Marrying Ameera (8 page)

That afternoon, when most of the work was done and Aunty was resting and Jamila had gone to the school, I took my phone outside. It would be dinnertime at home and I needed to speak to Papa.

It was Riaz who answered. ‘Ames, we miss you around here. How ya doing?’

‘I’m okay. How’s Mum?’

‘She’s staying at Grandpa’s and Gran’s.’

‘For Christmas?’

He paused. ‘Yeah, I’m going over tomorrow.’

I thought of them all at the beach without me. Having barbecues, playing French cricket on the sand, eating icecream cones on the jetty. Mum always took halal meat for me and I could wear what I wanted. I missed Uncle Richard’s hugs and teasing too. He was such a stirrer, but he never let my faith make a difference to him. I pulled my shawl tight around me.

‘Can you give her my love?’ I said. ‘I don’t know why she hasn’t rung.’ I couldn’t stop my uneasiness pouring out. ‘Haider isn’t as nice as you.’

‘Oh, really?’ There was an edge to Riaz’s voice but I wanted to tell Papa.

‘Is Papa there?’ I asked.

‘Sure, and Ames…’

‘Yes?’

‘Keep in contact.’

I smiled at his new protectiveness. ‘Okay.’

He put Papa on. ‘Hello, beti. Are you settling in?’

‘Papa, I have to tell you something.’

His voice grew guarded. ‘What is it, beti?’

‘Haider touched me.’

Papa sighed. ‘I told them to treat you like a daughter and sister. Riaz touches you.’

‘That’s different.’

‘I’m sure he’s just being brotherly.’

‘Can’t you say something to Uncle Rasheed?’

‘Don’t worry. Wait till you meet Bibi’s eldest son. I know him better than Haider.’

Why was he so relaxed about this? He’d go ballistic if I said a boy had touched me in Australia.

‘Papa, do they know why you sent me here?’

There was a silence, then, ‘What do you mean, beti? I sent you on a trip to see the family. Maybe I’ll send Riaz next—he can learn more about the carpet business.’

How could he have forgotten the Collinses party? His anger?

‘Papa, Jamila’s not happy, not like a bride should be.’

‘She’ll get over it.’ It sounded as though he knew something I didn’t.

‘Get over what? Isn’t she getting married any more?’

Maybe that’s what the frowns and dark looks were about, I thought. Maybe her marriage had fallen through.

‘I don’t know for sure, but these things happen sometimes. Perhaps you can be a good friend to your cousin.’

‘I’ll try, Papa.’

‘I’ll say hello to your mother for you when she comes home from work. Bye now, beti.’

It wasn’t until after I’d pressed the end button that I remembered what Riaz had said: that Mum was staying at Grandpa’s and Gran’s. Why did Papa say she was coming home after work?

‘Ameera?’

I swung around. Asher. ‘You’re home.’ I quickly flipped my mobile shut. How much had he heard?

‘I’ve been home for ages,’ he said, and watched me put my mobile in the pocket of my qameez. ‘Have you heard? Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal are coming for dinner.’

‘Yes, I’ve made a cake.’

I tried to calm down. Surely Asher was too young to wonder why I wasn’t using the family phone.

He grinned. ‘They will like that. Jamila will not have a chance.’

‘Why won’t Jamila have a chance? She’s helped make chapattis and curry.’

Asher was watching me. I thought I understood that furtiveness in his eyes: he didn’t know what to say.

‘Come on, tell me. What’s our cooking got to do with anything?’

Very slowly, he said, ‘When a family chooses a bride, they like to eat the girl’s food so they know they won’t be poisoned for the rest of their lives.’

So maybe Jamila’s marriage wasn’t arranged yet, I thought. Papa just thought it had been. Maybe her bad mood was due to nervousness. I nodded slowly at Asher, glad I’d worked it out at last. ‘So who is the boy they want a bride for?’

Asher checked my face first, then looked behind him. When he seemed satisfied, he said, ‘Shaukat, Aunt Bibi’s eldest. He is a doctor. Jamila thought they would choose her.’

I could tell there was more he wasn’t telling me, but it helped me to understand Jamila better at least. Shaukat must be the boy Papa had mentioned: his sister’s eldest son. He wouldn’t come to the dinner; only the parents would meet the girl and decide. I felt sorry for Jamila: it must be like sitting an exam. I could see what Asher meant about the cake, and I didn’t understand why Aunty Khushida had pressed me to make one if it was going to outshine Jamila’s curry.

Asher said, ‘If I was Shaukat I’d want to marry you—you’re prettier than Jamila and kinder too.’ He flushed.

I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Asher, I’m not marrying anyone, so Jamila has a clear field.’

‘Haider wants to marry you too.’

Asher didn’t mean any harm but suddenly I felt as if I was standing on a lone rock with the tide rushing in and no retreat in sight. They had all been looking forward to Jamila’s marriage and now it seemed I was here ruining it. No wonder she looked daggers at me.

Zeba came running out. ‘Ummie wants you to come, Ameera. She has an outfit for you to wear.’

‘Why can’t I wear my own clothes?’

‘Silly,’ Zeba said. ‘You have to wear a special outfit tonight. Aunt Bibi’s coming.’

Asher was still watching me; it was rather an appraising look for a thirteen-year-old. A tremor shivered through me as I remembered his words: ‘when a family chooses a bride’.

By the time I reached the house I realised how stupid my fears were; I’d let Asher’s words transport me on a flight of fantasy. This was Jamila’s night. Besides, if there was any misunderstanding and Aunt Bibi thought I wanted to get married too, I could easily put them right and say I was returning to Australia in a month to go to uni. Problem solved. Haider, I’d have to deal with later.

‘Ameera!’ Aunty Khushida called to me from her bedroom. ‘Hurry, child.’

Zeba led me in. Dadi jan and Jamila were there too. Dadi jan smiled at me, but Jamila’s eyes were puffy and red, and she turned her face to the wall when I attempted a smile. Aunty beckoned me closer. Then I saw the dress. It was laid out on the bed: musk pink, a high waist, gold shining through from underneath. The border around the hem was stitched in gold thread and was thirty centimetres deep at least. Instead of the shalwar there was the narrow pyjama worn in Bollywood movies called churidar. Gold high-heeled sandals stood erect on the floor. Aunty picked up the dupatta. It also had gold
stitching on the border and hung in perfect folds; if it were on my head, my face would be framed in gold. I had never worn anything so exquisite.

Why give me such an outfit? I felt as though a cage was closing around me.

I glanced at Jamila. ‘I can’t wear this.’

Aunty’s frown came into full play. She too glanced at Jamila, then chose to interpret my comment as polite incredulity. ‘Of course you can. Your father has paid for it so there is no need to be embarrassed. He wanted you to look your best for your Aunt Bibi.’

Aunt Bibi had married well. She and Uncle Iqbal had houses in Islamabad and Karachi, though they lived much of the year in Azad Kashmir. I could understand Papa wanting me well-dressed to meet her. I relaxed a little.

‘What about you, Jamila?’ I said, trying to cheer her up, refusing to accept that her mood had anything to do with me. ‘Do you have an outfit like this?’

Jamila clutched her hand to her mouth and ran out of the room. I looked to Aunty Khushida to tell me what was going on, but she pursed her lips and said nothing about Jamila. She addressed Zeba instead. ‘Get Ameera’s hairbrush, you can brush her hair.’

‘I can do my own hair, Aunty ji.’

Aunty Khushida looked me full in the face then. The lines around her mouth were more pronounced and her cheeks sagged. Why did she look so tired and sad?

‘There is so much about our culture you do not know, child,’ she said. ‘And I thought you would. It is very difficult.’

Her tone made me want to apologise. She sighed as if she knew this. ‘It is not your fault. Like all of us, you are just a game piece.’

It was my turn to frown, but she turned away, not welcoming questions. ‘Meena will be coming shortly to help you get ready.’

This time I didn’t protest. Perhaps this was a custom for guests; it would be rude of me to refuse to take part. Dadi jan beckoned to me and I sat in front of her with my head bowed, thinking. After a long time Zeba came in with my brush. Had she gone through my backpack before realising it was on the dressing table? Dadi jan took the brush from her and began long slow strokes. Aunty Khushida took Zeba away and soon there was just Dadi jan and the brush. Mum hadn’t brushed my hair since I was little, and she was always in a hurry so I wouldn’t be late for school. Dadi jan brushed from the top of my head all the way down the length of my hair, as though she was dragging the worries out of my mind to drop them on the floor. My scalp tingled and my limbs began to slacken.

‘There, child,’ she said. ‘There is no need for concern—all will be good. Inshallah.’ Then she asked, ‘Did you hear about my marriage, child?’

I turned slightly. ‘I heard you had a romantic marriage. Did you run away together?’

She shook her head. ‘They all think that—that Zufar brought me to Kashmir after we were married. But it is not true. I was abducted.’

I swung round to face her. ‘Abducted?’

‘Yes, I was stolen just like the tale of Omar and
Marui. Perhaps Zufar had heard of it and that gave him the idea.’ She chuckled.

‘But how could that happen? You would have been protected by your father, your brothers.’

‘Ji, but it was a difficult time. It was sixty years ago—the time of the partition. Pakistan was being born like mountains rising up out of the sea. Like an earthquake it was, and just as many people died. There was much confusion and killing. My family was planning to travel across the border to India. We lived in Rawalpindi. Zufar had come from Kashmir to our shop in Rawalpindi selling rugs. He saw me by accident. I was fourteen years old and beautiful.’ She smiled at me. ‘I was like you once. Zufar knew better than to ask my father for a marriage settlement for he was Muslim and our family Hindu.’

‘I didn’t know you were Hindu.’ I stared at her in wonder; perhaps her Urdu was really Hindi.

‘Hahn ji. But then the partition happened and Muslim killed Hindu and Hindu killed Muslim. My family was on the train—it was full of Hindu and Sikh refugees. At one small place, Arifwala, the train had stopped. But on the station were many angry Muslims being incited by mullahs. They wanted revenge. Suddenly the mob fell quiet. A Sikh, drunk with opium, was hanging from one of the windows singing verses from “Hir and Ranjha”—have you heard of this poem?’

I nodded. ‘Papa told me about it.’

‘It was my favourite—I sang it to your father when he was small.’

I must have looked surprised, for she added, ‘I could sing very well.’ She continued, ‘The Sikh sang the verses
where the poet criticises the corrupt mullah for denying Ranjha hospitality in the mosque when he fled from his family. When the mob heard those verses, they came to their senses and refused to obey the mullahs’ instructions to attack the train. We left the station unscathed, saved by a song.’

Dadi jan paused and I held her hand. ‘I never forgot it—that miracle—how one of our old tales could change hearts,’ she said. ‘For we all have the one heart even though they tried to split us in two. At the next stop, there was trouble again—too much fighting. My brothers were protecting our carriage, but I was pulled out through the window. There was a young man with a horse—a very fast horse as I remember.’

‘Dada Zufar.’

‘Hahn ji, he brought me to Kashmir.’

‘And your family?’

‘I never knew if they survived that trip to India. Once, when the children were grown, we visited Rawalpindi where I was born but there was no trace of my family. And they would have thought I had perished. Possibly, Zufar saved my life.’

‘But that is romantic. It’s better than a movie.’

She smiled wanly. ‘At the time I did not think so. It took me a year to learn to love him.’ She shrugged. ‘What choice did I have? I was fortunate, I suppose, for he was a good man. He was the son of a khan and used to getting what he wanted, but he was kind to me.’

Just as I was wondering why she was telling me this, she leaned forward. ‘Things do come good in a marriage, child, even when you least expect it.’

I stared at her, trying to formulate a question, for she was regarding me as though she expected one. The moment passed as Zeba burst in, leading Meena. ‘Here she is. Meena will do your make-up and your hair, Ameera. Can I do your nails? I promise not to make a mess.’

Meena smiled at me gently, searching my face. Zeba jumped up and down as if nothing before had ever been so exciting, but I could share nothing of her joy.

Zeba said I looked like a princess. Asher stared when I emerged and whispered an actress’s name: Aishwarya Rai. Maybe it was my green eyes. Meena had applied green eye shadow to accentuate them. She had arranged my hair so that the fullness of it fell down my back but little plaits on the sides kept it off my face. She had even bought lipstick and nail polish to match the exact pink of the dress. It terrified me to think of such attention to detail. Aunty Khushida smiled when she saw me but it was a smile tempered with sadness. She and Jamila were preparing the curries. Jamila also wore a new outfit but it wasn’t as fine as mine. I felt a renewed pang of anxiety. Why had they dressed me up like this just because I hadn’t seen Aunt Bibi since I was ten?

I tried to help Jamila cut up tomatoes but Aunty Khushida told me to sit down. ‘You’ll ruin your outfit. Meena will help.’

I sat on the couch and Zeba ran to get an English book so I could read to her. The book was a collection
of folk tales. ‘This one,’ she said and pointed to a picture of a lake and a mountain.

‘The Girl Who Cried a Lake,’ I read.

‘Mmm.’ Zeba settled in close beside me.

The story was about a girl from Kyrgyzstan with unusual blue eyes who met a hunter and wanted to marry him. Her parents said he wasn’t suitable, and arranged a marriage with a chieftain’s son. At the wedding the girl began to cry. No one worried at first, for this is what brides do at weddings, but her tears wouldn’t stop and soon she had cried a puddle, then a river, then a lake, drowning her family and the whole community. The young hunter found the lake and took a drink. It was warm and salty and so intensely blue that he realised his love had become a lake. He stretched his arms heavenward and grew into a mountain so that he could be near his love forever. I stopped, astounded at my feelings—that poor girl.

Zeba looked up at me. ‘Aur hai, there’s more,’ she said.

I looked at the painting of the girl in a colourful Himalayan wedding outfit crying a stream of tears, and forced myself to say the last sentence: ‘And that is the story of Lake Izzyk-Kul and the Tian Shan, the Celestial Mountains that surround it.’

It was a story I hadn’t heard before and it reminded me of the tragic tales Papa had told me. Was it true, that a marriage between two people of diverse backgrounds could never work? Or were they stories to keep young people in line? Mum and Papa had their problems, I knew, but Tariq had a different personality
from Papa. Surely love would give Tariq and me a different ending?

Just as Zeba put out her hand to turn to another story, there was knocking at the outside gate. Asher rushed to answer it. I wondered why Haider didn’t go.

‘Isn’t Haider with your father?’ I asked Zeba.

‘He is at his friend’s house. Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal would not like it if he could see you all the time.’ She gave me a knowing smile and my stomach churned.

I stood as Asher brought Uncle Iqbal and Aunt Bibi into the lounge. Uncle Rasheed and Aunty Khushida arrived to greet them. Aunty Khushida hugged Aunt Bibi the prescribed three times, but Aunt Bibi’s gaze darted around the room…and rested on me. She pulled away from Aunty Khushida before the hugging was finished.

‘Ah, so this must be Ameera. My, how you have grown, and much more beautiful than Hassan said.’

I fought the annoyance rising in my chest. Why was the way I looked always the first thing they saw here, the first thing mentioned? I never got this attention in Australia.

Aunt Bibi glanced at Uncle Iqbal and raised her eyebrows at him; then they both looked at me as if I were the only person in the room. In that moment I was in no doubt of their intentions. I had never been privy to an arranged marriage, but Asher’s and Zeba’s hints, Meena’s concern, Dadi jan’s story, Aunty Khushida’s frowns, Haider’s insinuations and Jamila’s moods all became clear in the light of the excited look on Aunt Bibi’s face as she launched herself towards me. I wanted to turn and run, but of course I behaved just as a good
Pakistani girl should. I bowed my head and sank to touch her feet; she laid her hand on my head, then hugged me. On the third embrace I feared she would never let go and I tried not to squirm. Then she relented and led me to the couch. I looked up at Aunty Khushida and saw Jamila behind her. Aunty’s face was over-bright; Jamila’s was a dark hollow.

‘So, tell all about yourself,’ Aunt Bibi said. ‘I hear you have finished school and are quite grown-up now.’

I stared at her aghast but Papa had trained me well; politeness took over and I managed to answer like clockwork. ‘Yes, my results will come out soon and I’ll know which university I am accepted into.’

Aunt Bibi glanced at Uncle Iqbal. ‘Yes, university. Of course there are many good universities here in Pakistan.’

My hands sweated in my lap. Aunt Bibi chose that moment to take one in her own. I tried to wipe mine as she took it, but only managed to create a fumble.

‘Silly, let me hold your hand,’ she said.

I tried to smile. I had so looked forward to meeting Papa’s adored sister again. She was certainly warm and affectionate, but there was something else now: I felt my breath being sucked from me, my lungs collapsing. I could lose myself in Aunt Bibi’s voluminous embrace, in her love, but would I ever be found again?

My fear must have shown in my eyes for when she lifted my chin she grunted. ‘Everything will be good, beti. Do not worry. We will look after you. Accha, now tell me about Hassan. How is his business running?’

I couldn’t remember afterwards what I had said. I just knew she hadn’t mentioned Mum once. We moved to
the table; the food came. I didn’t remember much of that either, except that Uncle Iqbal’s table manners were worse than Papa’s. Then the cake came out, courtesy of Jamila. She was careful to smile at Aunt Bibi but Aunt Bibi didn’t notice.

‘Who made the cake?’ Aunt Bibi sounded like a queen.

There was a silence until Aunty Khushida said, ‘Ameera did.’

Aunt Bibi turned her gaze onto me again. ‘So you can make cakes too.’

She made it sound as if I was used to holding garden parties in palaces and I thought a little honesty wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Yes, but I can’t make chapattis.’

Aunt Bibi stared at me as she took that in. A glance at Aunty Khushida showed her with eyes tightly shut, waiting. Then Aunt Bibi chuckled. ‘Who cares about chapattis these days? Shaukat has servants to cook.’

My eyes widened; any doubt I’d had was now dispensed with. Aunt Bibi had laid her hand on my knee as she said Shaukat’s name and her bright eyes told me more than Asher’s and Zeba’s knowing looks ever had.

Aunty Khushida let out her breath with a whoosh and Zeba clapped her hands; Asher winked at me. Both uncles grinned stupidly. Meena’s face was a question mark, and Dadi jan watched me with a wan smile.

The only unhappy faces in the room were Jamila’s and mine.

I saw from the photos later that I had the right look on my face as Uncle Iqbal’s digital camera flashed: not too eager, and a little frightened. It wasn’t an act. I was truly becoming more scared by the minute.

Aunt Bibi produced a red chiffon scarf, which she threw over my head, and put a ring on my finger. Everyone was so kind and happy, but I felt as if I was caught in someone else’s dream. Why would they think I’d want to get married at my age? Wouldn’t Jamila be a better choice? At least when I got home I could get it sorted out. Papa could give some excuse. Better still: maybe I could fix it before I left.