In the room with the shuttered windows, her niece sat on the floor, near one of the bedposts, her head resting on her upraised knees. Fatima’s eyes scanned with distaste Naghmana’s hair, spread out in disarray around her face, and in knots on her shoulders.
‘Tie up that unseemly mane of yours,’ she ordered. You are not in a fashion show now.’
Sitting down on the bed, she reached over and grabbed hold of Naghmana’s hair, scooping its mass from around her shoulders. Knots of hair came away in Fatima’s hands. She glanced down at the ones on the floor and in Naghmana’s tight fist. Like a puppet in her aunt’s hands, Naghmana let Fatima pull her offending hair into shape. With several long strokes, Fatima tightly braided it into one thick chunky plait. Then she threw the plait over Naghmana’s shoulder for her to have a look.
The mosque’s loudspeaker was turned on again. It was time! Fatima’s hand froze over her niece’s plait. The word kacheri, was clearly pronounced. The court was to be held in the village community hall.
Naghmana too had heard it. She lowered her head further over her raised knees, immune to the painful hold of her aunt’s hand on her hair, her runaway heart thumping crazily.
With a catch in her voice, Fatima jeered down in her niece’s face, ‘See? You are being summoned. You badkismet woman! Scrub your face of the muck you are wearing and put these clothes on. I am not going to have you parade in the kacheri in this tarty outfit of yours and with that paint on your face. Wear this chador on your head, and make sure that it remains there!’
The chador was thrown over Naghmana’s bowed head. It fell to the floor. Stepping over it Fatima slammed the door shut behind her.
Naghmana stared at the threadbare shawl. Her shame grew deeper as she spotted a large tear in one of its corners. Standing up, she glanced at the suit with distaste. She picked up the tunic from the bed. It was a shapeless garment, twice her size and ugly in style. In despair Naghmana dropped it on the floor. ‘Is all this real? Is all this really happening to me?’ she cried.
Kulsoom’s hard knocks on the door, had Naimat Bibi scurrying out of her bathroom. She pulled and clutched at the top end of her shalwar, holding on tightly to one end of the string, in case it slipped out of her hand. In her hurry she tripped over a lota, the toilet ablution utensil. To her dismay the water gushed and spilled straight onto her plastic sandalled feet, neatly wetting the hemline of her shalwar.
‘Mesebt Kulsoom!’ Naimat Bibi cursed under her breath. ‘Why does she always get me into such a mess? This time a wet one.’ Still cursing, she shook the water out of her plastic sandal. Now she would have to go out with uncomfortably wet sandals, and a damp hemline plastered to her ankle.
Still clutching the nala string in place and tying it tightly around her waist, Naimat Bibi dashed to her front door. Schooled from years of practice, she masked her annoyance and instead flashed a smile of greeting at her friend waiting outside her wooden door.
Pleats of impatience lined Kulsoom’s narrow weather-beaten forehead. ‘Come on, Naimat Bibi! I expected you to call on me, not me to be waiting out here for you! Have you not heard the announcement from the mosque? If we are to take Sardara Begum and Jamila with us, we need to hurry. You know what Sardara is like. She’ll take ages to leave her home with those legs of hers. Then it will be a long trek to the madrasah. Also, I am going to Chaudharani Kaniz’s hawaili first, to let her know what is going on. If we reach the madrasah first, we can keep a place for the Chaudharani and ourselves in the front row. All together – side by side. Wouldn’t that be great? Hurry!’ She glanced back at her friend’s door. ‘Don’t forget the latch on your door! Think of your moneybox – we don’t want it stolen while we are all at the kacheri! All those hundreds of chapattis you had to make to earn that money!’
Still holding her shalwar aloft, Naimat Bibi dutifully followed behind her friend to Sardara’s home, for the second time that day.
Sardara was indeed a very lucky woman to have two messengers visiting her twice in one day and within the space of four hours. Her three women guests had insisted on accompanying them to the kacheri. An air of nervous expectation hung over Sardara’s large courtyard. There was a drama in the making in the village that the twin daughters wouldn’t miss for the world in this otherwise very boring place, where nothing ever seemed to happen. However, they marvelled now at their good fortune in coming to visit the village at the right time.
Out in the courtyard, Naimat Bibi and Kulsoom had to wait patiently for the young women to get dressed. They were still hurrying to and fro, from the verandah to the bedroom, apparently busy ironing out the different layers of their chiffon dupattas. One had already burnt a hole in one corner of the border. Hence another suit had to be quickly dug out from their heaving luggage case.
Sardara exchanged sly looks with her two friends, arrowing her eyebrows at the twin daughters of the kurmani. Like her friends she waspishly wondered why they had to change. Weren’t they already dressed in their very best clothes? In fact, they looked as if they were ready to go to a lavish wedding party and not to a court gathering. The kacheri was a very grave affair, and this was a particularly unfortunate one – with adultery as the subject matter.
Sardara and her two friends sat perched on the charpoy, trying their best to hide their impatience behind polite smiles. Naimat Bibi and Kulsoom exchanged nervous glances; both questioning their wisdom in coming to Sardara’s home first. Agile-minded and with quick foresight, Kulsoom instructed Naimat Bibi, in her ear, to take Sardara ahead and to also collect Jamila Bibi on the way. She herself would escort Sardara’s three guests to the madrasah.
Jumping off the charpoy, Naimat Bibi agreed with alacrity, remembering Sardara’s legs and the snail-like pace at which she would be walking through the village.
‘Yes, of course, Kulsoom Jee,’ she murmured. In her mind she was already busy calculating how many minutes it would take them to reach the madrasah courtyard. At least twenty and by that time, all the chairs on the front row would be taken!
Sardara’s kurmani, sly by nature and habit, had meanwhile kept an eye on her host and her two infamous friends, paying attention to their ducked heads and whisperings. Not at all affronted by their behaviour, she carried on taking powerful puffs on the hookah pipe, letting the water gargle cheerfully in the steel base, much to Sardara’s annoyance.
Her face masked with a polite smile, not fooling anyone, Sardara turned from her kurmani. ‘Come on, Naimat Jee, with my legs we had better hurry. Kulsoom, can you bring my three guests with you? I know you’ll want to go with your daughters, Neelam Jee.’
Neelam Jee kindly assented, knowing perfectly well that her host was eager to be off and that it was her foolish daughters and their obsession with clothing who had kept everyone waiting.
Not apologetic by any means, she offered, ‘No problem, Sardara Jee. Please be off, and with your poor legs, you’ll need to be. We’ll probably be there before you.’ Then she cupped her hand around the hokah, drawing another powerful puff.
Not missing the taunt, and thoroughly fed up with her unwanted guests, her kurmani’s smoking habit and her innuendoes about her ‘poor legs’, Sardara angrily swept away.
‘Come on, Naimat Bibi, let’s get off!’
She wished to God she had a magic wand that she could wave to whisk her Neelam Jee and her daughters from her home. Did Allah pak provide magic carpets? She knew what she would do with them.
Naimat Bibi leapt to Sardara’s side, trying to pace her step with the swaying, wobbly movement of Sardara’s large hips, as she bravely embarked on the mammoth task of walking all the way to the kacheri. She hadn’t braved such a venture for years. The other parts of the village were foreign territory to her now. No other event in the village had been worth trying out the remaining strength of her poor legs. Her animals had sapped all her energy.
At the end, to Sardara, the journey appeared like four miles. The madrasah was in the other section of the village, but she didn’t want t
o dwell on that fact. It was better to forget the distance. After ten long minutes they reached their first port of call. Jamila’s home.
Warmly ushered in by Jamila’s daughter, Shahnaz, Sardara thankfully sank onto the soft padded seat of the swingseat on the verandah. As she blissfully felt herself relax, Sardara wondered ruefully, how she was ever going to get up again.
Inside her bedroom, Jamila was still on the bed retching into the thukhdan. Naimat Bibi stood by and watched, her eyes going to the clock on the newly painted wall. There were only fifteen minutes to go before two o’clock. By now, all the seats would definitely be taken up by the men. The kacheri was normally a men’s affair. Today, however, nobody could predict how many women would turn up too.
‘Are you sure, Jamila Jee, that you are well enough to go?’ Naimat Bibi ventured to ask, in the timid hope of persuading her friend to stay at home.
Turning a pasty face to her, Jamila nodded dumbly, trying to massage her abdominal muscles with her hands.
‘What if you feel sick while you are there, Jamila? Have you thought about that? You surely don’t want to broadcast your condition to the whole village, do you? The men will be there too, you know – dozens of them,’ Naimat Bibi boldly pressed, visualising herself sitting beside Jamila’s doubled-up figure, with all those present watching and wondering what was going on. The thought had her blushing.
No, I will get Kulsoom to sit next to her. She’ll cope better with this sort of thing, Naimat Bibi decided nervously. I won’t be able to cope with Jamila’s condition in public.
‘Don’t worry, I will sit near the courtyard gates,’ Jamila quickly reassured her, as if reading her friend’s mind and fears. ‘Then if I do feel nauseous, I can quickly leave.’
Out on the verandah, another spasm attacked her and she doubled over, retching. Her resolve to reach the kacheri however was stronger than ever. One way or another, no matter how lousy she felt, she would be there like everyone else. She would never be able to forgive herself for missing such an event.
Sitting outside on the swingseat, with her bad leg stretched out in front of her, resting on a footstool that Shahnaz had provided, Sardara was fanning herself with a manual hand fan. Her interested gaze had surveyed the architectural design of Jamila’s verandah, and the large, beautifully landscaped courtyard.
Jamila had doubled-up again over the edge of the swingseat on which Sardara was sitting.
‘What’s the matter with Jamila, Naimat Bibi?’ she asked in alarm.
Jamila stood up queasily and smoothed her hair away from her face. It appeared she now had to share her secret with their milk woman too, but she would only do it on their way to the kacheri.
SIXTEEN
IN HER MOTHER’s room, Gulshan sat with her head bowed, tears falling in her lap. Hajra stood by helpless. ‘Come on, my beloved daughter, piari, piari, beti. It is time to go,’ she softly coaxed.
‘I don’t want to go, Mother. I wish you hadn’t demanded a kacheri. Don’t you see how terrible it is going to be for me? Why did you do it? To let the whole world know that your daughter has been cheated on and betrayed by her husband? All I want to do is to sink myself in some hole, not to make a spectacle of myself in front of so many people.’
‘I know, my Gulshan, but you have to be brave. Believe me, you’ll not make a spectacle.’
‘Please, Mother, don’t make me go!’ Gulshan pleaded. ‘I can’t cope with all the villagers and their looks. They will look at me and her. She’ll be there too, won’t she? I don’t want to see her!’
Sighing heavily, Hajra sat down beside her daughter, not knowing what to say or do. What did one do in such a situation? Bury it or confront it? Her hand lovingly patted her daughter’s shoulders. ‘You have to go, my beloved. Don’t be afraid. You have to face up to the world. You are the wronged woman, remember.’ Hajra beseeched, her heart weeping for the girl.
‘Everybody will be looking at me and feeling sorry for me.’ Gulshan’s voice broke.
‘I know, my dear, and so they should. You are the innocent one who has been wronged. While her head will be sunk and buried in disgrace, yours will be held high in dignity. You’ll have everyone’s sympathy. The kacheri is held, not to shame you, my daughter, but that whore!’ Hajra spat, her voice quivering with hate. Agitated, she got up from the bed.
‘Mother, please don’t say that word to me! I can’t go! I don’t want to face her!’ Gulshan sidled away from her mother’s side, almost afraid of being near her.
Hajra finally lost patience. ‘Enough, Gulshan! Think of her! Don’t you think – that it is going to be a hundred times worse for that bitch? Now come on, get changed – and comb your hair. You look a mess. They will all be looking at you both and comparing you – you know what the women are like.’ Hajra stopped as she saw Haroon come out of his room. He stared angrily at them both.
‘You women, you don’t know what you are doing. Call off the kacheri! You will regret it otherwise. Let me explain …’ he appealed, walking under the verandah towards them. Hajra rose and banged the door shut.
‘Naghmana!’ Haroon cried the name to himself, his hands balling into tight fists he stood helplessly on the verandah, looking at the closed door separating him from his wife.
‘See you at the kacheri, haramzada!’ Hajra taunted from the room, her eyes glaring at him through the crack of the bedroom door.
His nostrils flaring with silent rage, he shouted, ‘You’ll regret this!’ And walked out of his home. ‘I must either see Naghmana or the old man before the kacheri begins,’ he told himself, and felt panic rise within him.
*
Siraj Din carefully inspected his appearance in the mirror for the last time. His starched turban was set at the most flattering angle on his henna-dyed head. He meticulously first smoothed down and then twirled his brown moustache in place. Dabbing some male perfume behind his ears he let a few careless drops fall on his white shirt. Finally, he buttoned up his long black woollen coat, even though it was a hot afternoon, it had to be worn. Appearances were very important.
Glimpsing his wife’s image in the mirror, he turned to face her. Smiling, she held up his long ivory stick in her hand. He didn’t need it for walking. It was just a cosmetic prop he had adopted fifteen years earlier. It lent an air of rhob, of dignity and urbanity to his prominent status. He never left home without it. In the eyes of the villagers, Baba Siraj Din and his walking stick were inseparable.
‘Thank you, Zulaikha, my dear.’ Siraj Din took the stick from her hand. ‘Come with me to the kacheri. I need you there by my side.’ Surprising her with his earnest request.
Bemused, Zulaikha blinked in reply. This was so uncharacteristic of him. It was the second time in one day he had appealed to her. He, the one who had always scorned her offers of advice. To ask her to sit at his side, instead of his two shegird, trainees, was an honour indeed.
A gentle smile hovering on her lips, Zulaikha reassured her husband. ‘Don’t worry, I will come as soon as I can. I need to sort out our grandchildren’s luggage. Have faith in yourself, Siraj Din Sahib, whatever you do will be for the best. And I have faith in you. Just remember to be wise, my husband – let your head rule, not your heart! Above all be fair, my lord! You are the qazi, so use your power wisely. In you lies justice.’
Siraj Din’s emerald-green eyes, fringed with thick lashes, trailed lovingly over his wife’s face, seeking to say so much, yet intuitively holding back the words. Earlier he had almost betrayed himself. Surprisingly, however, he had felt no shame in showing a vulnerable side of himself to his wife. It was her respect he had yearned for. Always, he had presented a tough, domineering facade – the masterful husband who ruled his wife, like he did everyone else, with an iron will, and whose ideas and actions were indisputable. Siraj Din’s eyes caressed again the face of the woman who had once posed a challenge to his male ego, a threat to his male authority – a rival. Today, he not only saw her as his equal but accepted her as such.
&nbs
p; Grudgingly, he had respected her for years. Today, unbidden, the generous words of praise at last tumbled out of his mouth. ‘I am so proud to have you as my wife, Zulaikha. Remember that always, even if I were never to utter these words again in my life.’ His hand crept to her face, caressing her cheek. Unable to withstand her bewildered gaze, he withdrew his hand and immediately left her.
Zulaikha stared after him, bemused. Then a look of sheer joy crossed her face. ‘We have been married for nearly forty years,’ she murmured, ‘but it is only today that my husband has opened his heart, his mind and his inner world to me. Only today has he let me inside him.’ She felt a deep regret. There could have been so many other moments of shared joy and friendship. Instead of hurting one another, duelling in a language of power play – in which Siraj Din’s aim had always been to crush her spirit and for him to be the victor.
Today he had accorded her the status of an equal, an honour indeed. Her heart swelled with joy again. ‘Be fair, my dear husband!’ Zulaikha’s lips fervently prayed in the mirror as she recalled the purpose of the kacheri and the wicked woman, who had cast her evil shadow, her perchanvah, on her household and the entire village of Chiragpur.
‘Naghmana!’ Fatima shouted hoarsely from the bottom of the stairs. The word ricocheted around the house. Closing her eyes, she swallowed to ease the painful dryness in her throat. A mild, meek woman by nature, Fatima had never shouted so much in one day and in such a short time. In fact, she had never shouted at anyone in her life. She rubbed the palms of her hands together in a gesture expressing her shame as her mind dwelt on the possible fate awaiting them in the kacheri.
‘Oh Allah pak, help me! I have done nothing wrong. Take me away from this life mercifully. Do it now so that I can be spared the shame. Oh, why did I have to be her aunt? I will be accused by everyone of pimping for them – of encouraging them. God, You know the truth! Listen to me! I had no inkling of this evil going on, this haram being committed behind my back …’ Fatima suddenly stopped her chanting as she saw Naghmana quietly slip down the stairs and stand uncertainly in front of her on the bottom step.
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