed neatly into a plait, Jeena looked nothing like a servant. In fact, she could easily be mistaken for a member of the family by a stranger who walked into the house without warning.
“Be sure to grind this properly, don’t leave any lumps.”
“Yes, Mariam Apa.”
That night Mariam slept fitfully. If she dreamed, the dreams remained lost in her unconscious because she couldn’t remember anything when she was awakened suddenly by a feeling of being weighed down. As if a large blanket had been thrown over her. Gasping for air she sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest like a bird darting against the walls of its cage, seeking release. After a few seconds she began reciting the Ayat-ul-Kursi with desperate, urgent force, unmindful of the sleeping children who might be disturbed by the loudness of her recitation.
A half hour later, still reciting, but calmer, she pulled off the prayer mat from the back of the chair next to her. This was no time for a regular namaz but she had to pray, she had to find an answer, and her bed wasn’t the place for it.
Allah, she pleaded, what do you want?
The quietude of the night was broken only by the sound of her children’s soft, rhythmic breathing. Not even a dog barked anywhere. The silence seemed to grow heavier until it became a curtain before her eyes, thick and unrelenting. She thought of her husband, tried to picture him in a ward, or in the field with a wounded soldier, his face dusty and ashen, his hands bloody as he cleaned a wound. He seemed too far away, too distant. Mariam’s heart lurched with fear.
Was she wasting precious time?
Allah, she whispered, hot tears running down her cheeks, burning her skin as her purpose yawned before her like the sudden darkening of a stormy sky, I’ll do what you want, I vow, I pledge.
In the last week of October, just when summer was edging its way out, four months after Mariam had made her vow and begun her spell of unfettered, carefree sleep, her husband returned from the front. The war had ended. The danger had passed.
On the day of his return, Mariam made several attempts to bring up the subject of her vow. It wasn’t easy. The children were eager to talk to their father, there was all that mail that had accumulated, and also a steady stream of visitors to inquire about the doctor’s well-being and congratulate him on his safe return—husband and wife were afforded little chance to be alone for any length of time.
When he came to her bed at night she knew this was no time to talk of serious matters. But later she wished she had broached the subject then. Unable to help herself, she placed her arms on his back as he lay on top of her, felt the tautness between his shoulder blades, and a feeling stirred inside her that she had never known before. His warm skin responded to her touch. Shame engulfed her and reticence tangled her in a web, but her blood raced as if it were a torrent. Her heart beat violently, wildly. She forgot what it was to be shy. Her skin tingled, her arms tightened around her husband’s body. The warmth between her legs filled her with strange pleasure and her mouth opened in a moan. She forgot she did not like to be visited in the night by her husband, that she had always allowed it only because it was something that he seemed to need and want.
All those feelings of revulsion that she struggled with when he touched her in the dark vanished. Tonight the world was shut out, and everything else with it. A few days of waiting would cause no harm, she told herself the next morning.
The second night and the one after that, Mariam lay in her husband’s arms and banished the vow from her mind. On the third night, some time after she had fallen into a deep and tranquil sleep, the dreams returned. They unfolded simultaneously, all of them mixed up this time, as if some essential component that had kept them in sequence were missing. At the end came a new d
ream in which her mother-in-law was pulling Mariam’s ring from her finger, and the two women tugged and pushed until the ring came off and disappeared into the voluminous folds of Mariam’s dark red bridal dupatta. There was more, much more, but on waking this was all Mariam could remember. Her heart sank. What had she done?
“I made a mannat when you were away,” Mariam began tremulously the next morning. “I was so afraid something . . . something terrible might happen.” Mariam addressed her husband while he was tying his shoelaces and she couldn’t see his face. There wasn’t much time. He would be leaving for the hospital soon.
“Oh? What was it? Why didn’t you take care of it already? You know one shouldn’t delay these things.” He straightened and looked at her.
Mariam hesitated. Would he think less of her when she told him?
“There was no other choice, there were such bad dreams,” she murmured, turning away from his stare to smooth the wrinkles in the bedsheet.
“You’re always paying too much attention to dreams. Anyway, what is it?” He stood up and adjusted his tie.
“I’m to give you Jeena.” The words fell out. Like saliva that’s been kept in the mouth too long.
Mariam’s husband stopped what he was doing. His face darkened. A frown gathered on his forehead.
“Are you mad, Mariam?” He glared at her as if she had surprised him with disobedience.
Her chest constricted. Her ears vibrated with echoes that sounded like jumbled screams. “The dreams wouldn’t give me any peace, the danger was lurking in the shadows, it had to be something that was difficult to surrender, what’s a sacrifice that doesn’t hurt?” Mariam blurted out the sentences hurriedly. She was on the other side of the bed, a pillow held tightly against her chest. “Islam allows more than one marriage, doesn’t it? I’ll give my permission.” Her voice cracked.
“I don’t want your permission,” her husband thundered. “You are not seriously suggesting that I marry . . . this girl.” He sat down, the muscles on his face quivering in anger. “You are definitely mad. I go away for a few months and this is how you conduct yourself!”
“You cannot say no, it’s a mannat, it’s a question of your life. I don’t mind, I really don’t mind, and Jeena . . . well, she’s like a younger sister and she’s pretty and I’ll be here as well, I’m not going anywhere . . .” She edged forward like a beggar, her hands extended, her tone pleading.
“Be quiet, Mariam, be quiet this minute! I don’t want to hear another word. I’m late for work, and when I return I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.” He raised a finger in warning, scolding her as if she were a child.
What she could do, she had done. Was it her fault that her husband would not relent? In the days that followed Mariam did not talk of Jeena or her mannat and was relieved that her husband did not either, although he seemed somewhat pensive, somewhat quieter than usual. He is just recuperating from the experience at the front, Mariam told herself. It takes time to forget the horrors of war.
She noticed that sometimes when Jeena removed the dishes from the table or was helping Razia or Ahmer with their clothes in the morning, her husband glanced at the girl as if seeing her for the first time. As if she were a stranger in their house. Mariam caught a look in his eyes that she couldn’t understand. She blamed herself. She had made her husband uncomfortable by mentioning the mannat to him. He was only looking at the young woman to see what his wife had been thinking, and why. Perhaps he wished to understand Mariam’s motives.
Once, when Jeena bent down to tie Ahmer’s shoelaces and her dupatta slipped from her shoulders, the fullness at her shirtfront was revealed and, just then, Mariam became aware that her husband had seen it too. Quickly, he looked away and Jeena straightened up and adjusted her dupatta, all in the matter of a few moments, but Mariam realized she had to redeem her pledge, the mannat. The dreams were gone, at least for now, but Mariam was not so foolish as to let the mannat go unheeded. Without offering specific details, stressing that due to unforeseen circumstances the vow could not be executed as pledged, she consulted the maulvi sahib who came to instruct the children in the reading of the Quran. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, his eyes lowered in deference to a woman’s presence, he listened patiently as Mariam outlined the details of her dilemma.
“Such vows should not be undertaken lightly,” he admonished gently, “but Allah understands.”
He put Mariam’s mind at ease. Give money to a needy person or perform another act of charity, making sure it is a fair exchange, he explained. Mariam already knew that was what she should have done, but receiving the maulvi sahib’s approval made her feel better. And she also knew what that act of charity was to be.
“We should think of Jeena’s marriage,” she informed her husband one night, a week after her conversation with the maulvi sahib. He had just eaten dinner and was getting ready to say his nighttime prayers.
At first he looked up in alarm, perhaps suspecting that she was planning to bring up the mannat again.
“She’s old enough and too much of a responsibility,” Mariam continued, ignoring the expression of disquiet on her husband’s face.
“Hmm,” he mumbled.
“Ghulam Din’s son has a job as a clerk in the telephone department. He’s educated and I’ve seen him, he’s not at all bad to look at. I know our old caretaker will be happy that we’re approaching him for his son. He knows we’ll give Jeena a good dowry.” Mariam spoke with authority, as if Jeena were indeed her younger sister and hence her responsibility.
Mariam’s husband had no objections. Why should he? Her spirits lifted, Mariam began making arrangements soon thereafter. She had already spoken to the old caretaker, he had humbly and joyfully expressed his gratitude. True, his son was an educated boy, a clerk in an office, yet he would never have found a girl like Jeena who, even though she was a servant in this household, was nevertheless treated as a member of the family. No doubt this connection with a family of such high status would continue even after she was married. And she was young and beautiful. He brought the groom-to-be to meet Mariam’s husband, who seemed satisfied after his interview with the young man. What was most important was that the young man had a government job and would also receive living accommodation once he was married. A wedding date was immediately agreed upon.
In addition to the five suits that Mariam specially had embroidered in gold thread and sequins for Jeena, she rummaged through her own things and brought out a dark red brocade suit that was too heavily ornamented with gilded trimmings and sequined designs for her own use, and added that to the young woman’s dowry. The bridal dupatta that went with it was heavy with shimmering gold-and-silver-tasseled edging on all four sides. That, she decided, would be Jeena’s wedding suit. She bought her a gold necklace and earrings, a lightweight set, but one that gave the impression of being heavy because of the way the design had been wrought. Jeena helped with embroidering tablecloths, bedsheets, and pillowcases, and stitched all of her own clothes herself on Mariam’s sewing machine with Mariam’s guidance at every step. There was no skimping on Mariam’s part. She was no fool. Pledges made to Allah could not be taken lightly.
A week after Jeena’s wedding, on a night that Mariam had slept in her husband’s arms longer than any other night she could remember, the dreams, each one clearer and more disturbing than the one before it, returned.
DAUGHTERS OF AAI
Fahmida Riaz
Fahmida Riaz (1946– ) was born in Meerut into a literary family that migrated to Hyderabad, Pakistan, at Partition where she learned Sindhi, Persian, Urdu, and English. She earned her masters degree from Sindh University.
Riaz is a distinguished Urdu poet, feminist, and human rights activist. To date, no woman writer in Pakistani English literature has written either poetry or fiction with a voice as powerful, fierce, and outspoken as Riaz. The recipient of the 1997 Hammett-Hellman Award from Human Rights Watch, she has published many collections of poetry and prose; including
Badan Dareedah (Maktaba-e-Danyal, 1973), which was Pakistan’s first book of feminist poetry and forged new directions in women’s writing in Pakistan. Her use of the feminine gender for a poetry form that was usually written in the male gender caused a furor, and Riaz was accused of publishing eroticism.
In the 1980s Riaz was persecuted by the military regime of General Zia-ul-Haq, which led to many years of political exile in New Delhi. Here she began writing an English novel because she felt cut off from Pakistan’s familiar Urdu milieu. Later she developed and published extracts of the novel as English short stories.
The English translations of Riaz’s work include a poetry collection, Four Walls and A Veil (Oxford University Press, 2004) and her famous trilogy of autobiographical novels, Zinda Bahar Lane (City Press, 2000), Reflections in a Cracked Mirror (City Press, 2001), and Godavari (Oxford University Press, 2008), all translated by Aquila Ismail; Riaz has recently translated the poetry of Jalaluddin Rumi into Urdu. Riaz lives in Karachi, runs a feminist publishing house, WADA, and occasionally writes fiction in English.
In “Daughters of Aai,” a story told to her by her sister, Riaz explores a disturbing, worldwide, and little-discussed issue: the sexual exploitation of the mentally challenged. However, Riaz’s tale, set within the sociocultural context of rural Pakistan, assumes its own dynamics. Contrary to popular myths of cloistered, helpless women she describes a “typical village” where women retain a strong sense of gender and self, despite the patriarchal system within which they live. Her reference to the women’s chunri head coverings, gauzy materials with vivid patterns created by them with an age-old tie-dye technique, hints at their inherent creativity. The contrast between female ingenuity and male notions of what is permissible or not runs through the story.
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