“That is a lousy excuse,” Miriam thought. If they had guests at home why did they bother to come? She returned to the kitchen and put the tray back on the table.
What a waste of time!
The two future parents-in-law walked to their car in a silence that continued during their journey. There was no need for communication. Each could guess what the other was thinking. On reaching home the so-called guests whom Begum had referred to earlier, had apparently gone. Their elder son, Farook, was not yet in. The younger one was upstairs, studying for his GCSE examinations. They could hear the music from the CD disc blaring away. He loved listening to songs as he revised.
Ayub shed his jacket and hung it in the hallway, then went straight to the living room. Begum followed, also taking off her coat and outdoor shawl. Switching on the television Ayub sat down in his armchair. Begum hovered listlessly near him a minute, looking down at her husband—waiting. Then, mechanically folding her woollen shawl into its customary neat folds, she left the room and went upstairs to her bedroom to place it in her drawer. For a few moments she stood lost in thought, looking out of the bedroom window: Her neighbor Mrs. Williams had another car. This was the third in six months. What did she do with them? Then she heard her husband call her name, his voice supremely autocratic.
Mrs. Williams and her love of cars put aside, Begum returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa opposite her husband, waiting for him to begin. Her heartbeat had automatically quickened. Seconds were ticking away into minutes. Her husband had made no move to say anything, his gaze on the newscaster. She picked up the Urdu national newspaper, Daily Jang, from the coffee table and began to read. More precisely she was pretending to read: The words were a blur in front of her eyes.
At last Ayub stood up, stretching his legs. Striding across the room he switched off the television. Returning to his chair his pointed gaze now fell on his wife.
“Well!” he began softly.
Now it was her turn to play; she pretended not to hear him or understand the implication of his exclamation. Absurdly, now that the moment of reckoning had come, she wanted to prevaricate, to put the off discussion.
“Well, what?” she responded coldly, buying time, peeping at her unsmiling husband over the edge of the newspaper.
“You know very well what I mean! Don’t pretend to misunderstand me, Begum,” he rasped. He was not amused by her manner, tone, or words.
Begum calmly examined the harsh outlines of her husband’s unsmiling face. She was lost. She did not know what to say or how to say it, although she knew the subject he was referring to. Her lips would not open. She simply stared at him.
“Well, what do you think of your future daughter-in-law? I thought you told me that she was a very sharif, a very modest girl. Was that naked waist what you call modest?” His voice lanced her.
“I am sure she is,” Begum volunteered defensively. After all, she was the one who had originally taken a liking to Miriam.
“Huh!” Ayub grunted. “Sharif! Dressed like that! God knows who has seen her. Would you like any of your friends and relatives to have seen her as she appeared today? Would you, Begum?” The voice was cutting.
“But she’s a college student—college students do dress like that. Haven’t you yourself joked about tatty jean-clad university students?” Begum persisted boldly.
She wanted to excuse Miriam’s attire to herself and to him. She knew she was not going to make a success of it because, in her heart, she agreed with her husband.
“Tell me, in those clothes of hers, would you be proud to have her as your daughter-in-law? I know I would not. You talk about her being a university student. Well, have you any idea what sort of company she might be keeping? You’ve only seen her at odd times, and always at home. Do you know what she’s really like? Have you thought of the effect she could have in your household? With her lifestyle, such girls also want a lot of freedom. In fact, they want to lead their lives the way their English college friends do. Did you notice what time she came in? She knew we were coming yet that made no difference to her. Do you expect her to change overnight in order to suit us? People form habits, Begum, do you understand? Are you prepared for a daughter-in-law who goes in and out of the house whenever she feels like it, dressed like that, and returns home late? Don’t your cheeks burn at the thought of that bit of flesh you saw? Imagine how our son will feel about her! Shame, I hope! And what if she has a boyfriend already—have you thought of that? What if she has a boyfriend already? What if she takes drugs? So many questions to ask ourselves! Do you know, we do not know this girl at all, Begum! Can you guarantee that she will make our son happy?”
He paused strategically, waiting for her to say something. Begum had nothing to add.
He continued, “You know of a number of cases where these educated, so-called modern girls have twined their husbands around their little fingers and expected them to dance to their tunes. Are you prepared for that to happen to your beloved son? To lose him to such a daughter-in-law? Have you the heart for that?”
Begum just stared, listening quietly to her husband’s angry lecture. After twenty-five years of marriage she could read him like a book. His words, their nuance, the tilt of his eyebrow, the authoritative swing of his hand, the thin line of his mouth spelled only one message. With a sinking heart she guessed the outcome of this discussion. She did not know how to react even though she didn’t disagree with him. Not one jot. When she saw Miriam standing near the garden gate with her jacket open similar thoughts had whizzed through her mind, although she would not have voiced them in such a harsh way. Her perception of what her daughter-in-law should be did not quite tally with the picture that Miriam presented to them, or with the clear picture that Ayub’s words had conjured up. Why did that stupid girl have to wear those jeans and that vest, today of all days? And why did Ayub have to see her like that?
She had always reckoned on a conventional daughter-in-law—the epitome of tradition. Definitely not one who was so strongly influenced by Western forms of dress, culture and probably feminist ideas as Miriam. The mad girl had no qualms about blatantly showing a part of her body in a public place. Begum shuddered.
What about Farook, their son? How would they deal with him? Luckily, it was not Farook who had initially befriended Miriam but she herself. A glimpse of Miriam at a mehndi party had tugged at Begum’s heart. From the first moment she had fit the image of what her future daughter-in-law should be like—young, beautiful, and well educated. She had just obtained three A levels and was now doing geography at university.
Begum had liked the way Miriam behaved—ever so correctly and gracefully. Above all, she had liked the way she dressed. How ironic that assumption was after today. It was the way the black chiffon sari had hugged her slender figure, and how her hair was elegantly wound up in a knot at the top of her head—just perfect. She was neither overdressed nor overdecked in jewels, nor over made-up as some of her peers were; nor was she overboisterous. In short, Begum had viewed Miriam as the epitome of perfection, everything that was correct and appealing. She had stood out among other girls. Looking back now, two years later, Begum was sure that, not her son, but she herself had fallen in love with Miriam at first sight. And not just that. Her name, Miriam, wove a magic spell around her. It had a special ring to it and she had loved using it.
There was more—Begum had taken a real liking to Miriam’s parents too, especially her mother. And liking future in-laws, particularly the mother, was an important part of the equation. She knew of mothers-in-law who hated each other. Begum and Miriam’s mother, Fatima, met for the first time at the mehndi party. After that they became warm friends and were soon in and out of each other’s homes. With the subject of their growing children’s futures looming in their domestic horizons the two mothers had, as a matter of course, discussed and dwelt at length on their children’s marriage prospects.
Farook and Miriam had also met each other soon afterward. Often accompanied b
y their parents they, too, took a liking to each other. They found they were very compatible in their interests and personalities and had a lot to laugh about, often giggling together. When their parents suggested the idea of marriage both heartily agreed. Farook just couldn’t help grinning all over. Miriam was struck with sudden shyness, her cheeks burning. Soon afterward an engagement party was held for the two. In order to let them complete their respective courses, the wedding was to be postponed for a year or so.
That was a year ago. Today Farook’s parents had gone to meet Miriam’s in order to discuss the arrangements for the forthcoming wedding. Instead they had returned home without even mentioning the word. Yet their thoughts were very much centered on that subject. But more importantly, on Miriam herself—her clothes and her body!
“Well?” Ayub’s cold prompting brought his wife back to the present.
Begum turned to look at her husband once more and waited for him to finish what he was going to say.
“What are you going to do?” he rasped.
This time she could not pretend to misunderstand him.
She faced him squarely, poised for a battle. Yet, as she was about to utter the words, her heart sank. For she saw her Miriam fast disappearing from the horizon. As she tried to clutch onto her image in her mind, there arose the one of her in that silly pair of faded jeans and that ridiculously short vest. Her heart sank. It had to be. It was better to face the matter now than regret it later. The problem was how she, Begum, was going to deal with it. She had neither the heart nor the courage to play the role demanded of her, or the one she inevitably had to play in this drama. Knowing her husband she knew for sure that he would leave it to her—to sort out the situation with her son, and with Miriam and her family.
Once again she looked her husband directly in the eye.
“You truly don’t want the wedding to take place, then?” she asked tentatively, still desperate to hold onto Miriam.
“I thought I had already made myself obvious!” He was enraged.
“I suppose I agree with what you say, but how are we going to go about it?” Begum stammered, the boldness gone, now very much resigned to her fate and Miriam’s.
“I leave that entirely to you—especially as you were the one so hot on the girl. I am sure we can find lots of other women for our son, women who have a more discreet taste in clothing and a good understanding of female modesty. Similarly, I am sure, her parents will find a man more suited to her lifestyle than our son, a man who has the capacity to tolerate her particular mode of dressing, for want of a better word.”
They heard the front door open. That must be Farook. They stopped talking and stared at each other. Begum’s heart was thumping away, dreading talking to him about Miriam. She felt like a traitor. Getting up quickly she went into the kitchen to get his dinner, hoping he would go straight to his room first. Ayub picked up the newspaper and began to read.
Miriam had just got in from the university when she heard the phone ringing. She dashed down from her room to answer it. She faltered—it was Aunt Begum. She quickly obliged Begum’s request to speak to her mother, then went into the living room and sat down to watch television.
Fatima left the meal she was preparing and went to speak to Begum. There were several moments of awkward pauses on either side of the telephone, and by the time the conversation ended a pinched look had settled around Fatima’s mouth.
Begum nervously said her “Salaam.” Fatima forgot to return the greeting and silently put down the receiver. She stared at the wall.
At the other end, her head bent over her legs, Begum thanked Allah that it was over and done with. She sank down against the banisters. She felt bad, oh God, terribly bad. She had hated herself every minute of that conversation, hated the role she had been forced to play. Putting herself in Fatima’s position she realized how painful it must be for her. How would she feel if she were to find out that her daughter had been jilted at the last minute?
Mechanically, as if in a daze, and with her hand held against her temple, Fatima went into the living room. She sat down on the sofa, pushing the cushion aside absentmindedly, staring at the fireplace in front of her.
Miriam did not notice anything unusual about her mother until she realized that she hadn’t said a word since entering the room. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked quietly. For some reason her heart’s rhythm had altered.
“I—I,” Fatima stalled. She was still reeling from the shock, not yet ready to divulge what she had learned. What would it do to her daughter? She turned away.
“What is it, Mother?” Miriam’s heart had now gained a steady sharp beat. Dread entered. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked again.
Unable to control herself Fatima burst out bitterly, “She said that your engagement had to be broken off!”
Miriam paled. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. “Why, Mother?” she said quietly. She was amazed at how clearly her mind was functioning, although a buzzing sound was hammering in her head.
“She said that they came yesterday to inform us, but found it impossible to get around to doing so. Begum says that her sister insists that her daughter was betrothed to Farook. That they are well-matched. She says she is very sorry and apologizes, but apparently her sister comes first.”
“Liars! What a lousy excuse!” Miriam’s mind screamed, but she uttered not a word. Instead she left the room.
She ran upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. Standing in the middle, she drew in a deep breath. Where did this sister come from? Why was it she had never been heard of before?
“Not marry Farook?” Miriam said loudly. Why, only yesterday she had been planning how they would lead their lives together. In fact, deciding in which area they were going to purchase their house after they got married and had jobs.
Her mouth twisted into a cynical line. In her heart she knew. From that first moment she saw them that night, in her jeans and short vest, she had had a dreadful premonition. She had known, although she had denied it emphatically to herself, that something was bound to go wrong. Their faces, their body language had told the whole story.
The buzzing sound was still hammering in her head. Going to her wardrobe she pulled it open and looked inside. Her eyes sought wildly and her hands rummaged through the clothes and hangers until she found what she was looking for.
She pulled off the repugnant-looking article from the hanger and threw it on the floor, as if it burned her. She stared at it, mesmerized. Then she gave it a vicious kick with her foot. Her friends would never believe her if she told them.
The shabby and much-worn pair of jeans lay at the foot of the bed, blissfully unaware of the havoc it had created in the life of its wearer.
BLOODY MONDAY
Fawzia Afzal Khan
Fawzia Afzal Khan (1958– ) was born in Lahore, educated at Kinnaird College, Lahore, and earned her Ph.D. in the United States from Tufts University.
Afzal Khan is currently a professor of English at Montclair State University in New Jersey. She is the author of Cultural Imperialism and the Indo-English Novel (Penn State University Press, 1993) and A Critical Stage: Secular Alternative Theatre in Pakistan (Seagull, 2005), editor of Shattering the Stereotypes: Muslim Women Speak Out (Olive Branch, 2005), and coeditor of The Pre-Occupation of Post-Colonial Studies (Duke University Press, 2000). She is a frequent contributor to Counterpunch and a contributing editor to The Drama Review.
Afzal Khan is a trained singer in the North Indian Classical tradition; she performs with her band, Neither East Nor West. She is a founding member of the international experimental theater collective, Compagnie Faim de Siecle. She currently splits her time between Montclair and Lahore, and has been invited to teach and develop university curricula in Pakistan.
“Bloody Monday” an extract from Afzal Khan’s work-in-progress, a book-length memoir, Sahelian: Growing Up with Girlfriends Pakistani-Style. In this excerpt, despite protests from her Sunni mother, Af
zal Khan attends the Shia, male-dominated Moharrum mourning procession, which commemorates the martyrdom of the Prophet’s grandson, Hussain, at the Battle of Karbala (in what is now Iraq) and also recalls the sorrow of the surviving women, including the Prophet’s granddaughter, Zainab. The combination of masculine curses and courtesy that accompany the safe passage of women through the Muharram crowds amid the rhythmic sound of men beating their chests in lamentation merges with Afzal Khan’s memories of Spain and the bullfights she attended in Pamplona during the weeklong fiesta to commemorate the martyrdom of San Fermin. In Spain, the Portateri carry statues of the Black Madonna and other emblems during Easter processionals; in Lahore, the alam bardars (standard bearers) carry the banners of Shia Islam in the Moharrum processions.
Afzal Khan superimposes on all of this an inner dialogue with U.S. cultural hegemony in which she compares Lahore’s Hollywood fantasies of “America” with the mundane realities of American life. Her memoir culminates with a reference to Urdu’s great poet Ghalib and, his saqi—his metaphorical cupbearer/muse—to challenge the traditional role assigned to women in literature.
• • •
It is the tenth of Ashura in the Christian year 1997, the day the frenzied mourning of Hussain’s martyrdom fourteen centuries ago reaches its annual peak for Shia Muslims the world over. I am visiting “home”—Lahore—on a research trip funded by my adoptive land, the United States. In the middle of Shalmi, the working-class inner sanctum of Lahori Shiadom, I find myself swept along a tide of sweat, blood, and tears at four in the morning. “Behen-chod, madar-chod—arrey, arrey—don’t you have mothers and sisters, you fucking sons-of-bitches—hai, hai,” even the counter curses are couched in antifemale rhetoric. But tonight, or should I say early morning, as the city pulsates under cover of darkness, throbbing in passionate movement as if awaiting climax at the moment when the sun’s first rays rend its black shroud, melting into the shrieks and moans and moans and shrieks emitted at hoarse intervals from the crowds of mourners, men receiving the sacrament, letting the blood flow freely between their gashes, in a strange reversal of roles . . . so it is that this morning Aunty and I are objects of veneration, Zainabs to their Hussain. “Let the women pass—araam-say, bhai, yeh hamari behenain hain . . .” the clanging of knives-on-chains hook and tear manly flesh punctuated with hypnotic dirges sung in honor of Bibi Zainab. . . .
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