‘No, of course not, Sister Fatima, I will not cross you. But I can tell you brutally that she has no intention of making your Firdaus her daughter-in-law, ever! Now that Zarri Bano has refused to marry Khawar, she has switched her attention to Ruby. Therefore, dear sister, if you were to pay heed to me, do not either raise your hopes or cast your eyes in the direction of the hawaili. It is a dead course. I know you have set your heart on Khawar and have liked him for a long time, and regard him as a desirable match for your daughter, but his mother is another story entirely. You are truly out of your depths there, my dear. That woman, as you well know, is a viper, I tell you she hates you and your family, and would eat your daughter alive with her taunts.’
‘OK, OK, Kulsoom, please don’t rub it in!’ Fatima agitatedly interrupted. ‘One day she’ll regret it. Tell me how many young women in the village are Headmistresses or so well-educated. I tell you, my Firdaus will go – just like that!’ As if to emphasise the point, Fatima snapped her fingers at Kulsoom. ‘It is just that I wanted her to stay in the village. Firdaus wants to stay here, too, and the only person who is compatible with her education and personality is Khawar …’
‘But not his family, Fatima. You must be realistic! Your background is different from theirs. I don’t want to be offensive, but that woman is very proud and a snob. She will not contemplate such a rishta. The only family she thinks is on a par with her is that of Habib Khan. You know what I mean: she claims that your daughters are beneath her.’
‘Yes, I know precisely what you mean,’ Fatima answered, her face flushing in indignation. ‘Does she begrudge me for working to support my family? If a similar thing had happened to her husband, what would she have done? Let her children starve? Is my family to be forever penalised and condemned because I have worked to support them? You know my job wasn’t inherited, nor one of our trades. We are farming people like most of the other villagers – just like her family. I am very cross at the injustice of it all.’ There were tears in her eyes.
‘I am not going to give up though,’ she ranted on. ‘I have known for years that Khawar wants to marry my daughter. It is his mother who is like a thorn in everyone’s back. I am going to have a word with our buzurg, Siraj Din. As the village elder, and the man to whose family I have devoted the most precious years of my life, perhaps he can intervene and put in a good word for us and sway that woman’s opinion …’
‘Stop! Mother, stop!’ Firdaus dashed into the room to stand beside Fatima, her cheeks fiery red. ‘I have heard enough. My ears are burning from the sheer shame of it all. I tell you now, Mother: even if that proud woman were to come begging on her knees. I would not step one foot into that household. Don’t we have any pride, or aren’t we entitled to any, Mother? Who do they think they are? Out of which soil have they sprung? Have they lost their bearing on humanity, by their self-importance and acres of land? Mother, how dare you demean us all by throwing yourself at them? It is as if God had created Khawar and no one else. Are there no other men or families in the world?’ She paused to take a deep breath.
‘If you are bent on marrying me off to Khawar, then listen to me, Mother, carefully – I will remain a spinster! I will not marry to please you, nor the school committee, so that they can keep me here in the village. If you want me to marry any man, I am willing to consider the one Kulsoom Jee mentioned earlier, from the neighbouring village. I could commute to my school from there. I am personally interested in him, Kulsoom Jee.’ Firdaus addressed the matchmaker. ‘Please let me know about him and his family and then you can arrange a meeting between our two families.’
‘Yes, little Sahiba,’ Kulsoom offered with alacrity, her small eyes dancing from daughter to mother. Truly gagged by her daughter’s outburst Fatima didn’t have anything further to add for the next few minutes while they sipped tea and ate biscuits. Apart from telling Kulsoom the sad news of Zarri Bano becoming a Holy Woman.
It was an hour later that Kulsoom left Fatima’s home, a most contented woman. Waited upon by Fatima’s three daughters, she had first dined in style and then been given a special gift of a suit from Fatima, as well as a pot of moisturising cream for her dry, pigmented skin. Kulsoom knew for sure that she would be amply rewarded, once she managed to match Fatima’s daughters to good worthy rishtas.
As she made her way to her friend Naimat Bibi’s house in the village lane, Kulsoom spotted Khawar on his white horse in the field. Purposely she hastened her pace towards him.
‘Assalam-Alaikum, how are you, my son?’ she greeted him, while keeping discreetly well away from the horse’s legs. She wasn’t an animal lover by any means. Her bony legs had only just come out of plaster last month.
‘Wa Laikum-Salam, I am fine, Auntie Kulsoom. What brings you to this side of the village?’ he humoured the reputable village matchmaker.
‘I went to visit Fatima.’ Kulsoom eagerly took up her cue, looking up at the handsome young man. ‘She has just returned to the village. I have been telling her about some suitable rishtas for her three very lovely daughters.’
‘Including one for Firdaus?’ Khawar asked quietly, bending down to pat his horse on his flanks, while keeping his expression neutral.
‘Oh, of course, especially Firdaus. She is the eldest and the most eligible of Fatima’s three daughters,’ Kulsoom replied, letting a secretive smile deliberately play on her lips.
‘Where are these rishtas?’
‘One is in the city. The man is a general,’ she lied glibly, looking up from the ground and staring back at him. ‘The other one is in the next village. He is the only son and a graduate. He has a very nice mother and a huge hawaili. He works as a manager in the city.’ She added the last bit herself as an afterthought. She had a knack for exaggeration, when it suited her or the situation.
‘I see. Well, our Firdaus is going to be lost for choice. Such good matches!’ he bit out sarcastically, his nostrils flaring, his hands tight on the horse’s reins.
‘Oh, I definitely think so,’ Kulsoom slyly dug in, noting both his look and action with interest. ‘There is nobody suitable in the village for our Firdaus. She herself was adamant that she doesn’t want to marry anyone here, even if they begged her to, or even if the school committee threw her out of the school. You should have heard her, Khawar. She was spitting fire and daggers at me and her mother.’
‘Why?’
‘Well …’ Sobering, Kulsoom decided to play with destiny and tell him the truth. ‘You know, Khawar, Fatima has always nurtured the idea that you and Firdaus make a nice pair. But of course your mother will not hear of it, and now Firdaus definitely does not want to have anything to do with you. Do you know what she said, Khawar dear? She said that even if your mother came on her knees, begging for her hand, she wouldn’t step into your home. Can you ever imagine your mother on her knees begging, Khawar? Firdaus seems bent on pursuing this match with the man from a neighbouring village. I thought it important to let you know, my son. For I am aware that you have always had a soft spot for our Firdaus and I wouldn’t want you to blame me when it was too late.’ The woman sighed.
‘She’ll be “snapped up”, as her mother says, from right under your very nose, Khawar. I won’t say any more – I have already said enough. And your mother will not thank me. I have probably made an enemy of her already and lost her business too – but I care, you see, Khawar! I care for you both. You are the children I never had. Yet, I don’t want to cause a rift in your family. Good evening, my son, and may Allah fulfil all your dreams,’ she ended solemnly and entered the village lane.
She left Khawar on his horse, having given him much food for thought. He knew what game Kulsoom was playing. His male ego was wounded, nevertheless, by Kulsoom’s suggestion that Firdaus wouldn’t marry him, nor set foot in his home. It seemed that he had two proud women to contend with. A woman he wanted to marry and a mother who wouldn’t let him marry her.
It was time for action! This matter had to be resolved, one way or another. He didn’
t relish it, but it looked as if a confrontation with his mother was imminent. As Kulsoom had said, Firdaus would most certainly be snapped up by these so-called ‘generals’ and ‘managers’. Where would that leave him or their school? He had a double interest at heart and both, at the moment, were at stake.
When he reached home, his mother’s furnace of hate for Fatima and her brood was now well ablaze. She therefore failed to notice the cold determined glint in her son’s eyes.
‘That washerwoman was parading her parcels she had brought from the city!’ Kaniz began, flying at her son with her tongue. ‘I bet that they only contained cast-offs from that family,’ she sneered. He was tight-lipped, she saw, but paid no heed. In fact, he was smarting from his mother’s abusive term of ‘washerwoman’, in describing Fatima. Khawar’s long curly eyelashes swept down and hid his expression from his mother’s gaze.
‘Mother, she wasn’t always a washerwoman!’ he broke in. ‘She has worked hard to raise her family. Pampered women like yourself don’t even know how to feed their children, let alone raise two families and also support a disabled husband. I admire that woman, if you would like to know.’
Her lips parting in surprise, Kaniz snorted in disgust. ‘I know why you admire that woman,’ she said, her voice dipping dangerously low. ‘It is because of that chit of hers! That upstart, with her high and mighty airs.’
‘That chit is the woman I would like to marry, Mother. But like you, she is very proud. She has raved that she will not step foot in this house, not even if you came begging on your knees.’ He stopped, laughing inwardly at the sight of his mother. Kaniz’s mouth had gaped fully open in shock, as she struggled to form and roll the words out of her mouth.
‘I … I …’ The breath was choked out of her. ‘I beg her to marry you?’ Kaniz’s fair cheeks had flamed red, her almond-shaped eyes were flashing. ‘Never! If you want to marry that woman then you’ll do it without my permission and outside this home! And … and I would never ever let her set foot inside this house!’ she finished, her bosom heaving.
‘Listen to me carefully, Mother,’ Khawar rasped, for once not caring if his mother was on the verge of hysterics. ‘Firdaus is the woman I want to marry.’ He had not wanted to say this, but his mother had goaded him into blurting it out.
‘Then you will have to choose between me and that chit. I will cast you out and renounce you as my son!’ Kaniz shrieked, now having lost total control, her hand pressed to her heaving chest.
‘So be it, Mother! I will not put up with your tyranny any longer. I am nearly twenty-seven years old and I can make my own decisions. If you are so small-minded and petty, then I will be forced to act alone and do what is right. I don’t want you to chase other rishtas for me. I’ll not lose Firdaus to some city slicker. She belongs here in the village, with me, and in my home. Either come to your senses, Mother, or I’ll walk out of this house.’ He gave her the ultimatum, his eyes totally hostile.
‘Never, never, never!’ Kaniz shouted at him, going hoarse and almost stamping her foot on the floor. ‘You can walk out, you ungrateful, love-sick brat! Couldn’t you have chosen to fall in love with a better girl than a washerwoman’s daughter, the daughter of my worst enemy? You have betrayed me, Khawar. I will never forgive you if you marry that chit!’ Kaniz was now livid, her cheeks red flags of colour.
‘I will marry that chit! That chit will soon be the Headmistress of the school and will be able to hold her head higher than you ever could from your original family status. People from all walks of life will show her respect. She is worth twenty of you any day, Mother!’ Khawar threw back cruelly at her.
Then, angry with himself and his outburst he strode out of the room, knowing full well that he had been very wounding and offensive to his mother, but so be it. Today he had expended his last ounce of his patience in humouring her.
Kaniz sank down heavily on her seat – thunderstruck, her mind reeling. The sky had just fallen and shattered around her shoulders. Her only son, to whom she had devoted twenty-seven years of life, had given her an ultimatum. ‘How could he betray me like this?’ Kaniz asked herself in a daze, her eyes filling with tears.
Never! She would rather die than welcome that young woman into her home. Her son had gone truly mad. Majnoon! He had probably been drinking tweez prepared by that witch. That was how she had wormed herself into Khawar’s heart. ‘How Fatima must now be gloating!’ she moaned.
Her heart thudded wildly against her chest. ‘I will die first than accept that woman as my daughter-in-law.’ Kaniz shuddered in loathing. Her worst nightmare was staring her in the face. To lose her son to that woman, and have her mother, that fat washerwoman, parading around her beautiful home.
‘Not in a thousand years!’ she shrieked alone in her room.
Chapter 15
AS A FAITHFUL good friend, Kulsoom Bibi the matchmaker decided to call on her best friend, Naimat Bibi, to ‘honour’ her with the exciting news about Baba Siraj Din’s eldest granddaughter becoming the Holy Woman.
Making sure she didn’t break her glass bangles against the heavy wooden door of Naimat Bibi’s humble three-roomed house, Kulsoom pushed it wide open. While Naimat Bibi was at home, the door was always left open. Stepping carefully into the dark narrow hallway, leading into the smallest of the courtyards in the entire village, Kulsoom’s nose crinkled up in distaste. She held up her new white chiffon dupatta to her nose, in an effort to block out the strong smell.
The main feature of the courtyard was the large guava tree. With its heavy branches swollen with pear-shaped fruit, it cloaked almost the entire yard, robbing it of any meagre rays of sunshine that happened to slant on the rooftop of Naimat Bibi’s home.
‘Naimat Bibi!’ Kulsoom merrily chirped, carefully stepping off the worn concrete step into the courtyard. She had many a time twisted her ankles on this step. Her eyes wandered over the peeling plaster of the walls, which showed the cracked brickwork underneath. Her friend was crouched over a large wok-like pan of boiling water on a pedestal gas stove on the veranda, which she used as her kitchen. With a large wooden spoon she was busy stirring in heapfuls of flour into the water.
When she caught sight of her friend, Naimat Bibi hurriedly got up, almost tripping over her footstool. With a broad smile creasing her amply chaie-pigmented face, she greeted Kulsoom with ‘Bismillah! Bismillah, Kulsoom Jee.’
‘What are you doing with that water?’ Kulsoom asked, mystified.
‘Making soap,’ Naimat Bibi cheerfully piped, giving her a full customary hug of greeting. Kulsoom held herself stiffly in her friend’s arms, wondering irritably whether Naimat Bibi’s hands were clean. She feared for her new white chiffon dupatta.
Naimat Bibi returned to the large pot of soap mixture. Before Kulsoom’s interested gaze she began to stir in some portions of animal fat she had picked up from the butcher, along with some mustard oil.
‘Mind your hand, Naimat Bibi. Remember what happened to you last time you added soda,’ Kulsoom dutifully warned as she saw her friend spoon in a generous amount of caustic soda.
‘I know, but,’ ashamedly, Naimat Bibi lifted the corner of the threadbare shawl she wore especially on such occasions, ‘I am afraid I have already burned another hole in it.’
Kulsoom laughed in a patronising tone, wondering cynically why her friend worked so hard. ‘Why do you bother with all this, Naimat Bibi? Don’t tell me you have made two lots of soap already.’ Kulsoom walked up to the two large earthenware brick-red basins, painted and glazed with a geometric pattern on their rims, left to set in the sun in a corner of the courtyard. She poked the creamy yellow mixture with her thumb.
‘They have hardened nicely, Kulsoom Jee. It’s OK, you can touch it. As to why I make it, it’s because I can’t afford the Surf powder. They come in such small boxes and are quite expensive. They barely last a day anyway, especially when there is the bedlinen to wash. The small household bars of soap are no good for me. They keep slipping out of my large clumsy hand
s. I am used to the easy task of slopping over a wet article of clothing and giving it a good quick swipe in the soap.
‘Here, I have made one extra soap basin for you, although I know you hardly ever wash any clothes yourself. Do you know, Kulsoom Jee, I actually like making soap. I must be the only woman making home-made soap these days. The younger girls laugh in my face when they see me grinding grains of wheat myself to make flour. Everyone has fallen for the modern life of luxury and idleness these days. They just don’t know how to be self-sufficient any more.’
Amused at her friend’s lofty tone, Kulsoom Bibi could not help retorting, ‘Listen, Naimat Jee, some people have better things to do with their time than grind wheat at home and make endless basins of soap. I, for one, have no free time at all. If I sat at home grinding wheat every morning and setting basins of soap, how would I run my matchmaking business? I have to be out all the time, visiting different households, cultivating relationships with everyone. Why do you like to make your life so difficult? Don’t you have enough to do as a village cook? Your services are always in demand whenever unexpected guests arrive at any household in the village, and of course your chapatti oven is burning twice a day, baking for almost half the village.’
‘Well, my business is not so profitable as yours!’ Naimat Bibi defensively threw at her friend. ‘I don’t get presents of clothes and gold earrings as well as money, you know. From the chapattis I only get coins, paisas or food for my work. What I want to do is some sort of work which will not be so menial, but would bring in hard currency. Any ideas, Kulsoom Jee?’
The Holy Woman Page 11