The Holy Woman

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  When Fiaz had his accident and Fatima joined the staff in Siraj Khan’s household, Kaniz had her sweet revenge.

  Welcoming every opportunity that came her way, she had publicly and indiscriminately sneered at the ‘washerwoman’ Sarwar had originally wanted to marry. Fatima, for her part, had neither the time nor the patience for Kaniz or her petty taunts. She was faced with the task of keeping her family going and caring for her disabled husband. She had found a confidante and a friend in Chaudharani Shahzada instead.

  Fatima was still lost in her own and Kaniz’s entwined past, when she heard Khawar’s footsteps outside on the veranda. She glanced up, marvelling at the young man’s even set of white teeth and the ever ready smile on his face.

  She didn’t return the smile.

  ‘Assalam-Alaikum, Auntie Fatima. What a lovely surprise!’ Flicking the dust from his boots with a handkerchief, he came forward into the room.

  Fatima stood up. Her gaze dwelt on his tall, well-built frame.

  ‘Come and sit down, Auntie Fatima, and tell me all your news. How is everyone?’

  ‘Everyone is fine, Khawar. What about yourself? You seem to have settled down here permanently, my son.’

  ‘Yes, I am quite happy here, Auntie,’ he offered politely, uneasy at discussing the matter of his separation from his mother.

  ‘It is not right that you should be here,’ Fatima quietly commented.

  ‘Why, Auntie?’

  ‘Well, your poor mother is on her own in the village. You are her only child, Khawar my son, and you should be staying with her.’

  ‘How is Firdaus?’

  ‘She is fine, but she is leaving the village for good, my son.’

  ‘What?’ he asked sharply, standing up.

  ‘Yes, my son. She wishes to leave us and the village. She has been offered a new post as the Vice Principal of a girls’ college in the town. I cannot persuade her to stay on in the village. It is all over, my boy.’

  ‘What do you mean, Auntie?’

  ‘I mean that she wants nothing to do with either you, your mother or your home. She is adamant that you are the last person she wants to marry.’ Fatima almost immediately regretted her words. It was the second time that a man had been jilted in his family.

  ‘I am so sorry, Khawar,’ she said, more kindly. ‘I have tried my very best, you know that. But things are beyond my control.’

  ‘It is my mother, isn’t it?’ Khawar’s harsh voice matched the steel glint in his eyes.

  ‘Your mother hasn’t helped, I am afraid. Her recent visit to Firdaus’s school has definitely made matters worse. She probably has reasons to behave as she does. But all I want to say to you, Khawar, is to return home to your mother. I do not want you to be seen to be estranged from her on our account.’

  ‘I don’t want to go home!’

  ‘You must, my dear. Your mother loves you dearly. I have come to request that you return home and put Firdaus and us aside from your mind and heart.’

  ‘It is not as easy as you suggest, Auntie. And why should I have to, just because you and my mother say so. Can I see Firdaus?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, my son, not at the moment. She is in a very volatile mood. Your mother and I haven’t helped matters. Her pride is sorely wounded on both counts.’

  ‘What about the future, Auntie? I’ll not let her go without fighting for her.’

  ‘That is up to you, my son – but I personally wouldn’t recommend it to you, as much as I would want you to. You know yourself, Khawar dear, how I have always wanted you as my eldest son-in-law. But it looks as if Firdaus is destined for another home. If you have any respect for me, I hope to see you back in your family home in Chiragpur with your mother within the next few days.’

  Fatima left, declining both lunch and refreshments. Her tanga thankfully was waiting for her, the driver still munching on his paan. Fatima had achieved her task – to talk plainly to Khawar.

  Chapter 37

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL Saturday morning with the sun high up in the sky over Chiragpur. The village sparrows were singing in the trees. Yet Fatima didn’t relish the forthcoming afternoon and the unpleasant task that loomed ahead of her. She let the morning pass on her rooftop.

  Finally, after two o’clock Fatima forced herself to leave her home. Resignation was stamped in each step she placed on the cobbled lanes, leading her inevitably to Kaniz’s home.

  ‘So many years wasted,’ she mourned. If she had only known! Personal selfishness was a hard thing to contend with. For so long she had desired the match between her eldest daughter and Khawar and had actually begun to believe in it as a foregone conclusion. And now Firdaus had already left for the town to start her new job.

  Today Fatima intended putting an end to all those years of dreaming, and allow Kaniz to triumph and crown herself as the winner. As for herself, the inevitable loser, it was a day for her head to be lowered in humiliation and for Kaniz’s barbed taunts to find their true mark. ‘Even if that woman’s lips spill venom,’ Fatima reminded herself firmly, ‘today I will willingly gulp it all down with dignity and bow out of Chaudharani Kaniz’s life, with honour, and for good.’

  Outside Kaniz’s gate, Fatima’s chapped finger hovered above the doorbell – not quite ready to touch it. When eventually she pressed the small round button, her heart started to hammer away in her chest, startling and disconcerting her. Neesa opened the gates and led Fatima into the central courtyard with its alabaster pillars, to the canopied sofa on the veranda.

  Bemused, Fatima stared around at the variety of pot plants lining the veranda, creating an attractive arena for the courtyard. It was indeed a beautiful place. Fatima recalled the occasion when top architects had been enlisted from Karachi by Sarwar’s father to design it. Fatima had secretly envisaged her daughter Firdaus roaming merrily around the scores of rooms on the two floors or sunning herself on the trellis-lined balconies on the rooftop. Fatima shook her head sorrowfully. It was time to part with her dream.

  Kaniz was enjoying her afternoon siesta in her large air-conditioned bedroom. When Neesa gently touched her on the arm, she was not at all pleased to be woken from a pleasant dream. Her brain, somewhat befuddled by sleep, didn’t register straight away Neesa’s words that ‘Fatima Jee’ was here to see her. She sat up on her palang, and started to straighten her chador around her shoulders.

  On spotting her ‘enemy’ enter the room, Kaniz’s almond-shaped eyes first screwed up into tiny slits and then flapped wide open, her body utterly still. Her mind went completely blank. Why is this hated woman here in my bedroom? she thought perplexed.

  Fatima remained poised in the doorway, her face straight and her eyes steadily fixed on Kaniz’s face.

  ‘Assalam-Alaikum!’ Her cool confident voice echoed strangely in the semi-shaded quiet room, startling its occupant.

  ‘Wa Laikum-Salam!’ Kaniz replied stiffly, still unable to look at Fatima. Social and village etiquette demanded that she treat Fatima as a guest. The nearest she could stoop to, however, was to nod at Fatima, and gesture towards the chair for her to sit on. The snub was not lost on Fatima; it was a gesture akin to the one Kaniz threw at Neesa, her servant. Apparently Fatima was no different.

  Her heartbeat quickening, Fatima took rapid stock of herself and the situation. She hadn’t come to pick a quarrel with the chaudharani but to act in a restrained and mature manner. She thus grandly and magnanimously decided to ignore Kaniz’s petty insults.

  Instead, she merely padded two steps forward on the cool marble mosaic floor, declining to sit on the chair. Signalling thus to Kaniz that she wasn’t here ‘to do her bidding’.

  ‘What has brought you to our home, Fatima Sahiba?’ The heavily laden ironic use of ‘Sahiba’ wasn’t lost on Fatima.

  ‘I thought it imperative that you and I had a chat.’ Fatima said with quiet dignity.

  ‘Concerning what?’ Kaniz hated her shrill voice and for being on the verge of losing her poise so quickly and particul
arly in front of the enemy.

  ‘Our children and our past, Kaniz Sahiba,’ Fatima replied quietly.

  Kaniz turned away. Picking up her mirrored fan, she began to fan the long column of her neck, pulling her muslin chador off her head and shoulders. Swivelling her head around, she darted a fierce gaze at Fatima.

  ‘I didn’t know that we had anything in common. You are very presumptuous,’ she commented disdainfully, her cheeks now very warm.

  ‘I disagree, but if you insist, then I will agree that we have nothing in common. However, I have not come here for your insults or to bandy words with you, Kaniz.’

  ‘Then what have you come for?’ Kaniz retorted, her fair cheeks throbbing with an ominous shade of red.

  ‘I have come to inform you that my daughter has left the village. She has got a post as a Vice Principal in a college …’

  ‘So you have come to boast, have you?’ Kaniz sneered.

  ‘No, I haven’t!’ Fatima snapped in return. ‘I have come to tell you that my daughter is adamant that Khawar is the last person she wants to marry. She is saying goodbye to the village for good. I will not pretend to you: I will admit that I had entertained hopes for her and Khawar. Luckily I have now come to my senses. Is there any point, I ask myself, in placing one’s face in the mud over and over again, just to have it smeared with filth. My daughter deserves better. You and your son are not worth wiping her shoes on. I was foolish, oh so foolish, for wanting my Firdaus to marry into your household.’ She sighed heavily.

  ‘Thank goodness, that at last I have woken up, Kaniz. I have decided that I’ll do whatever my Firdaus wants. Through your stubbornness and selfishness you have lost your son. I will not lose my daughter the same way. I have spent years of my life working to give my daughters a good education and a standard of life. I will not let all that go to waste.’ She looked sternly at the other woman.

  ‘I didn’t have any money to look after my son, unlike you. I could have, of course, if I had married Sarwar – but you know that, don’t you? You have never thanked me, have you? You are a chaudharani, but only because I declined to marry Sarwar. You are a malika, the queen of this village, who treats everyone like dirt, but don’t forget I know who you are and from whence you have sprung. You have forgotten your humble roots – your shabby home with charpoys piled on top of each other, and your brothers and sisters falling over each other because of lack of space. You are an ungrateful and thankless woman. A woman who doesn’t know how to digest riches. You have to be born to them to do that.’

  By now Kaniz had bolted up from her palang.

  ‘How dare you come here to insult me in my own home!’ Her mouth opened and closed – aghast.

  ‘I am not insulting you,’ Fatima continued calmly, keeping her eyes steady on Kaniz’s face. ‘Just giving you a wholesome dose of what you always mete out to others. Today, I will wipe the slate clean between us, once and for all. There will be no going back, for either you or me, Kaniz. It is true, as you delight in telling the whole village, that my hands are “greased”, but tell me, who was on a par with Sarwar in the first place? Me or you? You know that my family are a land-owning family, and it was my pride that wouldn’t let them help me. I wanted to support my family myself. My weakness, unlike yours, Kaniz, is pride in my own achievements and work. I didn’t want to extend a begging hand to anyone.

  ‘Have you known, or can you imagine, what it is like to work, to support one’s family? You have no idea, have you? You, who are used to barking at your servants. I married my husband, not for his wealth, but for love. You married yours for wealth. That is the difference between us.’ Her voice grew stronger.

  ‘It is true, in your book of social etiquette, that I have done demeaning work. I have brushed, washed and carried things for other people. But it is good honest work. It is very different from your lazy lifestyle, where you are totally dependent on other people. I have made my daughters self-sufficient too. All this I have achieved from my own efforts. Can you tell me what you have achieved? Apart from giving birth to one son?’

  ‘Enough!’ Kaniz shouted, totally scandalised. ‘I will not listen to any more of your insults. You mad, vindictive woman – get out. Neesa!’ Her eyes were now practically rolling in their sockets.

  Unperturbed, Fatima merely smiled, showing a row of even white teeth. ‘Have no fear – I am going. You will not have to listen any more. I have said more than I had planned or wished to, but you deserved it, Kaniz. The chapter of your animosity towards me and my family will end today. My daughters and I decline to have anything to do with you, or your son. You can keep it all. It is beneath us. Goodbye.’ With a dignified gait Fatima strode out of the room, leaving the chaudharani of the village with her mouth half-open, standing in the middle of the room – near hysterical.

  Fatima met Neesa in the courtyard, carrying a tray with a jug of iced lemon juice and a glass.

  ‘You must stay for a drink, Sahiba Fatima,’ Neesa politely insisted.

  ‘Thank you, Neesa. I am afraid I don’t feel inclined to drink even a drop of water in this house at the moment, nor would your mistress thank you for offering it to me.’ She flashed a knowing smile at the woman before she walked out of the property, closing the gates firmly behind her.

  Inside, mixed feelings vied. She was triumphant, because she had had her say. Miserable, because it was a hollow victory, and knowing that Khawar was never destined to marry her daughter. If only … No more foolish thoughts! Angrily, Fatima thrust open the gate of her home.

  Part Two

  In my dark nights they brought me

  The good tidings of the morning,

  Put out the candles, turning me

  Towards the rising sun.

  Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797–1869)

  Translated by Ralph Russell

  From Selection from the Persian Ghazals of Ghalib

  (Pakistan Writers’ Co-operative Society, 1997)

  Chapter 38

  DURING THE EID-UL-FITR holidays, Ibrahim, Pakinaz and Zarri Bano cruised down the River Nile from Cairo to the ancient city of Luxor in the south. They spent the first two days resting, after an exhausting tour of the city of Aswan and its ancient monuments. On the third day they visited the Valley of the Kings. Crossing the Nile by ferry, they took a taxi to the Temple of Ramses. Zarri Bano marvelled at the tall majestic façade, carved into the reddish rock and, at the beautifully preserved hieroglyphic paintings and inscriptions on the walls, pillars and ceilings.

  Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on her head. Sweltering in her long dark burqa, she was glad to climb back into the air-conditioned taxi and head towards the Valley of the Kings.

  King Ramses’ tomb was their first destination. All three happily entered into the shade of the long, wide corridor. Fascinated by the magnificent multi-coloured hieroglyphics painted on the walls, they walked along to the large chamber housing the King’s sarcophagus, listening with rapt attention as the Egyptian guide recounted the history of the tomb.

  Outside again, they crossed the road and went down into the much smaller tomb of the legendary King Tutankhamen. It was packed with tourists, and Zarri Bano found it difficult to get a good view of the boy-king’s sarcophagus. His remains and treasures were housed in the Cairo Museum.

  ‘It is very impressive, Brother Musa,’ Zarri Bano said to Ibrahim, as he stood aside to let her view the tomb in the semi-darkness of the chamber. ‘Where is Pakinaz?’

  ‘Gone to the souvenir shop to buy a present for our niece. Do you want to stay a little longer and savour the moment?’

  ‘No, I think I have seen enough. Shall we go back outside?’ They retraced their steps, keeping well to the side of the road, allowing the many sightseers, mainly Europeans and Americans, to pass by.

  ‘Let’s wait here for Pakinaz,’ Ibrahim suggested ‘it is cooler here under this shade.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Zarri Bano moved gratefully to the place he indicated, by his side.

  As the
y both watched the tourists coming out of the tomb, an awkward silence stretched between them. It was broken by Ibrahim’s words in Arabic.

  ‘Marry me, Zarri Bano.’

  Startled, her eyes flew to his face, thinking she had imagined him saying it but, like her, he was wearing dark glasses, which both shielded his eyes and also hid his expression. She waited – her pulse racing, hoping she had misunderstood.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother Ibrahim – did you say something?’ she ventured hesitantly in English, staring at the dry rocky mountains beyond his shoulders.

  ‘Yes, I did, Zarri Bano. I believe that you heard me, but are probably too shocked to absorb what I have just said. I am sorry. I will repeat it in English, just in case you thought you imagined it. I am asking you to be my wife, Zarri Bano. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  Zarri Bano gasped in dismay and she stumbled away from his side.

  As Ibrahim watched her, his spirits sank. This was not the reaction he had expected. Discomfited, he followed her to the shops and saw her go up to Pakinaz and stand next to her. He understood her signal. She was apparently distancing herself from him. Waving to his sister, he walked down the road and climbed into the taxi waiting for them there.

  Pakinaz happily showed an alabaster cat she had bought for her niece to Zarri Bano. Pretending to admire it, Zarri Bano’s thoughts were not on the cat, but on the man waiting in the taxi. Pakinaz climbed into the front passenger seat, leaving her friend with no choice but to sit in the back with Ibrahim. They drove off, in silence, to take the ferry over the Nile, heading for the temple complex at Karnak.

  ‘Hey you two!’ called Pakinaz from the front. ‘You are very quiet – has the heat got to you both? I bet it has in your case, Zarri Bano. You must be baking in your black hijab.’

  ‘I think that it has, Pakinaz, for the heat makes us say and do such irrational things.’ Zarri Bano cast a meaningful glare at Ibrahim. His mouth tightening, he let the moment pass, however, and said nothing.