The Holy Woman

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  It wasn’t a good omen. He was not a superstitious man by any means but an uncanny feeling of dread swept over him. Jafar’s death would definitely mean that their wedding would have to be postponed. Bitterly he cursed his kismet. They hadn’t even had a chance to formally get engaged or exchange rings. With the loss of their precious and only son, Zarri Bano’s parents would be in mourning for a long time. The wedding would probably have to wait a few months, if not a year.

  ‘Zarri Bano, I can’t wait that long. I simply can’t!’ he silently beseeched her. He got up to go to the bathroom. Before he left the room, he went and stood close to Zarri Bano for a short time, wanting to offer her moral support and words of comfort.

  Sitting in the far corner of the room surrounded by other men from the village, Habib had noted Sikander’s action. Even in his grief his sharp mind was working. How had Zarri Bano found Sikander’s family, their home and customs? he wondered. Was she definitely going to marry him? Habib wanted to know what had passed between his daughter and that ‘arrogant’ man in Karachi.

  The next three days were a nightmare, not only for Habib, his family and relatives, but for all the neighbouring families too, in the small town of Tanda Adam and his home village, Chiragpur. A shroud of doom hung over every household. Everybody unreservedly and respectfully paid homage to Habib’s grief. A feudal landlord with great wealth, his family descended from the highest of castes, Habib Khan was also blessed with three beautiful children and acres of land to pass onto his heir. He was a much envied, yet liked and respected, figure in his town.

  Thus, everybody mourned for Habib’s son – and what a son Jafar had been! One of the handsomest! Tragically so young; yet unwed and no children to pass on the male line. ‘What a terrible way to go!’ they agonised, keenly empathising with Habib’s grief at having lost his only son and heir, their hearts going out to him. In a culture and land where sons were traditionally cherished, an only son was the most precious commodity of all worldly goods for any father. Hence, to lose your only son was like losing life itself – the worst calamity one’s worst enemy could face.

  How did one come to terms with a grief and loss of this kind? they wondered bleakly amongst themselves. Would Habib and his family ever recover from this calamity? Moreover, they secretly speculated about the future. Would Habib follow his centuries-old tradition of making one of his daughters his heir?

  All of Zarri Bano’s relatives, including her paternal grandfather, Siraj Din, and a maternal grandmother came to mourn and attend the funeral. All the rooms were occupied. Bedding was changed daily. The large kitchen had three full-time cooks, as well as Naimat Bibi from the village, preparing meals throughout the day and serving the guests. There was a constant stream of movement with men, women and children moving around the villa. They sat inside the rooms, as well as outside in the courtyard, in groups. This time of gathering, although meant to be a time for mourning, also provided a great opportunity for guests to share and exchange news, social gossip and matchmaking.

  Zarri Bano and Ruby shut themselves in their rooms, only allowing their housekeeper, Fatima, in with the food. It was only there that they had something akin to personal privacy. With over a hundred people swelling their home, they couldn’t get away from prying eyes and ears. They let their father, grandfather and mother see to the guests and the funeral arrangements.

  Jafar was laid to rest in his family’s splendid plot of land in the local cemetery, annexed to the mosque in Chiragpur. His body was ceremoniously taken there by a truck on the second day. This was the most unbearable day for all, particularly for Jafar’s parents, his two sisters and for his old friend from the village, Khawar. Khawar had wept openly on Siraj Din and Habib’s shoulders a number of times, overtaken by the horror of his personal loss. The two sisters also wept in each other’s arms all day, thinking of their beloved brother lying beneath the soil.

  On the third day, Sikander and Zarri Bano happened to pass each other. He and his parents had stayed on like the other guests after the funeral.

  They stopped and looked at each other sadly. Wanting to say so much, Sikander managed very little, social niceties restraining him. Until they were formally engaged, in the eyes of everyone they had no right to liaise or to seek out each other’s company.

  Zarri Bano, for her part, now displayed no recognition of their special relationship. The days spent together in Karachi appeared to have happened eons ago. ‘It is almost as if, with the death of her brother, she has wiped me and those tender moments in the Karachi orchard and on the beach out from her mind,’ Sikander noted with despair. Only a ghost of a smile signalled to him that she knew who he was.

  ‘How are you, Zarri Bano?’ Sikander tenderly enquired, pained by her grief-stricken appearance. The dimple in her left cheek appeared to have been ruthlessly erased. She was still very beautiful, in her subdued coloured outfit and white chiffon headscarf, but the sparkle in her green eyes was no longer there. The gaiety of youth had been snuffed out – the laughter in the eyes all gone!

  ‘As well as one can expect, in the circumstances, Sikander Sahib. Thank you for being here and for all your support. I am sure that my father appreciates it,’ she answered politely, not quite able to look him in the eye, ready to move away.

  ‘Not at all,’ he answered, managing to muster a similar tone.

  Seeing that they were in a public place, out in the courtyard, with men and women watching and listening to them with interest, Zarri Bano felt awkward in Sikander’s company.

  ‘I must go, Sikander Sahib.’ Excusing herself, she walked away from him.

  Reluctantly he let her go. Stared after her with despair. He had long since recognised that he had fallen deeply in love with her, from the day of the mela. He now ached to protect and shield her from all this pain and suffering. If only they had been married before Jafar had died! He could then, have taken her away from this sad place and comforted her with all his loving heart. Now he was helpless to do anything. Almost as if he had no part to play in her life.

  The mourners weren’t the only ones watching the short exchange between Habib’s beautiful eldest daughter and the tall, handsome businessman. Fatima had darted a conspiratorial smile at Shahzada in the courtyard as she saw them.

  It was only as Fatima passed Kaniz and saw her face turn livid that she glanced in the direction of the woman’s furious glare. Over in the far corner of the courtyard, Firdaus was sitting with Ruby, but Khawar was standing behind her, bending over her shoulder, whispering something in her ear. Firdaus had looked up at Khawar and laughed.

  Kaniz had throughout kept a careful watch over her son. She looked up, just as Fatima moved away, but not before she caught the triumphant look on her rival’s face. The plate of food in Kaniz’s hand shook and fell with a crash on the concrete floor. Turning back, Fatima quickly and neatly whisked away the debris from around Kaniz’s feet.

  ‘Chaudharani Kaniz, would you like me to fill your plate again?’ she asked politely, while still squatting on the ground.

  ‘No, thank you. I want nothing at all from you!’ Still livid, Kaniz whispered her insult loudly enough for all the other guests and village women to hear.

  Her face going a shade paler, Fatima managed to hold onto her temper by refusing to rise to Kaniz’s bait. Instead she judiciously moved away.

  Kaniz can say whatever she likes, but she cannot do anything about damming her son’s affection for my daughter! thought Fatima happily. With a smirk playing prominently on her face, she moved on to attend to the other mourners and passed trays of fruit around. She didn’t offer Kaniz anything else.

  Habib Khan, too, had watched the short exchange between Sikander and his daughter. Shahzada glimpsed different emotions chase over her husband’s face. She tried to interpret them as best she could, after years of having lived with him. Catching her looking at him, Habib gave his wife the benefit of a pointed stare.

  ‘Tell our Zarri Bano that she mustn’t converse with strange
men,’ he ordered sharply, ‘especially in this gathering, with all and sundry eavesdropping and waiting around for a titbit of gossip. It is not good for my daughter’s reputation.’

  ‘But Habib Sahib, Sikander is not a stranger! He is our special guest, somebody who will soon become a member of our family – our son-in-law, in fact,’ Shahzada replied, her voice raised slightly for some reason she didn’t yet understand.

  ‘Perhaps it is kismet. Perhaps Sikander was never destined to become a member of our family. Not as Zarri Bano’s husband anyway.’ Habib turned away, speaking quietly almost as if to himself.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ Shahzada croaked, jerking her head towards him. A cold fist of fear clutched at her heart. Her eyes stood large in her grief-ravaged face.

  ‘Nothing. Forget what I said,’ Habib hissed back at her, before rising and crossing the courtyard to speak to his father, Siraj Din.

  Shahzada, however, couldn’t forget. Stumbling up from her seat she left the courtyard in a daze, wanting to seek the privacy of her own room. He had threatened her with divorce if she encouraged Zarri Bano to marry Sikander – but this! Her husband’s chilling, cryptic words shook her nearly as much as the death of her only son. ‘It cannot be!’ Alarm bells rang loudly in her head. Surely he couldn’t be planning that fate! Not for her beautiful daughter! They couldn’t be so cruel. They couldn’t! she thought feverishly, her head assaulted by different distressing visions.

  Still agitated, she sought her daughter. Zarri Bano was in her room. The appearance of her daughter reading the Holy Quran, with a shawled head, gave her mother’s runaway imagination a horrid reality.

  ‘Zarri, darling. Please place the Holy Quran on the mantelpiece and let’s talk,’ Shahzada appealed in a trembling voice, sitting down on the sofa. She tried hard to smile at her daughter, but failed miserably.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Kissing the Quran’s cover reverently, Zarri Bano placed it on the mantelpiece and then flicked the shawl off her head, shaking out her glossy waves, letting them tumble around her shoulders and face, cascading down to her lower back.

  ‘Tell me, Zarri Bano, you do want to marry Sikander, don’t you?’ Shahzada began, not daring to look her daughter in the eye.

  Her pale cheeks colouring a delicate shade of pink, Zarri Bano nodded. ‘Yes, Mother. Two days before I learnt of Jafar’s death, Sikander Sahib proposed to me and I accepted. That is when I phoned to let you know. But how can I even think about marriage, having lost my dearest, beloved brother?’

  ‘You must, my love. You must get married quickly.’

  ‘But it is the wrong time, Mother. How can you advise me to do this? We have only buried our Jafar yesterday. It would be so insensitive. What will Father say?’

  ‘You must tell him immediately, because I think that he may have other plans in mind for you, now that he has lost Jafar.’ Shahzada’s voice had sunk to a whisper. She waited for the significance of her comment to register in her daughter’s mind, hoping she understood, but as Zarri Bano continued to stare blankly, Shahzada was compelled to explain.

  ‘Your father …’ Shahzada swallowed, finding it hard to say the words, ‘… wants you to become his heiress, and our Shahzadi Ibadat, our “Holy Woman”, in the traditional way.’

  Zarri Bano stared, stupefied, as the meaning of what her mother had just said sank in. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  In fear Shahzada looked up and Zarri Bano saw her own horror mirrored in her mother’s warm brown eyes. The eyes of a hunted, wounded animal. The world turned on its axis for Zarri Bano.

  ‘No, Mother! No!’

  The cry arose from the very depths of her soul.

  Chapter 7

  SURELY MOTHER HAS misunderstood! Zarri Bano thought wildly in her room after Shahzada had dropped the bombshell and then rushed out, her long white chador trailing behind her.

  ‘It cannot be! – they couldn’t do that to me!’ Zarri Bano implored the walls of her room. ‘I must talk to my father and rid this bizarre idea from my mind.’ She shook her head to see if that would do the trick, but she only felt more dizzy and confused than before.

  Pacing up and down in her room, Zarri Bano wondered who she could confide in. If she told Ruby, her sister would be just as horrified and shocked as herself. Why burden her further in her grief?

  Later in the day, she tried to talk to her father, but all to no avail. Wearing a mask of mourning, Habib was surrounded by other men and she couldn’t reach him. Zarri Bano couldn’t rest, however, until she confronted him with it. ‘I must talk to him tonight!’ she fretted.

  At about half past eleven, when she knew her parents would be in their bedroom, Zarri Bano knocked on their door and entered. The large room with its tall ceiling was in semi-darkness, but the walnut furniture gave it a warm glow. Her mother was praying in one corner on her prayer mat. Habib sat on the sofa near the bed, flicking through the Jang newspaper. He put it aside when he saw his daughter enter.

  ‘How are you, my princess?’ he began indulgently, his face splitting into a smile. ‘With all these guests everywhere, I haven’t been able to talk to you or to comfort you, my dear daughter.’

  When Zarri Bano sat down next to him, Habib gave his full attention to his favourite child, his beautiful gem. Even his only son hadn’t been able to compete with the affection he felt for Zarri Bano. Taking hold of his hand, she kissed it and held it against her cheek.

  ‘Father, I miss our brother. How will we ever survive without him?’ she cried, leaning her head against his shoulder. Putting his arm around her, he squeezed her tight. Then, remembering why she had come, Zarri Bano pulled her head away.

  ‘Father, I didn’t have a chance to tell you about my visit to Karachi,’ she said.

  Habib lowered his gaze to the newspaper. ‘Huhumm!’ He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. Zarri Bano watched as the kindly smile was replaced with a blank look.

  ‘Sikander Sahib proposed to me,’ she continued softly, waiting for him to look up so that she could see his reaction. Instead she saw his shoulders and neck go rigid. ‘Did you hear me, Father?’ Zarri Bano prompted nervously.

  ‘Yes, I heard you, Zarri Bano.’ Habib turned towards her. ‘I knew about it. Your mother told me. What did you say to him?’ His voice was hard.

  Stooped on the mat, Shahzada forgot the prayer sequence she was reciting as she waited, with a thumping heart, for her daughter’s reply.

  ‘I accepted. I know that it is the wrong time, but I thought that I ought to tell you first, before Sikander’s parents approach you.’ Zarri Bano found herself rushing the words in one breath. Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment when no reaction was forthcoming. ‘Aren’t you pleased, Father? For years you have waited for me to choose a man to marry and now that I have done so at last, you are silent. It is almost as if you didn’t wish me to marry!’

  Habib flinched at the anger in her voice. ‘You are too highly strung, my daughter. This is not exactly the time to discuss your marriage. We only buried your brother yesterday.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father. Forgive me – you are right, this is not the right time. It is very insensitive of me.’ Zarri Bano forced herself to apologise through gritted teeth. For the first time in her life she felt a flicker of hatred for her father – a totally novel experience.

  ‘What is the matter with him?’ she wondered. Why was he making everything so difficult?

  Standing up tall she crossed the room, and caught the troubled look in her mother’s eyes. Fear gripped her once again as she re-entered her bedroom. Something was amiss – terribly amiss, in fact. Her father always had time for her, no matter what mood he was in or at what time. And that coldness in his eyes! She shuddered.

  Later in bed, Zarri Bano stared at the white ceiling above and wondered whether she and her mother had imagined it all. After all, Habib was right: it was insensitive of her to have mentioned her marriage so soon after her brother’s death. Anyway, her father couldn’t do that to her …
not to his beloved child, the daughter he would reputedly ‘sell the world for’.

  Feeling happier now, she turned on her side and was soon fast asleep.

  Shahzada found finishing her isha prayers an ordeal. With trembling fingers she folded the velour-trimmed prayer-mat and placed it on her dressing table. From the corner of her eye, she covertly watched the stiff figure of her husband. He was still sitting in the same position.

  Shahzada frantically debated in her mind: what should she do? Should she talk to him about it or not? If she was wrong, she might actually place the seed of the idea in his mind, and she couldn’t risk that. Sighing, she climbed into her own bed.

  Ten minutes elapsed. His eyes were still. ‘He isn’t reading, I know that for sure,’ Shahzada told herself. ‘What are you thinking about, Habib Sahib?’ she said aloud. ‘You have not moved since Zarri Bano left the room. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, his back to her.

  ‘I couldn’t help hearing what Zarri Bano said. I am so glad she has accepted Sikander. At last our daughter has found somebody she wants to marry. Sikander is just ideal for her,’ Shahzada said bravely, very much aware of her husband’s earlier antagonism towards the suitor and knowing that she was playing with fire.

  ‘Please don’t talk about her marriage! We have only just buried our son, and already you seem to be planning Zarri Bano’s wedding.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I am planning no such thing. Like you, I have been robbed of my loved one – my baby. As a mother, I’ll never recover from the loss, Habib,’ Shahzada stammered defensively.

  ‘Let’s not bandy childish words as to whose loss was greater, Shahzada.’ His voice breaking, Habib finally turned towards her, his expression haunted. ‘He was our angel, and we have lost him. Now I have fallen at the greatest hurdle of my life. What is to become of us and our inheritance?’