by Zeenat Mahal
She walked out and into the passenger seat, as he held the door open for her. She’d never had any one behave like this with her. She was a bit flustered and didn’t quite know how to respond. For an hour they tried to find the house but there seemed to be something wrong with the address because even when Hussain stopped and asked a few passers-by, no one had ever heard of the person or the street.
Hussain scowled and after an hour of complete silence and no luck with their quest, they returned home to find Aunty Salma waiting for them, her eyes shining. Shahira was suspicious but she couldn’t prove anything.
Aunty Salma didn’t give up though.
She complained to Shahira after a few days, “I’ve asked Hussain so many times to do this for me but he’s such an angraiz! Can you please go to Daata Saheb today and distribute food and pray in my stead?”
Shahira was a believer, she couldn’t have refused going to Daata Saheb. She reached the darbar around one o’clock in the afternoon, crowded with a multitude of jostling, hopeful people. First she went to the place where she had to give money for the daigs and food, and then she went to pray at the shrine. It took her nearly twenty minutes. Turning back, she was struggling through the still dense crowd, when someone caught her arm roughly. Startled, she looked back, and to her utter astonishment Hussain stood there, looking like the wrath of God.
“What were you thinking, coming here on a Thursday of all days? And if you can’t handle big crowds, you’re in the wrong place.” He was right about that—Thursdays and Fridays were the busiest days.
He led her outside and asked shortly, “Where did you park your car?”
“Over there…near the cane shop…”
There was nothing there. Hussain gave her a look that told her exactly what he thought of her parking skills. He went straight to the traffic sergeant, nodded to him, shook his hand, and received a piece of paper from him.
“Let’s go,” he said shortly.
“But…my car…”
He stopped dead and, said briefly, “Towed.”
Shahira was upset. “But…it was legal parking. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Shahira, it’s nearly thirty-eight degrees centigrade out here and I’ve been here for two hours. Why you’d pick this day, of all days, to come here, I don’t know, but thankfully, I was here.”
Shahira interrupted him, “What? Why thankfully? And what were you doing here, anyway?”
They’d reached his car, sensibly parked in the parking lot. He paid the man, opened the door for her and when she had slid down listlessly, he closed it and came around.
And then it struck her.
“Wait! You’ve been here for two hours? Doing what?”
Obviously at the end of his tether, he replied icily, “Hmmm…let’s see…why do people come to this place? I think I was in the mood for a new pair of loafers and I thought this was just the place to get them.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she answered primly. “I merely asked because…”
As understanding dawned, she laughed out loud at her mother-in-law’s ingenious games.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, still sounding irritated.
Shahira had to hand it to her. Aunty Salma had fooled them well. Annoyed, she rounded on him, “You know, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t been walking around like the wronged and hurt husband.”
“Excuse me?” He sounded incredulous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And what do you mean by ‘none of this’?”
“The first time, when Aunty Salma ‘forgot’ I was with her and remembered only when she’d sent the driver home, which didn’t take her long by the way, considering you came only fifteen minutes later. The second, the mysterious person no one knew and a street no one had heard of, and you and I had to roam around for an hour, in each other’s company, in the confined space of a car. And now today, she said that you were an angraiz who couldn’t be bothered going to the dargah for her so she sent me.”
He was silent and then very softly replied, as if control was a big ask at that moment, “I’d told her I was coming here, as I always do whenever I come home for any length of time. She called me in panic, saying that you’d called her, telling her where you were and that you were afraid and lost in the dargah.”
He paused, realizing how lame it sounded now but at the time he’d really been worried. There were all kinds of people there, drug addicts, thieves, a suicide bomber or two, and it was crowded like always. Sighing, he added, “And that I would be able to spot you easily since you were wearing red.”
“She insisted I wear red, she told me it was something to do with her mannat. Obviously, all the better for you to spot me with!”
Hussain looked like he was ready to do something drastic, like pull his hair out. Shahira tried to hide her grin.
Hussain’s sardonic tone permeated her thoughts, “And what do you mean I’ve been behaving like an injured husband?”
“You’re right, my bad. I should’ve said a sulking, injured, typical husband.”
Hussain merely looked at her, his face a mask of disinterest, and then very quietly, “I’m not really your husband, you know.”
“And I’m certainly not your wife.”
“I’m glad that’s clear.”
“It is to me.”
He snapped, “Now, wait a minute. Are you seriously suggesting that I—I, who made this arrangement—am in any way unclear about it or have any wish to change it?”
She waited a beat and replied calmly, “No one even suggested the possibility of change until just now. And it wasn’t me sulking, looking angry and bad-tempered. I’m not the one who’s been yelling at Nusrat every morning for the last four days, and I surely did not tell Natasha to leave me alone for ten effing minutes. And by the way, they all know what effing stands for, so kindly…”
“That’s enough,” he said quietly. Then added, “I said that to Natasha?”
“Yesterday. You were working on your laptop and she…well, she’s seen you after a long time.” After a pause she added, “You should make up with her. She was hurt.”
Silence.
“I was certainly not behaving like an injured husband. But I was upset at something you’d said earlier. Twice now, actually.” He paused and then continued thoughtfully, “I was upset because you were right that night. I haven’t been a good father and I had no business pretending that I was. I’ve repressed my guilt for so long that when it came, I was uncomfortable. Seeing you with your son and Natasha, I realized you’re a very good parent.”
He paused and then continued in the same tone, “I felt regret and I may have unconsciously been angry with you for pointing it out.”
She didn’t know what to say. But he hadn’t finished, and added, “You were a single parent, still are for all practical purposes, and now you have two. I couldn’t be there for mine when she needed me.”
“She still needs you. You have time to make amends. Some people never get that chance. Some don’t even realize what they’re missing,” she said, thinking of Usman.
Apparently Hussain realized that too because tentatively he asked, “Shahaan’s father…hasn’t he ever…?”
She shook her head. “No. But that’s a good thing for us, Shahaan and me. He wasn’t a very nice person.”
Hussain didn’t ask anything more and she was glad. They reached home in companionable silence.
“What are we going to tell Aunty?”
He smiled and his face softened. He was even better looking when he did. “That we made up. No more sulking.”
She smiled back and nodded.
≈
SEVEN
Hussain couldn’t help but notice the lengths to which Nudrat was going to get his attention. He’d known her a long, long time ago. It had been a dark period in his life and she had been a good friend and then for a time, more than that. But that folly was over and he’d made that clear to Nudrat, repeatedly. He’d e
ven stopped taking her calls because he didn’t have the time for her theatrics.
Soon after allowing her to seduce him, he’d realized the similarities between his late wife and her friend, who was so keen to make him feel better. He’d been revolted, with himself most of all. He was doing exactly what had been done to him—he too was sleeping with another man’s wife. He wasn’t that kind of man, or didn’t want to be. So he’d extricated himself, trying hard not to hurt her feelings.
Of late the only woman on his mind was Shahira. There was something about his little schoolteacher that haunted his senses. The way she kept herself at a distance from him just made him more determined to crack that wall she’d constructed around herself. He’d tried, maybe once or twice, to get to know her, talk to her, but she responded with cool politeness. Apparently she was a stickler for rules. Perhaps it was the teacher in her, but he couldn’t make her bend the rules even a little.
She was tolerant of his mother’s maneuvers and his own rather inconsistent behavior, handling everything with a pleasant and good-humored approach. At the wedding, she’d fielded the rude, teasing and sometimes sympathetic questions about their living arrangement with humor and flair. She had people laughing over it, and themselves, at having asked. She could laugh at herself, too. She could look beautiful when she made the effort, or when she smiled that lovely open smile.
To take his mind off Shahira, he went downstairs to see his mother.
She looked excited. Smiling, he asked, “Ami, what plans are you hatching now?”
“What do you mean, hatching? I don’t plan. I was merely thinking that you are an extremely irresponsible father.”
Having been made aware of this recently, he remained silent. He had no defense. Salma had been preparing herself for a smart comeback, which never came and looking at his contrite face, she continued with more enthusiasm.
“Hussain, Natasha is growing up; she needs a father here. And what about Shahaan? Shahira looks after me like a daughter would, and she loves Natasha like a mother. The boy needs a father, too.”
“Ami, what are you suggesting? I can’t give up my business and stay here.”
“Who said anything about that? You men don’t listen…tsk, tsk…always jumping to conclusions and making decisions without knowing all the facts.”
Laughing, Hussain gave in. “Okay, Ami. I’m sorry to have interrupted. What were you saying?”
Smiling lovingly at her only son, she changed tack and became the pleading matriarch, “Hussain, beta, you should take the children for a holiday. School has just let out and they’ve worked so hard all the year around. Did you see Natasha’s report card? She’s doing so well now, thanks to Shahira, of course.”
“Of course,” Hussain agreed sarcastically. He was still put off that she should be on his mind so much, especially when she refused to respond to his overtures as any normal woman would—positively and enthusiastically.
Salma ignored him and gave Natasha, positioned strategically in the sitting room, the signal to enter. Natasha came in looking rather forlorn.
“What’s the matter, Toat Batoat? Why the long face?”
Natasha looked at her father with sad, puppy dog eyes, “Abba, all my friends are going abroad again this year. I’ve never been anywhere, ever.”
“Natasha, don’t you remember when we went to Florida, and…”
Giving him a quelling look, she said with all the contempt her eleven-year-old self could muster, “Abba, I was five. I don’t remember that. I want to go now, when I can remember and see things and show off like the rest of them.”
Hussain laughed, “Really? That was six years ago? Wow!” He looked bemused and then smiling, said, “Okay. I’ll arrange for all of you to go to Europe. You can go to Disneyland Paris, visit Blackpool in England, and eat Belgian chocolates…”
Her lower lip trembling, her eyes unable to contain the tears, she said, “I want to go with you...”
“Oh, baby! Come here.” He hugged her and looked at his mother for support and received a killing look. He was outnumbered and out-maneuvered. And then he thought of his one ally in the place. Taking heart he said, “Okay Natasha, call your Mom, let’s make a plan.”
Shouting and screaming with joy, she ran to call Shahira, who was, Hussain was certain, the one person he could depend on to put a stop to this nonsense. They could easily go on their own and he would make a nice long vacation for them, no expenses spared. He was already chalking up the itinerary in his mind, when Shahira walked in with Shahaan and Natasha on either side.
“What’s the exciting news?” she asked in the singsong tone only mothers have the gall to use in public.
“Natasha wants to go abroad for a holiday and I very generously suggested that I could arrange for all four of you to have a fantastic tour of Europe.”
Shahira’s face lit up with excitement; it was like seeing a child finding a treasure trove of candies. And he felt a thrill of pleasure at having been the cause of it.
“But,” he cautioned, “Natasha wants me to come along too.”
And her face fell.
She recovered immediately but Hussain had seen both the excitement rise…and fall. Irrationally and inexplicably, he was furious. What the hell was the matter with her? Women had been lining up to marry him. He was a perfectly…but he was on the wrong tangent altogether. He took a deep breath and gathered his scattered thoughts. She was in his employment. He’d called her to get him out of going.
The thing was, he was now determined to go. And he was back on the tangent he shouldn’t be on. His mouth set in a grim line and seething inwardly with resentment, he wondered what the hell was going on with him? But more importantly, who did she think she was? She had no business not wanting him to go. It was his decision. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions and he didn’t need some uptight schoolteacher telling him what to do.
His decision, perfectly rational, sound and long over-due, was that he wanted to spend time with his daughter and Shahaan, who was a precocious little chap and obviously in need of a father. He was determined to do his duty by both and to hell with overpaid, judgmental ex-schoolteachers.
Shahaan piped up excitedly with his sister, “Wow! Yes. Please, Mom, please!”
Shahira looked at Hussain and then at his mother. Thinking she knew which way the wind blew, she turned back to the kids with that special smile she had just for them. “Well, it would be wonderful, of course, if we could all go together but Natasha, honey, your father’s very busy. You know he works very hard for you, so you can have all the comforts you’re used to having. He doesn’t like being away from you but he has to.”
Boy, she was good. She must have been one hell of a teacher. He heard his daughter protest, his mother adding her bit into the medley; but he knew he held the ace in his hands and he had every intention of using it to his own advantage. She was going on this holiday with him and she was damn well going to like it.
“Come here, Shahaan.”
The boy came with alacrity and Hussain made him sit beside him, like an equal. He remembered how he’d always liked Javed Uncle best because he never made him sit in his lap. Hoping it was true for most boys, he looked at Shahaan solemnly. He was being contrary, he knew, but the way her face fell when she thought he might be coming along had just got his back up. He could still feel the prickle of annoyance.
“So, Shahaan do you think we should vote? Like a democracy? Instead of the parents making a decision and forcing it on children, I think they should have a say as well. Right? Isn’t that fair?”
Shahaan nodded enthusiastically and decided to speak up for good measure, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Hussain laughed and looking at Shahira directly, with a mild smile that didn’t quite soften the mockery of his eyes, he said slowly, “All in favor of me tagging along, raise your hands.”
Natasha’s hand shot up and Shahaan’s, then his mother added hers. Giving his wife a slow, challenging smile he raised h
is own hand too…and nearly laughed out loud at her stunned expression. The children were jumping, and shouting, hugging him then each other while Shahira stared at him, perplexed.
“Oh, Hussain, you’re such a good father!” his mother exclaimed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and as an after-thought added, “and a wonderful son.” Pause. “Shahira, I hope that one day soon you can also say that Hussain’s a good husband.”
She recovered quickly and spluttered, “B…but he is, Aunty.”
His mother sniffed dismissively. “So, Hussain when are you taking them?”
“Them?” she squeaked. “You’re coming too, right, Aunty?” She looked positively green.
And bless his mother, she was quick to cough up a fit worthy of a tuberculosis patient, as she said with a breathlessness that was pitiful to watch, “Really Shahira…you can’t expect me…cough…cough…to accompany…you,” a wheezy breathy pause, “young…people. I’m too old. Cough.”
He kept a very straight face and nodded at his mother. “Of course, Ami. We aren’t so selfish and irresponsible that we’d drag you around for our own pleasure.”
For further emphasis, he shot Shahira a disapproving look. Her bottom lip trembled and she bit into it to steady it. Aw, had he made the disciplinary schoolmarm cry? He grinned. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much since his hostile takeover of a multi-national company in ’99. And he wasn’t done yet.
“So, let’s make it a nice long trip!”
“No!” she nearly screamed. He couldn’t stop himself this time and laughed. She shot him a suspicious look.
Clearing his throat, he said very seriously, “What do you think, Mom?”