Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

‘Sehar, it is a shame that a bright girl like you cannot think of an alternative way to use your brain to contribute to the world,’ Nannyma commented.

  Sehar did not respond.

  ‘Yes, Sehar-ji,’ Farhat chimed in. ‘You know my mum and aunties say when actresses revealing their bodies, the men watching imagining doing lots of naughty things to them.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, no need to go on, Fatty,’ Sehar snapped.

  ‘You are an intelligent girl,’ Nannyma repeated. ‘You should use the mind God has given you.’

  Nannyma always succeeded in challenging our beliefs and our prejudices. Sometimes I was struck by the irony of the situation. Sehar and I had both been raised in a country where women’s liberation and rights had been fought for decades – that’s what I had learned in my GCSE history class anyway. And yet it was this elderly woman, hidden from the world in a remote village, who taught us to treat our own gender with fairness and empathy.

  One afternoon we were sitting in our usual positions on the veranda, crunching on homemade pickle mix when Farhat began to tut loudly.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Sehar asked through a mouthful of mix.

  ‘That woman,’ Farhat spat, a look of dislike on her face.

  I straightened on the swing to follow Farhat’s gaze, intrigued to know who could have caused such a reaction. My eyes fell on a woman walking by herself to the communal well, a plain brown water-pot under her arm. She appeared to be in her mid twenties and was dressed in a black gown, the Arabic burka, with her shawl tied tightly around her head.

  ‘Who is she?’ Sehar asked, also craning her neck to get a better look at the lone figure.

  ‘She is a loose woman,’ Farhat revealed in a voice dripping with disgust. ‘All good people staying away from her because she tainting them. Not good reputation.’

  Sehar and I stared at the back of the woman as she approached the well. Throwing the tied bucket down the long shaft of the well, she jiggled the rope to ensure that the container was submerged in the water before pulling the long rope slowly up the shaft. Reaching out, the woman grabbed the bucket and emptied its contents into the simple water-pot. I wondered who this woman was as she slowly began to make her way back with the pot cradled into the curve of her waist.

  Nannyma, who had silently observed the scene with us, stood up and walked to the edge of the veranda. When the woman was just a few feet away she called out, ‘Husna, come here.’

  The woman looked up, startled, having seemingly been oblivious to the four pairs of eyes watching her every move. As she approached, Farhat jumped to her feet, scowling.

  ‘Husna, will you join us for tea?’ Nannyma asked.

  The invitation took us all by surprise, including Husna-bhaji. She gazed up at Nannyma with round eyes that were as green as the surrounding fertile fields.

  I stared at Husna-bhaji. I couldn’t help it. I don’t think I had ever seen such a beautiful face before. She looked like a fragile doll. Her skin was the colour of toffee, her cheeks were apples and her mouth was a pink pout that needed no lipstick to enhance it. Even Sehar was staring at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘Come, Husna, join us,’ Nannyma said again, holding out her hand.

  Husna-bhaji placed her water-pot next to one of the flower plants, removed her plain sandals and climbed the two steps on to the veranda. As she did she passed Farhat, who stepped back as if scorched.

  ‘Sehar,’ Nannyma said. ‘Make room for our guest, please.’

  Sehar blinked, looking puzzled. She had no idea what was being asked of her.

  Nannyma smiled patiently. ‘Offer your seat, dear.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sehar gasped, jumping up as fast as her baby bump would allow her. Down by the steps, Farhat’s disapproval of Nannyma’s instruction was clear for all to see.

  Husna-bhaji perched on the edge of the deckchair, her hands clasped together on her lap. Sehar, who was hovering undecidedly, caught my eye and I beckoned her to take my place on the swing. I moved to lean against the wall behind it.

  ‘Ambreen, bring tea,’ Nannyma called as she settled back on the swing next to Sehar. ‘Now, my Husna, how are you?’

  ‘Well as can be,’ Husna-bhaji answered in a low, soft voice that added to her fragility.

  ‘And your sewing, how is it coming along?’

  The corners of Husna-bhaji’s lips rose in a slight curve. In school we had read stories that referred to a type of beauty that could turn men into warmongers. Husna-bhaji’s face fitted into this category, and I think many men would’ve happily launched a thousand ships in her name, just as in the myth of Helen of Troy.

  ‘The work is steady,’ Husna-bhaji was saying. ‘I have a lot of work put my way. I am so grateful to Nusrat-ji for her gift of the sewing machine.’

  ‘Good,’ Nannyma said. ‘I shall be sure to let Nusrat know that her gift has made you self-sufficient, but I shall not pass on your gratitude because there is no need for it. Nusrat did it because it was the right thing to do, not because she needs you to worship her.’

  Sehar and Farhat looked puzzled at the words, but I knew why Nannyma had spoken them. She once told me that people should give to the poor out of the compassion of their own hearts, and to please God. Applause and gratitude should not be the factors determining generosity.

  Husna-bhaji stared at her hands again.

  ‘If you would like to do something in return, then please remember my Nusrat and her family in your prayers.’

  Husna-bhaji met Nannyma’s eyes and nodded vigorously. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I do so every day. Five times a day.’

  The conversation halted as Ambreen-bhaji came out on to the veranda. She was holding a large tray laden with an expensive china tea set and two very ordinary tin mugs. I cringed inwardly when I saw the crockery, knowing that the tin mugs were going to be used to serve Husna-bhaji and Farhat. It seemed I was not the only one who was unhappy.

  ‘Ambreen,’ Nannyma scolded gently. ‘You are missing two china cups. There are five people on this veranda, not three.’

  Ambreen-bhaji’s eyes widened to saucers and her stiff body language as she retreated into the house illustrated what she thought of the violation of village etiquette. She returned nonetheless with the appropriate china and poured the steaming hot masala tea into five cups. Typically, both Husna-bhaji and Farhat tried to object to the fine china when it was offered to them, but Nannyma insisted they drink as they were her guests. She also insisted Ambreen-bhaji join us, which she did – but with a tin mug of tea.

  Later that evening when Nannyma and I were alone, she told me Husna-bhaji’s life story. Her husband had been a field hand who had died five years ago following an accident with a tractor. He had had little money to pay for medical care and a lot of pride, so the simple wound he had sustained in the accident had been allowed to fester until it had become so septic that it poisoned him. Husna-bhaji had been childless when her husband died and her in-laws wanted nothing more to do with her, fearing that any compassion towards the new widow would mean an extra mouth to feed.

  Husna-bhaji was thrown out of the extended family home and it was Nannyma who had ordered a simple mud hut to be erected for her, not far from the field in which her husband had been injured. Nannyma had also arranged for Husna-bhaji to learn the craft of sewing clothes from a teacher in a neighbouring village, and then Nusrat-kala had sent money from America for a sewing machine. Husna-bhaji spent her days sewing for the teacher, who kept her supplied with orders, and her nights alone with the door bolted against the world.

  But her in-laws could not stand to see her live and prosper when their son was dead. They had thought that throwing her out of the house would result in her leaving the village, but Nannyma’s intervention had put paid to those ideas. Husna-bhaji’s continued presence only exposed the family as the mean-spirited lot they were, and even the poor knew that the gates of heaven would not open for those who ill-trea
ted widows and orphans.

  Wanting an excuse for their heartlessness, her in-laws began to spread rumours that Husna-bhaji was a green-eyed witch who lured men. In a feudal village where women have no status without their husbands, the women began to believe the rumours and feared that this beautiful woman would steal their men away. The men began to fear Husna-bhaji too, believing their wives’ tales that she could ruin a man if he did not satisfy her.

  I found the whole thing quite bizarre and would not have believed it had I not seen Farhat’s behaviour towards the widow. Farhat was an honest and simple girl, and I could never imagine her being unjust with anyone.

  ‘Do you think,’ I wondered aloud to Nannyma, ‘that there may be some truth in the rumours? After all, there is no smoke without fire.’ As soon as I spoke the words I regretted them, for a dull disappointment took hold in Nannyma’s eyes.

  ‘Zeba,’ she said quietly. ‘I want you to remember these words. In our holy book, the Qur’an, it states clearly that you need four witnesses before you can accuse a woman of adultery, except when a woman has been raped. There does not need to be witnesses for such a crime. However, in the case of Husna and the rumours about her, not a single soul has witnessed anything untoward against her, and believe me when I tell you that many jealous beings have spent days and nights spying on her to gather evidence.

  ‘In my eyes Husna is innocent until four witnesses can stand up, put their hand on the Qur’an and swear that they have seen her in the company of strange men. “No smoke without fire” is a phrase used to accuse and wrongly convict the innocent of the imaginings of perverted minds. The Qur’an protects women. I suggest you read it properly.’

  Put in my place by Nannyma’s stern reply, I said nothing, but my cheeks burned with embarrassment. For all my education – both in England and on this very veranda – it seemed that even I had temporarily fallen victim to the village gossip.

  Chapter 10

  The days continued to pass slowly at Nannyma’s house, and I did not hear a word from my parents. I knew they were in touch because they phoned my grandmother every morning, but not once did they ask to speak to me. I preferred it this way. It meant that I didn’t have to think of the reality of my situation, I could block out all thoughts of Asif and instead pretend that I was just enjoying a holiday at my nannyma’s and spending time with my new friends.

  It would not be an overstatement to say that Sehar and Farhat had become my world. I began to love the two girls like best friends. I wasn’t sure if they felt the same about me, but I knew Farhat loved Sehar dearly, although their relationship was complicated by Farhat’s equal devotion to Sher Shah’s family. They would often argue, or rather Sehar would shout and Farhat would patiently try to explain that men knew best. They were like a broken record, circling and repeating the same views against each other.

  One afternoon the three of us were lounging under a mango tree away from our usual spot.

  ‘I want that fruit,’ Sehar said, gazing up. ‘Go get it, Fatty.’

  Farhat stood up immediately, her head falling back to reveal the arch of her neck as she looked up. She seemed to be considering her words and cleared her throat before speaking.

  ‘Sehar-ji, is really high,’ she eventually volunteered. ‘I’m thinking, I’m not reaching.’

  ‘You are my maid and I want that fruit … Actually …’ Sehar said slowly so that Farhat could understand, a glint suddenly in her eye. ‘The baby wants it. It’s a craving. Yes, the baby wants it, and the baby boy is your lord and master, remember? You are bound to the men of this family. Get the mangos.’

  Farhat swallowed. ‘I … if baby wanting it, I is getting it,’ she said, but her voice was trembling.

  I shot Sehar a look. ‘Don’t be so mean; you know she won’t be able to reach.’

  ‘Fatty’s job is to make me and the baby happy,’ Sehar insisted stubbornly.

  ‘Sehar …’ I tried again.

  ‘I would have escaped had it not been for that little witch!’ Sehar suddenly erupted.

  Farhat dragged her gaze away from the fruit hanging temptingly from the branches. Her eyes settled on Sehar nervously. She had heard the change of tone in Sehar’s voice, although she had not fully grasped what her mistress had said. Farhat showed her nervousness by hopping from one foot to the other, seemingly unaware that she was doing it at all.

  ‘Farhat!’ Sehar was suddenly like a cold empress, heartless and bitter as she ordered her maid about.

  The peasant girl stopped hopping and began to jump up on both legs, the thick rope of her plait, twined with a lime-green ribbon today, swinging violently. Her arms waved frantically in the air as she attempted to grab the lowest branch, which was still three feet above her head. It was a useless attempt.

  ‘Fatty, leave it,’ I ordered, feeling sorry for the girl.

  Instead of obeying my instruction, Farhat ignored me and jumped up a few more times. Then she paused, rested her little face in the cradle of her palm before throwing her hands gleefully in the air.

  Sehar and I stared at her, bemused.

  ‘I is knowing how to getting the fruit,’ Farhat declared. ‘I seen the boys do it, isn’t it. Zeba-ji, let me on your shoulders.’

  I glanced down at Farhat’s grubby red flip-flops that shielded her dry, coarse feet with their chipped toenails from the hard earth.

  Sehar followed my gaze and snorted. ‘What’s up, girl? Don’t want her dirty feet on your shoulders?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ I snapped, immediately feeling ashamed of my snobbish instinct.

  ‘So let her do it … eh. Fatty, get on Zeba’s shoulders now.’

  I wanted to object. Farhat was tiny, but I still doubted whether I would be able to hold her weight on my shoulders.

  ‘Why can’t she climb on you?’ I demanded. ‘I mean you’re a lot taller.’

  ‘Cause I’ve got a baby in here,’ Sehar said, stroking her stomach. ‘Eh, Fatty, get on with it. It’s the best idea you have ever had.’

  Farhat’s face beamed with the compliment and she strode purposefully towards me. Gazing into her determined face, I was in no doubt that the tiny girl would wrestle me to the ground in order to serve her mistress.

  Seeing no escape, I lowered myself to my knees and shot Sehar a dirty look.

  ‘This is going to be so much fun,’ Sehar declared, ignoring my venomous glare.

  I rested my hands against the tree trunk for balance and readied myself for Farhat’s weight. I thought of Asif’s mother, Mariam-chachi. She would have been horrified to see me behaving in this way. After all, girls did not do this kind of thing, any more than they refused their father’s orders.

  Farhat placed her right foot on my shoulder and using the trunk to steady herself, lifted her left foot on to me. She was even lighter than I had imagined, but a weight nonetheless.

  ‘Hurry up!’ I rasped.

  ‘It’s not high enough,’ Sehar drawled to the side of us. ‘You’re going to have to stand, Zee.’

  Muttering under my breath, I managed to raise myself slowly to a standing position, my legs wobbling with the weight. I sensed Farhat reach up and stretch her body before she suddenly lunged off. With the girl suddenly off my shoulders, I fell back on the ground and found myself staring up at the sight of her swinging like a monkey off a branch. Farhat was trying to gain momentum so that she could swing her entire body on to the tree. She managed it within seconds and I was impressed at how agile she was. Sehar too had a grudging look of admiration on her face.

  Farhat moved along the branch until she could get to a thicker, stronger one and climbed on to that. The mangos were now within plucking distance.

  ‘Eh,’ Sehar called up. ‘The fruit at the top of the tree is meant to be the sweetest. Reach up to the highest branch.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I cried, knowing the foolish maid would do anything to please Sehar. ‘How is she going to get d
own if she goes higher? It’s dangerous.’

  Sehar ignored me and jabbed a finger in the air. ‘Up … up … baby wants the sweetest fruit.’

  We both watched as Farhat climbed another two branches. She did look like she was dangerously high and she was gripping the branch tightly with one hand as she plucked the fruit with the other.

  ‘Sehar-ji,’ Farhat called from high above. ‘I throw fruit down? You catch, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Sehar drawled. ‘Baby has decided that it doesn’t want the fruit now. But it wants you to stay up in the tree.’

  The voice was uncertain. ‘Sehar-ji?’

  ‘Baby has decided that you are not a girl. You are, in fact, a monkey and you deserve to remain in the tree.’

  ‘Hey, stop it!’ I objected, but Sehar ignored me.

  ‘Baby thinks that you are the monkey of Sher Shah’s family, therefore you should live like one.’

  ‘You’re out of order, Sehar!’ I said, shaking my head in disgust.

  Sehar turned icy eyes on me. The mischievous look was gone and in its place was a cold anger.

  ‘She needs to understand that I would be free if it wasn’t for her ratting on me the day I escaped.’

  ‘She was only doing her job,’ I defended. ‘It would have been worse for her if she had remained quiet.’

  ‘What about me?’ Sehar demanded furiously. ‘She betrayed me!’

  I thought about it and then said, ‘She was never yours to trust.’

  Sehar’s breathing became faster suddenly and she staggered back. Pushing my outstretched hand away, she lowered herself to the ground and placed her hand protectively on her bump.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, concerned.

  Sehar nodded and looked up. ‘Farhat!’ she called.

  It was the first time I had heard Sehar use her maid’s name.

  ‘Sehar-ji?’ The voice was small and frightened.

  ‘I need you to understand something. I hate you because you betrayed me. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, Sehar-ji.’