Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  Mum repeated the Urdu word of congratulation back to her brother-in-law, her expression more relaxed now. I watched the exchange with puzzlement. Why were Mum and Taya-ji congratulating each other? What was that all about? However, before I had a chance to ask, Mum and I were bundled into one of five Land Rovers pulled up outside the terminal and Taya-ji began to talk loudly to Dad about the latest numbers of soldiers killed in gunfire. Sitting there listening to his frightening talk, I felt glad to be cocooned in the bullet-proof vehicle that would take us across the smooth highways, and then along the rough, rocky roads to the distant rural village in the province of Sindh.

  I stared out of the window at this country, which had been created just over sixty years ago. My dad had made sure I knew its history well. The great, big subcontinent that lies in the Indian Ocean had been divided into two when the British Empire had come to an end in 1945. Mahatma Gandhi, the pacifist, had been the leader of the Indians, later assassinated by his own countrymen, and Mohammad Ali Jinnah, known as Quaid-e-Azam, meaning ‘great leader’, was the father of Pakistan. My father had explained how both men had been educated in England. Gandhi was a graduate of University College London and Jinnah a student of law at Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘It was in this free, progressive country that these two prominent statesmen of the twentieth century learned about the everlasting principles of freedom and justice – ironically, the very motivators for their campaign to end the British occupation of India.’

  I’d just nodded my head, preferring not to get roped into one of my father’s educational lectures. In junior school we were once taught about the British Empire and its evils by a temporary teacher. Mr Parker was a scruffy, middle-aged man who told us that money was the root of all evil. He’d also kept going on about how awful imperialism was and how we should never be allowed to forget it. Staring gloomily at the Afro-Caribbean and Asian students, he’d kept saying: ‘And your people suffered. You were torn from your roots.’

  We had just stared at him blankly until Krishna, an extremely clever Hindu boy, had put his hand up to say, ‘Uh, sir, but we were born here.’

  Suffice it to say that Mr Parker did not return to our school, not after Krishna’s mum had met with the headteacher anyway. And that was all I knew about the British Empire: that it had not been very nice, its collapse was the reason why Pakistan was now the second biggest homeland to Muslims after Indonesia, and that India was the homeland to just under a billion Hindus.

  But I didn’t think the religious divide was as clear-cut as that, which was confirmed to me on a visit from one of my dad’s uncles. Imran-chacha was a retired Pakistani army officer, funny and charming, who had moved to Dubai with his new wife. He had lots of adventure stories to share about his past, including the one about when he’d been a bomber pilot in the 1971 India-Pakistan war.

  ‘I stared down at this enemy territory and I knew I had to annihilate them before they did it to us,’ Imran-chacha had said, smoking a cigar in our living room. ‘But as I looked down, you know what I saw? I saw the domes and minarets of mosques in northern India. I had been sent to bomb a Muslim neighbourhood.’

  ‘What did you do, Imran-chacha,’ I’d asked eagerly, convinced he had turned his plane around and saved hundreds of lives.

  ‘I released the bombs, of course,’ he’d replied forcefully. ‘I was a soldier. My job was to follow orders.’

  ‘But they were Muslims,’ I’d gasped. ‘You killed Muslims?’

  Imran-chacha had eyed me pityingly from behind the veil of smoke.

  ‘Zeba,’ he’d explained patiently, ‘I know there are as many Muslims residing in India as there are in our pure land. But these people are the citizens of an enemy nation. In war you do not look at a person’s religious beliefs, you look at whether they are siding with the enemy.’

  I had wanted to reply that I didn’t think those poor people would have had much influence on whether their country entered a war or not, but I had said nothing, noting my mum’s stern expression warning me not to question an elder.

  Now, gazing out of the comfortable, air-conditioned vehicle, I was fascinated to see that the further we travelled, the less developed our surroundings became. Townships of brick houses began to be replaced by huddled mud huts and cars were parked side by side with animal-drawn carts. At one point we were reduced to a snail’s pace as grazing cows wandered on to the road. Women and young girls walked alongside the car, carrying bales of hay or clay water-pots on their heads. They were dressed in loose-fitting salwar kameezes and their ajrak shawls covered them from head to waist.

  Seeing the elaborately patterned shawls reminded me of home again. The ajrak cloth with its distinctive printed designs was a symbol of the Sindh region, and we had an indigo-coloured shawl displayed proudly on the wall above the TV in our living room. In England you could tell a Sindhi wedding because the male guests wore ajrak caps and the women ajrak shawls. My father once explained to me that it was one of the things that distinguished us, the Sindhis, from the people of the other three regions of Pakistan: the Punjab, Balochistan and the North-West Frontier Province. There was a lot that separated the people of Pakistan. The first was language. Although Urdu was spoken nationally, each region had its own local language. Ours was Sindhi and I spoke it as well as I did Urdu, but I couldn’t read either of them; the beautiful shapes and squiggles of the written language were just patterns to me. My dad had thought it was important for me to be able to recite the poetry of Muhammad Iqbal as well as the language of his ancestors so I had learned to speak them both. Hindi came more naturally to me because Bollywood films were always watched in our house.

  The second thing that separated the people of the different regions was our facial features, which we had inherited from invading ancestors ranging from the Mongols to the Arabs and the Turks. I wasn’t quite sure who my forefathers had been and quite frankly I didn’t care. I was happy to be British.

  Despite the differences, I was beginning to see that there was one thing that was common in the rural parts of the entire country – and that was guns.

  The deadly items were a feature that became more and more visible the further we travelled into the landscape. They were openly displayed: shotguns slung over shoulders or handguns tucked into the waistbands of trousers. It was like venturing into a Wild West movie, except the guns were not props and the men were no actors. I turned my head to stare behind at the four other vehicles following us. They were filled with the men who had greeted my dad at the airport. I had no doubt that more than a few, if not all, were in possession of handguns.

  Five hours later, when our convoy finally drove into my ancestral village, the fascination with what Susan would have termed ‘authenticity’ had somewhat worn off. Tired and hungry, I decided that when I got home I would explain to Susan that poverty was not something to be admired.

  Chapter 3

  My taya-ji’s house stood on its own in the middle of a field. The white structure was big and modern, and very different from the handful of modest houses located about a quarter of a mile away, where small traders like the grocer, the baker and other shopkeepers lived. The five small shops were lined up in the lane behind their houses and provided the basic needs of the villagers. I suppose their main customers were the peasants who lived in a huddle of mud huts about five minutes away.

  Another feature that separated Taya-ji’s house from the traders was that he had not built a compound wall around the building. It was another of his status symbols; no imposter would dare breach the invisible boundary surrounding the house if he valued his life. My dad had once explained to me that Taya-ji’s wealth and high status came from his role as a fixer for the landlord; he enforced the landlord’s will, just as his father and his father before him had done so. I think my business studies teacher would have described it as executive management of the property-owning class.

  Taya-ji’s house would have been the biggest i
n the village had it not been for the local landlord’s residence. The haveli, which could only be described as a mini-palace, was a dusky rose colour – a monstrosity lying in the middle of the green fields on the other side of the village. The tacky structure loomed over the nearby mud huts where the peasants lived. Setting foot here was like stepping back five hundred years. Susan would have loved it.

  When Taya-ji had pointed out the landlord’s house, I had let out an involuntary giggle. The man was Taya-ji’s best friend and his name was Sher Shah – ‘Sher’ meaning tiger in Urdu and ‘Shah’ the Persian for king. I found it ridiculous that a man would allow himself to be called ‘Tiger King’. I mean what were his parents thinking when they named him? A tiger was a hunter – a selfish killer that inspired fear. Why would anyone curse their child with a name like that?

  As we walked up to Taya-ji’s house, a welcoming party of relatives and village residents rushed forward to greet us. My dad was led away by the men and Mum and I were left to be met by Taya-ji’s wife, Mariam-chachi. A short, round woman dressed in crimson, she was standing at the centre of a crowd of women and girls from the village, who had been waiting to receive us in the traditional manner. The wives and daughters of the village’s grocer, butcher, tailor and others took turns to place garlands made up of lilies, jasmine and roses around our necks. Within minutes our chins disappeared from view behind the layers of flowers and I smiled shyly at everyone around me. It was actually really nice to be made to feel so welcome and, in the hustle and bustle of the villagers trying to touch me, I felt like a Bollywood star being greeted by fans.

  Moments later, a pathway was cleared from the mass of bodies and Mum and I were led through the house into the open courtyard at its centre. There, waiting for us, was my maternal grandmother, Nannyma, who had been invited to the house to welcome us.

  ‘As salaam alaikum,’ she greeted us, using the Islamic words of welcome.

  ‘Wa alaikum salaam,’ Mum and I responded together.

  My only living grandparent was a tiny woman with silver hair scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Nannyma’s actual name was Fatima and she had an air about her that defined dignity, charm and kindness, a combination that set her apart from all the other women in the courtyard, particularly my mother. Perhaps it was because she was regarded as an elderly maternal figure of the village that Nannyma carried herself with such confidence. Or maybe it was because she was also a landowner. Nannyma owned a small plot of land which she had inherited from her husband on his death. The land was independent of that which was owned by the main landlord, and she didn’t control any livelihoods, but it still gave her status in the village; they all paid attention when she spoke, including the men. I had warmed to her immediately on my previous visit, and the same was true now.

  When we had freshened up and eaten lunch, Nannyma invited me to sit next to her on a traditional wooden swing. Silver rods poked out of the ceiling to hold in place the smooth wooden seat that was three feet in length. Three people could sit comfortably on it all day long if they wanted to. Other women and girls were gathered around her chatting.

  I sat down next to Nannyma and immediately began to enjoy the gentle swaying.

  ‘Tell me, Zeba,’ she asked, ‘how are your studies?’

  I looked up in surprise at the question. The only interest my other relatives had shown in me so far was centred on my physical appearance, and the fact that I had grown so much since my last visit.

  ‘I’ve sat my exams and I’m waiting for the results,’ I said clearly in Urdu.

  A girl who looked about my age giggled. What had I said that was so amusing?

  ‘Oh, English girl,’ she explained as I looked at her, perplexed. ‘It doesn’t matter what your results will be. You need to be more concerned about passing other exams.’

  ‘What?’ I stared at the girl as she began to giggle again, an irritating noise, which was so contagious that three other girls joined in. I glanced around the room and it seemed all the women were in on the joke too. I managed a weak smile and turned back to Nannyma, who was studying me with a concerned look.

  ‘They have not yet told you, have they, child?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  Nannyma reached forward and let the palm of her old hand smooth my forehead. It was an act of love, I knew that from the emotion that shone in her eyes, but I also knew the reason behind it was sympathy. This old lady felt sorry for me. But why?

  Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the room. The women and girls all straightened their shawls and flicked away imaginary specks of dust from their clothes. It seemed they were standing to attention like soldiers ready for inspection: eager, nervous and a little in awe.

  When the object of their excitement walked in, I wanted to laugh out loud. I had been spot-on with my perception of them as eager soldiers because the man who walked in was an officer in the Pakistan army. It was Asif, my cousin and Taya-ji’s only son.

  Dressed in his country’s uniform, twenty-four-year-old Asif cut a stern figure as he marched into the room. Some of the girls giggled, but the nervous laughter stopped immediately when he glanced their way in irritation. My cousin was a younger, slimmer version of his father, without the gravity-defying moustache, but with the same air of impatience.

  ‘We have been waiting for you, Asif,’ Mariam-chachi cried, hurrying towards her son. ‘Come and meet Nighat-chachi.’

  Asif approached my mum and she reached up to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder.

  ‘Now meet Zeba,’ Mariam-chachi said.

  Asif turned towards the swing and stared down at me. His gaze was direct, unflinching, and then a small curl of a smile appeared on his face. It seemed to transform him from a hard army man to the boy I had known on my last visit here – the teenager who was always smiling and laughing.

  I smiled back, happy at a vague memory of him ruffling my hair.

  The giggling started again and Asif’s stern face reappeared. Excusing himself, he left to rejoin the men in the front of the house.

  ‘You are so lucky, Zeba-ji,’ said one of the girls. ‘Asif-ji will one day become a general in our army.’

  I looked at the girl who had spoken. She was still staring at the door through which Asif has disappeared, and I sensed that she had a crush on the village’s very own hero. I wondered at her comment about how lucky I was. I supposed that for the villagers, anyone in Asif’s family would be seen to benefit from his status.

  The guests stayed for another hour and then left in small groups as the sun began to set. The welcome party was coming to an end and I was glad because I was exhausted. I sat back and watched the room empty until only Mariam-chachi and Nannyma remained with Mum and me. The four of us sat, me and my mother facing Nannyma and Mariam-chachi on opposite sofas, each waiting for another to break the silence.

  I looked at my relatives, each one seemingly lost in her own thoughts. I found it strange that my mum was not sitting next to Nannyma, chatting away about this and that after their years of being apart. The atmosphere between them seemed strained. Earlier in the evening I’d seen them exchanging heated words in another room as I’d passed on my way to the loo. But I hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying and I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping. By the time I came back they were back in the main gathering talking to different people.

  Now my mum was doing her best to avoid Nannyma’s eyes, as was Mariam-chachi, while the old lady sat there with an uncharacteristically grim expression on her face.

  We continued to sit silently for another five minutes and then Asif walked in. He sat down beside his mum, who leaned over and began to stroke his hair. It was a bit odd and I didn’t know where to look. Mariam-chachi was treating her son as if he were a five-year-old.

  ‘My beta, why do you spend so much time away from your mother?’ Mariam-chachi asked dotingly.

  Asif smiled. ‘You know I have to, Mummy
-ji. Our country needs me.’

  Mariam-chachi’s mouth set in a firm line and she didn’t say anything.

  ‘Mummy-ji, don’t sulk,’ Asif teased, grabbing his mother’s hands to kiss them.

  I couldn’t help staring at the pair of them. I’d never seen a mother and son act so affectionately towards each other. Perhaps I found it strange because my own mum was so aloof with me most of the time. But even so, they were acting like something out of the Bollywood movies Susan and I watched and danced along to, where a son was always the centre of a mother’s life.

  ‘Beta,’ Mariam-chachi said, stroking Asif’s hair again. ‘You know I worry about you every minute of every hour when you are away with the army. I can’t help it. It is a mother’s love.’

  ‘Mummy-ji,’ Asif said quietly. ‘You know as a soldier I am not just your son. All the nation’s women are my mothers. I have to protect them all.’

  ‘Asif, you are my son!’ Mariam-chachi insisted.

  Something seemed to snap in Asif and he leaned forward, away from his mother’s hands. ‘How many times will you do this?’ he spat. ‘You burden me with all this worry. I need to think clearly when I am away!’

  Mariam-chachi’s lips trembled, but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘Asif,’ my nannyma said firmly. ‘Your mother was merely expressing her worries. It does not befit a soldier to be so disrespectful to elders, let alone a parent.’

  Asif immediately looked sheepish and grabbed his mum’s hands again to kiss them over and over in apology. All I could do was stare at the spectacle in front of me and shift uncomfortably in my seat. There was clearly an ongoing battle of wills between Asif and his mum – she obviously didn’t approve of his career, whereas he seemed to relish it.

  I looked at my mum to find her staring at Mariam-chachi and her son. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I was sure I saw envy in her eyes. I wondered if my mum regretted not having a son of her own, one who would kiss her hands to apologize for his shortness instead of a daughter who stormed out of the room as I had been known to do.