Kaniz continued to watch as she saw the woman hasten her step. Then she turned round to say something to him. ‘The hussy!’ Kaniz hissed under her breath.
Khawar stopped following her. Climbing back onto his horse he cantered off in the other direction. Much to Kaniz’s annoyance, her son still hadn’t spotted his mother’s car on the lane.
The young woman had now come onto the lane and was walking in the same direction as the car – towards the village. She turned her head to look at the car at the very same moment Kaniz herself looked out of the passenger window, her body swelling with curiosity as to the identity of the girl. As the car sped by, Kaniz fell back from the window, her face flushed with sudden heat.
Firdaus! The washerwoman’s daughter! Daughter of her enemy! How could her son do this to her?
‘How demeaning. That vixen! I bet she has got her claws in my son,’ Kaniz spat, choking with outrage. ‘We will see about this. I will nip this affair in the bud, if my name is not Kaniz!’ she vowed, swiping her hand clean over her face from her forehead down to her chin, in a village gesture of personal challenge. ‘Meeting my son stealthily alone in the fields! Gushty! The slut!’
*
Kaniz’s son didn’t return home until the evening. By that time she had managed to work herself up into quite a frenzy. The furnace of hate for that young woman sent her lashing out at her housekeeper, Neesa, as soon as she stepped inside her front door.
‘Where has my son been spending his time, Neesa?’ she demanded. ‘It looks as if he has been making the most of my absence. As the old saying goes: “When the cat is away the house becomes overrun by mice”. In this case, when the mother is away …’
‘He has been in and out all the time, mistress. Getting on with his business, I presume,’ Neesa hastily replied. ‘You must be tired. Would you like to lie down? I will wake you when the young master comes home.’
‘No, Neesa, I cannot rest until I have seen my Khawar. I am a widow and I shoulder all the responsibilities alone. I, therefore, need to be kept abreast with everything. If you have noticed anything untoward in my son’s behaviour it is your duty to tell me, Neesa. He is my only son. I need to be made aware of every minute detail to do with his welfare.’
‘What is the matter, mistress?’ Neesa timidly enquired, curious to know the source of her chaudharani’s ill temper. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No, nothing has happened. Off you go now. Send Khawar to me when he comes in.’ Kaniz dismissed her housekeeper.
Neesa stared at her mistress’s broad, back-turned figure for a few seconds, then quietly turned and left the room. Kaniz wasn’t an easy woman to work for. Both proud and cruel, she rarely praised, but expected everything to be done to the highest of standards. She kept all of her servants at a distance, including Neesa – her housekeeper for twenty-nine long years. As her subordinate, she didn’t think it was right to ‘honour’ Neesa with her confidence.
Sighing to herself, Neesa returned to her cleaning. She must go and check again every room, every pillar, for dust and cobwebs, in case she had the misfortune to have missed any odd crevice. A very tidy person and obsessively proud of her home, Mistress Kaniz would definitely be ritually fingering and inspecting all the windows, and all the surfaces for dust before she went to sleep. It was a task she always meticulously performed whenever she returned from a journey away from home – no matter how achingly tired she was.
Her employer was already in a foul mood. Neesa didn’t want to give her another excuse to vent her temper, and this time on her. Resignedly, she picked up her dusting cloth and boker stick again.
Khawar, the twenty-six-year-old son and heir to all of his mother’s worldly wealth, found Kaniz reclining on a small mountain of cushions on the sofa in front of the television, watching a video film – a new release from Bollywood, India.
‘Assalam-Alaikum, Mother. I didn’t expect you back yet. I thought you were returning next week,’ Khawar informed her, bending down and kissing her warmly on the forehead.
‘Apparently so. I have been waiting hours for you to come home, my son. Where have you been? Gadding about the fields on your horse, I suppose, or holding important rendezvous?’ she insinuated hotly.
‘I went to settle the account with our chaprassi for next week, Mother, and to sort out the flour-grinding machine,’ he answered good-humouredly, choosing to ignore her petulant mood.
‘I saw you earlier,’ Kaniz snapped, her voice low, her dark, almond-shaped eyes now glittering menacingly in her fair face.
‘Where?’ Khawar slid down on the sofa beside his mother. She turned to give him the full benefit of a slow, detailed facial examination, evidently seeking any telltale sign of guilt.
‘In the fields – with that young woman!’ Kaniz spat, her eyes screwed into tiny slits.
‘What do you mean by that young woman?’ Undaunted, Khawar stared squarely back into his mother’s eyes.
‘Well, apparently you were so engrossed in that washerwoman’s daughter that you didn’t even notice your mother’s car when it passed you by.’
‘I was not engrossed, Mother – don’t be silly! Firdaus fell down and I helped her up. That is all.’
‘No, you didn’t just help her up! I was watching you. You walked with her and were having a cosy chat with her.’
‘What is this, Mother?’ Khawar shifted irritably on the sofa. ‘An inquisition? So what if I was talking to her! She is a fellow villager and, after all, I have played with her as a child. It is not a crime to talk to her, is it? I was only asking her about the school. Remember, I am one of the school’s management committee members.’
Kaniz patiently heard him out, before addressing him in a measured tone. She couldn’t afford him to make the mistake of taking her words lightly, or misunderstanding them. She was thus forced to spell it out for him. ‘I want you to keep away from that woman,’ she told him. ‘I will not let you have anything to do with her, nor her family. It is too degrading for a wealthy, well-born landlord to go chasing after a washerwoman’s daughter.’
Unable to bear his mother’s insults and taunts any longer, Khawar stood up and threw caution to the winds.
‘Firdaus is a Deputy Headmistress of the school, Mother! Why is it that you always so conveniently forget that fact? You delight in insulting her by labelling her as the “washerwoman’s daughter!” What sort of a kick do you get from verbally abusing her? She is not a washerwoman’s daughter!’
‘Well, I think she is. And I don’t get kicks, you rascal! I am telling you, my son, not to dishonour our name by linking it with theirs. Anyway, I have a great match in mind for you, in Lahore, with a very beautiful and educated woman. Your Auntie Sabra has been so busy on your behalf.’
‘Really.’ Khawar whistled softly, releasing the tight rein of his temper. Proud, like his mother, he was unable to bear her imperious, tyrannical manner. ‘You and Auntie Sabra can do what you like with that “Lahori” woman,’ he said icily. ‘If I want to, I can marry that chit – that washerwoman’s daughter and there is nothing you can do to stop me, Mother.’ He glared down at her, in no mood to humour her further.
Her beautiful mouth dropping open, Kaniz watched her son stride angrily out of the room. She was only prevented from going into hysterics by the realisation that Khawar was simply goading her. He has said that in anger to get back at me, she thought. He knows his duty and would never do anything so unforgivable as that!
With that calming thought, Kaniz managed to close her mouth. Propping the cushions beneath her, she stretched out her big frame and long legs on the sofa to enjoy the film once more. Now where was she? Oh yes. The hero, Shahrukh, had just fallen in love with the heroine’s sister … Her hand reached for the plate of sweetmeats.
Just as she was really getting into the plot of the film, Kaniz was interrupted by Neesa’s timid entrance, informing her that Mansur, the village melon man, was at her gate, waiting for their order. ‘No, Neesa! Tell him from me to chuck his
rotten pock-marked fruit into the village well. I am in no mood for his out-of-season melons.’
Her evening now definitely ruined, Kaniz asked Neesa to have Kulsoom, the village matchmaker, summoned to the house. Having failed in her numerous attempts to bring her beloved son and Zarri Bano together, she was now ready and resigned to start afresh. That proud young madam had categorically stated that she did not want to live in the village, and also pretended that Khawar was a sort of a brother to her.
‘Just as well.’ Kaniz sniffed disdainfully. That woman was too glamorous, too educated and opinionated for her liking. Now shy Ruby was another matter … Thus, she now wanted Kulsoom to find out from Habib Khan if he would be willing to allow her to ask for his younger daughter, Ruby, as a bride for Khawar.
As Kaniz reached over to pluck another ludoo from the plate and pop it into her mouth, she had a sudden vision of Firdaus with her son and nearly choked. ‘Never!’ she screamed silently in her mind. ‘Over my dead body!’
Chapter 3
BABA SIRAJ DIN, accompanied by his faithful companion and driver, Waris, ceremoniously decided to call at his son Habib’s home, to discuss the matter of his granddaughter Zarri Bano’s rishta. Once parked on the marble-tiled driveway of Habib’s luxurious villa, Siraj Din waited patiently for his driver to help him out of the Jeep. Holding his ivory walking stick in one hand, he accepted Waris’s hand to step down from his high seat. He straightened his long black tweed overcoat, and adjusted his turban at the right angle on his head. He always visited his son very formally dressed. ‘Impressions matter a lot,’ he forever preached to his sons and grandchildren.
His ivory stick tapping a distinct sound on the creamy white marble ground, Siraj Din climbed up the three steps of the veranda leading to the two sliding doors. Pressing the buzzer on the wall he waited impatiently.
Fatima came out of the kitchen. Wiping her wet hands on the end of her shawl she walked nonchalantly into the hall to see who had the audacity to have kept their finger on the buzzer for such a long time. On catching a glimpse of the stately old man standing outside the clear glass patio door, his head held imperiously at an angle surveying her coldly, Fatima rushed to the door. Over her shoulder she shouted to her mistress Shahzada, ‘Sahiba Jee, Baba Siraj Din is here!’
‘Bismillah! Bismillah, Baba Jee!’ Fatima gushed, sliding the door fully open. Quickly stepping aside, she obligingly bowed her head in front of him for the ritual patting. Dutifully, Siraj Din lightly swiped his hand over her shawled head before walking straight ahead into the hall.
Shahzada, his eldest daughter-in-law, had heard Fatima’s shout. Siraj Din saw her dash out of the lounge, holding her chador firmly in place on her head, while she urgently tugged and draped the other half discreetly around her shoulders and over in front of her chest. With her gaze respectfully fixed on his coat and with smarting cheeks, Shahzada stepped before her superior-looking father-in-law. Dutifully, she inclined her head towards his raised hand. Siraj Din let his hand rest heavily for a moment on her head, at peace with himself. This was the head he never tired of patting. It belonged to his favourite daughter-in-law, the joy in his life after his wife Zulaikha’s death.
‘Assalam-Alaikum, Aba Jan,’ Shahzada nervously greeted her father-in-law, fearful of her silk chador disgracefully slipping from its precarious position on her head and thus scandalously baring her head to his gaze. ‘We didn’t expect you, Baba Jee,’ she stammered to explain.
‘Wa Laikum-Salam,’ Siraj Din returned the greeting before walking ahead into the drawing room, asking carelessly over his shoulder, ‘Is Habib at home?’
Shahzada hovered two steps behind her father-in-law as he entered their large drawing room. Fatima had already scurried ahead into the room to set in place the takkia, the thick bolster, on the sofa. Siraj Din flashed a smile of appreciation at Fatima as he stretched his tall, wiry frame on the creamy brocade upholstery. Thoroughly disliking modern sofas, his heart still hankered after the palangs, the traditional luxury beds that graced living rooms in days gone by. The palangs, however, didn’t go well with the rest of the modern drawing-room furnishings. They were being relegated to rooms labelled ostentatiously as ‘bedrooms’.
His eyes moved over the tall lamp in the corner, the long drapes with their matching brocade swags and tails drawn across the wall-to-wall patio window. They then rested on the three heavy marble tables placed between the two large luxurious sofa suites. There were enough seats around the room to cater for up to twenty-five people, Siraj Din counted at the back of his mind. Knowing his father’s particular preference, Habib had especially purchased an elegant chaise longue from a quality department store in Karachi, which also matched beautifully with the rest of the plush furnishings, including the silk carpet completely covering the marble floor.
Shahzada left her father-in-law alone for a few moments while she went into the kitchen to inform her second cook to prepare a special meal for Siraj Din Sahib, and to use fewer red chillies in the curry dishes. Fatima was also in the kitchen preparing a hookah for Siraj Din, with freshly ground tobacco neatly placed amongst small pieces of coal in the topee. When Shahzada returned, Habib was with his father discussing business negotiations to do with their land. Siraj Din was asking his son whether it was worthwhile selling some land in his home village, Chiragpur, to another landlord, Master Khawar.
‘It is hard for me to manage at this time in my life,’ the old man told him, ‘and you and Jafar have enough to do already with the land around here. Yes, I think that I’ll let young Khawar buy those acres. He is a clever chap and will look after the land well. I wouldn’t want to sell them to anyone else.’
‘I agree with you, Father. Zarri Bano is thinking of opening a publishing company in Karachi, with Jafar’s help. Therefore, with my son involved in that business, I don’t think I’ll have time to oversee both the land here in Tanda Adam and in Chiragpur.’
‘Where is Zarri Bano?’ Siraj Din asked of his daughter-in-law as she sat beside her husband. He had already greeted Jafar and his youngest granddaughter Ruby.
Habib cast a hostile glare at his wife. Siraj Din merely fixed his green eyes, so similar to his son’s, on his daughter-in-law’s face. Shahzada’s gaze faltered before them both. Fidgeting with the crocheted lace edge of the chador, she waited nervously for Habib to explain.
Seconds passed. Habib didn’t explain.
His thick triangular-shaped brown eyebrows raised over his aquiline nose, Siraj Din was now intrigued by the pair’s silence.
Having by now realised that Habib’s silence was deliberate, Shahzada was miserably compelled to explain. She understood: this was Habib’s revenge for her action in letting Zarri Bano go to Karachi to Sikander’s home.
‘She is in Karachi,’ Shahzada stated with quiet dignity.
‘What is she doing there?’ Siraj Din asked sharply, suddenly realising that as the rest of the family was at home, his eldest granddaughter must have gone there alone.
An awkward silence ensued. Siraj Din’s speculative glance moved from his son to his daughter-in-law. The undercurrents of tension in the room spelt to him that something was definitely wrong. The pair sitting in front of him were apparently bent on playing games with one another, each shunting the responsibility of explaining Zarri Bano’s whereabouts onto the other.
Shahzada first peeped up at her father-in-law and then at her husband, her heart sinking at the look of pure malice in her beloved Habib’s eyes. Bitterly she accepted that Habib was in a cruel, uncompromising mood.
‘Zarri Bano is visiting Sikander’s home.’ She slipped the information in while moving the glasses of drinks onto the tray. ‘His family wanted her to come and visit their home.’ Shahzada’s voice trailed off into the silence of the room. All of a sudden she experienced a strong urge to rush out and into the fresh air of the rear courtyard.
‘Are you telling me, Shahzada, that my young, unmarried granddaughter has gone to stay, all alone, in a strange family’
s home and is in the company of a single young man?’ Siraj Din’s words cut Shahzada’s ears like a whiplash. She turned to look at the stately old man, dismayed at the harsh words. Her father-in-law had never spoken to her in such a disparaging tone or manner before.
‘I have done nothing wrong!’ Shahzada rebelled, trembling inside with rage. Remembering her beloved eldest daughter’s wistful eyes, Shahzada found the courage to look her father-in-law straight in the eye: she also had the presumption to speak boldly in front of the most revered elders of their clan.
‘Aba Jan,’ she said quietly; she always called him ‘Father’: ‘Zarri Bano has lived alone in Karachi in a hostel, as you well know, while she was studying at University. She will be moving to Karachi anyway, because of her new editorial post and the company she is hoping to set up. She is a mature woman of twenty-seven years of age. Also, she didn’t go alone – Jafar went with her. Sikander’s parents asked her to stay a few more days. I think it is good for her to get to know Sikander and his family before she marries him.’ Shahzada mentally excused her new spirit of rebellion by telling herself that she was doing it for her daughter’s sake.
‘I see,’ the old man commented in a dangerously calm voice. ‘And that means staying in the same house, does it? Spending time with a young man – two people with no blood or any other legitimate ties between them? Since when did we become so immoral?’ Siraj Din’s voice lashed.
Taken aback by her father-in-law’s verbal assault and the chilly vehemence of the words, colour flooded Shahzada’s cheeks.
Tapping a rhythm with his stick on the silk carpet, Siraj Din waited for his daughter-in-law to say something, to apologise for her temerity in both speaking and answering him herself instead of letting her husband do it. And to top it all, she then had the audacity to justify her action to him! Siraj Din was now very, very angry with his most favourite daughter-in-law. Truly dismayed, he shook his head in disbelief. This was not the Shahzada he knew and loved.
The Holy Woman Page 3