Typhoon

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘What do you think will happen to that woman?’ Sabra enquired as she began rubbing Kaniz’s scalp with her palms and drops of almond oil in long soothing strokes.

  ‘I don’t know. But what a terrible thing to do! What sort of a woman is she, to do this? I think this village will never be the same again – I have this horrible feeling in my very bones. Sabra, are there many women like that in the world, who go around chasing other women’s husbands?’ Inside her head Kaniz voiced, ‘It is not just women but men also.’ Then she stopped, tasting gall. There were those whose mere shadow blighted other people’s lives. Hadn’t that ‘washerwoman’ haunted her married life from the day Kaniz first came here as a bride. And Kaniz had bitterly had to accept that the ‘washerwoman’ on the contrary hadn’t ‘chased’ her husband. If she had done that, Kaniz could have coped with the situation. Dealt with the woman. It was the thought that she, Fatima, had been the woman her husband had loved and had wanted to marry, well before he had asked for Kaniz’s hand in marriage. That was the root of it all – and what rankled was being ‘second best’ in her husband’s affections, and for knowing that Fatima had turned him down. That ‘plain’ woman had held her husband’s heartstrings in her hands, and skilfully pulled them – the same hands that now vigorously scoured the greasy dishes in Siraj Din’s household.

  Kaniz abruptly turned her thoughts to ‘poor Gulshan’. She could identify with her pain and her hatred of the other woman. At least she, Kaniz, was the attractive one. That poor young woman, though tolerably pretty, was probably no match for the urban cosmopolitan woman, who had apparently driven herself to the village in a car. How many women in the village, let alone a single woman, could boast of owning a car! And then driving it all alone! She herself had a car, but her chauffeur drove her everywhere in it. She never dreamt of doing anything with it herself. ‘Now that is the major difference between us rural women and them.’ Kaniz sniffed and closed her eyes. It was better to be chauffeur-driven than have the bother of manoeuvring a vehicle yourself. Urban ways had never appealed to her. It was a world that had no relevance in her life, and she didn’t miss it.

  ‘Please, sister Sabra, plait my hair for me and pin it around my head. Also tell Neesa to bring my breakfast upstairs. I want to stay out in the sun. I also want to keep a look-out from my gallery – to see what is going on below in the village.’

  ELEVEN

  IN BABA SIRAJ Din’s hawaili there was runak everywhere – a merry atmosphere ringing around his house, that the feudal landlord relished tremendously. He graced the courtyard with his presence on his chaise-longue-style palang. He was always the first to rise and say his early morning fajr prayers. Next, his voice could be loudly heard reciting two chapters from the Holy Quran. He had lost count of how many times he had read the holy book. Puffing away at the hookah, his sharp green eyes were fast at work, observing all the proceedings around him, while his two long tapering fingers mechanically twisted his henna-dyed moustache in the masculine style popular with men such as himself. He was fully aware who was in which room and what particular task each of his women and men servants were working on. It was his duty to know. He especially expected his servants to efficiently see to all his grandchildren’s needs. The little ones were special and had to be well looked after and pampered in every way.

  Since his son, Habib, had moved to a town a few miles away, the ache for his grandchildren’s presence in his large nine-bedroom villa never deserted Siraj Din. There was nothing he could do about it, however, having realised with a sense of resignation that the educational facilities for his grandchildren were in the towns and cities. Their village of Chiragpur could only offer modest primary and secondary education. How could he and his son be content with anything but the best? Zarri Bano was doing extremely well in her studies. Habib was forever boasting about his daughter’s ‘first position’ in the exams.

  Siraj Din saw his wife Zulaikha come out of the wooden kitchen door and then cross the verandah. She entered the large bedroom on the north side of the hawaili, allocated to Habib and his wife, Shahzada. He wondered why Zulaikha had gone to see his eldest daughter-in-law. Cupping his hand around the hookah pipe, he took a leisurely puff and then stretched out his legs on the portable palang. Sighing, he remembered that there were a lot of things to do today, including visiting Kaniz and having a long chat with her about marriage: Younus Raees had been to see him last night again. The matter had to be concluded, one way or another. Once and for all. He couldn’t let the nice young landlord be messed about by Kaniz’s brattish behaviour any longer. He was a very good catch and Kaniz would have to be utterly stupid to turn down an offer like that. Siraj Din chuckled to himself. In his heart he knew why Younus Raees persisted in asking for her hand. The young landlord tried very cleverly to disguise his feelings, but was unable to disguise the look in his eyes when he talked about Kaniz. Yes, it was time for action. If he had been Younus Raees, not only would he want to marry Kaniz, but also be firm with her. She was leading him quite a dance.

  Zulaikha, Siraj Din’s fifty-five-year-old wife, stood on the threshold of her eldest daughter-in-law’s room and surveyed the scene in front of her. She closed the door firmly behind her. Shahzada heard her and looked up expectantly.

  ‘Did you want me for anything?’ she asked, an uncertain, vulnerable look entering her eyes, as she folded her son’s muslin shirt.

  Zulaikha smiled, a gentle, calm look spreading on her face. Shahzada always brought out the maternal, protective instinct in her. The young wife was an orphan. With no daughter of her own, Zulaikha had ardently played the role of a substitute mother rather than that of a mother-in-law to Shahzada. And the girl loved it. And deserved it.

  ‘No, I just came to remind you that I have invited Fatima and her niece Naghmana for dinner today. She has come for the first time from Karachi to visit her aunt here. As you know, Fatima is a good friend of mine. We were school friends. I want to offer a dawat in her niece’s honour. I gather she is some sort of business executive in Karachi. I thought I’d let you know, as there will be a lot of preparations going on. I would like you to help me supervise the cook, Naimat Bibi.’

  ‘Is she young?’ Shahzada asked, with a catch in her voice.

  ‘Who? Naghmana? Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Single and pretty?’

  ‘Yes!’ Zulaikha saw Shahzada’s face fall. ‘Why do you ask such strange questions, my dear?’ she enquired, moving closer to stand near her daughter-in-law.

  ‘No reason.’ The low reply brought her mother-in-law’s inquisitive eyes to fix on her face again.

  Zulaikha prompted, now a marked concern in her voice, ‘What is it, Shahzada? What is it you are afraid of? What is bothering you, my daughter?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother.’

  ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it? I’ve noticed it since yesterday. You’ve been very edgy lately, especially when you are in the village. I notice you behave differently in town, in your own home. There you are more self-assured and confident. Don’t you like staying with us? Don’t you like this home or the village? Please tell me what’s wrong, my dear?’ she gently coaxed.

  Shahzada remained silent, preoccupied in her task of folding her son’s clothes. Then she turned around and in a broken voice let down her barriers.

  ‘It is the village women. They are always coming to visit us, they never leave us alone,’ she complained, expecting her mother-in-law to immediately understand her meaning.

  ‘Well, but that is natural, isn’t it?’ Zulaikha looked confounded. That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. ‘They are paying their respects to you and your children, and I expect them to come as a matter of courtesy to me and Siraj Din Sahib. If they didn’t, I’d be most offended, Shahzada!’

  ‘I know – I know – but have you noticed how many more women seem to arrive when Habib Sahib is in the hawaili. It is all to do with him. They all seem to descend on us from everywhere when he is at home!’

  Zulaikha’s mou
th had gaped open. A pregnant pause stretched between them as they stared at one another. Then Zulaikha laughed. A nervous, brittle laugh. Not lost on either of them. She pulled the dupatta properly in place on her head.

  ‘Oh, now you are being paranoid, my dear. What a thing to say,’ she chided, pretending to dismiss the issue. Ruffled inside nevertheless. What was going on in her beloved Shahzada’s head?

  ‘But it is true!’ the young woman said tearfully. ‘I don’t blame them, as Habib is so handsome – but I can’t bear their eyes on him, looking at him. He is mine – not theirs. When I glimpse that look in the eye of one or two, especially the unmarried ones, I grow so terribly afraid inside. Some of them are also so attractive. What if my Habib returns their attention and perhaps decides to take one of them as his second wife? And now – now there is Kaniz, a beautiful young widow for whom Baba Jee is arranging a match. How could I possibly compete with her?’

  ‘My daughter,’ Zulaikha was flabbergasted, ‘I think you have become totally deranged. What madness is eating away in your mind? My dear, your husband loves you. How can you doubt that? You are his wife, mother of his three beautiful children, for God’s sake – how can you harbour such thoughts, my dear? You are doing a great injustice to both your husband and to yourself. I know he is very good-looking, but he doesn’t have a roving eye. I, as his mother, can vouch for that. You must believe me, Shahzada. You can accuse him of any other sins, pride and arrogance, yes – but never that!’

  Shahzada’s head remained bent: she was unconvinced by her mother-in-law’s words. Raw jealousy was still gnawing away. She had caught a glimpse of Kaniz – a very attractive woman! Her father-in-law was bent on arranging a match for that widow. What if he decided to bring her home for his own son?

  ‘Now listen to me carefully, for I am going to speak bluntly,’ Zulaikha told her. ‘Pardon me if I offend or embarrass you, but you need to hear me say it. You have still not learnt the lesson, my dear daughter, that it is you he takes to his bed every night and it is you who has power over him sexually. It is your womb that has provided him with children. It is in your tender loving care that he thrives. No other woman can compete with that. How can they? No other woman has that right. Be confident in yourself, my dear. Trust him and what you have between you. Disregard all these other “phantom” women, fight them away with your self-esteem. If you turn in on yourself, what chance do you have of triumphing over the jealousy you harbour against them? Anyway, have you looked at yourself? Can you not see yourself? You too are very attractive.’

  Shahzada laughed – dismissing the compliment. ‘No, Auntie Jee, I will not believe that. My humble looks can’t compete with your son’s. That is my misfortune. I have a gorgeous husband and three beautiful children and I stand out painfully as the odd one out. Sometimes it hurts me even to look at him because I love him so much, yet the fear never leaves me. Sometimes I wish he was ugly or plain, then I wouldn’t be driven to this madness, I wouldn’t have to worry about his looks attracting other women.’

  ‘Enough, my darling, I refuse to listen to any more nonsense. You are insulting all of us. After thirteen years of marriage and three beautiful children, you still doubt your husband’s capacity to love you. I am outraged, Shahzada. He adores you – believe me! Have faith in your husband, your love and yourself. Don’t let the petty jealousy of some village woman mar your outlook on life or sour your relationship with your husband. Hold on to him and the trust you have between you two: if you lose that, then you are fighting a losing battle. Anyway how many men have taken a second wife that you know of, either in the village or in town? None! They can’t cope with one, let alone with two!’ Zulaikha laughed. ‘And I will never let him. It is only in rare cases, where the man is widowed or the wife is barren, that they are forced to marry again, so forget this “second wife” nonsense.’

  ‘And now I had better go back to the kitchen. The children are already in the dining room. Come and join us.’ Zulaikha bent forward and kissed Shahzada hard on the forehead, before leaving.

  When her mother-in-law had left the room, Shahzada went up to the tall dressing-table mirror and stared at herself, surveying the image critically. All of a sudden she felt the urge to wear make-up this morning. She had the lipstick to her lips, when her husband Habib entered and stood behind her. Smiling, he appreciatively watched their mirrored reflections. Then turning her around he enfolded her in his arms.

  ‘You look gorgeous!’ Habib teased, bending down and kissing her on the corner of her mouth, avoiding the new coating of lipstick.

  ‘Have you been talking to your mother?’ Shahzada asked suspiciously, staring into his mischievous emerald green eyes.

  ‘Why? No!’ He drew her closer. Shahzada rested her head against his chest – not wanting to move. Secure and safe in the tight masculine embrace of his arms.

  ‘Do you love me, Habib? Do you really think I am gorgeous? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘Of course you are – what a silly question to ask.’ He carefully scanned her face.

  ‘Sometimes I am so afraid of all the women who love looking at you – because you are so handsome. Sometimes it hurts me to watch them. They have no right. For you are my husband, not theirs. And when you laugh back in a flirtatious manner and talk to them, it is like a sword slicing through me – because then I am plagued by thoughts and doubts that perhaps you find those other women more witty, more attractive, more appealing than myself.’

  Habib was stunned into silence. He found it hard to gather his wits about him. ‘Oh, my Shahzada – what is the matter with you today? I didn’t know you felt like this. Those women mean nothing to me. I am a man true to my faith and faithful to you. It is haram for me to look at another woman. And when I have a wife like you – do I really need to look at another?’ The sincerity in his voice was like a warm wind caressing her face, carrying her to a new plane of marital happiness.

  ‘Really?’ Habib saw his wife’s face blossom before him. Pained to learn how vulnerable and insecure she felt inside, he moved the back of his hand tenderly down her cheek and hugged her tightly against him.

  ‘If it pleases you. I will always go out whenever these strange women are around. I will never talk to, or flirt with or tease any other women, I promise you. I never knew that you felt like this, my Shahzada, but then I can understand why, because I feel exactly the same way when any man looks at you.’

  ‘What – me? Really?’ Shahzada marvelled – she had never known.

  ‘Do you think I would want another man to look at you? You are mine!’ His arms drew her closer against his body and Shahzada revelled in the warm possessiveness behind his words. Then recalling where they were, she hastily drew out of his embrace.

  ‘Breakfast is ready,’ she told him. ‘You will eat with us, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Just let me change my clothes.’

  Shahzada stepped out of his arms and her room, a happy, carefree woman. Her mood lighter – her heart unburdened.

  Just as she crossed the courtyard to go towards the kitchen, she saw Hajra enter the hawaili. In the large dining room, annexed to the well-designed modern kitchen, Shahzada’s three children were well into their morning parathas served by their grandmother.

  When she entered the room, Zarri Bano, respectfully got up. Shahzada surveyed her eldest daughter with pleasure. She just knew that her Zarri Bano was going to be a very beautiful woman when she grew up. Somehow she also had a strange feeling that Habib would become more possessive of his eldest daughter with time. She was the sun, the star of his world. And he let the whole world know it. Sometimes she chafed under the love and affection Habib lavished on their eldest daughter. She understood his love – but it was so partial. The younger two children, Ruby and Jafar, had somehow or other at a very young age taken this in their stride and reconciled themselves to the fact that their eldest sister merited special attention in their father’s eye. ‘He is a good father, but a blind one nevertheless!’ Shahzada had h
alf-heartedly complained to her mother-in-law. Shahzada just wished he wasn’t, for the sake of her other two equally beautiful, wonderful children.

  TWELVE

  OUT IN THE courtyard, Hajra pulled her chador tightly around her shoulders, and headed stiffly for the master’s palang.

  Siraj Din watched her approach from under his brown bushy eyebrows, wondering why she had come to see him so early in the morning. The absence of a smile on her face intrigued him, immediately signalling to him that something wasn’t right. Pushing his body up into a sitting position, he gestured to her to sit down on the chair near his bed.

  Hajra offered the customary greetings politely but remained standing.

  ‘Baba Jee, may I see you inside?’ she said. ‘For I have something very important to divulge to you and I don’t wish to discuss it here, in the open, with all the people in your household moving around us and listening.’

  Taken aback by her request and her businesslike tone at such an early time in the morning, Siraj Din was unable to speak for a moment. Normally he held an audience in the courtyard, but because she had requested it, he felt duty bound to honour her request, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘Please show Hajra Jee to the guestroom.’ Siraj Jee gestured to the young manservant, who was standing behind him, massaging the muscles of his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hajra said quietly, lowering her eyes before the elder zemindar.

  Siraj Din watched her go, a thoughtful expression shining in his green eyes. Something was seriously wrong here. This was not Hajra’s normal behaviour. Putting aside his hookah pipe, he rose from the palang, and pulled his night tunic down. A tall man, with a trim body, he pushed the fold of the long, woollen thusa on his shoulder and followed Hajra indoors.