‘No, I haven’t!’ Kulsoom answered waspishly, now quite annoyed with the direction the conversation had taken. ‘And for your information, you probably make more in total in your paisas on a daily basis. I, on the other hand, have to wait for months to be rewarded for my hard work. Anyway, I haven’t come to talk about soaps and flour-grinding! I have come to tell you about our Zarri Bano. I have just heard from Fatima that she is to become a Holy Woman.’ Kulsoom stopped, satisfied with the effect her words had on her friend.
Naimat Bibi’s mouth with its thin pursed lips and a set of uneven teeth had virtually dropped open. She simply forgot about the hot mixture she was stirring. It bubbled away.
‘What did you say?’ Naimat Bibi asked in wonder, ignoring the wooden spoon she had just dropped to the bottom of the pan. ‘Are you telling me that our glamorous, educated young madam is to become a Bibi? But I thought they only did that in the olden days – here in the village, not in town. How? Why?’
‘Well, it is to do with the death of our young master, Jafar, and their inheritance.’
‘Do you think they’ll actually make her into a very religious woman? I can’t believe it is possible. She dresses like a movie actress all the time. I just can’t see her wrapped in a chador.’
‘I have a terrible feeling that they will marry her off to the Holy Quran, to her faith. These zemindars are fierce men, like tigers and bulls. And very possessive about their womenfolk.’
‘So that will mean the poor girl can never marry or ever have any children?’ Naimat Bibi’s wrinkled face now expressed both her horror and a kindly concern.
‘She isn’t the only one not to be blessed with children in our village,’ Kulsoom said gruffly. ‘I was widowed before I was able to have any. You, on the other hand, I am afraid had a womb that was never destined to be blessed with children.’
‘But my husband stayed with me for ten years,’ Naimat Bibi hastened to remind her friend, offended by her patronising tone and the slur on her fertility.
Shaking her head, ‘I know, my friend. I still believe you should have stayed with him, rather than divorcing him when you gave him consent to marry again. He would have looked after you and supported you, as was his duty. You wouldn’t have to light your tandoor then.’
‘No, my friend. I have no regret. I am a very independent, self-sufficient sort of person. I couldn’t have lived with his second wife, and helped to look after her brood. I am happy that he has children now by another woman, but I have no maternal love for them nor do I begrudge them. Why do you talk about me? Think about Chaudharani Kaniz. She is still a beautiful, wealthy landlady, and only in her fifties. She never married again, did she? She sacrificed all her life for her son. The landlord, Younus Raees, from the neighbouring village, tried to woo her for nearly three years, but she never did marry him or any other man. Did you know he has just become a widower?’
‘Oh, let’s not talk about her, she is just a cold fish,’ Kulsoom remarked bitchily. ‘She is incapable of loving anyone – except herself. What husband could put up with her haughty ways? She is losing her son now through her stubbornness, because she won’t let him marry Firdaus. I have just been talking to him. With regard to the Chaudharani, I am supposed to be going to visit her next, to tell her about Zarri Bano.’
Naimat Bibi laughed sarcastically. It was her turn to have a gentle dig at her friend.
‘Those two families, Siraj Din’s and Khawar’s, are like twin families. The first person Siraj Din would have told would have been Khawar. Kaniz would not now be waiting for you to come and tell her—’ The old woman stopped as her friend looked up in shock.
‘Ugh!’ Kulsoom shouted as she felt a crow’s dropping fall on top of the new white chiffon dupatta on her head.
In disgust Kulsoom stepped away from under the tree. Naimat Bibi’s hollow cheeks filled with laughter, but she sensibly turned her face away from her friend.
‘It always happens to you, doesn’t it, Kulsoom Jee?’ she mumbled, trying to keep her face straight.
‘Yes, it does. And I am definitely not amused. Look at my new dupatta. It has come all the way from Barra! Every time I stand under your tree I get showered by those damn crows of yours. You must cut down this tree. Whenever you look at this brick-lined floor of yours there are droppings everywhere. It is disgusting to see and a health hazard.’
Flushing red, ‘I wash my floor every day, Kulsoom Jee!’ Naimat Bibi indignantly fumed.
Kulsoom threw down her dupatta, on the floor at Naimat Bibi’s feet. ‘You have got plenty of soap so now you can wash it for me!’
‘Oh, I have lots of soap, don’t worry about that. These crows have been crowing all day. I wonder if I am going to have any visitors?’
‘It is probably your brood of stepchildren coming to visit their stepmama from the town.’ It was now Kulsoom’s turn to tease her friend.
‘God forbid!’ Laughing, and making a comical face at her friend, Naimat Bibi went inside her small storeroom to fetch another scarf for her friend to wear. After all, she couldn’t go bareheaded in the street.
Taking Naimat Bibi’s new silk dupatta, Kulsoom called over her shoulder ‘I’ll return it to you later!’ and walked out of her friend’s home.
Suddenly fancying a cool glass of skimmed milk, lassi, and knowing there would be plenty of it at Sardara’s house, Kulsoom headed for the milkwoman’s property. She would also, of course, be doing Sardara a big favour as she suffered from arthritis and was totally wheelchair-bound. Naturally she was now very dependent on kindly souls and faithful friends like herself to pass on any news, trivial or otherwise.
Now, the beautiful, glamorous daughter of their landlord becoming a Holy Woman was reckoned in the estimation of most people to be ‘major’ news indeed. If that wasn’t, Kulsoom didn’t know what was. On second thoughts, perhaps Queen Elizabeth of England visiting their village would create slightly more of a stir. In any event, all the households that Kulsoom would honour with her presence would, by the end of the day, know what was going to happen to their ‘poor’ Zarri Bano.
Chapter 16
‘IT CANNOT BE!’ Sikander banged his fist on the coffee table, his eyes spitting fire at his mother in their home in Karachi. He stood up tall, towering over her, sitting on the sofa. ‘Zarri Bano a Shahzadi Ibadat! What nonsense is that? Tell me, Mother!’
Bilkis gazed at her son helplessly. Hadn’t she herself gone into a deep state of shock when Habib had phoned and told her curtly, ‘Zarri Bano has decided to become a Shahzadi Ibadat, a Holy Woman.’ She felt the loss deeply, knowing that now there could be no marriage between her beloved son and that tall, attractive woman who had captured Sikander’s heart and mind.
Later she had phoned back and asked to speak to Shahzada. The first thing that Bilkis had noticed was the subtle change in the other woman’s tone and manner. Her stilted speech lacked its habitual warmth. Even miles away, Bilkis knew that something was dreadfully wrong.
She had listened with a sinking heart, her mind grappling with the two images of Zarri Bano. The beautiful, elegant young woman with that of a veiled religious recluse, shut away from the ordinary gaiety of human life and fated never to marry nor to have any children.
Bilkis had tried to break it gently to her son, but in the end the effect was the same – a bombshell for Sikander.
‘They can’t do this! It is barbaric! What age, what country do they live in? In Islam there are no nuns, no such things as women married to the Holy Quran! What nonsense is this? No woman is to be denied her natural role as a wife and a mother. Who has invented these traditions? Have they studied the Holy Quran, where it categorically states that widows and divorcees should be encouraged to remarry at the first opportunity? So how can a beautiful, young maiden be deliberately denied marriage? That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? So that she doesn’t marry anybody. Habib doesn’t want her to marry me, I know it! Do they realise that they are committing a crime? Do they—.’ His mother cut shor
t his rage-filled outburst.
‘Please stop, Sikander. It has happened for generations amongst a certain class of people in remote parts of Sind – and is very much a hushed affair. Their traditions are very strong. Nobody can stand up to these people. They are very powerful and have great influence over the local community. Their womenfolk, in particular, have little or no independence or autonomy.’
‘No, Mother. I cannot believe that this is true of Zarri Bano. She defies all stereotypes. I don’t believe that she’ll go through with this preposterous idea. She enjoys life too much to want to take up austerity. Not Zarri Bano. I’ll not let it happen!’
‘Sikander, please relax. Come and sit down.’ Bilkis patted the place on the sofa beside her. Sikander glared down at the spot she indicated, his body tall and tense.
‘I am just as shocked as you are, Sikander,’ Bilkis reasoned softly. ‘I too liked Zarri Bano very much. If it will help you, you can talk to her, my handsome son, but I think that you’ll be banging your head against a brick wall.’ She sighed.
‘It is strange to recall the incident now, but I remember hearing some women talking, after Jafar’s death, about “Holy Women” of the past in this clan. They were gossiping, and I paid no attention to them at the time as I thought they were only legends, but I do remember being alarmed by what I heard. I also noted Habib’s coldness towards us, especially towards you. It was almost as if he hated you. His eyes often followed you like a hawk. As though you were a personal threat to him. At the time, I just put it down to grief at the loss of his son Jafar, but in retrospect, I think I should have taken more notice of these hints. One doesn’t treat one’s future son-in-law in such an antagonistic manner or his mother with such bare civility. Didn’t you notice anything?’
‘No, Mother. Like you I just put it down to a sign of Habib Sahib’s mourning for his son. I cannot give her up, Mother! I am going to break these traditions of theirs. Even if I held no personal interest, it is still a cruel thing to do to another human being.’
He moved away from his mother and stood, deep in thought, in the middle of the drawing room.
‘I will go to their home town,’ Sikander decided. ‘I will see Habib and Zarri Bano tomorrow.’
‘All right, my son. Do as you wish. After all, you have every right. Although Zarri Bano is not officially engaged to you, she is still your fiancée.’ Bilkis lovingly stroked his shoulder blades, trying to relax and ease his stiff shoulder muscles.
It was a warm sunny morning in May, exactly one month since Jafar’s death. Zarri Bano sat in the courtyard in front of the dining table on the lawn, enjoying the morning sunshine before it grew hot. Her eyes closed, she basked in the smell from the rose bushes and the singing of the sparrows on the trees.
Ruby had joined her for breakfast in the patio area and then had gone to the bazaar with her mother to buy some fabrics. Habib had left to go on business in Hyderabad. By now all the guests had departed and only three servants remained in the house, busy cleaning different parts of the building.
The serenity of her surroundings lulled Zarri Bano to sleep. Leaning on the cushioned back-rest of the cane chair she let the newspaper on her lap fall to the ground.
Zarri Bano woke with a prickly feeling of awareness that she was being watched. A tall shadow lay strewn across her body. Fully awake, her eyelids fluttered open and her gaze travelled over a pair of white linen trouser-clad, muscular legs, to a broad-shouldered chest in a crisply starched shirt, and rested on the tanned handsome face in which a pair of cool grey eyes was steadily staring down at her.
‘Am I dreaming?’ Zarri Bano asked herself. When the full masculine lips curved into a lazy smile, Zarri Bano jerked upright, her heart skipping a beat. This wasn’t a dream! Sikander stood in front of her with his charismatic presence. Sheer waves of pleasure lapped and coursed through her body, watering the rose garden of her heart, to burst into full bloom.
She became embarrassingly conscious of her dishevelled appearance. Her long, wavy hair was around her shoulders in wanton disarray and she felt bare without the dupatta draped across her chest. Holding one arm against her breast she put the other hand on her cheek, wanting to shield herself from his eyes. Yet, perversely, delighting in the attention they were giving her.
They were everywhere! Bent on a languorous trail over her face, moving down the creamy white column of her throat, her soft feminine curves, her half-bare arms and over her deliciously tousled hair.
Drowned in the sensuous spell his eyes had woven around her, Zarri Bano couldn’t look away from them or his handsome face. Her heartbeat had accelerated of its own accord. A warm blush caused a pinkish mantle to rise from her throat to her cheeks.
All of a sudden, social etiquette and female modesty rudely asserted themselves. With an awkward movement of her arm she reached for her dupatta from the other chair. Before his searing gaze she draped it over her shoulders and in front, covering herself discreetly and fully.
Zarri Bano was now angry with herself for having been caught in such a manner. His gaze had stripped her bare. The heat of shame racing through her body, she stood up clumsily, straightening her dupatta around her shoulders again.
‘Sikander Sahib, how did you come here?’ she asked. ‘You surprised me.’ She was unable to look him in the eye.
‘I can see that, Zarri Bano Sahiba,’ he returned softly, his tender eyes warm with laughter. ‘I came the normal way. Fatima told me that apart from you, nobody else is in the house. This suits me beautifully. You see, it is you I have come to see.’
‘Please, Sikander Sahib, sit down.’ She gestured to the other chair. Sitting down, he waved his hand to her to do the same. She sat down, facing him, tense but unable to take her eyes away from his face as if memorising each and every minute detail.
‘Do you know, Zarri Bano, I hope that after we are married we will have beautiful children like you.’
Her cheeks crimsoning at the mention of children, her eyes fell to her hands in her lap. A bolt of pain and longing shot through her body, leaving her face pale and sheer misery reflected in her eyes. She turned her gaze to the rose bed, looking at, but not quite seeing the pink and yellow roses in full bloom. Ruthlessly, she trod upon the rose garden of her love. Turning to Sikander she sat upright in her chair. Her eyes sunk into his; a poignant appeal flashing in them, that she hoped and prayed he would recognise and understand.
‘Sikander Sahib,’ she began in a low voice, coming from the depths of her heart, ‘for you and I, there will be no marriage nor children – at least, not with me. You have probably heard by now that I am to become a Shahzadi Ibadat.’
‘It is your parents who have put you up to this?’ he accused, barely able to contain his rage.
‘No, Sikander. I am doing this of my own free will. The tradition is ours, but in the end the decision is mine. The idea was put to me, requested of me by my father and I accepted.’
‘But why, Zarri Bano?’ he asked heatedly. Bending forward he took her hand in his own. Instinctively, he wanted to reach out to her, to communicate with her on a physical level, in case words failed him.
Zarri Bano watched the movement of his fingers in fascination, mesmerised by their touch. Again, as before in Karachi, she found herself enjoying the feel of his masculine fingers on her palm. All of a sudden she wanted them to reach up and caress her face. Then like lightning her father’s words jolted through her with condemnation: ‘You desire a man in your life.’ Shaken and ashamed, she snatched her hand away, as if Sikander’s touch had both soiled and burned her, and averted her face.
‘From today, Sikander Sahib, we have no legitimate relationship of any sort. Therefore you must not touch me. You must maintain your distance. We mean nothing to each other.’ She prayed that he didn’t notice the agony behind each word.
‘Zarri Bano, for Allah’s sake! How can you say this? Doesn’t our engagement mean anything to you?’ Anger and condemnation vibrated in him.
‘That was
a long time ago,’ she uttered in a faraway, bleak voice, recalling the night beach scene with painful clarity. ‘So much has happened since then. Sikander Sahib, please forgive me.’
‘I don’t believe this!’ He stood up; a towering, angry figure. ‘Look at me, Zarri Bano. Let’s cut out this nonsense. You wanted to marry me and I want to marry you. It’s what we both want – and wanted from the moment we laid eyes on each other at the mela. We have something special between us – we both know we have! Don’t you feel it? On that afternoon, at the mela, it was as if our two souls met and melted together to become one. Don’t let them part us, Zarri Bano, I beg you. We were destined to become lovers. This is what we are going to do: we are going to be married! I don’t know about your barbaric customs—’
Zarri Bano’s head shot up. The word ‘barbaric’ stung her out of her pain and brought the proud, arrogant Zarri Bano back to life. Her eyes sparkling with anger, she snapped: ‘Who are you to judge our traditions as barbaric, Sikander Sahib?’ She too was now standing up and looking directly into his face with disdain. ‘You know nothing about them.’
‘It’s true that I know very little about your family’s traditions, but I do know, however, that if you become a Holy Woman, they will have robbed you of your womanhood and individual freedom. Listen to me, Zarri Bano. You cannot sacrifice yourself for the sake of your family’s customs and traditions.’
‘Sacrifice?’ Zarri Bano queried, for without realising it, Sikander had touched her on a very raw nerve. ‘Who says I am going to be sacrificed? Do you know what a Shahzadi Ibadat is? What an important role it is?’ Her voice sounded hollow to her ears.
‘I don’t know about the role, but I do know that you cannot become my wife or a mother to my children, or be allowed to live a natural human life with me as a woman. Don’t you want to be a normal woman? Does that mean nothing to you? Don’t I mean anything to you?’ he asked in desperation, watching in fascination as her eyes glimmered and flashed fire at him. Glittering like jewels, they were one of the things that had initially attracted him to her.
The Holy Woman Page 12