Under the shade of a mature tree with its gnarled dry roots spread across the path was the old village well. It was now redundant in use, apart from drawing water for the fields using the buffalo plough. In the old days, it was the focus of the village social activity, as women made daily journeys to it from their homes to draw water. Filling their large earthenware pots, they then swung them up in the air to prop them neatly on their heads, and walked back home, gossiping vivaciously amongst themselves.
Brushing down the one-foot thick edge of the well with an old rag lying nearby, Firdaus sat down on it and peered into the water. It was a long time since she had been to this spot. Her mind flew back to those childhood days when she, Zarri Bano, Ruby, little Jafar and Khawar used to meet and chase each other around the large tree next to the well. A cool breeze flowing through the branches swept her hair in front of her face.
She looked up when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Khawar and his white horse were a few yards away. Firdaus turned to look down into the well again, feeling very shy all of a sudden.
‘Meditating, Firdaus?’ Khawar climbed down from his horse and tied it loosely to the tree.
‘No, waiting for you to push me in, as you almost did twelve years ago!’ She resented the fact that he had not smiled at her or issued a pleasant greeting. Just offered two cold words like a douche of icy water from the well in the winter.
He walked over and, picking up the sturdy chain with one hand, he threw the well’s silver bucket down into the water. It fell with a thud, hitting the dark surface. Khawar pulled the bucket out, now filled with water, and with the plastic container left on the flat well edge, he began to rinse his hands and face.
‘Is this your new bathroom? Have you been thrown out of your home?’ Firdaus asked cheekily, letting her eyes scan his face, his hair and neck visible from his shirt collar.
‘As you well know, I have lots of bathrooms, Madam Firdaus, but there is nothing like drawing water from a well. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Village wells and a Madam Principal just don’t go hand in hand together these days, do they?’
Firdaus didn’t miss his personal dig nor his scathing look. ‘Nobody draws water from a well these days,’ she said steadily. ‘I was brought up in the village, as you well know, but I have never carried a water-jug. They were from our grandmothers’ days. People have showers and running hot water now, even in the village. So don’t try to make me feel guilty, please!’
‘I was just commenting.’ He wiped his face with a large handkerchief, his eyes in turn moving over her face, hair and clothes, noting everything and not missing a thing.
‘You must admit, however,’ he continued, ‘that this is an appropriate place for our meeting. You obviously received my message. It isn’t by chance that you are here, is it?’
‘No. I am here because Your Majesty demanded my presence.’
‘And you, Madam Principal, deigned to obey. I am honoured indeed,’ he said with a laugh and sat down on the brick ledge next to her. His eyes flickered over the neat profile of her face – her chin, her nose, her high cheekbones.
‘You know why I wished to see you,’ he stated quietly. His face was now very close and she could almost feel his breath on her face. ‘You requested that I propose to you myself.’
‘Not if you don’t want to!’ Firdaus said stiffly.
‘What do you think I want, Firdaus?’ he asked and waited for her reply, but she had none to give him. ‘Well?’ he prompted her, but still there was no response. ‘The articulate Principal is known to have a sharp tongue – has a snake bitten it out now?’ His voice was thick with laughter.
She turned and smiled, shyness spilling out of her eyes. He looked deep into them and understood. ‘OK! I will spell it out for you, just in case your female modesty has clamped your tongue, for once. I want you, Firdaus. Just as I have always wanted you for nearly a decade. I wish you to be my wife. You wanted a personal proposal, so this is it. Now, what is your answer? Are you going to be churlish and throw it back into my face, just for the sake of revenge?’ he challenged.
‘No, of course not! On the contrary I happily accept, but only if you give me the assurance that it is really what you want, and that you have truly forgiven me for what happened recently.’ Colour crept into her cheeks. ‘I am afraid you will be marrying brass – is that what you want? Dross in fact.’
‘It is up to you, Firdaus, to prove that you can turn brass into the gold I first had,’ he replied, his face serious.
‘Tell me, Khawar, or my female pride will not let me rest otherwise; are you really marrying me for your mother’s sake or do you personally want to?’
‘You are a very persistent young woman. I thought I had already made myself very plain. Once again I will spell it out to you. No, I will demonstrate it.’ As he spoke, he turned and took her hand in his. ‘Look at me, Firdaus. I want you to marry me. I desire that very much because I love you. The fact that my mother desires it also is an added bonus. Now, have I made myself perfectly clear?’
‘Crystal clear.’ She drew her hand away and stood up. They were not married nor engaged. It wasn’t right to be so physically close. She moved, placing a modest distance between them.
‘What will you do about your job?’ Khawar asked. He needed to know – his happiness rested on her answer.
‘I will give up my job in the city,’ Firdaus answered promptly, her eyes steady before his.
‘I cannot let you do that. I know it is a good job for you,’ he objected.
‘Jobs aren’t everything, Khawar Sahib. Anyway, I would love to return to the village, and if the village school management committee can find me a teaching job here, I’ll be happy enough.’
Khawar laughed. ‘The job of a headmistress is still yours. The other one is only temporary. The village will be so happy to have you back, my dear girl.’
Suddenly Firdaus spotted Baba Siraj Din coming down the path from his cattle byre. Her cheeks grew very warm.
‘Tell your mother she can begin the arrangements. I happily accept. Khudah Hafiz! I must go. Baba Siraj Din is here!’ She quickly pulled her dupatta over her head, out of respect for the old man. He had never seen her hair all open and draped around her shoulders. Blushing she ran off, taking the path leading back to the village.
As Khawar waited for Siraj Din to approach, he untied his horse from the tree.
‘Assalam-Alaikum, my son. How are you? That was Firdaus, wasn’t it?’ Siraj Din asked, pointing to her disappearing figure with his walking stick.
‘Yes, indeed it was, Baba Jee.’
Siraj Din had missed nothing. Even from a distance he had seen them sitting and talking together.
‘Am I correct in thinking that now your two families are reconciled, we will soon be hearing some good news concerning you and Firdaus? There is a rumour around the village that your mother is preparing a magnificent wedding for you.’
‘Yes, Baba Jee. Insha’allah. With your prayers and blessing, it seems that the feud between my mother and Auntie Fatima is over. Firdaus and I are getting married – al-hamdulillah.’
‘Mubarak, my son! I am very pleased for you both. Your mother has come a long way. She is to be praised and indeed congratulated. I will visit her. Let me know when the wedding is.’
‘Of course, Baba Jee. We cannot do anything without your presence, guidance, and supervision, and of course your blessing and prayers. We have only just started the ball rolling. Allah Hafiz.’
Khawar climbed back onto his horse and cantered towards the village.
As Baba Siraj Jee watched him go, his thoughts turned to his own granddaughter, Zarri Bano. He prayed that she would settle down happily with Sikander!
Chapter 62
TWO HOURS AFTER the simple wedding ceremony and reception, her trousseau packed, Zarri Bano left for Karachi with Sikander and his family.
Waving them off from the verandah, Fatima wept on Shahzada’s shoulder.
‘Don�
��t cry, Fatima. Aren’t you happy?’ Shahzada said chokily, her own eyes wet with tears.
‘Yes,’ the other woman sobbed. ‘That is why I am crying. I’m going to miss her so much.’
‘We must pray for them both, Fatima. I hope their marriage works out. We both know that Zarri Bano has entered it very reluctantly. Only this morning she told me that she would only stay in this marriage for a year. She had that look on her face, you know the one. Fatima, I am so afraid she means what she says.’ Shahzada stared anxiously at her friend and woman helper.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Mistress Shahzada. They will work it out, you’ll see,’ Fatima reassured her chaudharani smoothly, with her strong conviction. She had great faith in human chemistry. There had always been magic between her princess and Sikander.
Zarri Bano sat perched in the corner of the car. Haris sat between herself and Sikander. His childish chatter helped to diffuse the tension building up between his father and aunt. Beneath the fringe of the large dupatta on her head, Zarri Bano chaffed under Sikander’s eyes – they seemed to be roaming everywhere.
‘I want to sit next to the window!’ Haris demanded during the journey. Everyone thus rearranged themselves to let him sit where he wanted. As they moved, Sikander’s thigh accidentally brushed against Zarri Bano’s, making her swivel round in panic. Her husband stared steadily back at her, as he saw her inch further away from him. Pulling the heavily embroidered dupatta around her, Zarri Bano draped it further over her face to shield herself from his scorching gaze.
Suddenly, Sikander grabbed hold of her hand and held it tightly in his grasp. Shocked, and lost for breath, she tried to pull it away. In a voice too low for his mother or chauffeur to hear, Sikander growled out, ‘I’m not going to eat you.’ He moved his fingers over hers and began to caress them gently. Helplessly, Zarri Bano let him play with her fingers for a moment or two. Then she pulled her hand away.
Haris climbed back from the window and once again wriggled between them, hugging both adult in turn, he stayed there until the end of the journey.
As the car came to a standstill Zarri Bano stared at Sikander’s home in Karachi. The imposing facade of the large villa was garlanded and lit with colourful lights. Inside, a group of women well-wishers and relatives were waiting to welcome home Sikander’s new bride. They ceremoniously came forward in turns, as soon as she sat down on the sofa in the drawing room, to give her the ‘initial greeting’ salami presents in the form of money. The women were especially keen to meet the new bride. For they had heard that she was the elder sister of Sikander’s dead wife and was reputed to be not only more beautiful than Ruby, but also a very devout woman. She was said to be always in hijab. Some believed the rumour that she even slept in it.
Today, however, the burqa was nowhere to be seen and she didn’t look at all devout. On the contrary she was a blushing picture of a bride and almost like a glamorous actress. They just couldn’t visualise her in a burqa. Her hair was elegantly styled, her eyes shone like gems. To match the wonderful smiling mouth, Allah had blessed her with a most attractive dimple that seemed to peep out at you every time she smiled.
‘As you can see, the groom simply cannot take his eyes off her. He pretends that he is not looking at her, but have you noticed, my friend, he has not looked at a single soul in this room. Nor is it surprising as she is so beautiful. I told you so, didn’t I?’ whispered one woman to her friend; she had had the pleasure of having seen Zarri Bano’s photograph in advance.
‘Did you know that she was the one our Sikander wanted to marry in the first place?’ she further elaborated.
‘Was she really?’ The friend stared in wonder at the good-looking pair. ‘Oh, how romantic!’ As their neighbour, she was definitely going to cultivate a friendship with Sikander’s new bride.
The evening meal was served to Sikander and Zarri Bano alone, on a special table, with only Haris joining them. It was a silent affair, during which Sikander frequently looked at his bride. She, on the other hand, kept her eyes down. It was as if they were complete strangers. God, she looks so vulnerable, he thought. It is almost as if she is afraid of me! He smiled, wanting to reassure her, but didn’t quite know what to say.
Later in the evening, Sikander’s elder sister Rahat suggested to Zarri Bano that she should go and rest in her room. Awkwardly, holding up her heavily embroidered silk skirt, she followed Rahat up the staircase into the large bedroom. Throwing open the door, Rahat stepped aside for Zarri Bano to enter.
Recognising the room, Zarri Bano froze. A large bed stood in the centre with a canopy of wedding streamers draped becomingly around it. Zarri Bano closed her eyes tight, feeling her legs giving away beneath her. Reaching for a chair, she sat down and looked at the bed with horror dawning on her face and in her eyes.
‘Are you all right, dear sister?’ Rahat asked in concern. It was just at that moment that Sikander appeared in the room. He looked at the bed and then at Zarri Bano’s white face.
‘Rahat, please leave us,’ he urged. ‘I will look after her.’
‘All right, Brother Sikander.’ Rahat quickly left, disturbed by her sister-in-law’s behaviour and wondering what was wrong.
In one neat movement, Sikander pulled down all the decorative streamers and threw them into a corner on the floor. Angry with himself, his sister and the whole situation, he bent down and spoke to his new bride in a tortured voice. ‘Believe me, Zarri Bano, I had no idea they were going to bring you to this room!’
Zarri Bano stared at the bare, forlorn-looking bed.
‘This was her room. That was her bed!’ she cried out in agony, in a voice full of reproach. ‘This was how it was for her. I can’t sleep here! You promised me, Sikander.’
Then before his very eyes, shudders passed through her body. Her eyes were closed, as she deliberately shut him and the room out of her mind.
‘You aren’t sleeping here,’ he said gently. ‘You have your own room. My sister doesn’t know of our situation. They have only done what people normally do for any bride. Please forgive her.’
‘Ruby slept in that bed, Sikander!’ Zarri Bano cried, breaking down and weeping for her dead sister. Her small forehead pendant dangled in front of her face.
Sikander moved away from her, watching her helplessly. She is not the only one with memories. Ruby was my wife! Doesn’t she realise that I too am afraid of those painful memories? Sikander thought resentfully. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t know what to do. If he touched her, he was sure to send her over the brink, shattering her fragile self-control. Instead, he used his voice to reach out to her.
‘Zarri Bano, this is not your room and never will be. If it makes you feel safe and happy, you can share Haris’s room for the time being. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Wiping her tears, Zarri Bano followed him wordlessly into Haris’s room. ‘Here, make yourself at home,’ he said cheerfully. You are used to sleeping in this room with Haris, aren’t you? Either Mother or I will bring you some milk later. Our woman helper will fetch your suitcases.’ Zarri Bano nodded gratefully, and Sikander left her.
After changing into her night clothes, Zarri Bano put Haris to bed. Straight after her prayers, she settled down beside him and planted kisses on his sleepy forehead. ‘I’ve done all this for you, my darling nephew,’ she whispered over his yawning face.
Zarri Bano tensed when someone knocked on the door. Sikander entered with a glass of milk in his hand. She had hoped that his mother would come rather than him. In the semi-darkness of the room, his dark hair gleaming after a shower, he looked tall and very attractive in his dressing-gown over his pyjamas. Zarri Bano felt a spate of nervousness.
His eyes on her face, Sikander came forward and placed her glass of milk on the bedside cabinet. He hid his disappointment from her. She had removed her jewellery, her make-up and bridal suit – thus robbing him of one of the groom’s prerogatives, that of helping her to remove her ornaments.
He stepped ba
ck, away from the bed and smiled down at her. Zarri Bano blushed. Then she pulled the quilt up to her neck to hide herself. Noting her gesture, Sikander turned to look at his son.
‘He is fast asleep,’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ Zarri Bano gladly commented, pleased to say something to break the tension in the room and praying that he would leave soon.
Sikander moved over to his son’s side of the bed and sat on the opposite corner. Zarri Bano relaxed.
‘He’ll be very happy to find you sleeping with him.’
‘So he should be. After all, we married for his sake, didn’t we?’ Zarri Bano retorted.
Sikander looked down at the attractive appliqué pattern of birds and trees on the quilt cover, not answering her immediately. ‘Yes, Zarri Bano, we did marry for Haris’s sake, but I am still hoping that at the end it will be a real marriage. I didn’t marry you just for Haris’s sake, but for my sake too.’ He wanted to say so much to her, to open the doorway to his heart, but he knew instinctively that it wasn’t the right moment. A wrong move, a wrong step by him and Zarri Bano would surely blow her top. He couldn’t risk that and jeopardise his relationship with her. Already they had both been dealt a blow in the other room.
‘Zarri Bano, I get the feeling that you are afraid of me,’ he ventured, looking up with a solemn expression in his eyes, ‘afraid of my very presence. Please don’t be. What is your ultimate fear, Zarri Bano? That I’ll demand my rights? For the consummation of our marriage?’ He saw her cheeks colour.
‘That is what you fear most, isn’t it? I know you too well for you to deny it, Zarri Bano. You must learn to trust me. I promised you before we got married that everything will be as you wish. The ball will always be in your court. Therefore you have no need to fear me or my presence. The woman I knew five years ago wasn’t afraid of me – of anything, for that matter. I ask nothing, my dear, but pure friendship and companionship. What I don’t want is you scurrying away from my slightest touch. Apparently you’ve done a damned good job on yourself, on becoming totally a pakeeza woman, that even the shadow of a man frightens you. Yet I knew and had a glimpse of a very passionate woman once. But enough, I’ll not talk about the past.’
The Holy Woman Page 43