Typhoon (9 page)

O
UT IN THE
courtyard, Hajra pulled her chador tightly around her shoulders, and headed stiffly for the master’s palang.

Siraj Din watched her approach from under his brown bushy eyebrows, wondering why she had come to see him so early in the morning. The absence of a smile on her face intrigued him, immediately signalling to him that something wasn’t right. Pushing his body up into a sitting position, he gestured to her to sit down on the chair near his bed.

Hajra offered the customary greetings politely but remained standing.

‘Baba Jee, may I see you inside?’ she said. ‘For I have something very important to divulge to you and I don’t wish to discuss it here, in the open, with all the people in your household moving around us and listening.’

Taken aback by her request and her businesslike tone at such an early time in the morning, Siraj Din was unable to speak for a moment. Normally he held an audience in the courtyard, but because she had requested it, he felt duty bound to honour her request, albeit reluctantly.

‘Please show Hajra Jee to the guestroom.’ Siraj Jee gestured to the young manservant, who was standing behind him, massaging the muscles of his shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ Hajra said quietly, lowering her eyes before the elder zemindar.

Siraj Din watched her go, a thoughtful expression shining in his green eyes. Something was seriously wrong here. This was not Hajra’s normal behaviour. Putting aside his hookah pipe, he rose from the palang, and pulled his night tunic down. A tall man, with a trim body, he pushed the fold of the long, woollen
thusa
on his shoulder and followed Hajra indoors.

Hajra was already sitting stiffly on the guestroom sofa, perched on its edge. Her eyes restless and unfocused. Siraj Din took a seat opposite her.

‘Well, Hajra?’ the Buzurgh prompted in his most authoritative voice, thinking that it had better be worthwhile. He had vacated a comfortable position on his palang and abandoned the shoulder massage halfway through. Moreover, these modern leather sofas weren’t his favourite pieces of furniture.

‘What is it that has brought you to our hawaili at this time of the morning?’ His eyes followed the jerky movement of her fingers, as they clawed at the crocheted lace of her cotton chador.

Her heartbeat accelerating, Hajra looked up with pained eyes at the elder zemindar. As their village moral guide and an important decision-maker, she was placing her daughter’s fate and future in his hands. He had to act. She would see to it.

‘My daughter’s home is destroyed – her marriage is wrecked. An evil woman – a whore from the city – has stolen my son-in-law from my Gulshan.’ The words tumbled out, electrifying Siraj Din and making him sit up.

‘What nonsense is this?’ He finally demanded. It was impossible! An unimaginable situation!

The Buzurgh’s harsh tone proved too much for Hajra, and she gave full rein to her grief. At home she
had dammed it. Here she let it flood. Bending her head in her lap, she wept openly and loudly in her hands, her narrow shoulders heaving.

Siraj Din watched helplessly, lost for words until finally she lifted her head. ‘It is not nonsense, Baba Jee,’ she told him sorrowfully. ‘I have seen it with my own unfortunate eyes. No mother should have to do that!’

‘I don’t believe I am hearing this. Are you telling me that Haroon has been seen with another woman? And that this woman is not a woman from our village?’

‘Yes! Yes! That whore is Fatima’s niece!’ Hajra spat, her lips twisted in an ugly line.

The word ‘whore’ grating on his ears, Siraj Din’s mind was suddenly assailed by the image of the young woman stepping out of the car, with her smart sunglasses, her loose curtain of glossy hair draped behind her shoulders and her confident greeting. They had no ‘whores’ in the village.

His blood surged to a boil. I knew she was trouble the moment I saw her, he ground out to himself. Aloud, he said ‘She is a visitor, Hajra. She has only been here two days. How is it possible?’ He hoped for everyone’s sake that she was mistaken. Allah pak, let this woman’s eyes lie, he beseeched his Almighty Lord, trembling inside at the possible scenario facing him.

‘I know! I know! But it is all true. I saw for myself the woman in his arms last night in the field near the village well.’

Baba Siraj Din’s heart sank. The situation was getting worse.
Shaitan
, the devil, had surely cast its evil mantle on this morally pure, village of his.

Now this! He didn’t know what to say, or how to react. What
did
one say? What
did
one do in a situation like this? It was too terrible to even think about, let
alone hear that it had actually taken place in their midst.

Hajra’s head sprang up, hatred flashing in her eyes. ‘I want you to punish those two, Baba Jee, in front of all the villagers – and do it today!’ she demanded roughly, resolved to have it no other way.

Siraj Din stared back, struggling to make sense of her demands that he have the two punished in front of everyone in the village and, more importantly, today. No! No! He couldn’t possibly. He shook his head, his hand thoughtfully smoothing down his short henna-dyed beard, whilst he tried to grapple with the nightmarish situation.

Hajra interpreted his hesitation as a form of refusal.

‘You have to, Baba Jee!’ She screeched, rising up from the sofa. ‘You are the village elder, our decision-maker. You cannot let them get away with it. My daughter is at this very moment dying of shame and jealousy.’

‘Don’t worry, Hajra. I will deal with it,’ Siraj Din hastily reassured her, telling her with his hand to sit down. ‘I will have to see your daughter, to make sure what you saw really took place. Remember, we have to have two witnesses before you can accuse people of a crime like this.’

‘Of course. I understand. My unfortunate daughter is the one who saw them first. She followed him. Look – you can meet and ask them yourself!’ Her petulance angered the village elder.

‘No! I don’t want to see them.’ Siraj Baba showed his distaste. The last thing he wanted was to meet that Haramzada who had dared to turn their world upside down. His eyes closed in disbelief. There was something almost menacing about this affair between a
married man, who had never lifted an eye at another woman in the village before, and a total stranger who had barely been in Chiragpur for two days. It just didn’t make sense.

Siraj Din’s tall body rose resolutely from his cold leather seat. Yes! The two had to be dealt with. Especially
her
– the one who had brought the evil wind,
typhoon
, into his village. She had to be made an example of, so that no other woman ever dared to entertain the idea of adultery, let alone commit it. If this woman got away with it, where would the village be? People had to learn right from wrong, the difference between morality and immorality. He would not let any other case of adultery be committed in his village ever again.

‘Listen to me, Hajra. I am calling a kacheri later this afternoon. It will be broadcast straight after the
zuhr
afternoon prayers to the whole village. Before that, I want to make sure I have got the facts right, so I shall need to see your Gulshan. Send her to me straight away.’ He sighed heavily, ‘I am not at all pleased, Hajra, as you can well imagine. This has come at a bad time for me personally. My grandchildren are here with us; I had a meeting planned with Kaniz for a rishta I am arranging for her; I also need to supervise the work on the Girls’ High School. Everything will obviously have to be put on hold now. Go home, my dear, I will deal with this ugly matter. And Allah pak help us all. Hajra, I have never up till now had to deal with a case like this. How does one even begin to do so? I wish to God that you
had
imagined it all.’

The wistful note in his voice was not lost on her. She empathised with his predicament.

‘Don’t you think, Baba Jee, I would wish that too? But these unlucky eyes of mine have seen them kissing.
That was not a dream. The crumpled body of my
heartbroken
daughter is not a dream either. Her tears and screams have lacerated my ears. I cannot bear to see her heartache. No mother could. My baby doesn’t deserve this, Baba Jee, my innocent, trusting Gulshan! She is a pure woman!’

‘I know.’ The Buzurgh got up and moved towards the door. ‘Those two will be dealt a lesson they’ll never forget. In fact, I will make sure that nobody in the village will ever forget. Now go home and tell that son-in-law of yours to attend my kacheri too.’

He left her sitting on the sofa and walked out of his courtyard, his firm tread taking him straight into his tracts of land, his green beautiful fields. They didn’t, however, assuage his thirst for fresh air this morning. A blanket of polluted urban air had metaphorically wrapped itself around his village. The vision of that evil woman climbing out of her car thumped in his brain again. ‘You will wish, young madam, that you had never set eyes on the Buzurgh or this village of mine by the time I have finished with you!’ he thought savagely, trying to banish the attractive face and the bare head of the woman from his mind as he passed
her
car parked outside the Doodwali’s courtyard.

His stiff neck turned in the direction of Fatima’s home.

F
ATIMA STOOD LOST
in the centre of her courtyard, uncaring about the sunrays scorching her bare head. A plastic bowl in her hands, she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to use it for – rice or flour?

Her eyes on the top-floor gallery, Fatima bit her lower lip. ‘The hussy’ had planted her well and truly in the middle of a stone
chaki
, the flour-grinding machine and given her bruise-ridden body quite a spin. She brushed the salty taste of blood from her mouth. Then stared at the red stain on her fingers.

When knuckle raps thudded on Fatima’s door, she dropped the plastic bowl in a panic and drew her arm across her chest, feeling the dull beat of her heart grow fainter. It was as if it was lost in the round depths of a
ghara
– an earthen water pot.

‘Fatima, open the door!’ rang out the village qazi’s authoritative voice.

Her heart now almost leaping out of her chest, Fatima ran to the door and pushed aside the bolt. With nervous jerks, she pulled the door wide open. Baba Siraj Din’s harsh green glare greeted her.

‘Bismillah! Bismillah! Baba Siraj Din Sahib, please, do come inside,’ she stammered, pulling the shawl over her bare head.

The Sahib’s thick, brown eyebrows shot up. ‘No, thank you, Fatima.’ His refusal was a deliberate insult. ‘I am in no mood for social calls. I have not come as an
honoured guest to grace your doorstep. I am here on a very serious matter.’ His eyes narrowed, ‘You understand me, Fatima, don’t you?’

Intimidated by the harsh look in the Buzurgh’s eyes, Fatima gazed down, lost for words.

‘I have heard something terrible from Hajra, and my ears have burnt ever since, Fatima. I will neither soil my tongue nor sully my dignity by discussing that matter with you. You and I both know what it is. I am holding a kacheri later this afternoon and wish you to attend, along with that wicked niece of yours. I am not at all pleased, Fatima. That is all I will say for the moment on the subject.’ Turning, he walked away, a dignified figure with henna-dyed head, tapping his long ivory stick on the cobbled lane.

Dazed, Fatima closed the door and slumped heavily against its wooden frame. For a moment she slid down and lay there, listening to the chorus of the houseflies as they swarmed around the pillars. Then, her head throbbing with sudden rage, she leapt to her feet. Standing in the middle of the courtyard, her eyes went to the varnished shuttered window of Naghmana’s bedroom. ‘Naghmana! Naghmana!’ she screeched. In a storm of self-pity, she began to beat her breasts in a primitive gesture of mourning. She felt no pain.

Upstairs in her room, Naghmana had heard her name and with thumping heart she sat up and then ran downstairs, staring in horror at the vision of her aunt beating her breasts.

Her voice hoarse, she cried ‘Auntie! What are you doing?’ She desperately tried to pull her beloved aunt’s hands away from her chest.

Fatima shot a raw look of pain at her niece.
Naghmana stared back, thinking, I have done this to my aunt. I am responsible for this.

‘Auntie, please!’ she whimpered.

A look of madness separated them.

‘This is all you have left me with, you evil woman!’

‘Stop, Auntie! Please! I beg of you,’ the girl pleaded.

Fatima reacted by slapping her niece hard across the face. Her cheek throbbing, Naghmana stumbled back, staring now at her aunt in pained outrage.

‘We are doomed, you whore!’ Fatima hissed. ‘The village Buzurgh himself has been here! He has summoned us to his kacheri, to have you punished in front of the whole village. Do you hear me?’ Fatima glared at her niece. ‘What is there left for me to do, but to pull out my hair and beat my breasts? That is what broken women do, isn’t it? In all cultures – in all societies! And you have broken me! I have nothing to live for!’

Naghmana’s brimming eyes shimmered. She moved her neck from side to side, attempting to dislodge the nightmare, which was hurling her into a narrow tunnel with no possible exit in sight.

I must get out of here! she thought panicking. Her auntie had gone mad. The whole village was going mad. The village typhoon was fast spiralling out of control and sucking her into the eye of the hurricane.

‘Please, Auntie, give me my car keys,’ she said feverishly. ‘I am getting out of here.’

Fatima rushed at Naghmana, pushing her roughly up against the verandah column. ‘You are going nowhere, you bitch!’ she snarled. ‘You should have thought of that before you did your dirty work here!’

‘Auntie, please! You don’t understand!’ Tears blurring her vision, Fatima’s face swam before her. ‘Auntie, listen to me – you must listen to me! Please let me
explain!’ Sheer animal panic was quivering through Naghmama’s body. She must escape.

‘Listen! So now you want to run away, do you, and leave me in this mess! There is no chance of that. You will face the kacheri. I wish I could drown you myself in that well.’ Nearly choking Fatima held her hand against her panting chest.

‘For the last time, Auntie, listen to me –
please
!’

Loud, urgent knocks on the door made them both turn their heads.

‘Auntie Fatima, let me in. I need to talk to Naghmana!’ Haroon shouted from the street, startling both women.

Hearing his voice, Naghmana scrambled to her feet and ran to open the door, her hand clawing at the bolt. But her aunt was faster. She wrenched her back, her fingers digging into Naghmana’s arm, her eyes flashing with primitive rage.

Parting with the last ounce of her human dignity, Naghmana fell to her knees. Reaching for her aunt’s legs she clutched onto them, and begged. ‘Auntie, please open the door. I
must
speak to Haroon. You don’t understand,’ she beseeched, holding her trembling hands together in a request for mercy.

Fatima stared down at her. ‘You shameless woman! Have you not done enough? Now you want to talk to him!’ she hissed into Naghmana’s upraised face, which was besmeared with tears and mascara. Strands of hair clung to her wet cheeks.

Haroon heard what Fatima had said from outside. He banged with greater urgency.

‘Auntie Fatima, let me talk to Naghmana please or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. She is innocent. Believe me! She has done nothing wrong!’

Slapping Naghmana’s hands away, Fatima stood against the door and shouted back to Haroon. ‘Done nothing wrong? Get away, you haramzada! Have you not done enough – ruining all our lives? Was your Gulshan not enough for your lust? I will not open the door to you, shaitan. You can see this slut in the kacheri. Then you can say what you want to say to her in front of the village audience.’

‘Please, Auntie!’ By now, Naghmana was faint with fear. ‘Have mercy. Either let me talk to him or let me escape! Don’t take me to the kacheri, please Auntie. I am innocent!’

It was just too much for Fatima’s outraged sense of morality. Grabbing her niece by the wrist, she dragged her across the courtyard and pulled her up the stairs. Reaching her room, Fatima pushed Naghmana inside and then closed the door on her shocked face, bolting it from the outside.

‘You will stay locked in here until it is time for you to face the kacheri.’

Fatima panted, her breathing ragged. Then standing at the top of the stairs, as her hand groped for the banister, she felt herself go giddy. Blood was rushing into her head. Afraid to go down, she stood perched on the top step leaning against the concrete wall. ‘What is happening to me? What am I doing? Allah pak, help me!’ Fatima shuddered, going out of her mind.

Back outside in the courtyard, in the warm light of the early afternoon, Fatima gazed down at her swollen red hands, throbbing with pain. Then she lifted the neckline of her lawn kameez as it clung to her wet body and peered down at the self-inflicted marks striped against her flesh.

‘Allah pak, help us,’ she whispered. ‘What has
happened to me? What am I doing? Beating my breasts and my beloved niece? What evil, what madness has entered me?’

Inside her bedroom Naghmana stood staring at the door with a glazed look, unable to believe that her aunt had actually locked her in a room.

‘Oh, Allah pak, help me! I must wake up! This can’t possibly be happening to me! Haroon, where are you? Help me, please!’ she sobbed, walking back to the bed and falling against the bedpost. Sinking onto the marble floor.

Her shaking hands crept to her head and her fingers tugged at the roots of her hair. The pain made her squeeze her eyes shut, but the fingers carried on and on with their ruthless, mad task. Finally exhausted they fell away from her head. Naghmana stared down blankly at the thick knots of hair come loose in her hand. Throwing it aside on the floor, she began to hit her wrists against the bedpost, breaking the black glass bangles on her arms. The broken pieces of glass fell on the floor.

She ran across to the door and in a panic pulled at it again. It
had
to open! But the thick wooden frame stayed put; only the bolt outside rattled. Defeated, Naghmana hit her forehead against the door.

‘Auntie, please let me out!’ she whimpered.

Leaning against the door she began to pull at her hair again, as terror engulfed her and with it the blackness in her head.

Outside in the lane Haroon frantically carried on banging on Fatima’s door, bruising his fist. Then kicking it with his booted foot, he turned from the door and stood
in the middle of the lane, wondering what to do, where to turn.

An elderly woman, the barber’s revered grandmother, ‘Massi Basri’, passed him by. He forgot to offer his greeting. Massi Basri with her stooped body but with eagle eyes left him with disgust. Haroon saw her frown, but paid no attention. Dismissing her and his own rudeness, he strode angrily towards his home.

Thrusting it open with his foot, Haroon slammed the door shut behind him. Standing on the verandah, Gulshan’s heart thudded with fear. His angry stride, the tight line of his handsome mouth and the frown on his forehead were all apparent to her gaze.

‘Your meddlesome mother has been to see the old man – stupid, stupid woman! She doesn’t realise what she has done.’ Haroon threw a murderous look at his wife.

‘Don’t you dare call my mother stupid.’ Angry on Hajra’s behalf, Gulshan bravely defended, startled by her husband’s look of utter loathing. Fear gripped her again. What was wrong? He didn’t have the look of one who was guilty. It was almost as if
they
were the guilty party, and not him. Jealousy flushed through her body again as she pictured Haroon’s face against
hers
. No –
they
were the guilty ones.

Haroon stepped towards her. ‘If something happens to her, I am going to divorce you,’ Haroon threatened in a low voice. His wife’s face blanched before his eyes.

Hearing the firm tread of his mother-in-law’s feet on the staircase, Haroon turned to look. When Hajra saw her son-in-law, she automatically stiffened. Their gazes clashed in hatred. Haroon glared at his mother-in-law, before striding to his room and slamming the door shut. Gulshan watched helplessly, trying to still her trembling body and quivering lower lip.

‘Mother, did you hear what he said to me?’ she whispered, reeling from Haroon’s threat to divorce her.

‘What?’ Hajra was waving a buzzing mosquito aside with her hand.

All of a sudden common-sense prevailed, signalling to Gulshan to remain silent on this issue. A volcano had erupted right bang in the middle of their home. Everything was now out of her control, because of her mother’s intervention. God knew what her mother would do next if she found out about Haroon threatening her with the ‘thalaks’.

Her eyes brimming all over again, she miserably mumbled, ‘Nothing, Mother,’ before following her son up onto the rooftop to fly his
patangs
, his beloved kites. Life had to go on. She had to smile, dote and play with her son. Even flying kites with him. She wished she could fly away from this nightmare with one of them.

Hajra’s eyes bored into the door of her son-in-law’s room, her hands curved into tight fists. From across the small courtyard, she shouted, ‘You are to attend the kacheri, haramzada. Then you may show us how you can worm your way out of this and explain your haram doings.’

In the dark, stuffy room Haroon distinctly heard his mother-in-law. He deliberately hadn’t turned on the fan. He banged his fist against the bed headboard. With his hands crossed over behind his head, on the pillow, Haroon closed his eyes shut.

‘Oh, Naghmana, I am so, so sorry! Forgive me for placing you in this mess my darling,’ he begged dully. Wishing so much, yet unable to do anything. ‘If only! If only!’ he groaned aloud in regret, turning his face over, and burying it on his pillow.