Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  Mum came up to me and hugged me, but I was half-hearted in my response. She started fiddling nervously with a silk handkerchief and her face was taut with tension as her eyes darted nervously between her husband, her mother and me, her only child. I stared at my mum. This was the home in which she’d been born. She had taken her first steps, bloomed into a teenager and married my dad here, yet she seemed a stranger to the surroundings. Living with Nannyma had made me realize how different a mother could be from her daughter; my mum was nothing like Nannyma and I was nothing like Mum. Nannyma was the wisest woman in the village, greatly respected, independent and articulate. Mum was in the shadow of Dad, never speaking up, always siding with him, forever looking for the easy way out. I couldn’t believe that she was a child of Nannyma’s, and suddenly I wondered if in fact she was not to blame. Perhaps in married life my father had eroded the principles that I knew Nannyma would have tried to instil. Although this image of Dad didn’t fit with the loving father I knew from my childhood, neither did the figure standing before me now. I eyed my dad from across the veranda and his hateful words rushed back at me. Unlike Mum, he hadn’t approached me. He kept his distance, and I could see the reflection in his eyes of something that I had felt: hurt.

  Did he feel I had let him down by not agreeing to his demands immediately?

  Did he feel I had failed him? Embarrassed him? Dishonoured him?

  ‘I hope she’s been behaving,’ Mum said with a nervous laugh, breaking the silence.

  ‘Yes, she has,’ Nannyma answered, looking directly at Mum. ‘You know you could have stayed here with her. This is your home too.’

  Mum shot a helpless look at Dad.

  ‘She is my wife. Her role is to remain by my side,’ he said quietly, as if he were reciting the words from a script. ‘Zeba, my beti,’ he added, turning to me as he used the Urdu for daughter. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  My heart gave a flutter. Had he finally come to his senses? Was he going to side with me now?

  My mum and Nannyma retreated into the house as my father sat down heavily on the swing. He patted the empty space beside him, inviting me to join him. I did. We sat there for a few minutes, neither saying anything. I knew my dad was looking for the right words, but as the seconds passed my heart grew heavier as I realized from the grim expression on his face that he was not going to tell me what I wanted to hear.

  ‘Tell me, Dad,’ I finally said, unable to take the silence.

  ‘Beti,’ he repeated, his voice wracked with emotion. ‘It is my wish that you marry Asif.’

  ‘Dad, I’m not going to –’

  ‘Just please listen to me,’ he said, turning to face me. ‘I realize that perhaps your mother and I should have been straight with you from the start. We should have been honest. You see it would not have been my first choice to arrange your marriage in this way. I had planned that you would finish your education and then we would think about arranging your marriage … to someone of your choice.’

  He paused and I stared at him. So what had changed?

  He continued: ‘You see, my beti, family is everything for people like us. There is nothing above it. Without respect within a family a man is nothing. Without a family he has no honour. It is like wandering the earth without a soul, like a ghost. No respect, no meaning, no position. A man may as well not exist.’

  ‘But I don’t –’

  ‘Let me finish!’ he snapped.

  I closed my mouth. I wasn’t sure where this was going. I didn’t know why he was going on about honour. I knew everything there was to know about family honour. My dad had always talked about it. When I was a child he would sit me on his knee and tell me that wives, sisters and daughters were like precious glass vases within which a man’s honour was contained. These glass vases must never be broken. If the female did not behave accordingly then a man’s honour was compromised. His friends would laugh at him, his brothers would jeer at him and – even more shamefully – other women would ridicule him.

  I had grown up listening to these words and I knew that I would never intentionally dishonour my dad. In our community there was one way to do it at my age and that was to have a boyfriend. I frowned slightly and the words escaped my mouth even though my dad had asked me to be quiet.

  ‘But I haven’t dishonoured you. I’ve never had a boyfriend.’

  My dad patted my head awkwardly.

  ‘I know, beti,’ he said softly. ‘Your mother and I raised you well … but … it is your taya-ji’s wish to see Asif and you married. It is his wish for Asif to leave the army and to join us in England. Taya-ji is worried about Asif’s safety. These are dangerous times. Asif is his only son and it is not safe for him to remain here in Pakistan. The only way Asif will leave the army is if he marries you and lives with us.’

  The creaking of the swing’s metal rods was the only sound for a while. My dad stared into the distance while I sat motionless trying to absorb his words. I couldn’t quite get my head around it. I was expected to marry Asif so that he could leave the army? What was I? His get-out-of-the-army-free card?

  The true reason for the marriage was almost an anticlimax. For days I’d assumed that, at best, the marriage had been arranged in order to strengthen family ties. The truth was far from it. Taya-ji saw me only as a passport for his son. That’s all I was to him. It explained why Asif’s mum, even after the rooftop incident, still wanted me as a daughter-in-law. This was all about saving their son.

  But what about me? Why should I be sacrificed to save Asif? Surely there was another way he could come to the UK?

  ‘Dad,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes?’

  I knew what I was about to say were not the words he wanted to hear, but I said them anyway. ‘I don’t want to sacrifice my happiness just so Asif can leave the army.’

  There was a long pause and then my dad said softly, ‘That is a very selfish thing to say, Zeba.’

  I noticed I was back to being Zeba rather than beti, so I decided not to hold back.

  ‘Why should I give up my life?’

  My dad had clearly assumed that confiding in me the true reason for the marriage would convince me to follow his orders. He sprang up from the swing and glared down at me. I stared back, defiant.

  ‘You will marry Asif!’ he shouted. ‘I will not have it on my conscience that I failed to protect him. You are my daughter and you will do as I say!’

  I glared at my father, hatred in my eyes. ‘I’m your daughter,’ I yelled. ‘And so you should protect me. Can you live with that on your conscience?’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that, Zeba!’ he barked. ‘I will put my honour first! I did not raise you to disobey me. My brother has asked this one thing from me and I will not fail him.’

  ‘What about me?’ I screamed, sudden tears streaming down my face.

  My mum and Nannyma ran out on to the veranda, anxiety all over their faces.

  ‘We are leaving!’ Dad snapped at my mum and then he turned to Nannyma. ‘She will marry Asif. Final. I will not let my brother down and I will not be held responsible for his son’s death.’

  With those words he stormed off the veranda and into the waiting Land Rover. My mum followed closely behind him without saying a word to me.

  ‘Zeba.’ My nannyma’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.

  I turned towards her and buried my face in her neck. ‘I bet they regret raising me in England,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I can see how it must be difficult for you,’ Nannyma responded. ‘To have been given a Western life with all its opportunities, but then be expected to remain constrained by our culture.’

  ‘I am British. Not Pakistani,’ I agreed.

  ‘But your parents are Pakistani at heart, despite their pride in owning those red passports.’

  ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I am,’ I said heatedly. ‘And just because I’m their daughter doesn’t mea
n they own me, that they can force me to do things that I don’t want to! Why didn’t they tell me about this before?’

  ‘Would that have made it any easier, Zeba? Your father told you the reasons for his agreement to the marriage just now, did he not?’

  I bit my lip. ‘He did.’

  ‘And how do you feel about the reason?’

  ‘I don’t care about Asif. Sure, he’s my cousin and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but there’s got to be another way for him to leave the army other than by marrying me!’

  ‘There isn’t,’ my nannyma said simply.

  ‘But how can that be?’

  Nannyma eyed me warily for a few seconds and then said: ‘Zeba, my dear, do you think your taya-ji has not tried already to remove Asif from the army? He has tried everything to persuade his son to leave. But Asif refuses. It is honourable I suppose – a man’s dedication to his country … but try telling that to his parents. He is their only son. Scores of soldiers die every day in their own land, at the hands of the enemy within. It is the heart of a parent that is ploughed with worry. They don’t care about the shame of deserting the army. They just want him alive and safe.’

  I mulled over Nannyma’s words, resentment growing in my own heart. So Taya-ji and Mariam-chachi loved their son and were prepared to do anything to save him, but what about my parents? Why weren’t they prepared to do as much for me? And then something occurred to me. I remembered Asif’s sharpness with Mariam-chachi when she had complained about the army on our first day here.

  ‘Asif doesn’t know he is expected to move to England, does he?’

  Nannyma did not reply.

  ‘Does he?’ I pressed.

  ‘Everybody is hoping that he will come round to the idea. After all, a man with responsibility for a wife and children will put them ahead of everything else.’

  I couldn’t believe it. Nannyma had just admitted that Asif did not want to move to England. The thought sent my head spinning. What if he refused?

  And even if he agreed, would he be able to live in our little English town? Here was a man who used guns against men whom he regarded as enemies of his beloved country. His life was probably both exciting and dangerous as he fought to save his Pakistan … so then would he really be able to spend his days serving middle-aged Asian women their groceries in my dad’s shop? What would he think of the small terraced houses that made up so many of our narrow, grimy streets? The small playgrounds with baby swings and slides dotted around these estates.Our stone-paved backyard, and then the posh parts of town with the bigger houses where mostly white people lived. How would it all seem to him after the spacious surroundings of his parents’ home and the servants at his beck and call?

  And what would he make of the weather? The grey clouds and rain that fell on our heads for more months than there was sunshine. Would he like it? Could he stay? All the questions brought me back to the same point: what if he refused?

  Did he really think I would remain in this village as an obedient wife?

  Stuff my father’s honour. If he was taking my freedom, it was a price too high to pay.

  Chapter 7

  The following day I ventured out alone for a walk by the river behind Nannyma’s house. The sun was beating down and my kameez was clinging to my back as the sweat trickled down my spine. It was the siesta and everybody was asleep. It was tradition. It was culture. I think that’s why I felt so rebellious against it. It was the one thing I could easily reject as my British body naturally found it alien to settle down for a nap in the middle of the day.

  I first saw Sehar sitting by the riverbank under a giant tree, splashing the water with her feet. She was beautiful: long limbs, fair skin and with an air about her that made you feel quite intimidated. I couldn’t work out whether it was arrogance or confidence, but I approached slowly anyway. When I did, she turned to look directly at me with a raised eyebrow over one of her large brown eyes.

  ‘So are you the new bakri?’

  I winced at her description of me in Urdu as a sacrificial lamb. Did everyone know about my forced engagement with Asif?

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I lied.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’m Sehar, the original bakri. Come and sit down … the water is cool.’

  And that’s how we, the two bakris, bonded.

  Sehar was from Birmingham and she had already been forced into a marriage with her cousin. She also had a seven-month bump, which tied her well and truly to her husband, who was the youngest son of the village landlord I’d condemned, Sher Shah. Sehar had been told to visit Pakistan to see relatives by her father. But, unlike gullible old me, eighteen-year-old Sehar had had her suspicions about the purpose of the trip. She had seen young girls she had grown up with go on family visits to Pakistan only to return as married women after a few months. Sehar said some seemed genuinely happy with their arrangements and others not so happy. The one thing all the girls had in common was accepting the will of their parents, but it was not in Sehar’s personality to go quietly.

  When Sehar’s father had informed her of her impending trip, she had immediately contacted the government’s Forced Marriage Unit. Sehar had first got to know about it when leaflets had been distributed at her school. We’d never seen any such leaflets at our school, but it didn’t stop me feeling more and more naive as she told me her story. I too knew of girls who had returned from trips abroad happily married, or at least that’s how it had seemed to my young eyes. But I had no reason to doubt it – in the films I’d watched love at first sight was something to believe in, and I was never close enough to the girls to see anything other than their public display of happiness.

  Sehar explained how the Foreign Office had put her in touch with one of the charities they worked with. The charity worker who had picked up the phone was a woman called Tara who had immediately tried to help her. She had assured her that if she needed to leave the family home, then she would help her with accommodation and money. All she needed to do was leave.

  Sehar had thought about it.

  All she needed to do was leave.

  Was it that simple?

  All she had to do was get to the main railway station. She needn’t worry about money for a train ticket to Euston; Tara would meet her at the station and take her to London herself. Sehar would be safe and nobody could force her to go to Pakistan.

  ‘I was sorely tempted to escape, to run away and meet this woman, Tara, who had promised to help me,’ Sehar told me quietly. ‘But a big part of me thought this was the coward’s option. The questions kept hammering around in my head. Did I really need to break ties with my family to avoid the marriage? No I didn’t. I wanted my family and I wanted to avoid this marriage. I felt at the time that this would be possible. All I had to do was hold my ground.’

  Sehar paused and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘This belief in myself proved to be my biggest downfall. It would have been more courageous to leave than to stay, then at least my life would have been my own.’

  Sehar’s ‘marriage’ had taken place four days after she had arrived at Sher Shah’s house. Apparently it was the wish of Sehar’s dead grandmother that her British granddaughter marry within the family. Sher Shah and Sehar’s mum were brother and sister and the marriage had been arranged by both families years ago to strengthen family ties. Sehar told me that this was usually the practice of less wealthy people in order to keep the land and property within families. Sher Shah’s family was wealthy and didn’t have this tradition, but the dead grandmother’s wishes had to be obeyed.

  Sehar had tried to escape in the first few days. The first time she had got as far as the fields on foot before they caught her. Her tormentors decided to lock her up in a room, but she still managed to climb on to a tree outside her window before skidding down it like a cat. This time she managed to get to the front gates, and this time the response of her captors was to beat her
– though they were the family of her own mother. Brushing her tears away roughly and looking more defiant, Sehar said, ‘I don’t believe I’m married. For an Islamic marriage contract, a nikaah, to be valid, the bride has to give her consent freely. I never gave mine and the imam announced the marriage as complete without my consent. This man was complicit in selling me to another man. In our religion, sex before marriage is one of the worst sins that can be committed, and yet my entire family has contributed to this sin by announcing my part in a marriage that is not valid.’

  I listened quietly, fear gripping me as I realized all of this was to come my way. I wasn’t, however, prepared for what she said next with a bitter laugh and hatred in her eyes.

  ‘I’m like those single teenage mums back home who get knocked up except … those single mums haven’t been beaten night after night “until they’ve got pregnant”.’

  Sehar’s husband thought she was far too outspoken and that as his wife she should be subdued and in thrall to him. It literally drove him mad that he could not break her defiance – so he tried to break her bones instead. Recently, however, he had stopped throwing her violently across the room. Apparently it was his mother’s advice that pregnant women should be hit across the legs and arms only – so as not to harm the baby.

  But Sehar had a plan. She told me that as soon as the baby was born the two of them were going to leave for England. Her husband and his family believed that the baby would tie her to them. Sehar laughed hysterically. ‘They’re crazy. They haven’t got a clue about home. They think I will be just as alone and skint and desperate as I am here. But I’ll be the one in control in England. I will be the one who can speak the language. Women are free in Britain. As soon as I land at Heathrow, I’m reporting him to the immigration police. They’ll put him straight back on a plane to this place when I tell them what’s happened. I can’t wait.’