Before her bewildered eyes, she saw him get into his bed and lie down, with his back to her. ‘He doesn’t want me!’ she cried inside. Then she too, lay down and switched off the lamp, feeling so strange inside. It was the first time in her life that she had slept with a man in her room. She looked over at the back of his head with shame. Her fingers had tangled with his hair. ‘What possessed me?’ she accused herself, still unable to make sense of his reaction. ‘Has he fallen asleep already?’ she wondered. Turning over, she, too, tried to go to sleep.
Sikander lay still on his side. He couldn’t sleep. Instead he listened to Zarri Bano’s shallow breathing. His head still tingled with the feel of her fingers in his hair. It was the first spontaneous gesture she had made this evening and with no encouragement from him. His heart had sung with joy. He had seen her crushed look of surprise as he had turned from her and bade her goodnight and then saw her wrap her arms protectively around her body. ‘I hope she understands my action,’ he fretted silently. ‘I have done it for her sake.’
How he had longed to take her in his arms and love her like a husband should! But it was too soon. His wife didn’t know her own mind yet, or what she felt at the moment. What he had learned today, however, was that his Zarri Bano of the mela was alive and well. It was simply a matter of time now – and a lot of patience.
In the darkness, his eyes shone. He would give her all the time she needed. What he would also give her, he resolutely decided, was his hundred per cent presence, so that henceforth she couldn’t divorce her new life from him. He would never let her throw him out of her life again.
A couple of hours later, on returning from the bathroom, he felt a compulsion to sit on her bed and watch her sleeping. Then, unable to help himself he had leant forward, and lightly brushed his lips against hers. In her sleep Zarri Bano’s arm reached up, almost touching him. Sikander quickly drew back. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, to smother her face with passionate kisses, but with a steel will born out of love and consideration he reluctantly got back into his own bed, and eventually fell asleep.
When Sikander woke the following morning, Zarri Bano was already dressed and wearing her burqa. She was concentrating on rolling her rosary beads on her fingers.
‘You were so tired. Do you know what time it is, Sikander? It’s ten o’clock!’ she laughed as she saw him sit up and yawn.
‘Yes, I slept well,’ he lied. He wouldn’t tell her that he had spent at least half an hour watching her while she slept. ‘What are your plans for today?’ he asked matter-of-factly.
‘We are meeting the famous Maulvi Bilal at his home.’
‘I have a better suggestion. Now that I am here, wouldn’t it be nice if you and I went sightseeing together?’
Zarri Bano looked down at the rosary bead chain in her hand. Then after a pause, she said, ‘Sikander, perhaps we can do that tomorrow. I would like to go to this meeting, after all, that is why I am here in Malaysia – not just for sightseeing!’
‘I am sure there will be lots of other meetings. Sakina can attend it and let you know what happened,’ Sikander pressed, getting out of bed. He hadn’t travelled all this way to hang around on his own.
‘No. I want to be there. Your sightseeing, Sikander, can surely wait another day,’ Zarri Bano answered coldly, looking down at the rosary beads again.
He had his back to her, otherwise she would have seen the answering light of battle in his eye, ‘Of course my sightseeing can wait,’ he said politely. ‘Your meeting is much more important. You had better go right now, or else you will be late in joining your party for breakfast.’ He left her sitting on the prayer-mat, and went into the bathroom.
Later, as Maulvi Bilal took the party around the National Mosque in the centre of Kuala Lumpur, Zarri Bano couldn’t help but think about Sikander. What was he doing now? she wondered.
After their prayers, in the large prayer hall with its rows of mosaic pillars and huge crystal chandeliers dangling down from the ornate ceilings, they sat under the fans on the fully carpeted floor and rested. The men sat in a separate part of the main hall. Sakina turned to Zarri Bano when their hostess, a fifty-year-old Malay woman dressed in a smart native crepe-de-chine Malay dress, consisting of a long skirt with a matching knee-length tunic and headscarf, went over to speak to another group of visitors.
‘What is Sikander Sahib doing this afternoon?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. He said that he might go out sightseeing around the city.’
‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Sakina’s surprised tone immediately put Zarri Bano on the defensive.
‘Because I wanted to be with you all and attend the meeting at Maulvi Bilal’s place.’
‘I see,’ Sakina uttered, looking down to read a page from the Holy Quran in her hand.
‘What do you see, Sister Sakina?’ Zarri Bano asked dryly.
‘Nothing, Sister Zarri Bano. Only that you are not giving your marriage a chance.’ Sakina smiled at her protégée.
‘You forget that I went into this marriage unwillingly,’ Zarri Bano answered quietly.
‘That may be so. Will you let that cloud things for ever? There is more to life, my sister. What have we done this morning that was more important than spending your time with your new husband? You’ve hardly had any time together. After your wedding, you came abroad with us almost immediatly. I get the feeling that you are trying to escape your husband, Zarri Bano. Yet he followed you here. He too, has other commitments: his son, his home, his family, his business. Yet he came here to be with you, and instead of spending the time with him and trying to make something of your marriage, you are still trying to cling to your old life.’
‘Which old life, Sister?’ Zarri Bano asked in a low voice. ‘The one five years ago?’
‘No, the one before your marriage. It has already become old. You cannot cling to it for ever. You cannot be the same woman, my sister, because there is now another person in your life. Your life has thus taken on a new shape and perspective. Oh it could be so fulfilling. Don’t struggle with yourself, Sister. You will always be a Holy Woman like me, but give yourself a chance to be a normal woman too. Let yourself go!’
‘I think that I am already doing it,’ Zarri Bano whispered, recalling her sudden impulse to touch Sikander last night. Then the anticlimax as he had turned from her and went to bed. Then the shame. She hadn’t slept half the night, because the thought kept hammering away: I offered myself to him and he rejected me.
‘Why the bitterness, Zarri Bano? I sense a note of it in your voice.’
‘Because I am struggling with my feelings, and with my two identities, Sister Sakina; with what is right and with the ghost of my past. At the centre of it all is Sikander. He is always there whether I want it or not. First he was my suitor, the man I so wanted to marry. Then he became my brother-in-law, the husband of my dear sister Ruby, and father of my beloved nephew, Ruby’s child. Now he is my husband.
‘First it was me who wanted to marry this man. Then my father denied him to me. Then I lost him to my sister – and now finally I have him. How could I switch all my feelings on and off, without it having some repercussions and me becoming an emotional wreck in the process?’
‘Yes, I see, Zarri Bano. You have explained it well. All I am saying is, why not try to compromise? Do you know, when I saw you two at dinner yesterday, I almost envied you. You have a special rapport. Value it! Yet this morning I feel as if nothing has happened. That you are still as pure as the day you were born.’
Zarri Bano blushed, averting her eyes. The conversation was getting out of hand. ‘The men are here. Shall we go?’ she suggested, relieved that she could change the subject.
From the National Mosque they went on to the City Museum to see the displays of artefacts from many Muslim countries around the world, ranging from Morocco to Malaysia. Contributed and collected together, the artefacts marked the Muslim International Conference and Festival.
It was late when Za
rri Bano and her party returned to their hotel and on reaching her room she found it empty. There was no sign of Sikander, but his case was still there. She went down for her evening meal and wondered if she would see him, but he didn’t come.
It was about nine o’clock when Zarri Bano returned to her room and prepared for bed. She switched on the television, but was unable to concentrate. Over and over, her eyes kept returning to the clock. “Where is he? What is he doing?” she asked herself.
Suddenly the telephone rang, making her jump. She picked the receiver up to hear the voice of the receptionist. ‘Your husband has left a message for you. Do not wait up for him, he is with some business associates.’ Zarri Bano thanked her and replaced the receiver with a bang. Piqued, she switched off the television. So much for waiting up for him, she thought peevishly. Settling herself down in the bed, she eventually fell asleep, not knowing what time he returned to their room.
On waking the following morning, she reached for her burqa and went quickly into the bathroom. Sikander was already up and dressed.
‘Did you get my message last night?’ he called from the bedroom.
‘Yes, I did. Did you have a good meeting?’ she asked as she heard him moving round the room. She smoothed out the folds of her burqa and opened the bathroom door.
‘I’m going out – I’ll see you later. I hope you enjoy your meetings today!’ he called cheeringly as he left the room.
Zarri Bano watched him go, disappointed for some reason. She had had no opportunity to speak to him or to tell him that she would like to go sightseeing with him today. He had gone, not even bothering to have breakfast with her. Almost as if he wanted to abandon her! ‘Be reasonable,’ she said to herself. ‘You’ve told him that you have your own life. Well, now he has left you to it! But why does it hurt so much?’
She pottered around the room, tidying up the bed and folding the clothes into his suitcase. Again her hand came across the black chiffon suit, and she questioned herself: ‘Why did he bring it with him to Malaysia? Does he want me to wear it?’ She took it out and held it in her hands.
Closing her eyes she let her mind wander.
Chapter 65
‘YOU ARE NOT ready yet, girls? But the bharat will be here soon!’ Fatima shrieked at her daughters, the cauldron of wedding stress toppling over when she saw that they were still working on Firdaus’s face. There seemed to be so many layers of make-up to plaster on.
There were a hundred and one things to do before the groom arrived with his wedding procession. Yet her daughters seemed to think they had all day. She marvelled at Firdaus’s calm tone, as she mocked, ‘Mother, there is plenty of time,’ laughing in the mirror at her. And she was the bride!
Salma was now pinning a small gold and ruby forehead tiara pendant on Firdaus’s head. Beaming at her daughter’s radiant face, Fatima ushered some young girls, who were peeping and keen to catch a glimpse of the bride, out of the room.
Firdaus quickly read the note in her hand and, crunching it up, threw it in the waste-paper basket. It was from Khawar, sent via Neesa a week ago. In the note, he had commanded: Firdaus I want you to come to my home in a dholi. Chuckling to herself, Firdaus had written back: Of course. Whatever my lord and master commands!
She personally had no aversion to a dholi, a wooden palanquin. In fact, she thought it was one of the best of the quaint village traditions. She’d rather be carried in a palanquin by four men to her new home, like in the old days, than go in Chaudharani Shahzada’s car.
The matter did pose something of a problem, however – for Fatima. For she had to give a special order for a brand new dholi to be designed for the ceremony. ‘My daughter is not going to sit in a rickety old dholi in which scores of other brides have sat,’ she had sniffed disdainfully to her family. No way! The villagers would talk about this dholi for years to come. The material and its embroidery would match that of her daughter’s bridal outfit.
‘Why does it take so long to make up a bride nowadays?’ Fatima good-humouredly questioned Kulsoom in the courtyard of her home. A beautician had been especially called in from the city’s best beauty parlour. ‘I don’t know, in our day, it was a two-minute job! A dab of cream on the cheeks, a smear of lipstick on the lips and off we went.’
‘When we were young, life was much more simple, Fatima Jee. Nobody had ever heard of beauticians or Beauty Parlours then. Nor did we have the money to invite a woman in and pay her thousands of rupees to make up our faces. It would have caused a scandal then. But see, everything is in hand here, Fatima Jee. Let’s go and check the wedding marquees.’
Kulsoom led Fatima out of the courtyard, holding firmly onto the chiffon dupatta on her head and twitching her long, heavy earrings in place around her ears. The jewellery had been graciously given the previous night, as long promised by Fatima, in gratitude for her part in Firdaus’s wedding. Fatima always kept her word. The earrings were lovely to look at and very expensive, so Kulsoom couldn’t be so churlish as to complain that they were too heavy for her small ears. She just wished that she had been born with bigger ones. ‘Two tholas of gold have gone into making them!’ she gloated, knowing nevertheless that she was going to end up with very sore ears by the time the wedding-day celebrations ended.
She was loath to remove them, however, even for a second. ‘The pain is a small price to pay,’ she said adamantly. She thus schooled herself to sport them on her ears and show them off to other women who were either prospective clients or were about to engage her services in finding suitable matches for their children. After all, if one client was apt to reward her in such a fashion, she could set a precedence for others to do the same. So all in all she was definitely going to ignore her sore ears.
Kulsoom followed Fatima eagerly into the wedding marquee erected in the girls’ school playing ground. Chaudharani Shahzada and Fiaz, in his wheelchair, had stationed themselves in that marquee. Both had been bestowed with the honour of receiving Fatima’s guests, as well as the groom and his party.
In the other household, Baba Siraj Din had been graciously chosen by Chaudharani Kaniz for the honour of being Khawar’s godfather and the elder buzurg to lead the wedding procession. The responsibility of overseeing the nikkah ceremony was also bestowed upon him. He accepted both roles in a matter-of-fact fashion.
Fatima inspected, with deep satisfaction, the velour upholstered chairs and the beautifully prepared tables, laid with the best china and silver cutlery especially hired from the town’s marriage hall. She had long promised herself the luxury of feeding her daughter’s wedding guests with style, instead of having them flocking around tables, holding plates in their hands, reaching over people’s shoulders to get at the buffet. Her guests would be sitting down in style, and waited upon by scores of waiters. After all it wasn’t every day that her headmistress of a daughter was getting married. Moreover, she wasn’t going to let Kaniz pinch all the shan, all the limelight, from the wedding. It was her daughter’s wedding too!
Fatima cast a surreptitious look at the six new large steel trunks, full of clothes and wedding presents which had arrived this morning from Kaniz’s hawaili for Firdaus and her family. After dinner, the trunks would be ceremoniously opened up before the hawk-like eyes of the female wedding guests, and all the gifts would be laid out on display for everyone to see. Fatima just knew that the presents were sure to dazzle everyone! Word had gone around the village that the jihaz Chaudharani Kaniz had prepared for Firdaus was sure to be unrivalled. ‘Probably,’ it was awesomely rumoured by Kulsoom, ‘even Benazir Bhutto has not received a jihaiz like this.’
‘My Firdaus sure is lucky!’ Fatima sighed with happiness. Not to be outdone herself, Fatima had furnished the dowry marquee with many dazzling presents for Firdaus. After all, she didn’t send her only son to Dubai for nothing. She didn’t work in someone’s house for nothing. Her daughter didn’t save up her earnings from teaching for nothing if, at the end, they couldn’t between them provide a dowry that befitted their st
ation in life and her daughter’s profession.
Although Kaniz had said, very kindly, that she wanted nothing from Firdaus’s family and that they had everything they needed, Fatima wasn’t going to risk letting Kaniz taunt her daughter later by saying: ‘You came here empty-handed!’ Fatima’s pride and vanity were at stake, and nothing would let her compromise. Thus, whether Kaniz wanted a dowry in her hawaili or not, she was going to get one. There was no doubt about it. What Kaniz could do, so could Fatima!
The imposing marble tiled façade of Chaudharani Kaniz’s hawaili was becomingly criss-crossed with ropes of small glittering colourful lights. Not a yard of space had been spared. A cavalcade of tall, beautiful brass lamps stood in the street outside, leading the guests ceremoniously into the hawaili. The wedding band, later to play a Scottish tune, stood in rows behind the lamps, eagerly waiting for the groom and bharat to assemble.
Inside the hawaili, the wedding guests roamed freely in and out of all the rooms. For the first time in her life, Chaudharani Kaniz had snubbed no one. On the contrary, she had delighted everyone by inviting all the relatives from both her and her late husband’s side. Nor for that matter had she spared any expense. A golden opportunity not to be missed, most of the guests had eagerly taken up the Chaudharani’s offer of arriving a week earlier, to enjoy and partake in all the wedding festivities that were sure to take place. After all, it was Kaniz’s only son’s wedding. There would be no others in the hawaili.
Kaniz took both the hustle and bustle of the crowds of people and the consequent stress with good grace, drinking it all in blissfully. She herself supervised the pots full of food being prepared three times each day. Her team of six hired cooks were kept busy for the whole week, almost eighteen hours a day. The preparations for the wedding were mainly carried out and supervised by Sabra, her daughter and Neesa.
The Holy Woman Page 46