The Holy Woman (15 page)

O
N THE DAY
of Zarri Bano’s veiling ceremony, the
kothi
was garlanded with thousands of small colourful light bulbs flickering away, like a merry beacon in the evening light.

Most of the surrounding neighbourhood and some villagers from Chiragpur had been invited to Habib Khan’s daughter’s ceremony. Relatives from all corners of Pakistan had descended on the family residence two days earlier.

A hive of activity, the villa heaved and resounded with the guests’ laughter and chatter. The seven guest rooms, each furnished with four beds, were fully occupied. Luggage was strewn and littered in every available inch of space.

The wedding guests, as was the custom and befitted human nature, had naturally formed themselves into discreet small groups, depending on their age, sex, background and, of course, how well they knew one another or not. A sense of excitement ran through everyone, as the subject on most guests’ lips centred on Zarri Bano and her veiling ceremony. Some had heard about the
Shahzadi Ibadats
of the past and thus knew what it entailed. For others it was a new phenomenon, intriguing and repelling them simultaneously.

‘You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed one woman, her
eyebrows raised to meet the upper crease on her
forehead
.

‘Yes I do!’ came the prompt reply from a guest called Nilofer, attracting the attention of a group of women. ‘I tell you, sisters, it’s a bizarre ceremony. They use the Holy Quran,’ she ended on a whisper, ducking her head down and slyly looking from right to left. ‘There is no groom, yet it is very much like a wedding, with all the wedding trappings. Now tell me, sisters, who in their right mind would do this to their own daughter?
Especially
to an independent type like Zarri Bano? I mean, have you ever seen a
dupatta
stay on that girl’s head for more than five minutes?’ Nilofer scanned the women’s bemused expressions with relish. ‘Well it is going to be more than a
dupatta
she’ll be wearing now, I can assure you!’

They had just finished dinner. Huddled together on the sofas or squatting on the carpeted floor in
comradeship
, the time was beautifully ripe for the women to have a really good gossip. Commanding their full attention by leaning forward, Nilofer intended to turn the situation to her advantage. She had a score to settle with her Cousin Shahzada from a long way back. Her heart thus leapt at this glorious opportunity, graciously landing her way, to rubbish this high and mighty family!

‘Who would spend millions of rupees on a ceremony that isn’t even a wedding? Would you, my sisters?’ Her glittering eyes defied them to disagree with her. ‘All that expense, and for what purpose? You have seen her trousseau, her
jihaz
, haven’t you?’ she enquired, a
mischievous
expression on her face. When one woman shook her head, Nilofer stood up, readily offering to take them on a tour.

‘You don’t know what a surprise you are in for, my sisters. I’ll take you round into the marquee in the courtyard. There is so much to see; so much to marvel at. Do you know how many outfits Zarri Bano has got? I tell you – hundreds! I am not exaggerating, my friends, because I have been here for two weeks already, and helped to collect and prepare Zarri Bano’s
trousseau.
Ruby and I chose most of the things. Zarri Bano had nothing to do with it. Poor thing! She has kept herself away from all this. I bet even Benazir Bhutto didn’t have a trousseau like this at her wedding. It is just like a grand bride’s.’ She sighed dramatically, and turned to look each one in the face.

‘But it is a macabre experience, truly, I tell you,’ she said in hushed tones, ‘for when will Zarri Bano wear all of these clothes, if she is going to be cloaked in a long black veil, the
burqa
? We had that especially designed for her, you know, from a master tailor in Karachi. Which husband is she going to tantalise with her glamorous outfits? What social function is she going to grace? Where will she show off her wedding finery? As I envisage it her life is going to rotate more or less around the
madrasa
and the prayer-mat. A life of total religious devotion and simplicity.’ Nilofer stopped to catch her breath. A triumphant glow brushed her face, as she took in their discomfited expressions. A shiver of delight ran down her spine.

She wanted to cap her triumph further, by taking some of them on a tour to show the display in the
jahaiz
marquee. The group of eager women cantered dutifully behind her, out through the courtyard and into the large green marquee erected on the adjacent field, brimming with Zarri Bano’s trousseau and gifts.

For the village women in particular it was like an
Aladdin’s cave. As they trailed behind Nilofer, their eyes grew wide in wonder at all the gold and silver jewellery lovingly displayed in red and green velvet boxes. There were so many sequinned
shalwar kameze
suits, each vying for attention.

‘What is the purpose of all this? Nobody will see her wear it,’ one woman muttered loud enough to be heard by her friend.

‘Our Habib Sahib wanted to lavish everything on Zarri Bano,’ another woman told her in clear, soft tones, happening to overhear the disparaging comment. A close member of Habib’s clan, she had been left to supervise the trousseau display.

‘Although there will be no groom at this ceremony,’ she continued, ‘you may regard it as a sort of wedding ceremony and all that goes with it. Habib Sahib didn’t want his daughter deprived of her trousseau. She will wear all these.’ The woman swept her arm around the marquee, pointing to all the boxes of clothes on display in rows, and the jewellery cases. ‘Of course she can’t be vain now like the rest of us, and show off all her finery at functions like weddings,’ she said pointedly. Open incredulity was painted on one or two of the women’s faces; a distinct sneer on Nilofer’s.

They all wondered what Zarri Bano thought of all this. The thing was, hardly anybody had seen her. She had ignored the presence of the guests in her home, and nobody had the temerity to approach her – let alone have a heart-to-heart chat with her as they so ardently wished.

The only person honoured to have that right was a
Shahzadi Ibadat
from another clan in the town. Invited personally by Habib to the ceremony, she had been
delegated with the task of supporting and inducting Zarri Bano into the ceremony and the code of etiquette that the role demanded.

Sakina, a
Shahzadi Ibadat
and heiress of her father’s home and land, was ceremoniously taken upstairs to Zarri Bano’s room by Fatima. She walked with
measured
steps through the house, looking round her with detached interest at the preparations for Zarri Bano’s veiling ceremony. Her mind buzzed with a feeling of
déjà vu
, recalling poignantly her own ceremony, some twenty years earlier.

Fatima left her at Zarri Bano’s door and Sakina reverted to the present. She knocked gently and the door was opened by a young woman. Sakina noted detachedly the glamorous outfit that the woman wore and her immaculately made-up face.

Zarri Bano sat in front of the dressing table in a sequinned red chiffon bridal outfit. Her long, wavy hair was being braided by Ruby, to shape it into a knot on top of her head. An intricately designed gold filigree necklace hugged her neck. Its long matching earrings dangled becomingly from her ears, while her rounded white arms shone with dozens of beautifully designed gold bangles.

‘Is that me?’ Zarri Bano asked in bemusement, staring at the mocking bridal image in front of her. ‘I look like any bride in Pakistan.’ Even her hands had been ritually painted by her sister with henna patterns the previous night. She grimaced at the sight of her reddish-orange stained palms.

The mockery of her finery and jewellery was too much. ‘All this pretence!’ she sighed. ‘What is it for?’

She blinked – looking up. A black shadow stood ominously behind her stool.

Her heart skipping a beat, Zarri Bano visibly recoiled at the sight of Sakina’s black cloaked head, allowing only two thirds of her face to be seen. There was no forehead. Only half a chin was visible.

‘This is what I am going to look like,’ her mind screamed in horror. ‘This paintwork on my face, my jewellery and the elaborate hair-do – all of this is going to be hidden behind a heavy black veil.’

‘
Assalam-Alaikum,
Zarri Bano.’ The dark forbidding image addressed her in the mirror, alarming Zarri Bano out of her reverie. ‘May I sit here on this stool?’

Zarri Bano desperately tried to collect her wits about her. ‘
Wa Laikum-Salam
. Of course!’ she assented.

‘My name is Sakina. You have probably heard of me – my father was Murad Chaudhury.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,
Baji Jan.
Father spoke about you.’ Zarri Bano rose to greet her guest, quickly recovering her customary poise.

Sakina caught Zarri Bano’s profile in the tall
dressing
-table mirror; watching it in wonder. It was just as exquisite as her front.

‘You are a very beautiful woman, Zarri Bano,’ she uttered on impulse. ‘I had already heard about you, but today, seeing you in this finery, I must admit that the person did justice to you in her praises.’

Zarri Bano stared ruefully at Sakina. ‘I am just an ordinary young woman in the prime of my life. Please, there is no need to praise.’ The subject of her beauty had long since lost its appeal to Zarri Bano.

She stared down at her fair hands with their intricate henna patterns, at her long tapering fingers, with their immaculately shaped nails. They were graced by rings of all shapes and sizes, studded with a multitude of different gems. Rubies, emeralds and diamonds.

‘Tell me, Sister Sakina, what use are these?’ she asked quietly, a hint of sarcasm seeping through, raising her hands to Sakina. ‘Why are my hands bedecked in this ridiculous fashion? Normally I never wear more than two rings at a time. Here, look, I have eight rings on my fingers! They couldn’t find one for the thumb! Who am I going to impress? Which in-laws? Which
husband
is going to admire their design and count them? You don’t wear anything on your hands. Did you go through this macabre drama, of being dressed up as a bride before you became a Holy Woman?’ At this Zarri Bano stopped, pinning Sakina with her intense green gaze.

Sakina looked around awkwardly, aware that they had an interested audience, Ruby and two other women. It wasn’t fair to Zarri Bano to have others
witness
the agony she was undergoing. Only she, Sakina, as a Holy Woman herself, could identify with Zarri Bano’s traumatic experience. For she, too, had lived through this pantomime of a ceremony, propelled helplessly on by a tide of events over which she had had no control.

Like Zarri Bano too, she had been blackmailed into it by her male elders. The only difference, and the most poignant difference of all, Sakina sadly noted, was that Zarri Bano was exquisite, whereas she herself had been quite plain. It seemed a crime against nature. Not to marry. Not to have children. Not to lead a normal life. Sakina stared at Zarri Bano, feeling very sad all of a sudden.

‘Zarri Bano, is it all right if we can have a chat on our own?’ Sakina ventured to ask.

‘Yes, of course. Ruby …’ Zarri Bano swivelled an apologetic gaze at her sister.

‘Of course, sister. Come on, girls.’ Ruby beckoned
her Cousin Gulshan and her two friends out of the room. Zarri Bano and Sakina watched them go and turned back to look at one another.

‘Please, Sister Sakina, come and sit on this armchair.’

‘Thank you.’ Sakina went over to the armchair and sat down.

Neither knew how to begin. Zarri Bano stood
awkwardly
in the middle of her bedroom, wanting to say so much, yet not trusting herself to say anything to a total stranger. Her eyes drawn hypnotically to the bed, Zarri Bano shivered at the sight of the
burqa
. Sakina’s face softened in understanding.

‘Yes, Sister Zarri Bano, that is all that is left for you to wear, before you are ready for the ceremony in the hall. Shall I help you into it?’ she coaxed softly.

Was it her imagination or did she actually see Zarri Bano shrink back a step? The expression in her eyes was that of a wild, wounded animal – trapped!

Sakina came to a quick decision. Her responsibility entailed not letting anybody down, neither Habib Khan nor Zarri Bano. With a firm step, she strode up to the bed and gently lifted the
burqa
in her arms. A gentle look on her face, she turned to Zarri Bano.

‘My sister, it will seem very strange to wear this veil at first, but you’ll soon get used to it. Female modesty, and the general veiling of women is part of our faith and culture, as you know. Therefore, this is no different garment than that worn by any other Muslim women, say in Iran, for example. They have been wearing these since the revolution – ordinary women, who wear it outside for their modesty. Here in Pakistan we have always had the
burqa
. It’s just that you have never worn it before and it has gone out of fashion somewhat, lately. The
chador
has replaced it. Therefore you’re
bound to find it a little strange at first. Shall we try it on?’

Zarri Bano nodded mutely, staring at the black cloak in Sakina’s arms. The
burqa
slithered over her head, her shoulders and down to her feet. Sakina then fixed the hood over Zarri Bano’s hair, planting it firmly in place so that it only showed a small triangle of the bride’s face.

Zarri Bano stood frozen in the
burqa
, dehumanised.

Like a large black tent, it hid her red ceremonial suit totally. Only her slippered feet were visible. The sleeves of the
burqa
reached below her wristline. The countless number of gold bangles she wore jangled awkwardly inside. The seam of the face triangle chaffed her delicate cheeks and she felt hot.

‘You look lovely,’ Sakina smiled. ‘Would you like to have a look in the mirror?’

Zarri Bano’s eyes widened in surprise at Sakina’s words. Hysteria spiralled wildly inside her. Shaking her head she closed her eyes, suffocated behind the black cloak.