Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘Please, Begum …’ she began earnestly. ‘I’ll help you to clear up everything tomorrow and do all your washing, if you’ll let me join this wedding party.’

  Begum’s mouth dropped open at the woman’s appearance in a gota kinari peacock-green satin and taffeta suit, which boxed her thin, wiry body. She was late with the tea and here was this mad woman with the cheekiest of requests!

  ‘And what will you do at the wedding party, Massi Fiza, may I ask?’ Begum frostily demanded, her thin eyebrows arched in disdain, cheeks swollen in secret laughter at the laundrywoman’s audacity in presenting herself as a guest at Master Haider’s only son’s wedding!

  ‘You see,’ Massi Fiza stuttered, ‘I can carry some of the presents, the baskets of mithae, for example.’

  ‘What! The presents are already there – we are only taking the sweets and chocolates. Mistress Laila is now back at home and will do all the ritual carrying, not any of us humble servants. Definitely not you! The goorie will also be carrying one of the bridal sweet baskets.’

  ‘Please, Begum – take me with you!’ Massi Fiza cried, the vision of the goorie lending more urgency to her request. ‘I beg of you!’

  Melted by Massi Fiza’s genuine longing, Begum relented and stiffly reminded the laundrywoman: ‘It’s not an engagement, but a wedding party. As Master Ismail and his English bride are leaving the day after tomorrow, it was decided to have this nikkah ceremony today. The bride and groom don’t want any fuss at all – it was as if they wanted to tie the knot this very evening!’ Begum stopped, mentally chiding herself for confiding so much of family matters to the laundrywoman.

  ‘Oh, wow, Begum!’ Massi Fiza marvelled, her eyes lighting up. This was even better. Reaching forward, she grabbed Begum’s hand and gave it a walloping kiss.

  ‘Please, Begum, you’ve got to take me with you. I’ll even catch a tanga just to get there! Allah Pak is my witness – I’ll do all the housework for you! I’ll be your personal maid at the ceremony … Please, all I want is a glimpse of how these people get married and what happens in these big mansions. Also, I’ll wash all your Ali’s clothes for free for two months,’ she added, still holding fast onto Begum’s hand.

  ‘OK. You can go … Let go of me, you silly woman!’ Begum screeched, pulling her hand back, shocked by the woman’s idiotic behaviour.

  ‘Oh, Begum, you are an angel!’ Begum feared the woman would swoon on her kitchen floor.

  She ordered, ‘You might as well make yourself useful right now. I’ll get Ali to take us both in the Jeep.’

  ‘Thanks, Begum. You are simply wonderful!’

  ‘Stop the buttering! Don’t make me regret it. Mind you, you’ll have to stay the night at Mistress Rani’s house, as she’ll need our help in clearing up after the party tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course,’ Massi Fiza’s smile now strained from one end to the other of her narrow face. This was even better – to spend two days at a wedding in Mistress Rani’s mansion! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see how that haughty, middle sister lived!

  ‘Now, nip out to the sweetmaker’s house and check if the mithai is ready … Their phone is busy all the time.’

  ‘I hear that Salma, the quiltmaker’s daughter, is leaving for Dubai. Bano, the seamstress, has been busy stitching all her suits. Keeping everyone else waiting. The baker’s wife is livid as the stitching for her daughter’s trousseau is being neglected!’

  ‘Never mind the baker’s wife! Now go … You are a bad influence, Fiza. You’ve got me going, too – gossiping!’

  *

  ‘Take the tray, you daft woman!’ Begum cried, grabbing hold of Massi Fiza’s taffeta dupatta as she was about rush out of the kitchen in Rani’s hevali.

  ‘The dancing, Begum! I’ve got to see … the sisters are dancing in the drawing room.’ And then she had shot off. Begum, curious herself, sprinted after her. Over Massi Fiza’s shoulders, she peered into the room where the female members of Gulbahar’s clan were gathered, watching Mehreen do a traditional footstool wedding dance to celebrate her nephew and niece’s wedding. The small peeri propped on one shoulder, Mehreen’s stout body dipped and swayed in different directions to the dholki music played by two women seated on the floor and accompanied by the energetic chanting of folk songs by a group of women singers from the village.

  Panting and giggling, Mehreen called to her smiling elder sister, sitting next to the groom and the bride. ‘Baji Gulbahar, see, this is how I danced at your Arslan’s birth. Don’t laugh, everyone! Of course, I was much slimmer then!’ Smiling, she grimaced down at her waistline, padded with rolls of fat, and reached to pull her sister, Rani, with her stiff body and deadpan expression, into the dancing circle.

  ‘Come on, Rani. Cheer up, for God’s sake! It’s your daughter’s wedding day. Let’s celebrate. Laila, my darling – come and join me!’

  Glad to dance at her brother’s wedding, Laila gracefully swung into the circle of dancing women, swirling her maroon chiffon sari around her body to the delight of the younger women, wanting to see more modern dancing than Mehreen’s clumsy movements. It was a much prettier sight to watch than Mehreen’s wobbling waist. Laila elicited loud clapping and cheering from everyone.

  ‘Mummy, can I dance too?’ Shirin excitedly pulled at the phallu of her mother’s sari. Flushed, Laila nodded. ‘It’s your uncle’s wedding – of course, my princess.’ Arslan, sitting happily beside his bride, beamed his approval at his niece.

  Gulbahar, full of love, stood behind her middle sister and squeezed her hand. ‘Happy, Rani?’ Rani nodded, and on impulse planted a kiss on Gulbahar’s cheek before she got cold feet. Gulbahar’s arm closed around her sister.

  ‘Mubarak, Rani. I’m so thrilled to have your Saher come to us, but she remains your daughter always. So don’t think you have lost her.’

  Rani smothered silent sobs against her sister’s shoulders as she desperately tried to thrust aside the image of Rashid, and then felt Mehreen’s arms encircling her. Everyone watched the three sisters clasping each other and weeping with joy.

  Daniela, sitting beside Saher, happily looked on. Dressed in an elegant cream chiffon sari, given to her as a wedding present by Gulhahar, she had smiled her way through the entire evening. Enjoying every minute of this novel experience of attending a Pakistani wedding, she had learned about the different rituals and customs. She was in awe of the gold jewellery draped around the women’s upper torsos and admired the colours, textures and styles of garments worn by over 30 women and young girls from Haider’s clan.

  Many stealthy glances lingered on the foreign bride, as the guests marvelled at her Western beauty, her lustrous, shiny hair. They found her friendly manner so engaging; the way she stood up to embrace them, her sweet salaams and smiles to all were so endearing.

  ‘An enchanting creature she is!’ Mehreen proudly boasted to one of her cousins, who had come for the wedding from Karachi, her eyes often resting on her daughter-in-law with pride. ‘This is Allah’s way! He knows best!’ Who would have thought that her only son would marry a foreign woman! ‘And see how well she has blended with us and embraced our customs and way of life!’

  Begum first lightly tapped and then poked hard on Massi Fiza’s bony shoulder.

  ‘Stop showing your funny teeth, you silly woman, we are here to serve dinner. The men have already been fed in the marquee. It’s the women’s turn. I know you want to stand here all evening gawping in admiration at the brides, but we are not the bharathis, the guests … Are you listening to me, you daft woman?’

  Begum gave up, confronted with the dreamy look in Massi Fiza’s eyes. The dhoban was in seventh heaven. To be part of the landlord’s family wedding entourage and to witness the whole of the wedding reception, from the arrival of the groom from the other village in a limousine, and a atop white horse for the last few hundred yards, to the solemn nikkah ceremony, to the lively exchange of presents and milk-giving and money-bartering rituals and finally to watching the women’s dancing cele
brations, was pure bliss.

  ‘How lucky I am! Thanks to you, Begum-ji! Wait until I tell Rukhsar all this – she’ll be so envious! If only I had a camera … Oh, God, I must get a picture with the two brides, especially with the goorie. I overheard that she’s leaving soon for London. I want to sit beside her and say something to her in Engrezi. If only I could. Alas, an illiterate woman like me is not destined to speak that language. Did you see the presents she’s been getting all evening and the wodges of money, Begum!’ Her tone had now switched to envy.

  ‘Shut up!’

  Pulling Massi Fiza by the wrist, Begum led her out on the veranda, to the table laden with food by the village chef and his staff on exquisite china platters, trays and bowls. Massi Fiza feverishly counted in her head the number of dishes being offered. Three she could not recognise. Meat, as expected, was plentiful, consisting of chicken, lamb, pigeon and fried fish. Overwhelmed by the experience of being amongst people of wealth, the upper classes, Massi Fiza turned a tearful glance at her friend.

  ‘Begum, thank you for letting me come here!’

  ‘Thank me later, you silly woman.’ Begum hissed. ‘Serve the drinks in the crystal glasses from Mistress Rani’s dining room. And don’t break any! Mistress Rani is not Mistress Gulbahar, you know. She might even charge us for any breakages!’

  Giggling, and straightening their multi-coloured taffeta shawls fringed with golden gota kinari lace over their heads, they modestly lowered their gazes and stepped aside when the male guests filed past them for their tea in the dining room.

  Haider lingered on the veranda, peering into the room through the open door and catching a glimpse of his granddaughter circling around the room in a brisk dance sequence, with the women energetically cheering. Haider caught his daughter’s eyes over the heads of the women guests. A poignant smile was exchanged. Feeling tearful, he moved on. Then, at the door he stopped, hearing steps behind him, and waited for his son-in-law. Jubail, disconcerted by this gesture, humbly entered the room. Begum and Massi Fiza exchanged a pointed glance beneath the fringes of their shawls. The potter’s son was honoured by his father-in-law in front of all the guests. Begum dreamily gazed at the retreating figure of her master. ‘How wonderful he is.’ At times she thought she must be in love with him, for his generosity and kindness to folk like herself and that traitor, Jubail.

  Then they saw Mistress Rani come out of the deawing room, a mobile phone to her ear, eyes wide. She walked to the other end of the veranda, head lowered, talking in hushed tones. As Begum went to pass the hostess with a tray of drinks, she glimpsed tears and distress on Mistress Rani’s face.

  Later when she mentioned it to Fiza in the kitchen, the latter shook her head.

  ‘Those tears were not of happiness, I tell you. Mistress Rani was highly distressed. I wonder who had called her and why?’ As Fiza nodded, she continued, ‘I saw her go up to her room, tearful cheeks hidden behind her dupatta. I guess it has all been too much having her daughter wed. Why are we gossiping again? The tea still has to be served to the ladies. Now pass me that round china pot and don’t drop it, for goodness sake!’

  ‘Please, stop bossing me!’ Now that she had seen the whole wedding, Massi Fiza had the temerity to challenge her new employer.

  It was much later in the night, after the food had been served, that Massi Fiza’s dream came true; she had had her photo taken with the goorie bride, and by a professional photographer, too. It was Gulbahar who drily told the photographer that these women were ‘special’ in her household, catching a glimpse of disdain in the young city photographer, used to shooting pictures of glamorous models and fashionably dressed city women. He politely nodded, hiding a smirk as the two frumpy-looking women fiddled with their shawls, looking harassed and pursing their mouths even more when he asked them to smile. Massi Fiza would not obey him, bent on hiding her crooked teeth. After the photos had been taken, Massi Fiza went to call Mistress Rani from her bedroom. There she found mother and daughter hugging, with Rani sobbing over her daughter’s shoulders, ‘Do you understand what I have told you? I have to go to Rashid!’

  ‘Of course, you must, Mother! You have my blessing,’ Saher affirmed,

  Shy of intruding on their intimacy, Massi Fiza closed the door. Her eyes were alight with speculation. Who were they talking about and where was Mistress Rani going? Her first question whilst scouring the pots in the kitchen to Begum was, ‘Who’s Rashid? Is Mistress Rani’s husband not dead?’

  Begum looked mystified and then hotly scolded her helper. ‘Forget Rashid, whoever he is! Get on with your scouring!’

  CHAPTER 48

  The Reunion

  Elizabeth was enjoying her glass of sherry in her study, eyes closed, listening to a heated debate on Radio 4 when there was a knock on the door. Dave was ready to join his mates at the local pub to watch Wigan, his favourite team, playing football.

  Frowning, Elizabeth got up; they were not expecting anyone. Daniela and her husband stood outside, two suitcases on the ground beside them. Elizabeth’s gaze was the first to drop. Ismail nervously turned his head, unable to look at the woman who had made her dislike so clear to him on their first meeting and then had refused to even acknowledge his presence in her daughter’s life. Face straight, Daniela shot a challenging look at her mother.

  Love welling up for her daughter, Elizabeth pulled the door wide. But both her visitors remained standing. Elizabeth’s eyes slid off Ismail’s face. ‘Come …’ she said, her voice faint and roughened with emotion. She had not realised how much she had missed her daughter.

  Daniela stepped into her parents’ home, after three years. In the living room they waited, exchanging surreptitious glances, whilst Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen to make tea for them, her hand shaking whilst she sliced a carrot cake. Then she heard Dave’s loud exclamation, ‘Daniela, my pet!’ and smiled wryly at the delight in her husband’s voice.

  ‘Dad!’

  A few minutes later, Elizabeth wheeled a tea trolley into the living room. Ismail rose to help her, reaching for the trolley bar, his brown, suntanned hand near her white one. He glanced at her and then let go of the trolley.

  Daniela was animatedly showing pictures from her digital camera to her father, explaining who the different people were: ‘This is Ismail’s mum, Mehreen.’

  ‘Let’s see, my pet.’ Dave peered at the small screen and then passed the camera to his wife. Bemused and heartbeat quickening, Elizabeth stared down at the overweight, Pakistani woman in a turquoise suit with her head and shoulders draped in a matching shawl, standing beside a colonnade in a courtyard. ‘This stranger – this woman – is now linked to my daughter,’ she bitterly echoed in her head, pressing the button to flick across more photos, steeling herself at the sight of another world cascading before her eyes, mind reeling at the unfamiliar faces and scenes.

  ‘These photos are of the wedding of Ismail’s cousin, Arslan. This is Laila, dancing at her brother’s wedding, and that lovely little girl is her daughter – Shirin, I think,’ Daniela looked at her husband to confirm. ‘Ismail has such a big family. So many relatives and big houses. It was lovely, Mum.’ Her voice petered away, assessing her mother’s face with interest, diving into her thoughts. Cheeks warming under her daughter’s scrutiny, Elizabeth recovered her poise and smiled, noting her daughter’s animated face and flushed cheeks. She had indeed lost her daughter to another world – to people of another race, faith, colour and culture.

  As Daniela excitedly described some of the places she had visited and showed her father the printed photographs, Elizabeth stole a surreptitious glance at her son-in-law. She could tell that he was nervous and was bent on avoiding eye contact with her. So she was surprised to hear herself addressed by him: ‘How is your PhD research going, Elizabeth?’

  Father and daughter exchanged a pointed glance. Elizabeth coolly answered, ‘Fine,’ eyes sliding off the brown-faced man who had stolen her daughter’s heart. Daniela pulled up her large handbag and drew
out the jewellery boxes that her father-in-law had given her. Flicking the lids open, she startled her parents with their contents. Elizabeth stared at the line of blue and red velvet boxes containing the gold and silver gem-studded necklace sets, lying on her Persian silk rug.

  Daniela drily informed them: ‘These are my gifts from my parents-in-law, Mother … All this gold is mine …’ Elizabeth stared back, chafing under her daughter’s mocking gaze, and politely uttered, ‘They are lovely, darling …’

  ‘Let’s have a proper look.’ Dave had plucked out a set and was smiling at Ismail. ‘What a lucky girl you are, Daniela. These are lovely, mate. Thank your parents for this.’

  ‘I will,’ Ismail beamed in pleasure and then disappeared out of the room. He returned a few minutes later with a small silk rug in his arms.

  ‘This is for you both. We bought it in Murree, a lovely hillside resort. I hope you both like it!’ Squatting on the floor, Ismail unrolled it over the other rug. Elizabeth’s face spread in a look of pure joy, her eyes marvelling at the rustic landscape of trees, deer and birds, cleverly woven with silk thread.

  ‘Thank you,’ she softly offered, bending to trace her finger over the shining, soft, silk surface.

  Bent on impressing her parents, Daniela went out into the hall and, zipping open her suitcase, she pulled out the suits that Mehreen and Rasoola had helped her pack.

  ‘These, too, were given to me as gifts.’ Daniela happily thrust the pile of suits into her mother’s lap. Elizabeth stared at the Asian outfits of all colours and textures. Daniela pulled out one of her favourites. ‘This long skirt, Mother, is called a lengha and there is a tunic and a matching scarf. Look at the embroidery and sequin-work – see how fine it is. And these are real zirconi crystals on this sari. I wore it at the wedding. I’ve got photos of me wearing it. Here, let me show you.’ Overwhelmed, Elizabeth dumbly nodded, gazing wryly at the photo Daniela had thrust in front of her and the people in it who had crowded into her daughter’s life. ‘These two are Ismail’s aunts – Gulbahar and Rani. Gulbahar is nice, but Rani never smiles and …’ Daniela stopped. She was about to add: ‘I know Rani hates me.’ She would never tell her mother about Saher, the fiancée, and that nightmarish experience during the first few days of her visit to Pakistan.