The World Unseen

by Shamim Sarif

  “Amina,” said Mrs Harjan, following her in, and still holding the outfit aloft.

  This time, Amina saw it, but seemed not to make any connection between the flowing pink cloth and her own undressed body. An understanding slowly began to dawn, and Amina backed away, with a disbelieving smile.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’m not going to wear that.”

  “Please,” answered Mrs Harjan. “To please your grandmother.”

  “No.”

  “She’s old, Amina.”

  Amina failed to see the correlation between her grandmother’s age and her own style of dress, but she took the outfit from her mother and looked at it.

  “Please,” said Mrs Harjan again, sensing an indecision on Amina’s part.

  Amina disliked wearing such clothes mainly because she was not comfortable in them, but as she looked from her mother’s pleading eyes to the suit, she decided that she could put up with discomfort for one evening. To make herself feel better, she thought with relief of her own bed in her own room behind her café, where she would be in a few hours, when this evening was over, and she smiled.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll wear it. Go down, I’ll come.”

  Her grandmother was pleasantly surprised at the sight of the shalwaar kameez when Amina walked into the room. She was a tall, striking girl, who looked well in whatever she wore, and the old lady looked pointedly and with some pride at the parents of the boy. They, too, looked satisfied and not a little surprised at Amina’s appearance. Her father merely looked relieved that Amina had appeared at last, and without further ceremony told Mrs Harjan to start serving the food. This instruction provided Amina, who had said nothing since entering, with a welcome escape from the eyes in that room, and she followed her mother to the kitchen where she silently helped her to spoon various curries from steaming pots into serving dishes.

  “You look nice,” offered Mrs Harjan as she handed Amina a full plate. She spoke nervously for she knew her daughter’s silences and was afraid of them. Amina nodded, but still did not speak, for she was inwardly digesting the information that she had gathered from the one look she had taken around that room. She had entered and greeted her grandmother and had seen her pleasure at the outfit—that had not surprised her. The triumphant look that her grandmother had given their guests had not escaped her either, however, and when she saw their son, a youth of about her age whom she remembered vaguely from some community gathering a few years ago, sitting stiffly in his best suit and tie, regarding her as though she were a piece of porcelain to be evaluated, she realised that she had been set up to meet a suitable boy.

  “Amina . . .” her mother began, but Amina had already gone into the next room with two filled dishes which she placed on the carefully laid table. She was angry—with her grandmother, whose idea this undoubtedly was; with her parents for allowing her to attend this dinner without warning; and with herself for not realising this possibility much earlier. She paused by the table, listening to her grandmother’s voice in the other room, asking the boy a long stream of questions. He answered firmly and with a deep, commanding voice. Amina was not a person who enjoyed anger, nor did she ever hold onto it for very long—she had always had the ability to see a whole series of alternatives to whatever situation she might be in, a quality that made it difficult for her to find anything too upsetting for long. Now as she stood by the table and listened, she knew that nothing fundamental in her life would ever change unless she wanted it to; her financial independence and her own self-confidence had seen to that, so what was the use, she decided, in being angry? Her mother’s collusion bothered her still, but as her glance wandered over the table she noticed that, as careful as her mother had tried to be in her place settings, she had reversed the knives and forks, placing them on the wrong sides of each plate. Amina smiled to herself, and moved around the table, switching each set of cutlery, before she returned to the kitchen to collect more of the food.

  By the end of the main course, the boy had still only regarded Amina furtively, but now he was made bolder by her open gaze, and he relaxed enough to venture a few words in her direction. At the start of the meal he had made a move to remove his jacket, and had stopped, feeling obliged to keep it on. Amina had caught him in mid-decision, and she had nodded briefly, a nod of empathy, underlaid with permission, and he had stared at her, surprised, and then he had removed the jacket and hung it over the back of his chair.

  He looked better without the ill-fitting coat—his shirt was clean and ironed, and showed broad, well-filled shoulders. He was not bad-looking, Amina decided. A strong chin, and broad forehead. He did not seem to her to be particularly intelligent, however, and when he did manage to speak, he deferred to his parents on all matters. These observations were made to fill up her time, for she was not expected to speak unless spoken to, and she was spoken to very little, for her grandmother soon realised that the less that was said about Amina’s daily life the better. The old lady could not draw attention to Amina’s accomplishments in cookery or cleaning or needlework, as she did not seem to have any. Her “work”—and here the old woman remembered that she was still not sure what her granddaughter did for a living, and made a mental note to ask her son later—was not a subject to be brought up before prospective in-laws. It was unseemly and in any event, irrelevant, since after she was married she would no longer be running around working. She thought it prudent to point this out in her own rambling way to the boy and his family.

  “I think young girls are just as happy to stay at home these days as they were when I was married. I don’t know why people say they are too modern. They may go out and want to see things for themselves for a while, but I think our girls always find it better to stay at home in the end.”

  Amina coughed, while the visiting parents looked surprised, and the boy’s mother leaned forward to examine Amina as though her interest had suddenly been caught.

  “Doesn’t Amina work any more then?” she asked Mrs Harjan.

  Amina looked with interest from the visitors to her mother, as though waiting for the next line of dialogue in a bad play. Mrs Harjan stuttered something inaudible, and shrank back in her chair until her mother-in-law took over.

  “Of course, she works now and then,” her grandmother said smoothly. “But she is with a very good family.”

  Everyone at the table looked confused. “A family?” asked the boy. “What about the caf . . .”

  “Why isn’t anybody eating?” called Mr Harjan from his end of the table. He had not actually noticed whether anyone was eating or not, but could not face a scene at the table with his mother, before these people, about Amina’s work. He shot a warning glance to his daughter, but for once she seemed in no mood to stand up for herself. Mr Harjan was relieved and yet found himself frowning, hardly recognising his daughter in the young woman who sat low in her seat, with a look of resignation about her face.

  “Amina,” he said sharply. “Give your uncle some more rice.”

  Amina sat up at once and carefully held the serving plate for the guests. Mr Harjan continued to talk loudly, dominating the conversation with details of his garage, and asking them about their business (a clothing shop) until at last the subject of his daughter seemed to have been left behind.

  In the meantime, Amina’s mind wandered far and wide. She stifled a yawn and suddenly realised that a question had been asked and still hung in the air, unanswered. She looked up to find that everyone was looking at her. She took in all the faces at the table, and then fixed her gaze on the boy.

  “Did you ask me something?” she said.

  A look of mild panic crossed his face. “No,” he said, hesitantly. “That is . . . my mother was asking how many children you would like.”

  Amina looked at him blankly.

  “I mean . . . do you want a large family?” he asked, blushing but determined to finish his attempt at conversation.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I haven’t thought about it m
uch, but perhaps two or three children would be nice. If I were going to have them. But I think that would be something to decide with your husband, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” said the boy, smiling. “Do you want only boys?” he asked, pleased to be able to talk with her at last.

  “Why do you assume I would want boys at all?” she asked him, and his eyes widened in surprise and he looked down at his plate, embarrassed. The old lady moved swiftly in.

  “What rubbish!” she told Amina. “Everybody wants a boy first. Everybody.”

  Amina glanced at her mother, who had never given birth to a boy, and saw her shrinking in her seat again.

  “I am not everybody,” Amina told her grandmother in a clear voice. “I am not everybody, and I wouldn’t care if I had a boy or a girl as long as the child was healthy and happy. Anything else does not matter.”

  This drew an audible breath of disapproval from Mrs Ali, who exchanged knowing glances with her husband.

  “I think she’s right,” volunteered the boy, breaking the silence.

  “I think it’s time we were leaving,” said his father at once. “I have to work very early tomorrow.”

  “But you haven’t had any sweets yet,” said Mrs Harjan desperately, rising from the table. Amina rose with her and helped her clear away the plates.

  In the kitchen, Mrs Harjan plaintively asked her daughter what she thought she was doing, and began to plead with her to behave well and not to embarrass them.

  “Mum . . .”

  “Please, Amina.”

  “Mum, I’m just trying to explain. Don’t you see?” She took hold of her mother’s arm and turned the reluctant woman towards her.

  “Did you really think I would marry this boy?” Amina asked slowly. She held onto her mother’s shoulder and looked into her eyes for some sign of understanding, but when her mother finally looked up, all that Amina saw there was a cold bitterness.

  “My mother ruined you,” Mrs Harjan said, in a whisper that was almost a hiss. Amina took a step back under the unaccustomed hatred of her mother’s look.

  “She ruined my life by what she did,” continued Mrs Harjan. “I grew up as an outcast that nobody wanted . . .”

  “My father wanted you . . .”

  “I was lucky,” she spat, as though this luck were something she took no joy in. “And now she is ruining you, even from beyond the grave, and she is ruining me all over again. How can I look those people in the face? Her talk of bravery and being smart and looking after yourself. She has made you into what you are, and you are . . .”

  “I like what I am,” said Amina.

  The sentence was spoken with such conviction that Mrs Harjan was left silenced. Amina had interrupted instinctively, not wanting to hear her mother’s evaluation of her. She watched her for a moment, her face drawn into a frown of sorrow and puzzlement. She was hurt by her mother’s words and appalled by the depth of her resentment towards Begum.

  “Did you really think I would marry this boy?” Amina said again, but this time, her tone held no plea for understanding, and in her own ears, her voice sounded harsh.

  But Mrs Harjan had collapsed into herself again under the clear light of her daughter’s gaze. She held out a plate of Indian sweetmeats, gaudily coloured and decorated, and she met Amina’s eyes for only a second before she looked down again.

  “Your grandmother thinks you should marry whoever she chooses,” she said. Amina closed her eyes for a moment, then took hold of the plate and went back inside.

  Chapter Five

  Delhof

  April 1953

  Omar waited in silence in the kitchen, at the foot of the stairs, straining to hear any sound from the room above. It had been two hours since he had heard anything of the women who had taken over the upstairs of his house. He held his breath, listening hard, and almost at once there came the scraping of a chair on the floorboards above, and the click of a door handle. Hastily, he moved away, through the kitchen and into the shop.

  When Mrs Benjamin appeared in the doorway, she found him poring over his cash books, with a pencil in his hand and a frown of concentration on his face, as though he were in the middle of some particularly difficult calculations.

  “Hello, Mister husband,” she called to him in her singsong accent. He glanced up with a calculated look of surprise, and waited to hear what she had to say. Mrs Benjamin was a stout, old Coloured woman, renowned in this part of the country as a midwife. She was the aunt of Mr Morris, the farmer who was their nearest neighbour, whose eggs and milk Omar sold in the shop. So when Miriam, six months into her third pregnancy, had tentatively sent word via Mr Morris’s housekeeper that she would like a good midwife, Mrs Benjamin had appeared at her door and assured her that when her time came, she would be there to assist. Omar had driven over to Mr Morris’s place at dawn that morning to ask for her, because his wife had been awake and in some pain for much of the night. Mrs Benjamin had arrived an hour later with a smile and a covered basket containing what looked to Omar like various home-made medicines and oils. Farah had come to the house soon afterwards, bearing a plate of biryani and a weary expression, in order to play the part of the solicitous sister-in-law.

  “How is the father-to-be?” Mrs Benjamin enquired jovially.

  “Fine.” Omar frowned slightly. This joking familiarity of Mrs Benjamin’s disconcerted him.

  “Why don’t you go on up and say hello to your Missus?” she suggested.

  “Is she alright?” asked Omar, suspicious.

  “She’s tip-top. But you should say hello. Keep her spirits up. Send your sister-in-law down to me, and we’ll make everyone some tea.”

  Omar nodded, secretly comforted by the detailed instructions, and closed the cash book which he now realised lay opened before him upside down. He followed the midwife into the kitchen, where she was already filling the kettle, but before he reached to the stairs the old lady called him back.

  “Here,” she said, and when he turned all he could see was her ample backside, because her head was peering into his icebox. She straightened up, and held out a bottle of Coke.

  “Take this to your young lady,” she said. “The sugar will give her energy.”

  He nodded again, and took the drink, feeling on his sweaty hands the cold beads of water that coated the bottle, and he walked slowly up the stairs. He was not eager to go to his wife’s room, partly because he wished to avoid Farah but mostly because he did not know what to say to Miriam when she was in pain.

  Omar knocked at the door and waited—it opened to reveal his sister-in-law’s sardonic face. He was immediately irritated and walked into the room purposefully, pausing at his wife’s bedside. She was well-covered up, in anticipation of his visit, and she only smiled when he asked her how she was.

  “Sit down,” Farah suggested, her hand on the back of the chair. Omar ignored her, and remained standing. Miriam looked pale, her hair damp with sweat and her eyes dark with circles. He looked at her, helpless and distant, and his eyes wandered to the window.

  “Mrs Benjamin is making tea,” he offered, finally. He looked at Farah, remembering his instructions. “She said you should go and help her,” he added.

  “Oh, did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “How hard is it to make tea?” Farah grumbled, but she moved reluctantly to the door. She did not close it fully behind her, and neither Omar nor Miriam said a word until they heard her descend, and caught the sharp tones of her voice echoing with Mrs Benjamin’s downstairs in the kitchen.

  With some relief, Omar remembered the Coke bottle that he still held in his hand. He offered it to his wife.

  “Here. Mrs Benjamin says it will give you energy.”

  “Thank you,” Miriam said. “Can you open it for me?”

  He took back the bottle, and prised off the cap, and Miriam shifted upwards in the bed so that she could take a sip. She winced with sudden pain.

  “Shall I call her?” asked Omar, alarmed.r />
  “No, no. It’s fine.”

  They waited together in silence for a while.

  “Mrs Benjamin thinks it will be a boy,” Miriam told him.

  “Good. How does she know?”

  “From the shape of my stomach.”

  Omar smiled slightly and shook his head at the foolishness of women, and Miriam laughed.

  “You want a boy, don’t you?” she asked him.

  “Yes, but . . . I’ll just wait and see. I don’t believe in these things . . . Old wives’ tales,” he said.

  “Sit down,” offered Miriam, for when he was pleasant like this she liked to talk with him. He hesitated, though, and moved back a step.

  “I have to go back to the shop,” he said and she nodded, disappointed.

  He opened the door just in time for Mrs Benjamin, who announced her arrival with a lilting call in the landing.

  “Coming in, coming in!” she shouted. She was breathing heavily from the exertion of the stairs, and handed the tea tray to Omar with relief. He placed it down, then excused himself. Mrs Benjamin looked unhappy that Mister husband was leaving so soon, but his mind appeared to be made up, and he disappeared back down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

  “He is a strange one, your hubby,”Mrs Benjamin told her patient. She picked up the teapot and swirled the steaming liquid around. “Doesn’t have much time for a chat, does he?”

  “No,” replied Miriam. “He doesn’t have much time for a chat.”

  The mere idea of her husband chatting almost brought a smile to her lips. But in truth, she was depressed, and disappointed that he had not stayed with her a while. The shop was all he ever thought about.

  “Shame, it doesn’t matter,” said Mrs Benjamin cheerfully. “He’s a busy man, and running a business and all—he has a lot on his mind. And anyway, men are like that.” Miriam nodded and then gasped with pain. Mrs Benjamin took a peek beneath the sheets, checked her watch, and squeezed Miriam’s hand.