Typhoon

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Hearing the firm tread of his mother-in-law’s feet on the staircase, Haroon turned to look. When Hajra saw her son-in-law, she automatically stiffened. Their gazes clashed in hatred. Haroon glared at his mother-in-law, before striding to his room and slamming the door shut. Gulshan watched helplessly, trying to still her trembling body and quivering lower lip.

  ‘Mother, did you hear what he said to me?’ she whispered, reeling from Haroon’s threat to divorce her.

  ‘What?’ Hajra was waving a buzzing mosquito aside with her hand.

  All of a sudden common-sense prevailed, signalling to Gulshan to remain silent on this issue. A volcano had erupted right bang in the middle of their home. Everything was now out of her control, because of her mother’s intervention. God knew what her mother would do next if she found out about Haroon threatening her with the ‘thalaks’.

  Her eyes brimming all over again, she miserably mumbled, ‘Nothing, Mother,’ before following her son up onto the rooftop to fly his patangs, his beloved kites. Life had to go on. She had to smile, dote and play with her son. Even flying kites with him. She wished she could fly away from this nightmare with one of them.

  Hajra’s eyes bored into the door of her son-in-law’s room, her hands curved into tight fists. From across the small courtyard, she shouted, ‘You are to attend the kacheri, haramzada. Then you may show us how you can worm your way out of this and explain your haram doings.’

  In the dark, stuffy room Haroon distinctly heard his mother-in-law. He deliberately hadn’t turned on the fan. He banged his fist against the bed headboard. With his hands crossed over behind his head, on the pillow, Haroon closed his eyes shut.

  ‘Oh, Naghmana, I am so, so sorry! Forgive me for placing you in this mess my darling,’ he begged dully. Wishing so much, yet unable to do anything. ‘If only! If only!’ he groaned aloud in regret, turning his face over, and burying it on his pillow.

  FOURTEEN

  SIRAJ DIN RE-ENTERED his hawaili, with his walking stick tapping a firm sound on the marble floor of his courtyard. Sadiq, his old mali, who was watering the thirsty rose- bushes, raised his head and stood up, arching his aching back. Putting the watering can on the ground he rushed over to his employer, hurriedly removing the light morning blanket from his shoulders. Ignoring his manservant, Siraj Din handed over his walking stick and went looking for his wife Zulaikha.

  He found her sitting with her three grandchildren and Shahzada in the large living room. They were all laughing. Jafar’s small body was doubled over. The dimple in Zarri Bano’s face had dipped her cheek becomingly, as she comically narrated and mimicked what Kulsoom Bibi had said and done to her on her last visit to her home.

  Laughing, Zarri Bano glanced up at her grandfather, expecting a smile in return. Instead she was offered a bleak stare. The smile on her beautiful young face slipped. She turned to her grandmother for reassurance and explanation, quickly vacating the large armchair. ‘Here, Grandfather, please sit down.’ She hastened to place a thick bolster behind his back.

  Zulaikha’s eyes were fixed on her husband’s face. ‘You missed breakfast with your grandchildren, Siraj Din Sahib. They are leaving soon,’ she gently chided him. Still no answer. ‘Where did you go?’ Zulaikha was baffled by his silence and the look in her husband’s eyes.

  ‘Shahzada, my dear, could you please take the children outside? I need to talk with your mother-in-law alone for a moment,’ Siraj Din requested with quiet dignity.

  ‘Of course,’ Shahzada stumbled to her feet, ushering her three children out onto the verandah, ignoring Zarri Bano’s look of confusion.

  Outside, the child couldn’t help asking, ‘Mummy, what is going on? Why is Grandfather behaving so strangely this morning?’

  Shahzada pretended not to hear.

  Inside, Zulaikha’s eyes remained on her husband’s face as she moved to sit near him on the sofa.

  ‘Sahib Jee,’ she began respectfully, ‘Why did you send the children outside?’

  Siraj Din closed his eyes tight for a few seconds, before turning to meet his beloved wife’s gaze. ‘What I have to tell you is not fit for the innocent, masoum ears of my grandchildren. I want you to send them back to town this very morning, with their parents, instead of later.’ He hastened to explain, noting the worried look on his wife’s face. ‘Something is going to happen this afternoon, and I don’t want even the shadow of this event to touch my grandchildren. They must get out of this village as soon as possible.’

  ‘What is it, Siraj Din Sahib? Please tell me.’ By now, Zulaikha was feeling faint with anxiety.

  Each word weighed down as if by lead bars, Siraj Din repeated what Hajra had told him. All that time, he kept his gaze fixed on the door, in case Zarri Bano or Ruby happened to rush back into the room.

  By the time he had finished, Zulaikha had physically drawn away in horror, her hand held to her warm cheek. There lay two feet of awkward space between them.

  At last she uttered, ‘I can’t believe that this has happened in our village. It is so, so terrible, Siraj Jee. What are you going to do?’ Her voice brimming with fear and misgiving on her husband’s behalf.

  ‘I don’t know, Zulaikha. This is why I am so afraid. How am I going to tackle this terrible crime? Yet I am forced to do it. I look to my lord, Allah pak, to guide me. Unfortunately I am duty bound as the village elder, landlord and Buzurgh to sort out this crisis, but Zulaikha my dear, dear wife, I would at this moment give anything to swap my role with any other man, no matter how lowly his role happens to be. I don’t want this responsibility, Zulaikha. I wish to God that I could wake up and find it is all a bad dream. How does one treat a case like this? I am not equipped to deal with this matter.’

  This note of appeal was one Zulaikha had never heard before. For the first time in his life, her lord and master, the powerful landlord of the village, who always ruled his household with a will of steel – and that included treating his wife as subservient to him – didn’t know what to do.

  Today he was seeking her guidance and showing a vulnerable side of himself. The irony was that he had spent over forty years of their married life trying to subjugate his iron-willed but very intelligent wife. He had never quite succeeded.

  To his chagrin, he had discovered early on in his marriage that his Zulaikha was made of ‘firmer stuff’, for she had made it perfectly clear to him on their very wedding night that she wouldn’t be ruled by him, the way he ruled his menial servants. On the contrary, she was not only his wife, but also his ‘equal’ in every way, and therefore demanded, deserved and expected equality and respect. He never quite reconciled himself to any of those terms. It took him long years to find out that he had to accord his wife respect in order to earn hers.

  In those early, turbulent years, they had many arguments in their bedroom and in bed. It all centred on the subject of Siraj Din’s effort to tame his wife. A wife, however, who wouldn’t be tamed. With time he grew resigned to this. And if he was honest about it, he asked himself ruefully, ‘Do I really want her tamed?’

  Zulaikha, for her part, accorded him the respect due to him as a husband and as a village landlord. She saw to all his needs, but she never bowed down to him either in gestures or in words, always returning the proud taunt, ‘Allah pak is my master! You are a human being, only a mortal – like me. Treat me with respect and equality. We are a cloak, a garment, unto one another, complementing one another. You do not have any special power over me, Siraj Din, just because you are a man – and one who triumphs over killing the spirit of another! That is what you are trying to do to me, isn’t it? Trying to kill my spirit! Do you really want a meek – submissive wife – who will say ‘yes’, ‘yes’ to everything?’ She paused for breath.

  ‘Is that what you really want Siraj Din Sahib? Delve deep into your heart, my husband, and examine your feelings with honesty and be big and noble enough to face the reality. For I, I am sorry to say, can never be a submissive wife. I will not be made a scapegoat for your siste
r-in-law’s domineering ways. For I know she rode roughshod over your brother. You must remember I am Zulaikha! Not her! I am not domineering. Just an assertive woman who demands her rights and respect.

  ‘If you cannot stand my spirit and instead regard it as a threat to you then I am not the right person for you, and you will have to divorce me. Either you learn to accept me as I am, or we go our separate ways, Siraj Din Sahib. This is the choice you have to make!’

  Siraj Din had listened with a bemused laugh. Divorce his beloved wife! He would never do that. He loved her passionately. Yet she was a threat to him. No doubt about it. Yet he had deliberately never told her that. He knew all along that she was right. She would never change, and wasn’t it morally wrong of him to expect her to change to suit him and his male ego?

  At times he had delighted in her high-spirited manner, for she always told him what she thought of him. He knew where he stood with her.

  She was a good mother, a wonderful wife and an industrious and efficient landlady of the village, who got on very well with everyone and earned for herself high esteem. Then why was he cursed with a nagging wish to dominate her, to assert himself, and to show that he was the true master of the household? At the same time, he knew in the depths of his heart that she was his true equal and perversely he would have her no other way.

  ‘Wasn’t that why I chose Zulaikha, in the first place?’ he asked himself, bemused.

  ‘No!’ his mind shouted, recalling the real reason. She had proved a challenge to him. She had been a haughty, high-spirited, beautiful, young woman, who hadn’t been overly impressed that, this most eligible of young landlord’s had asked for her hand in marriage. On the contrary, she had accepted it as a matter of fact. Peeved, Siraj Din had vowed to himself that he would have a delightful time taming and training his lovely bride, and bringing her down a peg or two.

  To his dismay, he found himself brought down a peg or two. It was a bitter lesson for him to learn that women too could be very stubborn, especially when it came to a matter of principle, and would answer him back.

  In the company of other people, she always treated him with courtesy and respect. Behind closed doors, she was like a cat at times, but in the public arena she adopted the demure look of a dutiful wife, who took her place with pride beside her husband. Always making sure that nothing tarnished his shan and his izzat, his honour and respect in the eyes of their fellow villagers.

  Zulaikha stared up at her husband, marvelling sadly that it was the first time ever that he had directly appealed to her as an equal. With her heart swelling simultaneously with love, pity and pride, she reached out to his hand, pressing it gently.

  ‘Don’t worry, Siraj Din Sahib. Everything will be fine,’ she coaxed, ‘but it is no dream, I am afraid. I regard it as a sort of a test of your wisdom. I have faith in you, my dear husband. You will know what to do. You will be fair and just to everyone. I know you will do what is right for us all. Also, you must consult the imam in the other village. This sort of matter deserves careful deliberation, thought and action.

  ‘You cannot afford to take a wrong step. People’s lives are at stake in this matter. A wrong decision, my dear husband, will have a lasting and devastating effect on all concerned. You must deal with this matter with intelligence, sensitivity and care. And above all, let your head rule, but not your heart. Remember this.’

  Siraj Din listened in silence, marvelling at her wisdom and advice. And I had wanted a meek wife, with no thoughts and ideas of her own. Could a wife like that have given me such advice in this hour of need? he taunted himself. In a spontaneous gesture, borne out of love and gratitude for her support, Siraj Din reached out his hand and caressed her cheek.

  Awed and honoured in return by this action, Zulaikha glanced up at his eyes and caught the tender, uncertain expression in them.

  ‘Thank you, Zulaikha, my dear wife. What would I do without you and your wisdom? And you have been threatening to leave me for the last thirty years. Promise me that you’ll never do so!’

  Zulaikha heard the appeal in his voice. Both touched and humbled by it, she realised with her heart singing that she had reached a new milestone in her relationship with her husband. Late in life, yes, but coming from him it was a big step. She remembered his words and the vulnerable look that went with them. Taking his hand she tenderly kissed both the back and the palm, before returning it to his lap.

  ‘I’ll never leave you, Siraj Din Sahib – that is, until Allah pak takes me away from this world,’ she reassured him in a quiet voice.

  He fixed her with a horrified look in his green eyes. ‘Don’t say that, Zulaikha! I couldn’t bear life without you!’ He looked totally bereft. He didn’t miss the shadow that had crossed her face.

  ‘You will manage well without me,’ she said lightly. ‘At least there will be one person less for you to dominate.’ Then she laughed, avoiding his eyes before getting up to go out.

  ‘Don’t tease me on this subject, Zulaikha. It is very cruel!’ He too laughed, but the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes. Was she hiding something from him? What did she mean by that comment?

  ‘I am going to sort out the presents for our dear, lovely grandchildren before they leave. Jafar wants to take lots of ghur. Shahzada won’t let him because of the holes in his teeth.’ Zulaikha attempted to lighten the atmosphere by talking about Jafar’s love of molasses.

  ‘Send my two shegirds to see me, Zulaikha. They need to be urgently informed about this unfortunate matter. Sulaiman can then announce the kacheri after the zuhr prayers in the mosque.’

  ‘Very well,’ Zulaikha answered quietly, closing the door gently behind her, and going off to help her daughter-in-law Shahzada to pack.

  FIFTEEN

  KITES OF DIFFERENT colours and motifs swayed over the houses in the village. The Pakistani green and white flag flew in the breeze from one of the minarets of the village mosque. An air of frenzied expectation hung over each household. At last, the azan, the Imam’s call to prayers from the mosque minaret rang out loud and clear. It was the time!

  Never before had the villagers waited for the signal of the afternoon prayers with such trepidation as they did on this fateful afternoon. Everyone, whether out in the fields or inside their homes heard it. Today nobody ignored the azan – even the lazy ones. The men dutifully abandoned whatever they were doing and flocked to the mosque to offer their prayers, respectfully behind the young Imam, Sulaiman. The women and young girls headed for their bathrooms to perform their ablutions. Modestly covering their heads, they said their prayers in the privacy of their homes.

  Fatima was already sitting at her wooden prayer-table on the verandah, ready to pour out her heartfelt prayer to Allah pak. The rays of the afternoon sunshine beat straight on her back. For the first time in her life, she got her prayer sequence, the ‘rakahs’, all mixed up, forgetting how many she had offered. Furthermore she lost the thread of the surahs she was reciting – three times.

  ‘The wicked girl has affected my brain – now I can’t even remember the words of my prayers. This is terrible! Allah pak, forgive me!’ Fatima beseeched in exasperation. With the prayer sequence finally finished, she raised her hands high in the air to offer her special earnest prayer. ‘Allah pak, please listen to the du’ah of an unfortunate woman, who houses a sinner. Please forgive her for what she has done. Have mercy on her soul, for you are the most merciful – the most compassionate. Please don’t let anything happen to her. As much as I hate her, I don’t want a single hair of her head harmed. We are all vulnerable creatures who fall prey to our desires – we can err so easily and be led on a wrong path. It is as human beings we make mistakes. And as human beings we suffer for our mistakes. And it is as human beings we ask for forgiveness. Please have mercy on my badkismet niece. She is not the only one to blame. That Haramzada is to blame too!’ Thus Fatima ended her fervent prayers, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the embroidered border of her head shawl.

  When she fin
ally stood up from the prayer-mat her eyes hungrily traced the woven picture on it of the Holy Kabah in Makkah Sharif.

  I haven’t even had a chance to see this holy building and to cleanse myself of my sins, she thought. Now I am burdened with hers too! How will I ever wash away this new dreadful sin? How will I ever survive in this village with my head bowed? Oh Naghmana! Naghmana! You doomed woman, you have well and truly dumped me too in your mess. I will be labelled forever as the aunt of ‘that whore’. Allah pak, forgive me! I have done nothing to deserve this! How could you do this to me, Naghmana? I daren’t even think about your badkismet parents. What are they going to do when they find out? You have shrouded us all in shame. You madwoman. Our baraderie, our clan, will never recover from this! Could any household recover from such a shameful deed? Oh Naghmana, I wish you had never been born! Or that you had never shown your manhous face to this devil. What did you do to him? What magic potion did he drink from you? What magic have you cast over him?

  Stepping off the prayer platform, she walked under the verandah to her bedroom. Reaching up to the top shelf of her showcase, she took down a copy of the Holy Quran and sitting perched on her palang, she began to loudly recite Surahs from Chapter Five.

  Finished with the reading, she held the large copy of the Holy Quran against her cheek, printing feverish kisses on its beautiful designed cover.

  ‘Forgive me, Allah pak! I held Your Holy Book in my sinful hands. Have mercy on us all.’

  Placing the Holy Quran back in her wooden best china cabinet, Fatima glanced up at the ceiling of her room. Her niece’s room was directly above her own. Wrenching open her wooden chest of drawers, she pulled from it a plain grey linen suit.

  Carrying it on her arms, Fatima strode up the stairs to her niece’s room. Mutely she stared at the bolted door for a few seconds, bemused by what she had done – ‘I have locked her in!’ – and with trembling fingers she thrust it open.