The Holy Woman

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Her cheeks crimson with shame and shock, Zarri Bano stared mutely at her father. Then her gaze fell as embarrassment and a torrent of boiling rage assaulted her body. For the first time in her life, she hated her father as she never thought possible. The sexual connotations to his words had shaken her to the core.

  ‘I didn’t say that I wanted a man!’ She spoke so quietly now that he almost couldn’t hear her. ‘I just want to be normal and lead a normal life, like any other woman.’

  ‘If you don’t want …’ Habib stopped. One didn’t talk to one’s daughter in this vein or manner. ‘If you don’t want the company of a man,’ he amended, ‘or desire it, then why are you so against becoming a Shahzadi Ibadat? As a normal woman, as a wife, you will be tied to one man. That life in no way can compare to the izzat, the honour and the fame that your new role will bring to you and your family.’

  ‘The glory? The izzat? The fame? I don’t want any of those, Father. Don’t you understand? Please leave me alone!’ Zarri Bano shouted. ‘Am I banging my head against a brick wall?’

  Habib stood up and crossed to the door. There he stopped and turned, and with a sinking heart, Zarri Bano read the cold, determined glint in his eyes.

  ‘You can shout as much as you like, my proud, beloved daughter, but you will do as I say – I know you will. We are two of a kind. You will never let me down, I know, nor our traditions, nor your grandfather. If you cannot abide by my decision, at least think of your grandfather.’ He saw her eyes, shimmering with tears like huge emeralds in her face, but today they had no impact.

  Zarri Bano was hit by the first panic attack of her life. Sheer terror engulfed her: her mouth was dry, her breathing laboured.

  Her father had set a trap and had captured her neatly, using sexuality as ammunition. The words thundered through her head: ‘what you want is a man.’ Zarri Bano physically recoiled, holding her arms against her chest as she recalled her own feelings for Sikander. Yes, she desired him, but her father had cheapened and degraded marriage and what it stood for, insulting both her and the essence of her womanhood, by his underlying insinuation that what she really craved was a man’s presence in her life.

  Still wrestling with the terrifying sensation of being at the bottom of a dark pit, Zarri Bano recognised bitterly that her father had won. For she could never let him or the world know that she wanted and desired Sikander. It was an impossible situation. And there was no way out for her.

  Minutes lapsed into hours. The clock remorselessly ticked away in the night. Nobody came to her room. Thoughts fled and dashed through her mind as she gazed up at the high whitewashed ceiling.

  ‘I cannot let him or my family down,’ she sobbed. ‘He has won! He has psychologically managed to blackmail me.’

  She definitely couldn’t look at Sikander ever again. Her father had spoiled it all, tarnishing something so natural, so beautiful, and making it into something sordid. Even mothers didn’t allude to such matters with their daughters, let alone a father. Again Zarri Bano’s cheeks smarted with the heat of shame. Hate for her father burst out anew and inflamed her whole body.

  She got off the bed and went to stand in front of the mirror. She stared bleakly at herself. She knew what she had to do.

  *

  When Shahzada entered a little later, Zarri Bano was in full control of herself. Her hair, combed and swept away from her face, was tied into a simple knot at the back of her neck. There was a certain calmness in her expression that Shahzada hadn’t glimpsed for days. Shahzada smiled tentatively.

  ‘Are you all right, my daughter?’ Zarri Bano was sitting on the sofa with a book in her hand. Then she stood up. Shahzada’s sad eyes took in her daughter’s tall, proud figure.

  ‘Yes, Mother. Today I have grown up. I am not only your daughter or my father’s daughter, I am me! But you and Father have brutally stripped me of my identity as a normal woman and instead reduced me to a role of a puppet. I am, he said, to do his bidding. And so I shall.’ The bitterness pierced her mother’s heart. ‘I never knew my father could do this to me. I used to feel sorry for other women, whose menfolk were tyrants. Little did I guess that I was being brought up in the lap of male tyrants myself. My father made me believe that he would “sell the world for me” when in fact he eventually decided to “sell” me to his male whim and ancient traditions. What can I do alone, Mother? You have all jailed and numbed me into a commitment, which I will have to go along with – but not willingly, Mother. Never willingly. At this moment in time, I feel nothing but burning hatred for Father. Only time will tell whether he will ever have his old Zarri Bano back.’

  Zarri Bano held Shahzada’s gaze steadfastly, noting her surprised expression. ‘Here I stand before you, Mother, my father’s Shahzadi Ibadat.’ She spread her hands in a flourish. ‘The Holy Woman. The woman he created by killing me. Did you not know that men are the true creators in our culture, Mother? They mould our lives and destinies according to their whims and desires. The irony of all ironies, for which I can never forgive myself, is that it has happened to me – a feminist, a defender of women’s rights. I have been living in a glass house of make-believe, Mother. Your Sleeping Beauty has been rudely awakened to taste the true world of patriarchal tyranny. Don’t look so sad, I absolve you of any guilt. I know you can’t help me. I do not hold you responsible for anything.’

  Shahzada had listened, her hand held up to her mouth, wanting to say so much but unable to offer anything – only tears and guilt-ridden silence. Zarri Bano stepped forward and pulled her mother gently into her arms.

  Dry-eyed, she remained thus for a long time. Nothing mattered any more. Despondency had numbed both her mind and her body. Quietly and with a dignity that only Zarri Bano possessed and could summon to her aid, she whispered in her mother’s ear: ‘Tell Father he can start the preparation for my wedding to the Holy Quran.’

  Chapter 11

  THE VILLAGE OF Chiragpur was larger than most other neighbouring villages, but it had the same features: a mosque and two schools, one for the boys and one for the girls. With its conspicuous mosaiced green dome and a tall white minaret, the mosque was strategically built at the centre of the village, fronted by a baker, a butcher, a potter’s and other shops. The schools, by contrast, were built on the outskirts of the village, amidst fertile green fields of vegetables, wheat and sugar cane. The entire village was neatly criss-crossed into eight lanes, with rows of houses of all shapes, sizes and façades.

  The hawaili, the large house belonging to Habib Khan’s father, Siraj Din, the feudal landlord, was located near the mosque and thus enjoyed the most central position in the village. With its ample grounds and a very large square-shaped courtyard, it took up one quarter of the land occupied by the whole village. Siraj Din’s family had ruled over Chiragpur for decades, even before the influx of Muslim refugees from India after Partition.

  On this particular day, the sun shone brightly in the clear, blue summer sky and over the fields; an air of tranquillity blanketed the entire village. Farmer Faisal was ploughing the land with his new tractor. The twenty-four hour ‘chug-chug’ sound of the flour mill as it tirelessly ground wheat into flour could be heard distinctly all day and well into the night – a sound that the villagers would be lost without. The women were busy in their homes or out in the fields, and most of the children were at school.

  Fatima’s eldest daughter, Firdaus, was taking her morning break on the veranda outside her office, when the school clerk came and gave her a message: Fatima had phoned to let her daughter know that she was returning to the village later that afternoon.

  After a few minutes, Madam Sadaf, the headmistress of the girls’ school, joined Firdaus on the veranda. They had an urgent matter to discuss. ‘So your mother is coming back for good, my dear?’ The headmistress looked enquiringly at her twenty-six-year-old deputy and protégée.

  ‘I don’t know, madam, probably just for a few days. The family she is supporting is quite dependent on her, especially now t
hat their son Jafar was killed in a riding accident and their eldest daughter, Zarri Bano, is likely to get married. Madam Sadaf, you must have seen her!’ Firdaus said enthusiastically. ‘She came to spend Eid with her grandfather here in the village. She is simply gorgeous. So tall, so slender, her skin is like ripe peaches, her hair is all glossy curls and her eyes like emeralds – and she’s so well educated. My mother never tires talking about her. When we were young we used to be jealous of her and accused our mother of loving her more than us, her own daughters.’ Firdaus chuckled at the memory. ‘That was a long time ago. These days, when Zarri Bano comes to visit her grandfather Siraj Din, we cannot wait to call on her. She would make a wonderful principal of a college. I can just see her students spellbound by her personality and looks. Mother is delighted that, at last, she has met someone whom she is really interested in marrying.’

  ‘So you’ll probably be going to the wedding?’ Madam asked before she was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone in her office. She stood up to answer it. ‘Excuse me, Firdaus, I’ll be back.’

  Firdaus looked down at the document in her hand. Her eyes quickly skimmed over the paper, which was giving them notice of an impending government inspection. At the sound of a horse’s hooves, she raised her head and looked in the direction of the concrete wall surrounding the school’s large courtyard. Above it appeared the upper torso of a man, apparently sitting on a horse.

  It was Khawar, looking directly at her. As he caught her eye, he smiled, giving his handsome features a rakish look. Firdaus quickly glanced back down at the papers, embarrassed both by his look and his presence. When she next glanced up, he was moving on, but his eyes remained on her face. Suddenly he lifted his hand and saluted her.

  Firdaus was alarmed by this brazen act of flirtation. Since that incident in the village cauliflower field a few weeks ago, Khawar had become overtly familiar in his manner towards her. Anger swept over her. Just because he had helped her up, it didn’t mean that her reputation had to be compromised. What if somebody had seen him salute her just now? Tongues could begin to wag! A hot little titbit of village gossip could escalate to a volcano. She was soon to become headmistress, when Madam retired in the summer, therefore really couldn’t afford any hint of scandal to tarnish her reputation.

  What would happen when she took over here? Firdaus mused. Would she stay on in the village, or would she eventually move to the city and carve herself a career there? Of course, it all depended on who she married. Firdaus sighed to herself.

  Marriage was, at the moment, a major issue for Firdaus and for her family. Her mother had lost no time in enlisting the aid of three matchmakers to find a suitable partner for Firdaus. ‘As my daughter is so well-qualified and educated, as well as being quite attractive, only the best will do for her. I am not going to saddle her with any run-of-the-mill fellow,’ Fatima had smugly boasted. The trouble was, as she delighted in lamenting to everyone: ‘There are hardly any suitable eligible men in the village, who are near enough compatible with my daughter’s qualifications and status in life.’

  At the end of the day, as the future Headmistress of a large secondary school for girls, her Firdaus couldn’t marry just anybody. The only man who Fatima thought was suitable was Khawar – and he was suitable in every way – well-educated, good-looking and from a rich land-owning family. An added bonus would be that, married to Khawar, Firdaus would remain forever firmly ensconced in the village and she could be the Headmistress for life.

  Now that, in Fatima’s mind, was truly an ideal match!

  The problem was: Khawar’s mother. For Kaniz had let the whole world know that she would never ever contemplate such a match for her son – ‘a match with a washerwoman’s daughter!’ It was a blemish that even Firdaus’s status as a Deputy Headmistress couldn’t delete at any cost.

  Firdaus wished, with all her heart, that her mother would give up her demeaning, menial job. She had no need to work. Why did she do it? It was a disgrace for a Deputy Headmistress’s mother to work as a servant in someone else’s household. If she returned home on a permanent basis they could all live like an ordinary family. Her mother could look after her bedridden husband, rather than leave him in the care of her daughters, who had their own lives to lead anyway.

  Today she was definitely going to have a serious talk with her mother, Firdaus promised herself. Fatima kept paying out good money to matchmakers for suitable rishtas, yet she persisted in creating an obvious obstacle to a good match by remaining in her present job. Khawar’s mother would continue to look down her long arrogant nose at them, while her mother still worked ‘washing dishes’, as Chaudharani Kaniz so offensively termed it.

  Firdaus had known for the past three years that Khawar had eyes only for her and was interested in pursuing a relationship that surpassed that of the sisterly feelings all men in the village were supposed and expected to harbour as a decent act towards the women. The elder women were aunties, and the younger women were supposed to be sisters.

  Firdaus and Khawar hadn’t had a chance to explore each other’s feelings, or even to make them known to one another. They only met in the company of other people – or sometimes, by chance, in the village lanes. On these occasions, as befitted social decorum, they maintained their silent distance. She always, nevertheless, felt his eyes on her whenever she passed. In the last few days he had begun to ride his horse on the path going in the direction of the school, and passed the high wall, just at the time when Firdaus had her break and drank her tea on the veranda.

  Firdaus wasn’t sure exactly why he singled her out. His mother was apparently still chasing after Habib Khan’s daughters. Also, there were other fairly attractive village women. One or two of these young women would be well tolerated by his mother, if not applauded.

  Khawar’s family ranked second in the village hierarchy after Siraj Din’s. They had some land to their name, a large house and two comfortable places of residence in the nearest town. As the only son and heir, Khawar had taken over the responsibility of running the family business, which consisted of leasing out acres of fertile land to the village tenants.

  Like Baba Siraj Din, in whose footsteps Khawar was eagerly following and liked to follow, he had in the last year or so begun to play a prominent role in the village management committee, overseeing and governing the school. Firdaus normally kept away from the meetings, letting the elder Headmistress chair them. Khawar had specifically requested for Madam’s replacement to be recruited from the village.

  ‘If we have a woman from the village,’ he had asserted at one meeting, ‘she will be more likely to be committed to both the school and the pupils; she will have a similar commitment to try to instil in them the ethos of village life and etiquette, because she will be like us. Therefore we can safely leave our children in her capable hands, for she will share our fears and interests. Also, she could be consulted at any time by the parents because she would be residing in the village.

  ‘In short, I believe we will gain greater dividend by having somebody from the village, rather than from town. You can never retain urban people for long here. They have a different lifestyle and way of going about things, and they always seem to hanker after that. They have no sense of allegiance to us or village life at large; nor can we expect them to. Also, I have learnt from my experience that they tend to have a condescending attitude towards us anyway. As if we people who live in the country are nothing but bumpkins.’

  He finally ended, letting his eyes move over the other six male members of the committee and Madam Sadaf. He had spoken passionately and he thus wanted the right response from them.

  ‘I see,’ said Siraj Din. ‘How many candidates will be applying from the village for this job?’ As a founding member of the school he too, like Khawar, took a keen interest in the issue of Madam’s replacement. He had originally helped to set up the school, with the assistance of his two sons. Sharing some of Khawar’s ideas he too, wanted to keep the village ethos as pure and r
ural as possible. He wanted no ‘flighty’ miss from the city to corrupt impressionable young girls in her care. The influence of the Headteacher was a very strong one. The matter thus merited a great deal of thought. Ideally, he would have wanted his granddaughter, Zarri Bano, to head the school – but he knew that she loved city life too much to come and stay here. She would be smothered by the tranquillity of village life.

  ‘Apart from Firdaus, there is no one else, is there?’ Siraj Din continued. ‘She is a very young woman and, as yet, unmarried. Then we are back at square one …’

  ‘Why is that, Uncle Siraj Din?’ Khawar asked quickly. ‘Women can still work after they are married.’

  ‘Of course they can. I didn’t mean that. I only meant that she is bound to leave the village soon,’ Siraj Din explained. ‘Her mother has been on the lookout for a good rishta for Firdaus for the past three years. There is no one in the village who appeals to Fatima’s taste. Unless, of course …’ He raised his eyes meaningfully towards Khawar but then quickly dismissed the thought, knowing full well that Kaniz wouldn’t even stoop to listen to the suggestion, let alone allow it to happen. She had been badgering him to act as a go-between for the last three years for Zarri Bano’s hand in marriage.

  Khawar knew what Siraj Din had alluded to.

  Firdaus also knew as she listened sitting behind the curtain at her desk; the window was open and she had heard everything. She flushed indignantly. Did the old man mean that Khawar should marry her so that she could remain in the village? What a cheek! Did her opinion not matter at all? She had no desire to link herself with Khawar or have anything to do with his snobbish and bitchy mother. She would marry somebody suitable, but would also remain in the village. Her husband would definitely not be Khawar! She was the good catch, not that conceited fellow!