Humbled to the very core of her being by Kaniz’s generosity, Fatima couldn’t help but have a good cry in her big pink cotton handkerchief as she sat down next to her friend and mistress. ‘It is my prerogative anyway, as mother of the bride to have a good cry,’ she sniffed happily to Chaudharani Shahzada.
The women in this room can never guess the heights to which my heart has soared. They think I cry from sadness, Fatima thought as she sat next to her mistress Shahzada and glanced proudly around the room. All this is now my daughter’s. Her heart soared again at the prospect of her daughter becoming the next chaudharani and mistress of this hawaili and its tracts of land.
Sitting beside Khawar, Siraj Din was observing everything and everyone with philosophical wisdom from under his bushy brown eyebrows. Every day proved to be a revelation – there was always something new to amaze him.
‘Well, Khawar, my son, did you ever in your wildest dreams anticipate your mother embracing her lifelong enemy?’ Siraj Din asked rhetorically, pointing his stick at Kaniz and Fatima sitting together, both smiling warmly and unreservedly into each other”s face.
‘No, but al-Hamidulillah, with yours and everyone’s prayers, Allah Pak has blessed this household. My mother is a changed woman. She bears no grudge against anyone, even those who have humiliated her.’
Firdaus blushed, knowing the barb was aimed at her.
‘I am so glad. I’ll leave you two alone and will go and sit with my daughter Shahzada.’ Siraj Din stood up and, with the aid of his ivory stick, walked over to the other sofa. As he approached, Fatima quickly vacated her seat to him, deciding to go and sit with her husband Fiaz, out in the courtyard.
‘Well, I must say, you do look grand,’ Khawar teased, turning to look at his bride. ‘I would never have recognised you, Madam Principal, coming out of the dholi. Now that was a sight indeed! So was the one of you stepping into my home.’
‘Trust you to remind me of that, Khawar. You didn’t manage to drown me in the well in our childhood days, but you’ll probably kill me with your pointed taunts now!’ she tartly said. Khawar’s peal of laughter rang around the room. Firdaus fidgeted with her gold-embroidered, jewel-encrusted handbag, feeling all the women’s eyes on them.
‘They are really happy, Shahzada,’ Siraj Din observed, watching the bride and groom from across the room. ‘I hope my own granddaughter Zarri Bano is happy too, wherever she is with her husband.’
‘Amin!’ Shahzada voiced fervently, a worried look entering her eyes. ‘If only that were so!’ she half-whispered to herself.
‘Aba Jan, last night I had a dream in which I saw a beautiful child in my Zarri Bano’s lap – looking just like her. If only my dream could come true! I was thinking that if she is now going to be settled, more or less, in Karachi, there is nothing for me now in the kothi in the town. Fatima too, has left us, to return to Chiragpur and look after Fiaz. I was wondering, therefore, whether you would have me come and stay here in the village, in the hawaili with you? I like it here much, much better than in the town. If I am here I can also look after you in the last years of your life. Also Fatima, my friend, is here and I can see her every day …’
Shahzada stopped, seeing her father-in-law’s green eyes shine with tears. ‘Aba Jan?’ she queried in concern.
‘Shahzada, my dearest, dearest of daughter-in-laws. You have made me so happy! There is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to have you back in the hawaili. It has never been the same since you left the village and your mother-in-law Zulaikha died. With you here, the place will come alive again. People will flock to my home and keep you company. Zarri Bano will come and Insha’allah bring her children with her. She’ll have to stay on in the hawaili. After all, it will be her children who will inherit it and most of this land, my dear Shahzada.
‘To have all this happen in the last days, weeks, months and years of my life would be Allah’s true blessing indeed. Thank you my dearest, my Shahzada. You have the place of the daughter I never had in my heart. You know that, don’t you?’
‘The pleasure will be all mine, Aba Jan.’ Shahzada was touched to the core of her being, her own eyes swimming in tears. She raised her father-in-law’s hand and respectfully kissed it, pressing it to her cheek.
Coming back into the room, Fatima had watched the exchange between Shahzada and Siraj Din. She went over to Shahzada and held out her hand. ‘Come, Chaudharani Sahiba, you mustn’t cry, not today. It is a day of celebration. Come and have a look at my Firdaus’s bedroom.’
‘Yes, Chaudharani Sahiba,’ Kulsoom said eagerly, overhearing Fatima’s words and coming to stand by her side, ‘it is reputed that Chaudharani Kaniz has spent lakhs of rupees on furnishing the bride’s bedroom for this wedding.’
Wiping her tears away with the corner of her chador, Shahzada took hold of Fatima’s hand, her lifelong friend, and stood up.
Kulsoom automatically twitched her long dangling earrings in place on her ears, then nearly cried out with the pain. As she led the two up the hawaili’s staircase to the first floor she was wondering when exactly Kaniz was going to do her the honour of giving her a gift for her services. She so fervently hoped that it would be a gold pendant. Her poor little ears couldn’t cope with any more earrings.
Hoisting her large frame with its bony legs up the marble stairs, Kulsoom just wished to Allah that these important people didn’t have so many floors. It would serve them right if, one day, they found her dead on their stairs. Then they would be cursed for life.
Smiling indulgently at Kulsoom’s panting face and her rasping breath, Kaniz stood at the top of the staircase and led them gracefully down the corridor. She thrust one door wide open and proudly stood aside, allowing the three women to enter and marvel at length at the contents and the furnishings of the room.
Just for one moment, Kaniz’s head tilted proudly to one side, in a gesture reminiscent of the old haughty Chaudharani Kaniz. The expression of wonder and humility on Fatima’s face as she gazed reverently around the room, touching and examining everything with awe, was worth each and every paisa spent on it.
Chapter 67
‘KHAWAR AND HIS barat will just have left the hawaili, Sikander Sahib,’ Zarri Bano informed her husband, looking down at her watch and translating it into Pakistani time.
‘Whose?’ Sikander asked, offering his hand to support her as they came out of the Batu Caves. They slowly made their way down the steps from the entrance of the caves in the Malaysian countryside.
Lifting her burqa with her hand, in case she tripped over the hem, Zarri Bano concentrated on the narrow two hundred-odd steps, carved into the hill, that housed the caves. She watched her feet with trepidation, as two small spider monkeys skipped and danced around her legs.
‘Don’t worry!’ Sikander laughed, holding her hand firmly and moving to her side. The monkeys were everywhere on the steps. At night-time they disappeared into the caves, but during the day-time they hopped and played around the feet of the tourists, especially Hindus, who came to pay homage to the Hindu temple, housing the images of their gods inside the huge cavern of the Batu Caves.
‘You remember Khawar, the young landlord from our village?’ Zarri Bano told him. ‘Today is his wedding day. He is marrying Firdaus, the daughter of our housekeeper. My grandfather and mother will be there at the wedding, of course, as special guests.’
‘I see,’ Sikander answered, leading her to the taxi waiting to take them to their next destination, the Malaysian jungle.
Glancing out of the car window, Zarri Bano admired the lush scenery with its tropical foliage elegantly carpeting the rugged mountain terrain, lining the road on either side.
‘By the way,’ she added, dimpling at him. She had this strange wicked urge to tease him. ‘Khawar was one of my old suitors.’
‘Was he now?’ Sikander returned silkily.
Her cheeks reddening at the look in his eyes, Zarri Bano hastened to explain. ‘Oh no, Sikander Sahib, it is not the way you think
. Khawar has always had a soft spot for Firdaus. It was his mother, Chaudharani Kaniz who was bent on pursuing my rishta for obvious snobbish reasons.’
‘And of course, my snobbish, arrogant wife turned him down. I suppose I ought to feel honoured that somehow you didn’t turn me down like your other string of suitors,’ he joked, then turned serious again. ‘Yet you still spurned me at the end, Zarri Bano – just like all the others,’ he said quietly.
‘There was nothing arrogant about it, Sikander,’ Zarri Bano said, her face still smarting with colour. ‘I have always regarded Khawar like a brother. I played with him in my childhood days in the village. The second reason was that I couldn’t stomach the thought of stepping into Chaudharani Kaniz’s haughty shoes. It just didn’t appeal to me. I was never cut out to be a village chaudharani of the mould that my mother or Kaniz are. They are a different breed of women, following a different set of traditions and goals in life. At that time, my heart hankered after the big cities and the international life. The tranquil village life would have smothered me and my journalistic career.
Zarri Bano thought for a moment. ‘Having said that, recently I did enjoy my stay in the village since I have headed the madrasa there. I have had two women’s colleges built. Firdaus is much better suited to the village life than I am. Allah obviously had another vocation in mind for me – my father just became His tool. Although I never envisaged I would become a scholar of Islam or a Holy Woman, I have now been all over the world as I always wanted to. What about you, Sikander? Do you prefer the city life or the countryside?’ Zarri Bano ventured to ask, just as the taxi came to a stop, hoping he would look at her again. He didn’t.
They climbed out and stretched their legs. Then they followed the driver up the gentle slope of a hill leading into a rubber plantation. Looking around, they were amazed at the wonderful milky green haze that seemed to cloak and surround the trees. Climbing further up they eventually came to a small hut built on a raised platform on the hillside. In front of a small wooden table, an old Malay gentleman was sitting on a chair, smoking. As he saw them approach, he stood up to welcome them with a warm smile.
‘Assalam-Alaikum!’ the rubber-tapper greeted. He could tell by Zarri Bano’s black veil that they were Muslims, like himself. Smiling broadly, he took them to a nearby tree and, with a special knife, demonstrated how rubber was extracted. Zarri Bano and Sikander watched fascinated, as the jelly-like orange-brown gum oozed out on to the surrounding bark.
After thanking and tipping the old man for his demonstration, Sikander and Zarri Bano followed the Tamil driver further up the hill.
‘This forest will gradually become a jungle,’ the driver stated, waving his hands up at the dense forest ahead, disappearing beyond the horizon. ‘Would you like to go and explore by yourselves for an hour or two? I’ll wait for you down below.’
‘That would be nice,’ Sikander replied, nodding in agreement.
‘Don’t go too far, in case you get lost,’ the man warned. ‘Just stay in the clearing and follow the paths.’
Thanking the driver and holding Zarri Bano’s hand firmly, Sikander led her up the slope and into the jungle proper. Soon lush green foliage and tall mature trees, reaching high into the sky to form a dense canopy above, surrounded them. The atmosphere was magical, full of the strange sounds of distant animals. Everywhere, there were butterflies and moths, some so big that they could hardly fly, flitting between the trees.
‘I like to be where you are, Zarri Bano.’ Sikander whispered caressingly.
Zarri Bano stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’ she asked, not understanding him at first. Sikander stared back at her, his eyes expressive with a meaning. A curious light flickered down from the green canopy above, making Zarri Bano look incongruous in her black burqa.
At last understanding him, heat rushed into her face and, as usual, she immediately tried to escape. Carefully stepping through the undergrowth, she held the hem of her burqa up, in case it got caught by the shoots of the plants and shrubs.
‘Don’t go cold on me now, Zarri Bano, please!’ Sikander urged from behind, pushing aside a small branch, and reaching her side again. ‘We had a very natural conversation back in the car. You were relaxed then and actually talked fully. Now I can actually feel you drawing back into yourself – into your inner world. Please don’t do that.’
‘Look, Sikander,’ she said desperately, ‘I am trying my very best, you know, but I am finding it all so hard. During the past month or so, everybody has been pounding on my doors. Little by little they have managed to sneak in. In your case, you have not only pounded but barged right in. Now there are not many locked doors left, Sikander, before you reach the old Zarri Bano.’ Zarri Bano felt suddenly worried in case she had revealed too much.
Sikander didn’t answer immediately. Instead he looked around. They had entered a large clearing. Zarri Bano, too, looked up with pleasure at the clear blue sky peeping through the green rooftop of the trees. Both marvelled at the flashes of brilliant colour as tropical birds and parakeets flew from one branch to another.
‘It is like paradise here, so peaceful. Almost as if we are the only people in the world,’ Zarri Bano said, wiping her damp forehead.
‘Why don’t you take off your burqa?’ Sikander softly suggested. ‘There’s nobody here, Zarri Bano. Nobody can see you – except me. Here, let me help you.’
Feeling the solitude of the place and with no prying male eyes, Zarri Bano thought it safe to remove her cloak. As Sikander helped her to pull the burqa off, her hair tumbled out of the hood and down to her shoulders, falling heavily in a tousled riot of waves. In the sunshine streaming down from the cracks between the trees, it became ablaze with a deep earthy fire.
Sikander gasped at the beauty of it, fighting the urge to put his hand through it. Then he went utterly still as he saw what she was wearing underneath – the black chiffon outfit from the mela, that he had so loved and the image of which was so clearly etched on his mind. Zarri Bano knew instantly that her clothing had a symbolic meaning for him. She remembered the mela so well – and that passionate look in his eyes … All of a sudden she felt self-conscious, needing to escape from him again.
She walked on until she came to a spot with a large gnarled tree trunk, its roots jutting out and spread across on the ground. Sikander watched her sit down on one of the roots. She looked stunning against the backdrop of the jungle, an elegant figure in an outfit which defined and flattered the feminine shape of her body.
He followed her and stood by her side. Unable to help himself, his hand reached down to her hair, marvelling at the silkiness of the strands as they flowed sensuously through his fingers.
Zarri Bano froze as she felt his fingers creep up her neckline from behind and into her scalp. Strangely she recalled her own similar action the other night. ‘This is what I did to him! How could I?’ she cried to herself, shuddering in shame and pleasure.
‘You have such beautiful hair, Zarri Bano. Please let it grow down to your waist,’ he whispered, leaning down near her head.
‘How it used to be, you mean? When you first saw me in this outfit five years ago, Sikander?’ Her voice was weary. ‘My hair can grow, but to expect other things to revert to the same is impossible.’
‘Is it?’ he said, straightening up. ‘But I am looking at, and I think and hope I have found the woman I lost.’
‘Then I am sorry to have to disillusion you, Sikander Sahib. You are definitely chasing rainbows! What you see in front of you is very deceptive. I may appear the same, but take a look inside my soul and you’ll find I am not the woman you think that you are seeking. I have changed too much, Sikander. It is impossible to make some dreams become a reality.’
‘I disagree with you, Zarri Bano!’ Without realising it, his fingers were tugging painfully at her hair, forcing her to look up at him again. ‘Dreams can often, with effort, be realised. It is personal barriers that prevent us from realising them. In this case, you yourself have bec
ome the biggest barrier. Once it was your father.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I can never forgive him for what he did to you and to us.’
‘I forgave him very soon. Did you know, Sikander, that my father was jealous of you – obsessively jealous, in fact. My mother recently told me how he felt threatened by you and saw you as a rival for my affection.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that. I suspected it all along. He hated me, Zarri Bano. Why else do you think he stopped us from marrying and made you into a Holy Woman? What I don’t understand is, what did he think I was going to do to you? After all, you were still his daughter and would always remain so.’
‘He loved me too much, Sikander. He was afraid of you eventually replacing him in my affections – that was his ultimate fear. He also thought that you had the power to hurt me emotionally.’
‘Well, he succeeded in keeping you for himself, didn’t he? He kept you at home in his ivory tower, so that no man could ever get near you. I’ll never forgive him, Zarri Bano, no matter what you say. He altered the whole courses of our lives.’ She could feel the anger vibrating in him, through his fingers. They were still tugging painfully at her hair.
‘You must remember, Sikander, if Jafar hadn’t died, my father couldn’t have prevented us from marrying. It was fated to happen. It was in our stars, Sikander. You must believe this if nothing else,’ she appealed earnestly.
‘Whatever you say, Zarri Bano. The fact remains, however, that I cannot forgive him. As my wife, I want to have nothing to do with your inheritance, your land. It is haram for me, I tell you.’ His eyes shot angry darts at her.
‘It is neither mine nor yours, Sikander. It belongs to Haris. I don’t like it either. I have in fact already sold some of the land to build the madrasas and provide for their running costs.’ She was feeling upset now.
‘My son is having nothing to do with your inheritance, Zarri Bano!’ he hissed, withdrawing his hand from her hair and stepping away.
The Holy Woman Page 48