Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  Nannyma’s house was smaller than Taya-ji’s, but much prettier, with colourful flowerpots lining the edges of the veranda. Nannyma was waiting for me, sitting serenely on a wooden swing on the deck. As the ox cart arrived at her house, Nannyma stood up and walked slowly to the edge of her veranda and reached over to stroke the animal’s neck. It reminded me of when she had stroked my forehead only two days earlier, and I wondered if she was one of those people who instinctively reached out to those who suffered.

  ‘Kareem-baba,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘See that the ox is watered and fed, and give Mariam’s servant some refreshment.’

  A middle-aged man materialized as I jumped off the cart and walked tentatively up to Nannyma. Smiling, she reached out and pulled me into an embrace and I relaxed against her, suddenly feeling better and calmer. Her unique scent drifted into my nostrils – a combination of Lily of the Valley talcum powder (which my mum displayed on her dresser, but never used) and something else. What was it? Cloves? Yes, that was it. I remembered the dried flower buds swimming in her tea when I had sat with her in Taya-ji’s courtyard.

  Nannyma stepped back and led me into her house. ‘This is your home for now,’ she said gently.

  I was grateful to be inside and off the cart. The ride had started out well, but by the end my body had felt the impact of every rut and rock the wheels had rolled over. Grateful to spot a soft-looking sofa under a whirring ceiling fan, I hurried over and flopped down.

  Nannyma’s house did not have air-conditioning and to another westerner it would not have been so comfortable, but after the last forty-eight hours I felt like I had come home. I felt I could finally breathe a little more easily again.

  ‘I spoke to your mother on the phone,’ my grandmother said, as Kareem-baba placed a cool glass of lemonade in front of me.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I am imposing,’ I muttered politely.

  Nannyma let out a whoop of laughter. ‘No, my dear Zeba. You are not imposing. How can you? You are my only grandchild. I welcome this opportunity to get to know you better. However, I have one rule which you must abide by.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You shall not worry about your upcoming wedding. You shall put it out of your mind and instead spend your thoughts and time with me. This time is for us. After three weeks, we will discuss the situation of your marriage and whether it is to be or not.’

  I stared at Nannyma. ‘I don’t want to get married, though and …’

  ‘What did I say?’ she interrupted.

  I swallowed hard, trying to erase the lump in my throat, but it was no good and the dam broke. Wailing as if the world was crashing in on me, I allowed Nannyma to place her thin, fragile arms around me and rock me tenderly until there was nothing left but exhaustion.

  ‘There, there, feel better now?’ she said, and to my surprise I did. The hug was everything I’d wanted from my own mother. A reassurance that everything was going to be OK, and that I wasn’t the only person in the village who didn’t believe in this marriage. It felt good to know there was someone who might be on my side.

  Over the next two days, the tears of frustration dried up and I spent my time sitting with Nannyma on the veranda swing talking about everything and anything. She told me how she had arrived in this village as a bride nearly fifty years ago from Karachi. An educated daughter of a moderately successful businessman, she had moved to the village in order to be with her husband – a college friend of her brother’s. My nanapapa had hated the city and only tolerated it to get an education. Nannyma had agreed to return with him, and so began a life in which she shared her space with cows and chickens, and kept her mind active through subscriptions to newspapers and magazines.

  Decades after she had arrived in a bride’s wooden chariot, Nannyma was now loved in this village as an arbiter of justice. Her sense of fairness was so well respected that villagers sought her out to resolve their disputes. There was an unofficial understanding that whatever Nannyma decided would be the final outcome. In my first few days with her, many people came to her with their differences and she helped resolve them, which I found completely inspiring. I couldn’t imagine it working quite so well back home, or even in my school, where so many ‘procedures’ seemed to get in the way of common sense.

  My nannyma also told me about her other daughter, Nusrat, who I addressed as kala, meaning ‘mother’s sister’. Nusrat-kala had emigrated to America about ten years ago – the proud possessor of a green card, allowed in by a nation that valued the brightest in the world. Unlike my mum, who had chosen not to attend college despite being the daughter of educated parents, Nusrat had demanded an education, leaving home to live with Nannyma’s relatives in Karachi while she attended a leading college for women. It was in Karachi where she had met her husband-to-be, Tahir. Once their studies were over, he secured a job as an engineer in America and then asked her to join him as his wife. Nusrat had been reluctant to leave her widowed mother, but my nannyma said she had been adamant that her younger daughter should follow her fate, her kismet.

  ‘As she left I remember I whispered to her, “Go, I want the world for you,”’ Nannyma recalled. ‘And so she did.’

  I’d met Nusrat-kala and Uncle Tahir on their one and only visit to England two years ago. Nusrat-kala and my mum were like chalk and cheese. Mum was quiet and liked to sit in the shadow of my dad – literally – whereas Nusrat-kala was a confident woman who, despite being the same height, appeared to be a foot taller just by the force of her personality. She laughed loudly and was unreserved with her opinions of the world. (Susan said it was an American thing and my mum moaned it was not a feminine thing.) Within minutes of meeting her, I had come to adore my aunt and I think she liked me too.

  If my mum could have had her way, she would have kept Nusrat-kala hidden from her world. I remember while she was in England we all attended a wedding of a distant relative and the auntie-jis were eyeing Nusrat-kala with interest. To them she was a rare breed, one who did not look like she would cower in the face of their sharp tongues.

  ‘So what is America like?’ one auntie-ji asked.

  ‘Great,’ said Nusrat-kala. ‘It’s truly the land of opportunity. You know you are an American if you believe in the American Dream.’

  ‘Then you must be a twenty-four-carat American,’ the auntie-ji joked.

  ‘And what is the American Dream, huh?’ another auntie-ji asked. ‘To be like men?’

  ‘No,’ Nusrat-kala replied clearly. ‘It is to achieve your full potential and not to hide behind your men. Honestly, ladies, you remind me of the villagers I grew up with, who deny women their potential. The whole point of emigration is to escape to new opportunities.’

  ‘You sound like a politician!’ the first auntie-ji accused.

  ‘Well, back in Chicago, Tahir and some of our friends think that I might have a good chance of running for political office.’

  A shocked silence followed. Not at the possibility of Nusrat-kala having a political career – that was something that hadn’t even been digested. No, the shocked horror had been at Nusrat-kala’s reference to her husband by his name. To the auntie-jis this was the ultimate disrespect to the man she was married to. Husbands could only be referred to as ‘ji’ or ‘him’ or something equally … well … dumb.

  My mum’s reaction had been to close her eyes for a moment and then make an apologetic face to the auntie-jis before leading Nusrat-kala away to a quiet corner.

  I have to say I think Mum was relieved when Nusrat-kala’s holiday came to an end, although I was devastated to see her leave. She was so full of joy and laughter that everyone missed her, including our neighbours and even Susan’s mum.

  Looking around Nannyma’s quiet house now I wondered how she’d coped without her children around, especially after the death of my grandfather twenty years ago. Thankfully she’d always lived with a housekeeper couple, Kareem-baba and his wife, Ambreen-bha
ji, whose three daughters were now happily married and settled in surrounding villages. Nannyma had been instrumental in finding good suitors for the girls, who had grown up in her house.

  Kareem-baba was a thin, bony man, but his wife was the complete opposite of him. She was round from her face to her feet, with a warm smile that revealed slightly buck teeth. Since my arrival we’d formed a mutual adoration society and I became her little project to fatten up. Ambreen-bhaji’s two magic ingredients for eternal happiness and peace were ghee and sugar. She said I was far too thin, much like those Karachi guris, and believed that all girls should have big breasts and rounded hips. After all, a woman’s role was to make her husband happy and to have his babies, wasn’t it? Much as I wanted to protest, I decided that Ambreen-bhaji was in fact very happy with her husband, and it was probably best not to burden her with my predicament just to make a point.

  Ambreen-bhaji was also in charge of the two cows and dozen or so chickens, which were kept in the backyard. When she watered the cattle, she would lovingly stroke the animals’ heads and murmur reassuring words. She also had the same one-way conversations with the poultry that ran around her feet gobbling up the seeds she dropped. It was due to this devotion that I initially thought Ambreen-bhaji was an animal lover. This impression, however, was brought to an end on my third day when Ambreen-bhaji invited me to join her in the preparation of my favourite dish.

  ‘Today I will show you how I make chicken tikka from scratch,’ she announced.

  I smiled and parked myself on a chair in the backyard. Maybe if I learned to cook this, I could impress Susan with my ‘authentic’ chicken tikka when I got home. Looking forward to lunch, I settled back, my mouth already watering.

  ‘First,’ Ambreen-bhaji began, running after a chicken and grabbing it by its neck, ‘we have to catch the chicken.’

  I sat bolt upright. What exactly had she meant by ‘starting from scratch’?

  ‘Then I get a knife and cut its throat and say …’

  I was on my feet now, my hands covering my mouth in horror. The chicken was flapping its wings and desperately trying to escape Ambreen-bhaji’s lethal hold round its throat. It was as if it knew what was coming … that death was inevitable.

  ‘… Allahu Akbar.’ God is Great.

  The shiny steel slashed the chicken’s scrawny neck and unleashed a stream of scarlet blood all over the ground. The chicken jerked for a few seconds in Ambreen-bhaji’s grip as the life seeped out of it and then it went quite still. I stared down at the lifeless bird, which had been running around the yard only seconds ago, and I felt the bile rise in my throat.

  ‘It is very important to do it quickly so the chicken does not suffer,’ Ambreen-bhaji continued, oblivious to my revulsion. ‘Now I will pluck the chicken … see, like this … feathers are coming off and …’

  I ran to the side of the yard and vomited.

  Suffice it to say that I did not eat the chicken that afternoon. I could not.

  Nannyma tried to hide her amusement as I nibbled on the chapatti bread.

  Ambreen-bhaji, on the other hand, was like a broken record. She kept repeating: ‘And I thought the England people were educated. So how do they think the chicken tikka appears on their plate? Huh? Do they think it falls from the sky?’

  ‘I thought she was an animal lover,’ I mumbled to Nannyma miserably, trying to get the image of the scarlet blood splashed on the ground out of my mind.

  ‘She is,’ Nannyma said, tucking into the chicken breast on her plate. ‘She looks after the animals lovingly when they are alive and ensures their death is quick. She is a rural villager and she has a practical attitude towards domestic animals. You, my sweet child, are proving to be quite the squeamish westerner.’

  Chapter 6

  Three more days slowly passed and my parents kept in touch by phone to check on my progress. I think they were under the impression that Nannyma was slowly talking me around to the idea of marrying Asif, but this could not have been further from the truth. Asif’s name had only been mentioned once, and that was to inform me that he had to stay longer in Lahore, a city on the other side of the country. Nannyma did not bother to give me the reason and I didn’t want to know anyway. Frankly it was a relief to know he was not even in the province of Sindh, let alone the village. However, the happiness I originally felt at the news soon seeped away to be replaced by depression and panic.

  Sometimes I felt these emotions would choke me and, when I was not raging at my parents in my own mind, I found other targets for my frustration. One such moment was on a bright hot morning as I stared angrily at the village women who walked past the veranda to gather water from the well in Nannyma’s grounds. They came every day in a group, huddled together, laughing as one of them entertained the others with some tale or gossip about a mother-in-law or a neighbour. They were dressed from head to toe in flowing bright robes in shades of red, pink, turquoise, purple and blue. Nobody wore white and nobody wore black. The colours of their clothes hinted at happiness, but I knew appearances could be deceiving. It was not the dye in their clothes but rather the sunburned faces, fatigued and prematurely old, peeping out through their shawls which really told their fate. There was no denying that their lives were full of hardship.

  Or perhaps I was judging too much. Was I spoilt in my Western life where everything was about choice? I thought of my teachers, always emphasizing that I should give thought to my future – what A levels, what degree, what career. Or even the afternoons that Susan and I spent in Boots agonizing between two shades of nail varnish. But surely it was a right to have choice where it existed, not a luxury?

  Choice, choice, choice. Something that I had now been robbed of.

  Was I just another version of them, bound by the decisions of my male relatives to control me? But I knew I was luckier than them. There was running water in the two houses I had visited, so why were they forced to collect theirs from a hole in the ground?

  My wise nannyma noticed the bubble of rage brimming just under the surface. ‘You do not approve, Zeba?’ she asked me.

  I flashed angry eyes at her. ‘They should have running water! Why don’t they have it?’

  ‘Because, my dear,’ she said patiently, ‘the villages are all owned by the landlord, Sher Shah. They are his tenants. They work the land for him and he lets them live there.’

  Ah, yes, the Tiger King. ‘You mean they are his slaves?’ I spat.

  My nannyma grimaced. ‘That is not a term we like to use, but yes … I suppose your description applies. They are bound to him.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain why they have no running water,’ I rasped. ‘Why won’t this landlord arrange the plumbing?’

  ‘Because Sher Shah chooses to keep things this way,’ Nannyma explained. ‘He chooses not to progress with the times. Keeping other people down makes him feel like a big man. Remember this, my dear: if a man feels inadequate with his own peers, he needs to surround himself by others, more disadvantaged, more unfortunate and more deprived to feel superiority.

  ‘They could be poorer people; they could be women or even another country’s people. It is why some men have invaded other countries and why some women are treated as inferior. It is why caste systems exist so a person is made to believe he or she deserves nothing better than the poverty they have been born into.’

  ‘But that’s awful!’ I cried. ‘How does he sleep at night?’

  ‘Very easily, Zeba. You see, he has convinced himself that these people are sub-human because they are poor and uneducated. If he gives them their rights: basic education for the children, a sustainable wage and the opportunity to progress and climb out of the underclass they occupy, then all they will do is bite him. They would not be afraid of him any more. They might decide to no longer humbly accept the crumbs he throws their way and challenge his authority. By convincing himself that they will act like mad dogs if he releases his hold on them,
he keeps them tied up like animals.’

  A shiver ran down my spine, even though the afternoon sun was beating down on us.

  ‘It’s not like that in England,’ I declared proudly. ‘This village is feudal … it’s backward.’

  My nannyma gave a small smile. ‘Perhaps you no longer have slaves in England, but you have men who try to keep women down through domestic abuse. And isn’t it true that in many cases women are paid less than a man for doing the same job?’

  Was that true? I didn’t know that.

  ‘It is about control,’ Nannyma continued in a wise tone. ‘The desire to feel better about oneself by keeping another person down. Power is about control, Zeba. Don’t ever forget it.’

  I nibbled at my lower lip, the village women forgotten as I mulled over Nannyma’s words. Power was about control. Was my planned marriage about power in the family? Was Taya-ji trying to control my dad? Was my father trying to prove his masculinity to other men by controlling me? And, if that was the case, what chance did I have of escaping it?

  My parents came to see me after a week. I think they thought it was sufficient time for me to have calmed down and accepted their plans.

  I watched them climb the veranda steps together and I hardened my resolve. It occurred to me how natural it had felt to be apart from them, despite the fact that I had never even spent a night away from them before. In fact, ever since the night on the rooftop I’d found it hard to believe they were the same parents I’d left home with. It was as if they’d been brainwashed.