by A. A. Jafri
‘Why did you stop?’ she asked, her heart beating faster, unsure about the next moment.
‘Would you like to come inside my house?’
‘No, please just take me home.’
But instead of taking her home, Alvi turned off the engine. Mehrun froze, conscious of her trembling legs. Alvi reached into his left coat pocket and took out a sterling silver cigarette box that had ‘AAA’ engraved on it. He took out a cigarette, pushed the car lighter and waited till it popped up. He pulled out the lighter from the socket and lit up his cigarette. Every passing second of silence stifled Mehrun’s nerves. She gazed into the darkness. Alvi inhaled profoundly, holding on to the smoke for a moment, relishing it, and then exhaled.
‘Would you come with me to the Middle East if I ask you to marry me?’ he said as he tapped the ash from the cigarette into the car’s ashtray.
Mehrun was stunned. Did he just ask her to marry him? Was that a marriage proposal or a job offer? She had always been a dreamer, but the idea of marriage had never entered her mind, not even when Talat Mirza warned her of Sadiq’s foolish notion about making her his second wife. And here was her boss, a rich man, a man from the upper class no less, asking for her hand in marriage. Suddenly, the noise of cars swishing by and the wind ruffling through got amplified, and all she could say to him was, ‘Please take me to my home.’
‘Not before I hear an answer.’
Mehrun felt queasy, but then she mustered up enough courage to ask, ‘Why do you want to marry me?’
‘Why does anyone marry anyone?’
That was hardly an answer, and it intensified Mehrun’s irritation. Alvi wondered if she had heard any rumours about his sexual orientation. But there was nothing in her demeanour that hinted at any awareness on her part of those constant, malicious gossips.
‘So, what do you think?’ he persisted.
‘I don’t know what to think. It’s too sudden. I need time.’
‘Mehrun, I will make you happy and very, very rich. Isn’t that what you want?’
After a pause, she said, ‘I don’t feel well. Please take me home.’
‘I will be leaving for the Middle East in a week, and I would like an answer before that.’
Was that an ultimatum? Mehrun remained quiet. He stubbed out what remained of the cigarette in the ashtray, turned on the ignition and pulled the car back on the road in tentative silence.
Eighteen
Alvi had done many favours for Mehrun: mentoring her, furthering her career, defending her promotions. He had even helped her financially, so that she and Jumman could move out of their old, rundown house and into the newer settlement of Baagh-e-Bahar, the Garden of Spring. Hardly a garden, this neighbourhood was still a significant improvement compared to the thickly populated slum they had lived in all their life. On more than one occasion, Alvi had stressed to Mehrun that success depended not only on hard work and connections, but also on having the correct residential address. So, to pursue success, Mehrun began renting an unassuming two-bedroom flat in one of those tall, tiresome buildings that stood restlessly like people waiting in queues to get their daily ration of sugar and flour. She had decorated the inside of the apartment with pride and love. This was her crowning achievement, and she showed off her new tenement to her few friends, but the one person she wanted to show her home the most to was Mansoor. Something, however, prevented her from doing this. Although she was still relatively hard-pressed for money, she had moved up a rung on the monetary ladder—the mischance of her birth had already ruled out the possibility of her climbing the social staircase. In a society where people have long memories of one’s status in life and one’s ancestry, she was destined to live and die a churail.
But she was happy in her new flat; it gave her a feeling of success. Her old hovel had begun to haunt her. Memories of the horror of her mother’s last days filled every corner and gave her nightmares. She wanted to bury those memories, and her new flat helped her achieve this. This modern flat signified her rebirth, it was an abode free of past insults and ignominy.
That night, after she got home, she collapsed on her bed without changing her clothes. Jumman was nowhere to be found. It seemed that he had not come back from the Kashana. Mehrun’s mind returned to the events of the day. What was Alvi’s marriage proposal all about? Was she to take that as a compliment or as an insult? Could she afford to turn him down? He had said that he would make her happy and very, very rich. But words did not mean a damn thing. She did not know if more indignations awaited her. Torn by the events of that evening, she buried her face in her pillow and cried. She cried so much that she began hiccupping and finding it difficult to catch her breath. She cried until her tears dried out and she felt her energy vaporizing from her body. Even as her face radiated heat, she began shivering. She felt her forehead; it was burning hot. The proposal continued to lacerate her heart. She got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. After washing her face, she lifted her head to look in the mirror and saw her mother’s face instead—hideous and scarred. She shot out of the bathroom, screaming, her face still wet and soapy. Was that really her mother? Was she trying to say something? Mehrun ran towards the front door to get out of the house, but just then the door opened and Mansoor and her father entered the flat. As soon as she saw them, Mehrun became hysterical, clasping her father tightly around his waist and starting to hiccup again.
‘Mehrun Beti, are you all right?’ For the first time in her life, Mehrun heard her father call her ‘beti’, as if, at last, he was ready to reclaim her, willing to acknowledge his paternity. But Mehrun continued to shiver, and neither Mansoor nor Jumman understood what had taken over her.
*
Jumman had returned early that night and was waiting for Mehrun to warm up the food. But when Mehrun did not come back from work at her usual time, he got worried and went out to search for her. She had told him about the farewell party, but he had forgotten all about it. He took a taxi and went to the Kashana to see if she was there. When he did not find her there either, he asked Mansoor to help him look for her. Mansoor took his car and they looked for her at every possible place, but without any success. Disappointed, they decided to check back at the flat. And that was how, after a fruitless search, they saw the petrified Mehrun just as they entered the flat. Despite her irrepressible sobs, they were relieved to see her alive and well. When they asked her why she was crying so hard, she fibbed that she was afraid Jumman had gone missing.
It was well past midnight, so Mansoor said goodbye, but before departing, he told Mehrun about his admission at the University of Iowa. She had known that he had applied to American universities and would soon leave, but the news still depressed her. First, it was Alvi’s proposal, and now it was Mansoor’s news. She did not know how she was going to spend the night alone in her bed—afraid of that churail, confused about Alvi’s proposal and desolate about Mansoor’s impending departure.
Discussing the marriage proposal with her father was out of the question. Girls simply did not talk about such matters. The rules of marriage could not be transgressed; the power of taboo could not be broken. The most crucial decision in a girl’s life was usually made without her consent. Mehrun’s work might have liberated her, but cumbersome traditions and rusted customs still shackled her.
Mehrun’s febrile state brought on delirium and nightmares. In her dream, she was transported to a surreal, inverted world, inhabited by bizarre creatures, a place where darkness ruled and emptiness prevailed. She felt alone, but suddenly, she became aware of someone’s presence. She knew who that was. Sitting at some distance was that same withered churail she had seen in the mirror, laughing, and mocking and taunting her. For some reason, the churail stayed at a distance and never came near her, and then in the next moment, Mehrun heard a terrified shriek, like a cat crying during rutting time, and the churail evaporated into thin air. She saw Mansoor transform into a djinn. She saw Sadiq Mirza kissing a girl, and then he disappeare
d as well.
Mehrun woke up trembling, the nightmare had disoriented her sense of time and place, the churail, the djinn and the other demons all a vague blur in the dark cocoon of her memory. She remained in a state of delirium for three days, and then, after the third night, her fever broke, ending her phantasmagorical dreams. On the fourth morning, she woke up to the sound of the call to prayer from a nearby mosque. Having had enough of the spectral harassment, she got up and decided to tackle things head-on. The memories that she had successfully ejected from her conscious self must now be jettisoned from her unconscious being. With her eyes closed, she took three deep breaths and began reciting a verse from the Qur’an. As her mind began clearing, she deliberately turned her attention to Alvi. It seemed as if too much time had elapsed and too many events had happened since he proposed to her.
Realizing that her father was too incapacitated to make such a monumental decision on her behalf, she took matters into her own hands and began weighing the pros and cons of the marriage proposal. She had always liked Alvi, but could she imagine him as her husband? This would be her only chance to have a good life; perhaps this would be her ticket to becoming an authentic begum. Should she confide in someone? But who? The single name that came to her lips was Mansoor’s. As daylight peeked in through the window, Mehrun realized that there were too many positives to decline the proposal. Marriage was not about love. Look at Noor ul Haq; look at Sadiq Mirza, both miserable in their marriages. Look at her own parents. Her mind finally made up, she readied herself to cross the Rubicon. She was prepared to say yes and transform the churail into a begum.
*
From her office, Mehrun made two phone calls. First, she called Alvi on his direct line, and when he picked up the phone, she said, ‘My answer is yes.’
He replied, ‘Good. I’ll make the arrangements,’ and hung up.
After taking a deep breath, she dialled the Kashana. Luckily, Mansoor picked up the phone.
‘Hello, Mansoor Babu. How are you? I wanted to tell you something. Alvi Sahib has asked me to marry him, and I have said yes.’ She said without stopping.
Mansoor tried to grasp what Mehrun had said. Then, after a pause, he replied, ‘Oh.’
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
‘Yes, yes, congratulations.’
‘Is that all, Mansoor?’
‘What do you want me to say, Mehrun? You have already said yes, and now you have informed me of your decision.’
‘Thank you, Mansoor,’ she said and put the phone down.
After a few minutes, the phone rang again, but she didn’t pick it up. She knew it would be Mansoor, but at least for that moment, she wanted to have absolute power over her own life story. She typed up a brief resignation letter addressed to the personnel administration manager and asked one of the clerks to drop it off at his office.
*
Alvi made two conditions for the wedding ceremony. First, he wanted no guests, only two witnesses; and second, the nikah would be performed by a Shia maulvi. Mehrun accepted both. The first condition gave her an excuse to not invite Mansoor, and she had no objection to the second condition either. Although she was Sunni, or so she thought, she didn’t care who performed the ceremony. The forceful, practical imperative to get married trumped everything.
In a service that mixed simplicity and speed, Mehrunnissa and Ameer Abbas Alvi were religiously and legally married. Their mehr, or dower, was set at a meagre one hundred and twenty rupees, of which sixty-two rupees and eight annas were to be paid promptly and the other half was to be deferred. The amount calculated by the maulvi was one-third of the median religious dower. But Mehrun could not dispute it since Alvi said nothing and the money was promptly paid to her. Was that bride money? she thought.
Hasan Ali, a banker friend of Alvi, and Jumman were the two official witnesses of the nikah. When Hasan Ali, at Mehrun’s urging, had taken the formal marriage proposal to Jumman, he did not know what to do. That protocol had not existed in his family as far as he could remember. To him and his dead partner, marriage remained an extraterrestrial concept, and the idea of Mehrun’s marriage had never come up when Kaneez was alive. So when the unexpected proposal came, he kept looking outside the window, busy in his distempered thoughts. Mehrun, listening to her father’s continued silence, came out from her room and accepted the proposal on his behalf. Jumman asked no questions and got no answers. It did not matter to him that his daughter was twenty years younger than Alvi, and it was inconsequential that he was Shia.
*
Mehrun was not attracted to older men, but it seemed as if they gravitated towards her. To her, they were a source of wisdom and stability, and she could benefit from both. Her faith was essential only in the sense that it provided protection against churails and djinns. On the other hand, material culture and social status had always fascinated her. They were the real things. The time she spent at the Kashana, observing those high-society begums display their cultural capital, had made her hungry for the good life. And with Alvi as her husband, she had come one step closer to achieving it.
Two days after their wedding, Mehrunnissa and Ameer Abbas Alvi left for Dubai—she to start her new life and he to launch his new bank. Jumman vacated the apartment, sold all the furniture and moved into the servants’ quarters at the Kashana.
*
Since the 1950s, the religious parties of Pakistan had tried to build a campaign against the minority Ahmadi sect to declare them non-Muslims. They finally succeeded in 1974, when the Pakistani Parliament passed the Second Amendment to the 1973 Constitution. Noor heard the news from Haider even before it became official. Haider’s sources had told him that The People’s Leader’s wife, who belonged to the minority Shia community, vehemently opposed this. His sources said she feared that Shias would be the next to be declared heretics. The amendment deprived the Ahmadis of the right to bury their dead in a Muslim graveyard, to have any Qur’anic inscription on their tombstones, to use Islamic greetings, and to call their place of worship a mosque. Hell-bent on dividing the already divided nation, the so-called representatives of the people eviscerated a belief system with a simple vote. By stigmatizing their otherness, they had hoped to eradicate a group of people. For these brutal lawmakers, the process of cultural extermination started with constitutional extermination. And in this nefarious scheme, The People’s Leader was the prime offender—a willing abettor and a cheerer in this crime against a weak minority, his wife’s concerns notwithstanding. No one dared to question this injustice. There were no protests; there were no op-eds in even the most liberal of newspapers. People carried on as if this was no big deal.
‘We are now the only Muslim country that has institutionalized discrimination,’ Haider told Noor.
‘The Second Amendment of America gave guns to the people; the Second Amendment of Pakistan stripped the Ahmadis of their right to call themselves Muslims. And I thought that was the sole prerogative of God,’ replied Noor.
‘No, the mullahs are the new gods.’
‘Haider, you better watch out. You could be next.’
‘Don’t worry, I know how to play this game.’
*
Years before the passing of the constitutional amendment, Noor had warned Sadiq about this possibility. But Sadiq had been in denial about such a thing ever happening, believing that there were too many good people in the country who would rise up against such an injustice. In any case, the man was not really a believer, so why should he care? Noor tried to deflate the professor’s optimism and even advised him to leave the country at the first opportunity he got. But Sadiq had migrated to Pakistan from India, believing that he would be safer here. Fleeing the country again, that too at his age, held no appeal to the professor. And where would he go? Going back to India was no longer a possibility. He never believed in organized religion; he never practiced his faith, but now, what was trivial to him would become deathly consequential. Noor knew that Sadiq would be stigmatized, harassed
and hounded because his parents were practicing Ahmadis. When his fellow professors had first learned about his love of Scotch and secularism, they had dismissed him as an angrez ashiq, an anglophile. But now, with his Ahmadi roots exposed, they began shunning him as they would a contagion.
So, after Noor heard the news from Haider, the first thing he did was to phone Sadiq at his home, but no one answered. He called all the people who might know his whereabouts, but no one knew anything. Except for Anna, Sadiq’s other daughters had already left for various parts of the world after they got married. So Noor called Anna, but she did not pick up the phone either. It was as if the entire Mirza clan had vanished from the face of the country. Worried about his friend, Noor got into his car and asked Sikander to take him to all the possible places where Sadiq might go. But he came home empty-handed.
‘These shameless lawmakers should all be lined up and shot by a firing squad,’ he told Mansoor in a fit of escalating emotions.
Some of the lawmakers who had signed the death warrant of the Ahmadis were Noor’s clients. He vowed to Mansoor that he would never represent them again. The Daily Jadal, in an editorial, commended the prime minister for doing something that should have been done twenty-seven years ago, when Pakistan became independent.
*
Intoxicated by power and distended by hubris, The People’s Leader began tightening the noose around people’s necks and cracking down on general dissidents. He then turned his wrath on the dissenters from his own party, stripping them from party ranks and personally ordering their beating by the SCAB. Those who remained defiant were labelled subversives, thrown into prisons without any charges and tortured physically and sexually. The few newspapermen who wrote against The People’s Leader were routinely arrested and beaten.