by Sufiya Ahmed
‘I want you to know that you are a betrayer of women. Of sisters. Do you understand that?’
‘No, Sehar-ji.’
I closed my eyes. We were going to be here all day at this rate. Sehar was unrelenting.
‘You should have chosen to side with me. I am your sister. I am a girl like you. We needed to stick together, but you chose to side with the men.’
‘But men know best,’ came the reply.
Sehar let out a high-pitched scream, clearly frustrated at this girl who worshipped her, but demonstrated no loyalty at all.
‘Sehar-ji, please forgive me saying this. It is not being my place.’
‘Say it then!’ Sehar snapped.
‘You is a woman. You not know what good for you.’
‘I’m going to kill her,’ Sehar gritted out. ‘That is if I let her down.’
‘Enough now,’ I muttered wearily.
‘Farhat, if I tell you to remain in that tree until tomorrow morning, will you?’
‘For you Sehar-ji, yes.’
‘So you love me?’
‘Yes, Sehar-ji.’
‘So if I run away tomorrow will you tell anyone that I have gone missing?’
‘Yes, Sehar-ji.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, I will tell Sher Shah. I having to tell him, isn’t it? You is woman. You shouldn’t be … uh … is word … umm … right … I know … displeasing him.’
‘She really is a monkey,’ Sehar breathed.
‘She is a product of this system,’ I said quietly. ‘Forget it, Sehar. When that gang of boys isn’t following us around keeping an eye on you then she’s your ball and chain. You won’t escape her.’
Sehar stared moodily into space, not replying, and I knew that something had happened to her.
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’
Sehar’s lower lip trembled. ‘He hit me again last night,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He’s supposed to leave me alone now that I am pregnant, but he came to my room last night and called me a lot of names before punching my arm.’
‘Why?’ I whispered.
‘I don’t know. I think his family laugh at him because he can’t control me. That he can’t get me to accept that I am married … That I can’t be trusted to appear in front of guests without swearing at him. I think his dad calls him weak and so he hits me to prove that he is strong.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sehar,’ I said, close to tears.
‘You know I should’ve left home when that Tara offered to help me,’ Sehar said miserably. ‘I should’ve got to the railway station and met Tara. I know she would’ve helped me.’
We sat in gloomy silence for a few minutes. I could not think of the words to make my friend feel better.
‘You know I’m being a cow to Fatty because I can take my rage out on her,’ Sehar said quietly. ‘But that means I’m not really any better than him. I’m picking on her because I can.’
‘So be better than him,’ I advised.
Sehar nodded. ‘Let’s get her down.’
Not surprisingly we couldn’t get Farhat down easily. She managed to get on to the lower branches, but short of a ladder, there was no way of getting her to the ground without her jumping and risking breaking a bone.
Sehar and I decided that we would go back to the haveli and get one of the men to arrange a ladder.
‘Wait here,’ Sehar called and we both turned to walk away. Unfortunately we had not moved five paces when we heard a thud behind us.
Farhat had jumped.
We ran back in astonishment to the small crumpled figure lying on the ground. She was crying softly, her face twisted with pain.
‘Why did you jump?’ Sehar cried, leaning over Farhat with worry.
‘Because you leaving me in tree and my job is staying with you,’ Farhat sobbed.
‘Oh for crying out loud!’ Sehar shouted. ‘We were going to get a ladder for you.’
We both helped her to her feet and Farhat was able to hobble, albeit painfully, all the way back to the village. Back at the haveli her mother diagnosed a sprained ankle.
‘I twist it running along path,’ Farhat lied. ‘I stupid girl.’
Sehar shot me a look to see if I was going to tell the truth. I bit my lip and said nothing.
In the days that followed I noticed that Sehar’s hatred of Farhat almost disappeared. Farhat’s willingness to lie for her was about as much loyalty as she could expect in a culture where the whole idea of sisterhood was an alien concept and unquestioning duty to the landlord prevailed. And above all that, she’d realized that she wasn’t making herself feel any better by being horrid to a person more vulnerable than herself.
Chapter 11
I watched from the floor as Nannyma swayed back and forth on her swing. Behind me on a low stool sat Ambreen-bhaji as she emptied a handful of coconut oil on my hair.
She had seen me kick a stool this morning when a bout of frustration had overtaken me at the news that my parents were planning to return to England the day after tomorrow. And without me!
I knew why they were going home. Dad’s shop couldn’t run itself and he was losing money every day that he remained in Pakistan. But I still couldn’t believe they were actually leaving without me. I winced as a searing pain took hold in my big toe where I’d kicked the stool.
‘Too much tension in your head,’ Ambreen-bhaji had announced, rushing over to push me down on the couch before taking my foot in her hands. ‘Too, too much,’ she repeated, squeezing my injured toes. I yelped with pain.
A few hours later when Nannyma and I had settled on the veranda after a lunch of rice and vegetables, Ambreen-bhaji had stepped out brandishing a large jar of solid white coconut oil.
‘This will help you relax,’ she declared. ‘We need to ease tension from your head.’
‘She is very good,’ Nannyma offered, indicating with her eyes for me to follow Ambreen-bhaji’s silent instruction to sit down.
‘And you are next,’ Ambreen-bhaji warned Nannyma, who in turn held her hands up in mock defeat.
I had imagined that I would be receiving one of those therapeutic scalp massages that you get at the hairdressers if you agree to add ten pounds to your wash, cut and blow dry. Personally I thought the money was well worth it. The girl who did the shampoo at Lyle’s, the most popular hairdressers in town, was always able to knead the right bits of the scalp in order to make me feel all floaty.
The first time I’d managed to persuade my mum to allow me to have my hair cut professionally was two years ago when I turned fourteen. In a way, Mum’s reluctant agreement to put away her scissors had been my first victory in trying to gain some independence. Susan had been getting her hair cut at Lyle’s since we were twelve. She’d had two whole years of a fashionable layered style while my head had resembled a bushy nest. On my first visit Lyle, the hairdresser, had put his fingers through my hair and grimaced. I still remember the tall, geeky looking man with no hair of his own dressed in a yellow shirt and brown checked trousers.
‘My mum always cuts my hair,’ I confessed, before he asked. Might as well blame the culprit, I thought. I didn’t want Lyle to think I’d chosen to wear my hair like this.
He grinned and winked at me through the mirror. ‘Darling, I will transform you now.’
And Lyle, my fairy godmother, did just that. He cut off about ten inches and layered the front to frame my face. I suddenly looked like another person … almost fashionable.
‘You like it?’ Lyle asked, holding a mirror so I could see the rear view.
‘I love it,’ I answered. ‘I’m always coming here.’
The next time I had gone in for a trim, Lyle easily convinced me I needed a scalp massage and a bottle of his special shampoo and conditioner. I hadn’t been convinced about his hair products, but the scalp massage performed by the girl who washed my hair had
been amazing, and very, very different from the near torture that Ambreen-bhaji was now performing on my head. She was using her fingers to scoop the white base out of the pungent jar, rubbing it in her hands to turn it into a liquid and then depositing it on my head to soak my roots. Ambreen-bhaji then employed a vigorous rubbing technique – and it hurt. At one stage she tipped my head back and began the same technique at the base of my hairline. It hurt so much that tears sprang to my eyes.
‘Ambreen-bhaji,’ I implored.
‘Shush, your hair needs oil,’ she responded in a clear no-nonsense tone.
‘Be gentle,’ Nannyma advised, taking pity on me.
Ambreen-bhaji grunted, but thankfully did ease the pressure slightly.
‘You foreign girls are so delicate,’ she said. ‘My friend Jannat … you know the one who works at the haveli … she says that Sehar-memsahib is just as bad. She squeaks like a little animal every time they try to oil her. She needs to oil her body or she will end up with stretch marks. When the baby grows inside it pulls the skin … like a balloon expanding with air. You have to look after yourself when bringing new life into world. But the foreign girl won’t listen. Tut, tut.’
I exchanged a look with Nannyma, but neither of us said anything.
‘And you know Jannat said –’ Ambreen-bhaji was cut off as the subject of her disapproval climbed the steps of the veranda, followed by Farhat.
‘As salaam alaikum,’ Sehar greeted us.
We responded and I tried to grab my opportunity to get away from Ambreen-bhaji’s fingers, but she was having none of it, yanking me back into place.
Sehar looked down at me in amusement. ‘You look bad, girl.’
Through the pain I’d given no thought to what I looked like. Probably as if a pan of chip fat had been poured on to my head.
‘No, no,’ Farhat chimed in. ‘You look good. I can see the tension is going from your face. You are so lucky to have Ambreen-bhaji give you this massage.’
‘Farhat dear, would you like to have your hair oiled?’ Nannyma asked.
Farhat immediately became flustered. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t … I really couldn’t.’
‘Nonsense,’ Nannyma said. ‘Ambreen-bhaji, I think Zeba is done. Why don’t you use the rest of your remarkable energy on Farhat.’
I felt Ambreen-bhaji’s hands make one final swoop over my head before releasing me.
‘Come, Farhat,’ I said, scrambling up as fast as I could.
‘No, no,’ Farhat protested.
‘Oh, stop making a fuss and sit down!’ Sehar commanded.
Farhat hesitated, the internal battle in her mind apparent on her face. Should she allow herself this luxury or not? Was it her position to accept?
‘Fatty!’ Sehar snapped.
Farhat almost tripped over to Ambreen-bhaji in her haste to obey.
Ambreen-bhaji began the ritual of scooping the solid white oil out of the jar as Farhat untied the long, shiny green ribbon from her hair. The girl proved to be a model client; not a sound came from her as she closed her eyes and allowed her roots to be rubbed by the other maid’s strong hands. By the end of twenty minutes, when Ambreen-bhaji had retied the green ribbon into her long hair, Farhat looked blissful.
‘As salaam alaikum.’
I spun around at the sound of my dad’s voice. He stood next to Mum, stiff-looking and unsure whether to climb the two steps of the veranda.
Farhat and Ambreen-bhaji sprang to their feet.
‘Please come up,’ Nannyma invited.
My parents climbed the steps and stood awkwardly in front of us. The tension could have been cut with a knife.
Sehar stood up and made her excuses. ‘We need to get back to the haveli.’
Nannyma nodded. ‘Be sure to visit again, my dear.’
Sehar smiled at my parents as she passed them with Farhat in tow, looking at the floor out of respect.
‘Please sit,’ Nannyma said. ‘Ambreen-bhaji, bring water for my daughter and son-in-law.’
Ambreen-bhaji hurried into the house as my parents sat down on the bench opposite the swing.
‘So you are leaving for a month?’ Nannyma asked. ‘Can business really not survive without you?’
Dad stared at the floor. Finally he said, ‘No, there are issues which require my attention.’
We waited to hear what the issues were, but he never told us. Instead he cleared his throat and said: ‘We shall return for the wedding.’
I inhaled sharply at that statement. Until that point, the thorny issue of my marriage had almost become a distant event to me. My dad met my eyes directly for the first time since he’d arrived and cleared his throat again. It was as if he was preparing to deliver a speech to me, but I beat him to it.
‘You might as well not bother coming back in a month because I’M NOT MARRYING ANYBODY!’
My dad shot to his feet. ‘You will marry Asif!’ he shouted. ‘I have given my brother my word. I will not go back on it.’
I sprang up to meet Dad’s glare head-on. ‘I don’t care what you have promised Taya-ji,’ I spat out through gritted teeth. ‘It wasn’t your place to offer me in the first place!’
Dad looked like he was going to explode. His chest rose a couple of inches and his face turned crimson. He looked like he was having difficulty even finding his voice. Mum, who had been sitting looking quite horrified at the spectacle of her husband and daughter, suddenly stood up and placed a hand on Dad’s arm.
‘Ji, calm down,’ she cried desperately.
Dad was taking deep breaths now, his hand resting on his heart. ‘Tell her,’ he rasped. ‘Tell her that this is my izzat, my honour. Who is she to ridicule me in front of my family, my peers? I will die before I break my promise to my brother.’
It was like that evening on the rooftop again; I was the rabbit caught in the unrelenting glare of a speeding car’s headlights. I stood frozen.
‘Zeba, go inside.’
The order came from the calm voice of Nannyma. I turned to her, shell-shocked, still unable to move my feet.
‘Your father needs to calm down,’ Nannyma said patiently. ‘He can’t do it with you here.’
‘Get inside!’ Mum screamed suddenly. ‘You will give him a heart attack!’
I heard the words in slow motion, as though a Bollywood record was being dragged on the turntable.
‘Get away!’ Mum screamed again.
I couldn’t bear it any more. I turned and fled from the veranda and away from Nannyma’s house. I did not stop running till I reached the riverside and slumped down on the grass, burying my face in my hands. I could not believe what had just happened. My parents were not my own any more. They seemed possessed, as if the traditions of the village had entered their heads like some demon, brushing away any love or compassion they might once have had for me. I had ceased to be the precious baby girl they had brought home from hospital, the toddler who had learned to walk by clinging to their fingers, the nervous child who had leaped into their arms after the first day at school. All those shared memories that should have invoked a protective arm around me seemed to have disappeared. I was no longer my father’s rani, I was my father’s honour instead.
As I tried to empty my mind of thoughts of my parents, various memories flitted through my head. My mind cast back to another betrayal that had happened at junior school. Jessica Harper had been the most popular girl in our class and, as everybody wanted to be her friend, she wielded complete power over who got to play in the lunchtime game of rounders. I’d always been on her team – until she had chosen to share her family’s view that I, on account of being Muslim, was also responsible for the atrocities of 9/11. Susan had furiously accused Jessica of ignorance, but Jessica had insisted that she ‘wasn’t playing with terrorists’. I had put on a brave face, but only I knew the immense hurt I’d felt as Susan, ever the loyal friend, and I had watched our classmates play from
the sidelines for the remainder of Year Six.
I thought about Jessica and what had happened to her. Her popularity had extended to the boys in Norland High and that – coupled with an ignorance of contraception as well as religion – had resulted in her getting pregnant at fourteen. The whole school had been shocked. Teenage pregnancies were not the norm in our school. The girls of St Mary’s High were taught to be achievers, and their exam results were some of the highest in Yorkshire. Previous head girls and successful Oxbridge candidates were invited back to address assemblies with speeches themed: ‘It Doesn’t Matter Where You Come From – If I Can Do It, So Can You.’
Then my mind skipped momentarily to those aunties back home who discouraged too much education for Muslim girls. ‘What are our girls going to do with all this education?’ they would say. ‘Their jobs are to be wives and mothers. Give them too much independence and they want to change things. It is not good for our community. Our sons won’t know how to handle free-thinking women with degrees.’
I wondered what my exam results would be. I supposed it no longer mattered what letters of the alphabet were assigned to my subject list. My teachers had predicted A-stars for me, but what use were they now? My life was over. My destiny was not to be an empowered, educated woman, but merely to be a wife to a husband I did not want.
I thought of Susan and wished that I could contact her. She too had been predicted high grades, and I could just imagine her throwing her result sheet in the air and jumping for joy. A stab of envy pierced my heart as I wondered who she would be celebrating her results with instead of me.
At that precise moment, I hated Pakistan with all my being.
Chapter 12
I refused to accompany my parents to the airport. Everybody gave me their two-penn’orth about seeing them off but I was adamant in my decision. Deep down I knew that I would not be able to calmly watch my parents board a plane for home – while I was forced to remain against my will.
They came to say goodbye on the morning of their departure. We had not spoken since I had fled Nannyma’s house two days ago, and it became clear that our wounds were still raw when we faced each other on the veranda.
