Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  I believed her because that was what my dad wanted and my mum always wanted what he wanted. She was his shadow, to agree always and to never contradict. It struck me then that I believed my dad. How had I persuaded myself so suddenly? At what stage had I convinced myself that he would put my happiness first? Perhaps it was my nannyma’s presence that did it. After all, she had been witness to everything that had happened and I didn’t think she would have sat calmly, waiting for me to agree to go home, had she not believed that my parents had changed.

  ‘I’ve started my A levels already,’ I said. Why did I say that? I wasn’t sure.

  You can transfer to the college at home,’ Dad said. ‘It has only been a few weeks. You are a clever girl and you will have no problems making the switch. I’m sure they teach the same courses all over the country.’

  I nodded. So what now?

  My nannyma spoke, her eyes looking clearly into mine: ‘Are you coming home, Zeba?’

  I glanced at Tara beside me. She gave me a reassuring look as if to say ‘up to you’. I felt ready. I wanted to go home.

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  Chapter 34

  I said goodbye to my friends at the refuge and they all wished me well. Habib was not around to say bye so I left him a thank-you note.

  I hugged Surjit and Alice, and I saved Tara for last. I hugged her tightly because I wanted her to know how grateful I was for everything she had done for me. I knew the lump in my throat would prevent me from forming the words, but she seemed to understand. Despite being tearful herself, she told me I was one of the lucky ones. I promised to keep in touch with her; she was one of my saviours just like Sehar, Nannyma, Nusrat-kala, Saima and Damian.

  The journey home was a little tense; Dad tried telling jokes, but kept messing up the punchlines so nobody knew when to laugh. Nannyma kept smiling and Mum kept turning round in the car to look at me every few minutes all the way home to Yorkshire. Months had passed since I had left with my innocent belief that I would return within a few weeks. It felt strange to think I would see my old home again after feeling that I would never be able to return.

  When the car pulled into our driveway, I gazed at the house. Nothing about it looked different and I decided there and then that I would not look for changes either.

  We entered the house and Susan ran in through the front door before Dad had a chance to close it. She grabbed me in a fierce hug and began crying.

  ‘I thought I was never going to see you again,’ she wailed.

  It was weird but Susan’s sobs triggered something in my dad and he broke down in tears right there in our hallway. For the first time in my life I saw my dad cry. He cried quite unashamedly as my mum joined him by dabbing delicately at her eyes with a handkerchief. My nannyma just looked on, her serene face giving the impression that this was necessary.

  My dad’s emotional waterfall succeeded in quieting Susan; she stopped crying and stepped aside as if she was intruding on a private moment. I took a step towards Dad and he enveloped me in his arms.

  He cried and I cried too and he said sorry over and over again. I knew then that we, as a family, had turned a corner.

  Nannyma stayed with us for three weeks before insisting on returning home. The summer months were long over and the cold had returned to Yorkshire. Nannyma spent most of her time huddled in an armchair in front of the gas fire or cocooned in her bed with the electric blanket on. She promised to return, but for now she longed for her swing on the veranda.

  I think if she were worried for me then Nannyma would have braved the cold for my sake. But there really was no need. Things really did seem to be normal. Dad was busy with his shop and Mum and Nannyma spent the days together. Their relationship wasn’t as close as Nannyma and Nusrat-kala’s, but it was now as close as they could be while my mum refused to shed her reserve. Nannyma seemed content.

  I joined the local college to continue my A levels. Susan was studying there too. She had also done well in her GCSEs and in the daytime she and I were inseparable again. Every lunchtime we made our way to the town centre to munch our way through Mrs Smith’s chips, just like old times.

  There had been some change in Susan’s life. She now had a boyfriend. James was a year older than us and training as an apprentice at a local car garage. She’d met him at a music festival while I had been in Pakistan. James had been very keen to meet me and I’d liked him in return. Barely five minutes had passed since our introduction and he’d launched into a tale of how Susan had been beside herself when she’d received my scary email. He had gone with her to meet our old headmistress, Miss Neptune, who had dismissed my claims as the result of an overactive imagination.

  ‘You should have seen her,’ said James, nodding his head towards Susan. ‘She went nuts saying how you wouldn’t play games like that. In the end they made us leave.’

  Susan shrugged at the memory. ‘I believed you,’ was all she said, and I squeezed her hand.

  When I’d mentioned this to Tara in one of my emails, she had immediately sent the headmistress a large envelope of literature about forced marriages, and a charming letter about the need to educate head teachers on ‘very real child-protection issues’, which made me smile.

  My biggest fear had been the local community, but my parents shielded me from the gossipy aunties. Even when they came to bid farewell to Nannyma on the eve of her flight, nobody gave me a second look. It was as if the Pakistan summer trip and everything after it had never happened.

  At the airport when Nannyma said her goodbyes, I promised to visit her soon, but I knew in my heart that I would not set foot in that country for a long time. There were just too many bad memories. I think my nannyma knew that my words were empty because she kissed my forehead and said she would come to visit me in the summer.

  ‘Perhaps the pair of us might travel together to America to visit Nusrat-kala?’ she suggested with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Her baby will have arrived by then.’

  That was the first I’d heard about Nusrat-kala’s pregnancy. I nodded with excitement at the prospect, and gave her one final hug.

  A few weeks after Nannyma returned to Pakistan, Asif married an army general’s daughter from Islamabad.

  My dad told me over dinner one evening, but didn’t really bother with the details. He’d been cut off from his own family and although sometimes I caught him staring into space with a thoughtful expression, his eyes lit up whenever he saw me.

  Mum told me later as we were washing up that Imran-chacha had passed the news to Dad. The old retired soldier had returned to Pakistan to attend the wedding. I didn’t bother to mention that I already knew all this through Farhat.

  My friend still popped in to see Nannyma and Husna-bhaji on the veranda and I called every so often to speak with them using an international phone card. The last time we spoke, Farhat told me that Asif’s wife, Samia, was both very beautiful and modern – she didn’t cover her hair in front of older men. I could tell Farhat was in awe of this girl, and not because she was from a rich family in Islamabad, but due to the fact that she’d been educated at a London university and owned a flat behind the famous shop Harrod’s.

  ‘Samia want to move to London,’ said Farhat. ‘Taya-ji and Mariam-chachi, they like this idea, but not Asif. They having many arguments.’

  I felt sorry for Taya-ji and Mariam-chachi, as well as Samia. All they wanted to do was protect Asif, but I knew that they would not succeed. All Asif wanted to do was serve the country he loved, and he would probably die trying.

  To my sadness that day arrived sooner than we expected, just a few weeks after I’d heard about his marriage. We got the call from Nannyma one morning. A bomb had exploded outside an army barracks in the NWFP. A handful of civilians and over thirty soldiers were killed. Asif was one of them. Taya-ji and Mariam-chachi’s nightmare had come true. The violence in their country had claimed their son’s life.

  Nannyma t
old Dad that Taya-ji had left immediately to claim Asif’s body. Mariam-chachi had been sedated by a doctor because she couldn’t stop screaming. The whole village was in mourning. The army son who had promised to guard them all had met an early death.

  Dad asked if he should travel to Pakistan for the funeral, but Nannyma advised him against it.

  ‘You will not be welcome,’ she said. ‘Grief looks for someone to blame and you will become the scapegoat.’ Even she had been refused entry to Taya-ji’s house for helping me escape.

  When Dad hung up the phone, he collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. My mum patted his arm awkwardly as I stood frozen on the spot. The guilt seeped slowly into my veins like ice as my mind screamed: Would this have happened if I had married Asif? Did my dad believe this too?

  But he didn’t. He looked up at me from his chair and said in a determined voice, ‘I am mourning the death of my nephew and you should mourn him as your cousin. But I don’t want you to feel guilty. None of us will feel guilty about his death. Even if you had married him and convinced him to move here, he would have returned there in the end. Just as you insist this country is yours, so Pakistan was his. The death of all living creatures is written. Fate would have dragged him back to the spot where he was killed because it was his destiny.’

  I ran to my dad and we cried together, both for what we had lost, and what we had gained.

  Twelve months later I found myself writing a Facebook message to Farhat in English on my BlackBerry. Nusrat-kala had sent a laptop for Nannyma from Chicago as soon as her baby son had been born. She’d also arranged for an engineer from Karachi to set up an internet connection as Nusrat-kala wanted to share all her photos and updates on baby Umair. Sher Shah’s house was now no longer the only place in the village that had a computer and internet connection. Farhat was still a regular visitor to Nannyma and together they were Facebook addicts, pouring over photos and messages on Nannyma’s account. Nannyma also told me that the water women insist on seeing all of baby Umair’s photos every time they are posted online. Farhat was of course still illiterate, but Nannyma acted as the translator between us friends.

  Hey Fatty

  Guess what. I’ve just been to see Sehar’s son! Thanks for finding out Shabana’s parents’ phone number. They passed on Sehar’s mum’s contact details to me. I have to admit I didn’t think Sehar’s mum would agree to my request to see Ishfaq. But she did! She looked sad when she invited me and my parents to sit in her living room. Actually she kept staring at me and saying, ‘I’m so glad Sehar made a friend in Pakistan.’ I think she’s still grieving for her daughter, but baby Ishfaq keeps her busy.

  Fatty, he is gorgeous. Did you see the pictures I’ve posted of him? Don’t you think he looks just like his mum? Even got that expression that she had when she disliked something – you know when she used to wrinkle her nose and pull her forehead down. And I can’t wait to see pictures of your baby when he or she is born. You must be fat and round by now. Make sure you get Abdullah to take plenty of photos. Remember to ask my nannyma for Nusrat-kala’s camera. It’s digital. She won’t mind you borrowing it. Once you’ve taken the pictures, give the camera to Nannyma and she will upload them on to Facebook.

  Oh, and great news about Husna-bhaji marrying the widower in Sahib Mohammad’s village. Ambreen-bhaji told me on the phone that Husna-bhaji’s really happy. She deserves a happy ending.

  I’ll write again soon. Feel a bit nauseous writing while Dad is driving.

  Love you.

  Zeba xx

  I sat back in my dad’s car and felt content. My parents and I were on our way home on the motorway. I should have really been at home revising for my winter exams, but the opportunity to see Ishfaq could not be missed. I still missed Sehar. One day I will tell Ishfaq what a wonderful person his mum was. I will describe her as the lifebelt that kept me afloat. He should know that about the mother he never had the opportunity to meet. I think I owe her that much.

  Author’s Note

  A forced marriage is one in which an individual, or both individuals, do not wish to marry the other. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that: Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses. A forced marriage is forbidden in all religions and is illegal in many countries.

  An arranged marriage is one in which the two people are introduced to each other through traditional methods, and is a marriage that both individuals enter willingly. The tradition of arranged marriages has operated successfully within many communities and countries for a very long time.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the Forced Marriage Unit at the Foreign Office for all their feedback and guidance. Anyone wishing to find out more about the wonderful and much needed service of the FMU can go to their website: www.fco.gov.uk/forcedmarriage

  Thank you Abu Fatima, Sabiha Chohan, Zainub Chohan and Anisa Patel for agreeing to read the early drafts and for sticking to that promise. You all contributed to the development of the story in your own unique ways, and for that I am grateful. A mention also to Irfan Akram, Soriya Siddique and Irfan Shah.

  And, lastly, thank you to my editor, Shannon Park, for the invaluable advice from the beginning to the end.

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  First published 2012

  Text copyright © Sufiya Ahmed, 2012

  Map copyright © Puffin Books, 2012

  Cover photograph by Paper Boat Creative/Getty Images

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-141-97139-1