The Holy Woman (48 page)

‘You were so tired. Do you know what time it is, Sikander? It’s ten o’clock!’ she laughed as she saw him sit up and yawn.

‘Yes, I slept well,’ he lied. He wouldn’t tell her that he had spent at least half an hour watching her while
she
slept. ‘What are your plans for today?’ he asked
matter-of-factly.

‘We are meeting the famous Maulvi Bilal at his home.’

‘I have a better suggestion. Now that I am here, wouldn’t it be nice if you and I went sightseeing together?’

Zarri Bano looked down at the rosary bead chain in her hand. Then after a pause, she said, ‘Sikander,
perhaps
we can do that tomorrow. I would like to go to this meeting, after all, that is why I am here in Malaysia – not just for sightseeing!’

‘I am sure there will be lots of other meetings. Sakina can attend it and let you know what happened,’ Sikander pressed, getting out of bed. He hadn’t travelled all this way to hang around on his own.

‘No. I want to be there. Your sightseeing, Sikander, can surely wait another day,’ Zarri Bano answered coldly, looking down at the rosary beads again.

He had his back to her, otherwise she would have seen the answering light of battle in his eye, ‘Of course my sightseeing can wait,’ he said politely. ‘Your
meeting
is
much
more important. You had better go right now, or else you will be late in joining your party for breakfast.’ He left her sitting on the prayer-mat, and went into the bathroom.

Later, as Maulvi Bilal took the party around the National Mosque in the centre of Kuala Lumpur, Zarri Bano couldn’t help but think about Sikander. What was he doing now? she wondered.

After their prayers, in the large prayer hall with its rows of mosaic pillars and huge crystal chandeliers dangling down from the ornate ceilings, they sat under
the fans on the fully carpeted floor and rested. The men sat in a separate part of the main hall. Sakina turned to Zarri Bano when their hostess, a fifty-year-old Malay woman dressed in a smart native crepe-de-chine Malay dress, consisting of a long skirt with a matching knee-length tunic and headscarf, went over to speak to another group of visitors.

‘What is Sikander Sahib doing this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. He said that he might go out sightseeing around the city.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Sakina’s surprised tone immediately put Zarri Bano on the defensive.

‘Because I wanted to be with you all and attend the meeting at Maulvi Bilal’s place.’

‘I see,’ Sakina uttered, looking down to read a page from the Holy Quran in her hand.

‘What do you see, Sister Sakina?’ Zarri Bano asked dryly.

‘Nothing, Sister Zarri Bano. Only that you are not giving your marriage a chance.’ Sakina smiled at her protégée.

‘You forget that I went into this marriage
unwillingly
,’ Zarri Bano answered quietly.

‘That may be so. Will you let that cloud things for ever? There is more to life, my sister. What have we done this morning that was more important than spending your time with your new husband? You’ve hardly had any time together. After your wedding, you came abroad with us almost immediatly. I get the
feeling
that you are trying to escape your husband, Zarri Bano. Yet he followed you here. He too, has other commitments: his son, his home, his family, his
business
. Yet he came here to be with you, and instead of
spending the time with him and trying to make
something
of your marriage, you are still trying to cling to your old life.’

‘Which old life, Sister?’ Zarri Bano asked in a low voice. ‘The one five years ago?’

‘No, the one before your marriage. It has already become old. You cannot cling to it for ever. You cannot be the same woman, my sister, because there is now another person in your life. Your life has thus taken on a new shape and perspective. Oh it could be so fulfilling. Don’t struggle with yourself, Sister. You will always be a Holy Woman like me, but give yourself a chance to be a normal woman too. Let yourself go!’

‘I think that I am already doing it,’ Zarri Bano whispered, recalling her sudden impulse to touch Sikander last night. Then the anticlimax as he had turned from her and went to bed. Then the shame. She hadn’t slept half the night, because the thought kept hammering away: I offered myself to him and he rejected me.

‘Why the bitterness, Zarri Bano? I sense a note of it in your voice.’

‘Because I am struggling with my feelings, and with my two identities, Sister Sakina; with what is right and with the ghost of my past. At the centre of it all is Sikander. He is always there whether I want it or not. First he was my suitor, the man I so wanted to marry. Then he became my brother-in-law, the husband of my dear sister Ruby, and father of my beloved nephew, Ruby’s child. Now he is my husband.

‘First it was me who wanted to marry this man. Then my father denied him to me. Then I lost him to my sister – and now finally I have him. How could I switch all my feelings on and off, without it having some
repercussions and me becoming an emotional wreck in the process?’

‘Yes, I see, Zarri Bano. You have explained it well. All I am saying is, why not try to compromise? Do you know, when I saw you two at dinner yesterday, I almost envied you. You have a special rapport. Value it! Yet this morning I feel as if nothing has happened. That you are still as pure as the day you were born.’

Zarri Bano blushed, averting her eyes. The
conversation
was getting out of hand. ‘The men are here. Shall we go?’ she suggested, relieved that she could change the subject.

From the National Mosque they went on to the City Museum to see the displays of artefacts from many Muslim countries around the world, ranging from Morocco to Malaysia. Contributed and collected together, the artefacts marked the Muslim
International
Conference and Festival.

It was late when Zarri Bano and her party returned to their hotel and on reaching her room she found it empty. There was no sign of Sikander, but his case was still there. She went down for her evening meal and wondered if she would see him, but he didn’t come.

It was about nine o’clock when Zarri Bano returned to her room and prepared for bed. She switched on the television, but was unable to concentrate. Over and over, her eyes kept returning to the clock. “Where is he? What is he doing?” she asked herself.

Suddenly the telephone rang, making her jump. She picked the receiver up to hear the voice of the
receptionist.
‘Your husband has left a message for you. Do not wait up for him, he is with some business
associates
.’ Zarri Bano thanked her and replaced the receiver with a bang. Piqued, she switched off the television.
So much for waiting up for him, she thought peevishly. Settling herself down in the bed, she eventually fell asleep, not knowing what time he returned to their room.

On waking the following morning, she reached for her
burqa
and went quickly into the bathroom. Sikander was already up and dressed.

‘Did you get my message last night?’ he called from the bedroom.

‘Yes, I did. Did you have a good meeting?’ she asked as she heard him moving round the room. She smoothed out the folds of her
burqa
and opened the bathroom door.

‘I’m going out – I’ll see you later. I hope you enjoy your meetings today!’ he called cheeringly as he left the room.

Zarri Bano watched him go, disappointed for some reason. She had had no opportunity to speak to him or to tell him that she would like to go sightseeing with him today. He had gone, not even bothering to have breakfast with her. Almost as if he wanted to abandon her! ‘Be reasonable,’ she said to herself. ‘You’ve told him that you have your own life. Well, now he has left you to it! But why does it hurt so much?’

She pottered around the room, tidying up the bed and folding the clothes into his suitcase. Again her hand came across the black chiffon suit, and she questioned herself: ‘Why did he bring it with him to Malaysia? Does he want me to wear it?’ She took it out and held it in her hands.

Closing her eyes she let her mind wander.

‘Y
OU ARE NOT
ready yet, girls? But the
bharat
will be here soon!’ Fatima shrieked at her daughters, the
cauldron
of wedding stress toppling over when she saw that they were still working on Firdaus’s face. There seemed to be so many layers of make-up to plaster on.

There were a hundred and one things to do before the groom arrived with his wedding procession. Yet her daughters seemed to think they had all day. She
marvelled
at Firdaus’s calm tone, as she mocked, ‘Mother, there is plenty of time,’ laughing in the mirror at her. And she was the bride!

Salma was now pinning a small gold and ruby
forehead
tiara pendant on Firdaus’s head. Beaming at her daughter’s radiant face, Fatima ushered some young girls, who were peeping and keen to catch a glimpse of the bride, out of the room.

Firdaus quickly read the note in her hand and, crunching it up, threw it in the waste-paper basket. It was from Khawar, sent via Neesa a week ago. In the note, he had commanded: Firdaus I want you to come to my home in a
dholi.
Chuckling to herself, Firdaus had written back:
Of course. Whatever my lord and master commands
!

She personally had no aversion to a
dholi,
a wooden palanquin. In fact, she thought it was one of the best of the quaint village traditions. She’d rather be carried in a palanquin by four men to her new home, like in the old days, than go in Chaudharani Shahzada’s car.

The matter did pose something of a problem,
however – for Fatima. For she had to give a special order for a brand new
dholi
to be designed for the
ceremony.
‘My daughter is not going to sit in a rickety old
dholi
in which scores of other brides have sat,’ she had sniffed disdainfully to her family. No way! The villagers would talk about this
dholi
for years to come. The material and its embroidery would match that of her daughter’s bridal outfit.

‘Why does it take so long to make up a bride
nowadays
?’ Fatima good-humouredly questioned Kulsoom in the courtyard of her home. A beautician had been especially called in from the city’s best beauty parlour. ‘I don’t know, in our day, it was a two-minute job! A dab of cream on the cheeks, a smear of lipstick on the lips and off we went.’

‘When we were young, life was much more simple, Fatima Jee. Nobody had ever heard of beauticians or Beauty Parlours then. Nor did we have the money to invite a woman in and pay her thousands of rupees to make up our faces. It would have caused a scandal then. But see, everything is in hand here, Fatima Jee. Let’s go and check the wedding marquees.’

Kulsoom led Fatima out of the courtyard, holding firmly onto the chiffon
dupatta
on her head and
twitching
her long, heavy earrings in place around her ears. The jewellery had been graciously given the previous night, as long promised by Fatima, in gratitude for her part in Firdaus’s wedding. Fatima always kept her word. The earrings were lovely to look at and very expensive, so Kulsoom couldn’t be so churlish as to complain that they were too heavy for her small ears. She just wished that she had been born with bigger ones. ‘Two
tholas
of gold have gone into making them!’ she gloated, knowing nevertheless that she was going
to end up with very sore ears by the time the
wedding-day
celebrations ended.

She was loath to remove them, however, even for a second. ‘The pain is a small price to pay,’ she said adamantly. She thus schooled herself to sport them on her ears and show them off to other women who were either prospective clients or were about to engage her services in finding suitable matches for their children. After all, if one client was apt to reward her in such a fashion, she could set a precedence for others to do the same. So all in all she was definitely going to ignore her sore ears.

Kulsoom followed Fatima eagerly into the wedding marquee erected in the girls’ school playing ground. Chaudharani Shahzada and Fiaz, in his wheelchair, had stationed themselves in that marquee. Both had been bestowed with the honour of receiving Fatima’s guests, as well as the groom and his party.

In the other household, Baba Siraj Din had been graciously chosen by Chaudharani Kaniz for the honour of being Khawar’s godfather and the elder
buzurg
to lead the wedding procession. The responsibility of overseeing the
nikkah
ceremony was also bestowed upon him. He accepted both roles in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Fatima inspected, with deep satisfaction, the velour upholstered chairs and the beautifully prepared tables, laid with the best china and silver cutlery especially hired from the town’s marriage hall. She had long promised herself the luxury of feeding her daughter’s wedding guests with style, instead of having them flocking around tables, holding plates in their hands, reaching over people’s shoulders to get at the buffet.
Her
guests would be sitting down in style, and waited
upon by scores of waiters. After all it wasn’t every day that her headmistress of a daughter was getting
married.
Moreover, she wasn’t going to let Kaniz pinch all the
shan,
all the limelight, from the wedding. It was her daughter’s wedding too!

Fatima cast a surreptitious look at the six new large steel trunks, full of clothes and wedding presents which had arrived this morning from Kaniz’s
hawaili
for Firdaus and her family. After dinner, the trunks would be ceremoniously opened up before the hawk-like eyes of the female wedding guests, and all the gifts would be laid out on display for everyone to see. Fatima just knew that the presents were sure to dazzle everyone! Word had gone around the village that the
jihaz
Chaudharani Kaniz had prepared for Firdaus was sure to be unrivalled. ‘Probably,’ it was awesomely rumoured by Kulsoom, ‘even Benazir Bhutto has not received a
jihaiz
like this.’

‘My Firdaus sure is lucky!’ Fatima sighed with
happiness.
Not to be outdone herself, Fatima had furnished the dowry marquee with many dazzling presents for Firdaus. After all, she didn’t send her only son to Dubai for nothing. She didn’t work in someone’s house for nothing. Her daughter didn’t save up her earnings from teaching for nothing if, at the end, they couldn’t between them provide a dowry that befitted their station in life and her daughter’s profession.

Although Kaniz had said, very kindly, that she wanted nothing from Firdaus’s family and that they had everything they needed, Fatima wasn’t going to risk letting Kaniz taunt her daughter later by saying: ‘You came here empty-handed!’ Fatima’s pride and vanity were at stake, and nothing would let her
compromise
. Thus, whether Kaniz wanted a dowry in her
hawaili
or not, she was going to get one. There was no doubt about it. What Kaniz could do, so could Fatima!

The imposing marble tiled façade of Chaudharani Kaniz’s
hawaili
was becomingly criss-crossed with ropes of small glittering colourful lights. Not a yard of space had been spared. A cavalcade of tall, beautiful brass lamps stood in the street outside, leading the guests ceremoniously into the
hawaili.
The wedding band, later to play a Scottish tune, stood in rows behind the lamps, eagerly waiting for the groom and
bharat
to assemble.

Inside the
hawaili,
the wedding guests roamed freely in and out of all the rooms. For the first time in her life, Chaudharani Kaniz had snubbed no one. On the
contrary,
she had delighted everyone by inviting all the relatives from both her and her late husband’s side. Nor for that matter had she spared any expense. A golden opportunity not to be missed, most of the guests had eagerly taken up the Chaudharani’s offer of arriving a week earlier, to enjoy and partake in all the wedding festivities that were sure to take place. After all, it was Kaniz’s only son’s wedding. There would be no others in the
hawaili.

Kaniz took both the hustle and bustle of the crowds of people and the consequent stress with good grace, drinking it all in blissfully. She herself supervised the pots full of food being prepared three times each day. Her team of six hired cooks were kept busy for the whole week, almost eighteen hours a day. The
preparations
for the wedding were mainly carried out and supervised by Sabra, her daughter and Neesa.

Baba Siraj Din sat stiffly in the large drawing room
on a huge comfortable sofa beside Khawar, who was dressed in the ceremonial clothes of a groom. Siraj Din impatiently tapped his ivory stick on the silk carpet, as he waited for Khawar’s present-giving and
sehrabandi
ceremony to begin. Dressed in his new, crisply starched suit, a long black coat and a special turban on his head, Siraj Din looked every bit the tribal headman of the village.

‘Where is your mother, Khawar?’ Siraj Din asked imperiously. ‘Everybody is here and waiting! The ceremony should start soon, my son.’

‘She’ll be around somewhere, Grandfather, in the
hawaili.
’

‘Sabra, go and find your sister! I know the
bharat
is only going two streets away, but still we have to get there. The musicians have been standing outside for over an hour. It is quite hot out there. The groom’s horse is probably getting restless, especially with all the heavy decorative stuff on his body.’

‘Yes, Baba Jee, I’ll go and find Kaniz,’ Sabra reassured him, leaving the chatting group of women relations she was entertaining on her sister’s behalf.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Kaniz drew out a large box with a red and silver painted lid from her wardrobe. Holding it under her arm, she went down to the first floor and headed for Neesa’s room. It was located in the far corner of the
hawaili
, in the corridor of the bedding storerooms. Kaniz very rarely visited this corridor. She never had to. Her authoritative voice had done all the work for her. Today the journey to it was like a little pilgrimage.

She knocked on Neesa’s door – an action unheard of for Chaudharani Kaniz to perform in her own home.
It was directly born out of sensitivity, in case her housekeeper was getting undressed.

Neesa was, in fact, preparing to put on her own best clothes. When she heard the knock, it prompted her to immediately look up and call, ‘Come in.’ As the door opened, Neesa paled at the sight of her mistress
entering
her simply furnished room.

‘Did you want me for something, Chaudharani Sahiba?’ Neesa stammered, looking up at Kaniz with misgiving. Something must be terribly amiss to have brought her
chaudharani
personally to her quarters.

‘Yes, I do,’ the
chaudharani
replied, smiling and with a strange look on her face. Neesa stared back nervously, unable to make sense either of the look or her mistress’s action in coming to seek her out.

Kaniz held the box out towards her housekeeper.

Blushing with pleasure Neesa looked at it,
imagining
that her mistress had come to show her a new outfit for the bride. It was an honour indeed that her mistress had thought of her and had come personally to show it.

‘I want to give you this,’ Kaniz told her softly, watching her housekeeper’s face.

Neesa merely stared at the box – speechless.

‘Here, take it.’ The
chaudharani
gently pushed the box into her servant’s numbed hands. ‘Open it, Neesa. It is for you. And it is exactly like mine and Sabra’s.’

With trembling fingers, Neesa plucked off the lid with her thin workworn fingers. Then she stared down in bemusement at the exquisite blue silk suit, lying on a beautiful bed of delicate white tissue paper. Her mouth fell open, her eyes fixed on the rich intricate embroidery around the neckline of the garment. A suit, just like the one the
chaudharani
was wearing, was an
unimaginable honour indeed. One which she would never have dreamed of in a million years.

‘There is a matching chiffon
dupatta
too,’ Kaniz elaborated as Neesa touched the soft chiffon scarf, afraid of snagging the delicate material with her chapped fingers, roughened from all the scouring in the kitchen.

A lump was lodged in Neesa’s throat, almost
suffocating
her. Any dunce could see that this suit had been specially prepared and had cost thousands of rupees, she marvelled in her head.

‘Now look under the suit,’ Kaniz’s gentle voice commanded. She was still smiling down at her
housekeeper
and, with selfish joy, she drank in the look of sheer wonder and shock on Neesa’s face as she felt under the suit and drew out a square flat red velvet box. ‘Open it,’ Kaniz coaxed, a trace of excitement in her own voice.

Once again Neesa’s fingers trembled. Clumsily, she flicked open the delicate latch to look, wide-eyed, at the gold choker necklace with matching earrings and a ring, lying on a rich black velvet bed.

Neesa stared aghast at her mistress. ‘Is this, for me, Chaudharani Sahiba?’ she whispered. She watched amazedly as Kaniz’s head magically dipped down and then up again towards her.

It was all too much for poor Neesa! Her small,
humble
world suddenly lost its bearing on its social axis. Her Chaudharani Sahiba, always cruelly barking orders at her and turning her back on her for half of her life, was now offering her a necklace worth six
tholas
of gold! Leaning back on the chair and putting the box on her bed, which already had a mound of bedding to iron on it, she began to weep into her muslin shawl, her slim shoulders crumpling over.

Bemused, Kaniz stared down at the wiry frame of her
grey-haired housekeeper. A strange love welled up inside her. ‘This woman has given her whole life to me and my son, and I have been so hateful to her for all these years!’ Kaniz told herself sadly. Then unable to bear seeing Neesa cry, she pulled her housekeeper into her arms and held her tightly against her chest.

Clasped firmly against her Sahiba, the last remnants of her self-control shattered and Neesa wept as she had never wept before. It was as if all those years of sheer loneliness, bereft of human warmth under Kaniz’s oppression had been worth it. Even as she cried, she made sure, however, that she kept her humble shawl strategically in front of her face to prevent ruining her mistress’s new wedding suit.