Baba Siraj Din sat stiffly in the large drawing room on a huge comfortable sofa beside Khawar, who was dressed in the ceremonial clothes of a groom. Siraj Din impatiently tapped his ivory stick on the silk carpet, as he waited for Khawar’s present-giving and sehrabandi ceremony to begin. Dressed in his new, crisply starched suit, a long black coat and a special turban on his head, Siraj Din looked every bit the tribal headman of the village.
‘Where is your mother, Khawar?’ Siraj Din asked imperiously. ‘Everybody is here and waiting! The ceremony should start soon, my son.’
‘She’ll be around somewhere, Grandfather, in the hawaili.’
‘Sabra, go and find your sister! I know the bharat is only going two streets away, but still we have to get there. The musicians have been standing outside for over an hour. It is quite hot out there. The groom’s horse is probably getting restless, especially with all the heavy decorative stuff on his body.’
‘Yes, Baba Jee, I’ll go and find Kaniz,’ Sabra reassured him, leaving the chatting group of women relations she was entertaining on her sister’s behalf.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Kaniz drew out a large box with a red and silver painted lid from her wardrobe. Holding it under her arm, she went down to the first floor and headed for Neesa’s room. It was located in the far corner of the hawaili, in the corridor of the bedding storerooms. Kaniz very rarely visited this corridor. She never had to. Her authoritative voice had done all the work for her. Today the journey to it was like a little pilgrimage.
She knocked on Neesa’s door – an action unheard of for Chaudharani Kaniz to perform in her own home. It was directly born out of sensitivity, in case her housekeeper was getting undressed.
Neesa was, in fact, preparing to put on her own best clothes. When she heard the knock, it prompted her to immediately look up and call, ‘Come in.’ As the door opened, Neesa paled at the sight of her mistress entering her simply furnished room.
‘Did you want me for something, Chaudharani Sahiba?’ Neesa stammered, looking up at Kaniz with misgiving. Something must be terribly amiss to have brought her chaudharani personally to her quarters.
‘Yes, I do,’ the chaudharani replied, smiling and with a strange look on her face. Neesa stared back nervously, unable to make sense either of the look or her mistress’s action in coming to seek her out.
Kaniz held the box out towards her housekeeper.
Blushing with pleasure Neesa looked at it, imagining that her mistress had come to show her a new outfit for the bride. It was an honour indeed that her mistress had thought of her and had come personally to show it.
‘I want to give you this,’ Kaniz told her softly, watching her housekeeper’s face.
Neesa merely stared at the box – speechless.
‘Here, take it.’ The chaudharani gently pushed the box into her servant’s numbed hands. ‘Open it, Neesa. It is for you. And it is exactly like mine and Sabra’s.’
With trembling fingers, Neesa plucked off the lid with her thin workworn fingers. Then she stared down in bemusement at the exquisite blue silk suit, lying on a beautiful bed of delicate white tissue paper. Her mouth fell open, her eyes fixed on the rich intricate embroidery around the neckline of the garment. A suit, just like the one the chaudharani was wearing, was an unimaginable honour indeed. One which she would never have dreamed of in a million years.
‘There is a matching chiffon dupatta too,’ Kaniz elaborated as Neesa touched the soft chiffon scarf, afraid of snagging the delicate material with her chapped fingers, roughened from all the scouring in the kitchen.
A lump was lodged in Neesa’s throat, almost suffocating her. Any dunce could see that this suit had been specially prepared and had cost thousands of rupees, she marvelled in her head.
‘Now look under the suit,’ Kaniz’s gentle voice commanded. She was still smiling down at her housekeeper and, with selfish joy, she drank in the look of sheer wonder and shock on Neesa’s face as she felt under the suit and drew out a square flat red velvet box. ‘Open it,’ Kaniz coaxed, a trace of excitement in her own voice.
Once again Neesa’s fingers trembled. Clumsily, she flicked open the delicate latch to look, wide-eyed, at the gold choker necklace with matching earrings and a ring, lying on a rich black velvet bed.
Neesa stared aghast at her mistress. ‘Is this, for me, Chaudharani Sahiba?’ she whispered. She watched amazedly as Kaniz’s head magically dipped down and then up again towards her.
It was all too much for poor Neesa! Her small, humble world suddenly lost its bearing on its social axis. Her Chaudharani Sahiba, always cruelly barking orders at her and turning her back on her for half of her life, was now offering her a necklace worth six tholas of gold! Leaning back on the chair and putting the box on her bed, which already had a mound of bedding to iron on it, she began to weep into her muslin shawl, her slim shoulders crumpling over.
Bemused, Kaniz stared down at the wiry frame of her grey-haired housekeeper. A strange love welled up inside her. ‘This woman has given her whole life to me and my son, and I have been so hateful to her for all these years!’ Kaniz told herself sadly. Then unable to bear seeing Neesa cry, she pulled her housekeeper into her arms and held her tightly against her chest.
Clasped firmly against her Sahiba, the last remnants of her self-control shattered and Neesa wept as she had never wept before. It was as if all those years of sheer loneliness, bereft of human warmth under Kaniz’s oppression had been worth it. Even as she cried, she made sure, however, that she kept her humble shawl strategically in front of her face to prevent ruining her mistress’s new wedding suit.
‘Neesa, why are you crying?’ Kaniz asked. ‘There’s nothing to cry about! You are my sister, just like Sabra. Today I want to show you and the whole world, by this small gesture of a suit and a necklace, how much I hold you dearly and value the time you have devoted to me and my son.
‘You have brought up Khawer with your loving tender care as if he was your own. Today it is his wedding day, my dear. I have dispensed presents to strangers, to beggars in the streets, to all the village women and girls. Can’t I, therefore, give this to someone who has devoted nearly thirty years of her life to us and who has grey hairs in the process? Take this as a small token of my appreciation, please. I have begun to regard you as a beloved and a dear sister …’
Kaniz’s voice petered away into an awkward silence. She now did something she never dreamed in her life she would ever do. She held up her hands together at Neesa, her woman servant. ‘Neesa, look at my hands. They are held up in mafi to you, in supplication. Forgive me for all of my past cruelty to you. I know I am a difficult woman to work for. I now cannot live without you, Neesa! This home has been your home since you came here as an orphaned teenager. You didn’t even marry, in order to stay with us. Today you will stand by my side, dressed like me, not in the role of my housekeeper, but as my sister and Khawar’s second mother, and you will receive guests by my side. So please, Neesa, don’t cry. I want you to change into this suit and wear this necklace.’
‘No mistress, I can’t do this,’ Neesa uttered, physically moving a step back and panicking, before eventually finding her tongue. ‘I cannot compete with you.’ Her respect for her employer would not allow her to cross the social barriers. Kaniz was the mother of an important landlord of the village, while she was just a servant!
‘Neesa, I insist. It is an order – if you like!’ Kaniz smilingly cajoled, touched by Nessa’s words; her own eyes were now very moist.
‘I insist, too.’ Sabra’s warm voice made them both jump. Leaning against the doorpost she smiled at the two women.
‘Sabra! How long have you been there?’ Kaniz enquired, embarrassed by the scenario she was caught in.
‘Long enough, my dear sister, to make me so proud of you. I love you so much, Kaniz.’ Stepping forward Sabra gathered her elder sister in her arms. Over Kaniz’s shoulder, she smiled at Neesa, still staring at them with tears in her eyes. Neesa was beginning to wo
nder how long this weird and wonderful dream would last. Both of the sisters were now in her room!
‘Come on, Sister Kaniz, Baba Siraj Din is getting really impatient. I am sure his walking stick has by now made a nice round hole in your silk carpet, the way he keeps tapping it. The bharat is all ready. All the elder men from the village have arrived. You should see them all, Kaniz – all overdressed and their starched clothes seem to have stiffened their manners, too. They are all standing around, proud as peacocks strutting about in your courtyard. Their wives, not to be outdone by their men, are preening themselves in their gaudy colours and cheap suits. It is hardly surprising, as it is not every day that two members from every household and each and every caste in the village are invited to join the bharat party. You’ve auspiciously not deigned to miss anyone. You have been generous indeed, my sister, defying us all and turning the tables on the whole social order of this village community.’
‘It is my only son’s wedding, Sabra. I want everyone to enjoy it. I shall not see another,’ Kaniz replied simply. ‘I want it to be the one to be talked about and remembered for decades. Also a Principal, my Firdaus, is coming into this home. She deserves the best reception there could ever be. Now hurry up, Neesa, and get dressed,’ Kaniz imperiously summoned over her shoulder as she and her sister left Neesa’s quarters.
‘Have you got the bundles of five-rupee bills?’ Kaniz asked suddenly remembering the village children. They were bound to be present in droves in the street outside, and would eagerly follow the bharat procession. Kaniz wasn’t going to have her son belittled by showering him with coins, or one-rupee notes. No, it had to be crisp new five-rupee notes; she had ordered them in bundles from the local bank, amounting to thousands of rupees. Kaniz beamed to herself. It was such a pleasurable thought to entertain. The notes floating over her son’s head and his party, to be caught and plucked away by the children’s greedy nimble fingers and then eagerly stuffed into their bulging pockets.
‘Five-rupee notes! You are definitely getting carried away now, Kaniz,’ snorted Sabra dismissively as they walked across the courtyard.
‘Sabra, indulge me.’ Kaniz shot an appealing look at her sister. ‘It is only the wedding of my son that has pulled me away from the precipice of my self-destruction. What is money for, if you cannot buy happiness with it?’ she finished rhetorically.
‘Yes, yes, my sister, I am sorry, forgive me,’ Sabra answered tritely. She didn’t want to recall her sister’s suffering – not on this day of all days.
‘Why is Younas Raees here at my son’s wedding? I didn’t invite him, Sabra.’ The uneasy look was back in Kaniz’s face.
‘Your son did.’
‘I don’t want him in my hawaili!’
‘Don’t be silly, Kaniz. Now forget Younas Raees and get a move on! Baba Siraj is waiting.’
In her room, Neesa hugged the suit to her body, her eyes squeezed tight. Then with trembling hands she drew out the necklace set and marvelled at it. She had never owned nor dreamed of ever owning anything so expensive in her life.
Replacing the suit in its box she pulled out the clothes she had originally intended to wear.
In this instant and for the first time in her life, Neesa was going to disobey her mistress. She would wear the suit, but at another time – not today. She could never lower her mistress’s standing by being so presumptuous as to dress like her. Her sister Sabra could, but not she.
Chapter 66
‘THE DHOLI IS coming, Sabra Jee!’ Neesa shouted excitedly down into the central courtyard, peering over the hawaili’s roof balcony. Her eyes eagerly followed the bharat’s journey as it meandered its way through the village lanes.
As she stepped away, Neesa caught one end of the new embroidered chiffon dupatta that Chaudharani Kaniz had given her that very morning, on the iron railings. Her eyes widened in horror at the big tear, right across one corner. ‘How foolish of me to go peering over the railings like a child in this outfit,’ Neesa wailed, wishing she hadn’t worn the outfit. Chaudharani Kaniz had, however, insisted that she wear it. She had made her return to her quarters and change.
What a day it had been! Neesa wasn’t quite sure what had been more exciting, her beloved young master’s wedding or her, a middle-aged servant, all dolled up in a gorgeous wedding outfit, topped with a real gold necklace hanging round her crinkled throat. All afternoon, she had been unable to decide whether to be flattered or embarrassed by all the sly glances she had received from the other village women as she sat at the top dinner table beside Sabra and Kaniz. One thing was certain: there would be plenty of gossip and tittle-tattle in the days to come. Neesa knew from which source it would come too – Kulsoom the matchmaker. Kulsoom in particular seemed to have resented the seating arrangement. She had secretly hoped that Mistress Kaniz would bestow the honour on her of sitting at the top table. After all, wasn’t she the crucial link between the two families? It appeared, however, that her rightful place had been supplanted by a mere servant woman!
Four young men especially hired for the wedding carried the dholi, the traditional bridal palanquin, with Firdaus in it on their shoulders. They gracefully led the entourage of wedding guests from the reception marquee out through the village lanes, heading back towards Kaniz’s hawaili.
Kaniz, Chaudharani Shahzada and other women relatives walked beside the palanquin, gaily talking and singing popular folk wedding songs. Khawar, flanked by Baba Siraj Din, his male friends and relations, walked ahead of the doli.
Down in the hawaili courtyard Neesa shakily handed Sabra the crystal-cut bowl of oil and a large copy of the Holy Quran. Carrying a small basket of traditional sweetmeats, Neesa then followed Sabra and stationed herself strategically at the entrance door to welcome home the groom and his new bride. She thrust wide open the gates for the guests to enter.
Reaching the hawaili, the procession came to a stop. The palanquin was lowered and placed on the ground near the gates. Stepping forward, Kaniz lifted the maroon brocade flap and peered inside.
‘How was your journey, my dear?’ she asked, beaming at her daughter-in-law.
Firdaus, sitting huddled inside the four-foot wide wooden space and still clutching precariously at the two side bars with her hands, glanced up nervously at her mother-in-law.
‘As well as one can expect, Auntie,’ she managed politely. ‘It is not every day that one has the honour of being carried on the shoulders of four men.’
‘Come, my daughter, I’ll help you out. You were only carried for two streets; I was carried for two miles. I know just how you are really feeling. I kept thinking to myself that I would fall out and break my neck. Of course I didn’t,’ Shahzada chuckled. ‘Welcome to your new home, my dear.’
Letting Chaudharani Shahzada help Firdaus out of the dholi, Kaniz joined her sister and stood in the doorway of her home to welcome them all inside.
Firdaus straightened out her bridal skirt, consisting of seven yards of heavily embroidered silk, that had become crushed beneath her legs, before being helped out of the dholi.
‘Come, my dear. Your mother-in-law awaits you at the entrance to your new home,’ Shahzada whispered in Firdaus’s ear, leading her through the gates. Khawar walked by her side.
A small china bowl of oil held in the palm of her hand, Kaniz waited with a beating heart, her eyes poised on Firdaus’s face as she stood outside the carved walnut wooden doorway leading into the hawaili. She stooped down to pour a few drops of oil on the two corners of the doorstep, reminiscent of the centuries-old Hindu tradition of welcoming the new bride into her new home. Still bent on the ground, her large embroidered shawl touching the step, Kaniz caught Firdaus’s wary glance.
The world stood still for the two proud women as they both simultaneously remembered the scene in the school office. Firdaus cringed to recall her own flippant words: ‘I’d rather die than enter your hawaili’. Then, from somewhere, came the frightening thought: Wouldn’t it be Kaniz’s sweetest revenge if she were now to tu
rn me away from her doorstep?
In Kaniz’s head, her own bitter words stabbed. ‘I’ll never let that washerwoman’s daughter step into my hawaili!’
Bleakly, Firdaus dropped her eyes before Kaniz, in utter shame. Chaudharani Kaniz now held her izzat, her honour in her two hands. She was the one holding the scales of power. It was now all up to her.
Sighing, Kaniz stood tall, rising triumphantly out of the muddy whirlpool of her past life. A smile lit her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she took the Holy Quran from Sabra and circled it ceremoniously over her daughter-in-law’s head in a traditional gesture of welcome. ‘Welcome home, my Firdaus,’ she greeted her in a loud, clear voice.
Relieved and grateful, Firdaus stepped into her new home, only to be immediately pulled into the warm embrace of her mother-in-law’s arms.
‘Sister, you’ll ruin her suit,’ Sabra scolded Kaniz. Everybody had witnessed Firdaus’s reception, including Fatima, who had trailed behind the other women. She brushed away tears of happiness from her eyes. There were no worries now concerning her daughter’s future – Kaniz had made it plain to everyone that she was going to be a good mother-in-law. She just hoped and prayed that her own daughter would learn to be a tender and kind woman like Kaniz – and accept everything in life with the same humility and maturity.
Smiling up into the video camera, focused on her by the cameraman brought in from Karachi, Kaniz led her daughter-in-law and son into the drawing room, and seated them on her new special white leather sofa. Following the other relatives into the room, Fatima hesitated for a moment, in the doorway. When Kaniz looked up and saw her, she rose and then, with a purposeful step, went up to Fatima and gathered her in a bear-like hug. Fatima stood frozen in her enemy’s arms, and then hugged her back.
‘Mubarak, my sister, welcome. Thank you for giving away your daughter to us. We are honoured to have her. You have made me and my son very happy, Sister Fatima.’
The Holy Woman Page 47