I left her alone.
Even then I didn’t fully realise my position; the cement had not yet set around my feet. I tried Uncle Rasheed next. After all, he was Papa’s representative in Pakistan. I knocked on the mejalis door, relieved to find him alone and watching cricket on a small TV. He was sitting cross-legged on a rug, carpeted cushions behind him, and in front of him a bowl of peanuts that he was systematically shelling. He reminded me so much of Papa that I felt a familiar prickling behind my nose but I controlled myself. Now was not the time to cry.
I told Uncle that I was thankful for his excellent hospitality, but I wanted to go home as soon as possible.
Just like Papa, he thought before he spoke. ‘Beti, you understand about marriage, do you not?’
I nodded. ‘I always knew I would have an arranged marriage, but in Australia with my family.’ I stopped, hating the way my voice broke.
Uncle Rasheed watched me while I composed myself. I thought he’d say what babies Australian girls were, but instead he gestured for me to sit on the rug with him. Then he murmured, ‘Hassan should have come with you, but he thought it best this way. You see, your father wanted you to settle first before he said anything about a marriage, but your Aunt Bibi—she is impulsive. She said she could make you want to stay with the force of her love.’
I remembered the night before with an internal shudder. ‘Force of love’ was a good description of Aunt Bibi.
‘I am sorry it has been handled clumsily,’ Uncle went on. ‘To tell you the truth, I believe girls should be told of their marriage and be allowed to accept it or not.’ I looked at him in hope; was he taking my side? ‘But your father was adamant. He feels Australia is a difficult environment to bring up a Muslim girl and I must admit it has been easier in comparison to raise girls here.’
I understood. Papa was phobic about protecting me from bad influences. He even censored what I watched on TV. There were no such problems here. Everything on Pakistani TV was censored already; there was no kissing, even between married couples on sitcoms unless they were married in real life.
Uncle Rasheed offered me a peanut he’d shelled, but I declined. ‘I would have had an arranged marriage in Australia, when I was older.’
‘Hassan thought it best to marry you earlier, to keep you safe. Shaukat will certainly do that.’
‘I was safe in Australia.’
Uncle Rasheed put aside the peanuts and shells. ‘Beti, you are an unusual girl. Men will be attracted to you for the wrong reasons in a place like Australia. Every time you went out of the house, to school, to friends’ houses, Hassan was in pain for he could not properly protect you.’
‘But Australia is safe.’ Even as I repeated it I thought of the incident on the street that day after the movies. But none of us was hurt.
‘Nowhere is safe for a girl like you, beti, except in marriage.’
‘What sort of girl is that, Uncle ji?’
He flicked a peanut shell from his vest and regarded me. ‘Just accept this. I can see you have been brought up well enough.’ He hesitated; was he thinking that I could have been brought up better without Mum’s influence? He continued, ‘You are an obedient and compliant daughter. Your father wants this for your benefit.’ Then he cornered me with his gaze. ‘Honour him by accepting this marriage that has been arranged for you.’
I shut my eyes. Arranged? This wasn’t an arranged marriage: this was marriage by force, and I still didn’t believe Papa could condone it.
‘I want to speak to Papa,’ I said then.
Uncle pulled himself up. ‘Very well, beti.’ His voice sounded weary.
19
It was too early to ring Papa so I went outside to the courtyard and sat there wrapped in two shawls. How could this be happening? I hoped Papa would make the whole problem disappear. Everyone (excluding Haider and Jamila) was kind; they thought I was pretty and sweet. I cringed. Sweet meant soft. Uncle Rasheed had said I was compliant; that meant I had no backbone. It suited Papa to have a daughter he could control but couldn’t there be a balance? Why couldn’t I still love my family, love God, but marry who I liked? Why was loving God judged by how I obeyed my father? I knew that was how Papa thought. What if he wanted me to do something that God didn’t will for me? Was there such a thing?
While I was waiting in the courtyard, I had another run-in with Haider. His sudden presence startled me and I blinked as I looked up at him.
‘We don’t need to fight,’ he said.
He spoke in Urdu. Why? To keep putting me at a disadvantage? I made to go but he put out a hand and held me, drew me nearer. ‘Ameera.’ His voice was pleading. ‘If we were seen together, Aunt Bibi would call the wedding off.’
He was so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. I tried to squirm out of his grasp. ‘Let me go.’ No one must see us like this. What could he mean anyway? Aunty Khushida had said the arrangement was set in stone.
He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘We could have a love marriage. Then both Jamila and I will be happy. Wouldn’t you like to make me happy?’
The sleazy tone had crept back into his voice; he probably thought it was romantic. I almost slapped his face but fear stopped me. What would he do if I retaliated? I wasn’t sure what sort of an enemy he would make and I still had a month to stay here.
I said the next thing that came into my head. ‘Why would I choose anyone anyway, least of all you?’
I shouldn’t have sounded so revolted for his eyes became slits and his hand circling my arm squeezed tighter.
‘Your beauty stings like a bee.’ That sounded like a song lyric and I almost smirked. ‘Get used to the idea. One way or another there will be a wedding. The choice of groom is yours.’
What sort of a choice was that?
That afternoon when Aunty and I were preparing the evening meal, Uncle Rasheed and Haider rushed into the house and turned on the TV in the lounge. Pictures of Benazir Bhutto flashed across the screen and I watched, horrified, as her last moments were played out. It reminded me of when my family had sat glued to the TV after the September 11 attacks. I was only ten but I’d picked up on Mum’s and Papa’s tension and sadness.
Uncle wasn’t fond of Benazir but still he was shocked. ‘Couldn’t America have kept her alive?’ He shook his head.
‘That poor family,’ Aunty Khushida murmured. ‘How many more will die for democracy?’
I suddenly thought of Mum and how worried she would be. That was when the phone rang. It was Papa. Uncle Rasheed spoke to him for a while and then called my name. He handed me the phone. I waited for Papa to speak.
‘Hello, beti. I just heard. Rasheed says you are safe there.’
He was talking about the assassination but all I could think of was the wedding. ‘Papa, why didn’t you tell me?’
His voice was teasing. ‘No how are you, Papa? I am safe, Papa?’
I ignored him. ‘Papa, Uncle Rasheed told me that you planned this wedding for me.’
There was a silence. Then, ‘I didn’t want you to know yet. I wanted you to find out gradually, so it would be a surprise.’
‘It’s not a surprise, Papa. It’s a shock. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have gone?’
‘What about Mum?’
‘She doesn’t know. I thought it best to keep the happy news from her for a while longer—she wouldn’t understand.’
‘Papa, I don’t understand either.’ This time I didn’t care that everyone could hear the conversation.
‘Beti, Shaukat is the best a father could give his daughter. You will thank me. In a year’s time, Shaukat will bring you home to visit us and you will be very happy, fulfilled.’
‘A year?’ My voice squeaked. ‘You know I want to go to uni.’
‘You can still attend university there. Shaukat has agreed.’
A coldness crept over me; this was what betrayal felt like. ‘You’ve spoken with him?’
‘He is looking forward to the wedding. I have be
en sending him your photos since you were fifteen.’
Any strength I had drained out of me. ‘Papa, when would you have told me?’
‘It is best if people are finding things out when they are ready for them. I am sorry this has been revealed prematurely.’
‘I want to come home.’
‘There is no need for that. Rasheed says the police have the situation in hand, the army too. You will be safe if you stay in the house.’
‘The wedding, Papa. Can’t you call it off?’
Papa’s voice changed. There was steel under his words. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way but it has been arranged in your best interests. I have given my word, and I want you to obey your uncle in all aspects of the marriage just as you would me.’
I was confused. I could hear the voice of the father I knew but what he was telling me came from a stranger.
‘Are you listening to me, beti?’
I was silent.
‘Ameera?’
‘Yes, Papa.’ But I hadn’t promised; I had only agreed I could hear him.
Uncle Rasheed took the phone from me. He spoke about the elections, how Benazir’s party couldn’t win now unless they postponed them. I didn’t care about any of it. I drifted like a sleepwalker to my room.
Jamila was in there, knitting this time. ‘Didn’t do any good, did it?’
I shook my head. Then I regarded her. Had I imagined it or was that a note of sympathy I heard?
I hadn’t been in Pakistan a week and my whole life was crumbling. It was couched in nice terms but it boiled down to this: I was sentenced to a forced marriage, a prison sentence in a third-world country, married to someone I’d never met. Uncle Iqbal had buck teeth, most probably Shaukat did too. Papa would have been blinded by the fact that Shaukat was a doctor. My father revered doctors.
All the next day I lay in bed until even Jamila grew worried. I missed the drama of Benazir’s funeral, how the coffin was mobbed, the pictures of her at different ages in the paper. Schools were closed. Militants took over the streets, even in Muzaffarabad. No one went out if they didn’t have to. There were riots in Sindh and Jamila said the country was on the brink of civil war. I just went back to sleep.
The day after, it was safer to be outside and Meena visited.
‘Come on, you have to get up,’ she told me. ‘We women all have to go through difficulties at some stage of our lives.’
Her words sounded flippant, but her eyes were kind. I sat up and hugged her; she was the closest I had to an older sister. I missed Mum so much. Mum would agree with me about the marriage, but how would that change things? A woman in Pakistan didn’t seem to have a lot of power. There were six of us in the house if you counted Meena, but what could we do against Papa who had made up his mind?
‘What about you, Meena?’ I asked. ‘What was your arrangement like?’
She bit her lip, wondering what to tell, I guessed. ‘Abu did it the correct way, Ameera. I’m sorry, but Abu would not have done as your father has. Abu and Ummie showed me photos of boys they had visited. I remembered some from childhood. Together we narrowed it down to two and I was allowed to meet the families and the boys. Then we chose Haroun.’
It was the way I had imagined it happening for me too.
‘But, Ameera, although you haven’t had a choice, if you were offered Shaukat, you would choose him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He is a good man. If I was old enough at his first marriage I would have liked to be chosen myself.’ She was stroking my hair. Then she shifted her position and said, ‘Ameera, Jamila would like you to go to school today. You can teach English.’
‘How? I’m not trained.’
Jamila broke in. ‘There is a book. You only have to follow the exercises and say the sentences so the children can repeat them. Then they write them. It will be good for the kids to hear a true English accent.’
I checked her face for sarcasm, but didn’t find any this time. Meena watched me, a half-hopeful smile on her lips. ‘And good for you, Ameera.’
She was right. I was hemmed in—even by their kindness. I had to get out of the house to think more clearly, and I couldn’t go alone. There still had to be a way out of the marriage. I just had to make a plan. And get word to Mum and Riaz.
20
On the way to Zeba’s school I thought about Haider. Perhaps he had a point: if we were caught together Aunt Bibi would call off the wedding. Then I could go home. I didn’t trust everyone’s praise for Shaukat. How often had Jamila or Meena seen him? He may not be my idea of a good man. I would have to be careful dealing with Haider though. He was like a faulty power line: you never knew when it could burst into flame.
Zeba’s chatter broke into my thoughts; she was using a lot more English words now. ‘Ameera, my friend is Tariqah. She has an aunty in Australia. She sent Tariqah a toy possum.’
My gut churned at the name. Tariqah would mean the same as Tariq: the morning star. I’d looked it up on the internet after the party. Tariq was my morning star, and I’d imagined waking up every morning and seeing his smile. Would that ever happen now?
At the school, girls in blue dresses, white shalwars and red jumpers rushed up to us as we entered the gate. Tariqah was one of them and Zeba introduced us. She had a cute smile and a plait that she swung across her shoulder. Soon she put her arm around Zeba and took her off to play. The whole school was made up of tents, even the principal’s office. Surely they would have to close down soon because of the cold?
Jamila introduced me to the principal, Mrs Malik.
‘We are very happy to have a native speaker of English helping in the classes,’ Mrs Malik said formally.
‘I am happy to help.’
She was busy; she kept glancing at her desk. A boy hovered nearby, ready to run an errand. A handbell rang and Jamila took me to Zeba’s class tent.
‘Why don’t they rebuild?’ I asked.
‘It takes time. The government offices are first to be rebuilt. The schools are not the highest priority.’
‘They should be.’
Jamila gave me her first genuine smile. ‘I agree.’
All the girls stood as we entered. Jamila introduced me in Urdu and then in English. ‘This is Miss Ameera. She is an English teacher from Australia.’ I raised my eyebrows but didn’t correct her. The girls chorused a ‘Good morning’ and then stared at me. Jamila smiled and left.
‘Please sit down. Who can tell me what page you are up to?’ I was determined to speak in English since it was an English class.
No one answered, not even Zeba, but at least they all sat down on the cheap blankets. The only furniture in the tent was the teacher’s small table and chair—more evidence of the devastation of the earthquake.
I picked up a book from the desk. ‘Which lesson?’
A girl at the back stood. ‘Please, Miss, we study page twenty.’
‘Good. Open your books to page twenty.’
A few girls understood and then the rest followed them. The older ones helped the younger ones. Even though this was Grade 4, there was a wide range of ages. It was a world away from what I remembered of primary school at home. The girls listened to everything I said, and were polite. I was careful to speak slowly, remembering Asher’s warning about my fast speech. When I asked them to repeat sentences after me they did. I felt I’d travelled back a hundred years. As they leaned over their exercise books, writing the sentences, I counted them—fifty-seven. When they finished they formed a line so I could mark their work.
One of the older girls said in English, ‘You is very beautiful, Miss,’ and then blushed.
She was the only one who dared to speak to me directly and I didn’t have the heart to correct her grammar. I told the girls to read from the textbook while they waited in line, and so I became a teacher.
At recess Jamila came to take me to the staff tent for a cup of tea. One of the office workers had made chai and was pouring cups for us all. Jamila introduced
me to some teachers but I doubted I’d remember their names. Some of them hadn’t completed their teaching degrees but were learning on the job. It was either that or close the school, I was told. Another teacher had recently come from the Jesus and Mary Convent School in Murree, the school Benazir Bhutto had attended, and discussion soon centred on the latest news.
The woman on my right was called Nargis. She had a bruise under her eye, almost hidden by heavy make-up. ‘Are you married?’ she asked me.
‘No.’ I glanced over at Jamila who was watching me. I turned back to Nargis. ‘And you?’
‘Yes.’ But it was barely a sigh. She touched the bruise on her face.
Jamila moved closer and gently laid her hand over Nargis’s. ‘Nargis has been married a year.’
Nargis smiled at her; it was a brave smile full of a meaning I wasn’t privy to. Before any more could be said, another teacher leaned over and introduced herself.
‘I am Asma, Zeba’s class teacher. She is telling me you come from Australia.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have family in Melbourne. We hope to visit at Eid next year. Could you take a parcel for me?’
I glanced at Jamila. ‘Of course.’ Then I suddenly thought of the phone. I didn’t care if Jamila heard. ‘Do you know how to send messages to Australia on a mobile phone?’ I asked.
She smiled. ‘You have to leave off the zero and put plus six one. Then you can ring mobiles and send messages.’
‘Thank you.’
The time at the school did stop me from dwelling on my own problems. Seeing the kids in tents in the cold and yet still willing to learn made me want to help. On the way home, I said as much to Jamila.
‘Yes, it fills your heart,’ she said.
I asked her about Nargis. ‘Is she in a difficult marriage? She didn’t look happy.’
Jamila glanced at me before she answered. ‘Nargis is the victim of a forced marriage.’
Before I could stop myself, I said, ‘That’s what’s happening to me.’
Marrying Ameera Page 10