by Owen Mullen
Afra propped herself on an elbow. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost five.’
‘And you want me to get up? Why?’
Nadira’s face was uncovered. Afra saw it for the first time. She’d thought she was a woman; the stoop of her body led her to that conclusion. Now her error was clear. Nadira was young, a girl.
‘Up. Quickly. We’ve work to do.’
Afra swung her legs out of the bed. On the soles of her feet the bare boards felt coarse and cold. Nadira crossed the room to the mound of clothes on the floor, a jumbled heap Afra had been too tired to fold. She lifted the garments and handed them to her.
‘Put these on. Please. My husband’s brother, his cousin and a friend come to the house every morning for breakfast. We must be ready for them. Come on.’
Afra dragged the clothes on. It felt like minutes since she’d taken them off.
Nadira said, ‘I’ll see you in the kitchen. Hurry.’
Why was she acting like this – telling her to be quick and talking in frantic whispers, like an old woman chivvying a child? She wasn’t more than fifteen or sixteen. Strange behaviour. Afra finished dressing, threw water on her face and tiptoed downstairs, through the room with the faded armchair that had held the complaining Mrs Dilawar Hussein.
Nadira handed her a knife. ‘Let’s get started.’
-------
Three hours later the men arrived, greeting each other with enquiries about how life progressed since the day before. The kitchen Afra had entered was not the place these men saw. It had been transformed into a warm welcoming space, swept and clean. A table sat with four chairs round it. The men dropped into their seats without a hello or good morning to the girls working at the stove, busy putting the finishing touches to the breakfast.
Bilal laughed with one of the men as his wife laid plates and fresh roti on the table. His face reminded Afra of a rodent. He looked as if he didn’t wash and his teeth were dark with decay. The smell of new baked bread filled the kitchen; the men joked about how hungry it made them. One draped an arm over the back of the chair and stared. Afra saw him, but pretended she didn’t.
‘Bilal. How lucky are you? Two females to keep you happy and here am I, alone every night, dreaming of women I’ve never seen.’
He shook his head in mock disbelief.
‘The new one belongs to our cousin, Quasim. She’ll be his wife, the arrangements are made. He’s asked me to look after her until then.’
‘He must be more trusting than I remember, or maybe he doesn’t know you.’
They sniggered and made crude gestures, enjoying the new girl’s embarrassment under the veil Nadira insisted she wore. In Mundhi, Afra often wore the niqab but not indoors. The men talked through breakfast and drank cup after cup of tea. As they were leaving, Bilal called to his wife. ‘Keep her busy. This place needs cleaning.’
The women washed plates and cups and cleared away what was left of the food.
When they were alone, Nadira relaxed. ‘Time for us to eat,’ she said.
Good news. Afra was hungry. She hadn’t had anything since Mundhi. Nadira brought the remains of the breakfast: it wasn’t a lot; fresh chapatis filled out what the men had left. But the tea was hot and very sweet, the way Afra’s mother made it and just the way she liked it. They ate and drank in silence. Her new family had offered nothing, not even water, after the long journey. She made funnels with pieces of bread and filled them with food, tore off other bits and soaked up the juices. Between them, they ate everything. Nadira didn’t take much though her bony arms said it would be better if she did. When the food was finished they sat, curious strangers.
‘How long have you been here?’
Nadira counted on her fingers and gave up. ‘I don’t know. A long time. Or perhaps it isn’t, perhaps it only seems long.’
Afra revised her opinion. Nadira was fourteen at most: stick thin, frail even, her eyes dull and old. Village life could be hard, women wore themselves out early. Afra had seen it. Too much work and loneliness made them give up. This girl was going down the same path. People stayed alive because they wanted to and died for the same reason. ‘Where are you from, Nadira? Are your family near?’
The girl-woman gave a sad smile. ‘From a village in the north. There was only my mother and myself, and she was old. I don’t expect to see her again. She may even be dead, her health was never good.’
‘So how did you find your way to Lahore?’
‘Is that where we are?’
‘Of course, the city’s all around us,’
‘Is it? I haven’t been there.’
‘You are there!’
‘I’ve never been out of this house. Bilal forbids it.’
Surely that couldn’t be true? But she knew it was. The food in her stomach felt heavy and bitter. Fear made her want to be sick. This child wasn’t a wife or a companion, she was a prisoner. Nadira was a shadow shortening on the ground: a slave in the heart of Lahore.
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For a week, at Nadira’s bidding, Afra rose before the sun and began the chores that would send her to bed more tired than she’d ever been. By the end of the day, the house didn’t look any better than it had at the start; the place was beyond cleaning. Despite their shared adversity, no real friendship developed between her and Bilal’s young wife. Nadira lived in constant terror, the way a dog beaten too often cowers even under a friendly hand. Afra didn’t realise what she was seeing would soon be her life.
One night she heard a scream. Half asleep, Afra imagined Shafi was having a nightmare. Why didn’t Fatimah comfort him? Hadn’t she heard his cries? An angry voice brought her awake. She gathered the sheet to her and listened to the deep timbre roll like thunder round the house. Then, the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh cracked like a whip through the bedroom wall. A woman pleaded in vain against a relentless tirade.
And the blows fell.
Afra’s instinct was to make it stop. Instead, she lay on the bed with her fingers in her ears and prayed the tyrant would grow tired of the beating. Eventually, it ended. In the morning, Nadira shook her and whispered the call to work. ‘It’s time, come on.’
Afra hauled herself up and dressed, so emotionally drained, she might have been the one who’d been attacked. What she’d heard numbed her. Nothing like it happened in her village. Did it?
Downstairs, Nadira already had pots of water on to boil and was grinding a spice mixture with a stone. She didn’t greet the new girl. Afra started making the dough that would become the morning’s bread. When Bilal’s wife crossed the kitchen to get oil to fry the powdered spices, Afra glanced at her and gasped. Nadira’s left eye was closed and she was trembling.
‘I heard.’
Nadira didn’t respond. Afra wanted to put her arms round this girl and take her pain away. ‘I heard. And now I see.’
The victim kept her chin buried in her chest and sobbed.
‘When did this begin?’
No reply.
‘You can’t stay, you can’t. One day he’ll kill you.’
‘He did that the day he brought me here,’
Nadira turned. Her face was swollen, marked purple and yellow and her lip had split. ‘What you see is the smallest part of my pain. I long for the warmth of the funeral flames against my skin. Until then, don’t offer hope to me, there is none.’
Afra was stunned.
accept, find the shade, live on
Stupid words.
Nadira had been brutalised into accepting there would be no shade for her. One part living, three parts dead. They worked in silence after that, as far apart that morning as they’d ever been, divided by a common plight.
Around eight, the breakfasters arrived. Bilal joined in the ribald humour of his friends, unaffected by the harm he’d caused. To see him sit there laughing through mouthfuls of food anyone would believe his soul was clean and pure. So, evil enjoyed a joke. Nadira’s eye went unnoticed under the niqab. The rest of the day was s
pent like other days, scrubbing and cleaning without improving anything. Afra saw the house as a manifestation of its owner. Washing wouldn’t cleanse it.
When Bilal returned in the evening, Nadira took his meal to him. She and Afra ate together after he broke wind to announce he’d finished. They didn’t speak; neither wanted to hear what the other had to say. Soon after, Afra went to bed, worn out from work and worry.
The noise of the door opening brought her awake. Footsteps bent a series of groans from the old boards. She was facing away from the intruder but smelled him. The threat made her conscious of her nakedness and she tensed. The steps came nearer, each one louder than the last, almost to the bed. In seconds, he’d have her. Yet, she wasn’t afraid. This monster’s intentions were clear and she was alone in the house. Nadira couldn’t be counted on – she’d told the truth – she was already dead.
Afra threw back the sheet and launched herself at the outline of her attacker, determined that whatever came later, she’d have the first of it. She barged into him, bowling him over in the dark. His body met wood. He cursed. Afra dived past, heading for the door and who knew where after that. Her one thought was to get away. Bilal tripped her and she fell. Younger and more nimble, Afra recovered first. But he was stronger. He hit her in the side and she slumped against the wall.
Then he was crushing her. They grappled; a mess of fists and blows. Bilal grabbed her hair and dashed her head against the door. Afra almost blacked out; his foul breath brought her back. Disgust gave her the will to fight though it could only end one way: it was a contest she couldn’t win.
Bilal’s knee jammed her legs apart and they locked like tangled marionettes, panting and gasping. His grip tore hair from her scalp. Suddenly she stopped struggling.
‘Go ahead. Go on. Finish what you’ve started.’ Afra taunted him. ‘Go on. Go on.’
Thick fingers pulled at her. She ignored the pain. ‘But I’ll tell. I’ll tell Quasim. I’ll tell Mrs Dilawar Hussein. You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?’
Bilal tightened his grip.
‘I’ll tell, I’ll tell, I’ll tell, I’LL TELL!’
‘No one will believe you. You need witnesses. I see no witnesses, do you?’ His hand closed round her throat. ‘You’ll be dishonoured, not me. Who would believe you?’
Time was running out, and what this coward said was true. Her heart crashed against her breast; her throat was on fire. She whispered, confident and knowing, ‘Oh, Bilal, they’ll cast me out for certain, but make no mistake, they’ll believe me. They’ll believe me because they know you. They see how you live.’
Bilal faltered. Afra pressed her advantage. ‘Do you think I care what happens to me? I’m like your sad little wife, already dead. I’d kill myself and think I’d had the best of the bargain. You wish to live with Mrs Dilawar Hussein on your side. All that will be over.’ She laughed in his face.
He didn’t loosen his grip. His knee still crushed her naked thighs but something had changed. Bilal ran his tongue over cracked lips as his fevered mind weighed her words against the animal urge that had driven him to her room. Lust was slinking away like a fox chased from the chickens.
‘Now or never. Violate me and I’ll be dead before the sun comes up, I promise.’
In the dark, he was certain she was smiling. Bilal threw her aside and spat. ‘Whore!’ The door slammed behind him. Afra sat against the wall and closed her eyes. For the moment the nightmare was over.
Nadira must have heard though she didn’t mention it. The four men ate their usual breakfast and Afra imagined Bilal was quieter than on other mornings.
Two days later, Mrs Dilawar Hussein arrived with a woman. She seemed in better spirits. The woman curled her lip at the faded furniture and peeling paint. This was Chandra, soon to be her sister-in-law. Chandra was tall like her brothers. Both women wore niqabs so their faces were hidden. The matriarch spoke. ‘Nadira, why have you got Afra working? She’s a guest.’ Said lightly, the most gentle of chastisements.
‘Go please and fetch some tea – you know how I like it – and cups for the three of us.’
Bilal’s wife ran to the kitchen. The matriarch patted the seat. ‘Come here child, I have news. Sit beside us. This is Chandra, my daughter. She has agreed to help you prepare for the wedding.’
Over her veil, Chandra’s eyes gave nothing.
‘When will that be, Mother?’
‘That’s what I’m here to tell you. In two weeks you’ll marry Quasim and join our family.’
The mother and daughter removed their veils. Chandra had the hooked nose and piercing eyes that must have come from her father. Afra guessed she was about twenty, older than herself. The mother was different today, not the fierce autocrat of their previous meeting.
‘Two weeks, not long. We’ve a lot to do. Chandra will guide you. She’s here to let you two get to know each other’
Chandra allowed the smallest of smiles when her name was mentioned. Afra bowed her head. ‘I’m happy to meet you, sister, and glad you’re here. Your assistance will be most valuable.’
‘We must go,’ Mrs Dilawar Hussein said, ‘another appointment I’m afraid and Firdos is waiting.’
‘Thank you for coming. And you, Chandra. I look forward to seeing you soon.’
Afra was sincere. Now it was arranged, she desperately wanted the marriage to be a happy one. Her heart cried out for a friend. Perhaps Chandra would be that friend?
The visitors hurried for the door. ‘Stay as you are, child. And don’t let Bilal frighten you, he’s harmless really.’
Afra knew a different truth.
When they’d gone, she thought about the visit – short, friendly, and strange. She returned to the cleaning. There was no question of leaving Nadira with it, whatever her mother-in-law said.
-------
Firdos steered the car through the traffic. As the youngest brother one of his jobs was to chauffer his mother and sister around. Although it was becoming more common, women were discouraged from driving in Pakistan. He kept his resentment hidden. Chandra sat at the window and looked out at the city. Her mother took up more than her share of the seat. When Bilal’s hovel was left behind, Chandra spoke. ‘Why do I have to pretend to a stupid village girl?’
‘Because Quasim and I wish you to.’
‘What will my friends think of me? They’ll laugh behind my back, and who would blame them?’
Mrs Dilawar Hussein sighed. Young people were so tiresome. ‘Chandra, listen to me. How many times must I explain? This wedding is very important to your brother. He’s thirty-six, time for him to marry. Like you, I wish his eyes had been dazzled by someone else, someone more like us, but they weren’t. This girl is what he wants, so she’s what he’ll have. That’s one thing. The wedding is another. Our friends and people he does business with will be there. Quasim can’t just announce he’s married, there needs to be ceremony, and the bride must seem happy.’
She turned to her daughter. ‘You enjoy what comes from your brother. I don’t hear you complain about your comfortable life. Well, now you’re needed to play a part, make a contribution. You’ll befriend this one and help her. Before the day and on the day. The world must see a shining bride. After…’ She shrugged a meaty shoulder. ‘That’s another story. We’ll have no need to pretend. In time, she’ll produce a son for Quasim and her purpose will be served.’
Chandra didn’t argue. If her mother told her brother about her attitude….. No, she’d obey because she must, and because she’d seen Quasim’s anger. Not something easily forgotten.
Chapter 10
The weeks had passed quietly after Bilal’s attack. He must’ve known about Mrs Dilawar Hussein and her daughter’s visit, he’d become less abusive, even to Nadira; still an arrogant tyrant, that wouldn’t change, but preferring to ignore both girls most of the time.
One evening Bilal delivered a message. Afra was lying on the bed when she heard his heavy step climb the stairs. She froze. The footsteps stopped out
side her door, two knocks and the rusty old door handle began to turn, moving in slow motion. She sat up, terrified. Bilal didn’t come in, he stayed hidden behind the frame.
‘Woman!’ He asserted an authority lost in the dark. ‘Be ready tomorrow, you’re going out. Chandra will come for you in the morning.’
The door closed, the threat was gone.
Chandra arrived full of enthusiasm for the day ahead. Afra felt like her old self. She laughed. ‘This is exciting.’
‘Yes it is,’ Chandra said, ‘for me too. It isn’t every day I get to choose wedding outfits. You won’t mind if I pretend they’re for my wedding, will you?’
‘Of course not. Is that why we’re going out, to choose clothes for me?’
‘Why else? In ten days the whole world will be staring at you. You’ll be the centre of attention. You must look like a queen. Her wedding is the one time everyone expects the woman to outshine the man. We mustn’t disappoint them, must we?’
‘No, we mustn’t.’
‘And see, Quasim has bought you a wedding gift.’
A gold cage sat on the seat, inside a bird with deep blue feathers and reddish-brown breast stared out.
‘This is for me?
Chandra was amused. ‘When you know my brother better you’ll realise how fortunate you are to be his wife. I’ll take this to the house and put it with the other presents. Now let’s have fun.’
And it had been fun, a time to savour. Afra saw the expensive garment she was wearing, one of several they’d bought and remembered the compliments from the older girl.
‘Quasim will think he’s dreaming when he sees you.’
In one shop after another Chandra searched the racks, mindless of the cost. ‘This is the one I’ll have.’ She modelled a red embroidered shalwar kameez. ‘When it’s my turn to be married, I want this one.’
A moment later she whooped with delight. ‘This is it, Afra.’ She held up a long skirt covered in beads. A tunic with more decoration matched the skirt. The ghagra blinded her with its brilliance. ‘A queen I think I said, this one was made for an empress.’
