I looked up at Mrs Canturi. ‘They both sound bad, miss.’
Mrs Canturi nodded. ‘Yes. A difficult decision.’
Neither of us said anything. Girls walked past in the corridor, their shoes squeaking on the lino. A lorikeet screeched outside.
‘Why don’t you take a couple of days to think about it?’ she asked. ‘Sounds like you have a week or two, and I could make some enquiries. But . . .’
I looked at her expectantly. ‘But what?’
‘Sometimes the family senses something’s up, and then the very next day they leave the country with their daughter. That’s happened to girls from our school before. Then, only a few weeks later, she returns to Australia with a husband. Not necessarily one that she wants. Do you think that might happen to you?’
I thought about my conversations with Mama and Baba over the weekend. They knew I wasn’t happy about the wedding. But would they say anything to Uncle? I was pretty sure neither of them wanted him to know anything was up.
‘I don’t think so. Not if I don’t make a fuss.’
Mrs Canturi nodded. ‘So, you’ll pretend you’re okay about the wedding for now, even though you aren’t?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Hmmm; I’m not sure that will work,’ she said. ‘I think, for your safety, we should get you on the Airport Watch List as soon as we can. We’ll need to apply for a court order. In the meantime, you should let your family, especially your uncle, know that you’re reluctant about the wedding. Maybe not reject it outright, but they must get the idea that you have reservations. That way, whatever might happen later won’t be misunderstood. It’s better to be a little truthful now than pretend you’re entirely happy.’
‘Okay,’ I said. I should be an obedient daughter and a reluctant bride. Until it all blows up. ‘Let’s do that.’
‘You’re a brave girl, Azra—it won’t be easy,’ she said. ‘But it’s the only way to guarantee you won’t be married next month.’
I thought about living in Pakistan next month. With a husband I didn’t know. And about all those chemistry experiments I would probably never get to do.
‘Yes, miss, I’d like that guarantee,’ I said. ‘I really would.’
Bassima found me in the library at lunchtime, trying to finish off the maths exercises. After the conversation with Mrs Canturi, it was hard to concentrate. Bassima grabbed a chair and dragged it over next to me.
‘Thank God I found you. When I couldn’t see you at recess, I thought they’d kidnapped you for the wedding already.’
She was making a joke of it, but her eyes were serious. She could tell something wasn’t right.
I put down my pen, and felt a tear slip down my cheek. My voice cracked as I answered, ‘My parents have arranged my wedding. Next month in Lahore.’
‘Damn!’ said Bassima loudly. ‘That’s horrible. Well, we thought it was happening. But I hoped we were wrong.’
I shook my head, and sniffed.
Mr Peterson stuck his head out the door of his office and glared at her.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Bassima.
He did his mock-stern face and went back inside.
‘Seriously,’ said Bassima, lowering her voice. ‘How d’you find out?’
I took a deep breath. ‘On Friday, Uncle was talking about it quite openly. Like he thought I knew already. And then I asked Mama on Saturday. And she told me more. Then Baba confirmed it. The wedding is definitely happening. Next month.’
I dropped my face to the desk and folded my arms around my head to block out the light. Maybe everything would just go away.
‘Hey, hey,’ said Bassima. ‘Don’t give up yet.’ She pulled me upright and looked into my eyes. ‘Did you tell them you didn’t want to?’
‘Yep. Didn’t work. Baba quoted the Quran, about being obedient. Especially during Ramadan.’
‘What?’ said Bassima. ‘That’s not fair. If the Quran said you had to get married like this, there would be no single Muslim women at university. And there’s plenty of them; Alesha says they even have their own student groups. They can’t all be wrong, can they?’
I shook my head. I knew other Pakistani families who let their daughters finish their studies before marrying. Why couldn’t I do it?
‘Besides,’ said Bassima, ‘Alesha says stuff like this isn’t about religion, anyway. It’s culture; old traditions that have been going on for centuries. Different places have different customs that aren’t anything to do with Islam. Forcing you to get married when you don’t want to, that’s not true Islam.’
I frowned. I guessed she was right. But I still felt pressured by my family’s customs, wherever they came from.
‘And,’ said Bassima, ‘remember “conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion”.’
I looked at her, perplexed. ‘Is that from the Quran too?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘From English. Jane Eyre. It’s right at the beginning. Haven’t you started it yet?’
I stretched my arms across the desk and lay my cheek down on the surface. ‘Not really. Been a bit preoccupied. Not sure I can get to the end of it before my wedding.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Bassima. ‘It is pretty long.’
She dug her pen into some chewing gum under the desk.
‘B, that’s gross.’
She gouged a grey blob off the desk and put it into the bin by the wall. ‘Yeah, it is. Just thinking. I know it’s what your family have done for years, but would you do this to your daughters? Organise a wedding they didn’t want for the good of everyone else?’
I sat up. ‘Of course not. I wouldn’t do it to my own sister. I sure hope Soraya doesn’t have to go through this too.’ I slumped back over the desk. ‘It’s all hopeless, B.’
‘No it’s not,’ she said, putting the pen back into her pencil case. ‘I refuse to believe that. What’s Mrs C doing? Can she help?’
I straightened up. ‘I hope so. But it’s all hard. Best thing would be if my family cancelled the wedding. Otherwise, I can go live in a women’s refuge now. Or have my name on the Airport Watch List for if they try to take me to Pakistan.’ I put my head on the desk again and sighed. ‘None of it’s good.’
She rubbed my back. ‘I know. It’s awful. You so hate a fuss, and they’re pushing you right into the middle of one.’
‘They sure are.’
‘But don’t give up. It could still work out. I’ll talk to Alesha again. Let her know the wedding’s next month. She’ll know what you need to do, now that it’s for real, with an actual date and everything. I’m sure she won’t mind helping you, but you’ll have to tell her all the details.’
I nodded. It’d be embarrassing. And awkward for the Hussains. Like they were taking sides. Opposing my family.
‘Yeah. You’re right. I think I need more help. Otherwise . . .’ I shuddered, unable to finish what I meant to say.
Bassima patted my leg. ‘Good. We have a plan. I’ll talk to Alesha tonight, and she’s over for Eid this weekend as well. There’s hope yet. But not that much time.’
‘I know,’ I said. Hardly any time left at all.
The bell rang, and I stood up slowly. I hoped B was right, and that Alesha could fix this. Then B hugged me hard, and I kind of felt okay.
I was so preoccupied on the way home from school, I forgot to take Soraya the long way. Our street was almost empty, and the builders had gone home, leaving a stack of old bricks on the path. The days, and dinner, were getting later as spring approached, but it was only a few more days till Eid and the end of Ramadan.
I was thinking about how the window ledges in the living room at home were crowded with greeting cards from Lahore. And about how I used to look forward to it—Eid prayers in the park, breakfast at Uncle’s, getting Eidi money, everyone in a good mood. But this year, it meant there was also a wedding coming. My wedding.
No wonder I didn’t register the low growl until the gate right next to us slammed with the full
weight of an angry dog. The barking was loud and savage, like we were about to be torn apart. Soraya shrieked and grabbed my arm. I saw saliva droop from the dog’s teeth under the gate. When my feet hit the ground, my anger rose up. Huge.
‘Come with me,’ I said, dragging Soraya across the road. That dog was more than I could bear. Soraya dropped her bag on the footpath and crouched down to rub her foot. I grabbed half a brick from the builders’ pile, and threw it, high and fast over the fence, like an inverted parabola.
I couldn’t see past the fence, or know just how the brick landed, but there was a shrill yelp. Then nothing.
Soraya stood up and turned around. ‘What happened? Did you do something?’
‘No,’ I said, realising she hadn’t seen what I’d done. ‘But it’s stopped barking.’
Then we heard it start to whimper. I felt bad.
‘Yeah,’ said Soraya. ‘But how come it’s crying now?’
I should’ve felt more sorry for it. There was something wrong with that dog for it to be mad all the time. But right now, I was more sorry for me.
‘Don’t know,’ I lied. ‘Maybe it’s just sad.’
I breathed out, feeling the press of guilt on my chest. But there was no sign of the dog’s owner. No one to tell me off. Right now, I didn’t even care if I got arrested. They couldn’t marry me off to anyone if I was going to jail.
After dinner, Mama went down to the laundry. Baba sat and read the Pakistan News.
‘Baba,’ I said, ‘can I ask you something?’
He stroked his chin and kept on reading. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
‘Baba, I want to ask about Cousin Tarik.’
At that he snapped down his paper and looked at me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, I don’t know that much about him, other than he’s Auntie Fatima’s son. What’s he like?’
Baba flicked his eyes around the room, looking for the answer. ‘Ah, well, he’s a clever boy, an engineer like me! By all accounts, he’s a perfectly nice young man.’
I smiled thinly. By all accounts? Didn’t even Baba know him that well?
‘So he’s the one that’s been chosen to be my husband?’
Baba looked directly at me. ‘Ah, yes. Yes, he is. Your auntie and grandma insist it’s an excellent match. Uncle too. You know there’s no stopping them!’
I was quiet for a minute. ‘Do you think it’s an excellent match?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I hope so. I hear he’s not so traditional. You know, he might even let you go to uni. After you’re married, and back here.’
Let me go! It felt cruel not to be given a say in my own education. What would Mrs Kaminski think if she knew? I tugged at the sleeves of my jumper, so they covered my hands.
‘Baba, even if it’s an excellent match, can’t we have the wedding later? Like, after I finish school? Why such a hurry? I’m only sixteen.’
He cleared his throat, and held out his hand to me. I moved closer to take it, and sat next to him.
‘Nearly seventeen,’ he said. ‘A good age for a girl to be married.’
‘But Tarik is twenty-eight! Why can’t I wait till then?’
Baba chuckled and shook his head. ‘No one will want you! They’ll be asking, what’s wrong with her? Why hasn’t anyone married her already? No,’ he continued, ‘it doesn’t work like that.’
I withdrew my hand. ‘But, Baba, not so many of the girls here get married at my age. It’s not normal here!’
He tilted his head. ‘Not normal here, but very normal in Pakistan.’
‘But we live here. Why pretend we’re still there?’
He shook his head like I was stupid. ‘My sweet, you don’t understand. Tarik is a fine match.’
‘But, Baba, what if I don’t like him? Or if he thinks I’m too Australian?’
He frowned like he was fed up with my questions. ‘That won’t be a problem. You’ll see. He’ll get used to Australian ways soon enough, after you come back here to live. After he gets his visa.’
The front door clicked. Mama came in with a washing basket full of damp shirts.
Baba caught her eye. ‘Azra’s just asking about the wedding.’
‘Is she?’ asked Mama, an eyebrow raised. ‘What would you like to know?’ Her voice was falsely bright.
I looked down at my hands. Looked closely at my practical fingernails. Not long and coloured, like Bassima’s would like hers to be. Not chewed to pieces like Vanessa’s. No, my fingernails were short and sensible. Perfect for housework. Even if the skin on my hands still held the memory of doodled science diagrams.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Baba’s already told me.’
She looked at him, and he turned his palms up. Like he and Mama couldn’t work me out.
‘I’m having a shower,’ I said, standing up and walking down the hall. Now I really understood. It wasn’t just an excellent match. It was an excellent visa. For Tarik. For the whole family. For harmony.
XXIV
Equilibrium
the state of dynamic balance where the rates of forrward and reverse reactions are equal and balanced
Rashid’s court hearing was three days before Eid, when everyone was tired from fasting. Uncle came to pick him up at seven-thirty in the morning, beeping his horn out the front.
Rashid wore a white business shirt, with a grey-and-blue-checked tie. Trying his hardest to look respectable. He almost looked handsome.
‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘Hope it’s okay.’ I knew what he’d done was wrong, but I didn’t like to see him so worried. I knew he wasn’t all bad.
‘Thanks, Az,’ he said, pulling at his collar. ‘Fingers crossed.’ He reached over and touched my arm. ‘And sorry,’ he said.
Sorry? For what?
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said.
‘Oh, but it is,’ he said. ‘Because of all this, it’s meant your wedding’s happening sooner. And I know you don’t want that. So, I’m sorry. But don’t say I told you. I promised Uncle I wouldn’t.’ He shrunk his head into his neck, like a turtle trying to disappear.
‘Oh,’ I said, a hundred thoughts racing through my brain. Rashid never apologised. He must’ve felt super guilty to tell me. But how did me knowing this change anything, anyway?
Uncle’s horn beeped again. ‘Gotta go, can’t let Uncle wait.’ He grabbed his jacket off the hook and ran out the door.
On the train to school, I stood holding on to the pole and thought about it. What would happen if Rashid went to jail? Exactly how did his trouble affect the wedding date? Could what was to happen to him still change the plans? If he went to jail, would the relatives want to cancel?
The train doors slid open for Mount Lewis. Sunlight shone full on my face and radiated an idea into my head. Of course! The marriage was probably all arranged before he was arrested. And since then it had been a secret. Maybe Auntie Fatima and Grandma wouldn’t want me to marry Tarik if they knew my brother was a drug dealer. Or even worse, a convicted criminal. Perhaps there was hope for me yet, if only I could let them know.
Maybe the worse it was for Rashid, the better it could be for me. I felt a twinge of guilt thinking like that. But it seemed so possible, even achievable.
What if I crossed my fingers like Rashid had, with the opposite wish, to cancel out his hopes? Like opposing the charge of an electron and a proton to neutralise everything.
I practically skipped up the stairs from the platform. And hoped that the afternoon would bring me good news.
When I opened the front door of the flat after school, Soraya trailing behind me, Rashid was lying on the divan watching TV, the remote in his hand. My chest tightened. Why wasn’t he in jail? He seemed way too relaxed.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How’d it go?’ I dropped my bag on the floor.
He looked up, grinning. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. The solicitor, Mr Khan, was great.’
He switched the channel. There was a car ad. ‘Cool,’ he said, �
��I could really go for one of those new Audis.’
‘So, that’s it? You don’t have to go to jail or anything?’ I couldn’t help blurting it out. I had so hoped that a criminal in the family could lead to the wedding being cancelled. And now that dream was vanishing.
Rashid laughed. ‘Is that what you wanted? After my bedroom, were you?’ He shook his head. ‘Nuh. Back in court in two weeks, and that’s it. All done.’ He turned to me. ‘And you know what’s even more excellent? My three months is up tomorrow. I’ll be back behind the wheel for Eid.’
My heart sank. How come everything was going so well for him? It wasn’t like he deserved it. Any way I looked at it, Rashid was getting off lightly. Too lightly to be of any use to me.
Two days later, at sunset, it was the end of Ramadan. As I put a tray of dates on the table, Baba opened the door with a big smile.
‘Shop’s shut, zakat’s paid, time to celebrate!’ he said, clapping his hands.
Soraya ran up to him and hugged his leg. ‘Presents yet?’
‘Not Eidi yet, but where are the new clothes, Nadira? I’m sure Azra is dying to try hers out before tomorrow!’
I tried to smile at him but I couldn’t. Like a new shalwar kameez was all it took to get me excited.
Mama bustled into her bedroom, and brought out shopping bags.
‘Here we go!’ she said, spilling them onto the floor. ‘A very special one for you this year,’ she said to me, pulling out a deep purple top threaded with glittering beads. Despite my flat mood, I gasped. It was a beautiful purple, like iodine vapour. Like nothing I’d ever seen before.
‘See, I told you she’d like it!’ said Baba. ‘Auntie Fatima chose it. Such a good eye!’
My heart sank. Of course! It was from my future mother-in-law. I didn’t know what to say. They could already tell that I liked it. But it felt like a trap.
Promising Azra Page 22