A Pair of Jeans and other stories (5 page)

Margery caught her breath. “We have stepped into a domestic volcano!” flashed the alarming thought. Immediately, she dismissed it as her imagination running away with her.

Aziza was puffing air into the hearth to fan the flames.

“Does it take a long time to light?” Margery asked, now disliking the host. It wasn’t he who had to cook this way!

“Oh no, Madam Wales. Only a few seconds.” Abdul Hamat breezily explained.

“Come. Let’s go back to the main room upstairs.”

As they disappeared upstairs, he softly commanded Aziza in Malay. “Our visitors are going. Please bring them some soup and bid them goodbye.”

“To hell with them! I have said goodbyes to thousands already - what difference will it make today if I don’t. Anyway, I’ll do it later and in style! Give me the key, and get them out of here! Or you will regret it!” the voice chilling.

Abdul Hamat’s poise didn’t falter, but the body had stiffened. He would deal with her later. He followed the guests back into the dining room. The driver was still sitting with his head bent over the newspaper.

“Please, let me offer you some refreshments. You must taste our warm hospitality. Aziza!” Abdul Hamat called from the door.

“Please don’t bother.” Margery coloured, hastening to add “We already had a good lunch before we came,” not wanting to see the woman again.

“If you are sure!” he looked pleased.

Margery nodded her head vigorously.

“Ok then. I wonder if you don’t mind signing our visitor’s book” He held up a pen and a thick register with frayed edges, evidently having passed many hands. Abdul Hamat proudly rifled through the pages, blotted with hundreds of black and blue signatures and addresses. “You see I get visitors from all over the world and they all sign it!”

“We will do the same and with pleasure, Mr Hamat.” Robert quickly obliged with his signature and then passed the book to Margery, exchanging a knowing glance, as their host discreetly placed a small money basket full of currency notes on the table. Abdul Hamat peered over Margery’s shoulder, pleased with her comment. With the register signed, he glanced at the money basket.

“These, as you can see, are kind donations by people like yourself who visit my home.” His hand was now in the basket, “… notes from different parts of the world.” Then he felt the tissue paper come into his hand instead of banknotes. Anger shot through his wiry body - he would definitely be dealing with her today!

Margery and Robert hid a smile. From what they could see their Malay host was doing very well indeed.

Robert took out a ten pound sterling note from his wallet and placed it on top of the pile of other notes. The taxi driver smiled, inclining his head appreciatively. The host was now politely looking away – out of the window.

Then he held out his hand to them. Margery was unsure whether to shake hands with him or not. As a Muslim, he would not normally be shaking hands with a woman.

Instead she offered. “Thank you for sharing your lovely home with us. It has indeed been quite an experience!”

“My pleasure, Madam. I hope you have a safe journey back home.”

“Please thank your wife for us.” Margery added watching the host’s face with interest. Abdul Hamat politely inclined his head, smiled once again and waved them off.

“You know, Margery,” Robert began as they reached their car “I don’t know how that woman can manage in that kitchen of hers, the smoke – I can smell it from here.”

“I told you, Bob.”

They turned to the patter of feet running from behind the house. It was the woman. Ignoring them Aziza ran up the steps and stood in front of a highly embarrassed Abdul Hamat. Muttering and shaking her head at him, she shoved her hand into his trouser pocket. He grabbed her tightly by the wrist. She pulled away and ran down to the driver, speaking to him in rapid Bhasa Malay. “Please help me! I must get him out. The key- I need the key”. Mouths parted, Bob and Margery looked on.

“Key? From where?” The driver asked.

“Look!” She pointed down to the wooden platform. The driver’s eyes widened in shock.

Then Aziza rushed back to Abdul, this time managing to pull the key out of his pocket and ran into the house with the driver sprinting behind her.

“Ibrahim! Ibrahim!” Panic ridden, Aziza fumbled with the key in the lock.

Throwing open the door, she ran to the man lying on the floor in the small bedroom.

“Please help him. He can’t walk!” She urged the driver as he gripped the man from under his armpits to pull him up into a standing position. Resting his arms on their shoulders, they dragged him out of the house with a burst of energy and hobbled down the steps.

Abdul Hamat looked on, horrified.

They laid the man on the dry grass, away from the house. Aziza cradled his head in her arms, tears streaming down her line creased cheeks.

“Aziza!” Abdul Hamat shouted from the porch.

“Come and take a last look at your precious show house, Abdul Hamat!” she jeered in return.

“What are you saying, you mad woman?”

Body shaking with hysteria, Aziza pointed to the house.

Abdul Hamat scrambled down, two steps at a time.

“You mad woman!” He cried peering at the flames at the sides of the house. His worst fear realised. She had once threatened. Today she had done it!

“Quick! Water! It will all go up. Aziza!”

She looked on. He rushed to the water pump at the back of the house and soon appeared dragging a bucket of water.

“Too late!” She watched him throw the water on the burning wall. “The kitchen is on fire, too! I made sure of that.”

Bob and Margery remained rooted to the spot. Unable to speak or move. Should they run and help their host? The woman had indeed gone mad.

Abdul Hamat was back with another bucket. Then stared helplessly at the flames greedily licking away at the front porch, coiling around the plant pots. The driver took the bucket of water and threw it on the flames.

“Bob, that man was inside the house!” Margery at last managed to exclaim.

Her husband nodded – bemused, looking around and then staring down at the woman squatting on the ground and muttering into the man’s ears.

“Ibrahim! Are you all right?” Aziza tenderly brushed strands of his grey wet hair from his face.

“Why was he locked up?” The driver whispered in Malay, standing beside Aziza.

“He locked him up!” Aziza accused pointing her finger at Abdul Hamat.

“Your husband? Why?”

“No! The one locked up is my husband– The other is my brother. He locks Ibrahim up every time visitors come – ashamed of his disability – done it for the last thirty years.” Aziza’s dark eyes darted fire.

“For thirty years!” the driver ejaculated.” He is a man - Why does he let himself be locked up?”

“Because he is mentally retarded. He…” The words jammed in her mouth, as she pointed once again at the host. “He… He married me off to Ibrahim so that he could have this house after our parents died in an accident.” Dazed Abdul Hamat was watching his house go up in flames. The fire now gripped the upper level of the house.

Enraged Aziza got up and dashed to Abdul Hamat, poking him hard on the chest. “You have robbed me of my home, my youth, my freedom - my life in fact - made us prisoners of your greed and tyranny. Well look…” the voice shook with tears and hysteria “Well now you can have it all! The ashes!”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Abdul Hamat winced when he saw her pull out a thick wad of banknotes from her tunic pocket and swished them in front of his eyes. “The money - from the basket- that you made from our misery!” Her eyes large in her weather-beaten face, she was now giggling like a child. “I’m taking it all with us. Finally escaping from you. You stay and watch - the ashes – the home you turned into a museum and a fortress for me and my husband. See!” She held up the palm of her right hand to show a raw blister “I burnt it with this”.

“This is government property! And you have destroyed it - you stupid, mad woman! You will be jailed for this!”

“I don’t care!” Standing on her toes to be level with him, she snarled into his face.

Then sauntered back to the driver. “Please take my Ibrahim to hospital. Please help me!”

“You have gone mad!” Abdul Hamat shouted, running to her and pulling at her arm. She pushed him back and bending down cradled Ibrahim’s head in her arms once more.

“Ibrahim, my darling we are free. I won’t let anyone lock you up ever again. You will always sit out on the veranda with your coke. I promise. All day - if that is what you want - I’ll see to it - my dear husband” She wept over him, eyes tender.

With a wobbly smile, Ibrahim looked up into her eyes.

Aziza pulled him up and let the driver help them into the car.

Robert and Margery stepped aside. Too afraid and embarrassed to say or to ask. They had simply become invisible.

“Is no one going to put out the fire?” Robert finally ventured to croak as he saw the driver get into the car.

“It’s too late, Sir. There are no fire engines in this area. In any case by the time they arrive, the whole thing will have disappeared.” His eyes averted from his passengers, the driver looked at the burning building through his car mirror. “Do you mind if I take this lady and the man to the hospital, he needs seeing to.”

“Not at all.” Margery quickly got into the car. “Come on, Bob”

“But the host – Margery – we can’t just leave him behind - Not like this! What is he going to do?”

“Shush –just get in, Bob.” She pulled her husband into the car and waited for the driver to explain. It was all too surreal for them.

The driver was not in a mood to divulge anything, however. The woman had suffered enough indignities in her life already, than to have it capped it further by sharing it with these western tourists.

Ibrahim was belted into the front passenger seat. Aziza stiffly sat next to Margery. They had exchanged a quick nervous smile before Aziza gazed out of the car window. The driver turned to his other passengers. His eyes not quite meeting theirs in the driver’s mirror, he asked. “Sir and Madam would you want to try the scorpion farm now or the Batu Caves?”

Bob and Margery turned to look back. Their Malay host stood stooped against the tree, staring at the remains of his house. “Don’t worry, Sir, I will go back for the host later!” the driver reassured.

“Margery– Did we do the right thing leaving that poor man?” Three miles later Margery whispered “Did that really happen, Bob, or did I imagine it all?”

Her husband was staring at the wobbling head of the passenger in the front seat.

Miriam slid off the bus seat and glanced quickly at her watch. They were coming! And she was very late. Murmuring her goodbye to her two university friends, she made her way to the door and waited for her bus stop to approach. Once there she got off the bus and hurriedly waved goodbye to her friends again. She pulled the jacket close to her body, becoming suddenly very self-conscious about her jean-clad legs and the short vest she wore beneath it. It had, unfortunately, shrunk in the wash. All day she had kept pulling it down to cover her midriff. Strange but she felt odd in her clothing. Yet they were just the type of clothes she had needed to wear today; for hill walking in the Peak District, in the North West of England. Somehow here, in the vicinity of her home, however, she felt different. As she crossed the road and headed for her own street, she was very conscious of her appearance and hoped that she would not meet anyone she knew. She tugged at the hemline of her vest; it had ridden up yet again. With the other hand, she held onto the jacket front as it had no buttons.

Her mind turned to the outing. It had been a wonderful day, but her legs ached after climbing all those green hills – still it was worth it. Her eye on her watch, she quickened her pace. It was much later than she had anticipated. She remembered the phone call of yesterday evening. They said they were coming today. What if they had already arrived? She glanced down at her tightly jean-clad legs. As soon as she got home she must discreetly make her way to her room and quickly get changed.

Just as Miriam reached the gate of her semi-detached house, she heard a car pull up behind her. Nervously, she swept round to see who it was. On spotting the colour of the car and the person behind the wheel, her step faltered – colour ebbing from her face. On the pretence of opening the gate, she turned round and tried to collect her wits about her. Too late! They were already here. Her heart was now rocking madly against her chest and the clothes burned her. She wanted to quickly rush inside her home and peel them off. She clutched at her jacket front, covering her waist.

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

Miriam found herself unable to look either of them in the eye. A watery, hesitant smile played around her mouth. She did not know what to do, or how to act. Her cheeks burnt in embarrassment; poise now very much lost. And yet these were the very people she wanted to impress. All she was aware of was the surreptitious glances they darted at her. In fact not at her as Miriam, but at the figure, the appearance she presented clad in a pair of Levis and a skimpy leather jacket to top it off. This was not the Miriam they knew, but a stranger; a western version of Miriam. She immediately sensed their awkwardness. They too were caught off guard and did not know what to do with themselves – in particular with their eyes. The father-in-law was bent on avoiding eye contact with her, 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 pass, silently walking behind her husband. Miriam followed them in a semi-daze. As she closed the gate behind her she remembered with mortification that while the woman had accepted her mumbled greeting, by her reply ‘
Walaikum Assalam
’, the
father-in-law
had ignored it. That was not like him at all.

Miriam’s mother, Fatima, opened the door to her expected guests, beaming in pleasure and warmth as she beheld them. She had not expected Miriam to come with them, however. When she saw her daughter hovering behind the two guests, Fatima received a shock. Never before in her life had Miriam glimpsed such a dramatic change in her mother’s face. Normally she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if her daughter had turned up at her door 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, however, she was viewing her daughter’s arrival and appearance through a different set of lenses. In fact, through the lenses of Miriam’s future in-laws – the view just didn’t look very good.

In one glance, she took in her daughter’s appearance. The jeans which wouldn’t have normally aroused her interest, today stood out brazenly on Miriam’s body, tightly moulded against her full legs. Fatima couldn’t quite make herself understand why she felt ashamed of her daughter’s clothing and why she was suddenly angry with her, for being seen like this. Her eyes 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 and the urge to usher her out of sight strong, Fatima communicated her displeasure and desperately signalled with her eyebrows, to her daughter to go up and change into something more respectable. Miriam understood and was only too glad to oblige.

Squeezing past her mother and out of sight of their guests who had now entered their living room, Miriam almost ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Once there, she shut the door behind her and breathed out deeply. Her earlier feeling of tiredness and exhilaration from the hill walking had vanished – instead discontent had taken its place. A mere two steps into her home had led to another world. The other she had left behind with her friends on the bus. She shrugged the feeling aside. What mattered now were the two people downstairs. And they mattered! Her future lay with them.

Going further into the room she peeled off her jacket, vest and tight pair of jeans, and let them fall, lying in a clutter on the woollen carpet. She looked down at them with distaste. Her mouth twisted into a cynical line. “Damn it!” Her mind shouted – rebelling. “They are only clothes. I am still the same young woman they visited regularly – the person that they have happily chosen as a bride for their son in their household.”

“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 apparently, by either sheer accident or mere contrivance, remained hidden from them from the very beginning. When they first saw her at a party, she was dressed in a maroon chiffon sari and on each later occasion she was always smartly but discreetly and respectably dressed in a traditional shalwar kameez suit. Never at any time had they glimpsed a tightly jean-clad Miriam with an inch of midriff showing! In fact, judging by her mother’s expression and lack of composure, it must have been a nasty shock! For now, they were seeing her as a young college woman who was very much under the sway of western fashion and by extension its moral values. Muslim girls do not go outdoors dressed like that, especially in the short jacket, which hardly covered her hips, and a skimpy vest. She had heard of stories about in-laws who were prejudiced against such girls. For they weren’t the docile, the obedient and sweet daughters-in-law that they preferred. On the contrary, they were seen as a threat and portrayed as rebellious
hoydens
, who did not respect either their husbands or their in-laws. Miriam was all too familiar with such stereotyped views of women.

From her wardrobe, she pulled off a blue crepe shalwar kameez suit from a hangar. As she put it on, her rebellious spirit reared its head again. “They are only clothes!” her mind hissed in anger.

She could not deny the fact however, that having them on her back 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. It was a confident woman gliding down the stairs. She was now in full control of herself. There was to be no scuttling down the stairs; her poise was back. Her long dupatta scarf was draped around her shoulders and one edge of it was over her head.

Once downstairs in the hallway, outside the sitting room door, she halted, her hypocrisy galling her. She was neatly acting out a role, the one that her future in-laws preferred. A role of a demure and elegant bride and daughter-in-law – dressed modestly, with her body properly covered. Yet she was the same person who had earlier traipsed the Pennine countryside in a tight pair of jeans and walking-boots and who was now dressed in the height of Pakistani fashion. The difference lay in what her in-laws regarded and termed as an acceptable mode of dress. 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. Now, dressed as she was, she was part and parcel of another identity, of another world, that of a Muslim-Asian environment. Ensconced now in the other home ground, her thoughts, actions and feelings had seamlessly altered accordingly.

Her head held high, Miriam entered the living room. Once inside, she felt four pairs of eyes turn in her direction. She stared ahead knowing instinctively that apart from her father’s, those eyes were busy comparing her present demure appearance with her earlier one. It was amazing how she was able to move around the room at ease, in her shalwar kameez suit, in a manner that she could never have done in her earlier clothes amongst these people. 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 at entertaining and trying to revive a number of topics of interest to the other couple. The two guests, however, seemed to shy away. In particular, from the one concerning their children’s marriage in six months’ time. Miriam sat up, noticing that they were ill at ease and had made no direct eye contact with her. This was so unlike their usual behaviour. There were moments too, when husband and wife had exchanged surreptitious glances. Fatima was now quite anxious. From the moment her guests had stepped into their home, her instinct 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 pottered around the kitchen, collecting bits and pieces of crockery from the cupboards. Her own hunger had vanished. The appearance of those two people had done a miraculous thing to her metabolic system. She was arranging the plates and glasses on the tray when she heard their voices in the hallway. They sounded as if were saying goodbye to her parents in the hallway. Surprised, Miriam hastened and picked up the tray. Were they going already? They hadn’t eaten anything! The table was laid for dinner. She called “Auntie” addressing her future mother-in-law. She turned and smiled. They were in a hurry to get home, because they had guests staying in their home, she informed.

‘That is a lousy excuse’, Miriam thought. If they had guests at home, why did they bother to come in the first place, anyway? Still dwelling on the subject she returned to the kitchen and put the tray back on the table. What a waste of time!

The two parents-in-law walked to their car in silence – both were lost in their own thoughts. The silence continued during their journey. There was no need for communication. Somehow they could guess what the other was thinking about and read each other’s thoughts fairly accurately. On reaching home, the so-called guests to whom Begum had referred earlier, had apparently gone. Their elder son, Farook was not yet in. The younger 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 and went straight to the living room. Begum followed behind, also taking off her coat and outdoor shawl. Switching on the television, Ayub sat down in his armchair. Begum hovered listlessly near his armchair for 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 her thoughts, looking out of the bedroom window. 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. The seconds were ticking away into minutes, and her husband, however, still had made no move to say anything, his gaze on the newscaster. Instead she picked up the Urdu national newspaper ‘Daily Jang’ from the coffee table, and began to read it. More precisely she was pretending to read it, the words were a blur in front of her eyes.

Ayub, at last, stood up, stretching out 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.

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

“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 under his breath, not at all amused by her manner, tone or her words.