Asma smiled with relief.
‘Isn’t that very late?’ asked Ammi, quietly. ‘She will be quite old.’
Baba scowled. ‘It is different here, Ammi. Surely you understand that by now? Women are expected to have a good education.’
I said nothing, but I was relieved. I wanted to go to college, too, and I certainly didn’t want to get married at eighteen.
During the next few months, Baba busied himself finding a suitable husband for Asma.
When I mentioned this to Kate, she was horrified.
‘Halima, that is gross! How can she let your father choose her husband for her?’
Half of me agreed, but I wasn’t going to let Kate get away with it.
‘And is your way any better?’ I said.
‘Well, at least we get to choose who we want to marry.’
‘So do we,’ I said. ‘Our parents help, that’s all. They find a boy with the same background, the same education, and then they introduce him to the girl. What’s wrong with that?’
‘So Asma can say no if she doesn’t like the man?’
I nodded. In theory, this was true, though I knew that Baba would be furious if she rejected his choice.
Kate went on. ‘Your family’s different, then, from these girls at school who disappear at fourteen and get taken home to Pakistan and married off?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. My parents would never do that.’
The previous summer term, the school had lost several Muslim girls. They had simply left at the end of term and never returned. Or they came back married and then had to help save up to bring their husband over to England.
Kate had something to say about these girls. ‘So they’re just providing a man with a ticket to come to this country – is that it?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not that simple, Kate.’
‘Looks pretty simple to me. It’s all about getting a job for a bloke in the West, isn’t it?’
‘No. Not always. It’s complicated. It’s about families. It’s about who is suitable to marry whom. It’s about who has land, who has not.’
Kate had been trying to twist her wild curls into a rubber band. She gave up and let it all hang loose again. Then she turned to face me.
‘How can these kids agree to it, Halima?’
‘To what?’
‘How can they cave in like that? They’re happy at school, and then suddenly they’re whisked away to marry a stranger in Pakistan. Don’t some of them object?’
Suddenly I felt cross with her. Compared to the families of some of these girls, my family were positively liberal. I’d known many of them and I’d talked over their situation with them. I understood their predicament and I also understood why they did as they were told.
‘Yes, of course they can object, but just think it through, Kate. Think of the consequences.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If they don’t do as they’re told, their families will force them to do it anyway.’
Kate frowned. ‘How can you force someone to do something against their will?’
I sighed, trying to be patient with her. ‘It’s about family honour, Kate. If a girl refuses, she is dishonouring her family.’
‘So?’
‘It’s really, really important to us. If you dishonour your family, they will disown you or, worse, they may even kidnap you and force you to do as they wish. A brother or a father or some other family member will physically force you.’
‘But in this day and age, Halima, how can that happen? The law…’
I laughed. ‘The law! Believe me, Kate, in some families, their own law is more powerful than the law of the land.’
She stared at me and I went on. ‘Going against your family’s wishes means you may never see them again,’ I said quietly.
Kate was silent for a moment, as my words sank in. Then, ‘You still have no contact with Imran?’
I picked up her rubber band and started to force her strands of hair into it. ‘He texts Asma and me – and sometimes he rings us on our mobiles.’
‘Then you know where he is?’
I shook my head. ‘No. He never says.’
Finally, I arranged her unruly mop into some kind of order. ‘He’s left school and got some dead-end job.’
‘That’s sad. He was so bright.’
‘Yeah.’ I dropped my hand and she caught it and squeezed it.
‘You miss him, don’t you?’
Kate wasn’t usually touchy-feely, and this out-of-character gesture caught me unawares. I burst into tears.
‘Hey, Halima. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry!’
I drew my hand away from hers and sniffed and blew my nose. ‘I wish I could see him,’ I said.
‘Why can’t you?’
‘I’ve asked if we can meet, but he won’t let me. He’s protecting me.’
‘Protecting you?’
I nodded. ‘If I met up with him, Kate, someone would see us. However careful we were, someone would see us. And they’d tell my parents and then there’d be terrible rows and I’d be grounded.’
‘God,’ said Kate, shocked. ‘How heavy is that?’
‘I know. I know it’s hard for you to understand. But it’s how things are with us.’
Not long after this conversation, I persuaded Kate to join the after-school debating club. She took to it like a duck to water.
‘Hey,’ she said, after one session. ‘I’m really enjoying this.’ She nudged me. ‘And I’m seeing a different side to you, too!’
I knew what she meant. In some ways, the debating club was keeping me sane. The members were bright and they all had strong opinions – often radically opposed to one another – and in this atmosphere I felt able to express opinions I’d never be able to air at home, discuss them, toss them around, listen to others’ views. Debates were often heated, but Miss Brunner always kept the lid on things and summed up the conclusions in a balanced way, and I always left feeling stretched and tipped a little out of my comfort zone.
She was my ideal, Miss Brunner. Here was a young woman, highly educated, attractive, her own person, shaping the thoughts and expanding the minds of all these girls from such different backgrounds.
Sometimes I stayed on a little, helping her to clear up. She asked me about my family once and I told her all about Imran and about Baba’s search for a husband for Asma. She kept her opinions to herself, she was never judgemental and, over the months, I came to know her well. I felt that she was the one adult I could trust completely.
CHAPTER TEN
Asma did well at university. She was Baba’s perfect daughter.
Like everyone else, I loved my sister and I envied her effortless charm. Sometimes I wished I could be more like her, not just in looks, but in temperament.
‘Are you happy?’ I asked her once, as we were getting ready for bed.
‘What sort of question is that?’
I shrugged. ‘Well, are you happy that Baba’s going to find a husband for you? What if you don’t like him? What if he’s old and fat and ugly?’
She smiled. ‘If he’s old and fat and ugly, Baba won’t introduce him to me.’
‘Or he might be cruel. He might keep you under his thumb, not let you do the things you want to do.’
‘Oh shut up, Halima. Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
In fact, Baba went to a lot of trouble to find the right man for Asma. He knew that he held some trump cards. Asma was intelligent, beautiful and modest, and she came from a respected Pushtoon family who owned land back in Pakistan.
There was, of course, a skeleton in our cupboard – Imran – but his disappearance was never mentioned. Baba kept hidden our family’s disgrace.
Negotiations began in earnest as Asma entered her final year at college.
And then one evening, Baba came home full of excitement.
‘Asma, come here, child. I think we have found a husband for you.’
Asma sat at Baba’s feet as he described t
he young man to her, and the rest of us listened, too.
A photo was produced and passed around. I scrutinised it carefully. He was good-looking and there were laughter lines round his eyes, which was a good sign. If he took up with our family, he’d certainly need a sense of humour! Also, his family had lived in England for two generations and he had been born here so, with luck, he wouldn’t be too overbearing as a husband.
Asma handed the photo back. She smiled. ‘He looks nice, Baba,’ she said. ‘What’s his name?’
Baba rubbed his hands together. ‘Habib. He has seen your photo, Asma, and he wants to come and visit.’
Hardly surprising, I thought. Anyone seeing Asma’s photo would rush to meet her.
Baba went on. ‘He’s got a good job. A nice flat. Good family.’
I drifted off into my own thoughts as Baba banged on about the virtues of his prospective son-in-law. Clearly Baba had set his heart on this young man. I just hoped he was as nice as Baba thought he was.
And when my turn came, what would happen? Who would Baba find for me? Suddenly, this didn’t seem so far away.
Baba clapped his hands and I dragged my thoughts back to the present.
‘Halima. Pay attention! We have invited Habib and his parents to come and see us next Thursday evening. The whole family must be here to greet him.’
The whole family? I thought. What about Imran?
The next few days went by in a whirl. Ammi and the aunties chatted on the phone or visited each other all the time and when Thursday arrived, Baba, Ammi, Khalil and I were all lined up to meet Habib and his family. Asma stayed in her room. She would make a brief appearance later, when Habib’s family and my family had had a chance to get to know each other.
The moment that Habib walked through the door, I knew he would be kind to Asma. I can’t explain why; it was the way he walked, his relaxed attitude, the way he smiled. I let out a huge sigh of relief. This man was OK. I just hoped he wouldn’t be too put off by our family.
But, amazingly, his family seemed immediately at home with us. Habib’s mother and Ammi never stopped chatting, his father smiled broadly at Baba and embraced him, and Habib talked to Khalil and me naturally.
Then, after about half an hour, Asma made her entrance, bringing in tea and cakes.
Everyone stopped talking and turned to look. I felt so proud of her. She never faltered, gracefully acknowledging the visitors and then sitting down to serve the tea. I was watching Habib closely; his whole face lit up when he saw her; it was obvious she had made a good impression. But how could she not? It was impossible not to love my sister.
I sat beside Asma and helped her serve out the tea and cakes, and Habib was close by. He spoke gently to her, asking one or two questions, making a few jokes, eating everything she handed to him.
At last, Habib and his parents left. They were hardly out of the door before we all started talking at once.
Ammi hugged Asma. ‘What a lovely boy!’ she said, over and over.
‘Well, What do you think, Asma?’ asked Baba.
‘I liked him. I liked him very much, Baba.’
‘So did I,’ said Khalil. ‘He’s a good bloke.’
Baba rubbed his hands together. ‘And he liked you, Asma. He liked you very, very much. I could tell. Oh yes, very much. Undoubtedly, we shall have a magni.’
The very next day, Habib’s father sent the proposal to Baba, and it didn’t take Asma and the rest of us long to make up our minds. We had a simple magni ceremony a few weeks later to formally seal the engagement and the shadi date was set for the end of the academic year, when Asma finished at college.
I told Kate all about it. I was nervous of her reaction.
But Kate was thoughtful. ‘So, you really think it was love at first sight, eh?’
‘Well not love, exactly, but they were attracted to each other, certainly, and he’s a really nice guy, Kate.’
‘How do you know? You only saw him for an hour.’
‘I just do. He was easy-going and intelligent. And our families got on well.’
‘Ah. The families!’
‘Kate, you know how important that is to us.’
‘Sure. So what happens now? Do they get to sleep together, to see if that’s all going to work, too!’
I laughed. ‘No – Baba would kill her if she did that. But they’ll get to hang out together, get to know each other a bit before the shadi.’
‘So, is it going to be one of these vast Asian weddings, then?’
I nodded. ‘Big. But not as big as it would have been back home in Pakistan.’
Ammi was disappointed about that. She so much wanted to go back to our village and have the wedding there, but Habib’s family were all in London and they had access to a place where we could hold the big parties.
‘Never mind, Ammi,’ said Asma. ‘Maybe Khalil’s wedding will be in Pakistan. Or Halima’s.’
Baba looked across at me. ‘Oh yes, certainly. Halima’s wedding will be in Pakistan.’
I frowned, wondering why he’d said that. But I soon forgot his chance remark and was swept up in plans for the wedding.
From the day of the magni, Ammi and all the aunties and friends went into overdrive. Every time I came home from school there were crowds of them in the house poring over recipes, inspecting swatches of fabric. And always the constant chatter and laughter.
Poor Asma. Ammi and the aunties seemed to forget that she was studying for her finals. To them, her exams were utterly unimportant compared to her wedding. Sometimes, in the evening, when we were both in our room studying, Ammi or one of the aunties would barge in and insist we came and gave an opinion on this or that.
Our bedroom had always been big enough for the two of us, but now it was cluttered with wedding stuff. Asma felt bad about it.
‘You could always move into Imran’s room, Halima,’ she said. ‘if you want a bit of space.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll soon have this room to myself. And anyway, I don’t want to move into his room. It’s his. We should leave it in case he comes home.’
We both knew that this wouldn’t happen, and Asma gave me a quizzical look.
I tried to explain. ‘If I did use his room, it would be like saying he’s never going to come back, never going to be part of the family again.’
Asma sighed. ‘It’s sad he won’t be at my wedding.’
But there was no possibility of that. As far as Baba was concerned, Imran no longer existed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Perhaps Asma’s wedding wasn’t quite how Ammi had imagined the wedding of her first daughter. Back in our village, it would have gone on for a week, but, even though it wasn’t in Pakistan, it was pretty special and we spread it out over four days instead.
To begin with, there was all the beauty preparation. Asma had a special facial and body massage and spent hours at the hairdresser. Then, dressed in yellow, she was brought into the front room under a big scarf held up by Khalil and me and a few of our London cousins, where she received all her family.
This was our family party. Habib had a party with his family.
The next event was the mehndi. On this day Habib’s family presented Asma with her wedding dress. Again, the parties were separate. Ours was a really big family party, this time with all the cousins and aunties and uncles, some of whom had flown in specially from Pakistan. We had lots of music – banging drums and lots of dancing and endless good things to eat at the buffet –tikkas, naan, biryani, curries. Everyone was brightly dressed and Asma had her hands beautifully painted with henna patterns.
The actual marriage ceremony took place on the third day. Asma’s dress was of traditional red, very elaborate, with a dupatta – a veil – and she wore heavy jewellery. Habib wore an embroidered suit and a special turban. They made a handsome couple as they sat together on a stage at the end of the room.
The last event of the wedding was the valmina, where the marriage was announced to everyone. I was allowed to invi
te a few friends to this. Asma was a bit dubious when I suggested Kate.
‘She’s my best friend, Asma. I’d really like to invite her.’ So, in the end, Asma agreed.
Kate was really excited.
‘What’s it going to be like?’ she said. ‘What do I have to wear?’
‘Oh, just dress to impress,’ I said. ‘It’s the last part of the wedding. A big party. But don’t wear anything too skimpy.’
‘What, not too much bare flesh and cleavage?’
I laughed. ‘You’ve got it!’
Kate was gobsmacked by the whole thing. To my relief she behaved really well and even Ammi remarked on how much she had changed, how ‘modest’ she had become. I knew it was all an act, but I was grateful to Kate for trying.
‘It was fantastic, Halima,’ she said later. ‘Brilliant! I’ve never been to anything like it. All that colour – and those jewels!’
‘A wedding’s a really big deal for us,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ said Kate. ‘There were some fit-looking blokes there, too. I saw all your aunties and cousins sizing them up.’
I laughed. ‘That’s all part of it. Weddings are great places to meet a husband or a wife. And the aunties never stop scheming and matchmaking!’
‘Did you see anyone there you fancied?’
‘If I had, I wouldn’t tell you!’
‘That’s a yes, then?’
But I refused to be drawn.
Actually, I had met someone I really liked. He was a cousin of Habib’s called Mahmood and, like Habib, he’d lived in London all his life. He was interesting and intelligent and I loved talking to him. I knew that the aunties and cousins were watching us, but I didn’t care. I was so happy for Asma and pleased that our family was linked with Habib’s family. Asma was lucky in her in-laws and lucky in her husband. I was sure that their marriage would work.
After all the excitement had died down and Asma and Habib were settled in their flat, I spoke to Ammi about Mahmood, the boy I’d met.
‘He’s a cousin of Habib’s,’ I said. ‘He’s a really nice boy.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ammi, but there was no enthusiasm in her voice. I was puzzled. Was this my ammi, whose most cherished dream was to have her children well married?
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