Revolt (41 page)

‘Sahiba-ji, we sent some books of your husband’s home. I hope you received them?’

This was a blatant lie. Her husband never read poetry nor would he have purchased any such books. This was her cue and she happily took it to convey to him her thoughts and feelings.

‘Yes, Rashid-ji. Many thanks. I have read many of those poems. In particular, I liked the one about “a scroll”. So beautiful! I loved it! It’s exactly how I feel.’

‘I’m glad. I will speak to you soon after this meeting. Please wait.’

She did not. She had achieved what she had set out to do: to let him know that she had received the books and that she felt the same. The rest was up to him.

It was two months later before he contacted her again by telephone, and it was then he had proposed. Two months that had decided for him that he wanted this woman in his life and two months of misery for her waiting to hear from him. She wondered then how this illicit attraction, this interest in the other, had started. Perhaps on the day he had entered her home to announce her husband’s death?

She could still remember the crushing anguish. He, too, lived the naked grief of this woman as she heard the news. That moment forged the link between them. He was shaken by her anguish and his own instinct to protect her. She was picking something from the floor and rose to greet him with a smile of welcome, her beauty accentuated by a fashionable outfit and an immaculately made-up face. An attractive woman, at the height of her beauty and youth, about to have the joys of her life snuffed out.

The next time his eyes fell on her she was cloaked in white from head to toe. Face naked, brutally stripped of any makeup. His heart mourned, not just for his friend who had died in a car accident but for the woman whose life was destroyed, too. What option did she have, but to lead a sterile life of widowhood, stripped of all the things that most women took for granted.

The thought was unbearable. At the end, it was not his passion for her but the teaching of their Prophet Mohammed who encouraged men to marry and look after widows, that prompted the thought of marrying her, especially as his own marriage was failing. Not that Rani had any money worries. She was an extremely rich woman from her father’s inheritance. It was more about offering her companionship. And she had rejected him. He had never forgiven her for that.

Half an hour later, Rani retraced her steps back onto the hospital ward, nervous but determined. She was afraid of no one. She had come on a mission and would complete it.

She slid open the door and saw a man lying on his side on the bed, facing the other way. Rani froze. Not ready.

Breath held she pulled the door shut. She stood outside in the corridor, looking out of the window, her hand clutching the folds of her
chador
around her head. She caught the shadowy reflection of her face in the glass frame of a picture of the gorgeous Swat Valley hanging on the wall.

‘Will Rashid even recognise me?’ she mourned. She was older, not made up and her hair was grey. The woman he knew – the youth, elegance and beauty from her twenties – was gone. What became of her? An empty, bitter shell of a woman.

‘No, I am not alone and will not be alone!’ Rani vowed, turning to the door once again. Hand trembling, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

Rashid still had his back to the door. From the gentle sweeping movement of his chest under the white cotton sheet, it appeared that he was asleep. Rani sighed, tiptoeing across the room to sit in the armchair beside his bed. She could tell that it was no ordinary room, but a well-furnished, private suite, and wondered who was paying for it. The army or his family?

The desperate longing to catch a glimpse of his face had her rising but then sitting down again, shy of meeting his eyes. With her own, she lovingly traced the shape of his head. The springy thick hair was now partially grey and shorter in length. She could wait no more.

Heart thudding, she circled the bed, standing in front of him. Thankful that he was asleep, she took her fill of him. Time had done its duty, gently drawn its faithful marks on his face; faint lines and soft creases on the forehead and around his mouth, his complexion darkened by the sun. The rest, the shape of his high cheekbones, the jutting chin displaying stubble, the full-lipped mouth and the straight nose were the same. The stubborn frown wedged between his eyebrows had her wanting to reach out and smooth it away.

Holding her breath, she leaned forward to touch him, to caress his cheek, ready to welcome and meet the eyes of a man she adored. She had dreamt of this moment for so long, letting her fingers lightly trail over the side of his right cheek.

Heavily drugged, Rashid’s eyelids fluttered open and focused on Rani’s waist. Imagining it to be one of the nursing staff, he closed his eyes again, hating to be disturbed for another examination. Rani sat down on the chair next to the bed, levelling her face with his, staring at him, waves of excitement fanning through her body. Her eyes could not get enough of him.

‘I’m here. And he is alive! God help us!’ How she had longed for this moment. To see him alive! The doctor had said something about an injury to one of his legs and a shot in the stomach. She didn’t yet know the details.

The urge to touch him so strong, Rani tenderly pushed back the stray lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead. Rashid’s eyelids gently lifted and he stared straight into a pair of dark brown eyes and a face that appeared familiar. His mouth worked to say something, his tongue slipping out to lick his dry lips. Rani’s gaze faltered, colour flooding into her cheeks, her hands trembling on her lap.

‘Rani?’ Voice hoarse, Rashid was sure he was hallucinating due to the medication he had taken.

‘I am here …’ she softly replied, voice laced with longing and tenderness, head shyly lowered, cheeks burning and mortally ashamed of her faded looks. Why had she not dyed her hair or at least added a touch of colour to her mouth. Gentle though it had been with her, time still had dealt a blow. What did he think of her? Was he shocked and disappointed?

Rashid did not know what to think. Her looks were not on his mind. Surprised to see her; joy shot through him. He tried to lift himself up, but was gripped by another dizzy spell and clutched at the cotton sheet. Rani bent forward, pulled the sheet over his bare chest. Watching his face crease in pain, she trailed her fingers across his cheek; it was the most natural thing to do.

‘How are you?’ she asked in a quivering voice, attempting to smile. Mentally, she accused: ‘Why did you never call again? I waited for you! Why punish me with such a long silence?’

Rashid was having his own poignant conversation with her in his head. ‘Why did you do that to us? Cruelly turn me away? What have you gained from that wretched life of loneliness? Why punish us both?’

Aloud he politely mouthed, ‘Fine,’ masking his physical pain from the shrapnel wound behind the weak smile. So much to say and share but neither knew how to begin. In their hearts they meant so much to each other but outwardly they were still strangers; their only interaction had been in public places, and limited to mundane social exchanges.

Seconds ticked away and the silence continued. Rashid was glad that she had come to see him, but was none the wiser as to what her presence entailed. Instead he let his eyes go on caressing her. It was left to her to make the first move. Rani understood and happily took the cue.

She did it not with words but with her hands and mouth. She let them say it all, let them be her passionate messengers of her joy, grief and regret. She reached for his arm and, tenderly cradling it against her face, she pressed her mouth to it. Rashid held her gaze, spellbound. Rani continued with her passionate kisses, pouring out her longing for him, brushing her lips against the side of his arm, around his wrist and then on the back of his
hand and palm, savouring the feel of his warm, moist flesh. Her eyes whispered, ‘I want to go on kissing you, my darling.’

It was then that the door opened and a nurse entered the room, surprised to see Rani holding the patient’s hand against her face. What relationship did this woman have with the patient, she wondered. Was she the wife? A sister would not have held the hand against her mouth in that way. And that unfazed look in the woman’s eyes. Her gaze politely lowered, the nurse moved into the room, mumbled a greeting, keenly aware that the woman did not let go of the patient’s hand.

After checking the medical notes, her eyes briefly sweeping across the two figures still caught up with each other, she announced, ‘I’ll be back later!’ and slipped out of the room, giving them the privacy they needed, noting with interest that the woman had shown no sign of embarrassment in being caught in such an intimate scene.

Rashid’s tender and poignant gaze warmed Rani’s face and heart, making her smile. He mouthed the word ‘Why?’ She had surprised him with her action; in compromising herself and her
izzat
by kissing him, and then being caught doing so by someone else.

‘You belong to me! You are mine!’ she murmured, smiling shyly, and then to demonstrate she pressed the back of his hand to her mouth and let her lips communicate once again. Inside she vowed, ‘I’ll not leave you, my beautiful darling.’

Touched and gloriously happy, Rashid offered his own response. ‘I am happy to belong! But for how long you have me, I do not know, nor can I promise. I’m sorry.’

‘I’ll not give you up again … for anyone or anything!’ was her passionate reply, bathing under his tender gaze. When his hand tentatively reached for her face, she basked in the feel of his fingers. Nothing mattered; neither her appearance nor the parameters of female modesty, just the human need to serve, to touch and to have. Then she was shedding bitter tears of regret for all those years lost, head buried against his arm on the bed.

‘Why were we so stupid, Rashid? Why did we let pride divide us? I thought I was doing the right thing! But for whom?’

‘
Kismet
…’ was Rashid’s low answer, now in physical pain and unable to enter into proper discussion with her. ‘Hush, we are together now …’ His eyes too mirrored her regret. If only he could turn back the clock. He did not want it this way – to see her after so long and as an invalid with a missing leg. He would live each day that God blessed him with.

‘I need to phone your Aunt Rani in Islamabad to see when she’s coming home, or I might visit her myself,’ Gulbahar let slip the information.

She had not told anyone in her family what Rani was doing in Islamabad for the last few days. Her last phone conversation with her sister had ended with Rani fervently saying, ‘Either I stay with Rashid and look after him or bring him home. I’ll not part with him, Gulbahar! If something happened to Haider-ji, would you give up on him? For that is how I feel about Rashid. Whether it is right or wrong, I no longer care!’

Gulbahar had a mission. To support and bring back her sister and Rashid – she did not know how to describe this relationship. Rashid and Rani were not friends, lovers or spouses. Yet Rani’s actions, words and feelings made all three legitimate. Something had to be done or suggested.
Nikkah
. Her sister had to marry the man. How she was going to break the news to the rest of the family daunted her. How to explain to her Haider-ji? First Liaquat having a crush on her and now Rani with Rashid. Heat rushed into her cheeks at the gossip that would ensue. She could just imagine the laundrywoman’s wagging tongue, going around the village saying, ‘Can you believe it! Mistress Rani gets wed after her daughter! What’s happening to our world? Does no one feel shame,
sharm
, any more.’

Gulbahar thought of the years that her sister had pined for Rashid. The recent long phone conversation between them had given her an idea of Rani’s suffering after nobly turning away the man who had held out a hand and offered a world of happiness to her. ‘If only we had communicated. Rashid has lived alone all these years, since his wife divorced him and migrated
to Canada. We were both stupid. I for rejecting him and he for never approaching me again. Out of pride! Tell me which person on earth would try and separate us now? Do we both not deserve to snatch what time we have to be together. All I want to do now is sit with him and touch him. To feel him, that he is there! I want to be with him, Gulbahar! I never want to leave his side!’

Gulbahar listened with a sinking heart. Morality was no longer an issue for Rani, for she had trespassed into forbidden territory, well beyond the parameters of female modesty, lost in the love of this man. It was up to her, as the eldest sister, to guide the reins of Rani’s life in the direction of her sister’s wishes. Gulbahar shuddered. How far did their touching go? Did passion have any limits? Her sister had compromised herself. As the eldest sister she had to protect her sister, both her love and her position in the world. Love alone was not enough. Marriage remained the only logical answer and as decreed by their faith. Rani could not live in sin with a man in an unwed state; she had suffered too much to cope with prying eyes, gossiping tongues and social ostracism.

In Gulistan, in the quiltmaker’s house, there was mayhem. The taxi was on its way. Zeinab was rushing around her house doing the last-minute tidying-up before their departure to Dubai – distributing fresh vegetables, jute bags of rice and flour to her neighbours. Her prized electrical items were neatly locked away in her bedroom to prevent anyone using them. Years of darning quilts had furnished her humble home well. And she had every intention of returning to Gulistan once her daughter was settled in Dubai.

Zeinab clambered up the mud-veneered staircase to her rooftop to get her darning table and heave it down to the veranda. The crunching sound of car wheels outside the door made her panic.

‘Salma!’ Zeinab shouted.

Salma sat stooped on her bed, staring into space, clutching a cotton coat with a suitcase by her side.

‘Come on, my silly girl. The taxi is here. Let’s go,’ Zeinab coaxed, looking at her daughter, ‘I’m really excited about getting on a plane.’

The girl lowered her head further.

‘I’m abandoning my home, my work and my village for your sake so don’t you sit there looking glum,’ she gently reminded her, the doctor’s words of advice ringing in her ears. ‘Salma is going through a terrible period of post-natal depression. Please be gentle with her … She needs your support and understanding. Harsh words and rebukes will not solve anything.’

Salma’s piteous cry ‘I don’t want to go’ had Zeinab pointing the pencil she was holding in her hand at her daughter.

‘You silly girl! Of course we are going! We need to seek medical help for you and to leave behind this village of silly women and their superstitions.
Gulistan
– what a name! This is no rose garden city! But a village of thorns!’

Clutching her handbag, Salma rose to leave.

‘Paper? I need paper.’ Zeinab was riffling through an old pile of her daughter’s college notebooks and tore out a sheet of paper from one of them. Educated to tenth
matric
class, writing posed no problem for Zeinab. With the blunt pencil she scribbled some big bold words across it in
Nastaliq
script. ‘Salma, have you seen the sticky tape?’ Her daughter shook her head.

Dashing into her own room, she rummaged through her darning basket for two small needles and a black felt-tip marker that she used for drawing lines on the quilts. Smiling and putting the items in the side pocket of her long
kurtha
she locked her bedroom door with an aluminium padlock.

‘Are we ready to go?’ Salma’s husband, Yunus, politely enquired from the courtyard. Mother and daughter nodded, letting him drag their suitcases to the car in the street lane. An excited, bedraggled group of children was circling the car. After peering into it, the children sidled away in disgust; just another ordinary car and one with a little dent. It was the monstrous Jeeps and tall Pajeros owned by the migrant families and the wealthy landlord that elicited wistful looks.

Inside her small courtyard, Zeinab tearfully looked around, eyes grazing the rooftop where most of her darning took place in the warm weather, then down to her humble kitchen with its
tandoor
where she slapped in
chappatis
against the hot mud-baked surface. All the crockery was stacked away in her wooden cabinets. Her three
charpoys
stood under the veranda for her neighbour to borrow for her guests. She was locking her daughter’s room when her neighbour came in to bid them goodbye.

‘Here, Resham – our key. You can use my
tandoor
, those
charpoys
and all the crockery in the kitchen.’ She omitted to mention the two locked rooms. Both understood. Zeinab would take the keys for those with her.

‘Don’t worry about anything!’ her friend reassured her, hugging Zeinab.

‘I don’t want to leave, Resham, but I have no choice. Alone, Salma will be lost in Dubai, especially when her husband is out working,’ Zeinab ended tearfully. She very rarely left the village.

‘It will be good for you and Salma …
In’shallah
our prayers are with you, Sister Zeinab.’

Salma’s husband Yunus was waiting, quietly listening to their conversation. Salma was already in the car. From the car, Zeinab instructed: ‘Salma, please wave to your Aunt Resham.’ Salma obeyed, waving a limp hand.

‘Let’s go!’ Yunus said, checking his expensive watch purchased from the Dubai gold
souk
. They still had to visit his family in the town before they flew off.

As the taxi passed Jennat Bibi’s house, Zeinab shouted to the driver.

‘Stop for one minute!’ Salma froze, staring at the door of Faiza’s home – the friend who had betrayed her. Zeinab scrambled out. They looked on, fascinated. Standing tall before the door, Zeinab pulled out the three items from her
kurtha
pocket. Holding the paper against the sweetmaker’s door, she pinned it to the wooden surface with the two needles. Then, not taking any chances, in case the paper flew off or was pulled down, just below it she scrawled two sentences in big, bold,
Nastaliq
Urdu with her black marker.

The driver and Yunus read the bold writing, and looked away when Zeinab sidled back into the car.

‘Let’s go,’ she instructed, ignoring her daughter’s piercing look, a smug smile dashed across her face.

The car wound out of the village lanes and into the open space of the communal mosque square flanked by sugarcane fields, and headed towards the city of Attock.

That evening, returning from his sweet shop, Jennat Bibi’s husband came to an abrupt stop outside their wooden door and pulled out his reading glasses from his jacket pocket. A paper
was stuck to it and he read aloud the words ‘Don’t enter! Beware of
perchanvah
in this house. Keep away from Faiza’s evil shadow,’ streaked across the middle of the door.

Blood rushed to Javaid’s face. It could only be the quiltmaker. He went to check and was greeted by a padlock hanging outside Zeinab’s door. Smiling and whistling to himself, he entered his own home.

The following mornng, he read the notice again and sauntered off to his sweet shop, stealing a look over his shoulders; their milkman was now peering at the notice. Cheeks bulging with laughter, he braced himself for his wife’s reaction, but first he protected himself by switching off his mobile phone.

Jennat Bibi had no idea that her front door had been defaced. It was much later in the day that her best friend Neelum reported it to her. Many other passers-by had read the notice, including Massi Fiza, who scurried off to tell Rukhsar about it.

‘Jennat-ji, I think you should see this,’ Neelum pulled her friend away from the kitchen stove where a pot of milk was simmering for the
barfi
sweets. Jennat stopped dead outside her door. Flushed red, she was ready to explode.

Just then the baker’s wife cheekily sauntered back to read the notice for the second time that morning. Smirking and ignoring Jennat Bibi’s venomous look, she went on to cheerily explain, amused at Jennat Bibi’s reaction:

‘That notice has been there since yesterday afternoon. I saw Zeinab stick it up.’

Jennat Bibi tore off the paper, ran inside and returned panting with a wet broom and began her boisterous scrubbing of the wooden surface. Some of the ink from the writing got smudged. The rest stubbornly remained visible. Everyone could still make out the words.

‘Neelum, how I hate my Javaid!’ Jennat Bibi raged. Neelum sheepishly looked down. ‘That rotten husband of mine has been through this door so many times, but did not bother telling me. I bet he loves this! Just see what I will do to him when he gets home, Neelum.’

‘Don’t worry, Jennat-ji. It’s not his fault,’ her friend mollified
her, eager to lower Jennat Bibi’s blood pressure. When the
sweet-maker
returned home, he saw their village carpenter busy fixing a new door, hammering the nails in.

He requested of the carpenter, ‘Please pretend to take this old door away when my wife looks out, but leave it standing after she has gone’. The young man was surprised but very happy to oblige. Smiling and winking at the carpenter, Javaid handed him a 50-rupee note as a form of compensation in case his wife took her wrath out on him later.

That evening, just as Salma and her mother were settling into their third-floor apartment in Dubai, peering at the traffic down below, after a day of sightseeing on the Jumeirah Beach, Jennat Bibi shrieked at her husband: ‘You knew about the door and you did nothing!’ He smiled his way through her verbal abuse. When she finished, exhausted, Javaid quietly sauntered off to take a look. The original door was still there, propped against the wall next to the new door.

Literate passers-by could still read the message pretty well. Smiling, he went back inside.