Authors: Qaisra Shahraz
Sardara managed to ease herself out of the breakfast room, but she couldn’t pin a smile of welcome on her face for her two friends, even though they were very good to her. These days beleaguered with her arthritis, she had come to rely quite heavily on the two women who kept her abreast with local news. Naimat Bibi even did her washing every two days and for very little. For three jugs of milk. Sardara was also particularly beholden to Kulsoom Bibi for helping to arrange her daughter’s match with a boy from the neighbouring village. She just wished, however, that Kulsoom had warned her about her kurmani’s smoking habit. When confronted about it later, Kulsoom had just laughed in her face, thoroughly amused. ‘Surely you were not going to turn down a great
rishta
, a match, just because the mother-in-law smoked. Most people smoke these days. That is silly. Forget about her – think of the boy.
He
doesn’t smoke!’ she had teased her.
She saw them sitting on the charpoy on the verandah, their heads bent together, deeply engrossed in a conversation.
‘Now what are those two hatching up?’ Sardara asked herself with amusement. If anybody wanted something broadcasting in the village, they didn’t need a telegram. Those two could do it faster. Far more efficiently and with added frills.
‘Assalam Alaikum, Kulsoom Jee and Naimat Jee. What can I do for my two sisters? It is lovely to see you
so
early
this morning. It can’t be for our milk. My son has already sent some over to you both,’ Sardara began sweetly.
‘Oh no, it is not for milk we have come.’ Kulsoom excitedly shook her head. ‘Will you tell her or shall I, Naimat Jee?’
Naimat Bibi had guessed correctly that Kulsoom Bibi was desperate to break the news to Sardara and was generously according her the privilege.
Kulsoom graciously signalled her thanks. Straightening up, and twitching her earrings ceremoniously into place, she was in her element, as she began in the most dramatic of tones she could muster.
‘Sardara Jee, you will not believe what happened last night! While we were all fast asleep in our beds, dreaming our innocent dreams, little did we guess what extraordinary events were afoot on the pure soil of our village!’
For effect her voice had dipped dangerously low, and her small round eyes, shone in their sunken sockets. The multi-coloured, over-sized glass bangles jangled up and down on her bare arm, as she twirled her heart-shaped gold locket around her finger with nervous movements.
‘No! But I can guess, Kulsoom Jee – you are going to tell me,’ Sardara judiciously commented, chuckling to herself, trying to press down her swollen cheeks filled with silent laughter. She was going to make herself comfortable on the portable bed.
‘Well, something terrible happened last night, Sardara Jee.
Haram! Haram!
It took place here in our village, I tell you. Can you believe it?’
Sardara’s face straightened into a deadpan expression, as she stared with rapt attention at Kulsoom.
She slipped down onto the charpoy, not caring that she was sitting on the wrong, uncomfortable side, with big gaps in it. The strong jute ropes dug straight into the soft flabby flesh of her thighs.
Relishing immensely the narrator’s role she was playing, Kulsoom generously decided to get straight to the point for her dear friend’s sake and thus rid her of her misery. By the look of things the poor woman hadn’t even had breakfast yet – and what a feast she had got up from!
Casting a quick fearful look over her shoulder, Kulsoom’s voice sank into a semi-whisper as she hissed under her breath. ‘Haroon was caught with another woman in a haram situation!’
‘
What
?’ Sardara’s arthritis-ridden legs and ample body almost leapt off the charpoy, making her suddenly and painfully conscious of where she was sitting; normally she sat on a plump cushion or two. She carefully massaged the tender sore flesh of her thighs over her shalwar.
‘Yes, Sardara Jee. He apparently spent the night in the arms of that whore!’
‘What? Who? Why?’ Sardara’s mouth dropped open, a look of pure incredulity shining on her face.
‘Fatima’s niece! That witch who has come to plague our village with her urban fashion and masses of hair draped wantonly around her face and shoulder. That shameless hussy!’
‘But … but …’ Sardara’s words, to her annoyance, had got jammed in her throat. ‘How? Why? When? I don’t understand it! She’s only been here for two days.’ She herself had seen the woman arrive. Her red Toyota car was parked just outside Sardara’s farmyard.
‘Exactly!’ Kulsoom Bibi nodded at her friend.
‘That is the extent of her evil powers – the magic
jadoo
she has woven around our Haroon, that he left his wife’s bed and went seeking hers. We don’t know how many
tweez
she made him drink!’
‘Do you really think they have done
that
? You know what I mean.’ A warm blush spreading fast over Sardara’s brown cheeks.
‘I don’t honestly know’, Kulsoom stammered, also flushed with embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t there, but they must have done
something
surely, to bring Hajra storming into Fatima’s home straight after dawn and then to pull and push the wanton hussy around the courtyard by her hair.’
‘Oh, Allah pak forgive us! Did she really?’ Sardara’s eyes were now almost jumping out of their sockets in pure wonder. Then ‘
Allah hulla kuwata
.’ The beseeching Arabic words automatically drifted out from her mouth as her hands went to touch her ears in a gesture of
mafi
, asking Allah for forgiveness.
Kulsoom watched her friend’s reactions with pleasure. Just to glimpse Sardara’s shocked face, was near enough worth three
tholas
of gold. For the milk woman was one of those well-composed people, who never or very rarely became ruffled. Nothing ever surprised her. Nothing ever threw her off-balance. Today, on the contrary, Sardara had apparently lost her bearings completely. Her big, round face was rapidly changing colour and expression.
‘Oh, you missed it all!’ Kulsoom told her. ‘Then her aunt slapped her across the face. The poor chit fell against the verandah pillar, hitting her head. She sat there in stunned pain unable to make sense of what was happening to her. All that violence aimed at her at one go. Then would you believe it, Haroon turned up,
presumably to defend his whore. His mother-in-law turned on him, spitting straight on his face. Then Fatima Jee banged the door in our faces! Can you believe it? Banged it in both his and
our
faces – pushing us all out and verbally abusing us at the same time. But we pardoned her, didn’t we, Naimat Jee?’ Kulsoom wanted her friend to confirm this. She turned to look at Naimat. ‘In those circumstances I think I would react in exactly the same way. And here we are, Sardara Jee – come straight to you, honouring you with being the first person to find out about what has happened. We have not been to any other house yet. You must regard this as a strong demonstration of the affection and respect we both have for you,’ Kulsoom ended earnestly.
‘Thank you, my friends. I am truly very grateful to you for coming to see me and telling me about all this. I really appreciate it.’ The breakfast and the creamy yoghurt had lost its significance.
‘Did you ever imagine that something like this would happen in our village, Sardara Jee?’ Kulsoom asked. ‘God keep evil and its shadow away from our young children and us. Oh, how could I forget? How silly of me. I haven’t told you the most important bit. Hajra has threatened the slut and Fatima that she is going to see Baba Siraj Din and have them publicly shamed in a
kacheri
. She is probably there now in his hawaili. Can you imagine, there being a kacheri on this topic? Ooh!’ Kulsoom triumphantly ended, reaching the climax of her storytelling and having successfully managed to evoke a look of sheer wonderment on the milk woman’s face.
‘What do you think will happen to them?’ Sardara whispered, bemused by the strange images wickedly
dancing around in her head and before her eyes – afraid to voice aloud her thoughts. Kulsoom steadily held her friend’s gaze and smiled.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. There is no doubt that Hajra will insist on a public shaming – to avenge her daughter, of course.’ Kulsoom’s voice dipped in an awed whisper. ‘We have never had somebody commit adultery here in the village before, have we?.’
‘No, not to my knowledge. I am finding all this so hard to believe, my friends. Allah pak forbid. What is happening to our village? It frightens me that something like this can take place on our doorsteps. On our pak zemin. What do you think they’ll do to her? To
them
I mean – for both should be shamed, shouldn’t they? I am sure she didn’t physically drag him out of his wife’s bed. Haroon went to her willingly didn’t he?’
‘We don’t know who did the dragging, but they were caught together. Nor do we know what is going to happen. But of course we’ll keep you informed. Don’t worry, Sardara Jee, we know your legs give you trouble. One of us will make sure that you get to know everything. Of course, if a kacheri is held, you wouldn’t want to miss that for the world – would you, Sardara Jee?’ Kulsoom Jee slyly asked.
‘Definitely not! But …’ Sardara knitted her eyebrows thoughtfully. The Madrasah courtyard where the kacheri was normally held by the Buzurgh was in the other
mala
– the other section of the village, where Chaudharani Kaniz’ hawaili was. Normally the kacheri court function held no particular interest for Sardara. It was a men’s affair. She had plenty to get on with – seeing to the smooth running of the dairy. The buffaloes had to be fed and milked twice a day and then there was the milk to be dealt with, or to be made into
khoya
,
a milky fudge, that she sold to the sweet shops in the nearest town.
This, village crisis, however, merited special attention. Sardara decided that for once her dairy could wait. Even if her legs were swollen out of shape for days afterwards from all the walking, she wouldn’t miss this kacheri for anything in the world!
‘No, I will definitely be attending, Kulsoom,’ she resolutely told her friends. ‘Do call me, when you go – but try to call early. Remember my poor legs. I have to be very gentle with them.’
‘Of course. No problem, Sardara Jee,’ Naimat Bibi quickly assured their much-liked elder friend.
Kulsoom stood up, straightening her head shawl on her oily, scraped-back hair. ‘Right, Sardara Jee. We need to be off now. We are sorry for having disturbed your breakfast!’
‘My friends, you must join me and my guests. There is a lot of food laid on – hot parathas!’ Sardara genuinely wished to offer them a seat at her lavish breakfast. Her friends would normally have taken up her kind offer, especially after seeing the feast laid out on the dining table. Today, however, they had another important matter on their minds. Their appetite was in another direction – to spread the word. There were so many other homes to visit before they caught up with Hajra. Thus they were forced to reluctantly decline.
‘Thank you very much, Sardara Jee. We need to visit Jamila and let her know, too, otherwise she’ll blame us later for not telling her.’ Sardara nodded her understanding.
On returning to the dining room her eyes automatically fell on her yoghurt bowl. Oh! After all that excitement, she really did need the energy. Forget about the
fat, she had to revive her strength. Happily she sidled back into place on her chair, making sure that she didn’t knock her sore thighs anywhere else on the table’s edges. With the creamy bowl of yoghurt lacing her stomach Sardara smiled at her three women guests, and generously decided to take her kurmani into her confidence.
Her eyes beamed at her guest. ‘Well, my friend,’ she began, ‘you’ll never believe what happened here last night in the village, after you arrived.’ It was just as well her kurmani’s twin daughters were both married, otherwise she would have been forced to send them out.
Sardara leaned forward on the table, moving her empty bowl of yoghurt aside. Somehow she had lost her appetite for the oily parathas. The discussion was bound to last well into the morning, but at least now she had something substantial to talk about – a real scandal with which to entertain her guests. Last night she had discovered to her dismay that there was nothing further to digress on or gossip about. She had virtually dried up. They had just sat and watched all the late dramas on television. Useless they were, too. For in no way did they reflect their way of life. The TV people forgot that there were people living out in the countryside whose problems and lifestyle needed to be reflected.
Sardara beamed at her guests. This subject of adultery wouldn’t dry up any tongues in the whole village for days. For months. Probably for years to come, in fact. She knew that for sure.
T
HE NEXT STOP
on Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi’s itinerary for this fateful morning was their ‘second’ best friend, Jamila’s house. Their own friends of course had to be top of their list of houses to visit.
Tiptoeing carefully on the wet marble steps leading up to the large, majestic-looking wrought-iron gates, Kulsoom pressed the bell with her bony fist. Water was still gushing out from the top step into the gutter of the village lane. It appeared that Jamila already had all her floors washed, even down to the outside steps. And all this before seven in the morning! And such a big house too! How did she manage it? Newly built in the last few months, it was now topped with an upper floor of bedroom suites and an attractive gallery circling all around it. Now the villa stood out from the rest of the houses in that lane. Jamila prided herself on that fact and on keeping her house thoroughly spruced at all times. In fact, her penchant for cleaning had given rise to a village joke, that Jamila in the design of her home had certainly copied the
naqsa
, the plan of Chaudharani Kaniz’s hawaili, down to the very colour of the marble tiles on the outside wall. Having the audacity to copy Chaudharani Kaniz’s design, everyone also expected her to keep it in top shape at all times – just like the beautiful, arrogant young queen of the village, Malika Kaniz. The latter had her own particular standard of cleanliness. Whether Jamila would manage to keep up
the act in the long run was a point of huge speculation and social debate. At least she was trying; some men shrugged, thinking of their own, rather more slapdash wives.
Inside her bedroom, Jamila, a thirty-seven-year-old woman, had other things than her house and cleanliness on her mind. On hearing the bell, she weakly squeaked to her teenage daughter Shahnaz to go and open the gates. Shahnaz stood near the bed and held a bowl up to her mother. Jamila waved her daughter away as she felt her stomach muscles churn, twist and lurch into action again. Spluttering out some more vile tasting, greenish water into the steel bowl, she pondered miserably on who could be disturbing them this early in the morning. Riaz, the milk boy, had already visited, leaving their two full pails of milk. The thought of the creamy milk set Jamila’s stomach heaving once again.
Pressing the tight bulge of her stomach with her two hands she wished she could simply curl up in some dark space and die. With trembling hands she swept back strands of sweat-soaked hair. Seeing Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi enter her room, she groaned aloud in dismay, hiding her face from them. She was in no mood for banal chatter. Unable to lift herself from the bed, she could not stand on ceremony with them and exchange social pleasantries, even if she were so inclined.
Managing a shadow of a smile of welcome, Jamila watched her two friends cross the wet marble floor. Kulsoom had tentatively lifted the hemline of her shalwar. The last thing she wanted on this, of all days, was to slip on the wet floor and fracture her bony legs. Last time she had fallen it had taken her leg six months to recover and she had paid the price dearly.
Literally, for she had lost heavily on her matchmaking business. Her legs had already been in plaster a number of times. A lot of walking was still ahead of her before the day ended. She thus pointed to the damp floor, warning Naimat Bibi to be careful too.
‘Assalam Alaikum. Jamila Jee, are you all right?’ Kulsoom asked in concern. They didn’t expect to see her still in bed at this time of the morning.
Standing near her bed they both peered down at their friend. Jamila made a brave attempt to rise up for her friends’ sake, but soon gave up the pretence, when Kulsoom considerately stopped her. ‘Please don’t bother to get up for our sake. Your Shahnaz has told us you are not well. You do look pale Jamila! In fact, yellow as
haldi
. What is the matter?’ Kulsoom pulled her cotton chador around her head, hugging it tightly against her ears as the chill from the cold washed floor rose through her thin nylon
chappalls
. Spying a portable heater placed near the bed, she sidled over to it, wanting to warm her cold, bony legs behind their crepe-de-chine shalwar.
When Jamila sheepishly looked away, Naimat Bibi and Kulsoom exchanged a quick glance, silently questioning each other as to what was going on in this bedroom. Then before their startled gazes they had their answer. They saw Jamila’s body double up as she leant over the basin on the floor.
‘You are not!’ Kulsoom exclaimed loudly.
Jamila nodded miserably at her two friends.
‘Oh dear!’ Kulsoom’s commiseration came out loud and clear.
Her friend’s reaction confirmed Jamila’s worst misgivings. This was how other people would view her predicament. And she with a teenage daughter too!
It was a most embarrassing situation indeed. ‘Oh, Allah pak, if I could only bury myself in some hole?’ she groaned aloud.
‘But how did this happen?’ Naimat Bibi gently asked, recovering her social manners. ‘I thought you went to the family planning clinic regularly.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, the injection dose must have worn off – I guess. I am gone two months already,’ Jamila mourned helplessly to her two friends. ‘Two rotten, nightmarish, lousy months of anxiety and sickness. I tell you, my friends, I don’t want it! I cannot go through with this pregnancy. It has come at the wrong time of my life.’
‘Oh dear!’ Kulsoom repeated, having forgotten all about Fatima’s niece. There was a bigger crisis to be dealt with in their friend’s household. The village kacheri and its verdict could wait. Their priority was to help and support Jamila in this unfortunate predicament – one that women have found themselves in since the dawn of time.
Kulsoom settled herself more comfortably on the edge of her friend’s bed, while Naimat Bibi drew forward a wooden chair, hating the grating sound it made on the wet floor.
Bending forward, Kulsoom began to soothe and massage her friend’s damp forehead. Thankful, Jamila smiled up at her, momentarily closing her eyes. It was blissful to be able to confide in them and have their support.
Ashamed of her earlier reaction, Kulsoom hurriedly assembled together her wits and acute sense of social propriety. She began with a generous measure of moral support and wholesome traditional advice.
‘Don’t worry about it, my sister,’ she offered. ‘You
only have three children and it could be a boy – just think! Celebrate it as a blessing, my dear.’ she reassured Jamila, now having the foresight to switch tactfully from commiseration to sympathy.
‘But my daughter is nearly sixteen years old! She started puberty two years ago!’ Jamila wailed, not bothering to hide anything from her two friends. ‘How am I ever going to show my face and later my bulging waistline to my male and other village elders? I am so ashamed.’
The two friends exchanged another quick glance of understanding. Naimat Bibi had decided that it was now her turn to voice her brand of stoicism and wisdom.
‘Come on, Jamila. It is not as if you are fifty years old. You are barely thirty-seven. There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. Remember our Noora, how last year she gave birth to a girl at the same time as her grandson was born? If any birth was bound to cause a flutter of embarrassment and fiery red cheeks, that was the one! Especially as mother and daughter delivered on the same day and in the same house! Her husband had a daughter and a grandson all at one go. The poor man didn’t know how best to accept the villagers’ congratulations.
Therefore, so what if you are pregnant? Be grateful that you are blessed with children! Ask poor Basri, who has ached for children for the last twenty years and has worn her feet out visiting
darbars
and holy men to ask that her prayers be accepted and her womb blessed with a child. Count yourself lucky, my sister. Anyway, you still might be all right,’ ended Naimat Bibi, wanting to add her own bit at consolation. There were times she felt it imperative to assert herself and to openly air her
own brand of wisdom. Somehow, Kulsoom always managed to be in the limelight. Not that she grudged her friend. For the most part she was happy to let Kulsoom take the lead role, for she was quick-witted and more intelligent on the whole.
‘Yes, Jamila Jee,’ Kulsoom quickly added. ‘Now, have you tried dried dates? They are always said to work.’
Jamila began to giggle, her body rocking heavily on the bed. Then she held her arm to her waist, as the pain in her stomach became unbearable. Giggling was doing her no good at all.
‘Have I tried dates you ask? My friend, I have gobbled down two large sackfuls, I tell you! My poor husband has been making daily journeys to Malik’s shop, buying kilos of them. I am sure we have used up his entire stock.’ Jamila’s body shook with mirth again, as she saw the look on her friends’ faces. ‘Do you know, Malik Sahib had the cheek to tease my husband, saying that we have definitely taken a liking to his dried dates recently. Crafty devil. He sells sackfuls to women with unwanted pregnancies. He probably suspects that something is afoot in this house, for nobody could be using that many dates in their cooking. How many times could I possibly make
kheer
or
zarda
anyway? I have had them for breakfast, for dinner, and supper. Chewing them all day long. I am sick to death of them, I tell you. Look, I have even got a pile of them under my pillow.’ Jamila lifted her pillow and showed a small mound of dried dates on the bedsheet.
‘Oh dear, no wonder you are so fed up of them,’ Kulsoom laughed. Looking at the small pile, and taking one of the dates, she tore it in two halves for herself.
‘So they have had no effect on you whatsoever?’ Naimat Bibi asked in a serious tone, frowning.
‘None whatsoever – only diarrhoea. My stomach and bowels are washed out, but not the womb. I am afraid.’
‘Oh they go like clockwork with me, flushing me out totally. I must have a hot body.’ Naimat Bibi preened, still with a serious expression on her face.
‘Oh, we definitely know you are a hot person, with a hot body, and not just your womb.’ Kulsoom winked wickedly at Jamila, teasing her best friend. She laughed loudly as she saw a blush rise and creep over Naimat Bibi’s dark cheeks.
‘Hush!’ Jamila signalled, pointing a finger to the open door. ‘I don’t want my daughter to hear any of your bawdy teasing here, please. You know she is at that age where children become interested in all these matters.’ She stopped suddenly, seeing her daughter almost on cue materialise in the room with a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits.
‘Here, place it on that table, my dear. Thank you. Now you go out, and check if Hafiza has washed the floors of the rooms upstairs. Tell her to keep the water well away from the walls. Each time she washes, she washes away in great patches the new paintwork on the walls. It is already beginning to peel off on the top gallery.’ She turned to her friends. ‘Try our
sabz
tea, Kulsoom Jee and Naimat Jee. It is really pink in colouring. My Shahnaz is becoming an expert at making it. Thank you, Shahnaz.’ Jamila said, as she saw her hovering near the door.
Shahnaz, a tall slim fifteen-years-old girl, understood precisely what her mother and her two friends desired. She didn’t want to leave but reluctantly she had to oblige them. She had no intention, however, of going
upstairs. Hafiza and the washing could wait. On the contrary she would remain, standing just outside the door and near enough to the open window looking out onto the verandah, until they left. They couldn’t see her but she could clearly hear them, even make out what they were saying from their hushed tones.
‘Jamila, you’ll never guess what has been happening this morning, while you have been lying here feeling sick and sorry for yourself,’ Kulsoom began, neatly reverting to the reason for their visit. Bending near her friend’s face, she began to whisper. She took her friend Jamila’s concern seriously. This matter was no subject for any young, fresh, innocent minds. They weren’t leaving it to chance. For all they knew, Jamila’s daughter probably had her ears stuck to the door. It was the quietest of chats and gossip exchanges they had ever had.
Trying her very best to hear, Shahnaz eventually gave up in frustration – only now she was all the more determined to find out what was going on. She had never before heard such muted whisperings from her mother’s two notorious friends. Their mouths were placed very close to her mother’s ears. One each side, and that only meant one thing: something terribly scandalous was afoot in the village. And one way or another, she was going to find out what it was. Later in the morning, if her mother let her go to school, she would find out from her school friends. She had distinctly heard the words ‘Fatima’s niece’ and ‘
ghanda kam
’. Her young mind was aflame with images of all sorts. Now what could that mean?
Before they got up to go, Kulsoom anxiously reminded Jamila, ‘Don’t just rely on the village midwife Mary,
this time. You must visit a doctor in town and get yourself properly checked out. And don’t, for goodness sake, attempt anything rash. Remember poor Akhtari. She simply bled to death and never told anybody about what she had done to her body. It is simply not worth it, my friend. Another child is a blessing. Not worth losing a life over.’
Jamila shuddered, her eyes closing with horror. ‘No, I am not that foolish. I will not do anything like that. If Allah pak has written this child to be born in my stars, who am I to stop this life? You will, of course, let me know when the kacheri takes place, won’t you? Please take me with you. Where are you going next?’
‘Of course we will take you. We have not decided yet, but I want to go to Chaudharani Kaniz’s hawaili. Her sister Sabra is here at the moment, so I think she’ll be in a better mood this time. She is always more of a human person when her younger sister is around,’ Kulsoom commented. ‘I think staying in that large hawaili with only her housekeeper Neesa and her young son Khawar has made her more remote than ever, especially since her husband died. She hardly ever steps out of the house. Almost everyone has been to the Buzurgh Siraj Din’s home to pay respect to his son’s family and to see Habib’s beautiful children and his wife Chaudharani Shahzada, but do you know, Chaudharani Kaniz has systematically refused to do so! And yet she has become Baba Siraj Din’s goddaughter.’ Kulsoom looked very disapproving. ‘She doesn’t care a
paisa
for anyone. I bet, on the other hand, she is counting how many people have come to pay respects to her sister and how many have flocked to Siraj Din’s home. I think she competes with them. She is a very foolish woman, if you ask me. How can she ever compete with Siraj Din’s
family and Shahzada? For Shahzada, as we all know, is the most, respected Chaudharani anyway.’ At this point she stopped to catch her breath, ignoring the smiling looks of her two friends.