The Holy Woman (14 page)

Disillusioned, and feeling betrayed he moved away from her, and let his eyes linger on the heavily swollen grape tree in the corner of the courtyard. The seconds ticked away. Zarri Bano remained standing, watching him, her eyes now green orbs of misery. As if in a daze, Sikander turned to her once more.

‘Listen to me!’ he began again. ‘Forget about
marriage
, men, me, children and souls, but think of your individuality, you as a person. Your personal freedom is at stake here. Do you not see, Zarri Bano, that you are going to be made into another person? Where have your feminist beliefs and idealism disappeared to? How can a woman of your calibre, with a university degree, a former editor of a magazine, at the end of the twentieth century, be so blinded? I just cannot visualise it, Zarri Bano. This is the age of women prime ministers – Benazir Bhuttos.’

‘Sikander Sahib, please do not try to pigeonhole me into any role. You do not know me at all, or what calibre of woman I am. Just because I have a university degree, does it make me so radically different from other women who do not?’

‘You are educated. You can think for yourself, Zarri Bano. Do you know how ironic it is that the subject of your study was psychology? Has your research and fieldwork not taught you anything about human behaviour? You are falling prey to your family’s
traditions
and to your father in particular!’ The earnestness in his voice wasn’t lost on her.

‘Sikander Sahib, again you presume too much. I know a great deal about human behaviour, and I have studied it, as you say. I know what I am doing. Please do not insult my intelligence. Education I may have in abundance, a member of the women’s APWA
movement I may be, and I have debated on and
supported
women’s issues – but what you seem to forget is what I told you in the restaurant in Karachi: I am still a microcosm of my clan, a daughter of a wealthy and a very powerful
zemindar.
Our family, behaviour, social etiquette is dictated by a code of ethics and customs peculiar to my clan – that you, as an outsider from another social group, cannot begin to understand. I am a part of that whole, and that is where I belong. I cannot cut myself off for you from that whole, it is not that simple!’

‘So your individuality is to be sacrificed for the sake of your clan’s “customs”, for that “whole”. If you have been brainwashed into doing something that normal people loathe, then what can I, an ordinary
gher
man, do to prevent you from being sacrificed?’ He laid a bitter stress on the word
gher
. She still regarded and treated him as a virtual stranger. He would never forgive her for that betrayal. He noted the tightness around her lips, knew that she was made indignant by his words.

On impulse, born out of a desperate desire to
communicate
with her, once again, on a physical plane, Sikander took her hand in his and held it between his palms.

Her heart was beating powerfully, but she made no attempt to draw her hand back. When he raised it to his lips, she felt a warm glow light up inside her,
fanning
the rose garden of her heart to bloom again. She closed her eyes. His continued to journey over her face.

Both were startled by what happened next. Zarri Bano’s fingers had taken on a life and will of their own. They began to move against his lips, touching and caressing the area around his mouth and jawline. With his eyes still on hers, watching, he moved his face to
accommodate her fingers’ sensuous, tentative journey, until they lay against his lips once more, responding to the pressure of his mouth.

Horrified, her eyes fluttered open. Her cheeks on fire, she jerked her burning hand away from his lips. ‘What have you done to me?’ she accused in a hiss, stepping away from him and glancing down in bewilderment at her fingers – ashamed.

The spell was broken!

‘We mean nothing to each other, you say, Zarri Bano?’ Sikander mocked bitterly. ‘Well, you have just betrayed yourself. We will always be lovers!’ Looking at her lowered eyes for a long time, he said hoarsely, ‘Goodbye, Zarri Bano. Don’t expect me to come to your veiling ceremony, but I will invite you to my wedding ceremony. You will die for me on that day. I can vow that you will never get me out of your mind and heart till the day you die. I promise you this revenge, Zarri Bano. You’ll wish that you had never heard of my name or set eyes on me.’ He turned and walked away from her, without another backward glance. Out of the courtyard, into the house and out of the front entrance.

From where Zarri Bano was standing, she heard the roar of the Jeep as it sped away. She remained rooted to the spot, her hand still smarting from his touch, his words piercing her in the deepest recesses of her heart. Slowly she came to herself and collected her scattered wits about her. Had anybody seen her touching his face? She had forgotten the world around her.
Thankfully
, nobody was in sight. Sitting down on the cane chair, she closed her eyes, her fingertips rubbed
themselves
of their own accord against her thumb, vividly recalling the feel of his warm mouth against them.

She recoiled in horror at what she had done.
Sikander’s last bitter words drummed through her head again. He said that he would invite her to his wedding and she would remember him till the day she died. Her body was wracked by a sudden pain. ‘I will bleed for him on that day!’ she whispered in a moan, her eyes remaining tightly shut.

Her father would never know what it had cost her to let Sikander walk out of her life. Giving up Sikander was a far greater sacrifice than her own womanhood. She had bartered her love for family tradition. ‘It is too high a price to pay!’ she muttered in agony, wrapping her arms around her chest.

Z
ARRI
B
ANO STAYED
out in the courtyard well into the afternoon. There was no inclination to get up and do anything; only a dark void inside her to contend with. Sikander was gone. She had given him up. It was the end of a sweet, shortlived episode in her life – her passionate awakening as a woman and her discovery of love.

Her brain was suddenly attacked by the image of herself enveloped in a long black cloak. ‘How can I wear a
burqa
?’ she moaned to herself. ‘I will never get used to it, not me. I, who have a natural instinct for glamour and fashion, I will be smothered alive behind it.’

At that moment, Habib Khan came out into the courtyard and strode straight up to his daughter, fixing her with his stern gaze. ‘I hear that rascal from Karachi came here today. Is that true, daughter?’

Zarri Bano raised dull eyes to her father.

‘Yes, he was here,’ she stated flatly, omitting the tag ‘Father’, experiencing a peculiar reluctance to use the word, born out of hate. Habib sat down; a stiff, tall figure pulsing with nervous energy, in the chair opposite her.

‘Yes?’ he prompted sharply, his eyes intent on her face.

Zarri Bano didn’t respond, but kept her face averted, staring at the green lawn around them.

‘Zarri Bano—’

‘No!’ she cut in quickly, sweeping round to glare at him. ‘Zarri Bano is dead from this minute onwards. Do not call me that!’

Startled, a spate of nervousness overtook Habib. She had said that Zarri Bano was dead. Did that mean she had turned Sikander away? He opened his mouth to get the truth out of her.

Then he closed it, seeing the mutinous line of her mouth. He knew that his daughter was, at this moment in time, shutting him out deliberately in an effort to physically and emotionally distance herself from him.

‘Zarri Bano, my daughter, is very much alive and well,’ he coaxed, summoning a lighter note to his tone. ‘She is sitting before me – so how can she be dead?’

Zarri Bano swivelled her head round and looked at him, defeated.

‘Father, let’s get this farce over and done with. You have left me with no choice, have you? Make the arrangement for the veiling ceremony as soon as you can.’

Habib was scarcely able to bear the misery and defeat he beheld in his princess’s eyes. He reached for her, but she backed away from him and escaped to her room.

Habib watched his daughter go with mixed feelings.
He was glad that she was going to become the Holy Woman, yet he couldn’t come to terms with the misery and unhappiness that suddenly assailed him.

Apparently he had won and lost at the same time. In a way Zarri Bano was right – she had indeed died, for she wasn’t the same person any more. The twinkle in her emerald-green eyes, the love bursting out for him, they were quenched for life. His heart trembled, recalling the look of naked hate he had glimpsed in them.

‘Oh
Allah pak
!’ He spoke out loud to himself. ‘What must I do in these circumstances? I love my daughter. This is what I think is right for her, my family, our traditions and inheritance. Above all she will gain fame, respect and homage. With all this, why do I still thus feel the pain? It is as if something is terribly wrong, and I am walking in the land of the dead.’

His migraine was now back with a vengeance. Since his son’s death, he had been plagued by headaches. He stood up tired, but not defeated. There was now a distinct purpose in his life.

Only one course of action faced his family. Much had to be done for the ceremony. It wasn’t a traditional wedding, but by God, he was going to make his
beautiful
daughter’s veiling ceremony into a celebration, an event to remember for decades. He was going to give away his princess to her new role, with all the pomp and ceremony that any grand wedding boasted.

As his mind began to entertain images of a grand ceremony, Habib felt his energy rekindle. ‘I am the master, the head of the household, the ultimate authority, which I was born to enjoy,’ he told himself with relish, straightening into shape his bushy auburn moustache.

S
IKANDER SAT IN
his Jeep, on the same spot as on the day of the
mela
, over two months ago. Raising his head he looked at the tall minar tree with its canopy of green leafy branches, swaying in the afternoon breeze.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself the luxury of recalling and revelling in the picture of Zarri Bano standing tall and thoroughly ravishing under the tree in her black outfit. He saw the beckoning smile playing on her lips, and the curtain of hair framing her
beautiful
face.

He relived the moment of her grand entrance into the guest room of her home, looking so exquisite in pink. It was then he had heard her voice for the first time. His mind next hopped to the scene of both of them walking together, chaperoned by their parents, around the fields of Zarri Bano’s home. He smiled wryly, remembering the surreptitious glances he had cast her way during that long walk. He had thought that she was too arrogant and too confident for his liking. Yet these very qualities, combined with her compelling beauty, had drawn him to her like a reluctant moth to a lit candle, in the end.

Finally, a sigh escaped him as there flashed before him the poignant tender scene in the orchard of his home in Karachi. So much had happened at that time. He had touched her hand, and managed to reach out to her on an emotional and spiritual plane and finally won her over with his proposal. The evening in the
restaurant together was full of laughter, with him being dazzled by her wit and intelligence.

The feel of her soft, exquisitely shaped fingers still burned his lips. Next his mind darted back to the moment of them returning home from their evening out and finding that their lives had been turned upside down.

And now, at this present moment, he had lost all control over his life and over his fate. The woman he had passionately fallen in love with was being snatched from him, from his very grasp.

A thriving business tycoon in Karachi, the world, until a week ago, had been Sikander’s oyster. People ran to do his bidding. Financial success, popularity and good looks had made him a very eligible bachelor. Since his early twenties, parents from the upper strata of Karachi society were forever parading their daughters in front of him. Yet here, in connection with Zarri Bano, he felt both belittled and inadequate. It was a new phenomenon in his life and he didn’t relish it one iota.

Sheer disbelief empowered him once more. How was it possible that at the end of the twentieth century, something like this could happen? If it was against her will, he could call on the law and authorities. He could get the court to intervene. He was a man of influence. He knew he could do it, but it was she, herself,
she
had turned him away! She had turned her back on him and marriage.

A rush of warmth spread through his body as he remembered the feel of her fingertips tracing and caressing his lips, her touch soft and hesitant. Surely she had to feel something for him! For why else would a proud and respectable woman allow a man to take such
liberties with her hand, and she, in turn, to reach out and touch his lips …

From the very beginning, Sikander’s instinct had signalled to him that Zarri Bano was a very passionate woman. The irony was, he doubted whether she knew that fact herself. He was also sure that he was the only one to have kindled the flame of passion in her, and for the first time. Did she honestly know what she was renouncing? Giving up human love, passion and all its pleasures!

For what? To embrace the sterile life of a religious hermit – totally alien to her nature. How could they do this to her?

Sikander banged his head on the steering wheel in frustration. Her father and mother had apparently led a fulfilled life and shared all its pleasures, so why were they denying the same for their daughter?

In the culture of the local community, it was the custom to marry daughters off at an early age – quite often soon after puberty, for their
izzat
’s sake. Here, then, was the case of parents deliberately
preventing
their fully-fledged daughter from marrying. Why? So that they could hold onto their fields and inheritance!

‘Damn it! I will tell them that I don’t want their inheritance,’ he decided. ‘They can pass it all on to Ruby. I have enough wealth of my own to keep Zarri Bano for life and in the style to which she is
accustomed
,’ Sikander shouted aloud – the words echoing in the Jeep.

It was no use! He swept the lock of hair angrily from his forehead. His gaze lingered on the tree facing him. He knew in his very soul that she would never marry him in the present circumstances. She would never
injure her own or her family’s pride or status. And her pride was her Achilles heel – a weakness her father had discovered and exploited.

He raised his head to look through the windscreen as he heard another vehicle approach. It was a car with two men inside, and it came to a halt in front of his Jeep. Sikander’s body stiffened as he recognised Habib
sitting
next to his chauffeur. Rage gushed through his body; his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Sikander returned Habib’s cold gaze steadily, allowing his hatred to show and be communicated. His eyes still fixed on Habib’s face, he switched on the engine and drove past the car.

Habib watched the departing Jeep. With his thumb and forefinger, he started to smooth and curl his
hennaed
-brown moustache, deep in thought. If anybody can thwart our plan of making my daughter a Holy Woman, that man can, the alarming realisation darted in his head. Then: has he been to the house? Has he seen my daughter? Remembering with dismay that apart from the two servants and Zarri Bano, there was no one else at home, Habib was now very anxious to get home. A great deal was at stake here.

At home he had sought Zarri Bano and had questioned her in the courtyard. Prior to that he had come across Fatima and had quizzed her harshly as to whether Sikander had visited and what had transpired. Then he probed further to find out whether he had spoken to Zarri Bano.

‘Yes,’ Fatima had responded defiantly. She had witnessed that intimate tender scene from behind the curtains of one of the bedrooms, which overlooked the rear courtyard and lawn. Personally, poor Fatima still
cherished the idea of Sikander eloping with Zarri Bano and herself helping them.

‘Where were you, Fatima, when he was here? Is there nobody here to chaperone my daughter?’ Habib
thundered
down at her. ‘As a longstanding member of my household and my housekeeper,’ he continued, ‘I would have thought that you would take it upon yourself to safeguard our
izzat
, our honour, rather than allow an unmarried man to violate our code of behaviour, and gain social access to my daughter.’

Fatima’s cheeks burned in silent rage. ‘I was around, Sahib Jee, but Sikander Sahib is, after all, Zarri Bano’s betrothed.’ She bravely plunged forth. ‘He has a right, therefore, to gain social access to see his fiancée.’ She daren’t look at him now.

Angered by her semi-caustic remark, Habib’s cold green eyes let her know exactly what he thought of her and of what she had said. His mouth a thin forbidding line, he barked at her. ‘You forget yourself and your place, Fatima! I will, however, allow your impudence to pass this time for I know that you love Zarri Bano very dearly as a daughter and would do anything for her. But remember that in the future, Zarri Bano
has
no fiancé. She is going to be the pure one, the holy one! A
prerogative
of that role is her seclusion from the opposite sex, apart from close family members.

‘Now would it look good, Fatima, for our future Holy Woman, representing the pinnacle of purity and respect, to have her name associated with any man? And Sikander is a bachelor! As she is not to marry, it would therefore be wrong to link her name with any man, apart from me, her uncles and grandfather. No young men, not even her cousins, have a right to socially interact with her. For her
izzat
’s sake she is to
be chaperoned at all times. Her reputation has to be impeccable. Is that clear, Fatima?’ he asked, his voice lowered to a hiss, his ruthless gaze flickering over the servant’s pale face, before dismissing her.

Through numbed teeth, Fatima mumbled a quiet ‘yes.’ Her eyes had long since dropped under the weight of oppression of Habib’s stare, helpless to retaliate or say anything further.

As he strode off out into the courtyard to look for his daughter, the vision of their Zarri Bano eloping with her fiancé seemed totally ludicrous now, in Fatima’s mind. Habib had indeed neatly caged his daughter. With a heavy heart, she realised that Zarri Bano, a woman of principle, could never elope with any man. Another woman, in another place, of a weaker sort, could do that – but not Zarri Bano! She would rather enter a lion’s cage than seek safety and a haven.

The sunny day had lost all its sunshine for Fatima. She didn’t need to ask Zarri Bano what she was going to do. Fatima already knew.

Again she recalled the image of Sikander and the young woman in the courtyard, standing together, Zarri Bano’s hand held to his mouth. Fatima’s heart lurched for them both. Why was life so unfair? What a handsome couple they had made. Any blind person could see that they both desired each other. Oh,
Allah pak
, why couldn’t they let her be? Why couldn’t they marry and Zarri Bano still become a
Shahzadi Ibadat
?

Hysterical laughter rumbled in Fatima’s throat. Why bother fooling herself? For the chief attraction of the Holy Woman’s role was that she never married. Who had ever heard of a sexually active
Shahzadi
Ibadat
, with a husband and children! To become the
Holy Woman, Zarri Bano was destined to remain
forever
alone and pure of mind and body.

With a heavy heart and step Fatima returned to the kitchen and gave instructions to her assistant for the afternoon dinner. She had wished so much for Zarri Bano and her own daughter Firdaus. It seemed that both had their future paths strewn with thorns.

That evening, in the Karachi villa that was Sikander’s home, his mother Bilkis tentatively asked as soon as he came into the lounge: ‘How was your trip, my son? Did you talk to Zarri Bano? What did she say?’ She looked at his face anxiously for any expression or tell-tale signs. The grim line of his mouth didn’t bode well. Sikander gave his mother the benefit of a hard stare and then answered all her questions.

‘She is going ahead with the
Shahzadi
Ibadat
rubbish. Marrying herself to the Holy Quran. I mean nothing to her! Only her traditions seem to matter. Don’t expect me to attend the ceremony. I am going up for a shower, Mother,’ he ended bitterly.

He left a bemused Bilkis standing in the large cool hallway. She watched her son go up, taking in the tense lines of his shoulders, her heart aching for him. How unfair life proved sometimes. How unfortunate for her son, to fall in love with a woman who was out of his reach.

Bilkis shook her head mentally. So what if her son couldn’t marry Zarri Bano? There were thousands of other eligible women for him to choose from. Sikander was one of the most eligible bachelors in the upper strata of Karachi society. If Zarri Bano wasn’t available, that didn’t mean that other women were out of his reach too. They weren’t all becoming
Holy Women
.

As Bilkis walked around the orange orchard next to their villa, her thoughts dwelt on her son’s anguish, and she wondered just how long it would take him to get over Zarri Bano …