Kaniz glanced into her mirror, to see her son’s large body hovering stiffly in the doorway. She stumbled up from the dressing-table seat.
‘My son is home!’ She wept with joy.
Urgent strides took her to his side. Drawing him into her arms, she hugged her beloved child against her body. But Khawar remained unyielding in her arms. Disconcerted, Kaniz peeped up into his unsmiling face. Her arms falling to her side, she walked unsteadily back to the dressing table. So he hadn’t forgiven her.
Sitting in front of the mirror, Kaniz began to braid her hair with trembling fingers, into a long thick plait.
‘Are you just passing by, my son, or have you come home to stay?’ she asked nervously.
Khawar didn’t deign to reply, but took out his handkerchief, bent down and began to polish the dust off his boots.
‘Are you staying, or not?’ Kaniz rapped out. She was not at all amused or pleased by his behaviour towards her.
‘I am not sure – for I do not regard this as a home,’ he said loftily. ‘It used to be a home in my father and grandfather’s days. Now I just see it as a large, empty – barren place. A home, Mother, is supposed to be full of love and harmony. This place, on the contrary, is dominated by a tyrannical, selfish woman who cares for no one but herself.’ His dark eyes flashed with hatred.
Dumbfounded, Kaniz just stared. Then a strange thing happened – her eyes fell before his. She was unable either to look him in the face or to retaliate.
‘Yes, I have come home,’ he said finally ‘but only for appearance’s sake and because there is all the land business I have to deal with. Please don’t think I have come for you. You are not fit to be a mother!’
‘You are cruel, my son!’ Kaniz choked her lower lip quivering.
It was true. Khawar was in a savagely cruel mood and had no qualms at all about making his mother suffer. Any love he had ever felt for her had been snuffed out long ago.
‘Guess who I learned my cruelty from,’ he jeered. ‘At your knee, Mother dear. For only a truly heartless, selfish woman would stand in the way of her son’s future happiness. You succeeded in driving Firdaus away from the village, and no doubt feel very pleased with yourself. For that I can never forgive you! Even if you begged her she’d not marry me now. Therefore, you stupid woman, you had better reconcile yourself to dying without ever seeing any grandchildren. For I will never marry, or bring any other woman as a bride into this house. You can now sing all your lullabies to yourself and to these empty walls that you worship. I am going to live here not as your son but as a stranger. You deserve no better.’ Khawar was driven to punish his mother; he had no desire to come back home but had done so because it was his duty – as Fatima had pointed out to him.
‘No, my son, no!’ Kaniz wept.
At one time, the sight of his widowed mother’s tears would have pierced him right through to his soul. Today he turned away in disgust, striding out of the room without giving the stricken woman another glance. In the courtyard, he ordered Neesa to prepare the afternoon meal for him and his chauffeur. ‘I am back home now,’ he informed her dully.
Inside her room, Kaniz stood bereft. The world had simply given way beneath her. Tears of self-pity gushed down her cheeks as her son’s harsh words echoed through her head. How could he say those things to me? I am his mother! She wept in bewilderment. Does he hate me so much that he can abuse me in such a manner?
Kaniz turned away from her distraught reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Am I such a terrible person, she asked herself fearfully, that my beloved and only son has turned against me? For the first time in thirty years Kaniz began to doubt herself, the power and influence she supposedly held in her fair hands and rightfully enjoyed as the village chaudharani.
Afraid of bumping into her son she stayed in her room for the remainder of the afternoon, hiding her swollen red eyes from Neesa as she brought her tray of food to her room.
‘Neesa, has Khawar eaten anything?’ she asked shakingly. ‘Make sure you cook his two favourite dishes tonight: matr pilau and kheer. He has not tasted your cooking for a long time. I don’t know what that old hag has been cooking for him. Bundles of spinach every day from the fields, I guess. Have you noticed my son has lost weight?’ Kaniz kept her ravaged face averted from her housekeeper.
‘No, mistress. He looks fine to me,’ Neesa answered politely before withdrawing, deep in thought, from the room. Something had obviously happened between mother and son. Her mistress hadn’t left her bedroom all day. She normally spent the entire morning on the rooftop balcony.
Half an hour later she came up to tell her mistress that her sister Sabra had arrived on a casual visit. Brightening up, Kaniz quickly glanced in the mirror. The red eyes didn’t matter. She had nothing to hide from Sabra.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ Sabra cried in alarm as soon as she saw her sister’s swollen eyes.
These sympathetic words acted immediately on Kaniz, affording her the luxury of bursting into tears for the second time that afternoon.
‘What’s wrong? Please tell me,’ Sabra said, in alarm, as Kaniz’s large frame trembled against her slight body.
Sabra pulled her down and they sat together on the palang.
‘Tell me the truth, Sabra!’ Kaniz implored ‘Am I cruel and selfish? Khawar definitely thinks I am. He hates me so much! His insults have killed me. He is back, but I think I have truly lost him. Sabra – please, please tell me what to do.’
There was a long pause, as the younger woman’s eyes hovered uncomfortably over her sister’s face. ‘There is only one thing you can do, my dear sister,’ she quietly informed her.
Kaniz’s almond-shaped but very puffy eyes stood huge in her face. ‘Never! Never!’ she shouted.
Sabra politely edged away from her sister’s trembling body. She hadn’t travelled all the way from Punjab to Sind just to quarrel with Kaniz – hence she deftly changed the subject.
‘Have you heard about my brother-in-law, Yousuf? The poor man died last week!’
Chapter 41
ZARRI BANO WAS among a group of Muslim women gathered in the female section of the Regent Park mosque in Central London. They had just finished saying their midday prayers. Saira, the friend, with whom Zarri Bano was staying, had invited her friends to meet and to consult Zarri Bano on all sorts of religious matters. Zarri Bano was happy to oblige. It gave her an opportunity to meet other Muslim women from around the world, living in England.
‘May I begin?’ asked one woman. The group were sitting in a semi-circle near Zarri Bano, on the carpeted floor.
‘Of course,’ she assented with a smile.
‘Thank you, Sister. My name is Dudiya. I am a Muslim refugee from Bosnia. I would like to ask you: what constitutes a “true Muslim”? For you see, in Bosnia, living as a minority in a Communist country, we knew ourselves just as “Muslims”. There were no differences within our community. Here in England, however, I have met and made many Muslim friends and often they ask me which sect I belong to. Am I Shia, they ask, or Shafai or Hanafi or Ismaili? I look back at them, puzzled. I just don’t know. These friends keep encouraging me, pulling me towards their particular group’s beliefs and thoughts. I don’t know what to do, Sister Zarri Bano. Which group should I follow?’ The rest of the women smiled in understanding – they knew what she was trying to say.
‘Sister Dudiya, you do not have to follow a particular group or school of thought or sect, if you do not want to. Just follow the words of Allah from our holy book the Quran and the Hadith, the sayings of our prophet Mohammed, may peace be upon him. Islam, like other religions has, over a period of time, evolved and become subdivided. It would be beneficial for you to learn about the differences and the similarities of these various groups, then you can decide which one, if any, you wish to join – according to your own personal beliefs,’ she ended with a broad smile at Dudiya. The latter, smiling back, nodded her head.
‘Your turn, Sister.’ Zarri Bano beckoned to t
he young Pakistani woman sitting on her right.
‘I find it embarrassing to raise this issue in this company, but my husband complains that I spend too much time on prayers and on reading religious books. It often leads to having quarrels. He sometimes stops me from reading the Quran in the evening, when he is around. I am very shocked and distressed by this because I believe I am not doing anything wrong. What should I do, Sister Zarri Bano?’
Zarri Bano paused to reflect. ‘It is a complex situation,’ she began, dimpling a warm smile at the woman. ‘There is no doubt that you are not doing anything wrong and that your husband shouldn’t stop you from reading the Holy Quran. On the other hand, I can’t help thinking that perhaps he feels neglected and imagines that you are not giving him enough attention. Have you thought about doing your ibadat when he is not around? Allah Pak wants us to remember Him always, hence we have the five prayers in the day, but at the same time, however, He expects us to lead our normal daily lives too. He definitely doesn’t expect us to neglect our family and our loved ones or our work, which places food in our mouths. He best appreciates one who is healthily able to combine both and lead a very normal life. As you know, my sister, Islam is about a complete way of life. You cannot divorce the spiritual side of your life from the material world around you.’ Zarri Bano turned to another woman.
‘My question concerns myself, and is probably representative of the second generation of immigrants, brought up and bred in the West. I find that our lives are full of compromises. For instance, our faith promotes the segregation of the sexes, yet it is practically impossible here. We have to interact at all stages of our lives with men, especially in the workplace. You do understand the situation I am describing?’
Zarri Bano nodded, smiling, and stopped to think for a few seconds before answering. ‘This is a very important issue, of great concern to Muslims all over the world. There are, of course, places such as Saudi Arabia where it is possible to segregate the sexes, however, this luxury is not widely available nor practically possible in most places, especially in countries where you are a minority.
‘All I can say is that you should know instinctively your social, ethical and moral parameters as a Muslim woman. At work you are naturally likely to interact with men at all times. If the relationship is truly professional and platonic and you are able to regard the man as a brother or father figure then it is harmless. It is when there is a chance of it developing into something else that you need to step back. Theses things can have dire consequences. Your instincts should signal to you the difference between what is right and what is wrong. Learn to regard all men as brothers, uncles or father figures and address them as such, if they happen to be Muslim. In the case of non-Muslim men, friends and colleagues, explain to them about your faith and its traditions – so that they cannot misunderstand you, but instead learn to appreciate and respect your behaviour, beliefs and way of life.’
‘Thank you,’ the young woman replied with a smile.
‘You are welcome,’ Zarri Bano replied.
Later in the afternoon, Zarri Bano went with Saira to a café, where they were joined by one of Saira’s friends.
‘This is Jane Foster,’ Saira said. ‘She was particularly keen to meet you, especially when I told her how you had taken the veil.’
The young English woman held out her hand to Zarri Bano, who took it warmly. ‘Thank you for coming, Sister Jane.’
‘I was fascinated by your story, Zarri Bano. Saira told me about your university days, when you studied with her. She showed me a photograph of you in a pair of Levi’s with only a short blouse on top. Now seeing you wrapped in this veil, I am unable to put the two pictures together in my mind. I want to ask you whether you found it difficult to wear the hijab at first and why did you do it anyway? I hope you don’t think I am being too personal.’
Uneasy about discussing her past and the burqa with a virtual stranger, Zarri Bano did, in fact, feel cornered by Jane’s question. She wished that Saira hadn’t been so generous in showing old photos of herself and discussing her.
‘It is true that I found it very strange at first, Jane, when I began to wear the hijab. Two years ago I wanted to tear it aside: now I cannot live without it. The veil has given me a sense of my self-worth, respect and dignity. Above all, it has freed me from vanity. I never thought it would be easy but I have been able to shed myself of the trappings of female vanity. You must not misunderstand me, Jane. I am not saying that all Muslim women lead very simple and unglamorous lives – that would be a misconception. On the contrary, behind closed doors and behind the hijab, most of the women here could compete with any woman in Knightsbridge, in the art of looking good.’
‘And you, Zarri Bano, are you still dolled up behind your veil?’ Jane asked with a speculative gleam in her eyes.
‘No,’ Zarri Bano answered quietly. ‘Not any more. I have passed that stage in my life – a stage that now, in retrospect, seems so trivial. Once my whole life was devoted to looking good, and presenting a glamorous smart image to the public world. Now I am content with my simple burqa. I do not dress to please others and in deference to them. Thank you for your question, Sister Jane. The veil has always perplexed and tantalised the Western world, both men and women alike. It is a disconcerting phenomenon for them as much now as it ever was. Westerners have always misunderstood the reason why women wear it. To add insult to injury, they see it as a symbol of male oppression – a widely accepted stereotyped myth. They think that women are forced to wear it by their menfolk.
‘I can assure you, my friend, that in the current climate, there are more women now in the hijab, by their own free will, than ever before. There has been an international scarf revolution, a symbol of Muslim women’s unity. My father has criticised me for wearing it at home. Now I feel bare without it.’
Zarri Bano stopped to drink her coffee, deciding she had said enough on this controversial issue. Jane Foster’s expression had changed from mild interest to amazement. It was not the answer she had been expecting.
‘We are not freaks,’ Zarri Bano could not resist adding, ‘just women who like to dress in a modest fashion and believe in covering ourselves well. All we ask is that people respect us and our dress code.’
‘Of course,’ Jane Foster said quickly, a blush spreading across her cheek.
‘Saira, I wish you hadn’t told everything about me or showed those shameful photographs to a complete stranger,’ Zarri Bano confronted her friend, as they walked out of the café. ‘Please don’t use me as food for entertainment and sensationalism.’
‘I am sorry, I didn’t think you would mind,’ Saira replied guiltily, as they walked through Piccadilly Circus.
‘I suppose,’ after a short pause, ‘that you also told her about my ceremony?’ Zarri Bano fixed an accusing glare at her friend.
‘No,’ Saira lied, thinking it prudent not to tell Zarri Bano the truth. Jane Foster was a journalist and Saira had told her everything. ‘Are you coming home with me or going to visit your sister in the hotel?’ She asked, wanting to steer Zarri Bano away from the subject of the hijab. She herself didn’t wear it and thus found it an awkward topic.
‘I’ll go to the hotel to see Haris again. He’s so lovely, I can’t wait to hold him. I have promised Ruby that I’ll go with her and Sikander to the theatre tonight. They want to see a play in the West End.’
‘Don’t be too late. Remember that they are expecting you at seven-thirty tomorrow evening to give the lecture at Manchester Metropolitan University. Before that we are stopping over at Birmingham. I don’t want you to get too tired,’ Saira reminded her friend in concern as they reached the underground station.
‘I won’t be, Allah Hafiz!’ Zarri Bano waved Saira off as she went down into the station, then walked along to the traffic lights, and crossed over the road to the hotel where her sister’s family was staying. Ruby and Sikander with their one-year-old son Haris had been on a trip to Europe and had decided to spend three days in L
ondon to coincide with Zarri Bano’s three-week tour of England.
As she entered the foyer through a side door, she saw Sikander lounging on a large sofa, his eyes on the revolving doors. Zarri Bano blinked, looking away. She pulled the hood of the burqa further onto her forehead, feeling for any missing stray locks of hair. He was waiting for her to walk in!
Sikander watched her glide across the carpeted floor to stand near him. Still avoiding any eye-contact with him, she admired the large Turner oil-painting of a ship on the wall behind him.
‘Assalam-Alaikum! Where are Ruby and Haris?’ she asked politely, sitting down on the sofa opposite him and wishing he would take his eyes off her face.
‘Mother and son are waiting for you upstairs. Ruby wants you to go to Harrods with her.’
Zarri Bano chuckled, as she recalled her sister’s lifelong wish to shop at Harrods. Sikander’s face relaxed and he too laughed. Then with a serious expression he asked. ‘What are your plans, Sister Zarri Bano? Will you be returning to Pakistan with us or staying longer? We are heading for Singapore. I – we were wondering whether you would like to join us.’ He looked down.
‘I am sorry, Brother Sikander.’ Zarri Bano stood up abruptly. ‘I have other plans. Will you excuse me? I shall go upstairs to see Ruby and Haris.’
Her eyes blurring, she walked quickly away from him and into an elevator. Singapore was where he had promised to take her for their honeymoon.
Chapter 42
HUSBAND AND WIFE laughed as their grandson Haris jumped off Habib’s lap and ran out of their bedroom, to go down to his own parents and Aunt Zarri Bano.
‘Shahzada, please ask Zarri Bano to come and see me. I cannot rest until I have unburdened myself to her,’ Habib informed his wife. ‘The cancer has been eating away at me for the past three years,’ he sighed.
‘What cancer?’ Shahzada asked in alarm, straightening up. Although she didn’t love her husband anymore, she still cared for his physical well-being.
The Holy Woman Page 28