Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  SUFIYA AHMED

  Secrets of the Henna Girl

  PUFFIN

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Sufiya Ahmed was born in India and arrived in the UK as a baby. She lived in Bolton, Lancashire, before moving to London where she still lives. Sufiya has worked in advertising and in the House of Commons, but is now a full-time author. In 2010 Sufiya set up the BIBI Foundation, a non-profit organization, to arrange visits to the Houses of Parliament for diverse and underprivileged schoolchildren.

  For further information about Sufiya and her books, the BIBI Foundation, or to arrange an event at your school, visit her online at www.bibipublishing.co.uk

  In memory of my nannyma, Fatima Yaqub Manjra,

  who wanted the world for me

  ‘Obtain the virgin’s consent before you marry her’

  Prophet Mohammad (pbuh)

  Chapter 1

  The rain was beating hard against the window. It was the typical English rain of the summer – fast and furious as it attempted to wash away the dusty, dry heat of the unbearably hot days. We had been looking forward to the predicted heat wave for weeks, but when it came it proved too much for Britain. ‘It’s too hot,’ were the cries emanating from a people designed for the cold rather than the sun’s unforgiving glare. I, too, had become frustrated, trying to find relief from the humid, sticky atmosphere that hung in every classroom and corridor of my school building. At least the teachers had arranged fans in the halls where we sat our final-year exams.

  I still could not believe it; my school years were over. I was sixteen and the world was my oyster. I still had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but my teachers anticipated a great future for me. My English teacher said my writing was exceptional and a world of opportunities lay ahead. Of course I knew education wasn’t all over yet; I still had to do my A levels at college and then do a degree. It was the twenty-first century and I, Zeba Khan, would get an education just like everybody else when we returned from our summer holiday in Pakistan. While all my friends prepared for days lazing by a pool in France, Italy or Cornwall, I was destined for my parents’ homeland.

  I had only ever visited Pakistan once, when I was eight. I remembered vaguely my cousin – an older boy by eight years who smiled a lot and ruffled my hair sometimes, but never had much to say to me – my dad’s older brother whom I addressed by the traditional name of Taya-ji, my sweet grandmother on my mum’s side and many, many servants. I did not have good memories; it had been hot, full of mosquitoes and little else.

  ‘But it will be different this time,’ my mum insisted. ‘Taya-ji has installed air-conditioning and the windows are closed to the mosquitoes.’

  But I had a nervous feeling about this holiday, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. I was a little afraid of Taya-ji. Known as Mustaq Khan to the world, he was a very stern man who made people quake with fear, including my dad. Whenever he visited us from Pakistan, I ceased to be my dad’s little girl. Dad even stopped calling me Rani, the Urdu for queen. Instead he gave everyone the impression I was a responsibility, a burden because I had been born a girl. There was no doubt in my mind that Dad would revert to type in the company of his older brother and I would become a stranger to him … again.

  ‘You’re so lucky’, my best friend Susan said, her blonde hair half covering her impish face as she peered into the suitcase of salwar kameezes – traditional trouser suits. ‘The weatherman said we’ve had all the sun and from now on it will only rain. Typical English weather. At least you’ll be able to come back with a tan.’

  I gave Susan a small smile, but said nothing. My best friend since our first day at nursery and yet she still didn’t understand some things about me. Get a tan? I was an Asian girl with creamy, fair skin that my mum was extremely proud of. It was what got me noticed at weddings and parties by the buxom aunties peering at the new stock of teenage girls who would one day become the wives of their sons. I glanced in the mirror and a brown-haired teenager with dark eyes, a straight nose and prominent chin stared back at me. Many aunties had already commented on my lack of fragile beauty, instead placing me in the ‘will do’ category: good strong bones, child-bearing hips and sparkling skin. It had been made clear to me a very long time ago that my outer dermis was my saving grace, and so like every insecure girl possessive of her one good quality, I tried to avoid the sun as much as Susan tried to bask in it.

  The rain suddenly died down. The clouds disappeared as quickly as they had gathered and the sun’s shy beams began to peep through. I scrambled to my feet and urged Susan up by grabbing both her hands.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said, suddenly desperate to get out and feel the clean air before I was forced to endure Pakistan’s engulfing heat.

  Susan pulled a face but followed me anyway, and as we passed the kitchen my mum emerged.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded, pushing a strand of black hair off her forehead with hands covered in chapatti flour.

  ‘Just for a walk,’ I replied, surprised. What was the big deal? It was only after three in the afternoon.

  ‘Zeba, we are leaving tonight for Pakistan. I don’t want you disappearing.’

  ‘I’m going around the block,’ I protested. ‘We’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.’

  A range of expressions crossed Mum’s face. She was only twenty-two years older than me and we were often mistaken for sisters, but there was nothing friendly about our relationship. She was my mother, fully in charge of me, and she never let me forget it.

  ‘I’m not sure. Eh … Zeba’s daddy,’ Mum called out to my dad, who was in the living room.

  Susan giggled next to me. She had always thought it was hilarious how my mum could never bring herself to call her own husband by his name, Kamran. I had tried to explain to Susan that this was our culture. Women respected their husbands and it was disrespectful to say their names aloud. I tried to justify it by adding that it wasn’t just the Pakistanis like us who did it. The Arabs did it too by using the word ‘Abu’ in front of the eldest child’s name. So if your child was called Adam then the father would be known as Abu Adam. It was such a common practice that I had noticed Middle Eastern leaders being referred to as Abu this and Abu that by journalists on the news.

  My dad stuck his head out of the living-room door, a look of annoyance on his normally happy, smiling face. ‘What does a man have to do for some peace and quiet, eh?’ he barked, shattering the tranquillity himself.

  Susan and I stared at him, a little shocked by his aggressive manner. Normally, my dad would invite us both into the living
room and entertain us with amusing stories about his customers. It was a set routine from as far back as I can remember. Dad owned a small grocery store on the high street and he always had funny stories about his regulars – from the man who insisted on buying identically sized carrots to the woman who bored him with exaggerated tales of her doctor son. Then he would switch the conversation to us, mocking and teasing us about our taste in music, or the latest Saturday-night programme we were addicted to. He would compare the ‘dumb-down culture’ as he liked to call it, to the wondrous words of Muhammad Iqbal, Pakistan’s national poet who was long dead.

  Susan and I would laugh and reply ‘whatever’ and he would point at me and tell Susan that I was his favourite Rani. I would respond that I was his only Rani as he had no other children. Then Dad would tut at me and say that Susan was like his daughter too. Susan would grin and say ‘whatever’ again, but really she would be secretly pleased. Her father had left a long time ago, unable to cope with the demands of a wife and two daughters under the age of five.

  ‘Nighat?’ Dad barked out Mum’s name.

  That was another thing Susan found strange. How was it that the men were allowed to call out their wives’ names? Did the women not deserve the same respect? I didn’t know the answer and had to satisfy her with my usual blanket response to all her questions: it was our culture.

  ‘Zeba wants to go out,’ Mum sniffed.

  ‘So let her have her last moments of freedom!’ Dad snapped, slamming the door shut and causing the three of us to jump.

  ‘Very well,’ Mum conceded, her features pulled together tightly in a pinched look. ‘Be back in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What’s up with them?’ Susan asked, as I closed the front door behind us.

  I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea. Both my parents had been acting very strangely since they had announced the trip two weeks ago. Their conversations were all about Pakistan, and from the little bits that I caught they were either about our relatives, or about the endless suicide bombs that were going off in the cities and at the army barracks. More disturbing, however, was Dad’s behaviour. A black cloud seemed to have descended on him and he was short-tempered with everyone, including his beloved customers. Just the other day I’d seen him shout at an Asian lady for the crime of rummaging through a box of coriander for the freshest bundle.

  Susan and I walked along the road in silence. We were good like that. We could spend hours in each other’s company without feeling the need to say anything. We turned a corner at the end of the road and came across a group of girls from our year. Our school year was over, but they had returned to wait with bags of flour for the Year Eleven boys from the nearby academy. It was all so predictable. Both sides would egg and flour each other until the neighbourhood elderly would emerge, outraged at the mess on their street. They would then call the police and everyone would flee.

  Susan and I thought the girls were just desperate for some attention from the boys. It was as though their lives had no purpose unless they were being harassed. Susan and I were going to wait for our true love. Of course, we would find the boy of our dreams when we were travelling the world or working in our top professional jobs. We were special and we were going to wait for someone better than a spotty boy from Norland Boys’ Academy.

  ‘So you going to email me, Zee?’ Susan asked.

  ‘I’ll try,’ I answered, not sure if there was a computer in my taya’ji’s house. ‘But it’s not a very advanced village. It’s in a really remote part of western Pakistan.’

  Susan shot me an envious look. ‘It sounds really adventurous. I might travel across Pakistan in my gap year. You know, see the authentic Pakistan, the real people.’

  I shrugged. It always amazed me how indigenous English people thought everything foreign was exotic, with an air of glamour. I knew that Pakistan was far from exotic. I couldn’t see what was glamorous for the millions of poor people who lived in mud huts, or pulled water from a well, or were denied an education and free healthcare.

  We continued walking to the small park at the end of the road and, finding it empty, I grabbed a swing. The seat felt wet through my jeans, not yet dry from the rainstorm. Susan chose to stand by the side, her expression making it clear that she was not going to join me. I didn’t care and pushed my feet against the ground so that I could soar in the air. To some people perhaps the view from the highest point of the swing might have appeared dull. Row upon row of brown brick houses with black slate roofs, and then sprawling far, far into the distance England’s hills. Yorkshire hills. This was my home; this small English town was where I belonged, tucked away in the valleys of my country, and the thought of leaving it, even for four weeks, filled me with dread. Unfortunately I had no alternative.

  Chapter 2

  The giant wheels of the Boeing 747 screeched to a halt on Karachi’s runway.

  Letting out a sigh of relief that we were back on the ground after the eight-hour flight, I rested my head against the seat to watch the commotion around me. Half the passengers had jumped to their feet in a clamour to get to the luggage stored in the overhead compartments. The pilot had not yet turned off the seatbelt sign, but people didn’t seem to care. I wondered if it was because they couldn’t wait to see loved ones in the terminal, or if some were just anxious to get home. Suddenly I felt sick at the thought of home. I did not want to be here. I wanted to be in my house with Susan, listening to our favourite music and dancing around the bedroom pretending we were at a live gig.

  As a Muslim I was not allowed to go to pop concerts, and I was always so jealous of Susan, who had been given the freedom to do pretty much whatever she wanted since she had turned fourteen. The funny thing was, apart from the odd concert she went to with her older sister, Susan was happiest hanging out with me in my bedroom. We would spend hours surfing the internet, watching DVDs, reading books or just talking about how successful we were going to be when we grew up. I realized I was going to be bored on this holiday. How was I going to pass the time in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere? I was quite sure that I would be brain-dead by the time we boarded a flight for home.

  ‘Zeba.’

  I turned in the direction of Mum’s voice. She was indicating to me to follow her example and, aware of what was expected of me in Pakistani society, I raised the shawl hanging loosely on my shoulders to hide my hair from view.

  I wondered how long we would have to remain in what now seemed to be an overcrowded cabin as people stood in the aisle, avoiding eye contact so they would have no qualms about shoving each other out of the way. Suddenly a dry, overwhelming heat blasted us and I knew the cabin doors had opened.

  About forty minutes later, as my parents and I emerged from the Jinnah International airport’s glass doors, Taya-ji and countless other men rushed forward to hug my dad. In a manner that can only be described as dutiful, Mum and I stood to the side and watched this male bonding, which centred on the two brothers. Physically they could not be more different. My dad has a slight build and a friendly demeanour, whereas Taya-ji is a big man, well over six feet tall and with a huge pot belly. He looks fierce with his scowling face and air of impatience, and I did not think there would be many who would cross him willingly, not in this country anyway.

  Two years ago Taya-ji had visited us in London and Susan had caught a glimpse of him one morning when she had knocked for me on the way to school. She had laughed hysterically outside my front door at the man who was feared in the twenty villages of his local district. The reason had been his moustache – the thick patch of black hair on his upper lip styled against gravity into an uplifted curl at the corners of his mouth. Susan had found it comical, but I knew from what my dad had told me that Taya-ji’s moustache was a sign of his masculinity, wealth and status in Pakistan’s rural society.

  At that point I had wondered what the Pakistani people thought of my dad with his clean-shaven face. Perhaps their view was similar to Taya-
ji’s, which erred on the side of disappointment. Taya-ji made no secret of the fact that he thought Dad ‘wasn’t man enough’ – whatever that meant – and not because of the absence of whiskers on his upper lip, but because Dad had chosen a simple life as a grocer, rejecting what Taya-ji regarded as the reasons for existence: power and influence.

  On his last visit, I’d heard Taya-ji mock my dad in front of other relatives at a wedding. ‘My brother spends his day selling vegetables to women,’ he’d said. Dad had joined in the nervous laughter, but I was convinced there was hurt in his eyes. Even back then I could see my father possessed something Taya-ji could never have – dignity.

  ‘Zeba!’

  My taya-ji’s voice boomed loudly as his attention finally moved away from his younger brother to focus on me.

  ‘Come here!’

  I took a hesitant step forward, my eyes darting nervously towards my dad who gave me an encouraging smile. I expected Taya-ji to grab me in a crushing hug, but he stopped two steps short to beam down at me, his fierce scowl momentarily disappearing. I stared up at him with a weak smile. On my last visit I had been eight years old and Taya-ji had swung me up into his arms. I still remember bursting into tears and pleading to be put down by this scary giant, all of which had been to no avail. He might not be swinging me in his arms this time, but I was still intimidated.

  Suddenly, a skinny man appeared with a garland of lilies. Snatching the flowers, Taya-ji placed them around my neck.

  ‘Welcome, beti.’

  My smile widened at Taya-ji as the fresh fragrant smell of the lilies invaded my nostrils. He had just called me ‘daughter’ in Urdu.

  Taya-ji’s attention then turned to Mum who had been standing to the side, a stiff, awkward smile on her lips. A second garland of lilies magically appeared to be placed around her neck.

  ‘Nighat!’ Taya-ji declared, still beaming. ‘Mubarak!’