Marrying Ameera

by Rosanne Hawke

  For Kathryn Hawke

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Prologue

  PART 1 A Good Daughter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART 2 The Girl in the Mirror

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  PART 3 A Lake of Tears

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The bards still sing the song of Hir and Ranjha. Hir was the beautiful daughter of a chieftain called Chochak Sial, and when she heard Ranjha’s flute playing she was entranced. ‘Stay and look after my father’s cattle,’ she said. Every day she slipped away to spend time with him. People gossiped, and her crippled uncle limped up the hill to complain to Chochak Sial. Hir was locked in her room and a marriage was quickly arranged with the son of the Khera clan. ‘You are lucky,’ her friends said. ‘Saida Khera is handsome and a landowner.’ Hir bore it in silence but at the wedding ceremony she refused her consent. It was as if the priest didn’t hear her. She was bundled into the waiting doli and taken to the Kheras’ home. ‘No,’ she screamed, ‘I am not married,’ but no one heard.

  That evening when Saida sat on her bed, she told him, ‘You are not my husband. I have been brought here against my will.’ Saida stood. He knew there was plenty of time to woo her.

  Hir lived in Saida’s house until one day a beggar came to the door. When Hir saw him she fainted, for it was no true beggar but Ranjha, looking for a glimpse of her. One night Ranjha helped her escape. They lived in the forest for a time until Saida tracked them down. The lovers fled across the desert and swam a river but the Kheras had horses and rode until they found them. They beat Ranjha and hauled Hir before the governor of the city. ‘She’s an adulteress,’ they cried.

  Hir told her story and the governor said to speak with her father and then marry who he chose. ‘But he won’t listen to me,’ Hir said, so the governor accompanied her to advise her father.

  Finally, Chochak Sial told Ranjha to prepare a wedding procession fit for the daughter of a chieftain. As Hir sat in her gold finery waiting for Ranjha she heard the happy sounds of wedding drums and horns. Her uncle’s servant girl brought her a drink of buttermilk. Hir didn’t notice the faintly bitter taste. Suddenly her breath failed and she slipped to the floor. When Ranjha entered the bridal room to see his bride, she lay still, poisoned by hate and prejudice.

  Hir is buried near the town of Jhang on the Jhelum, the river of legend. As the tale goes, Hir’s grave opened to allow Ranjha to enter, where he now lies beside his bride forever.

  PART 1

  A Good Daughter

  1

  ‘Ameera!’

  I heard my name and then the single toot; Riaz was in his car already. I didn’t want to make him wait; it was becoming harder to persuade him to take me places even though Papa said it was his responsibility as a brother. I didn’t want to be someone else’s responsibility.

  I slipped on my two gold bangles—a gift from Papa’s last rug-buying trip to Azad Kashmir—grabbed my bag and raced down the stairs. I hurried across the rugs—the treasures we thoughtlessly walked on every day—and past the gilt photos of our family in Kashmir, my bracelets clinking. A voice from the lounge stopped me. ‘Slow down, beti.’ Papa. He hated to see me run. ‘Let me look at you properly.’

  I paused in the doorway, my long dupatta fluttering in the stream of the air conditioner. As I’d got older Papa didn’t express his approval of me as much as he used to, but now an odd look crept into his eyes. ‘Today, beti, you are looking as beautiful as my mother.’

  I crossed the carpet and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Abu ji.’

  He usually liked it when I used the Urdu endearment but today his thoughts were far away. I hurried to pull open the carved security door that he’d had installed. Sometimes I wondered if he thought he was still living in a fort like his Pushtun ancestors.

  ‘C’mon, Ames. I haven’t got all night,’ Riaz called, and revved the engine of his Astra.

  His iPod was playing his favourite rock band as I climbed into the back of the car that Papa had bought for him. I didn’t hear any murmurs about a car being bought for me. I sighed inwardly. When I’m older, I thought, I’ll work on Papa for a driver’s licence.

  ‘We have to pick up Raniya too,’ I told Riaz.

  He groaned, but made a U-turn and pulled up outside Raniya’s house. He didn’t dare toot for her, but she was watching for us and came through the garden as fast as decorum allowed. Raniya was the perfect Pakistani girl: demure, wore a scarf full-time and cleaned her brothers’ rooms. She even took a prayer rug to school so she could pray in the storeroom at lunchtime. She’d invited me to join her but there were enough things at school to make me different without making it worse.

  She climbed into the back with me. ‘Ameera, what an amazing top.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I had made the outfit myself. Raniya appreciated it when I wore Pakistani clothes. We both liked wearing them: they were comfortable, with baggy trousers and a long shift top. Papa never skimped on these clothes. It was when I needed a new pair of jeans that his expression became as closed as his wallet.

  ‘Your shalwar qameez is lovely too,’ I said.

  Riaz raised his eyebrows at me in the rear-vision mirror and grinned at our politeness, his annoyance gone.

  ‘Aunty Rubina made it,’ she said. It was royal-blue silk and it sparkled. Too gaudy for an Australian party but just right for Maryam’s place. As I thought of Maryam and her family, my stomach tightened.

  ‘So glad the exams are over at last.’ Raniya tucked a stray curl of hair under her scarf. ‘I hope we get into the same uni.’

  ‘Me too.’ We had both worked hard enough during Year 12.

  Raniya glanced at me. ‘Which one of your preferences did you finally apply for?’

  ‘Teaching. Papa says it’s a respected profession in Pakistan.’ Then I grinned. ‘After medicine, of course.’

  Raniya laughed. Both our fathers had asked us to do medicine, but I didn’t want to. It was the first thing, other than being able to wear jeans, that Papa had ever backed down on. Maybe my Bs in Maths helped. I hated Physics and Chemistry too, even though Papa had made me study them. I was thinking how much fun it would be choosing my own subjects at uni when Riaz stopped the Astra outside Maryam’s gate. He couldn’t wait to be rid of us and I knew he was itching to go to the mall. He had an Anglo girlfriend and later they would go to a nightclub.

  ‘When will you pick me up?’ I asked.

  His jaw slackened; he hadn’t remembered that part of his responsibility.

  I pretended a stern frown. ‘Papa said I have to be back by eleven.’

  ‘Eleven!’ Riaz’s voice actually squeaked. ‘What a baby you are.’

  ‘Blame Papa, not me.’

  ‘But nothing gets going until eleven.’

  I made a show of shrugging.

  ‘Look, if I can’t get back in time, isn’t there some other way? What about Maryam’s brother. Can�
��t he drive you?’

  I paused, determined not to let the shock of his words show. He shouldn’t be pushing me onto someone else’s brother. Yet the fact that I didn’t mind disturbed me even more.

  ‘What if he’s out like you?’ I tried to say it casually.

  ‘Message me if you get stuck but try and find another ride, right?’

  I nodded and he drove off, then backed up beside me again. ‘And don’t tell Dad.’ He roared off, leaving the smell of burnt rubber.

  Raniya stared after him. ‘My father would kill my brothers if they said that to me.’

  I grinned. ‘So will mine, if he finds out.’

  Maryam had invited some of our other friends from school. Natasha jumped up from the couch as soon as she saw me and hugged me. ‘You look ravishing, Amie.’

  Natasha had on jeans and a T-shirt. She was Anglo and could wear whatever she liked. Some other girls, like Raniya, wore head scarves but Maryam didn’t. ‘Everyone thinks because I’m Pakistani I should wear a scarf but I only wear one in church,’ she’d said once. Maryam’s family were Christian Pakistanis. Raniya’s parents didn’t mind her going to the Yusufs, but if it wasn’t for Mum I wouldn’t have been allowed to. I think the closeness I felt to Maryam and to girls like Natasha was because my mother was Australian. Mum fell in love with Papa at uni. She said he was the most handsome and polite young man on campus. I doubt if they ever considered how their marriage would affect their children. Mum tried her best: she went to Eid celebrations at the mosque and wore a scarf out of respect, even though she didn’t understand what was going on. The other women were polite to her, but when they got together they spoke Urdu, which Mum had never learnt. The only Pakistani woman Mum had anything to do with was Mrs Yusuf and she wasn’t even Muslim.

  Papa tried to make sure we had lots of Pakistani culture growing up, even though his family wasn’t here. He went to see his relatives more often than we did. The last time I went to Azad Kashmir was when I was ten, for the funeral of Dada Zufar, Papa’s father. Apparently he was like a king reigning over his family. There were so many relatives but the one I remembered the most was Meena. I thought she was like a Bollywood actress even though she was only fourteen. She took me to the bazaar in Muzaffarabad and bought me a lassi drink. It wasn’t the rich taste of the yoghurt and mango, but the time she’d spent with me that made the memory linger.

  Muzaffarabad was okay but I wouldn’t want to live there; it was nothing like Australia. There were too many people, lots of them living in poverty; and since the earthquake in 2005 there would be even more families without houses. Our relatives’ houses had been damaged during the earthquake too; Papa had gone over at the time to help out. I remembered him grumbling as he packed about how all of Kashmir should be Pakistani. ‘That stupid maharaja they had in 1947—most of his people were Muslim and just because he was Hindu he went over to India.’ It didn’t take much to turn Papa onto Kashmiri politics.

  Mrs Yusuf and Maryam’s younger sister came in with food—shami kebabs, pakoras, meatballs. All the things my mother had learnt to like but couldn’t cook.

  Ten thirty came and the other girls started to leave. Raniya’s brothers picked her up at eleven.

  ‘See you soon,’ she said to me. ‘I’ll message and we’ll go out for coffee.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, we’d take you home except…’

  We both knew Papa wouldn’t like me riding home in a car full of young men, even if Raniya was with me.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Riaz will come soon.’ I messaged him to pick me up but he didn’t answer. I glared at the phone.

  Before long I was the last girl still there. ‘I’m sorry, Riaz must have forgotten,’ I told Maryam. I couldn’t blow his cover though she probably guessed where he was.

  ‘Daddy’s already gone to bed…’ She left the next part of her sentence unsaid but I knew what it would be: what about your father? But I couldn’t ring Papa; Riaz would get in awful trouble. And there was no way I could stay over without Papa finding out about Riaz.

  ‘I think my father will be in bed too,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Maryam was staring at me. ‘Tariq’s awake in his room.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  Of course I knew Tariq was her brother, it was just a shock to hear her make such an offer. But Riaz had suggested it too. What if Papa saw Tariq drop me home? Did he wait at the window looking out for me?

  Maryam saw my indecision. ‘I’ll come too.’

  I wished I could drive myself, but I could just imagine Papa not letting me get a licence until I was married. And what if I married someone like Papa who wouldn’t let me drive? Someone who said, ‘Girls get into trouble when they have too much independence.’ Those were Papa’s words last time I asked about learning to drive. It wasn’t fair; Mum drove but he had different rules for me. It was easier for Maryam: her parents weren’t so strict. I wondered if they’d even mind if she had a boyfriend. Maybe she would be allowed to choose her own husband.

  Riaz still hadn’t replied to my text. There was no other option but to have Maryam’s brother take me home. I forced a smile. ‘Okay, thanks.’

  I perched on the edge of the couch while Maryam went to get Tariq. I wished Tariq was short and pimply and the same age as us, but he wasn’t. I had seen him before at Maryam’s. If Raniya had a party her brothers were told to go out or keep to their rooms. But Tariq was still allowed the run of the house if Maryam had friends over. The last time I’d visited, he saw me in the kitchen and half-smiled. It seemed as if he’d stood there longer than necessary before he swiftly turned and headed for his room.

  If Papa saw me in a car with Tariq he would think the worst, and would I be free of fault? Wasn’t thinking something as bad as actually doing it?

  ‘Hi, Ameera.’ Tariq strolled into the lounge. His hair was messed up and he swallowed a yawn.

  ‘I’m sorry for the trouble.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He didn’t mention Riaz and I appreciated that. He smiled at me and I saw how the right side of his mouth curved a second before the left.

  Even from the back seat of his car, Tariq was interesting. I noticed that his hair curled onto his T-shirt. Maryam kept talking about what we’d do in the holidays but I barely heard her and too soon we were at my house. I glanced up at my parents’ window: no light. That meant they were still in the lounge, which was good, or they were asleep already, even better. I got out and hurriedly said goodbye to Maryam and Tariq, keeping my voice low. I was glad Tariq didn’t answer. I didn’t want Papa to hear a male voice. I rushed up the front steps and looked back. Leave, I whispered to myself. I waved at them and Tariq turned the car back towards their home.

  When I opened the front door I could hear my parents in the lounge. They were arguing.

  ‘And how many boys do you think she sees at these parties she goes to?’ my father said.

  ‘They’re girls’ parties, Hassan. At good homes with the parents present.’

  ‘But the brothers of these girls will pick them up—like Riaz.’

  My mother made a sound with her tongue. ‘You live in Australia now. You’re overreacting.’

  Papa’s voice rose. ‘Overreacting? When dreadful things happen here? Look at Abdul Haq’s daughter—ran off with an Australian who doesn’t even believe in God. She isn’t Muslim any more and the whole family is dishonoured. The shame of it. No one respects him. They only think how could he let such a thing happen.’

  Mum laughed. ‘Honour. You’re making too much of an old tradition.’

  I heard a bang as though Papa had thumped the coffee table. ‘This is no laughing matter, Marelle. Honour is everything. Look at Abdul—none of his relatives will face him. He may as well be dead. Now the whole family is tainted. No one will give their daughter to marry his son.’ His voice lowered but I could still hear every word. ‘Nothing like that will happen in this family, you hear? Ameera will obey and make an honourable marriage.�
��

  Mum was conciliatory. ‘There’s no need to worry, Hassan. Ameera’s a good girl. She understands your wishes about an arranged marriage and no dating.’ She paused and a different note entered her voice. ‘But I want her to have a choice.’

  ‘Choice? What is choice? My sister didn’t have a choice, nor did she think she should. She was a good daughter bringing honour to the family, happy to marry who my parents chose.’

  There was another pause before Mum said, ‘You had a choice.’

  ‘That’s different—’ He stopped. I bet Mum was giving him one of her stares. I hated it when they fought.

  I let the front door bang as if Riaz had just dropped me off. ‘I’m home,’ I called and raced up to my room. I didn’t want to answer questions about Riaz. Let him do his own dirty work at breakfast.

  2

  Papa smiled at me as I entered the kitchen in the morning. ‘Piari beti, darling daughter.’

  I leaned over him and kissed his cheek. I loved the feel of Papa’s beard; it was starting to show wiry grey hairs amongst the black.

  ‘Did you have a good time at the Yusufs’ home?’ he asked, as if he thought it would be a difficult feat to manage. Anglo-Australians could be friends with anyone but Papa had certain ideals. Even though Mr Yusuf was a top orthodontist, they were Christian Pakistanis and I was sure Papa still thought in terms of caste. I always trod a careful path when I spoke of the Yusufs.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There were lots of girls from my class there.’

  Bad move. Papa’s hand paused over the butter. ‘What were they wearing?’

  Mum made a noise with her tongue. She was doing that a lot lately.

  ‘Covering shirts, Papa. Only girls were there.’

  I caught a glance pass between Mum and Papa. She was warning him but he didn’t take any notice.

  He buttered his toast, his knife scraping on the plate. ‘Did their brothers pick them up?’

  ‘I didn’t see who picked them up. They didn’t come in.’

  The right response and Papa relaxed. ‘So where is your brother?’