Secrets of the Henna Girl

by Sufiya Ahmed

  ‘Well it’s more dynastic power than elected power,’ she said. ‘Her father had also been prime minister and had been executed by his rival who had toppled his government, so people just voted for her as his heir, and for her reforming ideas. But don’t underestimate it. The sight of a woman at the top still opens doors for other women. There are lots of women activists in her party that otherwise might not have been there.’

  I pondered on Nannyma’s words, but not for too long as an unexpected guest arrived.

  ‘As salaam alaikum.’ It was Sehar’s sister-in-law Shabana.

  ‘Wa alaikum salaam,’ Nannyma greeted her warmly. ‘Please come in.’

  Shabana climbed the veranda steps and sat on the deckchair. ‘I just wanted to come and say goodbye,’ she said to Nannyma. ‘I am leaving for England tomorrow morning and I am not sure how long I will be away. My father is ill you see.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Nannyma nodded sympathetically. ‘I did hear about your father’s stroke. You must be very worried.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘He is in hospital, so he is being looked after by the doctors.’

  I gave Shabana a sympathetic look but I wasn’t sure what to say. A silence developed and I took a step backwards. My nostrils were filled with the smell of fried potatoes. It wasn’t quite the same as Mrs Smith’s chips but the handmade slices would have to fill my craving for now. As I turned to walk into the house, Shabana called out to me, ‘Zeba, do you have a minute?’

  I stopped and turned to look at her quizzically.

  ‘I wondered if I might be able to speak with you.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I mumbled.

  Nannyma stood up. ‘I will see how Ambreen is getting along with your favourite English food.’

  ‘Oh no, you don’t have to leave,’ Shabana objected.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Nannyma smiled, ‘but I want to make sure Ambreen doesn’t add chilli powder to Zeba’s chips. She has been craving them all morning.’

  I watched Nannyma walk into the house before I took her place on the swing.

  ‘So how are you settling in? ‘Shabana asked.

  I looked down at my fingernails and decided to be honest. ‘Not very well, actually.’

  ‘No? Well, that is sad news, but not surprising. You know sometimes it takes time to adjust to another country with its different weather and lifestyle, but you become accustomed after a while.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘You know I am so used to living here now that when I visit England it takes me a while to adjust over there. No servants, no chauffeurs. Life is very hard in England.’

  I stared at Shabana. Was this woman for real? She seemed to sense my disbelief because she gave a small laugh and said, ‘Anyway, enough about my preferences, I came to talk to you about Sehar. You know she likes you a lot.’

  I smiled. ‘I like her too.’

  ‘So perhaps you could have a word with her?’

  I hesitated and then asked, ‘About what?’

  ‘Well … to stop resisting her fate for one.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Sehar has still not accepted that she is a married woman now, soon to be a mother. She needs to stop fighting this family.’

  I felt uncomfortable. ‘I really don’t think it’s my place to say –’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ came the interruption. ‘The deed has been done. She is married to this family now. She needs to accept it rather than argue and fight with everyone.’

  There was silence for a few seconds and then I said, ‘I don’t think she is happy.’

  Shabana made an unladylike snorting sound and rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘Nonsense,’ she dismissed. ‘She is being stubborn and refusing to accept her situation. Her life will be so much easier if she just accepts the fact that she is married.’

  I decided not to say anything and Shabana continued.

  ‘Look at me. I’m the same as you both. I was born in England but my kismet, my fate, was written with my husband and he lives here in Pakistan, and so my children and I must too. I grew up just like you, went to school, to madrassa, spent Saturdays at the shopping centre. All I wanted was to get married and have children and when my dad suggested I marry my cousin, I was happy. Sehar should learn to be happy too. Look at this lifestyle: no housework, no cooking. It’s the life.’

  ‘I think Sehar wants more,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What more?’ Shabana demanded, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘She wants to go out and work, does she? Believe me it all seems glamorous, wearing a business suit and going out to work but it is not. Work is work, whether you sit in an air-conditioned office or clean the floor like Farhat and her relatives do every day.’

  I didn’t know what to say and the silence stretched. Finally I said, ‘I think you and Sehar are two different types of people.’

  ‘No, we are one and the same. We hail from the same traditions and family. She is no different. She just thinks she is different. Look, I found it hard to adjust when I came here in the beginning, but I did. Sehar even has a choice. She can go back to live in England with her husband when her baby is born. I never had that choice. My husband hates England. He thinks it’s cold and wet, so I had to adjust to the heat and dust here. That is what we women do in our lives. We adjust. We fit ourselves around our husbands. That is the way to lead a contented life.’

  ‘Did you want to marry your husband?’ I suddenly asked.

  Shabana looked taken aback. ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Sehar didn’t,’ I said simply.

  Shabana stared at me, her eyes slightly narrowed. ‘That is neither here nor there. It is done now. She is married and she needs to accept it. Her sulking and moods put pressure on everybody in the haveli. She is such a drama queen. If you were a true friend you would help her accept it. God knows I have tried, but she treats me with contempt for being happy with my lot. And you know she has no respect for my father-in-law, Sher Shah. He is a highly respected landlord and soon-to-be politician and she talks back rudely to him when he enquires about the baby’s health. I am surprised he has been so calm with her this far.’

  What did she mean, calm with her? ‘What would you suggest your father-in-law does?’ I spat, unable to hold back. ‘Beat Sehar like his son does?’

  Shabana sucked in her breath and then stood up stiffly. ‘It didn’t have to be that way. Sehar brought it upon herself, always fighting her husband. That is why I am telling you to advise her to accept her situation … she will not win. She cannot. This is a man’s world.’ She got up. ‘Anyway, it was nice talking with you … I will just go inside and bid your nannyma farewell.’

  Within minutes Shabana had left and Nannyma and I resumed our places on the swing. Something was bothering me: Shabana had said that her husband had hated England and so she had settled here. What if Asif hated England? Would I, like Shabana, be expected to adjust to the heat and dust of this village?

  For the second time I voiced my thoughts out loud, but on this occasion Nannyma had no words to say to me. She just looked at me sadly and let the silence linger between us until Ambreen-bhaji came out with a plate of chips.

  I had no appetite left as my stomach fluttered with unease, but I took the plate and managed to eat a few just to keep the smile on Ambreen-bhaji’s face.

  Chapter 14

  The days passed slowly and I put my worries about Asif to the back of my mind. Each day seemed to merge into the last until sometimes I didn’t even know whether it was a Monday or a Wednesday – but I always knew when it was a Friday. The holy day’s afternoon prayer was preceded by a sermon on the loudspeaker for all the villagers to hear. It was in Sindhi and I was confused that the imam’s preaching was never political and made no mention of the upheaval that was happening in other parts of the country. But wasn’t that why Asif was in so much danger in the army? How could the imam talk about the need to be a goo
d person without mentioning the bloodshed we all knew about?

  Most days Sehar would visit to get away from her in-laws, but sometimes I would walk over to the haveli on my own, passing the huddle of huts where the children would run up to me, chattering and laughing. I had been here a month yet they still seemed to be fascinated by me. If I asked them how they were they would collectively giggle, leaving only one or two of the most confident among them to respond with ‘he’s fine’ or ‘she’s fine’.

  One day, I decided to take some almonds. At first many of the children were too shy to hold out their hands, but they scavenged what they could from the few who did take from me. Eventually I handed the remainder to the ringleader, Abdul, a boy of about eight who wore the same grey, washed-out salwar kameez every day. It turned out he was the youngest brother of Farhat’s fiancé, Abdullah.

  Late one morning as I prepared to leave for the haveli to have lunch with Sehar, I couldn’t find my usual source of almonds in the kitchen. ‘But there was a whole packet,’ I said to Ambreen-bhaji.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ she replied drily. ‘There was a whole packet until you emptied and fed it to the children.’

  ‘Well, don’t we have any stored away?’

  ‘No!’ Ambreen-bhaji snapped. ‘We don’t! And I was going to make special kheer, rice pudding, tonight. It’s only special when it contains almonds. What will I do now?’

  I smiled at Ambreen-bhaji. She always amused me when she got irritable. I strode over to where she was standing and placed my arm around her shoulders.

  ‘You know what, you could always ask Kareem-baba to go and get more from the market … Actually, tell him to get two extra packets for the children.’

  Ambreen-bhaji shrugged off my arm. ‘Yes, yes, that is all my husband is good for, to go to the market to fetch almonds for the village children. You are spoiling them.’

  My mind drifted to my dad’s shop. ‘Ambreen-bhaji,’ I said gently, ‘they are children. When I was their age I used to go through half the sweets in our shop.’ I knew Susan would have raised an eyebrow if she could hear me now. I was lying when I said that I had only ever raided the counter when I’d been younger. The truth was that I ate at least two chocolate bars and as many sweets as I could manage whenever I had to cover the till counter.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Ambreen-bhaji said, bringing me back from happy thoughts of cola cubes and sherbert lemons. ‘There is nothing left to feed them now … But I will ask him to get an extra pack for you and your merry band of followers.’

  I followed Ambreen-bhaji out of the kitchen. ‘What can I give them instead, now?’ I asked. ‘I have to go and collect Sehar and Farhat for the mela this afternoon.’

  The mela was a big event in the village calendar. According to Farhat it was the best gathering of the year, filled with fairground rides, entertainment and food. People from all parts of the region travelled with family and friends to join in. For the last week Farhat had done nothing but talk of the mela. She had regaled Sehar and me with tales of her previous visits, trying to persuade us to attend. I didn’t mind, but Sehar was insistent that she would not go with her mother-in-law as our chaperone. Apparently we needed to be accompanied by an older female relative as it would not be appropriate for us to attend by ourselves. In the end, Nannyma took pity on Farhat and volunteered to come with us.

  ‘You care too much about what the children think,’ Ambreen-bhaji retorted, but then she softened when she saw my expression. ‘OK, let me think … Rather than disappoint them, why don’t you use the southern path to the haveli? The route is longer, but it will save you the embarrassment of empty hands.’

  I nodded and Ambreen-bhaji gave me instructions to the back of the haveli. I smacked a kiss on her cheek and she pushed me away, flapping her hands like a mother hen, but I knew from the rosy glow in her cheeks that she was secretly pleased at my show of affection.

  The secluded pathway was quiet and I could hear crows cawing in the distance as I walked alongside the fields. My eyes searched for a scarecrow, but I couldn’t spot one. I wondered how the farmers kept the crows from picking at the crops, but as I contemplated the question big, fat raindrops began to fall on my head. I looked up and saw dark grey clouds gathering. When did that happen?

  I quickened my pace; I didn’t want to get caught in a downpour. I remembered Memsahib’s disapproving look when she had caught me in her hallway covered in mud. I couldn’t turn up like that again, so I broke into a run. However I hadn’t got very far when the heavens opened and within seconds I was completely drenched. Struggling not to slip on the dirt road, I slowed down until I saw a building with a dome and four minarets ahead of me.

  The mosque.

  I knew from Ambreen-bhaji’s directions that I wasn’t far from the haveli, but I didn’t fancy walking through the wet field and mud in the pouring rain. Perhaps there was a women’s section in the mosque where I could take shelter. I ran up to the wooden door and knocked. I waited but nobody answered and so I banged again, harder, and this time the wooden door creaked open under my hand.

  Removing my sandals I tentatively stepped inside. I found myself in a large room the size of our main assembly hall at school – which had enough space for five hundred pupils. The floor was covered in black tiles and the walls were a cream colour. At the other end of the room stood the imam’s box, from where he led prayers, and a wall cabinet in which I imagined copies of the Qur’an were stored.

  I knew there was still time before the muezzin would call the faithful to afternoon prayers. The men all seemed to pray at an allotted time governed by the mosque, but women were free to pray in a wider space of time at home. Nannyma would always take an afternoon nap first and then pray at about two o’clock. As the mosque was empty, I decided to wait for the rain to stop.

  I moved further into the room and slid down to the ground. The floor beneath me felt hard and I thought of how uncomfortable it must be for the men who knelt here bowing their heads to the ground in prayer five times a day. The floor of our local mosque back home was covered in a plush carpet. From the age of five till eleven I’d spent every weekday between the hours of five and seven in Imam Zahid’s madrassa. In a class of about thirty children, we’d sat in a row on the floor and rested our Qur’ans on the low wooden bench in front of us while we learned to recite the words in Arabic. The last half hour was spent perfecting over and over again the prayer for everyday activities like eating, going to sleep and leaving the house.

  I thought back to a girl from school, Mary, who was a devout Jehovah’s Witness. At lunchtimes – in full view of the whole canteen – she would place her food tray on the table, fold her hands together, close her eyes and begin to mouth her prayer of ‘grace’. When she’d first arrived at our school in the middle of Year Seven, the dinner ladies had looked at her and giggled while the rest of us just stared and sniggered. Admirably, Mary hadn’t cared, whereas I would not be caught dead uttering a prayer in either Arabic or English in front of my classmates. All I’d ever wanted to do was blend in, and I’d succeeded in not standing out at school just as I merged right in with the other kids at the mosque.

  At the madrassa I became good friends with a girl called Tasneem. Her dad owned an Indian restaurant in a nearby town, which was very popular with the local people. As there were very few Muslims and no mosque in her town, her mum drove ten miles every day to ours. Tas and I bonded over our frustration at missing Home and Away and Neighbours when we were confined to our madrassa. We both suspected that our popularity at school was affected by the fact that we couldn’t join in the pre-assembly chats every morning about the latest storylines.

  But this deprivation of daily soap-watching ended when Tas and I turned eleven. Imam Zahid announced that we were too old for his class and that if we wished to further our knowledge of Islam then our parents should seek out a female teacher. To my delight my parents couldn’t be bothered to organize tuition, but Tas’s mum dr
ove her the extra miles to Leeds three times a week. Despite promising to keep in touch, our phone calls just dried up as we turned into teenagers. It was fascinating how people whom you saw almost every day could disappear from your life so quickly. Like my parents, I thought wryly. I wondered how Sehar and I would stay in touch when I went home, my mind still refusing to accept any alternative.

  My thoughts wandered back to my surroundings as the patter of the rain slowly died down and I decided to leave the mosque before a second downpour began. The path was wet and muddy outside but the sun was already peeping through the clouds as I hoisted up my salwar and began to walk as fast as I could.

  Chapter 15

  Within minutes the pink monstrosity that was the haveli emerged against a blue sky. I entered through the back entrance and was told by a maid that Sehar was asleep, but that Farhat was in the downstairs TV room. I wiped my feet clean so as not to mark the marble floor and set out to find her. I discovered her on her hands and knees wiping the floor with a wet cloth, while her attention was fully focused on an American programme on TV. I pulled up my salwar and crouched down on the floor to surprise her.

  ‘What you doing?’ she cried, springing up. ‘You not get on floor. What people say?’

  ‘Well …’ I was lost for words as I stood up.

  ‘Never minding,’ Farhat said hurriedly. ‘Come, let us wake Sehar-ji to go to the mela.’

  I nodded, still reeling from the reminder that Farhat would never base our relationship on anything other than her status in the village. I don’t think she would accept that I thought of her as a friend.

  I followed her into Sehar’s bedroom. Roused from a deep sleep, Sehar was annoyed about having to get ready to go out. ‘There had better be some seats, Farhat,’ she complained, rubbing her stomach. ‘I can’t walk around for long with this huge bump, you know.’