Revolt (39 page)

On the rooftop terrace, Rani gazed up at the stars, letting the warm, late-evening breeze brush her wet cheeks. She was at the lowest point of her life, with thoughts of Rashid totally swamping her. Hearing steps, she stiffened. Saher stood awkwardly behind her mother, willing her to greet her.

‘Mother?’

‘Leave me alone.’ Rani slumped down into the chair.

‘I can’t,’ came the low, stubborn reply.

‘What do you care?’ Rani bitterly accused.

‘Of course I care.’

Rani shook her head and then, to her daughter’s horror, burst into gentle sobs, head bent over her lap.

‘Mother!’ Saher pleaded, distressed. ‘Do you hate Arslan so much that you don’t want me to marry him?’

Rani shook her head. ‘No! It’s not that.’

‘Then what is it?’

Saher put her arm protectively around her mother’s body.

‘I’m so lonely, Saher,’ she uttered, stunning her daughter into silence.

‘Mother, please explain. Lonely? I’ll have to leave this home sometime, but if I marry Arslan then I will be able to see you every day! Arslan is staying and is planning to enter politics. If I had married Ismail, I would have gone to another country, and if I had married in the city you would not see me for months. Don’t you agree?’

Rani nodded.

‘Then why this sad mood?’

‘You’ve no idea what it’s like to live a wretched life of widowhood,’ Rani whispered, caving in and stunning her daughter.

‘Mother, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!’

‘Of course, nobody knows! I’m supposed to be coping well with everything,’ she returned bitterly. ‘I’ve everything, according to the world: wealth, acres of land, a wonderful home and a loving daughter to keep me company.’

‘Yes,’ Saher offered tentatively.

Rani burst into tears again, recoiling in self-loathing. What was happening to her today? All she knew was that Mehreen’s phone call about Laila’s arrival had triggered a personal crisis; pain and envy rushing through her.

‘Mother, I know it must have been a hard life without a husband, but please talk to me. It will help.’

Rani was crying and nodding at the same time, stuttering out the words in a rush, baring her soul to her beloved daughter.

‘To become a widow at 24, with a two-year-old daughter, is not a fate I would wish upon anyone else. Then in the following years to see your own two sisters blossoming, their youthful lives and bodies pampered in every way, their loving husbands at their sides. How I hated them and their lives. To always remain on the periphery has been so cruel and painful, Saher.

‘Gulbahar loved Mehreen and lavished so much attention on her, but she never quite appreciated that I needed more attention than my spoilt, young sister.’

‘But, Mother, you’ve rebuffed everyone with your cold attitude!’

Rani’s bitter laugh echoed around them. ‘That cold attitude was my armour, to protect myself. I needed no one.’

‘But you did though, didn’t you? Is that what you are really trying to say?’

‘I needed everyone to …’ Rani hiccupped, her cheeks shiny with tears, ‘… to get past my cold front, but nobody bothered!’ she bitterly mourned.

‘Why didn’t you marry again? I gather there must have been a
rishta
or two?’

‘At first for your sake, my darling, I was afraid that perhaps the other husband might reject you …’

‘Oh, Mother! Was there any man?’

‘Yes. One man took pity on me and wanted to marry me.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘He was already married. I could not enter another woman’s household or bring a strange man into my household. I let him go … and now he is out there with the army leading the soldiers against the Taliban …’

‘Oh!’ Saher was startled by her mother’s revelation. ‘What’s his name? Why didn’t you tell me?’

Rani looked down, lost in her thoughts of Rashid once again.

‘Mother?’

‘No one knows about Rashid. And after one or two attempts nobody bothered to ask or advise me to marry again. But if only somebody had arranged it for me … if only my sisters had realised how much I was missing a life companion.’

‘Oh! Mother. I wish you had married.’

‘My sisters enjoyed male companionship, while I had no one, apart from the servants.’ Rani continued, determined to speak her heart out to her daughter today. ‘They had total freedom in life. I had none. Not that anyone stopped me from doing anything. I gave up wearing makeup. Lipstick, in particular, something I so dearly loved since my teens … I loved collecting expensive lipsticks, top Western brands. I was supposed to be the most attractive of the three sisters. Then at the age of just 24, I became inhibited, afraid to let any colour touch my lips or cheeks, afraid of the prying eyes. If I did dare to smear a dash of it on, I would guiltily smudge it off, afraid of wagging tongues, sputtering, “Why is she made up? Which man is she trying to attract?”

‘From a confident, fashionable, young woman who held herself in high esteem, I became a dowdy, middle-aged woman before my time. Reluctantly, I parted with my shapely,
short-sleeved
dresses, and swapped them for drab, long-sleeved baggy
kurthas
. The elegant, flimsy ropes of crushed chiffon and silk
dupattas
that I casually threw around my shoulders were dispensed with. Yards of fabric smothered me from the male gaze, even from family members, for I had no husband to attract to
my youthful, female shape. Check all the photographs, Saher. I stand out like a dowdy tent.

‘I did it willingly, though grudgingly at first. My veiling soon became second nature. If the shawl accidentally slipped off my head or from my shoulders, I felt naked and hastened to sort out my clothing. My sisters, on the other hand, were careless about veiling themselves and often remained totally bareheaded. Gulbahar only took to covering her head in her forties, after Laila’s elopement.

‘Gulbahar freely enjoyed Brother Liaquat’s company and he frequently visited her any time of the day – forever in and out of her home. Why? Because Gulbahar was chaperoned by her husband, even if he wasn’t there physically! At times, I’ve seen him looking at my sister with a wistful look of admiration, though I doubt that saintly sister of ours would ever notice that male look anyway! It was strange that her husband has never noticed it. Poor Liaquat, however, could never visit me alone, especially in the early years, for fear of compromising me and my honour.

‘When you grew older, my life became more bearable. For you became my sister, daughter, friend, my companion and chaperone, all rolled into one. The need to talk to another adult, however, has always remained. I could not, of course, communicate with the servants. Social parameters have prevented me from doing that.

‘Now, Saher, I’ve lost you to Arslan. I know you’ve chosen him and he may well be a good husband but my unhappiness will remain my daily companion. Also …’

Rani stopped, gaze lowered.

‘Also …’ Saher prompted, unable to take in everything that her mother had painfully poured out.

‘Also, I am mourning the man who could have been my companion and I turned him down.’

‘I know there’s a real need in you for male companionship. I alone cannot fulfil that but I wish you had spoken to me earlier. If only you had remarried.’

‘It was not to be.’

‘Please give me your blessing to marry Arslan. He adores me!’

‘Yes, he’s crazy about you all right,’ Rani laughed bitterly. ‘All his life! His eyes were forever on you, whenever you weren’t looking, with that possessive look which I so hated. It’s so strange, my daughter, how naive you’ve been, not to spot the passion in his eyes. I’ve watched two men in love, Liaquat with our Gulbahar and Arslan with you, yet stupidly neither of you two women saw it.’

Saher blushed, not wishing to discuss her feelings for Arslan, remembering the feel of his mouth again.

‘You’ve got it wrong about Auntie Gulbahar and Uncle Liaquat – what a thing to say, Mother!’ Rani shrugged her shoulders and let the matter rest for the sake of her sister’s
izzat
.

‘Why were you so against Arslan?’ Saher challenged.

‘I don’t know. I hated him for feeling this way about you, as if he was defiling you. So I felt the need to protect you from him.’

‘Is that why you were happier to get me married to Ismail instead?’

‘At least he was older. You treated Arslan as a child – you always bossed him, remember? How can you marry a man you feel that way about?’

‘He’s not a child any more, Mother. And what we feel for each other now is very much grown-up stuff.’ She lowered her gaze, cheeks a fiery shade of red.

‘Then I’ll have to give you my blessing.’

‘Oh, Mother!’ Saher buried her face in her mother’s lap. ‘Thank you, I’m so glad,’ she cried, raising her tear-smeared face up to her mother.

‘He has to promise me to let you stay one night every week with me.’

‘He will, Mother, he will!’

After a while, basking in the warmth of her daughter’s kisses, Rani drew away.

‘Come, we are both tired and there’s a lot to be done tomorrow. I want to do it before Ismail goes back to the UK. Also Laila is back, and I want all my sister’s family to join me in my celebration. Enough time has been wasted and spent in isolation. I need to bond with both my sisters, especially with poor Gulbahar. I’m
so ashamed of my behaviour over the years, always imagining that she was slighting me because I was jealous of Mehreen. And now she’ll become your mother-in-law and I’m really pleased. For in my heart of hearts, I respect that sister very much!’

‘I’m so happy, Mother!’ Saher hugged her. Then, ‘Mother, about Rashid …’ Her mother stiffened.

‘Let’s go down. I’ll tell you more about him, one day,’ Rani stood up tall, face shuttered, pain chasing across her features.

Rashid.

She did not want to think of him now, of all times. Life was back in her body – head full of tasks for a full-blown wedding instead of an engagement party, so that Ismail and his English wife could attend it, too.

‘Rukhsar-ji, I’m not going to miss out on this wedding! Enough of this lying around in bed – with your pampering, you are going to give me bedsores,’ Massi Fiza teased her friend.

Every minute was precious – the quicker she got to the
hevali
the better her chance of joining Master Arslan’s wedding entourage. Surely Mistress Gulbahar would be kindly disposed towards her, for had she not done many errands for that family over the years?

Ignoring her friend’s mocking gale of laughter, Massi Fiza had scuttled down her friend’s staircase to her home. From her rusty, steel trunk, she dragged out a neat bundle of fabric – her best party outfit, wrapped in a muslin shawl. Squatting on the floor, she hurriedly ironed her peacock green taffeta and satin garments on the jute
dari
mat.

With a nervous heartbeat, coupled with a cheeky grin, Massi Fiza duly presented herself to Begum, the domestic goddess of ‘power’ in the
hevali
. She would see who won today – Massi Fiza or Begum.

‘Please, Begum …’ she began earnestly. ‘I’ll help you to clear up everything tomorrow and do all your washing, if you’ll let me join this wedding party.’

Begum’s mouth dropped open at the woman’s appearance in a
gota kinari
peacock-green satin and taffeta suit, which boxed her thin, wiry body. She was late with the tea and here was this mad woman with the cheekiest of requests!

‘And what will you do at the wedding party, Massi Fiza, may I ask?’ Begum frostily demanded, her thin eyebrows arched in disdain, cheeks swollen in secret laughter at the laundrywoman’s
audacity in presenting herself as a guest at Master Haider’s only son’s wedding!

‘You see,’ Massi Fiza stuttered, ‘I can carry some of the presents, the baskets of
mithae
, for example.’

‘What! The presents are already there – we are only taking the sweets and chocolates. Mistress Laila is now back at home and will do all the ritual carrying, not any of us humble servants. Definitely not you! The
goorie
will also be carrying one of the bridal sweet baskets.’

‘Please, Begum – take me with you!’ Massi Fiza cried, the vision of the
goorie
lending more urgency to her request. ‘I beg of you!’

Melted by Massi Fiza’s genuine longing, Begum relented and stiffly reminded the laundrywoman: ‘It’s not an engagement, but a wedding party. As Master Ismail and his English bride are leaving the day after tomorrow, it was decided to have this
nikkah
ceremony today. The bride and groom don’t want any fuss at all – it was as if they wanted to tie the knot this very evening!’ Begum stopped, mentally chiding herself for confiding so much of family matters to the laundrywoman.

‘Oh, wow, Begum!’ Massi Fiza marvelled, her eyes lighting up. This was even better. Reaching forward, she grabbed Begum’s hand and gave it a walloping kiss.

‘Please, Begum, you’ve got to take me with you. I’ll even catch a
tanga
just to get there! Allah Pak is my witness – I’ll do all the housework for you! I’ll be your personal maid at the ceremony … Please, all I want is a glimpse of how these people get married and what happens in these big mansions. Also, I’ll wash all your Ali’s clothes for free for two months,’ she added, still holding fast onto Begum’s hand.

‘OK. You can go … Let go of me, you silly woman!’ Begum screeched, pulling her hand back, shocked by the woman’s idiotic behaviour.

‘Oh, Begum, you are an angel!’ Begum feared the woman would swoon on her kitchen floor.

She ordered, ‘You might as well make yourself useful right now. I’ll get Ali to take us both in the Jeep.’

‘Thanks, Begum. You are simply wonderful!’

‘Stop the buttering! Don’t make me regret it. Mind you, you’ll have to stay the night at Mistress Rani’s house, as she’ll need our help in clearing up after the party tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ Massi Fiza’s smile now strained from one end to the other of her narrow face. This was even better – to spend two days at a wedding in Mistress Rani’s mansion! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see how that haughty, middle sister lived!

‘Now, nip out to the sweetmaker’s house and check if the
mithai
is ready … Their phone is busy all the time.’

‘I hear that Salma, the quiltmaker’s daughter, is leaving for Dubai. Bano, the seamstress, has been busy stitching all her suits. Keeping everyone else waiting. The baker’s wife is livid as the stitching for her daughter’s trousseau is being neglected!’

‘Never mind the baker’s wife! Now go … You are a bad influence, Fiza. You’ve got me going, too – gossiping!’

‘Take the tray, you daft woman!’ Begum cried, grabbing hold of Massi Fiza’s taffeta
dupatta
as she was about rush out of the kitchen in Rani’s
hevali
.

‘The dancing, Begum! I’ve got to see … the sisters are dancing in the drawing room.’ And then she had shot off. Begum, curious herself, sprinted after her. Over Massi Fiza’s shoulders, she peered into the room where the female members of Gulbahar’s clan were gathered, watching Mehreen do a traditional footstool wedding dance to celebrate her nephew and niece’s wedding. The small
peeri
propped on one shoulder, Mehreen’s stout body dipped and swayed in different directions to the
dholki
music played by two women seated on the floor and accompanied by the energetic chanting of folk songs by a group of women singers from the village.

Panting and giggling, Mehreen called to her smiling elder sister, sitting next to the groom and the bride. ‘Baji Gulbahar, see, this is how I danced at your Arslan’s birth. Don’t laugh, everyone! Of course, I was much slimmer then!’ Smiling, she grimaced down at her waistline, padded with rolls of fat, and
reached to pull her sister, Rani, with her stiff body and deadpan expression, into the dancing circle.

‘Come on, Rani. Cheer up, for God’s sake! It’s your daughter’s wedding day. Let’s celebrate. Laila, my darling – come and join me!’

Glad to dance at her brother’s wedding, Laila gracefully swung into the circle of dancing women, swirling her maroon chiffon sari around her body to the delight of the younger women, wanting to see more modern dancing than Mehreen’s clumsy movements. It was a much prettier sight to watch than Mehreen’s wobbling waist. Laila elicited loud clapping and cheering from everyone.

‘Mummy, can I dance too?’ Shirin excitedly pulled at the
phallu
of her mother’s sari. Flushed, Laila nodded. ‘It’s your uncle’s wedding – of course, my princess.’ Arslan, sitting happily beside his bride, beamed his approval at his niece.

Gulbahar, full of love, stood behind her middle sister and squeezed her hand. ‘Happy, Rani?’ Rani nodded, and on impulse planted a kiss on Gulbahar’s cheek before she got cold feet. Gulbahar’s arm closed around her sister.

‘
Mubarak
, Rani. I’m so thrilled to have your Saher come to us, but she remains your daughter always. So don’t think you have lost her.’

Rani smothered silent sobs against her sister’s shoulders as she desperately tried to thrust aside the image of Rashid, and then felt Mehreen’s arms encircling her. Everyone watched the three sisters clasping each other and weeping with joy.

Daniela, sitting beside Saher, happily looked on. Dressed in an elegant cream chiffon sari, given to her as a wedding present by Gulhahar, she had smiled her way through the entire evening. Enjoying every minute of this novel experience of attending a Pakistani wedding, she had learned about the different rituals and customs. She was in awe of the gold jewellery draped around the women’s upper torsos and admired the colours, textures and styles of garments worn by over 30 women and young girls from Haider’s clan.

Many stealthy glances lingered on the foreign bride, as the
guests marvelled at her Western beauty, her lustrous, shiny hair. They found her friendly manner so engaging; the way she stood up to embrace them, her sweet
salaams
and smiles to all were so endearing.

‘An enchanting creature she is!’ Mehreen proudly boasted to one of her cousins, who had come for the wedding from Karachi, her eyes often resting on her daughter-in-law with pride. ‘This is Allah’s way! He knows best!’ Who would have thought that her only son would marry a foreign woman! ‘And see how well she has blended with us and embraced our customs and way of life!’

Begum first lightly tapped and then poked hard on Massi Fiza’s bony shoulder.

‘Stop showing your funny teeth, you silly woman, we are here to serve dinner. The men have already been fed in the marquee. It’s the women’s turn. I know you want to stand here all evening gawping in admiration at the brides, but we are not the
bharathis
, the guests … Are you listening to me, you daft woman?’

Begum gave up, confronted with the dreamy look in Massi Fiza’s eyes. The
dhoban
was in seventh heaven. To be part of the landlord’s family wedding entourage and to witness the whole of the wedding reception, from the arrival of the groom from the other village in a limousine, and a atop white horse for the last few hundred yards, to the solemn
nikkah
ceremony, to the lively exchange of presents and milk-giving and money-bartering rituals and finally to watching the women’s dancing celebrations, was pure bliss.

‘How lucky I am! Thanks to you, Begum-ji! Wait until I tell Rukhsar all this – she’ll be so envious! If only I had a camera … Oh, God, I must get a picture with the two brides, especially with the
goorie
. I overheard that she’s leaving soon for London. I want to sit beside her and say something to her in
Engrezi
. If only I could. Alas, an illiterate woman like me is not destined to speak that language. Did you see the presents she’s been getting all evening and the wodges of money, Begum!’ Her tone had now switched to envy.

‘Shut up!’

Pulling Massi Fiza by the wrist, Begum led her out on the
veranda, to the table laden with food by the village chef and his staff on exquisite china platters, trays and bowls. Massi Fiza feverishly counted in her head the number of dishes being offered. Three she could not recognise. Meat, as expected, was plentiful, consisting of chicken, lamb, pigeon and fried fish. Overwhelmed by the experience of being amongst people of wealth, the upper classes, Massi Fiza turned a tearful glance at her friend.

‘Begum, thank you for letting me come here!’

‘Thank me later, you silly woman.’ Begum hissed. ‘Serve the drinks in the crystal glasses from Mistress Rani’s dining room. And don’t break any! Mistress Rani is not Mistress Gulbahar, you know. She might even charge us for any breakages!’

Giggling, and straightening their multi-coloured taffeta shawls fringed with golden
gota kinari
lace over their heads, they modestly lowered their gazes and stepped aside when the male guests filed past them for their tea in the dining room.

Haider lingered on the veranda, peering into the room through the open door and catching a glimpse of his granddaughter circling around the room in a brisk dance sequence, with the women energetically cheering. Haider caught his daughter’s eyes over the heads of the women guests. A poignant smile was exchanged. Feeling tearful, he moved on. Then, at the door he stopped, hearing steps behind him, and waited for his son-in-law. Jubail, disconcerted by this gesture, humbly entered the room. Begum and Massi Fiza exchanged a pointed glance beneath the fringes of their shawls. The potter’s son was honoured by his father-in-law in front of all the guests. Begum dreamily gazed at the retreating figure of her master. ‘How wonderful he is.’ At times she thought she must be in love with him, for his generosity and kindness to folk like herself and that traitor, Jubail.

Then they saw Mistress Rani come out of the deawing room, a mobile phone to her ear, eyes wide. She walked to the other end of the veranda, head lowered, talking in hushed tones. As Begum went to pass the hostess with a tray of drinks, she glimpsed tears and distress on Mistress Rani’s face.

Later when she mentioned it to Fiza in the kitchen, the latter shook her head.

‘Those tears were not of happiness, I tell you. Mistress Rani was highly distressed. I wonder who had called her and why?’ As Fiza nodded, she continued, ‘I saw her go up to her room, tearful cheeks hidden behind her
dupatta
. I guess it has all been too much having her daughter wed. Why are we gossiping again? The tea still has to be served to the ladies. Now pass me that round china pot and don’t drop it, for goodness sake!’

‘Please, stop bossing me!’ Now that she had seen the whole wedding, Massi Fiza had the temerity to challenge her new employer.

It was much later in the night, after the food had been served, that Massi Fiza’s dream came true; she had had her photo taken with the
goorie
bride, and by a professional photographer, too. It was Gulbahar who drily told the photographer that these women were ‘special’ in her household, catching a glimpse of disdain in the young city photographer, used to shooting pictures of glamorous models and fashionably dressed city women. He politely nodded, hiding a smirk as the two frumpy-looking women fiddled with their shawls, looking harassed and pursing their mouths even more when he asked them to smile. Massi Fiza would not obey him, bent on hiding her crooked teeth. After the photos had been taken, Massi Fiza went to call Mistress Rani from her bedroom. There she found mother and daughter hugging, with Rani sobbing over her daughter’s shoulders, ‘Do you understand what I have told you? I have to go to Rashid!’

‘Of course, you must, Mother! You have my blessing,’ Saher affirmed,

Shy of intruding on their intimacy, Massi Fiza closed the door. Her eyes were alight with speculation. Who were they talking about and where was Mistress Rani going? Her first question whilst scouring the pots in the kitchen to Begum was, ‘Who’s Rashid? Is Mistress Rani’s husband not dead?’

Begum looked mystified and then hotly scolded her helper. ‘Forget Rashid, whoever he is! Get on with your scouring!’