And the World Changed (28 page)

She braced herself. She could not scurry inside. That was not the way things were done, no matter what. Calmly, she let go of the gate. She turned to greet the two people who had stepped out of the car and were surveying her. She didn't realize that she had let go of her jacket: It flew wide open, revealing the short vest underneath. Their eyes fell straight to the inch of bare waist flesh. The woman was her future mother-in-law, a slightly frail woman dressed in
shalwar kameez
with a chador around her shoulders. The elderly man was the woman's husband. He towered behind his wife.

Miriam was unable to look either of them in the eye. A watery, hesitant smile played around her mouth. She did not know what to do. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. These were the very people she had wanted to impress. All she
was aware of now were the surreptitious glances they darted—not at her as Miriam, but at the figure she presented in a pair of Levis and skimpy leather jacket. This was not the Miriam they knew but a stranger, a Western version of Miriam. She sensed their awkwardness. They too were caught off guard and did not know what to do. The father-in-law was bent on avoiding eye contact by studiously looking above her head.

He pushed the gate open and in two strides had crossed the driveway and was now solidly knocking on the front door. Miriam stepped aside to let the woman, silently walking behind her husband, pass. Miriam followed them in a semidaze. As she closed the gate behind her, she remembered with mortification that while the woman had accepted her mumbled greeting by her reply, “
Wa laikum Assalam
,” the father-in-law had ignored it.

Miriam's mother, Fatima, opened the door to her guests, beaming with pleasure and warmth. She had not expected Miriam to arrive with them. She got a shock seeing her daughter hovering behind. Never before had Miriam seen such a dramatic change in her mother's face. Normally she wouldn't have batted an eyelid if her daughter had turned up at 11 o'clock at night, as long as she knew where she was and with whom, and at what time she was returning home. Today, she was viewing her daughter's arrival and appearance through a different pair of lenses: those of Miriam's future in-laws.

The jeans, which wouldn't have aroused her interest normally, today stood out brazenly on Miriam's body, tightly moulded against her full legs. Fatima gaped at Miriam's midriff showing through. Heat was now rushing through Fatima's cheeks. An inch of her daughter's flesh was visible! Her mind reeling, Fatima communicated her displeasure and signaled her daughter with her eyebrows to go up and change into something more respectable. Miriam was only too glad to oblige.

Squeezing past her mother and out of sight of their guests, Miriam almost ran up the stairs to her bedroom, shut the door
behind her, and breathed deeply. The tiredness and exhilaration from the hill walking had vanished—discontent had taken its place. Two steps into her home had led to another world. The other she had left behind with her friends on the bus. What mattered now were the two people downstairs. And they mattered! Her future lay with them.

She peeled off her jacket, vest, and tight jeans and let them fall, lying in a clutter on the woollen carpet. She looked at them with distaste. Her mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “Damn it!” her mind shouted, rebelling. “They're only clothes. I'm still the same young woman they visited regularly—the person they have happily chosen as a bride for their son.”

“Deny it as much as you like, Miriam,” her heart whispered back.

“It's no use. They have seen another side of you—your other persona.”

The other “persona” had, by accident or contrivance, remained hidden from them. When they first saw her at a party she was dressed in a maroon chiffon sari. Later, on each occasion, she was always smartly but discreetly and respectably dressed in a traditional
shalwar kameez
. Now they were seeing her as a young college woman under the sway of Western fashion and, by extension, its moral values. Muslim girls did not go outdoors dressed like that, especially in a short jacket which hardly covered the hips—and a skimpy vest! She had heard of stories about in-laws who were prejudiced against such girls because they weren't the docile, obedient, and sweet daughters-in-law that they preferred. On the contrary, they were seen as a threat, as rebellious hoydens who did not respect either their husbands or their in-laws. Miriam was all too familiar with such stereotypes.

She pulled off a blue crêpe
shalwar kameez
from a hanger. As she put it on her rebellious spirit reared its head again. “They're only clothes!” her mind hissed in anger.

She could not deny that by putting them on she had
embraced a new set of values: in fact, a new personality. Her body was now modestly swathed in an elegant long tunic and baggy trousers. The curvy contours of her female body were discreetly draped. With a quick glance in the mirror she left her room, a confident woman gliding down the stairs. Her poise was back. Her long
dupatta
was draped around her shoulders and its edge covered her head.

Once downstairs in the hallway, outside the sitting room door, she halted, her hypocrisy galling her. She was acting out a role, the one that her future in-laws preferred: that of a demure and elegant bride and daughter-in-law. Yet she was the same person who had earlier traipsed the Pennine countryside in a tight pair of jeans and Wellingtons, and who was now dressed in the height of Pakistani fashion. Or was she the same person? She didn't know. Perhaps it was true that there were two sides to her character. A person who spontaneously switched from one setting to another, from one mode of dress into another—in short, swapping one identity for another. Ensconced in the other home ground her thoughts, actions and feelings had seamlessly altered accordingly.

Her head held high, Miriam entered the living room. Four pairs of eyes turned in her direction. She stared ahead knowing instinctively that, apart from her father's, those eyes were busy comparing her present appearance with her earlier one. It was amazing how she was able to move around the room at ease in her s
halwar kameez
suit, in a manner that she could never have done in her earlier clothes. She sat down beside her mother, acutely aware of her mother-in-law's eyes discreetly appraising both her appearance and her movements.

After a while the conversation flagged. Fatima was doing her very best to revive a number of topics of interest to the other couple. The two guests, however, seemed to shy away, particularly from the one concerning their children's marriage in six months' time. Miriam noticed that they had made no direct eye contact with her. This was quite unlike their usual behavior.
There were moments too, when husband and wife exchanged surreptitious glances. Fatima was now quite anxious. From the moment her guests had stepped inside, her instincts told her that something was wrong. She was ready to discuss the subject with them, but first she requested her daughter to bring in some refreshments. The dinner had already been prepared and laid out on the dining table in the kitchen.

Miriam was only too happy to leave the room; behind her a hushed silence reigned. She puttered around the kitchen, collecting bits and pieces of crockery from the cupboards. Her own hunger had vanished. She was arranging the plates and glasses on a tray when she heard their voices in the hallway. They sounded as if were saying goodbye to her parents. Surprised, Miriam picked up the tray. Were they going already? They hadn't eaten anything! The table was laid for dinner. She called out, “Auntie,” addressing her future mother-in-law. She turned and smiled. They were in a hurry to get home, she explained, because they had guests staying over.

“That is a lousy excuse,” Miriam thought. If they had guests at home why did they bother to come? She returned to the kitchen and put the tray back on the table.

What a waste of time!

The two future parents-in-law walked to their car in a silence that continued during their journey. There was no need for communication. Each could guess what the other was thinking. On reaching home the so-called guests whom Begum had referred to earlier, had apparently gone. Their elder son, Farook, was not yet in. The younger one was upstairs, studying for his GCSE examinations. They could hear the music from the CD disc blaring away. He loved listening to songs as he revised.

Ayub shed his jacket and hung it in the hallway, then went straight to the living room. Begum followed, also taking off her coat and outdoor shawl. Switching on the television Ayub sat down in his armchair. Begum hovered listlessly near him a
minute, looking down at her husband—waiting. Then, mechanically folding her woollen shawl into its customary neat folds, she left the room and went upstairs to her bedroom to place it in her drawer. For a few moments she stood lost in thought, looking out of the bedroom window: Her neighbor Mrs. Williams had another car. This was the third in six months. What did she do with them? Then she heard her husband call her name, his voice supremely autocratic.

Mrs. Williams and her love of cars put aside, Begum returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa opposite her husband, waiting for him to begin. Her heartbeat had automatically quickened. Seconds were ticking away into minutes. Her husband had made no move to say anything, his gaze on the newscaster. She picked up the Urdu national newspaper,
Daily Jang
, from the coffee table and began to read. More precisely she was pretending to read: The words were a blur in front of her eyes.

At last Ayub stood up, stretching his legs. Striding across the room he switched off the television. Returning to his chair his pointed gaze now fell on his wife.

“Well!” he began softly.

Now it was her turn to play; she pretended not to hear him or understand the implication of his exclamation. Absurdly, now that the moment of reckoning had come, she wanted to prevaricate, to put the off discussion.

“Well, what?” she responded coldly, buying time, peeping at her unsmiling husband over the edge of the newspaper.

“You know very well what I mean! Don't pretend to misunderstand me, Begum,” he rasped. He was not amused by her manner, tone, or words.

Begum calmly examined the harsh outlines of her husband's unsmiling face. She was lost. She did not know what to say or how to say it, although she knew the subject he was referring to. Her lips would not open. She simply stared at him.

“Well, what do you think of your future daughter-in-law?
I thought you told me that she was a very sharif, a very modest girl. Was that naked waist what you call modest?” His voice lanced her.

“I am sure she is,” Begum volunteered defensively. After all, she was the one who had originally taken a liking to Miriam.

“Huh!” Ayub grunted. “Sharif! Dressed like that! God knows who has seen her. Would you like any of your friends and relatives to have seen her as she appeared today? Would you, Begum?” The voice was cutting.

“But she's a college student—college students do dress like that. Haven't you yourself joked about tatty jean-clad university students?” Begum persisted boldly.

She wanted to excuse Miriam's attire to herself and to him. She knew she was not going to make a success of it because, in her heart, she agreed with her husband.

“Tell me, in those clothes of hers, would you be proud to have her as your daughter-in-law? I know I would not. You talk about her being a university student. Well, have you any idea what sort of company she might be keeping? You've only seen her at odd times, and always at home. Do you know what she's really like? Have you thought of the effect she could have in your household? With her lifestyle, such girls also want a lot of freedom. In fact, they want to lead their lives the way their English college friends do. Did you notice what time she came in? She knew we were coming yet that made no difference to her. Do you expect her to change overnight in order to suit us? People form habits, Begum, do you understand? Are you prepared for a daughter-in-law who goes in and out of the house whenever she feels like it, dressed like that, and returns home late? Don't your cheeks burn at the thought of that bit of flesh you saw? Imagine how our son will feel about her! Shame, I hope! And what if she has a boyfriend already—have you thought of that?
What if she has a boyfriend already?
What if she takes drugs? So many questions to ask ourselves! Do you know, we do not know this girl at all, Begum! Can you guarantee that she will make our son happy?”

He paused strategically, waiting for her to say something. Begum had nothing to add.

He continued, “You know of a number of cases where these educated, so-called modern girls have twined their husbands around their little fingers and expected them to dance to their tunes. Are you prepared for that to happen to your beloved son? To lose him to such a daughter-in-law? Have you the heart for that?”

Begum just stared, listening quietly to her husband's angry lecture. After twenty-five years of marriage she could read him like a book. His words, their nuance, the tilt of his eyebrow, the authoritative swing of his hand, the thin line of his mouth spelled only one message. With a sinking heart she guessed the outcome of this discussion. She did not know how to react even though she didn't disagree with him. Not one jot. When she saw Miriam standing near the garden gate with her jacket open similar thoughts had whizzed through her mind, although she would not have voiced them in such a harsh way. Her perception of what her daughter-in-law should be did not quite tally with the picture that Miriam presented to them, or with the clear picture that Ayub's words had conjured up. Why did that stupid girl have to wear those jeans and that vest, today of all days? And why did Ayub have to see her like that?