Typhoon (17 page)

She hadn’t, however, taken into account her son’s stubborn streak, which wouldn’t compromise on the matter at all. In time she was therefore, forced by
circumstance
to grow resigned to the fact that her son was hopelessly in love with the haughty widow from the neighbouring village. What was even more dismaying to his mother’s sensibility was that Kaniz was a very unpopular woman. Beautiful she might be, but no one appeared to like her. Although she was very rich, she
was well-reputed to inspire awe and fear in people and, not only that, she seemed to prefer her own company. Now what sort of woman was that? To top it all, she had a son! Her prince would therefore be faced with the added burden of bringing up someone else’s offspring. The sheer responsibility of that task had her brows knitting together in despair. Her son had proven
himself
to be a very, very foolish young man indeed. Totally smitten. ‘Is there a cure for smitten people?’ she had requested of the holy man – the
pir
. ‘None,’ she was told – just prayers that one day her son would see sense.

Sighing, she tried to reason with herself and realised that her greatest priority in life was to have her son married and not to quibble about his choice of bride. That was all that mattered for her, as her son passed his thirtieth birthday. In all that time, Younus Raees had never personally sought to either see Kaniz or speak to her. On the contrary, he preferred to pay homage to the traditions and thus used Baba Siraj Din to act as his
go-between
. The elder man was apparently said to have a distinct influence over Kaniz. She listened to him and paid heed to his wisdom. Apparently Chaudharani Kaniz listened to no one else.

Younus Raees looked up at the sky. He didn’t bother brushing away the fly hovering near his face. He got up from the tree trunk. One year of diplomatic effort had all come to nothing.

‘I am mad, mad to waste my life on her. It is about time I got Chaudharani Kaniz out of my system.’ Remembering her last words to him, that she did not wish to be ‘bedded by any man’, his body shook with anger.

‘Begharat aurat,’ he uttered again, his mouth
twisting
in distaste. It was just as well that he had found out
what she was really like. He had no wish to have a wife who could speak in such a vein or with such vulgarity. ‘Shameful woman!’

With bitter resignation, Younus Raees retraced his steps back to his home. His mother, without realising it, had won the day. The aloof young widow would, from this day forth, play no further part in his life. Her words had killed his longing for her, and his intention now was to marry as quickly as possible. He would never sully Kaniz’s door with his presence, ever again.

Kaniz could keep the walls of her hawaili for company. She didn’t need anyone in her life.

T
HE NIGHT WIND
gently teased and rustled the leaves on the grapevine in Siraj Din’s courtyard. Lying on his portable bed he watched the stars. His hookah stood desolately by his side – for once a redundant prop. Siraj Din had studiously ignored it all evening.

The cool night air wafted around his head, making him shiver. He pulled the thin muslin cotton sheet and the warm mink blanket over his legs. It was past eleven o’clock. Normally by ten, everything came to a peaceful halt in the household, with only the sound of crockery being heard from the kitchen. Tonight, even that area had assumed an awesome quietness. Perhaps I am imagining it? Siraj Din bitterly thought, but he knew he wasn’t.

Zulaikha didn’t offer her company – she hadn’t come to sit by his palang after dinner. He knew she hadn’t eaten but had kept herself away from the courtyard. Is she avoiding me? The thought lurched Siraj Din out of his bed. He threw off both the mink blanket and the cotton sheet and stood up tall. Pushing aside the hookah pipe, he rummaged under the portable bed for his night chappals. Crossing the large courtyard, with its cool white marble floor, he headed for his bedroom on the first floor.

Gently opening the door, he hovered on the
threshold
. The light was still on. Zulaikha was sitting on her
takht paush
, her wooden prayer platform, praying.
With her hands raised high up in front of her, she appeared to be offering her special prayers –
a Du’ah
– to Allah pak.

Quietly walking past the low prayer-table, Siraj Din crossed to his bed and lay on it. Zulaikha’s back was now to him. He watched her silently, waiting. She still remained sitting in that position. Siraj Din propped his neck up from behind with one hand, while he massaged the stiff muscles of his shoulders with the other.

At last Zulaikha’s arms fell to her side as she ended her personal prayer. Stepping off the prayer-table, with its carved walnut headboard, she caught sight of her husband sitting on his bed. Steadfastly concentrating on folding the velour prayer rug in her hands, she went to her fitted wardrobe and placed it neatly inside, on the top shelf.

Her eyes on the far wall, Zulaikha walked to her bed and climbed in.

A small bedside cabinet separated Siraj Din’s palang from her own. They had always slept apart. She did try to encourage her own son, Habib and his wife Shahzada to sleep in one bed, but they seemed to have followed their practice. ‘It is for the children’s sake,’ Shahzada had explained lamely to her mother-in-law, ‘as
symbolically
it is better for our children to see us have two beds in one room. We don’t want to corrupt their young impressionable minds.’

In the village, Zulaikha, however made sure that the two palangs for, Habib and Shahzada, were drawn close together and that there was not even an inch of space between them, whenever they visited them.

Lying down, Zulaikha stiffly pulled the quilt over her shoulders and turned her back. Discomfited, Siraj Din’s eyes remained steadfast on his wife’s head.

‘Zulaikha!’ he croaked. He waited, his heart thudding with a dull beat. ‘Zulaikha!’ he repeated, a distinct ring of authority now marking his voice.

His wife did not move. It was as if she had blocked his presence out of her mind, out of the room and out of her life.

‘I demand your attention!’ He was angry now. Masterful!

The magic word ‘demand’ had the desired effect. She turned over and stared at him.

‘You condemn what I have done,’ he stated solemnly.

Zulaikha carried on staring silently at him from across the two feet of space between her bed and his. Today that space had opened up to a thousand miles of vastness between them. Cutting them off from one another.

‘You do, don’t you? Speak to me, Zulaikha – please!’ Siraj Din’s voice had risen with a new note of appeal.

‘Does it matter now, what I think?’ Zulaikha’s dry lips at last moved to form the quiet words.

‘You know it does,’ he said softly.

‘No, my husband, you took it upon yourself to do what you did. I didn’t matter. You paid no heed to my advice.’

‘I know.’ Siraj Din’s head fell back on his pillow, and a low sigh escaped him. ‘You said, “follow your head, and not your heart.” I failed you, Zulaikha!’

‘You have not failed
me
,’ Zulaikha cried. ‘What you have done, my husband, goes far beyond the parameters of marital politics. May God forgive you. And may He also forgive us …’

‘Allah pak will never forgive me for what I have done.’

‘Why did you do it?’ she had to ask. Zulaikha was still baffled by how her intelligent, rational, wise and
considerate husband could become so cruel – so irrational. All in one afternoon.

Siraj Din’s gaze crawled up to the ceiling fan,
pouring
cool air into the room.

‘She wanted a divorce.’ The quiet, defiant words had Zulaikha sitting up in her bed.

‘No!’ she snapped. ‘You cornered her, Siraj Din. You meant to punish her all along! You had no intention of letting her leave the kacheri without some form of
chastisement
. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘No, Zulaikha!’ Siraj Din’s cold, green eyes glittered at her.

‘No, you say! Then why did you have her publicly divorced? Her husband didn’t want to divorce her. Siraj Din, what power, what authority, I ask you, did you have to demand, to
force
a husband to divorce a beloved wife? For that is what you did, isn’t it? Have you usurped our Allah pak’s authority? That you took it upon yourself to rid the village of this woman?’

‘No! No!’ Siraj Din protested violently.

‘Yes! Yes! You forced her husband to give her three thalaks. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Three at one go? You took away her husband. Who gave you that right? Which Shariah law were you operating from?’ Zulaikha’s angry words echoed around them.

In full flow now, she went on righteously: ‘In your role as the village Qazi, you are supposed to reconcile the two parties – and to avoid divorce at all costs. But you forced the three divorces on them! A husband and wife, who loved one another. And in public! We all watched you do it. You paid no attention to the husband’s reluctance. He kept denying giving Naghmana the divorce. You pressurised the poor woman to ask for one. You cornered both. You hunted them down like quarry!’

There was a long, long pause. ‘It was for the best,’ Siraj Din said finally, miserably clinging to straws, his throat strangely parched.

‘Best for whom?’ Zulaikha’s eyes flashed fire. ‘Since when did you become a law unto yourself? Who are you to judge and decide? I’ll tell you why, Siraj Din. It all boils down to one fact – your hatred for that innocent woman. You were bent on getting rid of her, one way or another and to punish her weren’t you? And you did that! What punishment could be worse than a divorce reluctantly accepted and reluctantly given? And in public! Has that ever happened in any society?’ Cheeks throbbing, Zulaikha’s hand gripped the quilt tightly. ‘May Allah pak forgive you for the sin you have
committed
. And may He also forgive us! And me in particular.’

‘Forgive
you
, Zulaikha?’ Siraj Din’s head had shot up in surprise.

‘Yes, I, Siraj Din! And the villagers too! For you made us all party to your sin. We stood by – I stood by – we
all
collectively did nothing to stop the wretched woman from being forcefully divorced. I wanted to shout out to you: ‘Stop, my husband! Don’t do this!’ but my traitorous lips remained sealed with the coat of female respect for you – my husband. And I virtually became a dazed, dumb spectator. For your izzat’s sake, Siraj Din, I let an innocent woman get divorced. And I am a woman myself! I don’t know who is the greater sinner – you or me? I hear the rapid taps not only of your guilt, but also mine, both crying out in the well of human sin. Allah pak will never forgive us. Siraj Din!’

‘I know, Zulaikha. Please don’t say any more. I don’t know what happened to me, what madness overtook
me? I have lost your respect, I know I have, but I can’t live without your respect, Zulaikha.’

‘Respect?’ Zulaikha’s eyes dulled. ‘It is God’s
forgiveness
that you need – and to learn to forget the woman’s sighs and tears that will haunt you and tear your heart apart for the rest of your life. I never knew my husband was capable of such cruelty. Siraj Din, you are unworthy of the title of a qazi!’ Zulaikha ended brutally, dismissing her husband and lying down once more. The pain in her chest was crushing, excruciating.

Siraj Din blinked in confusion at his wife. Her denunciation of his worth as a qazi, had turned the tables on him. The parameters of their marital
relationship
had taken an irreversible blow. Their forty-year battle had ended and reached a climax. He had lost both his wife and his hold over her.

‘You do not need to spell it out to me, Zulaikha,’ he harshly returned. ‘I already know I have become unworthy of the title of qazi. How can I deserve that title, when I have acted so rashly, so irrationally and with such cruelty as you have just pointed out.
Tomorrow
I shall announce my resignation from that responsibility – I am unworthy of that role, Zulaikha!’

For an answer, his wife kept her back to him.

Exhausted, Siraj Din lay on his side and closed his eyes. Then there flashed in front of him a vision of Naghmana’s face – her eyes huge and shimmering with unshed tears, gazing at him in sorrow.

‘Young woman, I wish you had never stepped in to our village! You have cost me my wife,’ Siraj Din
whispered
, not caring whether Zulaikha heard or not. Life would never be the same again. He knew it, just as he knew in his very bones that tomorrow, after leading the afternoon prayers, he would be stepping down from the
coveted position of qazi. Just as he knew he had lost his wife’s respect and also his authority over her, for which he had fought for forty years. She was his superior now. She had taunted him as to whether Allah pak would ever forgive him. The sheer contempt in her eyes was a punishment itself.

N
AGHMANA LOOKED AT
herself in the mirror. Her aunt’s old threadbare shawl still wound tightly around her head and neck gave her an old woman’s appearance.

‘This is not me, the stylish, professional city woman. I look like any illiterate village woman.’ Disgustedly Naghmana pulled the chador off her body and threw it onto the floor. Then she glanced at herself in the mirror once more. Her long hair, bound in the unbecoming chunky plait was hanging behind her. Pulling the plait over her shoulder she moved her hand over the dark silk coils of tightly woven hair. Closing her eyes, she cupped the plait in her hands, feeling both its weight and its texture.

Then her hands reached down to the dressing-table drawer and, taking out a large pair of dressmaker’s
scissors
, Naghmana ruthlessly sheared straight across the thick bound plait at the nape of her neck. Her fingers pressed tightly on the scissors and the long rope-like eighteen inches of a plait fell into her hand.

A cry of anguish ripped through the young woman’s throat, choking her. Dropping the plait, she saw herself in the mirror. Short, unbecoming spikes of hair stood out around her head.

As if in a dream, Naghmana reached for the chador from the floor and draping it around her shoulders once more, hugged it tightly around her head. Sitting on the
bed, she buried her face in her lap and her body rocked itself to and fro.

With a soft tread, Fatima padded across the marble floor of her niece’s bedroom.

‘Naghmana!’ she cried, spotting her niece’s shorn plait, lying forlornly on the floor, near the wooden dressing-table’s leg.

Naghmana lifted her head.

Going on her haunches Fatima picked up the plait and went to stand in front of her niece. ‘What have you done?’ she whispered, her eyes on her niece’s tear-stained cheeks.

‘They were all after my hair, Auntie. Fascinated, yet hating me for it. It was my pride and joy. Thus I offer them my greatest pride – my hair! I will leave this village without it.’ Anguish was locked behind the simple words. Her aunt heard it, felt it and wept inside.

Leaning forward, she plucked off the chador from her niece’s head and looked aghast at the state of Naghmana’s hair. The girl couldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes. Lower lip quivering, her eyes filled up again.

A hard loud knock thudded on the outside door, making them both look sharply at each other. Her niece’s plait still clutched in her hand, Fatima rushed down the stairs, panting heavily by the time she reached the courtyard.

‘Coming!’ she shouted, hurriedly crossing the courtyard and unbolting the door.

Haroon stood outside on the door step in the village lane. ‘Assalam alaikum, Auntie!’ he greeted her, eyes as the darkest of sombre skies in the monsoon season.

Nodding her head, Fatima stepped aside, opening the door wide for him to enter.

‘Come in, my son,’ she welcomed. Embarrassed, she averted her face, recalling the other time when she had pushed him out of the house and slammed the door hard in his face.

‘I want to see Naghmana, Auntie Fatima.’ He informed her gravely. She merely nodded and led him upstairs.

Naghmana heard his voice and his request. Her body immediately galvanised into action. Rushing to the door, she slammed it shut, just as Haroon reached the top step of the upper floor. He had seen the door shut and heard the bolt rattle.

Inside the dark room, Naghmana’s hands shook as she pressed them hard on the door. Outside Fatima and Haroon exchanged a surprised look.

‘Naghmana, my daughter, why have you closed the door? Please open it,’ Fatima softly requested, ‘Haroon is here to see you, my dear.’

Shaking her head from side to side, Naghmana stumbled back from the door and stood in the middle of the room.

‘Naghmana, I want to talk to you. Please open the door,’ Haroon beseeched, his voice breaking. ‘Please, Naghmana.’

Her eyes swollen with tears again, Naghmana angrily brushed them away.

‘Come on, Naghmana. Why are you doing this? Haroon wants to talk to you.’ Fatima pressed her face against the locked door, tapping it hard with the other hand.

Naghmana stepped back and sat on the edge of her bed, shaking her head from side to side, gulping air into her lungs. At last her low voice reached them.

‘I can’t, Auntie. There is nothing to talk about. It is all over. The kacheri ended it all – remember? Haroon and I are strangers now. He has divorced me – and completely, don’t you remember? I cannot let a
gher merd
, a male stranger, into my room. I will only open the door to you, if Haroon comes in as my
brother
!’

‘Brother!’ Haroon gasped, turning a wild look on Fatima, his eyes large in his face. ‘I am not her brother. I can never be her brother!’

He blindly turned and ran down the stairs, two at a time. Crossing the courtyard, he rushed out, slamming the door hard behind him.

‘Wait!’ Fatima shouted, panting down the stairs after him, wanting to stop him, but she was too late – he had gone. She stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the lane. ‘Haroon,’ she called out, but he neither heard nor turned.

Fatima stepped back inside her home and bolted the door. Leaning against it she tried to gain her breath and calm her drumming heartbeat. She looked down at her hand. She was still holding Naghmana’s plait. Her eyes closing in pain, Fatima strode to her own bedroom on the ground floor.

Putting the chopped plait down on the table, she went to her aluminium trunk resting high on a
precarious
pyramid of four other trunks. Unlocking the big steel padlock and flinging the heavy aluminium lid back, Fatima reached on her toes, to peer down inside the trunk. ‘My niece’s pride! My niece’s pride!’ She kept muttering as she drew out a roll of ivory silk. She had specially purchased it for her niece as a leaving present.

Unrolling two metres of the soft shimmering fabric Fatima felt its softness, between her fingers.
Putting the roll on her bed, she took a pair of scissors from the dressing-table and began to cut small square pieces from the silk roll. Ten, of equal size.

Picking up her niece’s plait, and uncoiling it, Fatima separated the three chunky strands, laying each one lovingly on the bed. It was a weird sight to have her niece’s plait lying on a bed of silk. From each strand she cut a coil, five inches in length. These she placed
individually
on to the squares of silk, carefully wrapped them and then tied them up with short lengths of a nala string.

‘My niece’s pride!’ Fatima groaned aloud, squatting on the floor, tying the last parcel of Naghmana’s hair. It was a larger size than the others and contained the longest and thickest of coils. Its destination – Siraj Din’s household. Scooping up the little silk parcels in her hand, Fatima let her tears fall on them, staining the ivory silk fabric.