Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Mehreen turned to her husband and was disappointed by the look on his face, reminiscent of that of a sulky child. With dignity, she spun round and headed for the stairs. At the top her step faltered.

  No sound. No step followed.

  With a heavy gait, she walked into her bedroom. In the morning when she came down both her husband and the portable bed were gone. Listlessly, Mehreen stood in the courtyard, listening to the jolly cawing of the crows. Blind panic swept in. There was no servant to help around the house. If her son left his foreign wife alone with her she could not communicate. And her husband no longer loved her.

  ‘I wasn’t imagining it. I’m sure that Liaquat feels something for my sister. I know I am naïve but perhaps not so naïve to notice that twinkle in his eyes when he speaks to Gulbahar.’

  In her heart of hearts Mehreen craved respect. Both Gulbahar and Liaquat spoiled her by smothering her with love but accorded her little respect. If a single saucer of a tea set was broken or chipped her husband would good-naturedly rush to buy her another – a better one. If a servant made her cross, he would anticipate her tantrum and quickly sack them. If she quarrelled with Rani, he would intervene, eager to smooth things over, neatly separating the two. Yet he never created an opportunity for reconciliation.

  Gulbahar was her childhood guardian; Liaquat became her adult protector. She virtually slid from one set of protective arms into another – ironically chafing in both. The local village women, even the illiterate ones, held her in contempt, exchanging gossipy titbits about her. All the horrible things they said about her, such as, ‘Mistress Mehreen is spoiled, utterly selfish and cruel to her servants’ had never bothered her before, but today she felt raw with the pain.

  Tearful and wallowing in self-pity, Mehreen headed for the kitchen. Was she not blessed with good hands? Could she not get something ready for her family’s breakfast? Stepping barefooted on the cool tiled floor, she pulled up her shalwar and tucked it around her waist. It was a long time since she had got her hands messy with sticky dough. Slapping a paratha on the hot tava pan, she nearly scorched her finger on the buttery surface, wryly smiling at the shape – a cross between a circle and a square – and telling herself that it was nearly 25 years since she had made a chappati. In her father’s home, there were always the servants or Sister Gulbahar. Tava and Mehreen never quite got acquainted. And nobody minded. Plucking the half-burned paratha off the pan, Mehreen reddened in embarrassment. ‘Am I such a hopeless woman that I’ve never learned how to cook properly?’

  She persevered and managed to produce a small pile of parathas. A funny thought struck her: ‘Will the goorie know what a paratha is?’

  Putting eggs to boil, Mehreen began looking in the large glass cabinet. ‘If Rasoola has broken them all, I’ll wring her neck!’ Then she laughed aloud, spotting the dainty china egg cups with pink roses. All this rage for an egg cup!

  With the breakfast tray propped on her arms, Mehreen wedged open her son’s bedroom door with her bare foot. She couldn’t tell who was more surprised, her son or the ‘goorie’ in her nightgown scrambling to sit up on her bed. Ismail stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, brushing his wet hair.

  Greeting them with ‘salaam’ Mehreen shyly informed her son, ‘I’ve made you both breakfast. I’m not sure whether she likes our parathas, but there is a boiled egg, too, and some cereal.’ Her son rushed to take the tray off her, seeing her grimace with twinges of back-pain. ‘No wonder Rasoola always complained of a constant back problem,’ Mehreen silently echoed in her head.

  Mehreen was awash with guilt. Mentally she was already buying lighter trays to replace the heavy steel ones. Moreover, she would employ a young man who would do chores like carrying the trays across the hevali.

  ‘Her name is Daniela, Mother,’ Ismail gently reminded her, placing the tray on the table. Mehreen blushed.

  Daniela was smiling shyly at her mother-in-law. Mehreen stretched her mouth apart, but there was nothing to smile about this morning. Only the grooves at the sides of her mouth spread slightly.

  ‘Mother, sit down and join us for breakfast,’ he gently urged. ‘Thank you for all this, but we could have made it ourselves.’

  ‘What, make parathas!’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I can cook – learned it in London … whilst doing a short stint at an Indian restaurant in Hackney. I have taught Daniela how to make all our Pakistani dishes.’

  ‘I … I …’ Mehreen stammered, watching Daniela leave for the bathroom, her eyes on the full-length silk gown. Her son followed her gaze.

  ‘Mother, Daniela is a very nice woman – I adore her. Please learn to accept her presence in my life. And I’ve some news for you – we are expecting our first baby! The doctor told us it’s going to be a boy. I’ll not abandon her or give her up. Do you hear me, Mother? You must get used to the situation!’

  Mehreen dumbly nodded. In her head, she was gasping at the picture of a small golden-haired little boy. All of a sudden, she recalled her sister, separated for ten years from the beautiful fairy, as she called her granddaughter, Shirin. Were they going to do this to her grandson?

  ‘No!’ she screamed in her head. She would not suffer that ache. No matter if the child was of mixed-race heritage; he was still her flesh and blood, too. Her shoulders straightened, and looking her son in the eye, Mehreen spoke aloud her thoughts: ‘I know your wife is pregnant and I don’t expect you to desert her, for that would be inhumane, and against the teaching of our faith. Pregnant women, above all, should be protected and supported by their husbands and families. But please tell me that you have actually married her – I mean a nikkah, my son?’ She had to ask, unable to cope with the thought of a haram, an illegitimate birth, in their household.

  Ismail shook his head, exasperated. ‘Why won’t you believe me, Mother? The child is halal in everyway. The nikkah was performed in a London mosque with two witnesses. I have a certificate to prove it, but it’s in Liverpool.’ His earnest words touched her. Walking up to him, she kissed him on his forehead. ‘I believe you, my son.’ It was at that moment that Daniela returned. Eyes pricking with tears, she was afraid to trespass into the mother and son’s intimacy.

  Mehreen caught the uncertain look in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. Something tugged sharply at her and, obeying that primitive impulse, she floated to her daughter-in-law’s side.

  Then, placing her hands on Daniela’s shoulders, she gently kissed her on the cheek. Dropping the cosmetic bag, Daniela, stunned, lifted her arms to clasp the other woman in a tight embrace. Now it was Mehreen’s turn to be shocked, finding her face pressed against the cool, silky fabric of Daniela’s gown. Ismail looked on, his eyes sparkling.

  Both women wept on the other’s shoulder, but for different reasons: Mehreen for the trauma of the last few days, and Daniela in pure gratitude for the embrace and the human warmth she received from the woman she feared would never accept her.

  ‘Well, are you women going to carry on like this? The parathas are getting cold.’ Ismail first spoke in English, before translating it into Urdu for his mother’s sake.

  Daniela and Mehreen shyly shifted apart. Mehreen’s eyes were the first to fall, unable to make sense of her own behaviour. Her son, however, had the look of a man who had conquered Mount Everest.

  *

  From the veranda outside she heard their laughter. Her son was speaking in Engrezi again. All she could make out were the words ‘Daniela’ and ‘Mother’.

  Mehreen walked across her courtyard, a light-headed woman. Liaquat would be dealt with later but first she would visit her elder sister again. Gulbahar had lost her daughter and her granddaughter. She, Mehreen, wasn’t prepared to lose her only son and grandson. If a foreign woman was acceptable to her, Mehreen mused, could her sister not accept a fellow national, from her own village, as her son-in-law?

  CHAPTER 32

  The Rivals

  After a walk through the village, Saher and Daniela were taking a leisurely stroll along the pe
bbly stream down below in the valley. Saher had brought a designer shalwar kameez outfit for Daniela as a gift, making Mehreen shed more tears. Daniela had excitedly got into it straight away; happy that she was now able to blend in with the people around her, and equally happily had accepted Saher’s offer of a ride out together in the evening.

  ‘You look wonderful in this outfit, Daniela,’ Saher enthused, without explaining that she had had it especially designed and stitched within hours by her own exclusive city tailor. Ismail had humbly looked on, grateful to Saher, marvelling at her ability to forgive so easily. ‘This is the woman I’ve let down, and how nobly she treats my wife,’ he mused.

  He had deliberately remained behind, in the car, letting them carve out a tentative relationship, as they walked along the stream side by side.

  ‘The last 30 years have emptied some of these villages of their menfolk to the cities or abroad,’ Saher informed Daniela in reply to her question as to why there were so few young men around.

  ‘There’s nothing here in the village, apart from agriculture, to keep young, educated men fulfilled, employed and happy. Inevitably they begin to drift away, seeking a better life, nagging their families to send them abroad, being egged on by peers and friends. Many have migrated to the Middle East for work, to places like Dubai, Qatar, Doha and Saudi Arabia, as well as the USA and Europe. One has gone to South Africa, Durban, I think. Many families have borne terrible hardships in raising the funds to send their men off – borrowing money, selling land and gold jewellery – sometimes through illegal channels. Often they become victims of exploitation. Many die along the way, tragically killed in different circumstances.

  ‘These are men, often groomed as “princes” in their homes, with little knowledge or experience of any work; they are then thrust out in a big foreign world, and have to mature overnight. And from abroad, that is if they manage to find work, they send money back home to support their families. They return as different men, often sunburned beyond recognition, those working in the Middle East for instance, and with a worldly-wise look about them. Life is never quite the same, and they struggle to come to terms with living two lives, torn between two countries and two cultures. I’m sure you see this pattern of migration in Britain.’

  Daniela nodded, letting Saher continue, finding the topic of immense interest.

  ‘It’s a global predicament, but a very sad one, too. It leads to broken families, and heartache and misery unleashed by years of separation from loved ones. Yet, ironically, the whole process is palatable to all back home, sweetened as it is by the material wealth it brings. The remittances sent back keep everyone happy, transforming people’s lives overnight, effectively keeping a mother’s and a wife’s nostalgic tears and sighs at bay.

  ‘What about the children? Surely they must be affected by all of this?’

  ‘Of course! The fathers become strangers to their offspring and the children get used to life without a father’s presence in the home, relying instead on other male relatives. On the other hand, poverty is hard to cope with, Daniela.’

  ‘You are right, it’s a global malaise affecting the whole world. Women and children do end up paying a costly price. I often wonder how some refugee families or spouses of asylum seekers in the UK are coping back home. I would hate to be separated from my Ismail. My father’s family migrated from Ireland – that’s an island near to England, so I am half Irish.’

  Saher gently but drily reminded the other woman, ‘Women here have little choice but to grin and bear it. What would you rather have, a husband by your side or a better standard of living for your children? Materially, they all benefit. If you were to peep inside one of those homes, the places are often stacked with all sorts of modern electrical appliances. There is a special rural delight in collecting them – from blenders to chest freezers and curling tongs. The irony is that the electricity here is often unreliable, and therefore half of those items are never used or go bust over time.’

  ‘Do these families change in other ways, apart from materially?’ Daniela asked.

  ‘Money often gives these families from humble roots not only a new lease of life but also accords them increased influence and popularity – a higher status in the village. For instance, helping their children to go to special schools. People often borrow things or money from them. Often their behaviour changes; there are new social set-ups. There are those landowning families, like ours, where the wealth has been passed down from generation to generation, rather than from abroad. Then there is the local tailor, who has dispensed with his stitching trade and replaced it with more lucrative work like arranging visas for people to travel abroad.’

  ‘Really!’ Daniela marvelled.

  ‘Yes, really!’ Saher laughed aloud at the expression on the Englishwoman’s face. ‘As the saying goes, “money speaks”. Well, here it definitely speaks loudly … and often through the number of Jeeps owned by a family. That said, I don’t own one!’

  They enjoyed another hearty gale of laughter. ‘What about yourself? Why do you still live in the village, if you don’t mind me asking? Aren’t you a successful lawyer?’ Daniela ventured.

  ‘I work in the nearby city but I commute there on a daily basis. I live here for my mother’s sake. Our home, the land, is here. I am the sole heiress. Your husband is a very wealthy man, do you know, Daniela? At the moment his mother owns more land than us, and she gains greater returns from it. We had to sell some of ours to build a local school and another house in the city for me, in case I decided to settle there.’

  ‘Have you ever stayed there?’

  ‘No, I have someone looking after it. I like to get back to the village at the end of the day, preferring the tranquillity of the rural world and our hevali, and I’m glad to leave behind the hustle and bustle of a large city. Sometimes, however, I find the two worlds so different, and am unable to identify with either. Just to give you an example: I eat everything from the village, but wear and buy everything else from the city, for there are hardly any decent shops here. I love living here because I grew up here.’

  ‘What about when you marry?’ Daniela couldn’t help asking. Saher stopped in mid-track, looking down at the small stone she was treading on.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, eyes still lowered. ‘Obviously, the original plan was that I would leave for the UK. Now, I am committed to staying on and if I marry someone, there is a high chance of that happening in the city, since there is no one suitable for me in this village.’

  ‘Would you consider marrying someone from abroad?’

  ‘No!’ The answer was emphatic, surprising them both.

  ‘For my mother’s sake,’ Saher hastened to explain. ‘With Ismail out of the picture, I would always want to remain near her. My mother is a very lonely, troubled woman. She never quite fitted in with her two sisters – always the odd one out of the three. And I know that something in the past has gone wrong for her. I’ve become very protective of her lately. She lost my father in her early twenties, after just five years of marriage. She never remarried, though I understood there was a chance of her marrying someone once, but she turned him down and instead withdrew into herself.’

  ‘Tell me about your family, Daniela. Do you have a mother?’ Saher neatly changed the subject, blushingly aware that she had shared too much about herself, including details about her mother.

  There was a pregnant pause before Daniela answered with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Yes, I do, but unlike you, I’m not very close to mine, I’m afraid. In fact, we’ve drifted apart since my marriage. My mother could not handle my marrying a man from another race. I’m closer to my dad – Dave. He’s really nice and I love him very much. I, too, am the only child – don’t ask me why!’

  ‘I see!’ Saher had picked up the dullness of the tone and decided not to pry. Daniela had spotted Arslan walking towards them.

  ‘Hi!’ she shouted, waving her hand.

  Saher scowled. Smiling, Daniela waited
for Arslan.

  ‘I’m walking further down the stream to bathe my feet,’ Saher explained in a low voice. Arslan heard, noting her retreating figure. So he switched his full attention to Daniela.

  ‘Hi, Daniela. Looks as if you are enjoying this wonderful cool breeze and the company of my equally “wonderful” cousin, who, as you can see for yourself, has hastened off upon seeing me.’

  Daniela’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  ‘I wonder why that is so?’ she teased. Arslan coloured and changed the subject.

  ‘Your “loving” husband is waiting to take you to a nearby city, Attock, for some shopping. He’s now trying his very best, you know, to make it up to you.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Good! So his penance is to empty all the bazaars for you. If I were you, I’d buy the lot just to punish him for what he did at the airport!’ They both laughed aloud, making Saher, now in the distance, stare back at them, her face still tight.

  ‘I don’t want to empty the bazaars – I just want his parents to like me,’ she said with a sad appeal in her voice. Arslan sobered. ‘They’ll like you – they do like you!’ he kindly amended.

  ‘His mother is really nice. Do you know she made us breakfast this morning, hugged and kissed me? His father, though, still has that fierce look in his eyes … it frightens me.’ Daniela was reluctant to expand. ‘I had better go. Ismail is waiting.’

  ‘I’ll take Saher home in my car. You go.’

  He waved her off and then strode down the hillside, his trainers slipping over the polished stones.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Lovers

  Saher was perched on her favourite boulder, the one she used to sit on as a child, dangling her feet in the water that rushed down from the glacier in the mountain, humming to herself.