Typhoon

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Ashamed of her earlier reaction, Kulsoom hurriedly assembled together her wits and acute sense of social propriety. She began with a generous measure of moral support and wholesome traditional advice.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, my sister,’ she offered. ‘You only have three children and it could be a boy – just think! Celebrate it as a blessing, my dear.’ she reassured Jamila, now having the foresight to switch tactfully from commiseration to sympathy.

  ‘But my daughter is nearly sixteen years old! She started puberty two years ago!’ Jamila wailed, not bothering to hide anything from her two friends. ‘How am I ever going to show my face and later my bulging waistline to my male and other village elders? I am so ashamed.’

  The two friends exchanged another quick glance of understanding. Naimat Bibi had decided that it was now her turn to voice her brand of stoicism and wisdom.

  ‘Come on, Jamila. It is not as if you are fifty years old. You are barely thirty-seven. There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. Remember our Noora, how last year she gave birth to a girl at the same time as her grandson was born? If any birth was bound to cause a flutter of embarrassment and fiery red cheeks, that was the one! Especially as mother and daughter delivered on the same day and in the same house! Her husband had a daughter and a grandson all at one go. The poor man didn’t know how best to accept the villagers’ congratulations.

  Therefore, so what if you are pregnant? Be grateful that you are blessed with children! Ask poor Basri, who has ached for children for the last twenty years and has worn her feet out visiting darbars and holy men to ask that her prayers be accepted and her womb blessed with a child. Count yourself lucky, my sister. Anyway, you still might be all right,’ ended Naimat Bibi, wanting to add her own bit at consolation. There were times she felt it imperative to assert herself and to openly air her own brand of wisdom. Somehow, Kulsoom always managed to be in the limelight. Not that she grudged her friend. For the most part she was happy to let Kulsoom take the lead role, for she was quick-witted and more intelligent on the whole.

  ‘Yes, Jamila Jee,’ Kulsoom quickly added. ‘Now, have you tried dried dates? They are always said to work.’

  Jamila began to giggle, her body rocking heavily on the bed. Then she held her arm to her waist, as the pain in her stomach became unbearable. Giggling was doing her no good at all.

  ‘Have I tried dates you ask? My friend, I have gobbled down two large sackfuls, I tell you! My poor husband has been making daily journeys to Malik’s shop, buying kilos of them. I am sure we have used up his entire stock.’ Jamila’s body shook with mirth again, as she saw the look on her friends’ faces. ‘Do you know, Malik Sahib had the cheek to tease my husband, saying that we have definitely taken a liking to his dried dates recently. Crafty devil. He sells sackfuls to women with unwanted pregnancies. He probably suspects that something is afoot in this house, for nobody could be using that many dates in their cooking. How many times could I possibly make kheer or zarda anyway? I have had them for breakfast, for dinner, and supper. Chewing them all day long. I am sick to death of them, I tell you. Look, I have even got a pile of them under my pillow.’ Jamila lifted her pillow and showed a small mound of dried dates on the bedsheet.

  ‘Oh dear, no wonder you are so fed up of them,’ Kulsoom laughed. Looking at the small pile, and taking one of the dates, she tore it in two halves for herself.

  ‘So they have had no effect on you whatsoever?’ Naimat Bibi asked in a serious tone, frowning.

  ‘None whatsoever – only diarrhoea. My stomach and bowels are washed out, but not the womb. I am afraid.’

  ‘Oh they go like clockwork with me, flushing me out totally. I must have a hot body.’ Naimat Bibi preened, still with a serious expression on her face.

  ‘Oh, we definitely know you are a hot person, with a hot body, and not just your womb.’ Kulsoom winked wickedly at Jamila, teasing her best friend. She laughed loudly as she saw a blush rise and creep over Naimat Bibi’s dark cheeks.

  ‘Hush!’ Jamila signalled, pointing a finger to the open door. ‘I don’t want my daughter to hear any of your bawdy teasing here, please. You know she is at that age where children become interested in all these matters.’ She stopped suddenly, seeing her daughter almost on cue materialise in the room with a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Here, place it on that table, my dear. Thank you. Now you go out, and check if Hafiza has washed the floors of the rooms upstairs. Tell her to keep the water well away from the walls. Each time she washes, she washes away in great patches the new paintwork on the walls. It is already beginning to peel off on the top gallery.’ She turned to her friends. ‘Try our sabz tea, Kulsoom Jee and Naimat Jee. It is really pink in colouring. My Shahnaz is becoming an expert at making it. Thank you, Shahnaz.’ Jamila said, as she saw her hovering near the door.

  Shahnaz, a tall slim fifteen-years-old girl, understood precisely what her mother and her two friends desired. She didn’t want to leave but reluctantly she had to oblige them. She had no intention, however, of going upstairs. Hafiza and the washing could wait. On the contrary she would remain, standing just outside the door and near enough to the open window looking out onto the verandah, until they left. They couldn’t see her but she could clearly hear them, even make out what they were saying from their hushed tones.

  ‘Jamila, you’ll never guess what has been happening this morning, while you have been lying here feeling sick and sorry for yourself,’ Kulsoom began, neatly reverting to the reason for their visit. Bending near her friend’s face, she began to whisper. She took her friend Jamila’s concern seriously. This matter was no subject for any young, fresh, innocent minds. They weren’t leaving it to chance. For all they knew, Jamila’s daughter probably had her ears stuck to the door. It was the quietest of chats and gossip exchanges they had ever had.

  Trying her very best to hear, Shahnaz eventually gave up in frustration – only now she was all the more determined to find out what was going on. She had never before heard such muted whisperings from her mother’s two notorious friends. Their mouths were placed very close to her mother’s ears. One each side, and that only meant one thing: something terribly scandalous was afoot in the village. And one way or another, she was going to find out what it was. Later in the morning, if her mother let her go to school, she would find out from her school friends. She had distinctly heard the words ‘Fatima’s niece’ and ‘ghanda kam’. Her young mind was aflame with images of all sorts. Now what could that mean?

  Before they got up to go, Kulsoom anxiously reminded Jamila, ‘Don’t just rely on the village midwife Mary, this time. You must visit a doctor in town and get yourself properly checked out. And don’t, for goodness sake, attempt anything rash. Remember poor Akhtari. She simply bled to death and never told anybody about what she had done to her body. It is simply not worth it, my friend. Another child is a blessing. Not worth losing a life over.’

  Jamila shuddered, her eyes closing with horror. ‘No, I am not that foolish. I will not do anything like that. If Allah pak has written this child to be born in my stars, who am I to stop this life? You will, of course, let me know when the kacheri takes place, won’t you? Please take me with you. Where are you going next?’

  ‘Of course we will take you. We have not decided yet, but I want to go to Chaudharani Kaniz’s hawaili. Her sister Sabra is here at the moment, so I think she’ll be in a better mood this time. She is always more of a human person when her younger sister is around,’ Kulsoom commented. ‘I think staying in that large hawaili with only her housekeeper Neesa and her young son Khawar has made her more remote than ever, especially since her husband died. She hardly ever steps out of the house. Almost everyone has been to the Buzurgh Siraj Din’s home to pay respect to his son’s family and to see Habib’s beautiful children and his wife Chaudharani Shahzada, but do you know, Chaudharani Kaniz has systematically refused to do so! And yet she has become Baba Siraj Din’s goddaughter.’ Kulsoom looked very disapproving.
‘She doesn’t care a paisa for anyone. I bet, on the other hand, she is counting how many people have come to pay respects to her sister and how many have flocked to Siraj Din’s home. I think she competes with them. She is a very foolish woman, if you ask me. How can she ever compete with Siraj Din’s family and Shahzada? For Shahzada, as we all know, is the most, respected Chaudharani anyway.’ At this point she stopped to catch her breath, ignoring the smiling looks of her two friends.

  ‘By the way, Jamila, have you seen Habib’s daughter, Zarri Bano? She is over eleven years old and is growing into a very bonny girl. And she hasn’t changed one bit since they left the village two years ago. She always comes to visit everyone. She came yesterday to my humble home with her sister Ruby and sat for almost one hour, asking me all sorts of intelligent and inquisitive questions, as to how many successful matches I had arranged. I told her I would arrange one for her when she grows older. On reflection, however, Zarri Bano and her family will not need my services. Young men will be flocking to her side from all over Pakistan, I guess.

  I personally, think Kaniz has her eye on Zarri Bano as a bride for her son Khawar. She thinks only Siraj Din’s family is equal to her in status. But have you noticed, Naimat Bibi, Khawar has been playing with the other Fatima’s daughter, Firdaus, for the last four years? I have often seen them together in the fields. I definitely don’t think Kaniz is going to be happy when she finds out that her beloved only son is keeping company with the daughter of her old enemy, ‘Fatima the washerwoman’, as she loves to call her.

  ‘That reminds me, Naimat Bibi, we must visit Fatima and her family. She has come back with Habib’s family, and will be staying in the village for a week. I feel so sorry for her bedridden husband Fiaz, for being abandoned by his wife. But then, my friends, that is the way of the world. Either the husband works, or the wife. It has to be one or the other.

  ‘I, too, as a young widow, was forced to earn my living by arranging matches. What else could I do? Poor Fatima was forced by her young children’s hungry mouths to work and wash in somebody else’s home and hence earned the title given her by bitchy Chaudharani Kaniz as the ‘Washerwoman’.’

  Naimat Bibi bravely interrupted her friend’s long lecture. ‘Jamila knows all this. We must go, Kulsoom Jee, we’ve been here for ages.’

  ‘You are right, Naimat Jee. Once I start talking, there is no stopping me. I do go on, don’t I?’ Kulsoom laughed, studiously setting her earrings the right way round on her small ears again. She also checked her gold locket, to make sure it was still dangling in front of her ample bosom and not lost anywhere on the way. Reluctantly she got up.

  The two women bade Jamila farewell and let themselves out of her home. Then they turned to their right and headed off down the narrow village streets towards Chaudharani Kaniz’ home. Their hearts were already beating with excitement, anticipating their encounter with the haughty young widow.

  NINE

  THE THIN MUSCLE of her right cheekbone twitching with a nervous tic, Hajra went straight home. She wedged the wooden door open with her foot and then kicked it shut, making the old bolt rattle.

  Sitting on the verandah Gulshan looked up, startled by her mother’s violent entrance. She was feeding Moeen, who was propped up on his small wooden chair in front of her; a spoonful of egg yolk was in her hand.

  When Hajra stood in front of her, Gulshan said quietly, ‘She is beautiful, isn’t she Mother? Even more so in daylight.’ She ached for a denial from her mother.

  Hajra was unable to meet her eyes. Instead, she watched the green parrot and the two black crows sitting together on the balcony wall. To Hajra’s ears, their eerie crowing seemed to have taken on a new, sad resonance this morning. It was as if they too were weeping for her daughter, sharing in her grief. One, spreading its black, glossy wings wide had flown down to sit on the branch of the grapevine in the courtyard, which had been planted by Haroon only the previous year. The crow playfully pecked at the leaves. This morning Hajra had no incentive to frighten him away.

  ‘Beautiful she may be, but she is a whore. She can never hold a candle to your noor, your light of innocence, my darling, my dearest daughter!’ Hajra said bitterly.

  Poised on the sharp edge of the sword of self-destruction, Gulshan whispered. ‘How did she look?’ She had to know.

  Hajra squeezed her eyes shut. What could she tell her Gulshan? The truth? That she could never compete with the wicked woman, even if she were to visit a hundred beauty parlours? There was a certain aura and charisma about the ‘whore’ that only such women knew how to wear. Women confident of their sexuality and the power they had in drawing men into the magnetic field of their charms.

  Her innocent daughter was lacklustre in comparison, no match for that other woman. She never would be. Hajra’s narrow shoulders bowed with impotent rage. ‘I will make sure that she never hurts my daughter again,’ she solemnly declared to herself. She looked tenderly at the girl, opting not to answer her question. ‘Gulshan, I am now going straight to Buzurgh Siraj Din’s hawaili. I shall tell him everything. Then I shall demand that he punish them both, in front of the whole village, as they deserve.’

  Gulshan swivelled round to face Hajra, the spoonful of yolk shaking near her son’s mouth.

  ‘Mother, no!’ she stuttered in panic. ‘I don’t want everyone to know about it. I couldn’t cope.’

  ‘I am sorry, Gulshan, but you’ll have to.’ Hajra’s voice hardened, her cheek muscle nervously twitching away again. ‘Anyway, half the village probably knows by now. Guess who just happened to be outside Fatima’s door while I was there? None other than Kulsoom, our beloved neighbour – the matchmaker, and Naimat Bibi, the cook – the village’s two most notorious gossip-spreaders and busybodies.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Gulshan wailed in despair, her shoulders falling forward as she hid her face in her lap, the spoon in her hand dropping onto the floor. Now all the village would know about her status as the wronged, rejected wife. Women would be sniggering about her everywhere.

  ‘Mummy?’ Moeen touched his mother’s head.

  ‘I am going now.’ Hajra was already across the courtyard.

  ‘Mother, no!’ Gulshan tried stopping her mother, for even as she bled from jealousy and hurt. she didn’t want anything to happen to her Haroon. ‘To her, yes! But not to him! I still love him, Mother!’ Gulshan moaned aloud, unaware of her son’s fingers tugging at her bent head and his small curious face looking at her, unable to make sense of why his mother had buried her face in her lap and had dropped the spoon on the floor. He had only eaten half of the egg yolk.

  TEN

  CHAUDHARANI KANIZ WAS enjoying what she liked doing most; sunning herself on the rooftop gallery of her large, two-storied hawaili. She had just had her bath and had opted for the traditional method of drying her hair in the morning sun. Her long, wavy hair draped damply behind her over a towel, Kaniz walked to the wrought-iron railings of the gallery and looked out at the fertile green fields circling their village. This was a ritual she passionately loved. It was what had kept her in the village – the greenery and the fresh country air. Her eyes turned to the other large hawaili in the village, which belonged to Baba Siraj Din, the elderly feudal zemindar. This Buzurgh and his predecessors had ruled the village for decades. He was the man the whole village looked up to. He was also special in Kaniz’s life, for he had become her godfather.

  Kaniz heard her sister come up the stairs; Sabra joined her near the railings on the rooftop. She followed the direction of Kaniz’s gaze and guessed what she was thinking.

  ‘You can’t keep putting it off, Kaniz. You’ll have to give Baba Siraj Din the answer today,’ Sabra gently reminded her.

  A shadow crossed her sister’s face. ‘I know, Sabra. You don’t need to remind me. I have thought of nothing else all night and all this morning.’ Kaniz’s almond-shaped eyes were cold and dismissive.

  Stepping away from the railings she went to sit on the sun-lounger, ruffling her wet waist-leng
th hair thoughtfully with her long deft fingers. Sabra sat down on the portable bed nearby.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted, bent on pursuing the subject. Even if it ended up in a confrontation between the two sisters, this conversation had to take place. She loved her elder sister very dearly and, despite her many faults, wanted her happily settled. She waited, her eyes grazing with pride on the other’s beautiful features, marvelling at the clear, even tone of her skin. ‘How does Kaniz manage to keep her skin glowing like ripe peaches, despite the billowing dust of Sind and the heat in the summer?’ she never stopped asking herself. Still only thirty-one years old, glamorous, very rich and mistress of acres of land, Kaniz, despite being a widow with a young son, was a very attractive commodity in the marriage market. ‘In fact, a wonderful neat package for any man,’ Sabra cynically reminded herself. Obviously Sheikh Younus Raees knew what he wanted and what he would be getting. He wasn’t a blind man. But he offered a neat package himself. They would be equal in everything.

  ‘No, Sabra. I can’t!’ came the reply. At Sabra’s stunned look, Kaniz realised that her sister had not been prepared for this answer. A deep frown creased the younger woman’s forehead, and Kaniz was tempted to remind her not to frown so, otherwise she would have a lined forehead even before she was thirty years old.

  ‘Why?’ Sabra asked, totally baffled by her sister’s answer.

  ‘I know you mean well, Sabra, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to marry anybody. I need no man in my life.’ With a cold look gleaming in her dark eyes, Kaniz added quickly. ‘I know what you have said. And I also know what Baba Siraj Din has been saying to me for the last two years. I am aware that you are both thinking about my welfare, but marriage to Younus Raees is not what I seek, no matter what sort of a man he is. He’d be a good husband and probably a good father to my orphaned son – all this I know, but still the answer is no! Sabra, I cannot go through with it. Marriage and a marital relationship is not for me and never will be. Ever.’