The Holy Woman (38 page)

‘Replace Ruby? Never! I have no wish to replace Ruby ever,
Brother
.’ She enunciated the word with a whiplash clarity.

‘Why?’ he asked, wincing at her word ‘brother’.

‘Why?’ she echoed dumbfounded. ‘Have you no
feelings
of decency, Sikander Sahib? She was my sister, your wife, and I am a Holy Woman! What you are suggesting is impossible – it is both degrading and utterly loathsome.’

‘I am only thinking of what is best for Haris. There is
nothing
degrading
nor
loathsome
about that suggestion,’ he bit out, his voice hardening.

‘Yes, everyone is bent on thinking about Haris, but what about me? My mother, my grandfather have been at me. Don’t I count? Aren’t I a person who has a say in anything? Haris needs the care of another female. He can get that from any source, not necessarily from me. I wouldn’t make a good mother anyway, my life is far too busy. I have a number of projects that I am overseeing at the moment. I have no experience of children. I have renounced marriage; that is what I was made to do—’

‘I didn’t make you!’ Sikander coldly cut in.

She ignored his interruption and continued, her eyes fastened on his face. ‘Now it suits everybody. I am asked to fall in with everyone’s wishes. You are a brother to me, Sikander Sahib. That is how I have seen and beheld you for over four years. You are my dead sister’s husband. How can I join my life with yours? Moreover, I am not an ordinary woman any more. I have become a true Holy Woman, in every sense of the word that my father and grandfather envisaged – and much more.

‘Five years ago, my life was turned upside down. I surrendered then. I learned to turn my back on you and the prospect of marriage. And I survived. People change with time, Brother Sikander. In my case I underwent a personality change. For a few weeks I did not know who I was. Now I am at peace with myself and happy in my present role. I have no wish to recall my previous life or connections.

‘You are an old connection, as I told you in Minah in Saudi Arabia. It is
haram
to link my name with a man, let alone my sister’s husband. I am wedded to my faith. So please don’t mention anything about this again.
I have had my fill of what can never be. Our paths, though they have crossed yet again, are never destined to merge, my dear Brother Sikander. Ruby must be turning in her grave.’

‘No she wouldn’t.’ The quiet words came out
forcefully
. ‘She would have wanted you to be Haris’s mother. You know that she always felt guilty about marrying me. She didn’t talk openly about it – but I knew. She thought that she had stepped into your shoes. I was your betrothed once, remember, not hers.’

‘We are women, Sikander Sahib! Not vegetables that you can swap at your will,’ she said in a low and
agonised
voice. Before his very eyes she began to shudder, recalling images of another time in the orchard when he had almost imprisoned her in his arms near a tree and had proposed to her. He had touched her hand then and she had let him! She wanted to banish the memory totally from her mind. She found it easier instead to escape from his presence than the past images – thus she fled. Sikander watched her go sadly.

He remained in the orchard long after she had left. His hands balled in his trouser pockets, he strolled around the fruit trees, going over in his mind what Zarri Bano had said. As he recalled her vehemence and that look of distaste on her face, he felt his spirits sink. He had never anticipated such a change in Zarri Bano. From a passionate woman she had turned into one who recoiled at the thought of human relationships. ‘How am I ever going to win her?’ he asked himself in
frustration
. If she really saw him as a brother, then what hope had he of marrying her?

He now wished with all his heart that either he had never set eyes on Zarri Bano, or Ruby hadn’t died. Was this to be his ultimate fate? To pine forever for this
woman, who rebuffed him totally? A woman who would remain inaccessible to him for all time!

Yet although he understood and empathised with her feelings, that didn’t quell the longing in his heart. She was always there and would always be there, locked away in the secret recesses of his soul – shaming,
haunting
and tantalising him.

In the following two days he avoided her company totally. She had made her feelings very clear. What was the point of pursuing it all? Zarri Bano spent her entire time in Sikander’s home with her nephew, playing with him and reading him stories. After a week she left.

S
ABRA STAYED WITH
Kaniz for a further two weeks, keeping a constant vigil over her sister – even to the extent of sleeping in the same room; she had another
palang
moved into the large bedroom. She talked
constantly
about different things, in the hope that it would somehow bring a smile to Kaniz’s sad face.

Khawar told no one of his visit to Firdaus. He was now trying his best to make it up with his mother for all his past neglect. Like his aunt, he stayed with her as much as he could. Kaniz, now humbled to her very core, thirstily drank in her son’s attention. The odd panic attacks and bouts of depression that had swept over her since that scene in Firdaus’s office still,
however
, continued to plague her.

Nothing made her laugh any more. It was almost as if the joy of life was snuffed out of her. On the contrary, she wanted to cry all the time. Sabra found
her cowering in an armchair and crying discreetly into her shawl, one afternoon as she sat by herself on the rooftop, basking in the afternoon sun.

‘Sister Kaniz, why are you crying? Everything is all right! Please don’t cry. Come and sit here and I’ll
massage
your head with almond oil,’ Sabra offered.

Looking up with puffy eyes, Kaniz sat obediently on the
charpoy
in front of her sister and leaned her head back on to Sabra’s lap. Pulling her sister’s cotton shawl off, Sabra began to nimbly unbraid her long, chunky plait. She noticed that Kaniz had worn the same cotton
chador
for the past three days, and felt her eyes fill with tears. Changing her clothes twice a day had been the norm for Kaniz ever since she was eighteen years old, this self-neglect showed clearly how low she had fallen.

Sprinkling some of the oil from the bottle onto her palms, Sabra dabbed the drops on the crown of her sister’s head, and began to rub it into the scalp with long, soothing strokes. Her eyes shut tight, Kaniz began to enjoy the massage.

‘Why were you crying?’ Sabra asked softly, leaning over her sister’s shoulder.

Kaniz’s eyes fluttered open nervously, but she didn’t reply immediately. ‘I was remembering my wedding day and my wedding night.’

‘Why did that memory make you cry?’ her sister wanted to know. She continued the massage, hypnotic and healing bringing forth hidden feelings.

‘I was trying to forget the type of person that I have since become,’ Kaniz uttered, her voice full of pathos.

‘I do not understand. What has your wedding day got to do with anything?’

‘Everything, my young sister. It was on that day I
embraced the shroud of humiliation which I am still wearing thirty years later and cannot shed.’

‘Shroud of humiliation? What are you talking about?’ Sabra peered into her sister’s face. Kaniz remained silent for a few moments, her eyes tightly closed as if running away from the image.

‘I have never talked about this with anyone,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Sabra, can you imagine what it is like to be an unwanted wife? To learn on the very first day that you are only second best.’

‘Is this true?’ Sabra ceased her massage.

Sitting up, Kaniz turned away from her sister’s incredulous stare and began to braid her thick long hair, tugging at it in nervous jerks.

‘On my wedding day I learned that Sarwar had really wanted to marry Fatima. You know about this, don’t you? The scene is indelibly printed on my mind for eternity. I was sitting in my red Shanghai bridal gown, on the sofa – a proud new
chaudharani
, full of life and herself. There was a small group of young women
sitting
around me. Some were local village women, others were relatives – but I don’t know who
she
was – that
charail
, that witch. I have not clapped eyes on her since that day.

‘Fatima was there too. I didn’t know who she was then, not until this woman opened her evil mouth. In a clear, loud voice, although she made pretence of
whispering
it to her friend, she said: “There is Fatima, the woman that Sarwar
really
wanted to marry, but she turned him down and is now married to her cousin.” She went on to say that she wouldn’t like to be in my shoes – as I was only “second best!”

‘Stunned, my ears burning with hurt and shame, my eyes dropped to my bejewelled and hennaed hands.
Inside, I was trembling like a leaf with humiliation. I had quickly glanced at the woman she pointed to and saw Fatima. She for her part looked back at me
sheepishly
. I knew intuitively then who she was. She had heard it too and had turned quickly away, her cheeks pink in embarrassment. At that moment, I could have jumped into a lake, my sister Sabra, and have drowned myself. I prayed for the ground to open beneath me and swallow me up, away from the stares of the women.

‘I didn’t dare to lift my eyes up again, imagining that everyone was talking about me and probably sniggering and ridiculing me. I knew that I was being compared to that woman and I recoiled in shame. Belittled by the whole affair, my heart banged with hatred for the woman who had shattered my dreams and my whole world and had robbed me not only of my happiness but also of my
skoon
, my peace of mind in one mere flicker of an eyelash.

‘I had come to my new home full of happiness and with my pride sky-high. That woman with her spiteful tongue had whipped it all away from me. From the lofty heights of exultation I was hurled into the murky depths of humiliation. I hated Fatima for no other
reason
than that she was
the other woman
– the one my husband had desired and had originally wanted to marry. Also because she, too, had heard and had thus witnessed my humiliation. Tell me, my sister, can any wife bear the thought of another woman being linked to her husband, and to know that she would always be the second best in his affection?’

‘But he was a wonderful husband,’ Sabra said sincerely. ‘I know, I witnessed how loving and good he was.’

‘Yes, he was. But he, too, humiliated me on my
wedding night. If only he had pretended for my benefit. If only he had said what my fragile, vulnerable heart had craved to hear. But men are such straightforward creatures; they do not possess the wiles to dissemble like we women can. Least of all not my Sarwar, may he reside in heaven.’

‘What happened?’ Sabra asked, her senses alert, now very much piqued on her sister’s behalf. This bit she didn’t know.

‘On the wedding night, still shaking from the typhoon of feelings that the words of that woman aroused, I couldn’t help asking my husband about Fatima. I needed to know if he
had
wanted to marry her – and he told me straight away that it was true. I next asked him if he had loved her and again, without a moment’s hesitation, he said that he had.

‘He denied nothing, Sabra, little guessing that my woman’s pride desperately demanded and needed a denial – but it never came! I had sought a salve for my injured pride, instead I got poison – heaps full. From that moment on, I shrank into myself. My confidence, already at zero, totally deserted me. It appeared that everything and everybody in the
hawaili
was suspect. I imagined them all laughing at me behind my back. Jealousy tore at my guts. Apparently Fatima still held my husband’s heart in her hands. Although we
consummated
our marriage, for me there was nothing real any more. The joy of becoming a
chaudharani
had barely lasted one day. I cried quietly to myself in the pillow, long into the night.

‘The next morning I talked to no one. I kept my eyes down all the time. The shame of being the unwanted bride covered me like a white shroud. Women, including his relatives, tried to talk to me, to tease me,
as women are generally wont to do after the wedding night, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t respond to them. I felt alienated from them all. I liked no one. They were all suspect in my mind. In the end they gave up and left me alone, probably imagining that I was a an
ungrateful
, ungracious sort of woman.

‘On the morning of the fifth day after the wedding, I was standing on the upper balcony drying my long hair out in the warm breeze when I saw Fatima down below in the courtyard with another woman, talking to Sarwar’s aunt. As my eyes skirted the
hawaili
, I saw Sarwar descending the stairs from the rooftop. Jealousy, again, ripped through my veins. I didn’t think, but acted irrationally. I didn’t want Sarwar and Fatima to meet, not in my presence or not in my home, anyway. I couldn’t bear that! Neesa was sitting on the balcony with me, ready to braid my hair. She had been assigned as my personal maid.

‘“Neesa,” I said, “go down and tell that Fatima, the one in the green suit, in her ear, that she is not welcome in this house from today. Tell her that the
chaudharani
has said this!”’

‘Surprised by my message, Neesa did as she was told. She ran off down the stairs. Sarwar, fortunately, had gone into our bedroom on the first floor, so he didn’t see Fatima. From the balcony I watched Neesa approach Fatima and whisper my message to her. Fatima glanced up and saw me looking down at her from the rooftop balcony. It was at that moment, Sabra, I rose tall out of my humiliation, I glared my signal of triumph down at her. I was the Chaudharani, Sarwar’s lawful wife. Who the hell was she? She had no right to come barging into my
hawaili
. Our
hawaili
– my home!

‘I think that moment was the turning-point in my
life. Whole-heartedly I changed and gained confidence in myself; I embraced the role of what a
chaudharani
should be. I kept everyone at arm’s length. Not that anybody dared to come too near me. Most were too frightened to attempt it. Their fear and awe gave me strength and encouragement. I practised it on Neesa first. I was hard on her. I still am, I am sorry to say.’ Kaniz sighed deeply. ‘One day I am going to ask for her forgiveness – I have been so cruel to her all these thirty years. That is the sort of person I have become. I have been wearing this ruthless and selfish façade for years. Yet it was that which helped me to keep my sanity and gave me confidence. Without it I was a lost soul.

‘Can you imagine the terrible depths to which I had sunk? When I learned about Fiaz’s accident, I felt not a moment’s pity for
her
. My husband had already died, but I was still jealous of her. Can you believe it? I still could not forgive her for being
the other woman
and secondly, for having rejected him. When she began to work in Siraj Din’s house my heart literally sang with joy. Here was my sweet revenge, it seemed. I just wished that I could find out who that other woman was, the one who had shattered my wedding day and my whole world. For now I could trample
her
face in the mud and say to her, “Is that the woman Sarwar had wanted to make his
chaudharani
? This miserable wretch who has become a washerwoman?” I was desperate to find that woman. Unfortunately I have not laid eyes on her since. Just as well, for her sake! I have hated her for so long.

‘Then Fatima had
her
sweet revenge. Just as she had ensnared my husband in her small dark hands, her short, dark daughter then stole my son from under my very nose. In front of my very eyes! Here was the cycle,
repeating itself. I could never accept that woman’s daughter into my house.

‘The rest you know, the agony that I have gone through. I have lost an only son who has lived away from me for over one year. Then lived for another year with me, during which he has hardly glanced at me nor said a word – all because of that chit’s sake.

‘For my son’s sake, I sank low, sacrificing my pride and descending to new depths of humiliation. Begging on my knees for the hand of a woman I couldn’t stand, offspring of a woman I have always loathed – and what was my reward? I was thrown out.’ She shuddered and seemed to find it hard to speak. Then:

‘Each time I recall that scene, I am swamped by memories of my wedding day, for the feelings are the same. On the outside, people see this big, bulky body, and a hide like that of an elephant. Inside, my dear sister, I am a fragile, tottering, wreck. A little knock, a bruise of any sort, sends me reeling. I don’t know what to do, Sabra, how to make myself strong again. You cannot stay with me all the time, although I wish you could. You are the only one who can save me from myself. Otherwise, Sabra, there are times when I still want to end it all. Even my son’s smiles don’t have the same magic. I keep remembering myself on my knees with my hands outstretched to her. I have died a
hundred
times, each time I think of it. It will haunt me to my dying day.’ Kaniz then began to sob again, into the folds of her shawl.

‘Hush, my dear. I will stay with you as long as you like,’ Sabra promised her. ‘I will not desert you. There is nothing more important to me than my sister. Hush now. Do you want me to wash your hair for you?’

‘No, I can do it myself. Neesa will be there to help,
if I need it. Thank you, my sister – for listening to me.’

‘You must dress yourself smartly, the way you used to. Please look after yourself. All these blemishes on your fair skin! You’ve been sitting out too much in the sun. You always had a lovely skin tone and prided
yourself
on it.’

‘What does it matter, Sabra?’ Kaniz said drearily. ‘It is not as if I am in the flush of youth. I am over fifty. What does it all matter?’ She shrugged, dismissing Sabra’s concern. Her skin was the least of her problems.

Kaniz stood up and went in search of Neesa, so that she could sort her things for the bath and iron a new suit for her to wear.

Sabra remained on the flat rooftop balcony looking over the village fields, her mind going over her sister’s words.