Typhoon (7 page)

‘By the way, Jamila, have you seen Habib’s daughter, Zarri Bano? She is over eleven years old and is growing into a very bonny girl. And she hasn’t changed one bit since they left the village two years ago. She always comes to visit everyone. She came yesterday to my humble home with her sister Ruby and sat for almost one hour, asking me all sorts of intelligent and inquisitive questions, as to how many successful matches I had arranged. I told her I would arrange one for her when she grows older. On reflection, however, Zarri Bano and her family will not need my services. Young men will be flocking to her side from all over Pakistan, I guess.

I personally, think Kaniz has her eye on Zarri Bano as a bride for her son Khawar. She thinks only Siraj Din’s family is equal to her in status. But have you noticed, Naimat Bibi, Khawar has been playing with the other Fatima’s daughter, Firdaus, for the last four years? I have often seen them together in the fields. I definitely don’t think Kaniz is going to be happy when she finds out that her beloved only son is keeping company with the daughter of her old enemy, ‘Fatima the washerwoman’, as she loves to call her.

‘That reminds me, Naimat Bibi, we must visit Fatima and her family. She has come back with Habib’s family, and will be staying in the village for a week. I feel so sorry for her bedridden husband Fiaz, for being abandoned by his wife. But then, my friends, that is the way of the world. Either the husband works, or the wife. It has to be one or the other.

‘I, too, as a young widow, was forced to earn my
living by arranging matches. What else could I do? Poor Fatima was forced by her young children’s hungry mouths to work and wash in somebody else’s home and hence earned the title given her by bitchy Chaudharani Kaniz as the ‘Washerwoman’.’

Naimat Bibi bravely interrupted her friend’s long lecture. ‘Jamila knows all this. We must go, Kulsoom Jee, we’ve been here for ages.’

‘You are right, Naimat Jee. Once I start talking, there is no stopping me. I do go on, don’t I?’ Kulsoom laughed, studiously setting her earrings the right way round on her small ears again. She also checked her gold locket, to make sure it was still dangling in front of her ample bosom and not lost anywhere on the way. Reluctantly she got up.

The two women bade Jamila farewell and let themselves out of her home. Then they turned to their right and headed off down the narrow village streets towards Chaudharani Kaniz’ home. Their hearts were already beating with excitement, anticipating their encounter with the haughty young widow.

T
HE THIN MUSCLE
of her right cheekbone twitching with a nervous tic, Hajra went straight home. She wedged the wooden door open with her foot and then kicked it shut, making the old bolt rattle.

Sitting on the verandah Gulshan looked up, startled by her mother’s violent entrance. She was feeding Moeen, who was propped up on his small wooden chair in front of her; a spoonful of egg yolk was in her hand.

When Hajra stood in front of her, Gulshan said quietly, ‘She
is
beautiful, isn’t she Mother? Even more so in daylight.’ She ached for a denial from her mother.

Hajra was unable to meet her eyes. Instead, she watched the green parrot and the two black crows sitting together on the balcony wall. To Hajra’s ears, their eerie crowing seemed to have taken on a new, sad resonance this morning. It was as if they too were weeping for her daughter, sharing in her grief. One, spreading its black, glossy wings wide had flown down to sit on the branch of the grapevine in the courtyard, which had been planted by Haroon only the previous year. The crow playfully pecked at the leaves. This morning Hajra had no incentive to frighten him away.

‘Beautiful she may be, but she is a whore. She can never hold a candle to your
noor
, your light of
innocence
, my darling, my dearest daughter!’ Hajra said bitterly.

Poised on the sharp edge of the sword of
self-destruction
,
Gulshan whispered. ‘How did she look?’ She had to know.

Hajra squeezed her eyes shut. What could she tell her Gulshan? The truth? That she could never compete with the wicked woman, even if she were to visit a hundred beauty parlours? There was a certain aura and charisma about the ‘whore’ that only such women knew how to wear. Women confident of their sexuality and the power they had in drawing men into the magnetic field of their charms.

Her innocent daughter was lacklustre in comparison, no match for that other woman. She never would be. Hajra’s narrow shoulders bowed with impotent rage. ‘I will make sure that she never hurts my daughter again,’ she solemnly declared to herself. She looked tenderly at the girl, opting not to answer her question. ‘Gulshan, I am now going straight to Buzurgh Siraj Din’s hawaili. I shall tell him everything. Then I shall demand that he punish them both, in front of the whole village, as they deserve.’

Gulshan swivelled round to face Hajra, the spoonful of yolk shaking near her son’s mouth.

‘Mother, no!’ she stuttered in panic. ‘I don’t want everyone to know about it. I couldn’t cope.’

‘I am sorry, Gulshan, but you’ll have to.’ Hajra’s voice hardened, her cheek muscle nervously twitching away again. ‘Anyway, half the village probably knows by now. Guess who just happened to be outside Fatima’s door while I was there? None other than Kulsoom, our beloved neighbour – the matchmaker, and Naimat Bibi, the cook – the village’s two most notorious gossip-spreaders and busybodies.’

‘Oh no!’ Gulshan wailed in despair, her shoulders falling forward as she hid her face in her lap, the spoon
in her hand dropping onto the floor. Now all the village would know about her status as the wronged, rejected wife. Women would be sniggering about her everywhere.

‘Mummy?’ Moeen touched his mother’s head.

‘I am going now.’ Hajra was already across the courtyard.

‘Mother, no!’ Gulshan tried stopping her mother, for even as she bled from jealousy and hurt. she didn’t want anything to happen to her Haroon. ‘To her, yes! But not to him! I still love him, Mother!’ Gulshan moaned aloud, unaware of her son’s fingers tugging at her bent head and his small curious face looking at her, unable to make sense of why his mother had buried her face in her lap and had dropped the spoon on the floor. He had only eaten half of the egg yolk.

C
HAUDHARANI
K
ANIZ
WAS
enjoying what she liked doing most; sunning herself on the rooftop gallery of her large, two-storied hawaili. She had just had her bath and had opted for the traditional method of drying her hair in the morning sun. Her long, wavy hair draped damply behind her over a towel, Kaniz walked to the wrought-iron railings of the gallery and looked out at the fertile green fields circling their village. This was a ritual she passionately loved. It was what had kept her in the village – the greenery and the fresh country air. Her eyes turned to the other large hawaili in the village, which belonged to Baba Siraj Din, the elderly feudal
zemindar
. This Buzurgh and his predecessors had ruled the village for decades. He was the man the whole village looked up to. He was also special in Kaniz’s life, for he had become her godfather.

Kaniz heard her sister come up the stairs; Sabra joined her near the railings on the rooftop. She followed the direction of Kaniz’s gaze and guessed what she was thinking.

‘You can’t keep putting it off, Kaniz. You’ll have to give Baba Siraj Din the answer today,’ Sabra gently reminded her.

A shadow crossed her sister’s face. ‘I know, Sabra. You don’t need to remind me. I have thought of nothing else all night and all this morning.’ Kaniz’s almond-shaped eyes were cold and dismissive.

Stepping away from the railings she went to sit on the sun-lounger, ruffling her wet waist-length hair thoughtfully with her long deft fingers. Sabra sat down on the portable bed nearby.

‘Well?’ she prompted, bent on pursuing the subject. Even if it ended up in a confrontation between the two sisters, this conversation had to take place. She loved her elder sister very dearly and, despite her many faults, wanted her happily settled. She waited, her eyes grazing with pride on the other’s beautiful features, marvelling at the clear, even tone of her skin. ‘How does Kaniz manage to keep her skin glowing like ripe peaches, despite the billowing dust of Sind and the heat in the summer?’ she never stopped asking herself. Still only thirty-one years old, glamorous, very rich and mistress of acres of land, Kaniz, despite being a widow with a young son, was a very attractive commodity in the marriage market. ‘In fact, a wonderful neat package for any man,’ Sabra cynically reminded herself. Obviously Sheikh Younus Raees knew what he wanted and what he would be getting. He wasn’t a blind man. But he offered a neat package himself. They would be equal in everything.

‘No, Sabra. I can’t!’ came the reply. At Sabra’s stunned look, Kaniz realised that her sister had not been prepared for this answer. A deep frown creased the younger woman’s forehead, and Kaniz was tempted to remind her not to frown so, otherwise she would have a lined forehead even before she was thirty years old.

‘Why?’ Sabra asked, totally baffled by her sister’s answer.

‘I know you mean well, Sabra, but I can’t do it. I don’t want to marry anybody. I need no man in my life.’ With a cold look gleaming in her dark eyes, Kaniz
added quickly. ‘I know what you have said. And I also know what Baba Siraj Din has been saying to me for the last two years. I am aware that you are both thinking about my welfare, but marriage to Younus Raees is not what I seek, no matter what sort of a man he is. He’d be a good husband and probably a good father to my orphaned son – all this I know, but still the answer is no! Sabra, I cannot go through with it. Marriage and a marital relationship is not for me and never will be. Ever.’

Sabra’s mouth tightened. She was frustrated by her sister’s words and reaction. ‘So you are going to sacrifice yourself and your happiness by staying single all your life – and remain alone with your son in this home? Do you know how long that life might be?’

‘Yes, I do know, but it will not be a sacrifice as you term it. No matter how long I live, I will be happy with just my own company. Marriage has never meant a lot to me, even when Sarwar was alive. You already know everything – about Fatima, the washerwoman, whose presence marred my marriage. He had wanted to marry
her
originally. I tried and tried, but I could never love my husband. Unlike you, my dearest, I was never destined to discover the physical comfort, solace and pleasure that women find in their marriage – so I miss nothing, Sabra, because I have never known it. Yet Sarwar was a very good husband. I have also got used to living on my own. I am a very independent woman, and at this stage in my life I definitely don’t want any man dictating down to me and interfering in my life. I love this home. You know why I married Sarwar. It was for his wealth and this home. I am not ashamed to say it. Well, I have all that now. I have this large hawaili and dozens of
marabas
of land. In fact, I have all the worldly
goods I could ever want. I am a good businesswoman – and fast learning to manage my land – all by myself. Another man, who may or may not happen to like my son, would just be a complication in my life – a threat to both me, personally, and the happiness I enjoy at the moment. Anyway, I have you to turn to, Sabra.’

‘But I can’t be here for you all the time. A husband is a life’s partner in every way. You must rethink, my darling sister. You need a male companion – a
mehram
. My husband will be very disappointed that you are turning down such a good offer of marriage.’

‘If your husband resents you coming to visit me in the village regularly – and I can understand that – you don’t need to come so often. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. Nor will I be seen as one!’ Her hard tone wasn’t lost on her sister’s ears. ‘To marry this man, Sabra, will bring chaos into my life – and I am not mentally, or emotionally, prepared for that. He might even want me to move to his village, to his home. I could never do that. I could never leave this hawaili. If he were to marry me, he would have to come here and live with me. I doubt if any man’s male pride or family would let him do that. Secondly, he would expect to have children. I don’t want any more children Sabra, especially as they would become half-brothers and sisters to my beloved Khawar. I am over and done with childbearing. I just want to carry on living my normal life with Khawar, and Neesa my housekeeper. I want to be left alone, Sabra. I want no male – in fact, not even a male shadow to cross my life!
Ever
!’ Her face was now flushed.

‘Oh, my foolish, foolish elder sister – please think again! You are still young, very attractive and have so much to offer.’

‘But no love, no
chaahat
– no sexual desire – nothing! What sort of marriage is that?’

‘I don’t want you to wake up when you are over forty years old and then look back with regret. By that time, it will be too late.
Rishtas
for widows with children don’t always walk easily up to one’s door, my sister.’

‘I understand that, Sabra, but I think – and I am not being arrogant, you must understand – that men will still, even at forty, try to woo me, Sabra. Not just for myself – I am not that naïve – but for this home and my wealth. Do you know that Rascal Abdullah had the audacity to ask me to marry him, and he already has a wife and three children. He pretends that he is doing me a favour by offering marriage – a favour! But I know what that lecher is after, not just me, but also this hawaili. He’d move in here like a shot. Can you imagine all his brood here in my hawaili – ughh! If that is what marriage means to him – having to share him with another – I would have to be deranged to accept.’

‘This is most unfair, Kaniz. I wasn’t talking about Abdullah, but about Sheikh Younus Raees. He is very eligible, single and in every way your equal. A very wealthy zemindar.’

‘Please stop, Sabra. Never mention his name to me again. I don’t want to talk about this subject any more. How many hours have we exhausted on this topic? No more! I am going to send Neesa with a message to Baba Siraj Din, who has been the eager go-between, to tell him that this proposal is unacceptable. I will also ask him to broadcast to all the villages, and the men, that Chaudharani Kaniz is not interested in remarriage. They must learn to understand and accept that I am very happy with my life as a widow. So please, everyone must stop insulting me by asking for my hand in
marriage or by imagining that I need a man in my life. I definitely do not! And that includes you telling all our relatives too, to keep away from me! I don’t want people pestering me about this rishta or that. Just ask them, please, to leave me well alone. I know they care about me and are thinking that this is best for me – but only
I
understand what is best for me. It is my life after all.’ Kaniz stopped as she saw Neesa come up and stand timidly near the sun-lounger. ‘What is it?’ she asked harshly. It was the wrong moment to be interrupted.

‘Chaudharani Sahiba, Kulsoom and her friend Naimat Bibi are here to see you.’

‘What do those meddling women want with me this early in the morning?’ Kaniz said irritably. She hardly ever used the services of either of these two women.

Sabra laughed. ‘Kulsoom is the matchmaker, isn’t she? Perhaps she has brought a new rishta here for you,’ Sabra teased, a marked twinkle in her eyes.

Kaniz flushed scarlet. ‘How dare you say that! Do you think I would use the services of
that
lowly woman! Tell them to come up, Neesa. I haven’t even had my breakfast yet, the nuisances. They have no sense of timing!’

Downstairs, in the foyer of Kaniz’s hawaili, the two friends stood nervously eyeing one another. Kulsoom was wondering whether they would gain an audience with Chaudharani Kaniz or not this morning. A haughty woman, who on the whole looked down on the lower castes like Kulsoom, Kaniz very rarely came in contact with the village people at large. Normally she communicated by sending messages via her housekeeper, who in turn politely passed them on. A personal tête-à-tête with Chaudharani Kaniz was very rare.

Kulsoom prayed that Kaniz would see them this morning because if she didn’t, it would be her loss, not theirs! This visit also gave them an opportunity to meet her younger sister, Sabra, who was much kinder generally and by all accounts less snobbish and very approachable.

‘She is coming,’ Naimat Bibi whispered to her friend as they heard light steps on the marble stairs. They smiled awkwardly as they saw Neesa return alone. They waited, resigning themselves to being told to go away.

‘Chaudharani Kaniz says you can come and see her upstairs. She has just had a bath and is drying her hair on the rooftop.’

Upstairs. Kulsoom’s heart sank. On the other hand, gaining an audience with Chaudharani Kaniz was of paramount importance, no matter how many flights of stairs Kulsoom had to climb with her feeble heart. It would help to widen her influence with the other village women and bolster her matchmaking business. She knew all the local women would envy her the honour of talking personally with the haughty landlady of the village – the supreme malika, the Queen. The one who very rarely deigned to mix with ordinary people. Yet the waspish thought always crossed everyone’s mind that, unlike Chaudharani Shahzada, Kaniz came from very humble roots. So why she thought of herself as being above the rest was an irritating mystery to them all.

Both friends eagerly cantered behind Neesa as she walked through the large, ornately designed courtyard with verandahs on all four sides, supported by marble pillars, and then up the marble stairs. Kulsoom groaned aloud. First wet floors in Jamila’s house, now rows of marble steps to clamber up. It was too much in one morning, for her bony legs and weak heart.
To Kulsoom’s mind, the marble steps were a death trap – if you slipped, you were sure to break a bone or two. She panted behind Naimat Bibi – hating, oh so hating the stairs – carefully placing her feet on each one, whilst holding on with all her might to the handrail. She stopped halfway wondering ruefully how Neesa, with her thin, wiry body, managed to carry trays of food up and down the steps to her mistress all day. Perhaps she had not an ounce of fear in her body. If it had been Kulsoom in her place, she would have been stuck in the middle of the stairs all day with her eyes tightly closed. Going neither up nor down.

At last Kulsoom reached the top. Neesa and Naimat Bibi were already there waiting for her, broad grins on their faces. Kulsoom weakly returned their smiles, taking their teasing glances in good grace.

Playfully retaliating, nevertheless, ‘It is all right for you two – you can laugh, but you know I have a heart problem. A hole in my heart. And I do not intend to end my life prematurely by falling down Chaudharani Kaniz’s stairs. There are more dignified ways of dying than that! I want to die on my bed – not sprawled on someone’s stairs. What’s more, I have yet to arrange Master Khawar’s rishta, when he grows into manhood. Therefore, I must learn to rid myself of this fear of these stairs.’

She stepped out onto the sunny rooftop with a short wall going all the way round it, topped with pretty white, wrought iron railings. Earthen pots of all shapes containing mature green plants and an assortment of flowers in full bloom lined the wall. Chaudharani Kaniz’s roof garden was the only marble one in the whole village. It was a lovely place to spend one’s time on a warm morning or a cool evening.

Kulsoom immediately sobered as her eyes fell on the Chaudharani’s handsome but hostile face. No welcome. No greeting. Somehow, this woman always expected other people to greet her first. She would then deign to respond, either verbally, or by simply inclining her head at an angle of just a couple of inches. This she did to her subordinates.

‘Assalam Alaikum, Chaudharani Kaniz Sahiba and sister Sabra,’ Kulsoom’s lips dutifully mumbled, accepting that she came at the bottom of the social ladder as far as the Chaudharani was concerned.

Naimat Bibi quickly followed suit by chanting her greeting too in a low voice. They stood a few yards away, wondering what to do next. Should they move forward and approach the two sisters, or stand there and talk from a distance? That was too demeaning, even for them, but there were no chairs in sight.

Taking pity upon them, Sabra kindly came to their aid. She beckoned to them to come and sit on the charpoy on either side of her. Gratefully they accepted the invitation, rushing forward to sit down beside her, smiling their thanks as they did so.