The Holy Woman

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  He gently shifted Shahzada away from his shoulder. Then, sitting up straight he held up his two hands together in front of her, in a manner reminiscent of traditional begging for forgiveness.

  ‘No, Aba Jan!’ Shahzada shrieked, her eyes stricken. She jumped off his bed as if she had been stung and grasped his hands tightly in her own. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her voice breaking.

  ‘Forgive me, Shahzada. I know my son touched your feet. We committed a crime against you and your daughter. I don’t know if you’ll let me touch your feet, but will my hands do instead?’

  ‘Please, Aba Jan! Do not insult me or yourself by this act,’ she cried. ‘I cannot bear it! You don’t need to do this. I forgive you. But please, put your hands down. You are making me tremble.’ She printed kisses all over his gnarled hands, touched to the core of her being, holding his hands against her face.

  ‘All right, Shahzada. I will put my hands down, but let me say, you are aptly named a princess indeed – a “shahzadi”, a woman of noble bearing. I am and have always been honoured in having you as my daughter-in-law. May you have a long life and may Allah give you the peace of mind you so crave. I will pray for you in all my prayers. Go and rest, my child. I’ll have a word with Zarri Bano tomorrow morning.’ He gently withdrew his hands out of her tight grasp.

  ‘Khudah Hafiz, Aba Jan.’ Bidding him goodnight, and turning the hookah pipe back to his mouth, Shahzada got up. She returned to her portable bed on the verandah, but couldn’t sleep. It was a long time since she had had such a heart-to-heart chat with her father-in-law. Her own parents lived far away and she very rarely saw them. She closed her eyes in stunned disbelief as she thought of her father-in-law’s hands held out in supplication, asking for her forgiveness. That, from such a proud zemindar! She shuddered, ashamed on his behalf. To have stooped to such a level as holding hands up to his daughter-in-law. It was unthinkable! ‘And he did it for me! I forgive you, Aba Jan,’ she cried generously in her sleep.

  Next morning, after breakfast served by Naimat Bibi on the open verandah, Siraj Din asked his granddaughter to accompany him on his daily walk in the fields.

  ‘Yes, of course, Grandfather. Haris and I will love that. Come along, little one!’

  She had just supervised her nephew’s meal after getting him dressed and combing his hair. She followed her grandfather out of the house and took the path through the village, greeting all the women she met. They indulgently watched Haris hopping in front of them on the narrow, dusty path.

  ‘You love your nephew very much, don’t you, my dear?’ Siraj Din began, with his eyes on the ground and prodding it with his ivory walking stick.

  ‘Yes I do, Grandfather. He is very precious to me.’ A smile lit up her face.

  ‘You, too, are very precious to us, both to me and your mother. You do understand that, don’t you, Zarri Bano?’ He smiled back at her.

  ‘Yes, of course, Grandfather,’ Zarri Bano laughed, keeping pace with his stick.

  ‘Your mother was talking to me last night. She was very sad on your behalf.’ The easy bantering tone was gone.

  ‘Was she?’ A wariness entered Zarri Bano’s voice.

  ‘Yes, and you know why, don’t you?’ Siraj Din said.

  Zarri Bano held her breath. ‘If you know why, then I can tell you that I cannot do what she asks,’ she answered coolly, looking ahead and keeping a careful eye on Haris.

  ‘Not even if your grandfather requested it of you?’ Siraj Din prompted softly.

  Zarri Bano stopped walking and she turned to face her grandfather. He saw the grim line of her soft pink mouth. Siraj Din stopped too and leaned heavily on his stick. Granddaughter and grandfather stared at each other with equal determination.

  ‘You and father used moral and psychological pressure to make me into a Holy Woman,’ she told him now. ‘I obliged and submitted then. I will not do it this second time, Grandfather, not even if you went on your knees. I am not a wax doll that you can mould to your whim. Moreover, I have no wish to marry any man, ever! Please do not raise this subject again. It is very painful for me. Forgive me for my rudeness, Grandfather, but I cannot oblige you. You see, I cannot do it as my own individual autonomy is at stake.’

  If Siraj Din was disappointed, he hid it well. Zarri Bano’s refusal was understandable. He swallowed his wounded pride, but felt sorry for Shahzada. He had promised her. He tried again.

  ‘Zarri Bano, my dear, forgive us for what we did,’ he began.

  ‘There is nothing to forgive, Grandfather. I am very happy with my life.’ She walked briskly away.

  ‘I know you are, my dear, but now I think that marriage would be good for you.’ As soon as he had uttered the words Siraj Din regretted them.

  ‘How gracious of you to think so,’ Zarri Bano said sarcastically. ‘Marriage is good for me now, is it? But it wasn’t good for me five years ago – why? Do you know, Grandfather, I was engaged to be married to a man I really wanted to marry, but you and Father tyrannically vetoed it. I did what you wanted me to do. Not now, not this time, Baba Jee.’

  ‘Well, you can marry him now, Zarri Bano,’ Siraj Din hastened to offer.

  ‘No, Grandfather, I cannot. It is five years too late. For you see, in case you haven’t noticed, I am a different person now. I have no desire for marriage – with or without your gracious permission. My father blackmailed me into becoming a Holy Woman by refusing to give permission for me to marry. I didn’t need anybody’s permission, I was a grown adult, but I became a prisoner of our female and filial sense of duty. When I gave into that, I sacrificed my soul and happiness and peace of mind. I will not do the same again. To do so would be to lose the essence of my individual autonomy. If I lose that, then God forbid, I might as well be a dummy – a phutley.’

  ‘I don’t know about souls or individual autonomy or phutleys. All we are asking you, Zarri Bano, is for you to become a mother to Haris,’ Siraj Din stated, his voice hardening.

  ‘I am sorry, Grandfather, the answer is still no.’ Her voice matched his in hardness. She swept round to follow Haris.

  There was nothing further to say. Silence reigned between them – a unique experience for Siraj Din. He was used to people running to do his bidding. His granddaughter’s flat refusal was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

  Why couldn’t she have refused them five years ago? In his heart he knew the answer. Zarri Bano had had no chance in the face of four strong males. What could a mere slip of a girl, only twenty-seven years of age, do when faced with a father, an uncle, a grandfather and an elder? She had had no option but to submit, to bow down before them all.

  Chapter 52

  ‘IT IS TO no avail, Sahiba.’ Fatima had gone straight to her mistress in her bedroom as soon as she had had a talk with Zarri Bano. ‘She will not listen, and is adamant that she doesn’t want to marry him. You are right; she feels genuine revulsion against the idea.’

  ‘Thank you for trying, Fatima.’ Shahzada sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know what to do. She will probably avoid me even more now. Today she didn’t even come home for lunch, but remained at the madrasa, pretending that she had to organise an important meeting. I will have to tell Sikander tomorrow when he comes for Haris. I am dreading it. Do you know, a week goes so quickly, Fatima. It seems only yesterday that Haris came to stay with us.’

  The following evening, Sikander arrived to collect his son. ‘Where is your aunt, Haris?’ he asked after taking some refreshment and cuddling the child.

  ‘She is still at the madrasa, Sikander my son,’ Shahzada replied.

  ‘I see. It’s very late, isn’t it? Shall I go and walk her home, or has the chauffeur gone to collect her?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, don’t worry. I have sent Ali to accompany her,’ Shahzada told him, knowing instinctively that Zarri Bano had deliberately stayed late at the madrasa so that she wouldn’t have to meet Sikander. Shahzada had made up her mind to be honest with him and let him know exactly what had happened bet
ween her daughter and herself.

  ‘Sikander, I liked your suggestion very much,’ she began. He looked up at her sharply. ‘You know what I am talking about, don’t you? Well I have talked to Zarri Bano about it and I am very sorry, my son, but she wouldn’t listen or consider it. She is totally against it.’

  Sikander tried to mask his disappointment. ‘I see’, he commented after a while.

  ‘You can understand her situation, can’t you?’ Shahzada appealed for his understanding.

  ‘Yes, I can, Auntie,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘She is a changed person these days. She accused us of treating her like a wax doll, moulding her when it suited us and our circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine Zarri Bano saying that – and thinking that. That is probably what I would have thought in her shoes. I remember her telling me a long time ago that above all she would not be moulded, yet ironically she has been.’

  ‘Also she feels guilty over her sister’s death. The thought of replacing Ruby is abhorrent to her.’

  Again Sikander listened intently but didn’t reply immediately.

  ‘Come on, son. We must go home,’ he said at last, and stood up to leave. Then turning to Shahzada again. ‘Is it all right for me to talk personally to her about it? Do I have your permission?’

  ‘Of course, my dear, please do. I would like you to marry my daughter very much.’

  Sikander smiled his thanks. ‘Rather than me bringing Haris over, is it possible that you could persuade Zarri Bano to come over to Karachi in a week’s time to collect him? I would like to see her there very much, and so would my parents.’

  ‘I don’t know if it is the right thing to do,’ Shahzada worried. ‘The way Zarri Bano is at the moment, she runs at the mere mention of your name. I will try my very best or I will come myself.’

  ‘Good. Please do that. Khudah Hafiz, Auntie.’

  He walked out into the darkened front courtyard. Just as he approached his Jeep, he saw Zarri Bano in her long black cloak, come into the courtyard with Ali.

  Zarri Bano stopped on seeing him. She was caught, undecided whether to go back or forward. Common sense spelt that it had to be forward. Sikander remained standing under the canopied verandah, with his son held tightly in his arms, waiting for her to approach him.

  ‘Assalam-Alaikum, Brother Sikander,’ she ventured, laying deliberate stress on the word Brother.

  ‘Wa Laikum-Salam, Zarri Bano,’ he replied quietly, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkness of the verandah. She noted his omission of the word ‘Sister’. For the last four years, during his marriage to Ruby, he had respectfully addressed her as ‘Sister Zarri Bano’. Her cheeks flared with colour in the dark.

  ‘I am taking Haris home.’ Sikander had now walked up to her.

  ‘I see. Is Auntie all right?’ Zarri Bano asked politely, trying to keep to the banal level of social pleasantries. She still hadn’t looked him in the eye, but had her eyes on Haris, who leaned forward and took hold of her arm.

  ‘Auntie, will you come to pick me up next week in Karachi?’ he piped. ‘Grandmother said you would. You must come and stay with us for two days.’ Haris was blissfully ignorant of the tension crackling between the two adults.

  Zarri Bano caught her breath, trapped by Haris’s question. ‘No, darling, I can’t. I am going to a meeting in Multan next week,’ she replied truthfully.

  ‘Well, come when you’ve been there. You never come to our Karachi home, Auntie, do you?’ Childish petulance spilled out of his small mouth.

  Zarri Bano felt herself falling deeper into the trap.

  ‘My son issues invitations for me. I don’t have to do it,’ a smiling Sikander uttered softly in his deep voice.

  Zarri Bano stepped back, an expression of panic on her face. This time she looked him directly in the eye. The idea had to be nipped in the bud. She couldn’t pretend ignorance any more.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother Sikander, but I really will have to decline that invitation. Perhaps later, when you remarry, I will attend your wedding.’

  ‘You will,’ he replied cryptically, before moving away with his son in his arms. Once he placed Haris on the passenger seat of the Jeep, he turned once again to give Zarri Bano another sweeping look. She stood watching, shaken by the strange tingling awareness entering her body.

  She entered her home, disgusted with herself and her feelings, and quashed them with two sharp words: ‘Never Again!’ That chapter of her life was over – never to be lived again.

  Over the next few days, Shahzada tried very hard to hint to Zarri Bano that they should go to collect Haris next time. The girl declined. ‘Mother, you go! There is no need for me to be there. You can send Ali to pick him up.’ Now she was beginning to think there was a conspiracy to send her to Karachi and throw her into Sikander’s company.

  ‘Mother, why do you persist? You know that I am not supposed to meet a gheir merd, an outsider.’ She turned on her mother angrily.

  ‘But Sikander is not a gheir merd,’ Shahzada insisted.

  ‘Oh yes he is. He is no blood relative of mine, thus he is gher. Until he remarries someone, I don’t want to have anything to do with him or his family. Please do not plot on my account behind my back, because the answer will always be the same.’

  Three days later Zarri Bano reluctantly ended up accompanying her mother to Karachi. She had postponed her visit to Lahore because Haris had been taken ill, and wanted to have his Aunt Zarri Bano and his other grandmother with him. Trapped, she agreed to go. If Haris really was ill, it would be so unkind of her to stay away. He had said over the telephone in his groggy voice, ‘Auntie, please come. I miss you so much. I love you. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ Zarri Bano had said resignedly. Haris was the epicentre of their world, a living remnant of her sister. She could never refuse such a heartfelt request. ‘I will deal with Sikander when the time comes,’ Zarri Bano told herself firmly.

  Looking at Haris a few hours later in his bed in Karachi, Zarri Bano was ashamed of her selfishness. ‘It is all right, my darling. Aunty’s here to stay with you,’ she promised, gathering the feverish little boy into her arms and printing kisses on his hot forehead. A lump suddenly arose in her throat for her dead sister. With Haris still in her arms, she gave in to the urge to weep.

  ‘Auntie, are you crying?’ Haris said, looking up inquisitively at Zarri Bano.

  ‘Yes, I am, my darling. I am crying for your mummy, because I miss her so much.’

  ‘I miss her too,’ he sniffed in his small voice.

  ‘We all miss her, but crying will not help,’ Sikander chipped in, having come into the room. Zarri Bano wiped her eyes with her hands and turned to look. Sikander and Bilkis stood together, warmth in their eyes, as they beheld the aunt and nephew wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Zarri Bano patted the little boy’s cheeks with a tissue. ‘Haris, won’t you drink a little of the soup that your Dadi Ama has brought for you?’ She took it from Bilkis and tasted it herself first. ‘Oh, it is yummy! You try it now.’ Spooning some of it into Haris’s mouth, she concentrated hard on the soup, because her body was aware of Sikander sitting on the other end of the bed, leaning forward and watching them both intently.

  ‘You are lucky to have your aunt to spend so much time with you,’ Sikander told his son. ‘Your other two aunts, my sisters, live so far away and are so busy with their own children that they cannot come at such short notice.’

  ‘I may live nearby, Sikander Sahib,’ Zarri Bano explained curtly to Sikander, ‘but as you know I, too, lead a very busy life and have little time to spare. I only came because Haris was ill. I’m especially busy now that I am hoping to set up the publishing company, as I intended to do five years ago.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Sahiba. I didn’t mean to imply that you had nothing to do,’ Sikander quickly amended. ‘We know you have a very busy life. I am also aware that you postponed your visit to Lahore. We are all very grateful that you have spared so m
uch of your time for this visit. Were you thinking of Karachi as the base for your company?’ he asked with keen interest, a light coming into his eyes.

  ‘I am not sure yet, but I am hoping to specialise in academic and scholarly books, perhaps in Hyderabad or Islamabad,’ she answered evasively, having already purchased the land in Karachi for the company. He didn’t know, nor did her mother – only her grandfather.

  Zarri Bano went downstairs for the evening meal and joined her mother. Soon afterwards, she returned to Haris’s room and decided to sleep with the little chap. Ever since his mother’s death, Haris had always slept with Zarri Bano when he was staying with her. Slipping out of her burqa and pulling on her night kurta, Zarri Bano climbed into the large bed, pulled Haris into her arms and fell asleep.

  Sikander called in a little later in the evening. As he saw his son cuddled up against his aunt, something caught in his throat. He stood for a long time staring down at them both. It was the first time that he had seen her sleeping in his home. ‘I’m not going to let her go! I must talk to her very soon; each day is a wasted day,’ he told himself in exasperation, closing the door behind him.

  Sikander found his opportunity to speak to Zarri Bano two days later. She was out in the orange orchard, playing with Haris. The child’s health had improved over the last forty-eight hours. Zarri Bano wasn’t aware of Sikander’s presence for some time as she was totally engrossed in playing hide and seek with her nephew, delighting in his healthy childish giggles.

  ‘Oh, there is Daddy!’ Haris cried, running towards Sikander. When Zarri Bano turned to watch, the smile had left her face. Sikander caught his son in his arms and watched her closely over the little boy’s head.

  His scorching gaze captured hers fully. The words, ‘Haram! Haram! It is a sin!’ thundered through her mind as she hastily looked away. ‘I mustn’t look at a gheir merd,’ she mumbled to herself.