by Sufiya Ahmed
Asif seemed to notice my mum’s wide-eyed stare because he turned to her. ‘You must be tired, Nighat-chachi,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should rest. It’s been a long day.’
My mum smiled slightly as if in agreement, but made no effort to get up.
‘What about you?’ Asif said to me.
I nodded my head. ‘Yes, I’m very tired actually. Perhaps I can be shown to my room.’
Asif moved forward as if to get up, but he was held back by his mum.
‘No!’ she declared. ‘You stay here. No need for you to accompany Zeba. I will take her.’
Asif blushed a deep crimson and flopped back on to the sofa just as Mariam-chachi got up. For a man who was used to giving orders in the army, it must have been humiliating to have been put in his place by his mother not once, but twice. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
Half an hour later I lay down on the low, wide bed in the guest room. The deafening silence of the village rang in my ears, reminding me just how far I was from the constant noise that came with living in a town. Going over the day’s events in my mind as I drifted off, I couldn’t help wondering what my mother and Nannyma had been arguing about and what was the cause of the obvious tension between the women in Taya-ji’s house.
Chapter 4
Taya-ji’s house had a large rooftop garden containing a range of expensive plants, ornaments and garden furniture. It was empty during the day because the sun was so hot, but the evenings were very different. With the sun’s beams shining on the opposite side of the world, the rooftop was usually a place of cool calm and tranquillity … but the day after we arrived, it became the place where my world was shattered.
After a day of unpacking and reading my book in the shade, I was now perched on a wooden swing at the garden’s centre, pushing with my feet so that I could feel the cool breeze. My parents were sitting opposite me on a bench, their faces grim. I gazed at my dad, noting the new lines that had appeared almost overnight on his forehead. What was he so stressed about? This was a holiday!
‘The engagement with Asif will take place next week.’
It was my dad who spoke the words, calmly and firmly, in contrast to his tortured expression.
A butterfly started to flutter in my stomach. ‘What engagement?’ I whispered.
My parents exchanged a brief look.
‘Your engagement,’ my mum said casually.
‘My engagement?’ I echoed blankly, halting the swing’s movements with my feet.
‘Zeba, don’t act dumb!’ my dad snapped harshly, his voice finally giving up the pretence that everything was fine.
Dumb? Huh? Engagement?
‘Zeba,’ my mum said quietly. ‘We have arranged for you to be married to Asif. Taya-ji wants it and so do we.’
For a few seconds I stared at Mum and then I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My throat was suddenly dry and my tongue felt numb. Find your voice, my head screamed. Find your voice!
‘I don’t want to marry Asif,’ I finally managed to blurt out.
My dad rose to his feet slowly and glared down at me. ‘Do not make this more difficult than it has to be,’ he rasped through gritted teeth. ‘In our family, girls do what they are told. Marriages are arranged by fathers. I have given my brother my word. It is my honour and your honour to accept.’
Honour?
‘You’re playing a trick on me, right?’ I pleaded, trying in vain to search his face for a sign of my real father, the funny, relaxed man who doted on me, his Rani. Who was this imposter? ‘This is a joke,’ I said. ‘Not a nice one, or a funny one, but a joke, right?’
My dad’s furious kick sent a small table flying. I flinched and stared at him in shock, my mind yelling at me to flee the rooftop, but my body was unable to move. So this was how a rabbit felt when it froze in the glare of an approaching car’s headlights.
‘You will marry Asif!’ my father shouted. ‘That is my wish. Final!’ Then he stormed off.
I sprang up and ran to my mum, burying my head in her lap. This was all crazy. My dad was like a man possessed. So what if Taya-ji wanted this marriage. It should not be his will that mattered, but mine. Why was Dad doing this? Why didn’t he stand up to Taya-ji and put my wishes first? Surely my mother would understand.
My mum lifted my face off her lap and wiped my tears. ‘Zeba,’ she said quietly. ‘We are women. We carry the honour of our fathers and husbands. We must do as they say. It has always been the way. Don’t fight it.’
Accept it? ‘No!’ I cried.
‘Look at me and your dad,’ she persisted. ‘Our marriage was arranged. We are happy. You will be too.’
‘But I don’t want to marry Asif,’ I sobbed. ‘I don’t like him.’
‘Love will grow after the wedding,’ my mum explained, an impatient edge in her voice now.
‘But I’m too young to get married!’ I insisted. ‘I’m sixteen. I want to go to college and university, not get married and have babies!’
My mum pushed me away and stood up. ‘You have been spoiled!’ she snapped, taking her turn as a parent to glare down at me. ‘We have given you everything you have ever wanted. Now it is your turn to honour us.’
‘No!’ I cried loudly.
‘Yours was a difficult birth, Zeba,’ she spat out icily. ‘You spoilt my chances of having any more children. You have to do this for me and Daddy.’
I stared at Mum horrified. I couldn’t believe she was throwing that at me now. All my life my mum had placed emphasis on my duty and it all stemmed from the fact that I had not had an easy birth. It was a cultural thing: you owed the woman who pushed you out, and that debt would be collected one day. She often described it as a stormy night: lightning, thunder, rain and contractions that were crippling her. In the end they’d had to grab my little head with those things that look like giant salad spoons to pull me out. I was always sure my mum had confused it with the births that took place in Bollywood movies where an abandoned woman was giving birth in the opening scene. I mean how many storms did England have in June?
‘Mum!’ I cried, appalled at her use of emotional blackmail for doing the most natural thing in the world. ‘How could you blame me for that?’
But I had no effect on her. The expression on her face was as hard as nails as she too turned and walked out.
Alone, the tears started and they did not stop. I could not believe this was happening to me.
I wasn’t Pakistani … not in the real sense. I didn’t live here. I wasn’t born here. Why me? I did not love Asif. I barely even knew him. Not to mention the fact he was eight years older than me. I was going to be somebody important one day. I was supposed to be getting an education … Tears of frustration and rage flowed freely.
I remained on the rooftop by myself for hours. Nobody came to see if I was all right. It seemed they had left me to cry by myself. I could just imagine my mum explaining to Mariam-chachi to leave me be until I came to my senses. But I did not come to my senses. Far from it. Once the shock of the situation had eased, I threw the most vicious tantrum, kicking and smashing everything in sight as a red mist descended, causing me to act completely deranged. In no time Mariam-chachi’s precious plants were turned over, the expensive furniture kicked and dented and the glass vases smashed.
I hated them!
I hated Pakistan!
At some point in the night I fell asleep from exhaustion and the next thing I knew, I was jolted awake at the sound of the muezzin’s adhan. It was the call for prayer just before dawn. The voice was clear and crisp, the loudspeaker of the mosque succeeding in its task to wake anyone who was not shielded by steel walls. I raised my shawl, which had fallen off in my sleep, to my head, and listened quietly to the Arabic words that are used by Muslims all over the world.
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
Ash-had al-la ilaha illallah
Ash-had al-la ilaha illallah
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah
Hayyal ala salahh, Hayya ala salahh
Hayya ala l’falah, Hayya ala l’falah
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
La ilaha illallah
I knew the translation in English. It meant:
God is Great, God is Great
God is Great, God is Great
I bear witness that there is no God except the One God
I bear witness that there is no God except the One God
I bear witness that Mohammad is God’s messenger
I bear witness that Mohammad is God’s messenger
Come to prayer, come to prayer
Come to success, come to success
God is Great, God is Great
There is no God except the One God.
When the muezzin’s final words died away, it was eerily quiet again. It was still dark and I raised my head a little to peer out over the empty space surrounding Taya-ji’s house. There was nothing out there but darkness and I suddenly felt scared as childhood stories of demons and ghosts sprang into my mind.
Jumping to my feet, I ran across the rooftop to the stairs, avoiding the broken shards of glass on the floor. Taking two steps at a time, I almost fell down the narrow stairwell and into the deserted hallway of the top floor. Using my hands to guide me in the dark, I managed to find my way to my bedroom. I climbed under the sheets and pulled them up to my chin. Keeping my eyes wide open, I counted the seconds until they drifted into long minutes and then finally the sun came up, and a cock began to crow somewhere nearby. With the rays of light beaming into my room, I finally relaxed and my mind fell through darkened tunnels into a deep and exhausted sleep.
It didn’t last long. I was jolted awake again, but this time by the shrieking voice of Mariam-chachi, who had discovered my handiwork on her rooftop.
Calmer now than I had been last night, I felt a little ashamed of my behaviour. Perhaps I should make my way to the rooftop and apologize, I thought, but that idea didn’t last very long when she stormed into my room like a raging bull.
Mariam-chachi was a round woman with a podgy face to match. When I had greeted her yesterday, I had marvelled at how the folds of her cheeks were so fleshy that they almost succeeded in hiding her small eyes. Today, however, her brown eyes had lasered through the flesh to flash angrily at me.
‘What did you think you were doing?’ she screamed at me.
I stared at her, trembling slightly. I had known even in my rage last night that I would have to pay for my actions, but I had expected the fury to come from my parents, not Taya-ji’s equally scary wife.
‘Answer me! You have broken the Mughal table. It was an antique item from Shah Jahan’s time, the emperor who built the Taj Mahal. Do you know how expensive that was? I bought it from an old aristocratic woman selling her family’s fortune to survive. Shipped from Agra …’
She halted in her tirade at the sight of my grinning face. I couldn’t help it. Her reference to the table made me want to laugh hysterically. I wanted to tell her that Dad was actually the one responsible for that bit of vandalism. But I didn’t get the chance because my parents rushed into the room, followed by Taya-ji.
‘Mariam-bhabi, I’m so sorry, let us handle this,’ my dad hurriedly apologized, respectfully adding the Urdu word for elder sister-in-law to her name.
‘What kind of children do you raise in the UK?’ she spat.
My dad visibly winced and I felt a touch of regret at what I had done; I had not been raised to rampage around other people’s houses.
‘Come, Mariam,’ Taya-ji said firmly.
Taya-ji and Mariam-chachi left the room and I sucked in my breath, ready for the onslaught of parental rage. But it never came.
Instead my dad said quietly, ‘We have decided that you will live with Nannyma until the wedding. The engagement is put off for now as Asif has been called for emergency army duty. You also need the time and space to get used to the idea.’
I stared up at him, aghast.
‘My word is final,’ he added, and left the room, leaving me alone with Mum.
‘You know, Zeba,’ she said icily, ‘that Mariam-bhabi has always thought of herself as a better daughter-in-law than me. It is sad that this is how you repay my gift of bringing you into the world, by showing me up in front of her.’
‘Mum,’ I pleaded, wanting her to stop.
‘No, Zeba,’ she continued, ruthless in her condemnation. ‘Today has confirmed to her that she is better because you are my daughter. And, for once, I agree with her.’ And without another word she left the room.
Chapter 5
I left later that day for Nannyma’s house. Taya-ji and my dad had gone into the city for some business while Mariam-chachi exacted her revenge for the precious vases and plants.
The house servant Feroz-baba, an old stooped man, heaved my suitcase downstairs and I smiled gratefully at him, wishing I had dragged the case down myself. In Pakistan the male servants have ‘baba’ added to their names and the females the word ‘bhaji’, as a mark of respect to people who are older. Urdu is a language that commands respect between its speakers, but I found it strange that the very same people thought it was acceptable for an elderly person to lift heavy luggage when he could barely hold himself upright. Noting my embarrassment and my gratitude, the corners of Feroz-baba’s mouth lifted slightly in acknowledgment before he began to walk away.
‘Where are you going?’ Mariam-chachi’s shrill voice sounded behind me.
‘To Nannyma’s,’ I said quietly, still feeling a little ashamed.
‘Not you! Him!’ Mariam-chachi declared, glaring at Feroz-baba. ‘You need to put her luggage in the cart. Hurry up.’
Cart? I turned around and walked through the front door into the evening warmth to find an ox cart parked outside. As I had witnessed on my journey to the village less than two days ago, it was not unusual to find transport pulled by animals in the poorer, rural parts of Pakistan. The ox – a sturdy, white, field-labour animal – pulled a cart made entirely of entwined wood, held up on four big wheels.
My mum emerged, ready to accompany me to her mother’s house. ‘Shall we go?’
I nodded and swung my handbag on to the cart, and jumped on the back. Feroz-baba had already lifted my suitcase with the help of the driver, another elderly man.
‘Zeba, what are you doing?’ Mum snapped.
‘I thought this was our transport to Nannyma’s house.’
Mum’s eyes widened in shock and she stepped up to the cart, noting my luggage. With her lips pursed in a thin line, she turned sharply to face Mariam-chachi, who was standing by the doorway.
‘You want us to ride in this to my mother’s house?’ she asked incredulously.
Mariam-chachi avoided her sister-in-law’s eyes, preferring to look into the distance as if she were searching for someone. ‘There is no other vehicle free at the moment,’ she said vaguely.
Mum snorted in disbelief. ‘I can see a Land Rover parked right there,’ she said through gritted teeth, pointing to the big black vehicle with its tinted windows, luxurious leather seating and cool air-conditioning.
‘Yes, but there is no driver,’ Mariam-chachi insisted. ‘Who will drive it? The cart is the only thing available and your mother’s house is only ten minutes away. Come now, Nighat, the cart is not beneath you even if you are from the UK.’
Mum inhaled sharply and I could tell from her expression that she was fighting the urge to scream something obscene at Mariam-chachi. But I knew she would not. Mariam-chachi was the older bhabi and, in our culture, my mother was obliged to offer respect even if it killed her.
‘Very well,’ Mum said, clambering up into the back of t
he cart. ‘If it is the only means available, then so be it. I shall see you tomorrow on my return.’
Mariam-chachi took a hesitant step forward, clearly surprised that my mum hadn’t put up more of a fight. By accepting that we would travel in the ox cart, Mum had effectively turned the tables. It was unacceptable for a host to provide such basic transport for guests, and by doing so Mariam-chachi had proved herself to be ungracious and petty.
‘Let’s go,’ Mum said to the cart driver.
‘Wait!’ Mariam-chachi called out, rushing forward. ‘Let me see if Feroz-baba’s son is available. He can drive the Land Rover.’
Mum was about to protest, seemingly enjoying my aunt’s discomfort, when the ox decided at that precise moment to release a pungent brown solid from its backside. The smell was disgusting.
‘Oohh,’ Mum cried, scrambling off the cart and holding her shawl over her nose. ‘Couldn’t you have made it wait?’
The cart driver stared bewildered at the figure of my mother rushing indoors away from the stench. Make the ox wait?
Mariam-chachi was also holding her shawl to her nose. ‘Get that animal off my driveway,’ she shrieked. ‘Making dirty mess on my clean white stones. Go!’
The driver whacked a thin bamboo stick on the ox’s rump and the animal moved slowly off the driveway, pulling the cart away.
‘Zeba!’ Mariam-chachi called out in alarm at the sight of me still perched at the back of the cart, my legs dangling over the side.
‘Don’t worry,’ I cried. ‘I can get dropped off at Nannyma’s.’
Mariam-chachi ran up behind the slow-moving cart, obviously in two minds about what to do. I could tell a big part of her wanted me and the ox off her land, but the combined roles of being my aunt and future mother-in-law demanded that she should not let me leave like this.
‘I’m fine,’ I called. ‘The fresh air will be good for me.’
Mariam-chachi finally gave up and halted in her tracks to watch the ox cart slowly grind away, the small bell round the animal’s neck chiming with its every step. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle it rang all the way through the village, past the five small bricked houses, which were Taya-ji’s nearest neighbours, and then down a muddy path scattered with rocks and stones that led to a collection of mud huts. As we passed the homes of the poorest people, small children dressed in clean but tattered clothes came out to gape at me. They pointed at me and giggled, revealing white teeth set against sun-bronzed skin. I knew why they were amused. I was the foreign girl, the England guri, and yet I was travelling in an ox cart, the vehicle of the peasants. As the cart wheels creaked and the bell rang, apologetic-looking mothers came out of their huts to usher the children away. I smiled at them, hoping to reassure them that I wasn’t offended.
