The Holy Woman

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘One day I will have to meet him, but not now, not yet.’ Her female intuition warned her clearly that she was still too emotionally bruised to come face to face with him so soon.

  In fact she didn’t have to face Sikander until the day of the mehndi, the party organised for Ruby, three days before the wedding day. Meant for the women and young girls, the party included singing and dancing to popular music, as well as the traditional wedding folk songs to the music of a dholki, a small drum.

  The girls’ cousin Gulshan had arrived a week earlier to help with the preparations and to join in everything. On the morning of the party, Gulshan had approached Zarri Bano with a twinkle in her eye and made a special request. ‘My dear, I will not let you appear in a burqa at the party. There will only be women and girls there.’

  ‘I must wear the burqa, Gulshan,’ Zarri Bano blurted out.

  ‘Please forget your holy self for just one night. I want you to dance at your sister’s party.’ The trace of sarcasm was not lost on Zarri Bano.

  A hushed silence followed as a stunned Zarri Bano took in what her cousin had suggested.

  ‘Me, dance! Now that is utterly out of the question, Gulshan. When have you seen a Holy Woman dancing?’

  ‘I don’t know any Holy Women, apart from you. You are also my cousin and a woman like me. I will make you dance – just see if I don’t,’ Gulshan teased, laughing up into Zarri Bano’s scandalised face. ‘But first come upstairs to Ruby’s room. I have a surprise for you. Ruby and I have sorted out an outfit for you. It is red and white, we definitely do not want you to wear black, although it has become your favourite colour. Only bright colours will do for your sister’s wedding.’

  ‘I cannot go through with it. You must understand, Gulshan!’ Genuinely upset, Zarri Bano tried to free her hands from her cousin’s grasp, as she led her up the stairs.

  ‘Look, Zarri Bano, today we want a glimpse of the old glamorous you – all right? How can it be a crime for you to dress up or to dance in front of us women? Why do you behave like this? You don’t have to deny yourself the pleasure of dancing or dressing up. Both gave you a great deal of pleasure once, as I recall.’

  And that was that. Zarri Bano couldn’t get out of it. At about six o’ clock, she was ushered into Ruby’s room, and was shown the outfit. In the end, Gulshan helped Zarri Bano to get dressed in her own room. There was no tall mirror in Zarri Bano’s room any more, therefore she had no idea what she looked like in the flowing shahrarah outfit, with a long red chiffon skirt and white matching tunic, with sequins embroidered on to it. Gulshan had skilfully made up her face, and her hair, which had now grown abundantly to her shoulders, was allowed to swing around her face in bouncy curls. A necklace complemented the outfit.

  Gulshan stared at her cousin in satisfaction. How petty it seemed now that she had once envied Zarri Bano. She couldn’t wait to show Zarri Bano off, and to announce her entrance theatrically, knowing that everyone would be amazed and all heads would be turned. She thus went ahead of Zarri Bano into the large hall where music was being played and the clapping of hands could be heard, punctuating the movements of one of the women dancers.

  After a few minutes, Zarri Bano stepped out of her room, feeling as if another woman had taken over her body. These clothes felt so strange and cumbersome. The ornaments clawed at her skin. The urge to go back and wipe her face clean was very strong. The make-up made her feel as if she was wearing a heavy mask. The weird sensation of having her hair swing openly and wantonly around her face made her long to sweep it all back and hide every single strand under her burqa hood. Instead, she carried her burqa over her arm.

  About to descend and holding up her skirt awkwardly from the floor with one hand, Zarri Bano heard footsteps in the hall below. She glanced down and then stood transfixed on the top step of the long curving staircase.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, Sikander gazed up at her. He smiled, mistaking her for Ruby. Then his eyes narrowed as they focused on the black garment on her arm, and he gasped. It was Zarri Bano!

  For a split second, the world stood still for Sikander. His heart pounding with a dull beat, the smile slowly ebbed from his face. Seeing the beautiful picture she made standing at the top of the stairs, the ache he had managed to suppress in the last year rose in him with a gigantic leap. A sob of longing caught in his throat.

  Zarri Bano continued to stare down at him, caught up in a spell. The last year of her life of religious devotion peeled away from her mind. Only the present mattered. Oh, how powerful was this spell! The world stood still.

  Then a sound from a nearby room drew Zarri Bano painfully back to reality. Gave a great ragged sigh then, sweeping round, she disappeared from sight.

  Sikander stood rooted to the spot. ‘We haven’t exchanged a single word,’ he mourned. This was the first time he had seen her since the day of her veiling ceremony.

  He was still standing in the large hall, but away from the stairs, when he heard her come down. He looked up expectantly, ready to greet her.

  She was dressed in her black ‘holy’ burqa again. The contrast to her earlier appearance could not have been more poignant. Holding her head high and looking ahead, she swept past him. The only words of greeting in reply to his were, ‘Assalam-Alaikum, Brother Sikander.’

  The words sent a chill through him. The spell was broken: Zarri Bano was back in her religious shell. His attractive mouth curved in a bitter line. He was certainly going to be her brother.

  For a moment, Sikander nearly gave way to despair. He was betrothed to Ruby, a loyal, loving girl … but still in love with her sister, his true betrothed. And he didn’t know what to do about any of it.

  Chapter 35

  ‘ZARRI BANO, WHY are you still wearing the burqa?’ screeched Gulshan, catching sight of her cousin in her black veil.

  ‘I have to wear it. A man could walk in here, at any time,’ Zarri Bano offered defensively as she came to stand next to her.

  ‘But there aren’t any strangers here, and apart from our family members there is, of course, only the groom himself. He will soon be your brother-in-law, therefore he cannot be a stranger for long. Here, let me take it off!’ Swiftly Gulshan pulled the burqa off.

  Zarri Bano stood awkwardly in the middle of a circle of seated women, noting both their in-drawn breaths and amazed stares. It was as if she was in a freak show.

  ‘Gulshan, I will deal with you later,’ Zarri Bano hissed as she quickly sat down. ‘I feel terrible! What will people think of me? Do you think that they will ever respect me again? I am dressed in such a vulgar fashion – almost like a lady of the night!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ her cousin scoffed. ‘You are dressed in the height of fashion and you know it. Just as you also know that at this moment and in this room, you are the most attractive woman here.’

  Colour ebbed from Zarri Bano’s cheeks. ‘What is the purpose of all this?’ she asked simply.

  ‘The purpose? To enjoy life, of course. To celebrate beauty! To take pleasure in this moment in time – which happens to be your sister’s mehndi. You won’t have this opportunity again, Zarri Bano.’

  ‘Gulshan, it is true what you say, but please remember, I am a Holy Woman.’

  ‘So you think your sister’s party is frivolous?’ Gulshan accused. ‘Come on, forget your holy self for once. Give us back the old Zarri Bano just for one evening. Please come and join us in the fun to celebrate our Ruby’s wedding. Come!’ Grabbing hold of Zarri Bano’s hand, Gulshan dragged her into the empty space left for dancing in the middle of the circle. Flushed with embarrassment, Zarri Bano tried to draw her hand away from her cousin.

  ‘Please, Gulshan,’ she appealed, panicking. ‘Don’t do this to me – this is most unseemly.’

  ‘Right, girls, Zarri Bano and I are going to dance to pakeeza’s song “Cheltah cheltah”. Please start the music, and everyone can join in by clapping!’

  In high spirits the women started to clap. Gulshan began to swa
y to the music, moving her supple body in elegant movements, her chiffon skirt billowing out around her. Zarri Bano looked at the crowd of women sitting on the floor. She caught her sister’s eye. Ruby was sitting on the raised platform, waiting to have her hands painted with henna patterns. ‘Please,’ Ruby’s eyes begged.

  Zarri Bano surrendered, entering the dancing arena. Slowly her arms, hands and legs began to sway in graceful fluid movements around the circle. The Shahzadi Ibadat was forgotten as her body remembered how to weave magic in movement and rhythm. The rhythmic clapping spurred her on. She responded to the tune, smiling and dimpling down at the women. Rising and dipping with ever more elegant movements of her body, finally reaching a crescendo to the sad music.

  At last the song ended and her body swirled to stop. Her eyes slowly focused on the faces of the women, watching enthralled. Then they stumbled upon one face. She froze. It was Sikander, sitting hidden in the shadows at the far end of the hall.

  Zarri Bano felt faint as the realisation hit her that he had been there all the time. She dropped heavily down on the cushioned seat next to Gulshan. Twice in one day he had seen her without her burqa, this time in an even more compromising situation – dancing in open abandonment. It was his wedding and she had performed like a kanjari, a dancing girl in front of him. Colour flooded her cheeks in shame – no man had seen her like this.

  With trembling hands she dragged the burqa back over her body, fixing the hood neatly over her hair. Even if the women begged her on their knees, she would not get up and make a fool of herself again. Remembering the exact, sensuous movements of her dance, her body went cold again in embarrassment. She hadn’t worn any dupatta nor a shawl to cover her front.

  Once in control of herself, Zarri Bano ventured to glance around at the assembled group and thought wryly: I suppose, at least, I have made Ruby and Gulshan and all these women happy. Renowned for her dancing skills, at mehndi parties she was often dragged to the dance floor and normally not allowed off it, until she had danced to at least five popular songs.

  For the remainder of the ceremony she let Gulshan take the lead in the celebrations. Later in the evening, she ventured to look in the corner where Sikander had been sitting. The space was empty. Breathing more freely, she promised herself that she was going to avoid him as much as possible. There would be times, of course, when she would have to meet him and talk to him, but never would she willingly seek his company. She had already made plans to immerse herself thoroughly in her new role, in an effort to distance herself from her past life and in particular from him, the serpent gnawing away at the delicate petals of her rose garden of religious devotion.

  On the day of the wedding, Zarri Bano, like her parents, was kept busy and thus had little time to dwell on Sikander. The guests had all duly arrived and had to be seen to. All the wedding arrangements had been carried out. The hall was decorated for the reception and the ceremony. The morning passed in a hectic whirl of different activities. Ruby was locked away with Gulshan and the beautician.

  Zarri Bano helped her mother with the last-minute errands. At about eleven o’clock she decided to check up on her sister to see how her bridal preparations were progressing. Beholding Ruby’s breathtaking appearance, a lump caught in her throat. ‘Oh my dear, you look wonderful!’

  At precisely twelve-thirty, the groom and his party arrived for the ceremony from Karachi. Most of Zarri Bano’s clan were assembled in the front courtyard to receive and welcome them. Young girls holding small china bowls were waiting to shower rose petals over the heads of the groom and his party.

  Alone, Zarri Bano watched from her bedroom window – the line of cars, the accompanying band of musicians, on foot, gaily playing wedding tunes. Heading the procession was the groom on a white horse, leading the way, following the centuries-old custom.

  Zarri Bano hardly recognised Sikander dressed as a groom, with a traditional bead-studded khullah on his head and a long white jacket with a matching shalwar. Zarri Bano’s eyes rested on his face. The horse cantered to a stop outside the gate.

  ‘Kismet, you are so cruel.’ Zarri Bano turned from the window, wondering how many other women and men had experienced this nightmare scenario. ‘How do they came to terms with it?’ she murmured.

  Then: ‘I am a Shahzadi Ibadat!’ she bitterly reminded herself. ‘A woman who has denounced marriage and a normal life. I am the one who turned him away.’ Yet she was paying for it now. His words mocked her: ‘You will die for me on my wedding day.’

  She had prayed to Allah and had kept herself busy. Today, however, the mere sight of him had shown her that beneath it all she was still a vulnerable human being – just another victim of life’s pains and triumphs.

  ‘I am dying for you, Sikander. You’ve had your revenge.’ Zarri Bano brushed the tears angrily from her cheeks. Through gritted teeth she promised herself, ‘Zarri Bano will never cry for a man again! I am going to lock away, bury forever, these vulnerable parts of me. I will show myself and the world that I am indeed the pure one, the holy one! To do this I have to first unearth Sikander from the essence of my being.’

  She fumbled open one of the drawers of her dressing table and drew out three seashells hidden in a small trinket box. Nestled against the palm of her hand, Zarri Bano looked at them for a long time. Lifting the net curtains, she threw the shells through the open window, far over the wall of her home. Her last link with Sikander was gone.

  During the wedding ceremony, Zarri Bano remained in the background. The ‘milk greeting’ ceremony, with the sisters traditionally offering a glass of milk to the groom, in exchange for gifts of money, Zarri Bano had delegated to Gulshan. She couldn’t have stood in front of him. As she watched her sister sitting next to Sikander on the stage after the wedding ceremony and laughing up into his face, Zarri Bano knew that the ties of the past would be truly severed that night.

  Hungrily, she watched Sikander’s eyes. ‘They once glowed into mine too!’ she grieved. He couldn’t see her, but she feasted her eyes on him for the last time.

  Unable to bear any more, Zarri Bano left the hall and walked out into the rear courtyard. Sitting on a chair on the patio she stared dejectedly at the rose bed. Hearing a sound behind her, she hastened to assume the mask-like expression on her face.

  Fatima stood behind her. ‘I too found it hot in the hall, my dear,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Yes, Fatima.’ Zarri Bano stood up to leave.

  ‘Take a rest, my dear. You’ve been very busy.’ Fatima gently pulled Zarri Bano into the chair, a deep silence of understanding hovering between them. ‘He is not worth it,’ the woman said sadly.

  Zarri Bano’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Fatima. If you are referring to Sikander, then you have no need to worry on my account – but he is definitely worth my sister marrying. I am so happy for her. Remember I am a Holy Woman. How can you harbour such a thought? Really …’ Zarri Bano’s nervous laugh made her feel light inside. ‘Come, we need to show Ruby’s trousseau to all the women. Gulshan has been doing everything. You and I will take on this task between us.’

  Years later, Zarri Bano realised that it was at that moment, in the garden, that the hurdle she had craved so badly to jump had been managed, at the end, thanks to Fatima’s sympathetic words. To prove to herself that nothing mattered to her any more, Zarri Bano had even volunteered to accompany Ruby to Sikander’s home.

  ‘I am a strong-willed person and will prove to myself and to the world that I am indeed a Holy Woman. I hope Sikander finds happiness with my sister. There will be no more suitors in my life ever again!’ She offered this personal prayer, as she knelt on her prayer-mat on the night of her sister’s wedding day.

  Chapter 36

  FATIMA HIRED THE tanga, the local horse and carriage, to take her from Chiragpur to the house where Khawar was living in the neighbouring village. Tipping the driver generously in advance, she told him to wait outside for her, for there were no taxis around in the village. Even th
e tangas were a scarce commodity at times.

  Built on the outskirts of the village, Khawar’s large homestead stood alone, amidst green fields. He had inherited two such homes when his father died. He kept two male servants to look after the house and Rani, an old woman helper, to cook and wash for him on a daily basis. It was Rani who let Fatima in, ushering her into the drawing room, telling her to wait for Khawar’s return.

  ‘No more dreams,’ Fatima bitterly scolded herself. ‘It is all over.’

  She had learnt her lesson, well and truly. Her daughter’s happiness and welfare meant more to her than her own foolish dream of seeing Firdaus as the Headmistress of the school and the future chaudharani of the village. The latter post being the one she herself had forfeited some thirty years previously when she had decided to marry Fiaz instead of Sarwar.

  Scolding oneself didn’t, however, make it easy to part with one’s dreams. For a long time, Fatima’s heart had indeed been set on Khawar, as her eldest son-in-law.

  She could still recall the look in Kaniz’s eye when one woman guest had loudly and tactlessly whispered to the new bride: ‘There is Fatima, the woman that Sarwar wanted to marry, but she turned him down.’

  Blushing, Fatima had quickly glanced up and found Kaniz’s piercing gaze on her face. Feeling for the new bride, Fatima’s heart had gone out to her. Later she had admonished that woman with the loud mouth.

  Kaniz, however, had neither forgotten nor forgiven Fatima for simply being ‘the other woman’. Fatima, in turn, had to revise her own early opinion of Kaniz, for the new chaudharani soon made it abundantly clear, by various means, that Fatima wasn’t at all welcome in her house. Later, she had used her servant, Neesa, to tell her bluntly that she had no right to come there. It was then that the animosity had begun, only to increase over the months and years to follow.