by Sufiya Ahmed
Reaching a scene of chaos, we found a sobbing Husna-bhaji squatting on the floor, a broken sewing machine cradled in her arms. It was not enough to demolish her home; they had to destroy her livelihood too.
I’d expected Nannyma to comfort Husna-bhaji, but she walked directly up to the five men who were still swinging their axes against the single remaining wall.
‘Stop!’ Nannyma ordered. ‘Why are you doing this?’
The men hesitated, their weapons frozen in mid-air as they contemplated the question.
‘They are doing so on my orders.’
We all whipped around in the direction of the voice to find Sher Shah sitting on a deckchair, relaxed and comfortable in the shade of a large tree. He had been callously viewing the destruction from a ringside seat.
‘That is my property you have destroyed,’ Nannyma spat out icily.
‘Granted, but it has been built on my land,’ came the counter attack.
‘Shah, why are you doing this?’ Nannyma asked, deliberately addressing the landlord only by his last name.
It did the trick. His chest rose an inch or two as he physically fought to suppress the gathering rage just under the surface.
‘That woman,’ Sher Shah growled through gritted teeth, pointing a stick at Husna-bhaji, who was still lost in her own world of wailing, ‘is bringing disrepute to the village.’
Sometimes on the news I’d seen people – desperate people – throw stones and shoes at political leaders. I’d always wondered about the point of throwing a pebble or a slipper. It was not as though you could hurt your enemy. But I felt like doing that now. It was an action that communicated desperate rage. Previously I had felt helpless for myself, but today I felt fury on behalf of Nannyma, Husna-bhaji, Sehar and all the wronged women of the village as well as the imam. I wanted to crouch down, pick up a stone and hurl it in the face of this monster.
‘Pick up Husna-bhaji’s belongings,’ Nannyma ordered Ambreen-bhaji and Kareem-baba. ‘She will stay with me.’
Sher Shah sprang to his feet and stomped over to us. ‘I said she cannot remain in the village,’ he forced out through gritted teeth. ‘Her presence dishonours us.’
‘What about the way you dishonour the village?’ Nannyma snapped back. ‘What about your mistresses in Karachi?’
Sher Shah looked as if he had been slapped in the face. ‘How dare you?’ he spluttered, spittle spraying the air. ‘Who do you think you are?’
Nannyma did not shrink from him. She met his glare directly with flashing eyes, her head raised in a defiant gesture.
‘I will tell you who I am,’ she said icily. ‘I was a bride here before you were even conceived. Your father was a good man. He cared as a landlord should for the poor and vulnerable, for the widows and the orphans. He would be ashamed to see what his own son has become. You dishonour your entire zaat of landlords. Who do you think you are? Accusing and throwing out a poor, helpless widow without any evidence of wrongdoing? You use a vulnerable human being to get at me, who dared to question the way you play with innocent lives. And you call yourself a man!’
Sher Shah stared at Nannyma, outrage etched on his entire being. She had attacked him about his zaat – the very essence of who he was. It translated loosely to mean ‘tribe’. Nannyma had once mentioned that according to some traditional belief systems, a Pakistani was born into a zaat just as a Hindu was born into a caste. Neither could be mistaken for class because a person was allowed to move up the social ladder, whereas zaat and caste remained with you from birth till death.
As I watched Sher Shah’s face turn purple, I knew we were just moments away from a dam of rage bursting … and it did.
‘How dare you!’ he erupted. ‘You are an old woman! That is all you are!’
‘Enough!’
I spun round at the voice that dared to halt Sher Shah’s tirade. It was Sahib Mohammad Ali Khan, the neighbouring landlord whom I had met at Nannyma’s house. We all stared at him as he slowly approached from his Land Rover, aided by his cane.
‘What are you doing here, Sahib Mohammad-ji?’ Sher Shah asked silkily, his face now devoid of the earlier malice and fury.
‘I was on my way to your haveli,’ Sahib Mohammad replied. ‘And I noticed this commotion. Why is that woman wailing?’
We all stared at Husna-bhaji who was still oblivious to us.
‘Sahib Mohammad-ji –’ Sher Shah began, but he didn’t get very far.
‘Let Fatima-ji explain,’ Sahib Mohammad interrupted.
My nannyma gave a quick summary of the situation, but did not include the points about my wedding or the imam’s fate.
Sahib Mohammad looked disapprovingly at Sher Shah. ‘You will not enter paradise if you treat widows in this way,’ he admonished gently. ‘We landlords have a duty to care for and protect the vulnerable. You were taught this from the time you could speak.’
Sher Shah’s face clouded over with anger, but he did not say anything, respecting the older man’s status.
‘This has to be resolved,’ Sahib Mohammad continued. ‘I will not have Fatima-ji upset like this. Make your peace, Shah.’
‘The woman cannot stay on my land,’ Sher Shah insisted.
‘She can stay on Fatima-ji’s land,’ Sahib Mohammad countered firmly. ‘I do not know what your dispute with the widow is, but you cannot treat her in this way, Shah. It goes against the basic teachings of the Qur’an.’
Silence followed as Sher Shah contemplated Sahib Mohammad’s words. Finally he nodded his agreement and retreated to the tree’s shade, plonking his vast bulk on the deckchair. He was like a child who had been scolded and sent to the naughty step.
I watched the scene with amazement. I could not believe there was a person alive who could keep Sher Shah in check. He was a tyrant, but it was obvious now that his political ambitions outside his own land depended on the generosity of his peers, the other landlords of Sindh.
‘Go home, Fatima-ji,’ Sahib-Mohammad advised. ‘Your work here is done.’
‘I am grateful,’ Nannyma replied. ‘You truly are one of the just landlords.’
With those words Nannyma turned around, crossed the few feet to the sobbing Husna-bhaji and tried to help her to her feet. But my frail Nannyma couldn’t manage it, while Husna-bhaji seemed unable to stand of her own accord. I was about to run over but Farhat beat me to it. She grabbed Husna-bhaji around the middle and urged her to her feet, whispering soothing words in her ear.
The six of us traipsed back to Nannyma’s house, laden down with Husna-bhaji’s belongings. Kareem-baba was holding a long roll of material while Ambreen-bhaji, Farhat and I carried odd bits of household goods and clothes. Husna-bhaji walked in a daze next to Nannyma and when we arrived home, burst into tears again.
Nannyma let her cry for a long time. ‘You are not alone, Husna,’ she said eventually. ‘Sher Shah cannot hurt you in my house.’
‘He did this because I helped the imam to his feet?’ Husna-bhaji managed.
‘Maybe,’ Nannyma answered. ‘But, even if you had not helped the imam, Sher Shah would have done this. It is less about your help and more about my challenge to his authority in this village. He wanted to hurt me. He has scored his point and so as long as I do not retaliate he will leave us alone.’
And that was the point at which I knew I had no choice but to accept the marriage to Asif. Sher Shah wanted this marriage to go ahead because a cancellation now would be regarded as a direct challenge to the authority of Taya-ji, and in turn his own authority. It was pathetic, but in Sher Shah’s eyes a simple act of disobedience could unravel the thread on the centuries-old village tapestry in which women and peasants were the property of rich, unjust men. If Nannyma continued to pick at the thread by helping me to escape their plans, then he would find a way to target her again.
Chapter 19
I resigned myself to the marriage after that, declaring as much to Ta
ya-ji, whose initial scepticism soon gave way to pure glee.
Two weeks later my parents returned and it was announced that the engagement would take place within days as Asif had also returned from duty. The wedding was scheduled for the following month. Mum and Dad were like strangers to me now. I didn’t feel I knew them at all, and they treated me with aloofness in return. I think it was easier for them to avoid the accusing look of betrayal in my eyes.
I was pretty sure Taya-ji never told my parents of Nannyma’s attempt to stop the wedding. The whole thing was like a shameful secret. Nobody spoke about it. Since the episode with the imam, Nannyma had become a shadow of her former self. I think it was a shock for her to discover that she was nothing but a silly old woman in the eyes of Sher Shah and Taya-ji.
I knew there were many people who would argue that because I was no longer putting up a fight it meant that I had given my consent to be married. I had not. I just had no choice. My heart and my mind would never consent to the marriage and I hoped that eventually Asif would grow to hate me because I would never be able to accept or love him.
It was not the future I had planned for myself.
Sehar’s bump was growing bigger and she was impatient to give birth. I think she was just fed up with the burden of carrying the weight. Sometimes she could hardly move; her ankles and feet were so swollen and her back ached. This made it harder for me to see her: she sometimes couldn’t leave her room and I would not set foot in Sher Shah’s property. One of the worst moments of my life had been explaining to her that I had decided not to resist my marriage to Asif. I felt as if I was betraying her, even thought we both knew I was doing it only to protect my nannyma.
On the days when Sehar felt well enough, Abdullah brought her over in a Land Rover. She made poor Farhat sit in the passenger seat while she languished on her own in the back. The poor maid was mortified every time, as it was against village custom for an engaged couple to be seen together so openly. I did try to have a word with Sehar, but quite typically she laughed it off.
‘What? They’re engaged! Anyway,’ she would say, stroking her protruding stomach, ‘baby and I chaperone from the back.’
Two days before my engagement ceremony, Sehar and I were sitting on the swing with Farhat in her usual position on the floor. There was something about Sehar that was mesmerizing. She was absolutely blooming. That was the only way I could describe her. Her skin and hair were shining with good health while her bump seemed to have taken over the middle of her body. She was in her own words ‘ready to pop’ but she still had two weeks left before her due date.
‘I wish this baby would stop kicking,’ Sehar grumbled.
‘Shall I get you something?’ Farhat immediately offered, springing to her feet.
‘And you can stop fussing!’ Sehar snapped. ‘Honestly, between you and this baby, I’m feeling stifled.’
I grinned at Sehar. ‘Yeah, right. The baby’s your passport to freedom. It’s coming soon like a package in the post.’
Sehar grimaced. ‘Not sure you can compare giving birth with a letterbox.’
‘Are you nervous?’ I asked. ‘A bit,’ Sehar answered. ‘Not really got too long to go now, but I’m sure it will all be OK. They’ll get a doctor to deliver the baby for me in the haveli. As soon as it pops, I’m going home. Can’t wait.’
I nodded, trying to smile but the gesture did not reach my eyes. I couldn’t help feeling envious. Sehar would be going home.
‘Water people coming,’ Farhat announced, pointing to the group of brightly dressed women sauntering over to us with their water-pots.
‘As salaam alaikum,’ they greeted in unison, smiling warmly.
I answered and informed them that Nannyma was out on an errand with Kareem-baba.
‘We have not come to see Fatima-ji,’ said one woman in Sindhi. ‘We come for Memsahib.’
Sehar and I stared at the women. Who were they looking for?
‘They mean Sehar-memsahib,’ Farhat said quickly, clearing up the confusion. Of course. Sehar belonged to the landlord’s family.
‘Not long to go now,’ one of them said to Sehar, showing a gap in her front teeth. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Umm …’ Sehar seemed lost for words.
‘It will feel like your insides are being ripped apart,’ said one from the back. ‘The earth will move and the volcano will erupt.’
‘Don’t let your husband be near you when the pains start,’ piped up another. ‘You will want to kill him with your bare hands for putting you in this situation.’
‘Maybe he should be around for the birth then,’ Sehar muttered under her breath.
The women continued sharing their experiences and advice, completely oblivious to the alarm they were raising in Sehar. Another woman made a crude joke and they all burst into fresh peals of laughter, and then the joyous, happy sound was abruptly cut off by the sight of something behind me.
Curious, I turned around to find Husna-bhaji standing nervously by the door.
The women glared at the widow.
‘Witch!’ one woman spat.
‘Hey,’ I cried indignantly. ‘Don’t you dare call her that!’
‘Yeah, don’t you dare,’ Sehar piped up, struggling to get off the swing and on to her feet.
‘It’s OK,’ Husna-bhaji said hurriedly. ‘I will go back inside.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I said, grabbing Husna-bhaji’s arm and pulling her further on to the veranda. ‘You live here and are entitled to join in.’
‘Zeba-ji,’ a woman at the front said in a patronizing voice, ‘you and Memsahib are foreign. You do not know what these village witches are like. They put spells on you to make them take you in. Your poor grandmother has been manipulated. You all have. You must follow our advice and throw her out before she eats your liver.’
Sehar burst out laughing.
‘Do not laugh, Memsahib,’ another woman said gravely. ‘You do not know what we know. Beware of the –’
‘Enough!’ It was Farhat.
We all stared at the maid.
‘Husna-bhaji is a poor widow and not a witch!’ Farhat exclaimed hotly. ‘We are supposed to be Muslims and you should treat her with kindness and mercy so that on the Day of Judgement God will treat you with mercy and kindness.’
A pin-drop silence followed Farhat’s outburst. Well, I thought, someone’s been paying attention to Nannyma’s pearls of wisdom; talk about regurgitating word for word. But one woman from the back made a hissing noise and then another joined in, and another. They only stopped as a vehicle pulled up behind them. Asif jumped out and the women scampered away, pulling their ajrak shawls to cover their faces.
I watched anxiously as Asif approached the veranda. I hadn’t seen him since I’d first arrived. What did he want?
‘As salaam alaikum,’ he greeted us.
‘Wa alaikum salaam,’ Sehar answered, a look of interest on her face. I couldn’t even croak my response. My voice was trapped somewhere in my throat.
‘May I speak with you, Zeba?’ Asif asked. He was dressed in his army uniform. Was this guy ever off duty?
‘Not sure that’s allowed, Asif-sahib,’ Sehar said. ‘My maid and I will have to chaperone.’
Asif gave Sehar a quizzical look. ‘You’re not serious?’ he drawled.
‘Very much so,’ Sehar said coolly.
‘I do not follow your customs,’ Asif declared.
‘They’re your customs, not ours,’ Sehar countered. ‘We’re British but we are respecting your traditions.’
Asif rolled his eyes and turned to me. ‘Zeba, please ask your friends to leave us. It is important that I talk to you alone and I am not one to follow such customs in important affairs like marriage.’
A wild thought struck me. Perhaps Asif had come to tell me he was in love with someone else and he wanted to call off the wedding. I gestured to Sehar to go inside the house
. Reluctantly she did so with Farhat and Husna-bhaji in tow.
I met Asif’s eyes as he lowered himself on to the deckchair. Was he about to give me my freedom?
‘Zeba, I want you to know that I fully respect our parents’ decision in arranging our match,’ he began. ‘Strengthening our family bond means a lot to them and I can see the benefits.’
‘Oh,’ was all I could manage as the gush of hope that had entered my body leaked away in drips.
‘I was surprised when you agreed to this match,’ Asif continued. ‘You’re so young and I thought … Anyway, I can see that you are just as respectful of family and tradition, and I like that about you.’
Agreed to this match? Could someone really be so blind?
‘Do you have a preference for a honeymoon location?’
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.
‘You know … is there anywhere you’d like to visit after the wedding?’
I continued to gape at him and I think he took my speechlessness as shyness. He smiled and got up.
‘I’ll be off,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to spend some time with you before the wedding. Perhaps it is not so appropriate here in the village.’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘We’ll have to get to know each other after the wedding.’
With those words he descended from the veranda, climbed into his Land Rover and sped off. The dust from his vehicle was still in the air when Sehar and Farhat emerged again.
‘I heard every word,’ Sehar admitted. ‘You mad girl, why didn’t you tell him you don’t want to marry him?’
‘Would it have made a difference?’ I asked through stiff lips. ‘He seemed pretty happy about the wedding. He’s planning the honeymoon.’
‘Still …’ Sehar’s voice trailed off.
‘He wouldn’t have listened,’ I insisted. ‘Why should he?’
‘You should have tried,’ Sehar said stubbornly. ‘Clearly he isn’t aware that you are being forced into this. How would he know? You were sent to live here so as not to cause a commotion in his house and he has hardly been here to notice anything that has gone on. Bet he doesn’t even know what happened with the imam.’
