This time I didn’t protest. Perhaps this was a custom for guests; it would be rude of me to refuse to take part. Dadi jan beckoned to me and I sat in front of her with my head bowed, thinking. After a long time Zeba came in with my brush. Had she gone through my backpack before realising it was on the dressing table? Dadi jan took the brush from her and began long slow strokes. Aunty Khushida took Zeba away and soon there was just Dadi jan and the brush. Mum hadn’t brushed my hair since I was little, and she was always in a hurry so I wouldn’t be late for school. Dadi jan brushed from the top of my head all the way down the length of my hair, as though she was dragging the worries out of my mind to drop them on the floor. My scalp tingled and my limbs began to slacken.
‘There, child,’ she said. ‘There is no need for concern—all will be good. Inshallah.’ Then she asked, ‘Did you hear about my marriage, child?’
I turned slightly. ‘I heard you had a romantic marriage. Did you run away together?’
She shook her head. ‘They all think that—that Zufar brought me to Kashmir after we were married. But it is not true. I was abducted.’
I swung round to face her. ‘Abducted?’
‘Yes, I was stolen just like the tale of Omar and Marui. Perhaps Zufar had heard of it and that gave him the idea.’ She chuckled.
‘But how could that happen? You would have been protected by your father, your brothers.’
‘Ji, but it was a difficult time. It was sixty years ago—the time of the partition. Pakistan was being born like mountains rising up out of the sea. Like an earthquake it was, and just as many people died. There was much confusion and killing. My family was planning to travel across the border to India. We lived in Rawalpindi. Zufar had come from Kashmir to our shop in Rawalpindi selling rugs. He saw me by accident. I was fourteen years old and beautiful.’ She smiled at me. ‘I was like you once. Zufar knew better than to ask my father for a marriage settlement for he was Muslim and our family Hindu.’
‘I didn’t know you were Hindu.’ I stared at her in wonder; perhaps her Urdu was really Hindi.
‘Hahn ji. But then the partition happened and Muslim killed Hindu and Hindu killed Muslim. My family was on the train—it was full of Hindu and Sikh refugees. At one small place, Arifwala, the train had stopped. But on the station were many angry Muslims being incited by mullahs. They wanted revenge. Suddenly the mob fell quiet. A Sikh, drunk with opium, was hanging from one of the windows singing verses from “Hir and Ranjha”—have you heard of this poem?’
I nodded. ‘Papa told me about it.’
‘It was my favourite—I sang it to your father when he was small.’
I must have looked surprised, for she added, ‘I could sing very well.’ She continued, ‘The Sikh sang the verses where the poet criticises the corrupt mullah for denying Ranjha hospitality in the mosque when he fled from his family. When the mob heard those verses, they came to their senses and refused to obey the mullahs’ instructions to attack the train. We left the station unscathed, saved by a song.’
Dadi jan paused and I held her hand. ‘I never forgot it—that miracle—how one of our old tales could change hearts,’ she said. ‘For we all have the one heart even though they tried to split us in two. At the next stop, there was trouble again—too much fighting. My brothers were protecting our carriage, but I was pulled out through the window. There was a young man with a horse—a very fast horse as I remember.’
‘Dada Zufar.’
‘Hahn ji, he brought me to Kashmir.’
‘And your family?’
‘I never knew if they survived that trip to India. Once, when the children were grown, we visited Rawalpindi where I was born but there was no trace of my family. And they would have thought I had perished. Possibly, Zufar saved my life.’
‘But that is romantic. It’s better than a movie.’
She smiled wanly. ‘At the time I did not think so. It took me a year to learn to love him.’ She shrugged. ‘What choice did I have? I was fortunate, I suppose, for he was a good man. He was the son of a khan and used to getting what he wanted, but he was kind to me.’
Just as I was wondering why she was telling me this, she leaned forward. ‘Things do come good in a marriage, child, even when you least expect it.’
I stared at her, trying to formulate a question, for she was regarding me as though she expected one. The moment passed as Zeba burst in, leading Meena. ‘Here she is. Meena will do your make-up and your hair, Ameera. Can I do your nails? I promise not to make a mess.’
Meena smiled at me gently, searching my face. Zeba jumped up and down as if nothing before had ever been so exciting, but I could share nothing of her joy.
17
Zeba said I looked like a princess. Asher stared when I emerged and whispered an actress’s name: Aishwarya Rai. Maybe it was my green eyes. Meena had applied green eye shadow to accentuate them. She had arranged my hair so that the fullness of it fell down my back but little plaits on the sides kept it off my face. She had even bought lipstick and nail polish to match the exact pink of the dress. It terrified me to think of such attention to detail. Aunty Khushida smiled when she saw me but it was a smile tempered with sadness. She and Jamila were preparing the curries. Jamila also wore a new outfit but it wasn’t as fine as mine. I felt a renewed pang of anxiety. Why had they dressed me up like this just because I hadn’t seen Aunt Bibi since I was ten?
I tried to help Jamila cut up tomatoes but Aunty Khushida told me to sit down. ‘You’ll ruin your outfit. Meena will help.’
I sat on the couch and Zeba ran to get an English book so I could read to her. The book was a collection of folk tales. ‘This one,’ she said and pointed to a picture of a lake and a mountain.
‘The Girl Who Cried a Lake,’ I read.
‘Mmm.’ Zeba settled in close beside me.
The story was about a girl from Kyrgyzstan with unusual blue eyes who met a hunter and wanted to marry him. Her parents said he wasn’t suitable, and arranged a marriage with a chieftain’s son. At the wedding the girl began to cry. No one worried at first, for this is what brides do at weddings, but her tears wouldn’t stop and soon she had cried a puddle, then a river, then a lake, drowning her family and the whole community. The young hunter found the lake and took a drink. It was warm and salty and so intensely blue that he realised his love had become a lake. He stretched his arms heavenward and grew into a mountain so that he could be near his love forever. I stopped, astounded at my feelings—that poor girl.
Zeba looked up at me. ‘Aur hai, there’s more,’ she said.
I looked at the painting of the girl in a colourful Himalayan wedding outfit crying a stream of tears, and forced myself to say the last sentence: ‘And that is the story of Lake Izzyk-Kul and the Tian Shan, the Celestial Mountains that surround it.’
It was a story I hadn’t heard before and it reminded me of the tragic tales Papa had told me. Was it true, that a marriage between two people of diverse backgrounds could never work? Or were they stories to keep young people in line? Mum and Papa had their problems, I knew, but Tariq had a different personality from Papa. Surely love would give Tariq and me a different ending?
Just as Zeba put out her hand to turn to another story, there was knocking at the outside gate. Asher rushed to answer it. I wondered why Haider didn’t go.
‘Isn’t Haider with your father?’ I asked Zeba.
‘He is at his friend’s house. Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal would not like it if he could see you all the time.’ She gave me a knowing smile and my stomach churned.
I stood as Asher brought Uncle Iqbal and Aunt Bibi into the lounge. Uncle Rasheed and Aunty Khushida arrived to greet them. Aunty Khushida hugged Aunt Bibi the prescribed three times, but Aunt Bibi’s gaze darted around the room…and rested on me. She pulled away from Aunty Khushida before the hugging was finished.
‘Ah, so this must be Ameera. My, how you have grown, and much more beautiful than Hassan said.’
I fought the annoyance ri
sing in my chest. Why was the way I looked always the first thing they saw here, the first thing mentioned? I never got this attention in Australia.
Aunt Bibi glanced at Uncle Iqbal and raised her eyebrows at him; then they both looked at me as if I were the only person in the room. In that moment I was in no doubt of their intentions. I had never been privy to an arranged marriage, but Asher’s and Zeba’s hints, Meena’s concern, Dadi jan’s story, Aunty Khushida’s frowns, Haider’s insinuations and Jamila’s moods all became clear in the light of the excited look on Aunt Bibi’s face as she launched herself towards me. I wanted to turn and run, but of course I behaved just as a good Pakistani girl should. I bowed my head and sank to touch her feet; she laid her hand on my head, then hugged me. On the third embrace I feared she would never let go and I tried not to squirm. Then she relented and led me to the couch. I looked up at Aunty Khushida and saw Jamila behind her. Aunty’s face was over-bright; Jamila’s was a dark hollow.
‘So, tell all about yourself,’ Aunt Bibi said. ‘I hear you have finished school and are quite grown-up now.’
I stared at her aghast but Papa had trained me well; politeness took over and I managed to answer like clockwork. ‘Yes, my results will come out soon and I’ll know which university I am accepted into.’
Aunt Bibi glanced at Uncle Iqbal. ‘Yes, university. Of course there are many good universities here in Pakistan.’
My hands sweated in my lap. Aunt Bibi chose that moment to take one in her own. I tried to wipe mine as she took it, but only managed to create a fumble.
‘Silly, let me hold your hand,’ she said.
I tried to smile. I had so looked forward to meeting Papa’s adored sister again. She was certainly warm and affectionate, but there was something else now: I felt my breath being sucked from me, my lungs collapsing. I could lose myself in Aunt Bibi’s voluminous embrace, in her love, but would I ever be found again?
My fear must have shown in my eyes for when she lifted my chin she grunted. ‘Everything will be good, beti. Do not worry. We will look after you. Accha, now tell me about Hassan. How is his business running?’
I couldn’t remember afterwards what I had said. I just knew she hadn’t mentioned Mum once. We moved to the table; the food came. I didn’t remember much of that either, except that Uncle Iqbal’s table manners were worse than Papa’s. Then the cake came out, courtesy of Jamila. She was careful to smile at Aunt Bibi but Aunt Bibi didn’t notice.
‘Who made the cake?’ Aunt Bibi sounded like a queen.
There was a silence until Aunty Khushida said, ‘Ameera did.’
Aunt Bibi turned her gaze onto me again. ‘So you can make cakes too.’
She made it sound as if I was used to holding garden parties in palaces and I thought a little honesty wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Yes, but I can’t make chapattis.’
Aunt Bibi stared at me as she took that in. A glance at Aunty Khushida showed her with eyes tightly shut, waiting. Then Aunt Bibi chuckled. ‘Who cares about chapattis these days? Shaukat has servants to cook.’
My eyes widened; any doubt I’d had was now dispensed with. Aunt Bibi had laid her hand on my knee as she said Shaukat’s name and her bright eyes told me more than Asher’s and Zeba’s knowing looks ever had.
Aunty Khushida let out her breath with a whoosh and Zeba clapped her hands; Asher winked at me. Both uncles grinned stupidly. Meena’s face was a question mark, and Dadi jan watched me with a wan smile.
The only unhappy faces in the room were Jamila’s and mine.
I saw from the photos later that I had the right look on my face as Uncle Iqbal’s digital camera flashed: not too eager, and a little frightened. It wasn’t an act. I was truly becoming more scared by the minute.
Aunt Bibi produced a red chiffon scarf, which she threw over my head, and put a ring on my finger. Everyone was so kind and happy, but I felt as if I was caught in someone else’s dream. Why would they think I’d want to get married at my age? Wouldn’t Jamila be a better choice? At least when I got home I could get it sorted out. Papa could give some excuse. Better still: maybe I could fix it before I left.
18
Aunty Khushida was the first person I tried talking to the next morning, after I’d carefully taken off Aunt Bibi’s ring and left it on the dressing table. Aunty was in her bedroom, ironing clothes on a table. She sounded relieved to be able to talk about it.
‘Your father wanted you to settle first, get used to being here, maybe meet Shaukat. It would have happened naturally, but Bibi couldn’t wait. She wanted it arranged straightaway—she thought she could win you over.’
‘Papa knew?’
She glanced at me. ‘He has been in contact with Bibi over this for years. The arrangement was that when you’d finished university you would come here to marry Shaukat. Only God knows why he suddenly decided to send you earlier.’
‘So you knew too?’
‘Not then. We were negotiating with Bibi for Jamila. Bibi didn’t say Hassan was too. I suppose she was keeping her options open.’ She fiddled with a shirt collar. ‘When we found out, Jamila thought there was still hope, that they could choose between the two of you. That is what we thought, until you came.’ She set the iron on the table. ‘Once we saw you there was no doubt who they would choose.’
‘But I don’t want to marry Shaukat.’
Aunty Khushida looked up, her gaze almost fierce. ‘Shaukat is a good man. Your father knows that—only the best for his little girl.’
‘But can’t I just go home and then Jamila can marry Shaukat?’
‘It is not that simple. This is what I meant about you not knowing our culture.’
‘But I do. I’m Pakistani as well as Australian.’
She shook her head. ‘Didn’t your mother explain?’
I stared at Aunty Khushida, thinking how Western Mum was. They probably thought I was disadvantaged having an Australian mother. ‘She didn’t know,’ I said.
Aunty made a sound with her tongue and put another qameez on the table. ‘Your father has sent your jehez, your dowry. Now do you understand? It is set in stone. And he has sent Jamila’s so we can find a good man for her also.’
Shock made my mouth gape. ‘Papa knew you wanted Shaukat?’
‘He paid the highest price.’
I sunk onto the bed. ‘I’ve been bought.’
‘Do not think of it like that. Your father is looking after you. He said there was no one of Shaukat’s calibre in Australia.’
Tariq is, I thought.
Aunty Khushida narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Ameera, if you were to do something crazy like not accepting this shadi, it will be a great beizit, a dishonour, to your father and your whole family, us included.’ She was so upset she’d reverted to Urdu.
I stared at her, dismayed. ‘I’m trapped.’ I whispered it, not expecting her to comment.
Nor did she for a full minute; she just pushed the iron over the shirt as if it were alive and cantankerous. Then she said, ‘We all feel like that sometimes. Life is not the romantic nonsense you see in films. A daughter has a duty.’ She glanced at me as she set the iron on its heel. ‘And this is not a bad situation. Jamila would give her eyes to swap places with you.’
‘Perhaps you could swap us at the wedding. Who would know?’
She checked my face to see if I was joking. ‘Stupid girl—everyone would know as soon as Shaukat looked in the shadi mirror. Do not worry for Jamila. With what your father has sent we can arrange a first-class match for her also. Besides, it is good for girls to learn early that they cannot always have what they want.’
She turned back to the ironing and I went in search of Jamila. She was lying on her bed. I sat beside her rigid form. She didn’t stir but I knew she was awake. Above her bed was her bookshelf: rows of English Mills & Boons. Mum never liked me reading romance novels when I was younger. ‘You mightn’t realise they’re fantasy,’ she’d said once, ‘and expect too much.’ We both knew I’d have an arranged marriage, but I’d
expected a choice, a discussion at least.
I wondered how to start with Jamila. ‘I’m sorry.’
She rolled over as though she’d just noticed I was there. Her stare reminded me of a cat’s; on them it’s called baleful. ‘What is the point of being sorry?’ she said.
‘I didn’t know. Honestly, I didn’t willingly come here to ruin your life.’
‘Well, you have. You have stolen my husband.’ Her eyes filled.
I didn’t know what to say. I was expecting anger and nastiness, not these tears. She dashed them away and sat up.
‘You have taken the one thing I wanted. I adored Shaukat even as a child. When he married the first time, I was too young to be considered.’
He’d already been married? No one had told me that, but then what had I been told?
‘When she died, I hoped,’ Jamila continued. ‘For years they did not arrange another marriage. Then Ummie started the negotiations. Aunt Bibi did not tell us your father was doing so also. When we found out, my hope was that Aunt Bibi would take a dislike to you, then they would remember me. But look at you: English-speaking, Western, pale-skinned—the perfect wife for a doctor. You can even make cakes for all the other doctors’ wives.’
I chose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘But I don’t want to marry.’
‘And that is supposed to make me feel better? I lose him, you get him but you do not want him. Ha, it is almost funny.’
‘Jamila—’
‘If I knew he would be happy I could bear it, but you do not even care or understand. All you want is to return to Australia. I suppose you have a boyfriend—all Westerners do.’
I kept silent. Now was not the time for confidences. She was too hurt, and hurt people hurt back. ‘I am sorry and I’ll try to fix it,’ I said instead.
She looked at me with something close to pity in her eyes then. ‘You are so Western, you know nothing. This is Pakistan. There is nothing you can do. It is arranged. Bas, khatam, finished.’ She cut the air with her hand at each of those final words.
Marrying Ameera Page 9