Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  When the moment of departure arrived, Farhat had wailed like an old woman who was losing her entire world. Sehar’s mother had looked at her sympathetically and then climbed into the Land Rover with Ishfaq in her arms, closing the door in Farhat’s face. I’d watched helplessly as the maid had stepped forward and pressed her nose against the tinted window, her tears marking the smooth glass as she desperately tried to catch a final glimpse of the baby.

  ‘Eh, move the girl.’ It had been Sher Shah who’d spoken as he peered down at Farhat.

  I’d been about to place a hand on Farhat’s shoulder to urge her to come away, but she stepped back herself as she tried to stifle her sobs in her shawl. Despite her grief Farhat knew that she had to stifle her emotions in front of her employer. At that moment, I had felt like kicking Sher Shah’s shins for his lack of compassion.

  The Land Rover had roared into life and I’d reached out to grab Farhat’s hand as we watched the vehicle drive away. Every day since we had sat by the riverside, crying and laughing as we remembered Sehar. We couldn’t help it. It had become a routine. My heart physically hurt; it was tight and heavy and I knew Farhat’s was too, and that her pain was much worse because it was intermingled with guilt.

  ‘Zeba-ji, I should have letting Sehar-ji escaping.’

  I knew the admission had not come easily. It spoke against everything Farhat had been raised to believe. I’d tried to make her feel better.

  ‘It would have made no difference you know. So you keeping quiet would have given Sehar a head start of what … ten minutes? They would have found her. This village is in the middle of nowhere. Nobody would have supported her, or helped her and she would have been lost in the wilderness.’

  Farhat had nodded, still sobbing. ‘Yaah, but Sehar-ji blaming me. She only wanted me on her side, naah? I never getting to say sorry.’

  I hadn’t known what to say. I’d reached out and hugged the girl as she cried the guilt out on my shoulder.

  Today, however, was Farhat’s wedding day and I was determined that we would remember it as a happy occasion. After all, Farhat was actually excited to marry her Abdullah. When I entered her small hut, I was struck by the genuine happiness it contained. The dry, mud walls were decorated with red glittery shawls and colourful balloons hung from the ceiling. Farhat’s mum, Rachida-bhaji, greeted me with a shy, surprised smile. She knew Farhat and I spent time together, but she did not expect me to attend her daughter’s wedding. It was not the norm in the village for the rich to attend the peasants’ celebrations. In another world, perhaps if I had been born and raised here, I would not have set foot in this hut and I definitely would not have hugged the bride’s mother.

  Rachida-bhaji seemed shocked when I reached forward to press myself against her stiff body. Her arms remained by her side and, when I stepped back, she lifted her shiny scarf to her blushing face and tried to hide behind it.

  ‘In England we always hug the bride’s mother,’ I explained, trying to put her at ease. ‘Thank you for including me in this happy occasion. Now where is the lucky bride?’

  Rachida-bhaji relaxed a little and pointed to the sheer green scarf, glistening with gold plastic stars that was acting as a veil to shield the bride from the guests before the ceremony. I hesitated. Should I walk around?

  ‘Zeba-ji.’ It was Farhat calling me from the other side of the veil. ‘Come, come, you is my bestest friend now. You sit with me, isn’t it?’

  I hurried around to find a beautiful bride on the other side. Farhat was wearing a deep red wedding outfit made up of a full ball-gown skirt and top. On her head rested a red shawl, heavy with beadwork, and her plait lay on her left shoulder, coiled with a shiny matching red and gold ribbon.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ I gasped.

  ‘They rubbing turmeric on my skin last night,’ Farhat explained, blushing furiously at my compliment. ‘You know mixed with yoghurt to make my skin nice and lovely. I always wishing to have shining skin like you and Sehar-ji …’

  She paused, but I was determined to make her feel beautiful.

  ‘And you have shining skin today,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘Abdullah won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.’

  Farhat blushed furiously again and then she held out a hand. ‘Zeba-ji,’ she said, ‘this is the lipstick Sehar-ji gave me. Would you putting it on for me?’

  I took the tube and applied the red shade to Farhat’s lips. Neither of us said anything. It had been wishful thinking on my part to think we could have got through today without feeling sadness for Sehar. But it was lovely to know that she was a part of it.

  I settled down next to Farhat on the wooden bed, which was covered in a shiny red fabric, and waited for the ceremony to begin. Glancing around at the simplicity of the event, I couldn’t help thinking of my own wedding on which it seemed no expense was being spared. Two days earlier I’d been subjected to a dress fitting by Mariam-chachi at Nannyma’s house. She had arrived in the morning accompanied by two seamstresses and my mum, who had returned before my dad to help with the final preparations. We had embraced awkwardly.

  Nannyma had remained on her swing, but Nusrat-kala had joined us in my room. I’d been ordered to try on the red skirt and heavily embroidered and beaded top so that it could be amended to my measurements. I tried not to pay too much attention to the dress, or even comment on it, just to annoy Mariam-chachi and my mum. As the seamstresses pricked me with pins, Husna-bhaji had come in to offer her help but the widow had been shooed out by Mariam-chachi, who had seemed offended by her presence.

  ‘You know Husna-bhaji is one of the best seamstresses I’ve ever come across,’ Nusrat-kala had announced.

  ‘Well then you obviously haven’t come across many,’ Mariam-chachi had shot back.

  ‘Whatever,’ Nusrat-kala had muttered, scowling.

  My outfit wasn’t the only thing that was extravagant. Mariam-chachi had then begun gushing that Sher Shah had offered his haveli as the wedding venue. I had swayed on my legs as this fact registered with me. It was too obscene to even think about. Were they seriously expecting me to enter the very place where Sehar’s funeral had been held dressed in a red costume sparkling with enough dazzle to make a Las Vegas showgirl proud?

  ‘Why can’t we have the wedding here?’ I’d asked.

  Mariam-chachi and my mum had stared at me as if I’d asked the most ridiculous question.

  ‘This house isn’t big enough to accommodate all the guests,’ Mariam-chachi had sniffed. ‘So many people are coming. Important people: politicians from Islamabad, artists and writers from Lahore and businessmen from Karachi. It is going to be quite an occasion in the social diary. After all, it is my son’s wedding.’

  ‘Well, you know Zee should get a say,’ Nusrat-kala had said suddenly.

  ‘Nusrat, will you stop interfering,’ my mum had snapped.

  ‘Someone has to!’ Nusrat-kala had exploded. ‘You obviously don’t give two hoots about your own daughter’s happiness.’

  ‘How dare you!’ my mum had raged. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Someone who cares about –’

  ‘Nusrat!’ It had been Nannyma standing by the door. ‘Come away,’ she’d said to her younger daughter. ‘Let Nighat and Mariam get on with what they came to do.’

  Nusrat-kala had looked like she was going to object, but then changed her mind and walked out. I watched her leave helplessly as another pin poked my waist.

  ‘Ow!’ I yelled.

  The seamstress had started to apologize but Mariam-chachi interrupted. ‘It’s OK, just get on with it.’ Then turning to Mum she said, ‘Nighat, the haveli will look lovely. We will hang fairy lights all around the building to light it up in the night. We will have fresh flowers hanging from every nook and cranny. The best sweetmeats from Karachi have been ordered. The food will be an elaborate buffet of chicken and meat kebabs, biryani, vegetable dishes, fish, the most exotic of frui
ts, a chocolate fountain and …’

  I closed my eyes as Mariam-chachi gushed on about her plans …

  That had been two days ago and I’d only managed to get through the dress fitting with the hope in my heart that Tara would come and rescue me. I was still hoping and I was still waiting, but today I wanted to celebrate Farhat’s wedding, a more joyous occasion than mine could ever be, despite all the money being spent on it.

  The new village imam arrived, a young man in his twenties. Presumably someone malleable whom Sher Shah could control from the outset. He remained on the other side of the curtain with Abdullah and his family while he gave a short sermon and recited some verses from the Qur’an. Then he came round to speak to Farhat. Standing over her he asked in a deep, clear voice, ‘Do you Farhat Usman Sulaiman Mehmood agree to this marriage. Is it qabool?’

  ‘Qabool,’ Farhat whispered.

  ‘I did not hear you. Qabool?’

  ‘Qabool,’ she said clearly.

  The imam then returned to Abdullah and officially asked him if he agreed to the marriage. We heard the groom’s acceptance, his ‘qabool’, from the other side and after another quick recital from the Qur’an, which concluded the ceremony, the cries of mubarak, congratulations, went up on the other side as the men embraced each other. Rachida-bhaji, who had been standing behind us, rushed forward to hug her daughter, crying with joy. Gazing at the two of them, I felt a stab of jealousy in my heart, a piercing pain because I did not have a mother who cried with exhilaration for my happiness.

  Chapter 26

  I waited and waited but nobody came for me. Days passed and yet Tara’s cavalry did not ride to my rescue. I had foolishly thought that I could become master of my destiny. I had been wrong. I had been arrogant to think that I was different from the peasant women who came for their water every day. I was the same as them: restricted, confined and powerless. It did not matter that I carried a red passport engraved with the emblem of a unicorn and a lion. Crying into my nannyma’s lap, I gave up the last fragments of hope.

  I walked around like a zombie. It was just a matter of days now until my wedding. I felt as though the hours and minutes that ticked away led to my execution. My bridal outfit was ready. In our culture red was a celebratory colour, but I knew that it was also a martyr’s colour. I couldn’t help thinking of myself in this way. I felt cold all the time and I couldn’t eat.

  My nannyma prayed for me. Even my Nusrat-kala was showing signs of strain. She was no longer on speaking terms with my mum. Both sisters had decided they’d had enough of each other. They really were chalk and cheese. My mum was preparing to lay me down as a sacrificial lamb for her husband’s honour, while my aunt paced the veranda in worry.

  I was no longer speaking to my dad. He had returned from England three days ago for the wedding and Nannyma had invited him and Mum to dinner. It had been a tense affair. Mum and Nusrat-kala had ignored each other, Dad had hardly said a word and even Nannyma had looked glum. It had been left to poor Uncle Tahir to keep a form of conversation alive, but even he had given up halfway through the main course. When we had finished eating, Nannyma had spoken up.

  ‘Kamran,’ she had addressed Dad. ‘There is still time. Back out of this. Don’t condemn your daughter to this life in the village.’

  My dad had stared down at the half eaten remains on his plate. ‘I cannot,’ he’d replied tersely. ‘You know I cannot.’

  Nannyma’s hand had slammed down on the table and made us all jump.

  ‘The boy will never agree to leave for England,’ she had cried. ‘He will remain here. Think about it. She is your only child. You will have her part from you like this?’

  My dad’s chair had scraped back violently and then his own fist had come down hard on the table.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he had said through gritted teeth. ‘But what can I do? It is too late. I have given my word. My honour depends on this marriage going ahead.’

  The mention of the word honour had stirred something inside me. I had walked over to my dad and knelt in front of him. ‘Is your honour more important than my happiness?’ I had asked with tears streaming down my face. ‘I don’t want my life ruined. I don’t want to die like Sehar!’

  My dad had turned pained eyes towards me before rising violently to his feet and walking out. As usual my mum had followed closely behind. I hadn’t heard a word from either of them since. It seemed they couldn’t face me and I wasn’t really surprised. I couldn’t face them either.

  There were now only three days left until the first of my ceremonies. My henna night was scheduled first, followed by the nikaah and reception the next day. After the wedding I was expected to move in with Asif at Taya-ji’s house. This was the custom: a daughter-in-law moved in with her husband’s family.

  The thought of living with Mariam-chachi filled me with dread. How was I going to face seeing her every day, especially if there was going to be no return to England? I knew there wasn’t. Everyone knew there wasn’t. Asif had already announced that he was going to return to the army for a special mission in the North-West Frontier Province five days after the wedding. To my knowledge nobody had questioned his plans. Not my dad, not Taya-ji, his mother … no one. It seemed that they just wanted the marriage to go ahead first and then they would deal with informing Asif about the move to the UK. To me it just seemed like wishful thinking on their part.

  I was sitting now with Nusrat-kala on the veranda. Nannyma had retired to her room for a siesta, as had Uncle Tahir.

  ‘If Taya-ji wants Asif to move to the UK, why doesn’t he order him?’ I asked. ‘What’s all this stuff about him going off on another mission?’

  Nusrat-kala grimaced. ‘Does Asif strike you as a man who will listen to anyone but himself?’

  I didn’t say anything and Nusrat-kala looked at me sympathetically.

  ‘Look, Zeba,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why Taya-ji is holding back. You’d think he could stand up to his own son, but it appears that in terms of stubbornness the apple did not fall far from the tree.’

  I had no idea what she meant and I just stared at her.

  ‘Asif is as stubborn as his father,’ Nusrat-kala explained. ‘Look, all I know is that Taya-ji will urge Asif to leave for the UK once the wedding has happened. According to your mum, Asif will be made to feel guilty about your unhappiness at remaining here and it is hoped that then he will agree to make the move.’

  ‘It is hoped?’ I repeated bitterly. ‘It is hoped … well, that’s all right then. Let’s live on that rare hope that Asif might take pity on me one day and chuck in everything he loves in order to put a smile on my face. And then, once he’s in England, he can start resenting me because he misses his home, his job, his friends.’

  Nusrat-kala gazed at me helplessly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, close to tears. ‘Are you sure Sehar had all the facts about this Tara?’

  I shrugged. There was no point in going over it again with my aunt. Nusrat-kala had asked me the same question countless times and I had relayed to her everything Sehar had said. What was the point of going over old ground again? Either I was going to be rescued and taken home by some miracle, or I was going to wither away in this village.

  Chapter 27

  My henna ceremony was to begin in four hours. The evening of food and traditional song and dance was being held at Taya-ji’s house.

  My hands were already painted with henna. Last night a village girl, Sabina, had arrived with Mariam-chachi and my mum and spent four hours weaving her intricate design on my palms. My feet remained to be painted and she was going to decorate them tonight at the ceremony. Apparently the henna task was a long, laborious one that had to be divided over two days. I stared down at my hands. Somewhere, buried deep in the pattern, the name of my future husband was hidden. Sabina had told me it was traditional for a groom to search for his name on the wedding night. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to help Asif;
his name was written in Urdu.

  It was four in the afternoon and I was with Farhat on Nannyma’s rooftop garden. She was here to help me dress for the party and then Abdullah was going to take us to Mariam-chachi’s house.

  I stood gazing out at the endless green fields ahead of me while Farhat immersed herself in arranging the dozen or so bangles I had to wear on my arms. In the middle of the fields was a dusty, bumpy road, which had been carved out by the vehicles en route to the main road. In the distance I could see a white jeep approaching; guests for my wedding ceremony the next day, no doubt. People I didn’t even know were coming from far and wide to celebrate the beginning of my doomed life.

  The vehicle got closer and closer and I expected it to speed past, splashing dirty water and mud at the villagers with its giant tyres. But instead the jeep slowed down and pulled up outside Nannyma’s house. A woman wearing a white cotton salwar kameez and a blue shawl emerged, a black leather bag on her right shoulder.

  There was something vaguely familiar about her. It was like I could relate to her despite the distance between us. It was something in her walk, in the way she held herself and the quiet confidence that oozed from her every pore. And then it hit me. This woman was foreign. She was not Pakistani. It was obvious in the way she slapped away flies. The woman looked around and, seeing no one, called to someone inside the car.