Typhoon (11 page)

‘Don’t worry, I will sit near the courtyard gates,’ Jamila quickly reassured her, as if reading her friend’s mind and fears. ‘Then if I do feel nauseous, I can quickly leave.’

Out on the verandah, another spasm attacked her
and she doubled over, retching. Her resolve to reach the kacheri however was stronger than ever. One way or another, no matter how lousy she felt, she would be there like everyone else. She would never be able to forgive herself for missing such an event.

Sitting outside on the swingseat, with her bad leg stretched out in front of her, resting on a footstool that Shahnaz had provided, Sardara was fanning herself with a manual hand fan. Her interested gaze had surveyed the architectural design of Jamila’s verandah, and the large, beautifully landscaped courtyard.

Jamila had doubled-up again over the edge of the swingseat on which Sardara was sitting.

‘What’s the matter with Jamila, Naimat Bibi?’ she asked in alarm.

Jamila stood up queasily and smoothed her hair away from her face. It appeared she now had to share her secret with their milk woman too, but she would only do it on their way to the kacheri.

I
N HER MOTHER
’s room, Gulshan sat with her head bowed, tears falling in her lap. Hajra stood by helpless. ‘Come on, my beloved daughter,
piari, piari, beti
. It is time to go,’ she softly coaxed.

‘I don’t want to go, Mother. I wish you hadn’t demanded a kacheri. Don’t you see how terrible it is going to be for me? Why did you do it? To let the whole world know that your daughter has been cheated on and betrayed by her husband? All I want to do is to sink myself in some hole, not to make a spectacle of myself in front of so many people.’

‘I know, my Gulshan, but you have to be brave. Believe me, you’ll not make a spectacle.’

‘Please, Mother, don’t make me go!’ Gulshan pleaded. ‘I can’t cope with all the villagers and their looks. They will look at me and
her
. She’ll be there too, won’t she? I don’t want to see her!’

Sighing heavily, Hajra sat down beside her daughter, not knowing what to say or do. What did one do in such a situation? Bury it or confront it? Her hand lovingly patted her daughter’s shoulders. ‘You have to go, my beloved. Don’t be afraid. You have to face up to the world. You are the wronged woman, remember.’ Hajra beseeched, her heart weeping for the girl.

‘Everybody will be looking at me and feeling sorry for me.’ Gulshan’s voice broke.

‘I know, my dear, and so they should. You are the
innocent one who has been wronged. While
her
head will be sunk and buried in disgrace, yours will be held high in dignity. You’ll have everyone’s sympathy. The kacheri is held, not to shame you, my daughter, but that whore!’ Hajra spat, her voice quivering with hate. Agitated, she got up from the bed.

‘Mother, please don’t say that word to me! I can’t go! I don’t want to face her!’ Gulshan sidled away from her mother’s side, almost afraid of being near her.

Hajra finally lost patience. ‘Enough, Gulshan! Think of her! Don’t you think – that it is going to be a hundred times worse for that bitch? Now come on, get changed – and comb your hair. You look a mess. They will all be looking at you both and comparing you – you know what the women are like.’ Hajra stopped as she saw Haroon come out of his room. He stared angrily at them both.

‘You women, you don’t know what you are doing. Call off the kacheri! You will regret it otherwise. Let me explain …’ he appealed, walking under the verandah towards them. Hajra rose and banged the door shut.

‘Naghmana!’ Haroon cried the name to himself, his hands balling into tight fists he stood helplessly on the verandah, looking at the closed door separating him from his wife.

‘See you at the kacheri, haramzada!’ Hajra taunted from the room, her eyes glaring at him through the crack of the bedroom door.

His nostrils flaring with silent rage, he shouted, ‘You’ll regret this!’ And walked out of his home. ‘I must either see Naghmana or the old man before the kacheri begins,’ he told himself, and felt panic rise within him.

Siraj Din carefully inspected his appearance in the mirror for the last time. His starched turban was set at the most flattering angle on his henna-dyed head. He meticulously first smoothed down and then twirled his brown moustache in place. Dabbing some male perfume behind his ears he let a few careless drops fall on his white shirt. Finally, he buttoned up his long black woollen coat, even though it was a hot afternoon, it had to be worn. Appearances were very important.

Glimpsing his wife’s image in the mirror, he turned to face her. Smiling, she held up his long ivory stick in her hand. He didn’t need it for walking. It was just a cosmetic prop he had adopted fifteen years earlier. It lent an air of
rhob
, of dignity and urbanity to his prominent status. He never left home without it. In the eyes of the villagers, Baba Siraj Din and his walking stick were inseparable.

‘Thank you, Zulaikha, my dear.’ Siraj Din took the stick from her hand. ‘Come with me to the kacheri. I need you there by my side.’ Surprising her with his earnest request.

Bemused, Zulaikha blinked in reply. This was so uncharacteristic of him. It was the second time in one day he had appealed to her. He, the one who had always scorned her offers of advice. To ask her to sit at his side, instead of his two
shegird
, trainees, was an honour indeed.

A gentle smile hovering on her lips, Zulaikha reassured her husband. ‘Don’t worry, I will come as soon as I can. I need to sort out our grandchildren’s luggage. Have faith in yourself, Siraj Din Sahib, whatever you do will be for the best. And I have faith in you. Just remember to be wise, my husband – let your head
rule, not your heart! Above all be fair, my lord! You are the qazi, so use your power wisely. In you lies justice.’

Siraj Din’s emerald-green eyes, fringed with thick lashes, trailed lovingly over his wife’s face, seeking to say so much, yet intuitively holding back the words. Earlier he had almost betrayed himself. Surprisingly, however, he had felt no shame in showing a vulnerable side of himself to his wife. It was her respect he had yearned for. Always, he had presented a tough, domineering facade – the masterful husband who ruled his wife, like he did everyone else, with an iron will, and whose ideas and actions were indisputable. Siraj Din’s eyes caressed again the face of the woman who had once posed a challenge to his male ego, a threat to his male authority – a rival. Today, he not only saw her as his equal but accepted her as such.

Grudgingly, he had respected her for years. Today, unbidden, the generous words of praise at last tumbled out of his mouth. ‘I am so proud to have you as my wife, Zulaikha. Remember that always, even if I were never to utter these words again in my life.’ His hand crept to her face, caressing her cheek. Unable to withstand her bewildered gaze, he withdrew his hand and immediately left her.

Zulaikha stared after him, bemused. Then a look of sheer joy crossed her face. ‘We have been married for nearly forty years,’ she murmured, ‘but it is only today that my husband has opened his heart, his mind and his inner world to me. Only today has he let me inside him.’ She felt a deep regret. There could have been so many other moments of shared joy and friendship. Instead of hurting one another, duelling in a language of power play – in which Siraj Din’s aim had always been to crush her spirit and for him to be the victor.

Today he had accorded her the status of an equal, an honour indeed. Her heart swelled with joy again. ‘Be fair, my dear husband!’ Zulaikha’s lips fervently prayed in the mirror as she recalled the purpose of the kacheri and the wicked woman, who had cast her evil shadow, her
perchanvah
, on her household and the entire village of Chiragpur.

‘Naghmana!’ Fatima shouted hoarsely from the bottom of the stairs. The word ricocheted around the house. Closing her eyes, she swallowed to ease the painful dryness in her throat. A mild, meek woman by nature, Fatima had never shouted so much in one day and in such a short time. In fact, she had never shouted at anyone in her life. She rubbed the palms of her hands together in a gesture expressing her shame as her mind dwelt on the possible fate awaiting them in the kacheri.

‘Oh Allah pak, help me! I have done nothing wrong. Take me away from this life mercifully. Do it now so that I can be spared the shame. Oh, why did I have to be her aunt? I will be accused by everyone of pimping for them – of encouraging them. God, You know the truth! Listen to me! I had no inkling of this evil going on, this haram being committed behind my back …’ Fatima suddenly stopped her chanting as she saw Naghmana quietly slip down the stairs and stand uncertainly in front of her on the bottom step.

Her head and half of her face was hidden behind the folds of the old muslin shawl. The shapeless grey linen suit camouflaged the youthful contours of her body. Naghmana steadfastly refused to meet her aunt’s eyes. Instead she carried on looking down at her toes peeping out of her sandalled feet. Her beautiful feet, with their
well-manicured, painted toenails, were totally incongruous with the rest of her attire.

Fatima too glanced down at Naghmana’s feet. ‘Here, wear my shoes. I am not having your painted toenails dancing in front of everyone’s eyes.’ She pulled off her own plain court shoes and shoved them near her niece’s feet.

Wordlessly Naghmana took off the offending sandals she had purchased from a prestigious department store in Karachi and fumbled her feet awkwardly into her aunt’s shoes.

Still standing near the staircase she waited for her aunt as she went to look for another pair of shoes for herself.

Pulling one end of her shawl over her head and wrapping the rest carefully around the upper part of her body, Fatima signalled to Naghmana to follow her.

‘Come on! We are already late, God help us! I never thought I would live to see the day when I would become
zaleel
, humiliated, in front of the whole village and through no fault of my own.’

It was the cue Naghmana was waiting for. ‘Auntie, I am innocent! Please believe me. It is not what you think! I have done nothing wrong! I can explain,’ she pleaded for the last time, as Fatima pulled her roughly out of the door.

‘Done nothing wrong? Innocent! Can explain?’ Fatima repeated sarcastically. ‘You were found in the arms of a married man?’ The words spilled acid.

Naghmana stood in the village lane, her lips quivering with fear and a weird sense of unreality riding over her. She tried again.

‘Auntie, I … am …’ Startled, Naghmana looked up as something hit her shoulder and fell on the cobbles of
the lane. A woman’s plastic sandal lay near her foot. Her mouth totally dry, Naghmana gazed up.

A tall young woman stood on the rooftop of her home opposite Fatima’s house. Her upper body, wrapped in a large cream chador, was poised in an aggressive stance, her face was contorted with disgust.

Naghmana stood frozen in the middle of the lane, looking up at the young woman. Contempt written all over her face the woman swept away from the wall, disappearing from sight. Her heart thudding behind the shapeless kameez and the chador, Naghmana found her body trembling uncontrollably. Goose pimples stood up firm on her arms: she was icy cold in the blazing afternoon sun.

Squatting down, Fatima picked up the shoe and waved it menacingly in front of Naghmana’s face. ‘This is just a taste of what is to come. This is the reaction you can expect,’ she jeered.

Feeling faint, Naghmana turned her face away. Fatima threw the sandal in the open gutter in the lane. Then, gripping her firmly by the arm, she led her niece behind her, in the direction of the village madrasah.

Silently Naghmana stumbled after her aunt. In the village lanes she came across women she had never met before, but somehow they all appeared to know who she was. Their stares burned her body. Studiously Naghmana kept her head lowered pulling her aunt’s old shawl over her face. Her dazed eyes examined the cobbles on the village lane and compared them to the even surface of the street outside their villa in Karachi. ‘Why haven’t these people a proper road surface?’ she asked herself. ‘Even after so many years, they still have
cobbled streets. Does nobody trip on these stones?’ she queried, in her head, still helplessly being led towards her destination – the kacheri.

Sheikh Muslih-uddin SA’DI Shirazi 

c
. 13th century Persia 

From
The Gulistan of Sadi 

Translated by Edward Rehatsek

A
HUSHED SILENCE
reigned in the madrasah courtyard as the village qazi, Baba Siraj Din, ceremoniously tapping his ivory stick, entered through the gates with his two shegirds, flanked respectfully on each side. He took in the scene in one quick glance. People, right up to his top table. Such a strange sight – never before had he seen so many villagers attend a village kacheri. At the most, a kacheri attracted only a handful of men, and often they themselves had business cases to be dealt with. Today all the chairs were taken. Some men were also sitting cross-legged on the straw mats in a row in front of the chairs.

Siraj Din glimpsed, with distaste, the rows of women. Used to a male only presence in a kacheri, he was somewhat startled and annoyed at the large number of women who had turned up. Even Sardara, the doodwali, who is forever complaining about her arthritis is here, he thought. I wonder how her legs made it to this place? And Kaniz … Siraj Din’s eye skipped over the head of the attractive young Chaudharani, who had somehow usurped his daughter-in-law, Shahzada’s role, and wormed her way into his affection. So much so that he had adopted her as a daughter. He had learnt to tolerate her odd behaviour by being generous about it. After all, poor Kaniz was a widow. She had lost her husband at a very early age. He often found himself narrating this to others in order to excuse her. Once this
unfortunate affair was dealt with, Siraj Din reminded himself that he must visit Kaniz and ask her if she was going to marry Younus Raees, the young landlord from the neighbouring village. She is a very attractive woman and has a lot going for her, he decided. But with her haughtiness and pride, she repels people. I must remind her to be more human – more accessible. It is no use treating people like dirt all the time. The danger is there that it can sometimes backfire on you … Siraj Din abruptly switched his thoughts to the task ahead of him as his shegirds guided him to the table and the high chair reserved for him. He noted, nevertheless, as he passed that Younus Raees was present too at the kacheri. Was he here for Kaniz’s sake, or for the court gathering?

Aware that everyone was watching him, Siraj Din stiffly sat down. He assented for his two shegirds to sit on the chairs on either side of him and whispered in the ear of one to keep a chair vacant in the women’s section for his wife, as she was due to come later on.

Siraj Din’s eyes spanned over the faces of the villagers, noting who was present. It was a grave affair that they were all going to be dealing with. In a strange way he was glad now that the women were here too. This nasty affair had to be nipped in the bud. ‘Never again will this village be tarnished by such filth! Never again will adultery be committed on this soil!’ Siraj Din vowed to himself, his body filling with rage.

He stiffened as he saw Haroon enter the courtyard. Everyone had turned, craning their necks to get a better look at him. His head held high, Haroon strode towards the three chairs on one side of the table. Ignoring everyone, he sat down. Much to Siraj Din’s disgust, he sprawled and crossed his legs defiantly in front of
him. He looked straight ahead at the horizon, visible from the low wall of the madrasah courtyard.

Siraj Din debated with himself as to exactly what action he was going to take. What was he going to do and say? He still wasn’t sure. The books of Shariah law were prominently placed in front of him and he had studied them thoroughly, spending two hours reading up on the subject of adultery. To make sure, he had consulted his two shegirds.

His eyes traced the leather binding of the books, their engraved covers with gold calligraphic designs. Siraj Din marvelled at the painstaking work by the artists and craftsmen.

As the noise level in the courtyard dimmed, Siraj Din looked up. Hajra, Gulshan and little Moeen had arrived. Her face set in determined creases, Hajra was in front, beckoning her daughter to follow.

When Haroon saw his family come in, he jumped to his feet. ‘I need to speak to you alone, about this matter!’ he whispered urgently to the Buzurgh. ‘This gathering is not a good idea! It is totally wrong. I can explain.’

‘You will speak here publicly, say whatever you want to say. You should have thought of your actions!’ Siraj Din hissed back into the young man’s face.

‘Look, you really don’t understand …’ Suddenly, Hajra aggressively stood between him and the Buzurgh, neatly cutting him off from the old man. Frustrated, Haroon leant back in his chair and helplessly looked at his wife as she stood behind her mother.

‘Moeen, come here. Sit on my lap, my son,’ Haroon quietly urged his son.

Moeen let go of his mother’s hand and was about to run to his father’s side, but she reached over and
clutched his hand tightly and drew him back closer against her body. He looked up anxiously at his mother, wondering why she wasn’t letting him go to his father.

The Buzurgh had now dutifully patted Hajra’s head in the traditional gesture, as she stood in front of him with a lowered head. She gestured to her daughter to do the same. Miserable to her very soul, and knowing that over a hundred pairs of eyes were focused on her, Gulshan ducked her head down in front of the old man. He gently patted it, muttering reassuringly, ‘It is all right, my dear. Don’t worry.’

The old man’s kindness was Gulshan’s undoing. Her vision blurred as the tears jumped out of her eyes, and to her embarrassment trailed down her cheeks. Gratefully she followed her mother and sat down on a chair, holding onto her Moeen, and sat him on her lap, as a shield. Hidden behind her son’s head, she discreetly wiped her tears with the hem of her shawl.

‘She is crying, poor girl,’ Naimat Bibi whispered across to Jamila on the back row. Jamila looked up miserably; her body was being wracked by another wave of nausea. She clutched her stomach, whilst nodding.

‘Oh my God, here she is!’ Naimat Bibi whispered in awe.

Jamila too turned to look at the gate. Abrupt silence choked the courtyard. Heads craned to look over shoulders at the gates.

Fatima stood poised on the small step of the courtyard and surveyed the scene. Around the top table, with just a small space between them, were rows of chairs on both sides. Women sat on the right, the men on the left. It appeared as if the whole village was here, even Chaudharani Kaniz who hardly ever deigned to grace
any social functions. There was also the old blacksmith in his eighties, who could barely walk and rarely left his home.

Her friend Hajra too was sitting beside her son-in-law and daughter, glaring at her as if she would eat her alive. Betrayed, Fatima kept her face straight, utterly wounded and wondering why Hajra wanted to take it out on her. She personally hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? It was her niece! Why did people hate her?

Gulshan was staring at her with frightened eyes and looking beyond her shoulders. Fatima knew who she sought.

‘Naghmana!’ Fatima hissed under her breath. Her niece dutifully appeared by her side from behind her.

Now total wet silence wrapped itself around the courtyard as that woman stood in the gateway. As she stepped down into the courtyard, even the leaves on the grape tree appeared to have stopped rustling.

‘Slut!’ whispered one woman loudly, unable to help herself, drawing everyone’s attention to herself. Her cheeks flagged red.

Naghmana kept her eyes on the ground, as she numbly followed her aunt up to the top table. Fatima bent her head in front of the Buzurgh. Siraj Din reluctantly patted it. Following her aunt’s example, Naghmana did the same, bending her head down in front of the old man.

Significantly Siraj Din’s hand didn’t rise. It remained still on the table. The seconds passed. Everyone watched and waited with bated breath for the revered elder’s hand to rise. It didn’t! Humiliation searing her body, Naghmana dumbly moved back. Not daring to look anywhere, she huddled down beside her aunt on the other chair.

Everyone present in the kacheri had witnessed her shudder. The old man was known for patting the heads of the village women in a traditional gesture of duty. The omission was, on his part this afternoon, a striking one. By this small gesture the village elder had conveyed his displeasure to all.

In short, he had shamed her well and truly and publicly.

Her cheeks smarting from the heat of humiliation, Naghmana lowered her eyes to the ground. From behind the edge of her muslin shawl, she could see the rows of feet of all shapes and sizes on the dusty ground.

A warm breeze swept through the gathering, making the thick leaves rattle on the two mature fruit trees in each of the two corners of the courtyard. A child’s voice echoed from the back row and then was immediately hushed up. A herd of milk buffaloes trundled past the madrasah gates, the bells around their necks merrily jingling as they swung their heavy heads from side to side.

Naghmana looked up and caught Haroon’s eyes. They were trying to tell her something. She quickly looked away. Then her eyes sought and fell hypnotically on the
other
woman, sitting with a young child on her lap. The woman’s face was half hidden behind the boy, but her pain, misery, jealousy and condemnation were all too obvious. Naghmana immediately knew that this was the wife. And that was her son sitting on her lap.

Naghmana’s heart sank as the reality of the scene and the other woman’s ocean of suffering washed over her. Her eyes met Gulshan’s across the small space between them.

Gulshan blinked in confusion. There was no
sharm
,
no shame in the woman’s eyes – but strangely, pain and utter misery. Gulshan boldly raised her head and looked again, confounded by the ‘wicked’ woman’s expression. It was as if they were two wretched human souls, communicating with one another – both
wrestling
not with each other, but to pass on their pain and misery to the other.

Siraj Din glanced from one woman to the other and then at Haroon. This was the threesome, at the heart of it all. With his head held at a dignified angle, he looked across at the audience.

It was time to begin. Clearing his throat noisily, he signalled that he was ready to speak. Naghmana dropped her gaze and stared once more at the ground.

Siraj Din’s eyes fell on the bent head and anger filled him. This woman had cut short his grandchildren’s visit. He was going to miss the time to be spent with them, because of her. He had promised to take Zarri Bano to the farm, their
dera
. Now they were on their way back to the town.

His mouth a straight slit of anger, he began.

‘Young woman, I hear that you’ve caused quite a stir in our village – in fact, you’ve created quite a
tofan
amidst our hitherto gentle and peaceful lives.’ The words were uttered with the highest ring of authority that the villagers had ever known him to use, and
coming
out both loud and harsh. ‘Yet you are a stranger in our midst. Is this how you repay our hospitality?’ His voice now icy. ‘What have you got to say on this matter?’

Naghmana’s head jerked up. She looked at the old man sitting stiffly and dressed in laundered, starched clothes with a turban on his head.

‘What is there to say?’ Hajra interrupted, standing
up and unable to stop herself. ‘Buzurgh Sahib, what can this hussy say? This whore! This man-eater who goes around stealing other women’s husbands from their beds at night-time …’

Naghmana’s head bowed in shame before the
spectators
’ gaze. She gazed at a black line of ants zigzagging their way between the legs of her chair. She let her aunt’s old muslin shawl slide further down over her face to shield her from the hostile gazes. The villagers looked from Hajra to Naghmana, their mouths half open as ‘sister’ Hajra continued with her venomous verbal assault.

‘She is a haramzadi, a slut, a menace to our civilised society. She has ensnared my son-in-law …’ She stopped in mid-sentence as that same son-in-law sprang to his feet and glared at her.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Haroon raged. ‘Don’t you dare say another word against her, you stupid, vindictive woman – do you understand?’ He pointed his finger menacingly at his mother-in-law’s chest. Hajra was outraged, smarting, from his ‘stupid woman’ insult. Still, she moved back a step, fearing that he might physically assault her.

Naghmana glanced up from beneath her shawl fringe, her face still half-hidden. With her eyes, she silently beseeched Haroon not to say anything in her defence. Shaking her head gently at him.

Gulshan had hungrily watched the movement. Then jealousy ripped her apart as she cried to herself, ‘This woman definitely has a relationship of some sort with my Haroon!’

‘Is that whore more important to you than your own wife?’ Hajra taunted, spitting out, to the delight of the spectators, the ugly word
whore
again. Their ears
burned, but their wicked hearts relished hearing it nevertheless.

‘
Her
head has swung down again!’ Naimat Bibi piped in Jamila’s ear. Jamila blindly nodded. In front of her eyes, however, there flashed a huge mound of
chuvare
, dry dates. Her stomach heaved and she desperately clutched at the sides of her chair, squeezing her eyes shut, riding on another wave of nausea, lapping over her and then letting it subside.

Haroon winced at Hajra’s words. The fragile dam he had built inside himself collapsed and neither Naghmana’s beseeching eyes and shaking head nor anyone else could stop the flood that was ready to jet forth. Haroon turned to the people assembled in the courtyard. ‘All come to see this
tamasha
?’ he sneered. ‘I will give you that all right!’ With a pointed glare at his wife, Gulshan, he dug forth. ‘If this woman is a haramzadi, then so is Gulshan!’

The outraged village audience was awed into silence. Jamila forgot about her unwanted pregnancy and the mound of dry dates. Like everyone else her head craned to look at his wife.

Gulshan’s head too had shot up at her husband’s insult, unable to understand either his cruelty or the manner in which it was exercised. She just withered behind the small body of her son.

Fishlike, Hajra’s mouth had dropped open in
indignation
. Her lips stuttered to form words, but Haroon was too fast for her.