Revolt (40 page)

Elizabeth was enjoying her glass of sherry in her study, eyes closed, listening to a heated debate on Radio 4 when there was a knock on the door. Dave was ready to join his mates at the local pub to watch Wigan, his favourite team, playing football.

Frowning, Elizabeth got up; they were not expecting anyone. Daniela and her husband stood outside, two suitcases on the ground beside them. Elizabeth’s gaze was the first to drop. Ismail nervously turned his head, unable to look at the woman who had made her dislike so clear to him on their first meeting and then had refused to even acknowledge his presence in her daughter’s life. Face straight, Daniela shot a challenging look at her mother.

Love welling up for her daughter, Elizabeth pulled the door wide. But both her visitors remained standing. Elizabeth’s eyes slid off Ismail’s face. ‘Come …’ she said, her voice faint and roughened with emotion. She had not realised how much she had missed her daughter.

Daniela stepped into her parents’ home, after three years. In the living room they waited, exchanging surreptitious glances, whilst Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen to make tea for them, her hand shaking whilst she sliced a carrot cake. Then she heard Dave’s loud exclamation, ‘Daniela, my pet!’ and smiled wryly at the delight in her husband’s voice.

‘Dad!’

A few minutes later, Elizabeth wheeled a tea trolley into the living room. Ismail rose to help her, reaching for the trolley bar, his brown, suntanned hand near her white one. He glanced at her and then let go of the trolley.

Daniela was animatedly showing pictures from her digital camera to her father, explaining who the different people were: ‘This is Ismail’s mum, Mehreen.’

‘Let’s see, my pet.’ Dave peered at the small screen and then passed the camera to his wife. Bemused and heartbeat quickening, Elizabeth stared down at the overweight, Pakistani woman in a turquoise suit with her head and shoulders draped in a matching shawl, standing beside a colonnade in a courtyard. ‘This stranger – this woman – is now linked to my daughter,’ she bitterly echoed in her head, pressing the button to flick across more photos, steeling herself at the sight of another world cascading before her eyes, mind reeling at the unfamiliar faces and scenes.

‘These photos are of the wedding of Ismail’s cousin, Arslan. This is Laila, dancing at her brother’s wedding, and that lovely little girl is her daughter – Shirin, I think,’ Daniela looked at her husband to confirm. ‘Ismail has such a big family. So many relatives and big houses. It was lovely, Mum.’ Her voice petered away, assessing her mother’s face with interest, diving into her thoughts. Cheeks warming under her daughter’s scrutiny, Elizabeth recovered her poise and smiled, noting her daughter’s animated face and flushed cheeks. She had indeed lost her daughter to another world – to people of another race, faith, colour and culture.

As Daniela excitedly described some of the places she had visited and showed her father the printed photographs, Elizabeth stole a surreptitious glance at her son-in-law. She could tell that he was nervous and was bent on avoiding eye contact with her. So she was surprised to hear herself addressed by him: ‘How is your PhD research going, Elizabeth?’

Father and daughter exchanged a pointed glance. Elizabeth coolly answered, ‘Fine,’ eyes sliding off the brown-faced man who had stolen her daughter’s heart. Daniela pulled up her large handbag and drew out the jewellery boxes that her father-in-law had given her. Flicking the lids open, she startled her parents with their contents. Elizabeth stared at the line of blue and red velvet boxes containing the gold and silver gem-studded necklace sets, lying on her Persian silk rug.

Daniela drily informed them: ‘These are my gifts from my parents-in-law, Mother … All this gold is mine …’ Elizabeth stared back, chafing under her daughter’s mocking gaze, and politely uttered, ‘They are lovely, darling …’

‘Let’s have a proper look.’ Dave had plucked out a set and was smiling at Ismail. ‘What a lucky girl you are, Daniela. These are lovely, mate. Thank your parents for this.’

‘I will,’ Ismail beamed in pleasure and then disappeared out of the room. He returned a few minutes later with a small silk rug in his arms.

‘This is for you both. We bought it in Murree, a lovely hillside resort. I hope you both like it!’ Squatting on the floor, Ismail unrolled it over the other rug. Elizabeth’s face spread in a look of pure joy, her eyes marvelling at the rustic landscape of trees, deer and birds, cleverly woven with silk thread.

‘Thank you,’ she softly offered, bending to trace her finger over the shining, soft, silk surface.

Bent on impressing her parents, Daniela went out into the hall and, zipping open her suitcase, she pulled out the suits that Mehreen and Rasoola had helped her pack.

‘These, too, were given to me as gifts.’ Daniela happily thrust the pile of suits into her mother’s lap. Elizabeth stared at the Asian outfits of all colours and textures. Daniela pulled out one of her favourites. ‘This long skirt, Mother, is called a
lengha
and there is a tunic and a matching scarf. Look at the embroidery and sequin-work – see how fine it is. And these are real zirconi crystals on this sari. I wore it at the wedding. I’ve got photos of me wearing it. Here, let me show you.’ Overwhelmed, Elizabeth dumbly nodded, gazing wryly at the photo Daniela had thrust in front of her and the people in it who had crowded into her daughter’s life. ‘These two are Ismail’s aunts – Gulbahar and Rani. Gulbahar is nice, but Rani never smiles and …’ Daniela stopped. She was about to add: ‘I know Rani hates me.’ She would never tell her mother about Saher, the fiancée, and that nightmarish experience during the first few days of her visit to Pakistan.

‘And these are some of their servants. This is Rasoola, the
housekeeper in Ismail’s home. In this photo is the laundrywoman called Fiza who works in Ismail’s aunt’s home. She kept babbling on about wanting to sit next to me at the wedding and having a photo taken.’ Elizabeth nodded.

An hour later, after tea and more small talk over photographs, their jewellery items packed away apart from one silver necklace which Daniela presented to her mother as a gift, Ismail rose to leave.

‘We need to go, Daniela. You need to rest. We came straight from the airport to say hello,’ Ismail explained.

‘I’m glad that you came to see us first, Ismail! Delighted to have you both back!’ Dave shook Ismail’s hand. ‘Thanks for looking after my daughter. We were worried at times … but it looks as if she had a marvellous time.’ Ismail and Daniela exchanged a special look, remembering the early days.

Dave hugged his daughter. Elizabeth rose and gathering her daughter into her arms pressed a kiss at the side of her face. Daniela kissed her back. The two men looked on, Dave’s eyes filling. It was exactly three years since mother and daughter had been in the same room. Dave offered to drop them off home.

At the door, Elizabeth shyly invited, voice unsteady, ‘Come for lunch on Sunday and stay for the day.’

Both stared. Ismail was the first to reply.

‘Elizabeth, why don’t you come to our house for dinner?’ he invited, a challenging look in his eyes. A pregnant pause, then a nod from Elizabeth. It was the nod that prompted Daniela to impulsively explain to her mother. ‘I have decided on a name for my son, Mother – Ibrahim. In English it is Abraham.’

‘That’s nice,’ Elizabeth politely commented, her gaze falling as she retreated to the living room.

Outside, after the luggage had been placed in the car boot, Daniela whispered to her father, ‘How are things between you and Mum?’

Dave shrugged. ‘On some days everything is normal, on other days there is no real communication. And you know what, pet – I really don’t give a damn. Perhaps now that her relationship with you has improved, she might well lose some of her hostility
towards me, too.’ They saw Mrs Patel getting out of her car with bags of groceries from Tesco and vegetables from the local Asian supermarket.

In the house, Elizabeth was fascinated by the elegant silver necklace set that Rukhsar had personally studded with zirconi and black gems whilst gossiping with Massi Fiza about Jennat Bibi and her superstitious beliefs. Elizabeth peeped at the necklace many times that evening, and finally decided that it would go really well with her favourite black shift dress. Inside she was wrestling with different thoughts and feelings, including names for the baby. Daniela had mentioned a Muslim name for her son. Did that mean her daughter had adopted the teachings of that faith and adapted her life accordingly? She closed her eyes, recoiling at the sudden image flashing across her mind; a scarf wrapped around her daughter’s head. What if Daniela took to wearing the veil? Then the question: how brown would her grandchild be? Light brown? Olive brown? Or just brown like the father? Surely with her daughter’s colouring, the child had to be creamy white?

‘What am I thinking?’ Elizabeth reined in her racist thoughts, bitterly recognising the uncomfortable truth. ‘I have gained back my daughter. And I will see her in two days’ time.’

A few minutes later, Elizabeth pushed aside a copy of Euripides’ tragedy
Hippolytus
and strode to the wall mirror to try on Rukhsar’s handiwork, the silver necklace originally designed for Saher’s neck. Pulling up her hair to get a better view of her slim neck, she smiled. The necklace, wherever it came from, was exquisite.

Rani could not make up her mind as to which sister to speak to: Mehreen or Gulbahar. In the end, it was her elder sister she honoured by her visit and insisted on privacy, shuttling her sister up to the roof terrace. Unlike Gulbahar, Rani trusted no one, especially not the servants. The matter she was about to divulge was too personal, only to be entrusted to the bosom of a loyal sister. Begum had served refreshments and was then dismissed.

‘I’ve something to tell you, Gulbahar …’ Rani solemnly began, sitting at a patio table facing her sister, finger circling the rim of a cool glass of sherbet.

Gulbahar waited, steeling herself for some bad news. Gaze faltering, Rani began, ‘I’m going to do something …’ Eyes on the basket of petunia hanging from the marble colonnade of the rooftop veranda, she continued, ‘Not that I need your or anyone’s permission. But out of respect, I’ve come to you.’

Gulbahar stared, still none the wiser.

‘Rani …’ she coldly prompted.

‘Today … this afternoon … I’m defying convention, abandoning the customs of female modesty …’

‘Rani?’ Gulbahar’s heart was thudding. What was her sister trying to say?

In a steady voice Rani announced, gaze falling, ‘I’m visiting a man …’

Seconds ticked away. Gulbahar’s lips parted, breath caught, staring at her sister.

‘Visiting a man?’ she queried, trying to make sense of her sister’s words. ‘What are you saying, Rani? Which man? And why?’

To her horror, Rani’s face folded in distress, silent sobs shuddering her body.

‘A dying man!’

Eyes wide, Gulbahar reached for her sister’s hand across the round table, watching a red and white kite sway over the rooftop terrace and the black crows diving down from the sky to perch on the railing wall, spreading their glossy, black wings and then flying up again, one after the other.

From the courtyard downstairs, Gulbahar could hear Begum chanting, ‘Mithu! Mithu!’ Mouth parted, ‘Rani …’ she prompted, standing behind her sister, hand poised but afraid to touch in case she was rebuffed.

‘A man … whom I should have and could have married, but did not …’ She stopped, sobbing afresh, ‘… is in hospital.’

‘Oh!’ Gulbahar’s face paled, heartbeat quickening. This was not what she was expecting. A man linked to her widowed sister? Rani, who had led such a sheltered life, shielding herself from all men, at all times. Where had this man come from? How and when? Nausea spiralling through her, Gulbahar recoiled from the image of her sister with a man.

Rani raised her head, accurately reading the fleeting expressions chasing across her sister’s face.

‘One day, I’ll tell you about him and how much he means to me … Today, I neither want to nor have the time.’ The agony in her sister’s husky voice sheared Gulbahar. Dumbfounded, she continued staring.

‘I came not to explain my actions but to inform about my whereabouts, in case anyone was looking for me.’

Gulbahar nodded, dismayed. Her sister had become a stranger. When exactly was it that they had drifted so apart, that she, the elder sister had no inkling of such a happening in their Rani’s life. Who was this man? And why did Rani not marry him? Nobody would have stopped her. Rani cynically dug into her sister’s thoughts.

‘I know what you are thinking and feeling, but I don’t care. I need to go … to be with him … for whatever time he has left. I don’t need your permission or blessing, and I don’t care about
anyone’s opinion.’ Her voice had risen, eyes bitterly assessing the shadows of unease chasing across her sister’s face. ‘I’m a mature adult, able to make my own decisions. I hope you’ll understand the serious nature of this visit. I gave up so much, Gulbahar … my youth … Bartered my personal chance of happiness for years of loneliness, and now it’s too late!’ Her mouth quivering, Rani was bitterly sobbing again.

‘I can’t bear to lose him! If only I could turn back the clock. Why did I give him up? Please pray for me, Gulbahar … that I’m not too late …’ Rani mourned against her sister’s body, before pulling herself away.

‘I will,’ Gulbahar softly promised, letting go of her. From the stairs, Rani cried, ‘I’ll be at his side … No man or woman will be my judge. I know Allah Pak understands my pain. Whatever I do will be for Rashid’s sake!’

‘Do what you have to do – my love and support is with you.’ Gulbahar softly asked, ‘Does Saher know?’

‘Yes.’

From the rooftop gallery, Gulbahar watched her sister’s Jeep drive out of the village and turned her face up to feel the sun on her face. Life would never be the same again. Her sister was running to the side of a
ghair mard
, a man with whom she had no legitimate relationship and no right to be with. Who was this Rashid? Was he the captain friend of Rani’s husband who came to inform us of Yacub’s death? It must be. He had visited them a number of times after Yacub’s death. What had happened? What was there between that man and her sister? Only time would tell and she would let her sister tell it all.

Aloud she cried, ‘Rani! Rani! I spent all my life protecting Mehreen’s marriage and I never gave your widowhood a thought and you never let me. What pain or sadness have you been hugging to yourself all these years!’ Behind her eyes there strayed the image of Rashid talking to her sister at one of their social gatherings. Harmless social interaction; when did it transform into something else? And why did her sister give him up?

Rani’s secret would remain safe, drowned in the well of her sisterhood. She could just imagine Mehreen’s likely comment:
‘What? Our sister has run away to the side of a strange man! Has she no shame – no
sharm
? And at her age! And her daughter has just got married. Is she mad?’

‘Why is everyone revolting against the norms? First Laila with the potter’s son, then Ismail marrying a foreign woman. Now Rani, a modest woman, leading a pure life, running to be with a strange man with whom she has no marital links. What madness has struck our family?’ In her heart of hearts Gulbahar knew. Love.

To her husband, Gulbahar uttered not a word about her sister. If anyone asked, the answer would be, ‘Rani is visiting some friends.’

Rani’s driver was aware of his mistress’s distress, but social parameters forbade any enquiry. He glanced at her often through the rear-view mirror, wondering why his mistress was so upset and why they were going to a hospital in another city and with a suitcase full of clothes. As she had told him to take extra clothing for himself, he was wondering about his own family and work schedule. When would he return to the village? Mistress Rani had not specified dates.

Rani, sitting at the back, had her face pressed against the car window, looking out at the passing scenery, eyes swollen with tears, shawl pulled low over her head.

‘Why? Why did I do that?’ How many times had those bitter words rung through her head?

Simple words, ‘Please do not contact me again,’ chosen with care and uttered on impulse, spurred on by the sound of the other woman’s voice on another continent. The words, ‘Rashid, who are you talking to?’ had sent terror chasing through Rani, making her question her own motives.

The thought of trespassing into another woman’s life and home, and sharing her husband, sent waves of nausea through her. With those words, she had cut herself off from the man whom she had begun to care for, the man who offered her a way out of her misery, an opportunity to lead a fulfilling life. Her
decision to turn him away would haunt her for years and cause her to shed many bitter tears.

‘Why? Why?’ she had cried. She was the loser. ‘But I cannot enter into another woman’s life and cast my shadow!’ was the painful realisation. Only five years ago, she found out that he had separated from his wife and children, and returned home from Canada. Then her bitterness turned to him. ‘Why did he not get in touch? Why not let me know that he had divorced … I gave him up for her!’

Of course, she did not know that pride had forbidden him from approaching her again. She had rebuffed him and in very clear terms – he would not cloud her horizon again.

She could still recall the excitement, the rush of adrenalin on hearing his voice and the moist feeling of her palm as she cradled the phone against her ears. She had been incredibly happy to receive that phone call.

Then his proposal – shocking her. A glorious feeling of joy washed over her, wanting to reach out to him And the agonising silence; he waiting, she recovering – holding onto the phone and her breath. The joyous words, ‘I don’t know what to say … Yes! Yes!’ never left her mouth or reached his ears. For her own ears had picked up another voice, a woman’s voice, unwittingly staking her claim over the man on the phone. It hit Rani in the head as nothing else could have done. She had to contend with that person, that voice. The joy was quashed there and then. He was not hers – but belonged to another. Her personal happiness spelled misery for the other woman. She could never be the second woman in his life, the despised second wife, who had usurped and ‘stolen’ the role of the original wife. The thought of confronting his children, as their ‘new mama’, froze her.

She often had wondered over the years how her life would have been if she had not heard that woman’s voice. She knew she would have said yes and married him. The voice was her undoing, intimidating her into withdrawal, afraid to even catch a glimpse of the other woman, let alone share Rashid with her.

She often thought of their walk in the orchard, her most cherished memory of her time with Rashid. The raw excitement of
youth, the tingling warm blushes she could still experience, as they had strolled alone, behind the group of other strollers from Rani’s family. Without realising or intending, their pace had stalled, the distance between the others widening. They were still discreet, still in sight, but enjoyed a degree of intimacy that they both welcomed and were reluctant to part with.

On both sides there were blushes, stammered words, pregnant pauses, eager, shy looks as they hungered to know more about the other: what films they watched, what books they read and what they did when they were bored; the bout of giggles when Rashid shyly revealed he took showers and she added that she put on red lipstick. That day she was wearing red lipstick and glad that she was, knowing how becoming it was on her face with its flushed creamy cheeks, and matching her elegant white and red
shalwar kameez
outfit.

She walked confidently on her white high-heeled mules, having wanted to look her best that afternoon. Though she did not admit it to herself at the time, later she knew she had dressed with care that day, spending extra time in choosing her jewellery and doing her hair. It was the first time she had let herself dress as she used to before she became a widow. Why? She had asked herself so many times. Now she knew. She was loath to show herself as the ‘dowdy’ widow, her beauty hidden.

Just before they separated to enter the house, with his voice and head lowered, he shyly offered her the compliment, ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I hope we get a chance to do so again!’

Blushing, she had nodded and reluctantly had followed him inside. They parted into different rooms; Rani to where the women were gathered and he, after refreshments, went out onto the lawn. Through the window, she often found her gaze straying to the lawn. Once he had looked around and caught her eye. She returned the gaze and shyly moved back.

Later in the comfort of her bedroom and her bed, Rani faced the naked truth. Surprisingly, there was no shame in acknowledging that she was falling in love with this man, a friend of her husband’s.

Then the waiting began. No communication. Just hope. Hope
that he would get in touch. She had faith in her intuition; his body language signalled both his interest and his enjoyment in her company.

‘We are nearly there, Mistress Rani,’ her chauffeur announced, stealing into Rani’s thoughts.

Rani had insisted on her driver waiting in the hospital car park. She had gone to see the consultant who had contacted her on her daughter’s wedding day and broken the news about Rashid’s accident. Rani was one of the people the patient had requested that the hospital authorities contact. Mouth dry, Rani had listened to the consultant’s words, her heart flying with hope as he said that they were trying their best; that he would recover fully, but they could not save one of his legs. She had eagerly interrupted to ask, ‘Can I see him?’ At his nod, she had hastened out of the office, clutching the paper with details of Rashid’s room.

Head lowered, heart beating fast, Rani took no notice of other visitors, nurses, doctors, patients in wheelchairs or the lively children walking down the hospital corridor. Ahead of her, down the corridor, a woman came out of the door. Rani turned round and walked down the stairs, heart thudding, afraid of coming into contact with his relatives. Who was that woman and what relationship did she have with Rashid? She returned to the car, a terrible, hissing noise in her head. The driver left her with her thoughts and went out for a meal.

Rani returned to her memories, to arm herself for the encounter with him. Rashid had got in touch a few days after their walk, though indirectly. There were no mobile phones or emails in those days, and no obvious reason or excuse for him to visit a widow. He communicated with her through a book of poems by the philosopher and poet, Rumi, with a page marked on a poem:

My heart is like a scroll,

from here to eternity

Sent in the post as a parcel, the book was to be opened by her. There was no name or address of the sender. She just knew,
holding the book against her chest, that it was from him. Later in the evening she had memorised not only that poem, but others he had highlighted. Then she waited. She could not get in touch with him herself and her mind would not entertain the thought of his wife and children. It was only a week later when she visited the army headquarters to check about her husband’s salary matters that she found her feet walking to Rashid’s office. He was busy with three guests. Shyly she was about to exit, but he stopped her.