Squeezing past her mother and out of sight of their guests who had now entered their living room, Miriam almost ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Once there, she shut the door behind her and breathed out deeply. Her earlier feeling of tiredness and exhilaration from the hill walking had vanished – instead discontent had taken its place. A mere two steps into her home had led to another world. The other she had left behind with her friends on the bus. She shrugged the feeling aside. What mattered now were the two people downstairs. And they mattered! Her future lay with them.
Going further into the room she peeled off her jacket, vest and tight pair of jeans, and let them fall, lying in a clutter on the woollen carpet. She looked down at them with distaste. Her mouth twisted into a cynical line. “Damn it!” Her mind shouted – rebelling. “They are only clothes. I am still the same young woman they visited regularly – the person that they have happily chosen as a bride for their son in their household.”
“Deny it as much as you like, Miriam”, her heart whispered back. “It’s no use. They have seen another side of you – your other persona.”
The other ‘persona’ had apparently, by either sheer accident or mere contrivance, remained hidden from them from the very beginning. When they first saw her at a party, she was dressed in a maroon chiffon sari and on each later occasion she was always smartly but discreetly and respectably dressed in a traditional shalwar kameez suit. Never at any time had they glimpsed a tightly jean-clad Miriam with an inch of midriff showing! In fact, judging by her mother’s expression and lack of composure, it must have been a nasty shock! For now, they were seeing her as a young college woman who was very much under the sway of western fashion and by extension its moral values. Muslim girls do not go outdoors dressed like that, especially in the short jacket, which hardly covered her hips, and a skimpy vest. She had heard of stories about in-laws who were prejudiced against such girls. For they weren’t the docile, the obedient and sweet daughters-in-law that they preferred. On the contrary, they were seen as a threat and portrayed as rebellious hoydens, who did not respect either their husbands or their in-laws. Miriam was all too familiar with such stereotyped views of women.
From her wardrobe, she pulled off a blue crepe shalwar kameez suit from a hangar. As she put it on, her rebellious spirit reared its head again. “They are only clothes!” her mind hissed in anger.
She could not deny the fact however, that having them on her back she had embraced a new set of values. In fact, a new personality. Her body was now modestly swathed in an elegant long tunic and baggy trousers. The curvy contours of her female body were discreetly draped. With a quick glance in the mirror, she left her room. It was a confident woman gliding down the stairs. She was now in full control of herself. There was to be no scuttling down the stairs; her poise was back. Her long dupatta scarf was draped around her shoulders and one edge of it was over her head.
Once downstairs in the hallway, outside the sitting room door, she halted, her hypocrisy galling her. She was neatly acting out a role, the one that her future in-laws preferred. A role of a demure and elegant bride and daughter-in-law – dressed modestly, with her body properly covered. Yet she was the same person who had earlier traipsed the Pennine countryside in a tight pair of jeans and walking-boots and who was now dressed in the height of Pakistani fashion. The difference lay in what her in-laws regarded and termed as an acceptable mode of dress. Or was she the same person? She didn’t know. Perhaps it was true that there were two sides to her character. A person who spontaneously switched from one setting to another, from one mode of dress into another – in short swapping one identity for another. Now, dressed as she was, she was part and parcel of another identity, of another world, that of a Muslim-Asian environment. Ensconced now in the other home ground, her thoughts, actions and feelings had seamlessly altered accordingly.
Her head held high, Miriam entered the living room. Once inside, she felt four pairs of eyes turn in her direction. She stared ahead knowing instinctively that apart from her father’s, those eyes were busy comparing her present demure appearance with her earlier one. It was amazing how she was able to move around the room at ease, in her shalwar kameez suit, in a manner that she could never have done in her earlier clothes amongst these people. She sat down beside her mother, acutely aware of her mother-in-law’s eyes; discreetly appraising both her appearance and her movements.
After a while, the conversation flagged. Fatima was doing her very best at entertaining and trying to revive a number of topics of interest to the other couple. The two guests, however, seemed to shy away. In particular, from the one concerning their children’s marriage in six months’ time. Miriam sat up, noticing that they were ill at ease and had made no direct eye contact with her. This was so unlike their usual behaviour. There were moments too, when husband and wife had exchanged surreptitious glances. Fatima was now quite anxious. From the moment her guests had stepped into their home, her instinct told her that something was wrong. She was ready to discuss the subject with them. But first she requested her daughter to bring in some refreshments. The dinner had already been prepared and laid out on the dining table in the kitchen.
Miriam was only too happy to leave the room; behind her a hushed silence reigned. She pottered around the kitchen, collecting bits and pieces of crockery from the cupboards. Her own hunger had vanished. The appearance of those two people had done a miraculous thing to her metabolic system. She was arranging the plates and glasses on the tray when she heard their voices in the hallway. They sounded as if were saying goodbye to her parents in the hallway. Surprised, Miriam hastened and picked up the tray. Were they going already? They hadn’t eaten anything! The table was laid for dinner. She called “Auntie” addressing her future mother-in-law. She turned and smiled. They were in a hurry to get home, because they had guests staying in their home, she informed.
‘That is a lousy excuse’, Miriam thought. If they had guests at home, why did they bother to come in the first place, anyway? Still dwelling on the subject she returned to the kitchen and put the tray back on the table. What a waste of time!
The two parents-in-law walked to their car in silence – both were lost in their own thoughts. The silence continued during their journey. There was no need for communication. Somehow they could guess what the other was thinking about and read each other’s thoughts fairly accurately. On reaching home, the so-called guests to whom Begum had referred earlier, had apparently gone. Their elder son, Farook was not yet in. The younger was upstairs, studying for his ‘GCSE’ examinations. They could hear the music from the CD disc blaring away. He loved listening to songs as he revised.
Ayub shed his jacket and hung it in the hallway and went straight to the living room. Begum followed behind, also taking off her coat and outdoor shawl. Switching on the television, Ayub sat down in his armchair. Begum hovered listlessly near his armchair for a minute, looking down at her husband – waiting. Then mechanically folding her woollen shawl into its customary neat folds, she left the room and went upstairs to her bedroom to place it in her drawer. For a few moments she stood lost in her thoughts, looking out of the bedroom window. Mrs Williams had another car. This was the third in six months. What did she do with them? Then she heard her husband call her name, his voice supremely autocratic.
Mrs Williams and her love of cars put aside, Begum returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa opposite her husband, waiting for him to begin. Her heartbeat had automatically quickened. The seconds were ticking away into minutes, and her husband, however, still had made no move to say anything, his gaze on the newscaster. Instead she picked up the Urdu national newspaper ‘Daily Jang’ from the coffee table, and began to read it. More precisely she was pretending to read it, the words were a blur in front of her eyes.
Ayub, at last, stood up, stretching out his legs. Striding across the room, he switched off the television. Returning to his chair, his pointed gaze now fell on his wife.
“Well”, he bega
n softly.
It was now her turn to play; she pretended not to hear him or understand the implication of his exclamation “well”. Now that the moment of reckoning had come, she absurdly wanted to prevaricate – to put the discussion off.
“Well, what?” she responded coldly, buying time, peeping at her unsmiling husband over the edge of the newspaper.
“You know very well what I mean! Don’t pretend to misunderstand me, Begum,” he rasped under his breath, not at all amused by her manner, tone or her words.
Begum calmly examined the harsh outlines of her husband’s unsmiling face. She was lost. She did not know what to say, or how to say it, although she knew the subject he was referring to. Thus her lips would not open, she simply stared at him.
“Well, what do you think of your future daughter-in-law? I thought you told me that she was a very “sharif”, a very modest girl. Was that naked waist what you would call modest?” He lanced at her.
“I am sure she is.” Begum defensively volunteered, feeling hedged. After all she was the one who had originally taken a liking to Miriam.
“Huh!” Ayub grunted. “Sharif! Dressed like that! God knows who has seen her. Would you like any of your friends and relatives to have seen her as she appeared today, would you Begum?” The voice was cutting.
“But she’s a college student – college students do dress like that. Haven’t you yourself joked about tatty jean-clad university students?” Begum boldly persisted.
She wanted to excuse Miriam’s mode of dress to herself and to him; she knew she was not going to make a success of it because, secretly in her own heart, she very much agreed with her husband.
“Tell me, in those clothes of hers, would you be proud to have her as your daughter-in-law? I know I am not. You talk about her being a university student. Well, have you any idea what sort of company that she might be keeping with that lot. You’ve only seen her at odd times, and always at home. Do you know what she is really like? Have you thought of the effect she could have in your household? With her life style, such girls also want a lot of freedom. In fact, they want to lead their lives the way their English college friends do. Did you notice what time she came in? She knew we were coming, yet that had not made any difference to her lifestyle. Do you expect her to change overnight in order to suit us? People form habits, Begum, do you understand? Are you prepared for a daughter-in-law who goes in and out of the house whenever she feels like it, dressed like that and returns home as late as that? Don’t your cheeks burn at the thought of that bit of flesh you saw? Imagine how our son will feel about her! I hope shame! And what if she has a boyfriend already – have you thought of that? What if she has a boyfriend already? What if she takes drugs? What if… What if… So many questions to ask ourselves! Do you know, we do not know this girl at all, Begum! Can you guarantee that she will make our son happy?”
He paused strategically, waiting for her to say something. Begum, bemused, had nothing to add. The talking had become his arena not hers. He continued.
“You know of a number of cases where the educated, the so-called modern girls have twined their husbands around their little fingers, and expected them to dance to their tunes. Are you prepared for that to happen to your beloved son? To lose him to such a daughter-in-law? Have you the heart for that?”
Begum just stared, listening quietly to her husband’s angry lecture. Deep down, however, in her own heart, she agreed with much of what he had said. Rattled by his tone and his words, she, however, was reluctant to voice her agreement. She hadn’t quite anticipated the direction towards which the conversation was heading. After 25 years of marriage, she could read him like a book – his words, their nuance, the tilt of his eyebrow, the authoritative swing of his hand, the thin line of his mouth spelled only one message.
She had already jumped ahead. With a sinking heart, she had guessed correctly the conclusion, the outcome of this discussion. She did not know how to react in front of him, nor did she disagree with him over anything he said. Not one jot. Her own thoughts had run in a similar direction. When she saw Miriam, standing near the garden gate with her jacket open, similar thoughts had whizzed through her mind too, although she would not have voiced them in such a harsh way. Her perception of what her daughter-in-law should be like did not quite tally with the picture that Miriam presented to them or to the clear picture that Ayub’s words had conjured up. Why did that stupid girl have to wear those jeans and that vest today of all days? She angrily groaned inside her head. And why did Ayub have to see her like that?
She had always reckoned on a conventional sort of daughter-in-law – the epitome of tradition. Definitely not one who was so strongly influenced by western form of dress, culture and probably feminist ideas as Miriam. The mad girl had no qualms about blatantly showing a part of her body in a public place. Begum shuddered.
What about Farook, their son? How would they deal with him? Luckily, it was not Farook who had initially befriended Miriam, but she herself. A glimpse of Miriam at a Mehndi party (hen party), had tugged at Begum’s heart. From the first moment, she had fitted the epitome of what her future daughter-in-law should be like – young, beautiful and well educated. She had just obtained three ‘A’ levels, at high grades from school, and was now doing a geography degree at the university.
Begum had liked the way Miriam had behaved – ever so correctly and gracefully. Above all, she had liked the way she dressed herself. How ironic that assumption was after today’s event. It was the way the black chiffon sari had hugged her slender figure, and how her hair was elegantly wound up in a knot at the top of her head – just perfect. She was neither over-dressed, nor over-decked in jewels, nor over made-up as some of her peers were wont to be. Nor for that matter was she over-boisterous or making a spectacle of herself as some of her friends did. In short, she had viewed her as the epitome of perfection, everything that was correct and appealing. She definitely had stood out from amongst the other girls. Looking back now, two years later, Begum was sure that, not her son, but she herself had fallen in love with Miriam at first sight, and not just that. Her name ‘Miriam’ wove a magic spell around her. It had a special ring to it and she had loved using it.
And there was more –Begum had taken a real liking to Miriam’s parents too, especially her mother. And, liking one’s child’s in-laws, particularly the mother was an important part of the equation. She knew of cases where the two mothers-in-law hated each other’s guts and never quite got on with each other. Begum and Miriam’s mother, Fatima, met for the first time at the Mehndi party. After that, they became warm friends and were seen to be in and out of each other’s homes. With the subject of their growing children’s futures looming on their domestic horizons, the two mothers had, as a matter of course, discussed and dwelled at length on the subject of their children’s marriage prospects.
Farook and Miriam had also met each other soon afterwards. Often accompanied by their parents, they too, took a liking to each other. They found they were very compatible in their interests and personalities and had a lot to laugh about – often giggling together. When their parents suggested the idea of marriage – both heartily agreed. Farook just couldn’t help grinning all over. Miriam was struck with sudden shyness, her cheeks burning. Soon afterwards an engagement party was held for the two. In order to let them complete their respective courses, the wedding was to be postponed for a year or so.
That was a year ago. Today Farook’s parents went to meet Miriam’s, in order to discuss the arrangements for the forthcoming wedding in six months’ time. They were to decide on the date and discuss possible venues for the two receptions. Instead they had returned home, without even mentioning the word wedding. Yet their thoughts were very much centred on that subject. However, more importantly on Miriam herself – her clothes and her body!
“Well?” Ayub’s cold prompting brought his wife to the present.
Begum turned to look at her husband once more and calmly waited for him to finish wha
t he was going to say. There was a speculative gleam in his eyes.
“What are you going to do?” He rasped.
This time she could not pretend to misunderstand him.
She faced him squarely – poised for a battle. Yet as she was about to utter the words her heart sank. For she saw her Miriam fast disappearing from the horizon. But then as she tried to clutch onto her image in her mind, there arose that one of her in that silly pair of faded jeans, and that ridiculously short vest. Her heart sank. It had to be. It was better to face the matter now than regret it later. The problem was, how she, Begum, was going to deal with it. She did not have the heart nor the courage to play the role demanded of her; nor the one that she inevitably had to play in this drama. Knowing her husband, she knew for sure, that he would leave it to her – to sort out the situation with the two parties; her son and Miriam and her family.
Once again, she looked her husband directly in the eye.
“You truly don’t want the wedding to take place then?” she tentatively asked, still desperate to hold onto Miriam.
Begum’s gaze fell. His eyes crushed.
“I thought I had already made myself obvious! What do you think?” He was enraged and he let her know it.
“I suppose I agree with what you say, but how are we going to go about it?” Begum stammered, the boldness gone, now very much resigned to both her and Miriam’s fates.
“I leave that entirely to you – especially as you were the one so hot on the girl. I am sure we can find lots of other women for our son, women who have a more discreet taste in clothing and a good understanding of female modesty. Similarly, I am sure her parents will find a man more suited to her lifestyle than our son, a man who has the capacity to tolerate her particular mode of dressing, for the want of a better word.”
A Pair of Jeans and other stories Page 6