A Pair of Jeans and other stories

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  They heard the front door open. That must be their Farook. They stopped talking and stared at each other. Begum’s heart was thumping away, dreading talking to him about Miriam. She felt like a traitor. Quickly getting up she went into the kitchen to get his dinner. She hoped he would go straight to his room first. Ayub picked up the newspaper and began to read it.

  Miriam had just got in from university, when she heard the ’phone ringing. She dashed down from her room to answer it. She faltered - it was Aunt Begum. She quickly obliged Begum in her request to speak to her mother and called her mother. Leaving the ’phone she went into the living room and sat down to watch television.

  Fatima left the meal she was preparing and went to speak to Begum. They talked for nearly five minutes. There were several moments of awkward pauses on either side of the telephone receivers. By the time the conversation ended a pinched look had settled around Fatima’s mouth.

  Begum had nervously said her ‘Salam’. Fatima had quite literally forgotten to return the greeting at the end, but silently put the receiver down. Her eyes stared at the wall.

  At the other end, with her head bent over her legs, Begum thanked Allah that it was over and done with. She sank down against the banister of the stairs. She felt bad, oh God, terribly bad. She had hated herself every minute of that conversation and the role she had been forced to play. Putting herself in Fatima’s position, she realised how painful it must be for her. How would she feel if she had found out that her daughter was to be jilted at the last minute?

  Mechanically, as if in a daze, and with her hand held against her temple, Fatima, for her part, went into the living room. Going to the sofa, she sat down and absent-mindedly pushed the cushion aside and stared in front of her, at the fireplace.

  Miriam did not notice anything unusual about her mother until she realised that her mother had not said a word since she entered the room. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked quietly – her heart’s rhythm had altered for some reason.

  “I – I,” Fatima stalled as she sought to answer her daughter’s question. She was not yet ready to divulge what she had learnt. She was still reeling from the shock herself. What would it do to her daughter? She turned her face away from her daughter.

  “What is it, Mother?” Miriam’s heart had now gained a steady sharp beat. Dread entered. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked again.

  Unable to control herself any longer Fatima bitterly burst out with, “She said that your engagement had to be broken off!”

  Miriam paled. Her heart had now sunk to the pit of her stomach. “Why, Mother?” she said quietly. She was amazed at how clearly her mind was functioning, although a buzzing sound seemed to hammer in her head.

  “She said that they came yesterday to inform us, but found it impossible to get around to doing so. Begum says that her sister insists that her daughter was betrothed to Farook. That they were well-matched together. She says she is very sorry and apologises, but apparently her sister comes first.”

  “Liars! What a lousy excuse!” Miriam’s mind screamed, but she uttered not a word – instead left the room.

  She ran upstairs to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Standing in the middle of the room, she drew in a deep breath.

  Where did this sister come from? Why was it she was never heard of before?

  “Not to marry Farook?” Miriam voiced loudly. Why, only yesterday she was planning how they were going to lead their lives together. In fact deciding in which area they were going to purchase their house, after they got married and had jobs.

  Her mouth twisted into a cynical line. In her heart she knew. From that first moment she saw them that night in her jeans and short vest, she had had a dreadful premonition. She had known, although she had denied it emphatically to herself, that something was wrong or bound to go wrong. Their faces, their body language had told the whole story.

  The buzzing sound was still hammering in her head. Going to her wardrobe, she pulled it open and looked inside. Her eyes sought wildly and her hands rummaged through the clothes and the hangers, until she found what she was seeking.

  She pulled off from the hanger the repugnant looking article and threw it on the floor, as if it burned her to hold it. She stared at it as if mesmerised by it. Then with her foot she gave it a vicious kick. Her mouth resumed its cynical twist. Her friends would never believe her if she told them.

  The shabby-looking and much worn pair of jeans lay nonchalantly near the end of the bed, blissfully unaware of the havoc it had created in the life of its wearer.

  She stepped over the pair of jeans and looked at herself in the long mirror on the wall. Eyes widening, she scrutinised her face and body for any tell-tale signs of her inner turmoil. Her face looked haggard. The mouth, which was normally full-lipped, was now a thin, sharp, pinkish line. There was a certain stiffness about her, the way her shoulders sloped down; as if carrying her body was an immense ordeal.

  Angrily, she swept away from the mirror and went to the window to look down at the lawn and flower beds in the rear garden. Ideas and thoughts jolted and formed in her head, each vying with the other for attention. One idea, however, lodged itself firmly in her mind: Farook and his parents weren’t going to get away with it!

  “They can’t do this to me!” her mind screamed. She didn’t know whether Farook knew about this matter, but she was going to make sure that he definitely did and there was only one way of finding out if he didn’t! She noticed that the flowers below were in full bloom. The colour of those roses reminded her of the bridal bouquet she was planning for herself. All of a sudden, her body relaxed and she felt a certain calmness descend over her as she closed her bedroom door behind her.

  There was no rushing. She simply glided down the stairs and had begun to dial Farook’s phone number on her mobile by the time she reached the hallway. As the phone bell pipped away at the other end, her heart skipped a beat for a fraction of a second. What if his mother or father picked up the phone? What would she say to them? She was about to snap her mobile shut when rebellion surfaced again. She shook her fears aside. So what if they answered the phone! She would deal with them and the situation as it arose. To her dismay, nobody answered the phone at the other end. She tried again, defiantly letting it ring for two minutes – somebody was going to answer it one way or another.

  Her mother came out of the kitchen and saw Miriam with her mobile phone held fast to her ear. Miriam heard her mother’s approach, turned and caught her eye. Fatima shot her a questioning glance. Who was she ringing? A worried look crossed her face.

  At last, somebody picked up the receiver. The ringing stopped and the word “hello” was audible to Miriam’s ear. Relief shot through her. It was her Farook. She greeted him first with “hello” and then with the Arabic “Assalam-a-Alaikum”, “Peace be upon you!” She then reverted to speaking in English.

  “Farook, it’s Miriam.” She tried to control the rhythm of her heartbeat and keep her voice steady.

  “How are you, Miriam?”

  “I am fine…” She was staring at her mother. Fatima was desperately signalling her to end the call.

  Miriam ignored her mother’s shaking hand and turned to look instead at the picture of a landscape on the wall opposite, concentrating on what she was saying.

  “Are you alone at home, Farook, or are your parents with you? If they are there, I want us to meet in the Student Union.” Tone brusque.

  “Usman is with me. Mum and Dad have gone out. They’ll be back soon though; did you want to speak to them?”

  “No, it’s you… I wanted to speak to you, Farook.” She paused for a few seconds, her heart thudding again, and then continued, still in control.

  “Have you heard anything about us, Farook?”

  “Us? No. What do you mean Miriam?” He was now quite intrigued.

  “Just as I thought.” Her voice hardened. A bitter laugh echoing in her head. “It’s probably too soon for them to break it to you. They a
re probably deciding what to do and how to put it to you.”

  “Miriam, you’ve got me all puzzled now. Come on girl, what is going on?” He nervously laughed.

  “I am sorry Farook – just talking to myself. I know it’s all in riddles to you, isn’t it? Look, I can’t say much more over the phone, but can I come and see you at home, and then we can talk together with your parents?”

  “Of course you can, Miriam, but really, you’ve now got me all worried, I must say.”

  “It’s nothing to fret about. I’ll tell you in a short while. Hudah Hafiz.” Her voice and thoughts were calm again.

  Miriam switched off her phone and faced her mother. Fatima noted the distinct mutinous line of her daughter’s mouth. She struggled to say the right thing but not want to bruise her daughter’s ego further. She had a duty, however, to advise her as a mother, but the right words just failed to spring to her aid. Finally, she softly offered: “Miriam, that wasn’t the right thing to do or say.”

  “The right thing to do?” Miriam ejaculated – stung. “Do you think Farook’s parents have done the right thing by me?” she hissed, her betrayed eyes darting an angry beam of light at her mother.

  Fatima realised her blunder. It was a mighty wrong thing to say under the circumstances. Of course her daughter had the right to feel as she did. So Fatima attempted to placate her with her next words.

  “I am sorry, Miriam, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I thought that instead of you contacting Farook, it should be us, your parents, doing it in the first place – that is the seemly thing to do.”

  “Oh Mother! There you go on again about ‘seemly’ things. There is nothing ‘unseemly’ about me contacting my own fiancé.” She laid extra stress on the word “own”. “After all, I am engaged to him, am I not? Or have you forgotten that too?” Angry heat was rushing out of her cheeks.

  “No I haven’t forgotten! There is no need for your sarcasm.” Fatima snapped back, also now quite flushed, beginning to get irritated with her daughter and the situation in which she presently found herself.

  “I just mean that your father and I should go firstly to visit Farook and his parents to discuss the matter. Do you think that we don’t care about you – about how they have jilted you, and on what grounds? After all, it’s a matter of our Izzat, our honour, the way we are being treated so shabbily – that our daughter is dropped like a sack of potatoes. I was under a great deal of shock when I listened to Begum earlier today on the phone, but now the shock has worn off, and like you I am very, very angry.” She passionately ended, hoping to clarify her own feelings and position to her daughter.

  Miriam shrugged. “You can sort that out with father, Farook and his parents, but I am going to see Farook personally and right now, mother!” A defiant tilt arched her eyebrows above her flashing eyes. Hoping that her mother had understood the message, Miriam swept round and went upstairs to her bedroom.

  Fatima stared after her daughter helplessly – she was in a real dilemma. She wanted to tell and advise Miriam that she shouldn’t meet Farook, until they themselves had met his parents. At the same time she felt deeply for her daughter and wanted to support her in any way that she could. Never before had she felt the gulf between Miriam’s generation and her own so keenly. The generation and culture gap lay between them as wide as the ocean. She never did this sort of thing in her youth. Unthinkable! No matter what happened, the parents saw to everything. It was they who resolved problems; children did not take things into their own hands.

  Pakistan was so far from Britain; it was another place and she was thinking of another time. As her daughter had said, it wasn’t a matter of what was the right thing to do convention-wise, but it was time for positive action. If Miriam thought she had a right to consult Farook about this matter, then she had every right to do so, and she, as her mother, would support her! Times had indeed changed. They lived and were brought up in different worlds, traditions and cultures. Above all, the world was quickly changing around them.

  Returning to the lounge, she stood listlessly in the middle. It was a pity that her husband was not in. He would have seen to everything. What would have happened if, instead of her, her husband had picked up the phone? She wondered wryly, would Begum have said the same to her husband that she had said to her? Probably not, she thought cynically.

  Inside, her blood raged, feeling so terribly bitter. What had their daughter done, to deserve to be treated in such a fashion? It was a great insult for all of them.

  She herself had so liked Begum. Up till this evening she had prided herself on gaining a good kourmani, a mother-in-law for her daughter. They had also become good friends over the time they had known each other. And now this!

  She heard her daughter’s steps on the stairs – light and jaunty. Miriam entered the room. Fatima turned to look at her daughter. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as they swept over Miriam’s body. Then her gaze met Miriam’s and was held there. There was a challenging look in her daughter’s eyes. Fatima registered the look and accepted it wordlessly. Miriam waited for her mother to make some comment about her appearance. Under her mother’s shocked gaze she held herself tall and erect; the mutinous line of her mouth very much prominent.

  “I am going to see Farook, Mother” she softly informed and waited, giving her mother sufficient time to say something. Fatima said nothing, her gaze dropped. Miriam then turned and left the room.

  The outside door clicked shut behind her. Fatima moved to the window. It looked onto the front garden and its driveway. She saw her daughter shut the garden gate behind her. Then placing one hand in the pocket of her faded pair of jeans, while the other held the short jacket tightly against her chest, Miriam began to walk away.

  PERCHANVAH

  Kaniz Bibi had just been to see her pir, her spiritual guide, in the next village. Her face glowed with happiness. Getting off the bus, she walked through the fields of her village. She couldn’t wait to see her friend Neelum.

  Just ahead of her, she spotted one of her friends and hastening her pace, called out to her.

  Her friend stopped, turning round, and on spotting her, smiled at her, “Assalam Alaikum, Kaniz Bibi. How are you?”

  “Wa Laikum Salam, with God’s blessing, I am well. And you and your family?” she asked in return.

  “We are all well, Mashallah, with God’s blessing. Where have you been? Have you been visiting your relatives in the city?”

  “No. I’ve just been to the shops and to visit my pir in the next village.”

  “Is there anything in particular that you want to see your pir, Sister Kaniz?”

  “Yes.” Unable to contain her delight, she held up her bulging shopping basket, tokerry, to her friend. The latter looked at it with interest. Kaniz flicked off the lid, revealing balls of blue soft wool.

  “Who are you going to knit for?” Her friend asked. Kaniz smiled, creasing her face with fine lines. Her friend gave her a knowing glance. Kaniz smiled in response. Unable to contain her joy any long, she burst forth.

  “We’ve been blessed, Sister Zakia.” Her friend now fully understood her. It was a known fact in the village that Kaniz had been desperate for a grandchild. Married for five years, up till now her son and daughter-in-law had not been blessed with a child.

  Kaniz held up her hands in a gesture of prayers to Allah and thanked him. Her friend followed suit and did the same.

  “I am so pleased for you, Sister Kaniz. How many months have passed?”

  “Oh, just three months.”

  “Is everything alright with the pregnancy?”

  “So far, yes. I have sent her to the city to be checked over by the doctors. I have stopped her from doing any physically demanding work, and forbidden her from going to any houses with ‘chilla’, women in confinement and those where a miscarriage has taken place. My pir has especially tutored me to beware of perchanvah affecting my daughter-in-law. He has advised us not to go in a house where there is a likelihood of perchanvah, e
vil shadow, being present, and from maintaining any physical contact with any woman who has miscarried, and thus her shadow, perchanvah, affecting my daughter-in-law.”

  “Oh don’t worry, Sister Kaniz, your Faiza is a healthy, young woman and you’ll soon be blessed with a healthy young grandson.” Zakia gave her friend a generous embrace.

  “My pir says the same. He is sure my Faiza is going to have a son. And I believe him.” said Kaniz hugging her friend in return. “Are you going back to the village, Zakia? Let’s walk together.”

  The two friends walked together, engrossed in a conversation about their children, neighbours, pirs and friends.

  …ooo000ooo…

  In Kaniz’s home at that time, Faiza had just finished washing the marble-chipped floor of the veranda and the central courtyard. They had a woman helper to help with the household chores. Today, however, Faiza had insisted on cleaning the floors herself, particularly when her mother-in-law wasn’t in. The latter had stopped her doing any household chores, apart from cooking.

  The outside door facing the veranda opened. Faiza looked up, expecting her father-in-law to come after praying in the local mosque.

  Salma stood awkwardly in the doorway, not knowing whether she would be welcomed inside or not. Her eyes quickly scanned the courtyard and veranda to see if anybody else was around. Her facial expression conveyed her inner unease.

  On seeing her best friend, Faiza was at first surprised and afraid, and then common sense asserting itself, she smiled.

  Salma gestured with her hand to ask if anybody else was in the house. Faiza shook her head, and then nodded her head to call her in, feeling guilty at the same time, as if she was committing a crime. Her friend Salma too, felt like a criminal for some reason or other, knowing that with her perchanvah she shouldn’t be visiting her pregnant friend. If Faiza’s mother-in-law, Kaniz, found out or saw her!