She swiped the dressing-table top clear of bottles, creams, lotions, sachets and perfumes. Dropping everything into a large carrier bag, she knotted it tight. Now only a comb, a tube of hand cream, and a tub of moisturising cream stood on the stark, clean surface. From the drawers, she took out the velvet boxes of jewellery. Opening each one she gazed at its contents. Silver, gold, rubies, opals and emeralds sparkled in front of her face. Closing the boxes, one by one, she placed them in a pile on one corner of the dressing table. She would hand them over to her sister and Cousin Gulshan. ‘My only ornament in life now is going to be the veil, the burqa,’ she told the shrouded mirror.
Her wet hair combed, Zarri Bano slipped back into the burqa, assessing her reaction to it. Strangely, it didn’t feel too bad. With a serene expression schooled in her eyes and face, Zarri Bano left her room. The burqa swished with each step she took. As she passed her parents’ room, the door opened and her father stepped out. Visibly disconcerted, his eyes swept nervously over her beveiled body. Zarri Bano painfully held on to her control. How can he look at me like this, with such horror? she thought. When it is he who has forced me into it!
Immediately pitying her father, she nodded pleasantly at him. The past was over. They had both to accept and reconcile themselves to the present. Dutifully she bade him, ‘Assalam-Alaikum, Father,’ and walked on.
‘Wa Laikum-Salam, my daughter,’ he answered quietly, following closely behind, his mind somehow unable to reconcile the two images of her. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? The burqa was an important part of that equation. He couldn’t surely have his daughter as a figure of fashion as Shahzadi Ibadat. Religious piety and glamour had never gone hand-in-hand.
Watching her descend the stairs, the loathing he felt for that black thing signalled to him forcefully that he would never get used to it. Did the head part have to be shaped at such an ugly angle? he fretted. Couldn’t it have been a loose wrap that she could casually drape around her head and shoulders, rather than this severe, unbecoming sack of a garment? She was like a black ghost. His daughter had epitomised style and fashion. Surely she didn’t have to wear this shapeless sack at home? He would have to talk to her about it.
Unaware of her father’s thoughts, Zarri Bano had by now reached the dining room. On seeing her, some guests stopped talking. They watched her move around the room, intrigued and uneasy at the same time.
Gulshan was the first to recover and stepped forward to greet her cousin with a smile. ‘Zarri Bano, come and sit down with me. I wasn’t sure whether you were awake, otherwise I would have come upstairs and helped you to dress.’
‘Why? To help me to choose one of my trousseau outfits, perhaps?’ Zarri Bano replied dryly, lifting the hem of the burqa to reveal the shabby suit she wore underneath. Gulshan’s eyes widened.
‘What did you expect – my bright orange lengha that you and my mother ordered from the best tailors in Lahore? I am not a bride to be decked up; after all, I am supposed now to be a devout woman – a woman of simple taste,’ retorted Zarri Bano. ‘It matters to me very little now what I look like, Gulshan. For you see, vanity is one thing that I have managed to exorcise from the old Zarri Bano. Do you know, I thought that would be the hardest thing to do, but I have managed it quite easily.’
‘But you will not be wearing this all the time, surely?’ Gulshan stuttered. ‘It is only a symbolic covering. Even women in purdah do not wear it all the time, only when they go out. At home they dress like queens.’
‘Gulshan, please remember that I am not in purdah, to be hidden behind four walls. I can do whatever and go wherever I like, within the parameters of my role and the different demands that it makes on me as a person and as a Holy Woman. I must now live up to that name and learn to adapt to a life of simplicity and humility and, wherever possible, avoid any contact with men.’ As she spoke, Zarri Bano looked at her father. He had heard everything, she knew, for he had dropped his gaze.
Ruby, standing behind Zarri Bano, found these words painful, having noticed the signs of grief on her sister’s drawn face. She, herself, had wept half the night.
Zarri Bano’s smile faltered a little as she beheld the tears shining in Ruby’s brown eyes.
‘Ruby, darling. You and Gulshan can look at my jewellery and split it up between you, for I have no use for ornaments any longer.’
Ruby couldn’t bear it. Her chest heaving, she fled from the room. It was as if Zarri Bano was dying before her eyes and bidding them farewell.
Once she reached her room, Ruby wept bitterly. For the rest of the day, she kept away from her sister, unable to bear the sight of the hideous black garment draping that shapely body. Burqa and Zarri Bano just simply did not go together! If only Jafar had still been alive today, Zarri Bano would have been returning from her in-laws’ by now, and instead of the black garment, she would have been dressed in all her wedding finery. A marvellous gem glittering amongst other gems, with a strikingly good-looking groom by her side. Now, wherever Zarri Bano went she would stand out as a dark forbidding figure – disconcerting all who came in contact with her.
Ruby maintained her distance from Zarri Bano for the next few days. It was made easier for her by the number of guests present and the so-called ‘religious women’ who came to visit her sister, all eager to impart their knowledge of Islam.
Sakina remained like a dark shadow by Zarri Bano’s side, making Ruby jealous at times. Zarri Bano now appeared to be forever praying, rolling beads from her rosary bead chain and reciting verses from the Holy Quran, visiting local religious schools and holding sisterhood seminars with groups of women.
As far as religion was concerned, Zarri Bano acknowledged to herself that she was very ignorant indeed. However, blessed with an agile mind and an academic brain, within two weeks she had not only imbibed the basic knowledge of her faith, but had also progressed to reading scholarly works. Books on Islam now littered every corner of her room.
By the third week a chasm had naturally opened between the two sisters, and both were experiencing a reluctance to have a heart-to-heart talk. Zarri Bano was succeeding in deliberately suppressing memories relating to her past, and Ruby, her beloved sister, was a direct link with her old self. By the time a month had elapsed, Ruby sadly accepted that she had indeed lost her sister to her faith.
It was true. Zarri Bano had now become a fully-fledged Holy Woman. She never did anything half-heartedly.
Chapter 22
PROFESSOR NIGHAT SULTANA thankfully left her room on the campus at Karachi University. With aching legs and her briefcase bulging with assignments to mark, she wasn’t looking forward to the Friday holiday.
The telephone rang in her study just as she reached her bungalow.
‘It’s for you, Mother. It is Aunty Zeenat,’ her daughter shouted from the study.
‘Thank you, dear. I’ll take it,’ Nighat told her daughter. ‘See if the table is set. I am starving. I also have a splitting headache. The tutorials never seemed to end today.’ She sat down on the leather-backed chair at her desk. Taking the receiver in her hand she began to talk to her best friend.
Rucksana left her mother alone and went to the dining room, where she saw that the table had been set for their meal by their woman helper.
Five minutes later, Nighat came into the dining room. Rucksana stood up and, out of respect, held the chair for her mother to sit down. The worry lines were very prominent on Nighat’s forehead. Since she had been widowed, seven years ago, they had become a permanent fixture.
‘Is everything all right?’ Rucksana asked, leaning over the table to fill her mother’s plate first.
‘Yes, dear. You eat, I am not so hungry,’ she replied and went into the drawing room to sit down on the sofa.
‘You said you were starving, a moment ago!’ her daughter called out to her.
Nighat began to massage the tension away from her forehead. It was like a weight of lead.
‘Mother, what is wrong?’ Rucksana asked in
concern, following her into the drawing room.
‘Nothing. You go and eat. I’ll join you later.’
‘Not until you eat as well. I know that you are extremely tired and hungry.’
‘I have lost my appetite, my darling. I am just so angry!’
‘Why?’
‘Something has happened to one of our APWA women members – one of my old students, called Zarri Bano. She has written a number of articles on our behalf in the magazine she founded. According to Zeenat, she has become some sort of a Holy Woman. Rucksana, I cannot believe it of her. What has happened? Is it a sensational rumour, has it really taken place? Zeenat says that it is something to do with her family’s ancient traditions and her only brother’s recent death in a horse-riding accident.’
‘Mother, what is a Holy Woman?’ Rucksana felt confused. She had never heard the term before.
‘I’m not sure, my dear. Zeenat says that she has become sort of a recluse, and lives in isolation, away from menfolk. She goes around everywhere in a black burqa. And the most scandalous part of all this is that she can never marry anyone – ever! Zarri Bano was one of my most brilliant students,’ Nighat said wistfully. ‘She had everything going for her – intelligence, personality, beauty, and a wealthy family behind her. Most importantly, she has campaigned strongly for women’s rights. If this has happened to such a strong member, then we are all lost. Our cause, our aspirations, our wishes – everything, Rucksana!’
‘Don’t fret, Mother. Why don’t you talk to this Zarri Bano, or visit her? It might not even be true,’ her daughter suggested helpfully, holding her mother’s hands in hers to give her comfort.
‘I definitely intend to talk to her,’ Nighat replied, the preoccupied look still in her eyes.
‘Good! Now let’s eat. I am ravenous,’ said Rucksana, pulling her mother with her into the dining room.
Sitting in her seat, Nighat toyed with her food. Her thoughts remained firmly with Zarri Bano all that evening, the assignments to be marked now totally forgotten. At night-time, she lay awake, her mind ablaze with strange images, molten anger racing through her body. Anger at Zarri Bano, at what she had done, at her family and above all at the Pakistani women’s ineffectuality in the face of overwhelming patriarchal power.
On Friday afternoon, a week later, Nighat left her home in Karachi and went to visit Zarri Bano at Tanda Adam. As she drove along the dry, dust-covered Sindi roads, her mind dwelt on what she was going to say.
When she reached the family residence it appeared to be alive with people. A group of men with thick dark moustaches and long black jackets were coming out of the courtyard when Nighat parked her car in the drive. She could hear the laughter of adults and children from the rear courtyard.
An old male helper led her into the drawing room, informing her that Zarri Bano had gone out on a visit with her special friend and spiritual guide, Sakina. Nighat waited patiently, helping herself to refreshments served by Fatima. On learning that Nighat was a university professor, Fatima couldn’t help talking proudly about her own daughter Firdaus, ‘the Deputy Headmistress’.
A few minutes later, when Zarri Bano entered the drawing room, Nighat blinked in shock. The dark-cloaked vision assaulted her senses; a feeling of outrage sped up her spine. The urge to rip the garment from Zarri Bano’s body gripped her. Her eyes crying disbelief, her lips moved to greet her ex-pupil but the words had simply fled.
Painfully aware of the reaction she had aroused in her old Professor, Zarri Bano read the negative expressions on Nighat’s face. They gave her an insight into what people like Nighat, in her station of life, thought of her becoming a Holy Woman.
‘Assalam-Alaikum, Professor Nighat. What a pleasure to have you here,’ Zarri Bano greeted her tutor warmly.
‘Wa Laikum-Salam, Zarri Bano. How are you? I heard about you from my friend Zeenat.’ Nighat at last found her voice, but the smile still eluded her.
‘Thank you for coming to visit me. As you can see, I am fine. How is your daughter Rucksana?’
‘She is well, Zarri Bano.’ Nighat’s eyes dropped awkwardly from her former student’s. It is all true, her mind thundered. Zarri Bano has gone through with it.
The young woman waited with resignation for Professor Nighat to explode. She was, therefore, taken aback by her one, softly spoken word.
‘Why?’
Zarri Bano didn’t know how to begin. She appealed in her quiet, dignified voice. ‘I had to, Sister Nighat. Believe me.’
‘You had to?’ Nighat’s voice rasped with raw emotion. ‘Of anybody else I would have expected that reply, but not from you. You said that women held their destinies in their hands. What a travesty! You have betrayed and let down a whole generation of us Pakistani women. If it has happened to a mature university-educated woman – a feminist at that, an extrovert, a modern woman – then Allah help a young, uneducated woman in the backwoods of rural Pakistan, who is at the beck and call, and at the mercy and whims of her menfolk. Zarri Bano, I feel so angry, so impotent. All our years of work down the drain. Why, Zarri Bano? Why?’
Zarri Bano had listened silently to her friend’s outburst.
‘You ask why, Sister Nighat. I will tell you. I owe you an explanation for you are my friend, my tutor and my role model. I woke up one morning, Sister Nighat, to find my identity stripped off me and learned that somebody else, my father, held it in his hands and that he was going to shape it for me. I woke up to find that books, feminism, campaigns and education are all utterly useless against the patriarchal tyranny of our feudal landlords. Stupidly I had convinced myself that as an educated, urban, upperclass woman, I was different from those “poor” women, lower down the strata of our society, who had to do as they were told.
‘I found out, however, that in the end we are all in the same pingra – a birdcage to which our fathers and elders hold the key. My heart continues to ache for the quivering seventeen-year-old whose fate is decided and she is told to marry such and such a man. Our faith explicitly says that a woman must decide for herself. Moral and psychological pressure, however, is placed on her to accept male family members’ decisions. Well, I wasn’t even offered that choice, my friend. Marriage was forcefully denied me by my father. He said that I could never marry anybody!’ Zarri Bano took in a heaving emotional breath.
‘What?’ Nighat looked disbelievingly at Zarri Bano.
‘Yes, my father stopped me – psychologically blackmailed me – from marrying the man I fell in love with and so wanted to marry.’
‘Oh my God!’
Zarri Bano sadly accepted her friend’s expression of horror. She had laid her soul bare to this woman, and to nobody else. She owed it to her.
‘You have probably heard about our tradition of a Holy Woman and heiress of a clan. Well, when the only male heir dies, in our clan, the inheritance, and especially the land, goes to the next female heir. The condition is that she stays and never leaves her paternal home. In effect, she can never marry. To make this more legitimate, our forefathers concocted the notion of a Holy Woman, a Shahzadi Ibadat. It is a measure for men like my father of ensuring that the land stays in the family.’ There was a world of bitterness in her voice.
‘You could have refused to become the heiress, and turned down the inheritance if you wanted to marry,’ Nighat persisted.
‘Whether I like it or not, Sister Nighat, I became the heiress. I had to! The land is now like a millstone, a hated talisman around my neck. I have gazed at the acres of our land so many times over this past week, unable to take in the fact that my freedom, identity and womanhood has been bartered for acres of soil. The land that God has generously bestowed on to us, which my family has protected like gold dust over the centuries, means more to them than humanity itself.’ Zarri Bano suddenly stopped short, fearing that she had said and revealed too much. Family loyalty and filial duty were steadfast traits of her character.
‘If you had told me about this Holy Woman farce, I would have helped you,’ Nigh
at said passionately. ‘This is against our Islam. Our shariah, our courts, both secular and Muslim, would have made a case for you against your family.’
‘No, Sister Nighat, you do not understand. Yes, I could have refused. I could have turned to hundreds of people for help, if I had wanted to. It is the important “if” Professor Nighat. This is what you have to understand. I could have married my fiancé, if I had wanted to. He said and accused me of the same things as you have done. He too offered me support and refuge, and when I didn’t take him up on it, was astonished and outraged like yourself.
‘Yes, I could have refused my father, if I had wanted to. But I didn’t at the end, for the same reason as thousands of other young women in our patriarchal society end up saying “yes”. For our izzat’s sake, and our family’s honour, like other women, I became a coward and a victim rolled into one, by suppressing and sacrificing my own needs for the sake of my family. I just couldn’t be the cause of turning my family and tradition upside down.’
‘So you became this.’ Nighat swept a dismissive hand at the black garb Zarri Bano wore.
‘Yes, Sister Nighat, you are right. There is more to say, but I cannot talk about it. It is very personal and painful. All I can say is that women in our society also become prisoners of female modesty. If a father refuses to grant permission for his daughter to marry, how can she actively pursue marriage? She’ll be labelled besharm, a wanton.’
‘I am all confused now, Zarri Bano. You are an adult, a mature woman. You do not need your father’s permission and you wouldn’t have been labelled as besharm, if you had wanted to get married. Our faith, our society, encourages marriage. You wouldn’t have been criticised.’
‘Yes, what you say is true. But in the end, female modesty and my pride imprisoned me into a role of obedience and going along with my father’s wishes. He said something that spoiled it all for me. After that I could never think of marriage again. He achieved his goal and I can never forgive him for that. I am learning, however, to come to terms with my new self and with my new identity.’
The Holy Woman Page 17