A Pair of Jeans and other stories (7 page)

She stepped over the pair of jeans and looked at herself in the long mirror on the wall. Eyes widening, she scrutinised her face and body for any tell-tale signs of her inner turmoil. Her face looked haggard. The mouth, which was normally
full-lipped
, was now a thin, sharp, pinkish line. There was a certain stiffness about her, the way her shoulders sloped down; as if carrying her body was an immense ordeal.

Angrily, she swept away from the mirror and went to the window to look down at the lawn and flower beds in the rear garden. Ideas and thoughts jolted and formed in her head, each vying with the other for attention. One idea, however, lodged itself firmly in her mind: Farook and his parents weren’t going to get away with it!

“They can’t do this to me!” her mind screamed. She didn’t know whether Farook knew about this matter, but she was going to make sure that he definitely did and there was only one way of finding out if he didn’t! She noticed that the flowers below were in full bloom. The colour of those roses reminded her of the bridal bouquet she was planning for herself. All of a sudden, her body relaxed and she felt a certain calmness descend over her as she closed her bedroom door behind her.

There was no rushing. She simply glided down the stairs and had begun to dial Farook’s phone number on her mobile by the time she reached the hallway. As the phone bell pipped away at the other end, her heart skipped a beat for a fraction of a second. What if his mother or father picked up the phone? What would she say to them? She was about to snap her mobile shut when rebellion surfaced again. She shook her fears aside. So what if they answered the phone! She would deal with them and the situation as it arose. To her dismay, nobody answered the phone at the other end. She tried again, defiantly letting it ring for two minutes – somebody was going to answer it one way or another.

Her mother came out of the kitchen and saw Miriam with her mobile phone held fast to her ear. Miriam heard her mother’s approach, turned and caught her eye. Fatima shot her a questioning glance. Who was she ringing? A worried look crossed her face.

At last, somebody picked up the receiver. The ringing stopped and the word “hello” was audible to Miriam’s ear. Relief shot through her. It was her Farook. She greeted him first with “hello” and then with the Arabic “
Assalam-a-Alaikum
”, “Peace be upon you!” She then reverted to speaking in English.

“Farook, it’s Miriam.” She tried to control the rhythm of her heartbeat and keep her voice steady.

“How are you, Miriam?”

“I am fine…” She was staring at her mother. Fatima was desperately signalling her to end the call.

Miriam ignored her mother’s shaking hand and turned to look instead at the picture of a landscape on the wall opposite, concentrating on what she was saying.

“Are you alone at home, Farook, or are your parents with you? If they are there, I want us to meet in the Student Union.” Tone brusque.

“Usman is with me. Mum and Dad have gone out. They’ll be back soon though; did you want to speak to them?”

“No, it’s you… I wanted to speak to you, Farook.” She paused for a few seconds, her heart thudding again, and then continued, still in control.

“Have you heard anything about us, Farook?”

“Us? No. What do you mean Miriam?” He was now quite intrigued.

“Just as I thought.” Her voice hardened. A bitter laugh echoing in her head. “It’s probably too soon for them to break it to you. They are probably deciding what to do and how to put it to you.”

“Miriam, you’ve got me all puzzled now. Come on girl, what is going on?” He nervously laughed.

“I am sorry Farook – just talking to myself. I know it’s all in riddles to you, isn’t it? Look, I can’t say much more over the phone, but can I come and see you at home, and then we can talk together with your parents?”

“Of course you can, Miriam, but really, you’ve now got me all worried, I must say.”

“It’s nothing to fret about. I’ll tell you in a short while. Hudah Hafiz.” Her voice and thoughts were calm again.

Miriam switched off her phone and faced her mother. Fatima noted the distinct mutinous line of her daughter’s mouth. She struggled to say the right thing but not want to bruise her daughter’s ego further. She had a duty, however, to advise her as a mother, but the right words just failed to spring to her aid. Finally, she softly offered: “Miriam, that wasn’t the right thing to do or say.”

“The right thing to do?” Miriam ejaculated – stung. “Do you think Farook’s parents have done the right thing by me?” she hissed, her betrayed eyes darting an angry beam of light at her mother.

Fatima realised her blunder. It was a mighty wrong thing to say under the circumstances. Of course her daughter had the right to feel as she did. So Fatima attempted to placate her with her next words.

“I am sorry, Miriam, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I thought that instead of you contacting Farook, it should be us, your parents, doing it in the first place – that is the seemly thing to do.”

“Oh Mother! There you go on again about ‘seemly’ things. There is nothing ‘unseemly’ about me contacting my own fiancé.” She laid extra stress on the word “own”. “After all, I am engaged to him, am I not? Or have you forgotten that too?” Angry heat was rushing out of her cheeks.

“No I haven’t forgotten! There is no need for your sarcasm.” Fatima snapped back, also now quite flushed, beginning to get irritated with her daughter and the situation in which she presently found herself.

“I just mean that your father and I should go firstly to visit Farook and his parents to discuss the matter. Do you think that we don’t care about you – about how they have jilted you, and on what grounds? After all, it’s a matter of our
Izzat
, our honour, the way we are being treated so shabbily – that our daughter is dropped like a sack of potatoes. I was under a great deal of shock when I listened to Begum earlier today on the phone, but now the shock has worn off, and like you I am very, very angry.” She passionately ended, hoping to clarify her own feelings and position to her daughter.

Miriam shrugged. “You can sort that out with father, Farook and his parents, but I am going to see Farook personally and right now, mother!” A defiant tilt arched her eyebrows above her flashing eyes. Hoping that her mother had understood the message, Miriam swept round and went upstairs to her bedroom.

Fatima stared after her daughter helplessly – she was in a real dilemma. She wanted to tell and advise Miriam that she shouldn’t meet Farook, until they themselves had met his parents. At the same time she felt deeply for her daughter and wanted to support her in any way that she could. Never before had she felt the gulf between Miriam’s generation and her own so keenly. The generation and culture gap lay between them as wide as the ocean. She never did this sort of thing in her youth. Unthinkable! No matter what happened, the parents saw to everything. It was they who resolved problems; children did not take things into their own hands.

Pakistan was so far from Britain; it was another place and she was thinking of another time. As her daughter had said, it wasn’t a matter of what was the right thing to do convention-wise, but it was time for positive action. If Miriam thought she had a right to consult Farook about this matter, then she had every right to do so, and she, as her mother, would support her! Times had indeed changed. They lived and were brought up in different worlds, traditions and cultures. Above all, the world was quickly changing around them.

Returning to the lounge, she stood listlessly in the middle. It was a pity that her husband was not in. He would have seen to everything. What would have happened if, instead of her, her husband had picked up the phone? She wondered wryly, would Begum have said the same to her husband that she had said to her? Probably not, she thought cynically.

Inside, her blood raged, feeling so terribly bitter. What had their daughter done, to deserve to be treated in such a fashion? It was a great insult for all of them.

She herself had so liked Begum. Up till this evening she had prided herself on gaining a good
kourmani
, a mother-in-law for her daughter. They had also become good friends over the time they had known each other. And now this!

She heard her daughter’s steps on the stairs – light and jaunty. Miriam entered the room. Fatima turned to look at her daughter. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as they swept over Miriam’s body. Then her gaze met Miriam’s and was held there. There was a challenging look in her daughter’s eyes. Fatima registered the look and accepted it wordlessly. Miriam waited for her mother to make some comment about her appearance. Under her mother’s shocked gaze she held herself tall and erect; the mutinous line of her mouth very much prominent.

“I am going to see Farook, Mother” she softly informed and waited, giving her mother sufficient time to say something. Fatima said nothing, her gaze dropped. Miriam then turned and left the room.

The outside door clicked shut behind her. Fatima moved to the window. It looked onto the front garden and its driveway. She saw her daughter shut the garden gate behind her. Then placing one hand in the pocket of her faded pair of jeans, while the other held the short jacket tightly against her chest, Miriam began to walk away.

Kaniz Bibi had just been to see her
pir
, her spiritual guide, in the next village. Her face glowed with happiness. Getting off the bus, she walked through the fields of her village. She couldn’t wait to see her friend Neelum.

Just ahead of her, she spotted one of her friends and hastening her pace, called out to her.

Her friend stopped, turning round, and on spotting her, smiled at her, “
Assalam Alaikum
, Kaniz Bibi. How are you?”

“
Wa Laikum Salam
, with God’s blessing, I am well. And you and your family?” she asked in return.

“We are all well, Mashallah, with God’s blessing. Where have you been? Have you been visiting your relatives in the city?”

“No. I’ve just been to the shops and to visit my
pir
in the next village.”

“Is there anything in particular that you want to see your
pir
, Sister Kaniz?”

“Yes.” Unable to contain her delight, she held up her bulging shopping basket,
tokerry
, to her friend. The latter looked at it with interest. Kaniz flicked off the lid, revealing balls of blue soft wool.

“Who are you going to knit for?” Her friend asked. Kaniz smiled, creasing her face with fine lines. Her friend gave her a knowing glance. Kaniz smiled in response. Unable to contain her joy any long, she burst forth.

“We’ve been blessed, Sister Zakia.” Her friend now fully understood her. It was a known fact in the village that Kaniz had been desperate for a grandchild. Married for five years, up till now her son and daughter-in-law had not been blessed with a child.

Kaniz held up her hands in a gesture of prayers to Allah and thanked him. Her friend followed suit and did the same.

“I am so pleased for you, Sister Kaniz. How many months have passed?”

“Oh, just three months.”

“Is everything alright with the pregnancy?”

“So far, yes. I have sent her to the city to be checked over by the doctors. I have stopped her from doing any physically demanding work, and forbidden her from going to any houses with ‘
chilla
’, women in confinement and those where a miscarriage has taken place. My
pir
has especially tutored me to beware of
perchanvah
affecting my daughter-in-law. He has advised us not to go in a house where there is a likelihood of
perchanvah
, evil shadow, being present, and from maintaining any physical contact with any woman who has miscarried, and thus her shadow,
perchanvah
, affecting my daughter-in-law.”

“Oh don’t worry, Sister Kaniz, your Faiza is a healthy, young woman and you’ll soon be blessed with a healthy young grandson.” Zakia gave her friend a generous embrace.

“My
pir
says the same. He is sure my Faiza is going to have a son. And I believe him.” said Kaniz hugging her friend in return. “Are you going back to the village, Zakia? Let’s walk together.”

The two friends walked together, engrossed in a conversation about their children, neighbours,
pirs
and friends.

In Kaniz’s home at that time, Faiza had just finished washing the
marble-chipped
floor of the veranda and the central courtyard. They had a woman helper to help with the household chores. Today, however, Faiza had insisted on cleaning the floors herself, particularly when her mother-in-law wasn’t in. The latter had stopped her doing any household chores, apart from cooking.

The outside door facing the veranda opened. Faiza looked up, expecting her father-in-law to come after praying in the local mosque.

Salma stood awkwardly in the doorway, not knowing whether she would be welcomed inside or not. Her eyes quickly scanned the courtyard and veranda to see if anybody else was around. Her facial expression conveyed her inner unease.

On seeing her best friend, Faiza was at first surprised and afraid, and then common sense asserting itself, she smiled.

Salma gestured with her hand to ask if anybody else was in the house. Faiza shook her head, and then nodded her head to call her in, feeling guilty at the same time, as if she was committing a crime. Her friend Salma too, felt like a criminal for some reason or other, knowing that with her
perchanvah
she shouldn’t be visiting her pregnant friend. If Faiza’s mother-in-law, Kaniz, found out or saw her!

Faiza got up from the floor and moved towards her friend. As she went halfway across the courtyard, she slipped and fell with a thud on the concrete floor, emitting a cry of pain and shock.

Horrified, Salma moved to her friend’s aid, emitting the word “
Allah Pak
”, God help them.

“Are you alright, Faiza?” she asked earnestly, as she helped her to sit on the
charpoy
in the courtyard. “Oh God, you shouldn’t move so fast in your condition, particularly on a wet floor.”

“Yes, I know.” Faiza said, her voice low, still in pain.” My mother-in-law is always telling me not to do work like this. I thought that as she was out today to the next village, I would do it today. I don’t know why, but I seem to have a craving to do household chores.”

“Are you sure, you are alright?”

“I am just bruised around my thighs. I’ll be alright soon. How are you Salma? You shouldn’t be here, you know. If my mother-in-law sees you here, there will be trouble.”

“Oh come on, Faiza. You don’t believe all that crap, do you? It’s old wives tales. I am your best friend. I don’t mean you any harm. It is not my fault that I have had three miscarriages. You don’t believe in
perchanvah
? These superstitions that we’ve inherited from the old Hindu customs? How can an educated modern young woman like you believe in it?”

“I know, but all women can’t be wrong. They really believe it. What can you do? It’s no use arguing. You can never reason with them. Our
pir
has been feeding the same ideas to my mother-in-law.”

“But it’s not fair, Faiza. How would you feel if you were in my shoes? I am discriminated against and victimised. Do you know what it feels like, to be shunned from any contact with young pregnant women? I am being treated as an evil spirit. They think that my mere shadow will harm them. One pregnant woman even refused to eat the pudding that I had prepared the other day. It is as if my
perchanvah
had infected the pudding. The whole thing is incredible. How can my miscarriages affect another woman? You tell me?”

“I don’t know Salma. It’s just the way these superstitions have perpetuated themselves over the centuries.”

“It’s not fair for those women who have miscarried. I feel soiled, tainted and hurt. I cannot begin to describe to you the suffering I have undergone, not only at the loss of my babies, but also the way that some women have treated me. Instead of offering sympathy, they have recoiled from me.”

“I am sorry, Salma. I suppose that I am just as guilty as my mother-in-law. Anyway, I haven’t seen you for over two months. Was there anything you wanted to see me about, that you risked coming in?”

“Yes, I have some good news. I don’t know if you know, but I went to Peshawar two days ago to see a lady doctor, a gynaecologist. She told me that the reason I have miscarried is that I have a loose womb of some sort, making it difficult for me to have full term pregnancies. She suggested some sort of drug treatment. She told me that in about six months’ time, everything will be alright for me to have a normal healthy pregnancy.”

“Oh, I am so glad for you, Salma.” So saying, her natural love for her friend asserted itself, and she grasped Salma by the shoulders, and hugged her in a warm embrace.

It was at that very moment that Kaniz Bibi entered her home. She stopped dead on seeing her daughter-in-law locked in an embrace with
that
girl. She was livid. Blood thundered through her veins. The bulging
tokerry
with the wool fell out of her hands. She couldn’t trust herself as to what she was capable of. She just stood there staring.

Faiza was the first to spot her. Her face paled, and she jolted away from Salma. Shocked by her friend’s action, Salma too looked towards the door. On seeing Kaniz, Salma’s cheeks suffused with colour, partly from guilt and partly embarrassment. From the darts of anger shooting out of Kaniz’ eyes and the fallen
tokerry
on the floor, spilling its contents on the wet floor, Salma sensed the tension and danger of the situation and the predicament in which she had placed herself. She truly felt like a criminal.

Should she apologise? But for what? Her mind rebelled. On seeing her best friend? She had done nothing wrong. The look of horror in Kaniz’s face and eyes distressed Salma. It was almost as if Kaniz Bibi had expected her to murder Faiza. Her mind reeled from a sense of helplessness and distress.

Not wishing to bring Kaniz’s wrath on herself, she quickly stepped away from Faiza, and side stepping Kaniz, as she stood in the doorway, Salma walked out, feeling damned, soiled, inadequate, belittled and insulted.

Kaniz remained standing in the same place for a few more seconds, staring at Faiza, who by now had dropped her gaze, feeling awkward and embarrassed, knowing fully well that her mother-in-law was very angry with her.

She came forward and started to scoop up the balls of wool from the floor.

Kaniz stared down at Faiza, seeing the blue wool for the first time. At last she broke the silence.

“
That
girl is after us. How many times Faiza, have I told you to have nothing to do with her. She has now shed the
perchanvah
from her recent miscarriage. How could you be so stupid? Don’t you care for your baby? If you don’t, we do. We want this baby badly.”

“Of course I do, Auntie. It’s just that I couldn’t turn her away from the door. It would have been cruel and inhuman to do so. She hasn’t been here for the last two months. And she is my best friend.”

“I don’t care whether she’s your best friend or not,” interrupted Kaniz, cutting her short. “Friendship doesn’t come into it. What matters is your health. Until you’ve had the baby, or unless she gets pregnant meanwhile, I want you to have nothing to do with her, or any other woman with the
perchanvah
. If you don’t care for your child, at least consider our wishes and feelings. I want a grandson. Our
pir
has said that you will have a son. How’s that?”

Faiza’s cheeks glowed with delight. Boys were always wanted, especially first time. It would be a great honour indeed to have a son.

“Now we have got this
perchanvah
of
hers
in the house. I’ll have to do something about it.” Her mother-in-law continued, as she moved briskly across her courtyard into the
bavarchikhanah
, kitchen. There she took out a pinch of red chilies from the container and returning to the courtyard called Faiza to stand in front of her. She ritually circled the air over Faiza’s head and shoulders with the chili powder still between her fingers.

Then she checked Faiza’s neck to see if she wore the amulet with some holy words written by the pir on it.

The amulet,
tweez
, around her neck was to ward off the evil eye.

“I think that from now on, I had better stay at home, all the time. I don’t trust
that
girl. If she sets a foot in our house again I’ll…”

“You’ll what Kaniz Bibi?” Her husband asked, returning from the mosque. He had heard what she’d said. “Nothing” Kaniz said defensively.

“You women! You were talking about Salma. Why can’t you stop victimising the poor girl? When will you women stop your superstitious ways and customs? Do you think that swirling chili powder over your daughter-in-law’s head will insure her good health? Huh”, he laughed.

Kaniz kept a tight rein on her anger, as she confronted her husband.

“You always find it so amusing, don’t you? You delight in belittling our beliefs, don’t you?”

“I find it utter nonsense. It is
shirk
, against the teaching of Islam and it is inhuman. How would you feel if Salma was your daughter, and somebody treated her, the way that you treat her?”

“Bah! You men! You don’t understand anything. Let me tell you what my
pir
has told me.” She smiled at him.

“What did your
pir
tell you this time, Kaniz Bibi?” He silkily asked, loathing the influence that the
pir
had over his wife and other women.

Kaniz looked at him gloatingly. “He said that we are going to have a grandson. He had a dream and a premonition.”

“Oh well, that’s great, if he said that. What will you do if it is a girl? Will you return it to him?” He chuckled.

Kaniz turned away from him exasperated. It always ended like this. He managed to nettle her, and she turned away from him, stronger in her beliefs than ever.

The next day, early in the afternoon, a lot of guests arrived unexpectedly in Kaniz’s home. It turned out to be a very busy afternoon for both Kaniz and Faiza, as they fed and entertained the guests including preparing the
hookahs
, the smoke pipe for the two elder male relatives.

It was while she was making
chapattis
, flattened bread, in the kitchen, in the evening, that Faiza felt herself get wet between her thighs.

Her heart stood still. The
chapatti
in one hand remained poised in mid-air, while the other on the flat topped pan was almost burning. “Oh
Allah Pak
”, she moaned under her breath.

“This is not supposed to happen,” she thought. She was three months pregnant, therefore shouldn’t be menstruating. It could only be one thing! Her mind refused to register how her body was physically functioning.

Nobody else was in the kitchen. Leaving everything, she got up to go to the
ghusl khanah
, bathroom. As she walked, she felt her thighs getting wetter and wetter against her linen trousers,
shalwar
.

“Oh God help me”, she cried wildly to herself. To get to the bathroom, she had to cross the courtyard. Against the evening breeze, the guests, Kaniz Begum and her husband were sitting on cane chairs.