The Holy Woman (6 page)

R
ETURNING FROM
A
visit to Sikander’s offices, their laughter ringing in the hallway, Zarri Bano and Sikander entered the drawing room with their faces flushed with happiness. Their laughter sank into the eerie silence of the room. Sikander’s mother, Bilkis, hurriedly wiped tears from her eyes. His father looked away sheepishly from Zarri Bano’s glance.

‘What is the matter?’ Zarri Bano asked in alarm. ‘Why are you crying, Auntie Jee?’ Quickly moving to stand by Bilkis’s side she draped an arm around her shoulders.

‘I am afraid we have some bad news for you. You must return home immediately, Zarri Bano, my
daughter
,’ Bilkis gently informed her, mopping her face with her shawl.

‘What has happened?’ Zarri Bano asked, trying to stay calm.

Sikander was alarmed on her behalf. He looked at his parents questioningly.

‘Sikander, please make arrangements for Zarri Bano to return home immediately. It … it is her brother. Jafar had an accident last night. He died this afternoon.’

‘Oh
Allah pak
!’ Zarri Bano whispered, shaking her head from side to side, as if trying to rid herself of the image conjured up in her mind by Bilkis’s words. Then she stared into space, as shock overtook her.

Sikander watched in growing horror, sharing Zarri Bano’s despair and the trauma she was undergoing. How was it possible for a young, handsome man to die, just out of the blue? It was so unfair.

‘Father, I’ll take Zarri Bano home myself. She is in no state to travel with her chauffeur. Both of you, I
presume
, are coming too. Did they telephone?’

‘Yes, one of Habib Khan’s servants rang. Jafar fell off his horse, hurting his head. Brain haemorrhage, they said.’

When they reached her home two hours later Zarri Bano still hadn’t shed a tear. She continued to stare ahead, numbed to her very soul. Sikander kept glancing at her, wanting to comfort her, to put his arms around her and draw her to himself. Social etiquette, however, had kept his arms firmly down. At the moment, in the eyes of the world, they had no legitimate relationship between them. ‘There is nothing between us,’ she had said the other night, he recalled bitterly. Only her
husband
, father or brother had the honour of comforting her physically.

With a dread step, Zarri Bano entered her home. The happy house had turned into a mausoleum, a place of mourning. Relatives, friends, neighbours and servants
were everywhere – either weeping or chanting. As they caught sight of her, their chorus of chanting grew louder, and they rushed towards her to offer their
condolences
. Two women flung their arms ceremoniously around her and sobbed heartily on her shoulders.
Standing
woodenly in their arms, Zarri Bano was unable to either shed a tear or make sense of the scene around her. Sikander and his parents remained by her side.

Fatima led them into the large drawing room, where Jafar was laid out on a
palang
in the centre of the room. Fatima and her daughter Firdaus were delegated with the honour of receiving the guests and local mourners alike. They, themselves, had only arrived from the
village
that afternoon. Abandoning everything, mother and daughter had hurried to offer comfort and support to Shahzada and Habib.

Milling around the large bed with its walnut headboard, the stream of mourners peered over the body, paying their respects. While some women openly wept, others chanted traditional songs of mourning. Some women even gently beat their breasts in the village tradition. Others preferred to express their grief in more subtle ways: quietly weeping in their
chadors
and shawls and on the shoulders of their loved ones. Ritually they turned from shoulder to shoulder.

Still in shock, Zarri Bano walked to her brother’s bier. On seeing her approach, a hushed group of mourners respectfully parted to let her pass. Dry-eyed, she stared down at her handsome young brother, lying there. Why are these stupid people gathered around him and weeping? she thought, gazing wildly around at the crowd of people assembled.

‘Wake up, Jafar, my darling! It is past the afternoon!
Wake up, Jafar!’ Bending over the bed, she began to tug urgently at her brother’s cold hand.

At her words, and noticing the state she was in, the hall resounded with fresh chanting and wailing. Even those hitherto dry-eyed were now forced to cry, empathising with Zarri Bano’s agony.

Shahzada, sitting next to her son’s bed on the floor, got up and gently led Zarri Bano away, cradling her tall frame against her own body. Then she beckoned to Ruby, sitting on the other side of the bed, to take her sister away from the scene. In an emotionally bruised state of mind herself, Shahzada couldn’t bear people watching and witnessing her eldest daughter coming to terms with her raw grief.

Ruby led Zarri Bano up to her room. The two sisters sat on the sofa, hand in hand. Ruby was talking, but Zarri Bano didn’t respond – just continued to stare into space.

‘Please, sister, snap out of it! Cry, because that is all we have left. Our Jafar is no more.’

‘He held my hands, Ruby. I think I simply adore him. It has happened to me at last, Ruby. I think I am in …’ Zarri Bano turned with a look of wonder on her face, breaking the strange silence between them.

‘Who held your hands,
Baji Jan
?’ Ruby asked, in surprise.

‘Sikander Sahib.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I agreed to be his wife.’

‘Oh, I am so pleased for you, sister,’ Ruby replied, heartened to hear Zarri Bano talking once again.

‘I must tell everyone that I have, at last, found the man I want to marry. Where is Mother? I must tell her!’ A glazed look still in her eye, she stood up to leave.

‘Sister, please wait!’ Ruby pulled Zarri Bano back in alarm. ‘This is not the time to tell them or anyone else. Please remember we have just lost Jafar.’

‘Where have you lost him? He’ll be in the stables. I’ll tell him first.’

‘No, listen!’ Ruby cried, with desperation. ‘He is dead! Please try to understand. He is not going to be able to hear you. He has gone for ever. He won’t be at your wedding.’ A cry of utter anguish rang around the room, as Ruby broke down and wept.

Zarri Bano stared dumbfounded at her sister’s bowed head, trying to make sense of what she had said. Then, the words ‘he is dead’ pounded in her head.

‘No! No! No! My darling brother!’ Her mouth trembling, she let out a piercing scream. Running out of the room she dashed along the corridor of bedrooms, down the curved staircase, straight into the large
drawing
room. She wasn’t aware that she wore no
dupatta
, nor shoes on her feet. Going up to her brother’s bed, she fell on the ground before it and wept. Touching her brother’s face lovingly, she stared in mute agony at the faces around her. The sound of wailing and mournful chanting arose again, punctuated by Zarri Bano’s anguished cries.

Sikander sat with the other men on one side of the hall helplessly watching Zarri Bano. Angry with fate. Why did life have to be so cruel? Just last night he had been one of the happiest of men on earth – now this! They had been planning their wedding in the restaurant. Talking about the places he would show her in Singapore on their honeymoon.

It wasn’t a good omen. He was not a superstitious man by any means but an uncanny feeling of dread swept over him. Jafar’s death would definitely mean
that their wedding would have to be postponed.
Bitterly
he cursed his
kismet
. They hadn’t even had a chance to formally get engaged or exchange rings. With the loss of their precious and only son, Zarri Bano’s parents would be in mourning for a long time. The wedding would probably have to wait a few months, if not a year.

‘Zarri Bano, I can’t wait that long. I simply can’t!’ he silently beseeched her. He got up to go to the
bathroom
. Before he left the room, he went and stood close to Zarri Bano for a short time, wanting to offer her moral support and words of comfort.

Sitting in the far corner of the room surrounded by other men from the village, Habib had noted Sikander’s action. Even in his grief his sharp mind was working. How had Zarri Bano found Sikander’s family, their home and customs? he wondered. Was she definitely going to marry him? Habib wanted to know what had passed between his daughter and that ‘arrogant’ man in Karachi.

The next three days were a nightmare, not only for Habib, his family and relatives, but for all the
neighbouring
families too, in the small town of Tanda Adam and his home village, Chiragpur. A shroud of doom hung over every household. Everybody unreservedly and respectfully paid homage to Habib’s grief. A feudal landlord with great wealth, his family descended from the highest of castes, Habib Khan was also blessed with three beautiful children and acres of land to pass onto his heir. He was a much envied, yet liked and respected, figure in his town.

Thus, everybody mourned for Habib’s son – and what a son Jafar had been! One of the handsomest!
Tragically so young; yet unwed and no children to pass on the male line. ‘What a terrible way to go!’ they agonised, keenly empathising with Habib’s grief at having lost his only son and heir, their hearts going out to him. In a culture and land where sons were
traditionally
cherished, an only son was the most precious
commodity
of all worldly goods for any father. Hence, to lose your only son was like losing life itself – the worst calamity one’s worst enemy could face.

How did one come to terms with a grief and loss of this kind? they wondered bleakly amongst themselves. Would Habib and his family ever recover from this calamity? Moreover, they secretly speculated about the future. Would Habib follow his centuries-old tradition of making one of his daughters his heir?

All of Zarri Bano’s relatives, including her paternal grandfather, Siraj Din, and a maternal grandmother came to mourn and attend the funeral. All the rooms were occupied. Bedding was changed daily. The large kitchen had three full-time cooks, as well as Naimat Bibi from the village, preparing meals throughout the day and serving the guests. There was a constant stream of movement with men, women and children moving around the villa. They sat inside the rooms, as well as outside in the courtyard, in groups. This time of gathering, although meant to be a time for mourning, also provided a great opportunity for guests to share and exchange news, social gossip and matchmaking.

Zarri Bano and Ruby shut themselves in their rooms, only allowing their housekeeper, Fatima, in with the food. It was only there that they had something akin to personal privacy. With over a hundred people swelling their home, they couldn’t get away from prying eyes
and ears. They let their father, grandfather and mother see to the guests and the funeral arrangements.

Jafar was laid to rest in his family’s splendid plot of land in the local cemetery, annexed to the mosque in Chiragpur. His body was ceremoniously taken there by a truck on the second day. This was the most
unbearable
day for all, particularly for Jafar’s parents, his two sisters and for his old friend from the village, Khawar. Khawar had wept openly on Siraj Din and Habib’s shoulders a number of times, overtaken by the horror of his personal loss. The two sisters also wept in each other’s arms all day, thinking of their beloved brother lying beneath the soil.

On the third day, Sikander and Zarri Bano happened to pass each other. He and his parents had stayed on like the other guests after the funeral.

They stopped and looked at each other sadly.
Wanting
to say so much, Sikander managed very little, social niceties restraining him. Until they were formally engaged, in the eyes of everyone they had no right to liaise or to seek out each other’s company.

Zarri Bano, for her part, now displayed no
recognition
of their special relationship. The days spent together in Karachi appeared to have happened eons ago. ‘It is almost as if, with the death of her brother, she has wiped me and those tender moments in the Karachi orchard and on the beach out from her mind,’ Sikander noted with despair. Only a ghost of a smile signalled to him that she knew who he was.

‘How are you, Zarri Bano?’ Sikander tenderly enquired, pained by her grief-stricken appearance. The dimple in her left cheek appeared to have been ruthlessly erased. She was still very beautiful, in her
subdued coloured outfit and white chiffon headscarf, but the sparkle in her green eyes was no longer there. The gaiety of youth had been snuffed out – the laughter in the eyes all gone!

‘As well as one can expect, in the circumstances, Sikander Sahib. Thank you for being here and for all your support. I am sure that my father appreciates it,’ she answered politely, not quite able to look him in the eye, ready to move away.

‘Not at all,’ he answered, managing to muster a similar tone.

Seeing that they were in a public place, out in the courtyard, with men and women watching and
listening
to them with interest, Zarri Bano felt awkward in Sikander’s company.

‘I must go, Sikander Sahib.’ Excusing herself, she walked away from him.

Reluctantly he let her go. Stared after her with
despair
. He had long since recognised that he had fallen deeply in love with her, from the day of the
mela
. He now ached to protect and shield her from all this pain and suffering. If only they had been married before Jafar had died! He could then, have taken her away from this sad place and comforted her with all his loving heart. Now he was helpless to do anything. Almost as if he had no part to play in her life.

The mourners weren’t the only ones watching the short exchange between Habib’s beautiful eldest daughter and the tall, handsome businessman. Fatima had darted a conspiratorial smile at Shahzada in the courtyard as she saw them.

It was only as Fatima passed Kaniz and saw her face turn livid that she glanced in the direction of the woman’s furious glare. Over in the far corner of the
courtyard, Firdaus was sitting with Ruby, but Khawar was standing behind her, bending over her shoulder, whispering something in her ear. Firdaus had looked up at Khawar and laughed.