Stretching out her stiff legs on the verandah, Kulsoom decided to see how her friend Naimat Bibi was coping with the preparation of the mourning feast for the guests. As she reached the corridor leading into the large kitchen, the thought occurred to Kulsoom that at least Naimat Bibi was working in the pleasant surroundings of a well-equipped kitchen, including being blessed with an air conditioner. How many kitchens in the village, apart from Chaudharani Kaniz’s, could boast one of those?
She put her head around the door, and silently watched her friend fast at work on the feast. Standing next to the large cooker and heavily stirring a pot full of meat, Naimat Bibi was oblivious of the other woman’s presence. Her face was flushed, and beads of sweat were trickling down her face. As she reached for the towel to wipe them away, she glimpsed her friend in the doorway.
‘When did you come in, Kulsoom?’ she accused. ‘You are always creeping up on me.’
‘Well, Naimat Bibi, despite the sweat, you can’t argue that this job is something you could do for life, especially as Baba Siraj Din is very generous. I am sure he is going to pay you handsomely.’
Hearing the trace of envy in her friend’s voice, Naimat Bibi replied tartly, ‘You should try cooking fifteen kilos of lamb some time, Kulsoom Jee! Your bony arms would have cracked in two with five kilos of meat, never mind fifteen. I earn every penny with my sweat, as you can see. The other cook who has been hired is a real lazy one. She has only cooked the rice and prepared the dough, and walked off leaving me with all this meat to cook, and also over a hundred chapattis to bake as well. Can you imagine her cheek?’
‘She probably thinks that as you make a living out of cooking chapattis, it would be a doddle for you!’ Kulsoom joked.
‘Doddle! My grey hair! I have been slaving away non-stop since morning. The guests just keep pouring in from all over Pakistan and they all have to be fed, and on time. The breakfast is barely finished when it is time for the afternoon meal, and as soon as the dishes are cleared away it is time for the evening meal. And do you know what else?’
‘What, Naimat Bibi?’ Kulsoom’s cheeks plumped out with laughter.
‘Have you noticed how some of the villagers just seem to arrive to offer their condolences, at the time when the dinners are being served?’ The old woman burst out indignantly.
‘Well, if you are going to be counting rice grains on everyone’s plates, I had better get home and eat my meal there,’ Kulsoom said huffily.
‘Don’t be silly, I wasn’t talking about you. Baba Siraj Din has ordered enough food for the whole village. Seven lambs have been slaughtered. He expects everyone to eat here.’
‘You should be very pleased with the work. In fact, I am beginning to wonder whether I am in the wrong business. A month of cooking here, as well as a normal chapatti-making business, would tide me over nicely. I don’t earn that much in my matchmaking business,’ Kulsoom Bibi stated ruefully.
‘Come on, Kulsoom, I am not that simple, no matter what you think. I know very well that this mourning period is a heaven-sent opportunity for you to entice new clients into your matchmaking webs,’ her old friend chided her. ‘As we all know, quite a lot of marriages are arranged during this time, because with everyone gathered together it is a golden opportunity for people to cement relationships and build up rapport amongst themselves. And this is where your role comes in.’ Naimat Bibi was well aware that, during the period of Jafar’s mourning, Kulsoom had managed to arrange three matches, earning herself three fat fees.
‘That may be so, but this time, things are different. It must be your evil eye,’ Kulsoom teased her friend. ‘All the women I have met so far either have married children, or they are too young or just don’t happen to need my services. There are over thirty women here at the moment and I have been with them for two days, but nothing has come of it. Nobody needs any marriage arranging.’ Kulsoom grimaced and sighed heavily.
‘I am sorry,’ Naimat Bibi offered insincerely, turning the other way to hide the smirk on her face.
‘I had better get back to the gathering. Did you know Habib Khan touched his wife’s feet before going to hajj? Now that is what I call wifely devotion.’ Kulsoom’s eyes were beady with mischief and speculation.
‘Pity neither of us have got a husband to touch our feet,’ Naimat Bibi tittered.
Both the friends laughed. Before Kulsoom left, she had deigned to taste two bowlfuls of meat from the two cooking pots. In recompense she had ended up rolling seventy small balls of dough ready to make chapattis as a way of helping her friend.
Zarri Bano left the room full of women, wanting to get away from them, unable to cope any longer with their dramatic mood swings. From a well-synchronised chorus of chanting and wailing on each other’s shoulders one minute, the next moment they were happily gossiping amongst themselves, as to who had recently got married – how many tolas of gold the bride had inherited, and who had died.
She went on the verandah, and looked around, catching sight of Sikander in the far corner of the courtyard. He stood alone with his son in his arms under the grapevine. Something caught in Zarri Bano’s throat. Her eyes filled with tears, aching for her sister. With her vision blurred she crossed the courtyard and joined Sikander under the tree. They stood together in companionable silence, joined by their grief. His chin on the head of his sleeping son, his eyes rested on the tears shining on her cheek.
‘I am so sorry, Brother Sikander.’ The words tripped over the painful lump in her throat. ‘Please forgive me. I should never have let you two go to hajj together. It was my idea. If Ruby had not gone, my nephew wouldn’t be motherless today.’
‘Don’t, Zarri Bano. Please don’t blame yourself or anyone. It was fated to happen.’
‘If only you had been with her – by her side – I am sure you would have saved her.’ Zarri Bano couldn’t help voicing her regrets, nor control the fresh flood of tears as she saw his arms tighten protectively around his son.
‘Don’t punish yourself or me – please, Zarri Bano,’ he appealed. Then his hand unable to help itself, reached out to her face, tenderly wiping the tears from her cheeks. He could never bear to see Zarri Bano cry. ‘Please don’t cry. We have all our lives to weep,’ he whispered sadly. Then he left her standing alone as he walked out into the night, with his son in his arms. He wandered alone in the village fields, staring up at the sky, mourning for his beloved wife.
In the other corner of the courtyard, in the shadows of the verandah, Siraj Din was reclining on a bolster on his portable bed. He had watched his granddaughter standing and talking to Sikander under the tree and seen the young man’s hand reaching out to her face. His green eyes glittered coldly in the night.
Later that night, when all the guests were sleeping soundly in their allocated beds, Shahzada went to pay her nightly respects to her father-in-law, before going to her own bed. He asked her to sit and talk with him for a short time.
‘Shahzada, I heard your chant this evening with the women. I was not pleased. Why do you blame yourself, my dear, and say all those things about you and Habib in front of a group of village gossipmongers?’
‘I meant every word, Aba Jan. They are all true,’ she replied unrepentantly.
‘No, my dearest Shahzada, they aren’t true. You are being very harsh on yourself. You were a good wife – always have been. Habib did wrong by you; he threatened you with talaks. He was in the wrong. You were sinned against.’
‘Aba Jan, you are very generous, but I wasn’t a good wife. I am so ashamed to say I never forgave him. He even touched my feet.’ She began to sob quietly. ‘I will carry the burden of this guilt inside me for the rest of my life.’
‘Oh Shahzada, daughter – you talk of the burden of guilt, but you don’t know the meaning of the word! If you were to look through the dark window of my soul, into my heart, you would soon learn that there is a scale of sinning, and my soul happens to top the lot. In our own ways we are all sinners, Shahzada. We all carry guilt or dark s
ecrets inside us. Your Habib just threatened you with a divorce and you were shattered, unable to forgive him. Imagine what it must be like for an innocent woman to be divorced from a beloved husband, who didn’t want to divorce her.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Shahzada was confused.
A bitter laugh escaped Siraj Din’s mouth. ‘I forced a woman to be divorced with three thalaks on the spot, by a husband who didn’t want to divorce her. I did that! Tell me now, Shahzada – who bears the greatest burden in life? Do you think Allah will ever forgive me for all this? I sleep in fear of nightmares, of the haunted look in the wretched woman’s eyes. I sometimes think my family is cursed because of her sighs and tears!’
‘Who was she?’
‘A beautiful young woman with long black hair. I will tell you about her one day. All I know is that I need to see her again and ask for her forgiveness. I couldn’t die without doing that. You must find her for me. I haven’t seen her for twenty years.’ Siraj Din’s voice petered away, lost in thought. Just as she rose to leave him, he stopped her with the following words.
‘I saw Sikander touch my granddaughter on her face, Shahzada.’
The words hung awkwardly between them in the night. Siraj Din with his eyebrows raised turned to look at his daughter-in-law – waiting for and expecting an explanation.
Shahzada sat down heavily on the edge of his charpoy. With a serious look in her eyes she explained, ‘He was probably wiping away her tears, as he has been doing for the last three days. He is a very tender, caring person.’ Then when she saw the speculative look beaming at her from his eyes, she added, ‘Sikander cares very deeply for my daughter.’ There was nothing else left in her life but honesty.
Siraj Din was silent for a long time. Eventually he asked. ‘And Zarri Bano?’
A tortured laugh escaped Shahzada. She looked away into the night, at the shadows of the trees in the courtyard.
‘My daughter is now too afraid, too emotionally bruised, to care for anyone. Everything she cared about and the people she loved, she lost. Now she herself is lost – to a life of religious contemplation.’
Tiredly she got up to go to bed. It had been a long, long day.
Chapter 46
FROM HER BEDROOM window on the top floor of the hawaili, Kaniz’s forlorn gaze followed her son’s white horse as it cantered out of the village. She saw Khawar stop and talk to one of the farmers near the village well. Then he took the path towards the brick-making bhatta complex, with its two smoke-belching kilns.
As her son disappeared from sight Kaniz’s vacant stare fell on the sugar-cane crop, circling the village. Razed to the ground, the sugar cane was stacked into huge bundles, before being taken by truck to the nearest town and sold to the factories to make sugar.
Kaniz was slowly wilting away, barricaded behind a wall of humiliation. ‘A full year has passed and Khawar hasn’t said a single word to me!’ Her piteous voice echoed around the room as she turned away from the window. Barely civil to her when they were together, at other times Khawar avoided his mother completely. The longing for one warm smile, for one kind word from him had grown deeper with each day that passed.
Kaniz tried her best to ignore the situation, but the estrangement was slowly eating her away, making her lose interest in all things, including her passion for running the hawaili and business accounts for the land. Kaniz’s grip on normal life was fast disappearing. She cared not for films, clothes or gossip. Nor did she bother to seek suitable rishtas for her son. She had even stopped sniping at Neesa. In short, nothing mattered any more!
It was Neesa who noticed the gradual change in her mistress. Happy with her lot, now that Chaudharani Sahiba was no longer quite so verbally abusive, she nevertheless cared for Kaniz’s well-being and ached on her mistress’s behalf. Bravely she decided to voice her misgivings to Khawar, one evening while serving him his meal.
‘Khawar, my young Sahib, I am worried about your mother. She is not the same woman any more. You must spend more time with her. You are her only son,’ she beseeched respectfully.
‘Neesa, this is between my mother and me. Please don’t presume to discuss her with me!’ he admonished, standing up from the table, his meal unfinished. The subject of his mother was a thorny one. It perplexed him that his heart, instead of softening towards Kaniz, seemed to be hardening with time.
His Aunt Sabra had endeavoured many a time on her numerous visits to thaw her nephew’s manner towards his mother. Like Neesa, however, she learned to her dismay that neither cajoling words nor reasoning would do the trick. He was simply unable to find it in himself to forgive her.
‘Oh Sabra, Khawar and I are like two strangers,’ Kaniz had tearfully confided in her. ‘I want to hold my son against my chest, but I can’t even look him in the eye. All I see in them is so much resentment. What have I done that is so terribly wrong that my Khawar treats me so shabbily? It’s been over two years since we last had a proper conversation, can you believe it?’ Kaniz’s pleading tone tore at her sister’s heart.
‘It’s all right,’ Sabra soothed, embracing her sister tightly in her arms.
‘That witch, Fatima, was right all along. I have lost my son. They have taken him away from me – if not physically. Fatima took everything from me. My husband – he was hers. And now her daughter has tricked my son away from me.’
‘No, my dear sister, she hasn’t. Your son is still with you. She has departed. It is she who doesn’t want your son.’
‘I tell you, Sabra, I am going to die from this estrangement.’ Her lower lip quivering with distress, Kaniz tried to make her sister understand the situation. ‘I only have one son. I live just for Khawar. I remained a single woman for his sake. As you know, I turned down Younas Raees, the landowner, when I was twenty-seven years of age. You have other children. If one doesn’t speak to you, you can easily turn to the others. To whom shall I turn, apart from you, Sabra? I have no one else!’
Sabra debated with herself about what she could do to help her sister. It was time for honesty. Drawing the other woman against her shoulder again, she whispered compassionately, ‘Then as a mother, decide with your heart what you can do for your son.’
Feeling her sister go still in her arms, Sabra continued in the same tone, hoping that her sister understood her meaning. ‘Sometimes in life we have to gulp down cups of poison for the sake of our children’s happiness. That is one of life’s wicked dances. We may have to deny and sacrifice our own happiness for their sake.’
Understanding her meaning only too distinctly, Kaniz’s heart sank in dismay and then turned to stone. She moved out of her sister’s arms and sat down heavily on the charpoy on the verandah. Sabra stood and watched her sister’s reaction with disappointment, her arms still open, telling herself sadly, ‘I had to say that.’
For the remainder of the day, Kaniz refused to speak to Sabra. Her face was stormy, signalling to everyone that ‘Chaudharani Kaniz was in one of her moods’.
At night-time, Kaniz tossed noisily on her bed, her sleep disturbed with one particular dream. She was standing in the courtyard of her hawaili. Khawar stood on the opposite side, his face wearing a harsh expression. In the middle of her courtyard was Firdaus, a bewitching smile on her lips, her arms held out to Khawar … Agitated, Kaniz bit her lips together, waking up and tasting the salty blood on her tongue.
‘I’ll do anything to get my son back – anything! Even drink poison, as Sabra suggested. I’ll even let that dreadful woman into my home!’ she told the dark walls of her room, the love for her son burning through her.
Sitting up in bed, she wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead and the blood from her lips with her muslin chador. Leaving her room, she went up to the rooftop gallery and let the cool night air sway against her body. Feeling defeated she glanced across at Fatima’s house two streets away, recalling her sister’s words, ‘Life’s wicked dances.’ Life was about to make Kaniz perform one of those dances. Restlessly she padded barefoot to and fro
on the rooftop gallery of her home, lost in thought and shivering now with the night chill. When Kaniz decided on something, she never looked back.
After she saw her sister off, the very next afternoon, Kaniz told her chauffeur to get the car out. ‘I am going shopping in the town bazaar,’ she told him loftily.
Once they had left the village road, Kaniz directed the driver to take her to the town’s local women’s college. On arrival, she instructed him to wait outside the college gate for her. Finding the entrance, she went to the reception and asked the young secretary if she could see the Vice Principal, Madam Firdaus. She was offered a seat on the comfortable chairs in the carpeted reception area, while the Vice Principal was contacted over the phone.
Kaniz waited with her heart beating a slow tattoo. Hearing steps come down the concrete corridor, she looked up expectantly.
An astounded Firdaus stood in front of her. Kaniz held her gaze steadily. Firdaus turned and was on the point of leaving the room, when the older woman’s arm shot out and grasped her.
‘Please wait. Don’t go.’ She stood up.
The hint of a plea in Kaniz’s voice took Firdaus by surprise. Turning she looked pointedly down at the hand restraining her. Gently but firmly, Firdaus pulled her arm away from her visitor’s grasp.
‘I need to see you. Please spare me a few minutes, Firdaus,’ Kaniz pleaded, her voice breaking.
Firdaus couldn’t quite believe her words or the fact that the proud Chaudharani was here. Then she hardened, recalling the scene in her school office. It is because of this woman I had to abandon my school and the village, she thought angrily. Why won’t she leave me in peace! Is she here to heap further abuse on my head?
‘I don’t blame you for fleeing from me,’ Kaniz said with quiet dignity, ‘but I have come so far, Firdaus, so bear with me for one minute.’
‘Very well. Please come this way to my office,’ Firdaus threw crisply over her shoulder at Kaniz.
The Holy Woman Page 32