The Holy Woman (13 page)

‘I
T CANNOT BE
!’ Sikander banged his fist on the
coffee
table, his eyes spitting fire at his mother in their home in Karachi. He stood up tall, towering over her, sitting on the sofa. ‘Zarri Bano a
Shahzadi Ibadat
! What nonsense is that? Tell me, Mother!’

Bilkis gazed at her son helplessly. Hadn’t she
herself
gone into a deep state of shock when Habib had phoned and told her curtly, ‘Zarri Bano has decided to become a
Shahzadi Ibadat
, a Holy Woman.’ She felt the loss deeply, knowing that now there could be no marriage between her beloved son and that tall,
attractive woman who had captured Sikander’s heart and mind.

Later she had phoned back and asked to speak to Shahzada. The first thing that Bilkis had noticed was the subtle change in the other woman’s tone and manner. Her stilted speech lacked its habitual warmth. Even miles away, Bilkis knew that something was dreadfully wrong.

She had listened with a sinking heart, her mind grappling with the two images of Zarri Bano. The beautiful, elegant young woman with that of a veiled religious recluse, shut away from the ordinary gaiety of human life and fated never to marry nor to have any children.

Bilkis had tried to break it gently to her son, but in the end the effect was the same – a bombshell for Sikander.

‘They can’t do this! It is barbaric! What age, what country do they live in? In Islam there are no nuns, no such things as women married to the Holy Quran! What nonsense is this? No woman is to be denied her natural role as a wife and a mother. Who has invented these traditions? Have they studied the Holy Quran, where it categorically states that widows and divorcees should be encouraged to remarry at the first
opportunity
? So how can a beautiful, young maiden be
deliberately
denied marriage? That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? So that she doesn’t marry anybody. Habib doesn’t want her to marry me, I know it! Do they
realise
that they are committing a crime? Do they—.’ His mother cut short his rage-filled outburst.

‘Please stop, Sikander. It has happened for
generations
amongst a certain class of people in remote parts of Sind – and is very much a hushed affair.
Their traditions are very strong. Nobody can stand up to these people. They are very powerful and have great influence over the local community. Their
womenfolk
, in particular, have little or no independence or autonomy.’

‘No, Mother. I cannot believe that this is true of Zarri Bano. She defies all stereotypes. I don’t believe that she’ll go through with this preposterous idea. She enjoys life too much to want to take up austerity. Not Zarri Bano. I’ll not let it happen!’

‘Sikander, please relax. Come and sit down.’ Bilkis patted the place on the sofa beside her. Sikander glared down at the spot she indicated, his body tall and tense.

‘I am just as shocked as you are, Sikander,’ Bilkis reasoned softly. ‘I too liked Zarri Bano very much. If it will help you, you can talk to her, my handsome son, but I think that you’ll be banging your head against a brick wall.’ She sighed.

‘It is strange to recall the incident now, but I remember hearing some women talking, after Jafar’s death, about “Holy Women” of the past in this clan. They were gossiping, and I paid no attention to them at the time as I thought they were only legends, but I do remember being alarmed by what I heard. I also noted Habib’s coldness towards us, especially towards you. It was almost as if he hated you. His eyes often followed you like a hawk. As though you were a personal threat to him. At the time, I just put it down to grief at the loss of his son Jafar, but in retrospect, I think I should have taken more notice of these hints. One doesn’t treat one’s future son-in-law in such an antagonistic manner or his mother with such bare civility. Didn’t you notice anything?’

‘No, Mother. Like you I just put it down to a sign of
Habib Sahib’s mourning for his son. I cannot give her up, Mother! I am going to break these traditions of theirs. Even if I held no personal interest, it is still a cruel thing to do to another human being.’

He moved away from his mother and stood, deep in thought, in the middle of the drawing room.

‘I will go to their home town,’ Sikander decided. ‘I will see Habib and Zarri Bano tomorrow.’

‘All right, my son. Do as you wish. After all, you have every right. Although Zarri Bano is not officially engaged to you, she is still your fiancée.’ Bilkis lovingly stroked his shoulder blades, trying to relax and ease his stiff shoulder muscles.

It was a warm sunny morning in May, exactly one month since Jafar’s death. Zarri Bano sat in the
courtyard
in front of the dining table on the lawn, enjoying the morning sunshine before it grew hot. Her eyes closed, she basked in the smell from the rose bushes and the singing of the sparrows on the trees.

Ruby had joined her for breakfast in the patio area and then had gone to the bazaar with her mother to buy some fabrics. Habib had left to go on business in Hyderabad. By now all the guests had departed and only three servants remained in the house, busy
cleaning
different parts of the building.

The serenity of her surroundings lulled Zarri Bano to sleep. Leaning on the cushioned back-rest of the cane chair she let the newspaper on her lap fall to the ground.

Zarri Bano woke with a prickly feeling of awareness that she was being watched. A tall shadow lay strewn across her body. Fully awake, her eyelids fluttered open and her gaze travelled over a pair of white linen
trouser-clad
, muscular legs, to a broad-shouldered chest in a
crisply starched shirt, and rested on the tanned
handsome
face in which a pair of cool grey eyes was steadily staring down at her.

‘Am I dreaming?’ Zarri Bano asked herself. When the full masculine lips curved into a lazy smile, Zarri Bano jerked upright, her heart skipping a beat. This wasn’t a dream! Sikander stood in front of her with his charismatic presence. Sheer waves of pleasure lapped and coursed through her body, watering the rose garden of her heart, to burst into full bloom.

She became embarrassingly conscious of her
dishevelled
appearance. Her long, wavy hair was around her shoulders in wanton disarray and she felt bare without the
dupatta
draped across her chest. Holding one arm against her breast she put the other hand on her cheek, wanting to shield herself from his eyes. Yet, perversely, delighting in the attention they were giving her.

They were everywhere! Bent on a languorous trail over her face, moving down the creamy white column of her throat, her soft feminine curves, her half-bare arms and over her deliciously tousled hair.

Drowned in the sensuous spell his eyes had woven around her, Zarri Bano couldn’t look away from them or his handsome face. Her heartbeat had accelerated of its own accord. A warm blush caused a pinkish mantle to rise from her throat to her cheeks.

All of a sudden, social etiquette and female modesty rudely asserted themselves. With an awkward
movement
of her arm she reached for her
dupatta
from the other chair. Before his searing gaze she draped it over her shoulders and in front, covering herself discreetly and fully.

Zarri Bano was now angry with herself for having been caught in such a manner. His gaze had stripped
her bare. The heat of shame racing through her body, she stood up clumsily, straightening her
dupatta
around her shoulders again.

‘Sikander Sahib, how did you come here?’ she asked. ‘You surprised me.’ She was unable to look him in the eye.

‘I can see that, Zarri Bano Sahiba,’ he returned softly, his tender eyes warm with laughter. ‘I came the normal way. Fatima told me that apart from you, nobody else is in the house. This suits me beautifully. You see, it is you I have come to see.’

‘Please, Sikander Sahib, sit down.’ She gestured to the other chair. Sitting down, he waved his hand to her to do the same. She sat down, facing him, tense but unable to take her eyes away from his face as if
memorising
each and every minute detail.

‘Do you know, Zarri Bano, I hope that after we are married we will have beautiful children like you.’

Her cheeks crimsoning at the mention of children, her eyes fell to her hands in her lap. A bolt of pain and longing shot through her body, leaving her face pale and sheer misery reflected in her eyes. She turned her gaze to the rose bed, looking at, but not quite seeing the pink and yellow roses in full bloom. Ruthlessly, she trod upon the rose garden of her love. Turning to Sikander she sat upright in her chair. Her eyes sunk into his; a poignant appeal flashing in them, that she hoped and prayed he would recognise and understand.

‘Sikander Sahib,’ she began in a low voice, coming from the depths of her heart, ‘for you and I, there will be no marriage nor children – at least, not with me. You have probably heard by now that I am to become a
Shahzadi Ibadat.
’

‘It is your parents who have put you up to this?’ he accused, barely able to contain his rage.

‘No, Sikander. I am doing this of my own free will. The tradition is ours, but in the end the decision is mine. The idea was put to me, requested of me by my father and I accepted.’

‘But why, Zarri Bano?’ he asked heatedly. Bending forward he took her hand in his own. Instinctively, he wanted to reach out to her, to communicate with her on a physical level, in case words failed him.

Zarri Bano watched the movement of his fingers in fascination, mesmerised by their touch. Again, as before in Karachi, she found herself enjoying the feel of his masculine fingers on her palm. All of a sudden she wanted them to reach up and caress her face. Then like lightning her father’s words jolted through her with condemnation: ‘You desire a man in your life.’ Shaken and ashamed, she snatched her hand away, as if Sikander’s touch had both soiled and burned her, and averted her face.

‘From today, Sikander Sahib, we have no legitimate relationship of any sort. Therefore you must not touch me. You must maintain your distance. We mean
nothing
to each other.’ She prayed that he didn’t notice the agony behind each word.

‘Zarri Bano, for Allah’s sake! How can you say this? Doesn’t our engagement mean anything to you?’ Anger and condemnation vibrated in him.

‘That was a long time ago,’ she uttered in a faraway, bleak voice, recalling the night beach scene with
painful
clarity. ‘So much has happened since then. Sikander Sahib, please forgive me.’

‘I don’t believe this!’ He stood up; a towering, angry figure. ‘Look at me, Zarri Bano. Let’s cut out this
nonsense. You wanted to marry me and I want to marry you. It’s what we both want – and wanted from the moment we laid eyes on each other at the
mela.
We have something special between us – we both know we have! Don’t you feel it? On that afternoon, at the
mela
, it was as if our two souls met and melted together to become one. Don’t let them part us, Zarri Bano, I beg you. We were destined to become lovers. This is what we are going to do: we are going to be married! I don’t know about your barbaric customs—’

Zarri Bano’s head shot up. The word ‘barbaric’ stung her out of her pain and brought the proud, arrogant Zarri Bano back to life. Her eyes sparkling with anger, she snapped: ‘Who are you to judge our traditions as barbaric, Sikander Sahib?’ She too was now standing up and looking directly into his face with disdain. ‘You know nothing about them.’

‘It’s true that I know very little about your family’s traditions, but I do know, however, that if you become a Holy Woman, they will have robbed you of your womanhood and individual freedom. Listen to me, Zarri Bano. You cannot sacrifice yourself for the sake of your family’s customs and traditions.’

‘Sacrifice?’ Zarri Bano queried, for without realising it, Sikander had touched her on a very raw nerve. ‘Who says I am going to be sacrificed? Do you know what a
Shahzadi Ibadat
is? What an important role it is?’ Her voice sounded hollow to her ears.

‘I don’t know about the role, but I do know that you cannot become my wife or a mother to my children, or be allowed to live a natural human life with me as a woman. Don’t you want to be a normal woman? Does that mean nothing to you? Don’t
I
mean anything to you?’ he asked in desperation, watching in fascination
as her eyes glimmered and flashed fire at him.
Glittering
like jewels, they were one of the things that had initially attracted him to her.

‘I do not need a lecture from you, Sikander.’ She turned on him, standing tall and proud in bearing. ‘In your typical male manner you presume too much of what I want. Not all women want children or desire a man in their life. Do you think I cannot live my life without your lordly
male
presence in it? Do you think I want you so much that I would give up my family for you? What arrogance! Never! You are a very
self-centred
man. Why do you think I had never chosen a suitor before? It was mainly because I was never sure whether I wanted to get married in the first place. You are no different, Sikander Sahib! Marriage is as much an institution as any other aspect of life. In our patriarchal world, marriage can be a bigger sacrifice than the one that you imagine me going through with.

‘In fact, in my role as a Holy Woman, I will have gained greater freedom and independence as a woman. I will not be tied to any man, nor any roles or
commitments
, only to my faith and what that entails like any other normal person. What can be better than
commitment
to our faith? I am not interested in the “
meeting
of the souls”, or “your” soul, that you delight in referring to. I have no intention of becoming your lover! Do not insult me by such shameful talk. You are talking to a different woman now, Sikander Sahib,’ she finished, looking squarely at him.

A feeling of hopelessness assailed him. If she herself wanted it, what could he do? The fight suddenly went out of him as he desperately tried to reconcile the woman standing in front of him with the one he had fallen in love with at the
mela
, and later in the orchard.