by Sufiya Ahmed
‘I live with God,’ she explained. ‘He is always with those who are alone and vulnerable.’
‘Why don’t you remarry?’ I asked.
Husna-bhaji’s laugh was a light tinkle. ‘Who would have me? I am an unscrupulous woman, remember.’
‘But it’s not true!’ I objected. The look on Husna-bhaji’s face explained more than she could say. It was too late to convince the villagers that she was anything other than what they had deemed her to be. ‘So you can’t win,’ I said. It was not a question but a statement.
Husna-bhaji gazed into the distance and a shadow settled in her eyes, giving her the appearance of a very sad doll. And then she said the words that were so self-defeated in their nature and so much a consequence of her circumstances that I had no reply.
‘I am a woman, Zeba-ji. I can never win.’
Chapter 17
A few days after my outburst with Taya-ji, my nannyma surprised me at breakfast.
‘We will visit the imam today,’ she said simply. ‘Perhaps a man of God will be able to help and guide us through this darkness into the light.’
‘Eh?’ My mouth fell open and almost with it the contents of Ambreen-bhaji’s lovingly prepared omelette.
‘We must find a way to end your engagement with Asif,’ she continued. ‘I have been rereading the sayings of our Prophet – peace upon him – and he has said clearly that a girl’s consent is required for a marriage to be valid.’
Relief flooded through me as I realized that my nannyma was going to take steps to end my nightmare situation. Now, as Nannyma’s ox cart made its slow journey to the small brick house behind the mosque, I was barely able to contain my hope.
The imam was exactly as I’d expected. He was old with a flowing white beard and wore a white skullcap and long robes. He kept his eyes lowered until Nannyma spoke, and only then did he raise them. I took a deep breath as I gazed into his heavily lined face; it was wise and full of dignity. Since the news of my enforced marriage I’d carried a knot in my stomach, but now, today, looking into the eyes of this holy man, I felt the tight cords of my muscles ease slightly. Perhaps this imam was going to be my saviour.
‘Imam Sahib,’ my nannyma said in her quiet, serene voice. ‘I fear that a great abuse will be done to my granddaughter. She is being married against her will. I do not wish it, but everybody else in our family does. Can you not speak to Mustaq Khan, her uncle, and guide him against committing this injustice? It is forbidden in Islam; it is against our religion.’
The imam’s gaze fell on me and he seemed deep in thought. ‘Is this true, child?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Imam Sahib,’ my nannyma pleaded. ‘Do not let my Zeba’s fate be that of the landlord’s daughter-in-law, whom you yourself married. I beg you.’
I could not believe it. This was the same imam who had performed Sehar’s marriage? This was the man she hated! What had Nannyma been thinking? Why did she think that a man who had actually enforced this crime could help?
The answer was delivered in the imam’s quiet and sad voice. ‘Sister, it is my duty as the bearer of Qur’anic knowledge to speak against this coming atrocity. As for the matter of Sehar Shah, I did not know I was playing a part in that child’s false marriage. She was behind the curtain when I asked her for consent, and all I heard was the word ‘qabool’. How was I to know it was not the bride’s voice confirming her agreement to the marriage?’
Oh my word. I could not believe it. I had to tell Sehar.
The imam continued: ‘I will speak to Mustaq Khan. I will tell them that God does not permit the subjugation of women. But will Mustaq Khan listen to me? I doubt it.’
‘You are our last chance,’ my nannyma pleaded. ‘Our only hope. If he won’t listen to you, then who else can stop them?’
‘I will try, sister.’
And that was it. Within minutes we were back in the ox cart and heading home. It seemed too simple to think that this was going to solve my problems and bend the will of my family, but for now all I could do was believe that it might.
I hurried across the field to the riverside. Sehar and Farhat were already there. Sehar was holding a battery-operated fan to her face. I don’t know why she bothered. It was only the hot air that charged back at her. I flopped down next to them on the blanket.
‘You won’t believe what I found out,’ I declared.
‘Oh yeah?’ Sehar enquired, only slightly interested.
‘The imam who married you now regrets it,’ I stated, matter of factly.
Sehar switched off her fan and looked down at me, disbelief shining in her eyes. ‘And who told you that tripe?’
‘The imam himself,’ I revealed, and replayed the morning’s event to her.
‘So he thought that I had said qabool?’ Sehar said. ‘That I had accepted?’
I nodded.
Sehar set her chin forward in a determined way. ‘He should have checked,’ she insisted stubbornly.
I had been expecting this reaction. ‘Sehar,’ I began. ‘It’s not his fault. He didn’t know. He came to perform a marriage by invitation. He followed the procedure. How was he to know that it was not your voice giving consent? That it was not your permission? There was a curtain between you.’
Sehar didn’t say anything for a long while. Instead she gazed down at the grass and began picking the blades, first gently and then harshly. I saw her eyelashes flutter and I knew then that she was desperately fighting back the tears.
‘It’s OK to cry you know,’ I said quietly.
‘I won’t give in,’ she croaked.
I placed my hand over hers. ‘The people who have hurt you are not here to see you like this … there’s only me and Farhat.’
Sehar bit her lip, trying to control her face, but it didn’t last long. Her shoulders slumped and the tears began to spill. Farhat glared at me. Sehar and I had spoken quickly in English and although the maid had been straining to catch the flow of the conversation, I knew she was none the wiser. I could tell that she wanted to comfort Sehar, but did not know how, and so she remained seated behind her, not saying anything.
I reached forward and placed my arm around Sehar. I wanted to comfort her too. We were like sisters, not joined by blood but united through the circumstances that we were facing.
Sehar cried for a very long time and seemed unable to stop. The dam had finally burst, her eyes became puffy and the tears mingled with snot on her upper lip. The ever cool, composed Sehar looked vulnerable at last. We sat under the giant tree for hours, saying very little to each other, but letting the sense of sisterhood wash over us as we knew we were safe with each other. Farhat sat quietly, understanding the need for silence. I wondered what she was thinking. In contrast, all her prayers were being answered by her marriage to Abdullah. I suspected she still couldn’t understand our strange Western ways, but she knew better than to say anything.
When the sun finally set, Sehar turned to me. ‘You mustn’t go through with it,’ she said. ‘It’s not right. It’s your life.’
I nodded absently, not sure how to respond. It was all very well to believe my enforced marriage was not right, but how would I fight it?
‘There has to be a way out,’ Sehar continued. ‘If even the imam says its wrong … that it’s not allowed in our religion, then there has to be a way out.’
‘There is no way out,’ I whispered. ‘If he can’t convince my taya-ji then I have no other choice.’
‘You do,’ Sehar said firmly. ‘I’m going to give you the contact details of that woman at the charity that works with the Forced Marriage Unit. Tara … you remember I told you about her? She would have helped me if I’d left home. She will come and rescue you. All you need to do is get on the internet and send her a message.’
I stared at Sehar doubtfully. ‘If it’s so easy, why don’t you contact her about your own rescue?’
‘B
ecause I can’t access the internet,’ Sehar admitted, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Sher Shah won’t let me out of this village and the internet at the haveli has secure passwords. Nobody will give them to me. But you live with your nannyma. She is on your side. Tell her to help you. She can take you to Karachi and you can contact Tara.’
I chewed on my lower lip. It seemed so easy. All I had to do was get to an internet shop in Karachi.
‘Or you could just send Tara to rescue me when you get back home with the baby?’ I suggested.
Sehar gave me a mocking look and I couldn’t blame her. I was a coward. If I had been on the Titanic I would have refused to get on a lifeboat, just in case I survived. Despite all my protests against the forced marriage, when it came to the crunch I was too frightened to really do anything about it.
‘It’s always better to be prepared,’ Sehar insisted. ‘I thought you would find another way out but now I’m not so sure. I know Tara’s email by heart. Fatty, give me the knife.’
Farhat handed over the knife she always carried in the small basket of fruit and snacks for the permanently hungry Sehar.
I was hit by a wave of sadness as I watched my friend carefully scrape the email address of a woman I didn’t know on a tree trunk. It was tragic. Most girls our age carved out heart shapes and filled them with the initials of boys they fancied. Sehar, on the other hand, was carving out the name of a faceless stranger in London – a fairy godmother who felt about as real to me as a fairytale ending.
Two days later the outcome became clear. The imam had not been successful.
My taya-ji had become so enraged that he had the old man ousted from the mosque with the blessing of Sher Shah. Then, to prove their point, Sher Shah and Taya-ji dragged the imam outside Nannyma’s house.
‘Fatima-ji,’ Sher Shah called, ‘come and witness what you have caused with your silly ideas and meddling.’
Nannyma and I dashed out of the house on to the main road. A short distance away, Husna-bhaji stood frozen with her water-pot hanging by her side. It was like a scene from a Bollywood movie. Sher Shah, my taya-ji and a host of other men were surrounding the imam. In the harsh glare of the midday sun, it struck me how frail and old he was. His immaculate white robe had a dirty, brown stain running from his right shoulder to his knees. It seemed to be an imprint of the mud from where he had fallen … or been pushed.
There was a quiet dignity in his eyes as he looked squarely back at the landlord and Taya-ji.
‘Be gone!’ Taya-ji shouted at him. ‘You are not welcome here. Corrupting our womenfolk with ideas, daring to speak against our traditions.’
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nannyma slowly cover her mouth with her hands.
‘Forty years we kept you in employment in our mosque and this is how you repay us!’ Sher Shah boomed.
‘It is a crime not to speak up against injustice,’ the imam said quietly. ‘And you are committing an injustice against this young girl.’
Taya-ji and Sher Shah both looked like steam was going to blow out of their ears and their sharp intake of breath seemed to inflate their protruding fat bellies to bursting point. For a mad, fleeting second I thought that would actually happen and we would be covered in half-digested gobbets of food.
I wanted to giggle. It was a mad urge in response to the appalling scene in front of us.
‘Be gone!’ Sher Shah shouted before turning around to storm off with Taya-ji by his side.
The imam stood like a statue in his position. I knew it was irrational of me but I couldn’t help wondering if he was thinking of collecting his belongings. Suddenly, to my horror, one of the men stepped forward and pushed the imam, sending him sprawling face down in the mud. A couple of the men laughed. Ignoring them, the imam raised himself off the ground, but was unable to stand up immediately. He seemed to be fighting for breath.
I was just about to run over to him when a loud clattering sound diverted my attention. Husna-bhaji had dropped her water-pot, which smashed into pieces as she ran to the imam still lying on the ground. She put her arm around his back and slowly urged him up. The mud on his clothes now stained the black burka she wore. Tears were running down her face and she nearly buckled under the weight of the imam when he finally got to his feet. Surrounding them, the group of men stared; at first open mouthed at this defiance of the landlord’s wishes, and then with a gleam of malice as they prepared to humiliate the woman as well as the old man.
‘Don’t you dare!’
Nannyma’s voice was a whiplash – unusually high-pitched and shrill. It had the power to halt the village men in their tracks. ‘Get out of here!’ she ordered.
They turned and left.
Nannyma hurried over to the imam and Husna-bhaji. ‘Come inside,’ she offered quietly.
The imam shook his head slowly.
‘You cannot leave like this,’ Nannyma begged. ‘You have served our community for forty years. What these men have done to you brings shame on our village. Please.’
The imam shook his head again. ‘I am an imam and they have done this to me. You are a woman and what they will do to you does not bear thinking about. For your own welfare, I will leave.’ And he disentangled his arm from Husna-bhaji’s firm, protective grip to walk away, slowly and painfully, but with a dignity no corrupt landlord could match.
Helplessly, we watched him go and then Nannyma turned around and walked slowly into the house. I followed her but she closed the door to her room, locking me out. Feeling abandoned, I leaned against the door, trying to reach out to her. I stood there for what seemed like hours, listening with growing misery at the wretched sobbing coming from the other side.
Nannyma may have well been the arbiter of justice and a commanding voice in the village, but only for those who were considered to be beneath her. She was not equal to the powerful men who ran this village. They were in a class of their own, and there was nobody to balance and check their arrogant wishes. It seemed they feared no one, not even God.
Chapter 18
It did not end there. In our quest for justice we had unleashed a storm of malice and arrogance that damaged everything it touched. Sher Shah was in the eye of the hurricane, spinning his evil round and round and round until the destruction was complete.
Back home there were always stories in the newspapers about Asian women who suffered honour-based violence. I had only noticed them because my English teacher, Mrs Malson, had set an assignment about the language used by journalists to cover certain types of stories. Susan and I had picked ‘honour violence’ and Googled the stories. There were endless cases in the local and national newspapers of women being beaten and even killed by partners or family members. I remember feeling horrified by the articles, not really understanding why people would behave this way. Could someone actually kill a person they claimed to love just because they hadn’t behaved in the way they wanted?
But looking at the way events were unfolding in the village I felt scared. For men like Sher Shah it was not enough that an old man should be beaten and kicked out of his home. The landlord would not be satisfied until every dissident was crushed beneath his leather shoes. His dilemma, however, lay with the figure of Nannyma for she could not be humiliated physically. She was, after all, revered by the villagers. But in questioning Taya-ji’s decision to marry me to Asif, Nannyma had challenged the patriarchal structure that was the foundation of the power and control wielded by Sher Shah and Taya-ji. That sort of defiance could not go unchecked.
Mr Duffield had once told my history class that revolutions in the past had often been sparked off not by years, decades or even centuries of oppression, but by a single act that enraged people. He gave the example of Rosa Parks from Alabama in America, who focused attention on racial segregation in 1955 by refusing to give up her seat on a bus to a white person. In this village, thousands of miles away from America, a direct, physical violation of Nannyma would be considered su
ch an act. The villagers would not stand for it, and throughout history successful tyrants knew never to rock the boat if they wanted to maintain their iron grip.
But there was always another way. Mr Duffield had also taught us that prisoners sometimes confessed to crimes not as a result of the torture inflicted on them, but through the fear that a loved one was being tortured on their behalf. And that was what Sher Shah did to Nannyma. He hurt a person she protected in order to hurt her.
It was the day after the scene with the imam, and Nannyma and I were sitting on the swing in silence. Nannyma’s face was set in a grim expression and the light in her eyes had dimmed somewhat. I didn’t know what to say to her. I knew she regarded the humiliation inflicted on the imam as her own. She had tried to help me and she had failed, and in the process an old man had lost his home and his job. I wanted to put my arms around her and reassure her that everything would be OK, but I didn’t know if it would be.
‘Fatima-ji! Fatima-ji!’ Kareem-baba came racing up to the house, clutching his side and keeling over as he reached the veranda.
‘What’s happened?’ Nannyma cried, rushing to him.
Ambreen-bhaji, having heard the commotion from inside the house, came running out to her husband’s side. She made him sit down on the steps and urged him to take a few calming breaths. Finally he said, ‘Sher Shah is destroying Husna-bhaji’s hut. Her belongings have been flung out and he has got his men swinging axes to break the walls. The roof has already caved in.’
Nannyma’s face paled. ‘You saw this with your own eyes?’ she demanded.
Kareem-baba nodded.
‘Then let us go and see for ourselves.’
The four of us marched along the dusty path to the outskirts of the village where Husna-bhaji’s hut was located. On the way we came across Farhat, who was standing outside a small mud hut, which I presumed was her home. She stared open-mouthed before falling into step with us.
