The Holy Woman (50 page)

‘K
HAWAR AND HIS
barat
will just have left the
hawaili,
Sikander Sahib,’ Zarri Bano informed her
husband,
looking down at her watch and translating it into Pakistani time.

‘Whose?’ Sikander asked, offering his hand to support her as they came out of the Batu Caves. They slowly made their way down the steps from the entrance of the caves in the Malaysian
countryside.

Lifting her
burqa
with her hand, in case she tripped over the hem, Zarri Bano concentrated on the narrow two hundred-odd steps, carved into the hill, that housed the caves. She watched her feet with
trepidation,
as two small spider monkeys skipped and danced around her legs.

‘Don’t worry!’ Sikander laughed, holding her hand firmly and moving to her side. The monkeys were everywhere on the steps. At night-time they
disappeared
into the caves, but during the day-time they hopped and played around the feet of the tourists,
especially
Hindus, who came to pay homage to the Hindu temple, housing the images of their gods inside the huge cavern of the Batu Caves.

‘You remember Khawar, the young landlord from our village?’ Zarri Bano told him. ‘Today is his
wedding
day. He is marrying Firdaus, the daughter of our housekeeper. My grandfather and mother will be there at the wedding, of course, as special guests.’

‘I see,’ Sikander answered, leading her to the taxi
waiting to take them to their next destination, the Malaysian jungle.

Glancing out of the car window, Zarri Bano admired the lush scenery with its tropical foliage elegantly
carpeting
the rugged mountain terrain, lining the road on either side.

‘By the way,’ she added, dimpling at him. She had this strange wicked urge to tease him. ‘Khawar was one of my old suitors.’

‘Was he now?’ Sikander returned silkily.

Her cheeks reddening at the look in his eyes, Zarri Bano hastened to explain. ‘Oh no, Sikander Sahib, it is not the way you think. Khawar has always had a soft spot for Firdaus. It was his mother, Chaudharani Kaniz who was bent on pursuing my
rishta
for obvious
snobbish
reasons.’

‘And of course, my
snobbish,
arrogant wife turned him down. I suppose I ought to feel honoured that somehow you didn’t turn me down like your other string of suitors,’ he joked, then turned serious again. ‘Yet you still spurned me at the end, Zarri Bano – just like all the others,’ he said quietly.

‘There was nothing arrogant about it, Sikander,’ Zarri Bano said, her face still smarting with colour. ‘I have always regarded Khawar like a brother. I played with him in my childhood days in the village. The second reason was that I couldn’t stomach the thought of stepping into Chaudharani Kaniz’s haughty shoes. It just didn’t appeal to me. I was never cut out to be a village
chaudharani
of the mould that my mother or Kaniz are. They are a different breed of women, following a different set of traditions and goals in life. At that time, my heart hankered after the big cities and the international life.
The tranquil village life would have smothered me and my journalistic career.

Zarri Bano thought for a moment. ‘Having said that, recently I did enjoy my stay in the village since I have headed the
madrasa
there. I have had two women’s colleges built. Firdaus is much better suited to the village life than I am. Allah obviously had another vocation in mind for me – my father just became His tool. Although I never envisaged I would become a scholar of Islam or a Holy Woman, I have now been all over the world as I always wanted to. What about you, Sikander? Do you prefer the city life or the
countryside?’
Zarri Bano ventured to ask, just as the taxi came to a stop, hoping he would look at her again. He didn’t.

They climbed out and stretched their legs. Then they followed the driver up the gentle slope of a hill leading into a rubber plantation. Looking around, they were amazed at the wonderful milky green haze that seemed to cloak and surround the trees. Climbing further up they eventually came to a small hut built on a raised platform on the hillside. In front of a small wooden table, an old Malay gentleman was sitting on a chair, smoking. As he saw them approach, he stood up to welcome them with a warm smile.

‘
Assalam-Alaikum
!’ the rubber-tapper greeted. He could tell by Zarri Bano’s black veil that they were Muslims, like himself. Smiling broadly, he took them to a nearby tree and, with a special knife, demonstrated how rubber was extracted. Zarri Bano and Sikander watched fascinated, as the jelly-like orange-brown gum oozed out on to the surrounding bark.

After thanking and tipping the old man for his
demonstration
, Sikander and Zarri Bano followed the Tamil driver further up the hill.

‘This forest will gradually become a jungle,’ the driver stated, waving his hands up at the dense forest ahead, disappearing beyond the horizon. ‘Would you like to go and explore by yourselves for an hour or two? I’ll wait for you down below.’

‘That would be nice,’ Sikander replied, nodding in agreement.

‘Don’t go too far, in case you get lost,’ the man warned. ‘Just stay in the clearing and follow the paths.’

Thanking the driver and holding Zarri Bano’s hand firmly, Sikander led her up the slope and into the
jungle
proper. Soon lush green foliage and tall mature trees, reaching high into the sky to form a dense canopy above, surrounded them. The atmosphere was magical, full of the strange sounds of distant animals.
Everywhere,
there were butterflies and moths, some so big that they could hardly fly, flitting between the trees.

‘I like to be where you are, Zarri Bano.’ Sikander whispered caressingly.

Zarri Bano stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’ she asked, not understanding him at first. Sikander stared back at her, his eyes expressive with a meaning. A curious light flickered down from the green canopy above, making Zarri Bano look incongruous in her black
burqa.

At last understanding him, heat rushed into her face and, as usual, she immediately tried to escape. Carefully stepping through the undergrowth, she held the hem of her
burqa
up, in case it got caught by the shoots of the plants and shrubs.

‘Don’t go cold on me now, Zarri Bano, please!’ Sikander urged from behind, pushing aside a small branch, and reaching her side again. ‘We had a very natural conversation back in the car. You were relaxed then and actually talked fully. Now I can actually feel
you drawing back into yourself – into your inner world. Please don’t do that.’

‘Look, Sikander,’ she said desperately, ‘I am trying my very best, you know, but I am finding it all so hard. During the past month or so, everybody has been pounding on my doors. Little by little they have
managed
to sneak in. In your case, you have not only pounded but barged right in. Now there are not many locked doors left, Sikander, before you reach the old Zarri Bano.’ Zarri Bano felt suddenly worried in case she had revealed too much.

Sikander didn’t answer immediately. Instead he looked around. They had entered a large clearing. Zarri Bano, too, looked up with pleasure at the clear blue sky peeping through the green rooftop of the trees. Both marvelled at the flashes of brilliant colour as tropical birds and parakeets flew from one branch to another.

‘It is like paradise here, so peaceful. Almost as if we are the only people in the world,’ Zarri Bano said, wiping her damp forehead.

‘Why don’t you take off your
burqa
?’ Sikander softly suggested. ‘There’s nobody here, Zarri Bano. Nobody can see you – except me. Here, let me help you.’

Feeling the solitude of the place and with no prying male eyes, Zarri Bano thought it safe to remove her cloak. As Sikander helped her to pull the
burqa
off, her hair tumbled out of the hood and down to her shoulders, falling heavily in a tousled riot of waves. In the sunshine streaming down from the cracks between the trees, it became ablaze with a deep earthy fire.

Sikander gasped at the beauty of it, fighting the urge to put his hand through it. Then he went utterly still as he saw what she was wearing underneath – the black chiffon outfit from the
mela,
that he had so loved and
the image of which was so clearly etched on his mind. Zarri Bano knew instantly that her clothing had a
symbolic
meaning for him. She remembered the
mela
so well – and that passionate look in his eyes … All of a sudden she felt self-conscious, needing to escape from him again.

She walked on until she came to a spot with a large gnarled tree trunk, its roots jutting out and spread across on the ground. Sikander watched her sit down on one of the roots. She looked stunning against the
backdrop
of the jungle, an elegant figure in an outfit which defined and flattered the feminine shape of her body.

He followed her and stood by her side. Unable to help himself, his hand reached down to her hair,
marvelling
at the silkiness of the strands as they flowed sensuously through his fingers.

Zarri Bano froze as she felt his fingers creep up her neckline from behind and into her scalp. Strangely she recalled her own similar action the other night. ‘This is what I did to him! How could I?’ she cried to herself, shuddering in shame and pleasure.

‘You have such beautiful hair, Zarri Bano. Please let it grow down to your waist,’ he whispered, leaning down near her head.

‘How it used to be, you mean? When you first saw me in this outfit five years ago, Sikander?’ Her voice was weary. ‘My hair can grow, but to expect other things to revert to the same is impossible.’

‘Is it?’ he said, straightening up. ‘But I am looking at, and I think and hope I have found the woman I lost.’

‘Then I am sorry to have to disillusion you, Sikander Sahib. You are definitely chasing rainbows! What you see in front of you is very deceptive. I may appear the same, but take a look inside my soul and you’ll find I
am not the woman you think that you are seeking. I have changed too much, Sikander. It is impossible to make some dreams become a reality.’

‘I disagree with you, Zarri Bano!’ Without realising it, his fingers were tugging painfully at her hair, forcing her to look up at him again. ‘Dreams can often, with effort, be realised. It is personal barriers that prevent us from realising them. In this case, you yourself have become the biggest barrier. Once it was your father.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I can never forgive him for what he did to you and to us.’

‘I forgave him very soon. Did you know, Sikander, that my father was jealous of you – obsessively jealous, in fact. My mother recently told me how he felt
threatened
by you and saw you as a rival for my affection.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that. I suspected it all along. He hated me, Zarri Bano. Why else do you think he stopped us from marrying and made you into a Holy Woman? What I don’t understand is, what did he think I was going to do to you? After all, you were still his daughter and would always remain so.’

‘He loved me too much, Sikander. He was afraid of you eventually replacing him in my affections – that was his ultimate fear. He also thought that you had the power to hurt me emotionally.’

‘Well, he succeeded in keeping you for himself, didn’t he? He kept you at home in his ivory tower, so that no man could ever get near you. I’ll never forgive him, Zarri Bano, no matter what you say. He altered the whole courses of our lives.’ She could feel the anger vibrating in him, through his fingers. They were still tugging painfully at her hair.

‘You must remember, Sikander, if Jafar hadn’t died, my father couldn’t have prevented us from marrying.
It was fated to happen. It was in our stars, Sikander. You must believe this if nothing else,’ she appealed earnestly.

‘Whatever you say, Zarri Bano. The fact remains, however, that I cannot forgive him. As my wife, I want to have nothing to do with your inheritance, your land. It is
haram
for me, I tell you.’ His eyes shot angry darts at her.

‘It is neither mine nor yours, Sikander. It belongs to Haris. I don’t like it either. I have in fact already sold some of the land to build the
madrasas
and provide for their running costs.’ She was feeling upset now.

‘My son is having nothing to do with your
inheritance,
Zarri Bano!’ he hissed, withdrawing his hand from her hair and stepping away.

Zarri Bano felt a physical shock when he took his hand away. She wanted it back in her hair, wanted him to re-establish that warm physical and mental rapport that they had just been sharing.

‘Very well! If you won’t let “your” Haris inherit it, you cannot stop “my” son from doing so!’ she threw at him, before realising what she was saying. ‘The land is very important to my family. I have to keep it in my father’s memory.’

A strange silence settled in the jungle.

‘What son?’ Sikander softly queried at last.

Zarri Bano could feel his breath on the nape of her neck as her hair fell like a heavy curtain around her face. She bent her head lower, hiding her face from him with her hair and hugging her legs up to her chin.

‘The son that I may have in the future, Sikander,’ she mumbled, so quietly that he had to bend down close to hear her.

Sikander stood up, his face relaxing into a smile and
his eyes shining in the sun. He looked around at the scene anew and saw that orchids were growing out of the trunk of the tree where Zarri Bano was sitting. They were just above her head and looked like a crown of gems. His body uplifted with joy, the world had suddenly become a glorious place for Sikander.

With a beating heart, Zarri Bano peeped up, waiting for his response. She met his tender eyes, feeling very vulnerable under their scrutiny. She had unlocked for him – almost – the last door to her inner self.

‘If that is the case, then I cannot prevent
your
son, I mean
our
son, from inheriting the land.’ His husky whisper was rich with warmth and laughter.