The Holy Woman

Praise for Qaisra Shahraz:

‘A lean, lyrical meditation on tradition and independence, sensuality and sacrifice, set against the mortal background of modern day Pakistan, Shahraz’s debut beguiles throughout’
The Times

‘Gripping, hugely involving and very satisfying’ Kate Mosse

‘Full of vivid details about the lives and loves, the duties and desires in Muslim family life’ Yasmin Alibhai-Brown

‘An international bestseller … an extraordinary story of love and betrayal in rural Pakistan’
Manchester Evening News

‘An absorbing adventure, from a vivid imagination’
She

‘A riveting family saga’
Bradford Telegraph and Argus

‘Stunning debut novel. An intricate study of love, family, politics and sacrifice’
Eastern Eye

‘Compulsive reading … An intriguing tale of love, envy and jealousy’
Asian Times

‘A real story-telling gift’ Sue Gee

‘A very moving tale of love, passion and Islamic traditions … difficult to put down’ BBC National Asian Network

Many, many thanks to Joan Deitch and John Shaw for their hard work.

My gratitude goes to my friends and colleagues: Professor Akbar S. Ahmed; Sajida Ahmed; Maulana Qamaruzzaman Azmi; Amanda Challis; Lizbeth Cheatle; Ann Gibson; Dr Afshan Khawaja; Shahed Saduallah; Jamil Dehlavi; Julie Northey; Maulana Habib Ur Rahman; Lynda Robinson; Richard Seidel and Masarat Shafi.

I would also like to thank Ken Ashberry; John O’Brien; Andrew Brown; Glenda Cox; Bel Crompton; Carl Delaney; George Hastings; Patricia Kushnick; Samima Ahmed; Marie Froggatt; Nita Patel; Cari Ryan; Jane Sladen; Habidah Usman; Ann Vause; Madeleine Bedford and Merillie Vaughan Huxley.

Thanks also go to: Colin Muir; Lavinia Murray; Peter Ridsdale Scott; Susie Smith; Lucy Scher; Sherry Ashworth; Elizabeth Baines; Cathy Bolton; Beverly Hughesdan; Pete Kalu; Jennifer Whitelaw; Cllr Qassim Afzal (ppc); Huma; Ali Azeem; Neil Broady; Khalid Hussain; Vice-Consul Jamil Ahmad Khan; Raza Khan; Keelin Watson; Bridgette O’ Connor; Asad Zaman and Angharad Jackson.

Special thanks to Lord Nazir Ahmed of Rotherham; Iftikhar Qaiser; Zahoor Niazi; Elizabeth Wright; Dr Musharaf Hussain; Faisal Munir Khan; Saba and Aamer Naeem; Asad; Mohsan and Sherry Qureshi; Maqsood Ellahie Sheikh; Dr Sidra Hasan; Bashir Mann; Mohamed Sarwar MP; Habib Ullah; Ghulam Rabbani
MBE
; Tahir Inam Sheikh; Yacub Nizami; Naveed Aziz; Bailie Cllr
Muhammad Shoaib
JP
; Nisar Naqvi; Baldev Mavi; Rafaqat Hussain and Nazia Khalid.

In Pakistan my gratitude to my Uncle Mohamed Ashraf and his son Ejaz Ashraf; Muhammad Iqbal and Khalid Mahmood.

My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Saeed Ahmad; my parents Mohamed Aslam and Amina Akhtar; my brothers and their wives – Dr Suhail Abbas; Dr Zulfiqar Babar; Dr Waqar Aslam; Sajida Parveen and Dr Naushene Sara and my sister Farah Shahnaz for their lasting support.

I
N THE PROVINC
E
of Sind, on the outskirts of a small town, a
mela
was in full swing. Held in an open dusty field, the annual fair drew men from the surrounding villages to eat hot and cold snacks, to enjoy themselves and watch the antics of the clowns, jugglers and the other entertainers.

Travelling from the four provinces of Pakistan, the performers had come to show off their special skills and artistry to the rural people of Sind. Brusque clapping of hands, hoots of laughter and loud whistling by the young men lent an air of gaiety and expectation to the hot summer afternoon. Forming an ever-enlarging circle, they cheered one of the jugglers – a dextrous fellow who kept three balls simultaneously in the air.

Next into the dusty circle stepped a wiry old man, with a mirror beaded hat on his head, trailing a spider monkey by a lead. The spectators roared with laughter as the animal, dressed in a small frilly skirt and a red fez, started to dance and wriggle its tiny body on a jute mat. The owner turned a gap-toothed smile on his audience, then began to play a
tabla
drum with two slender sticks, prompting the animal to do a succession of comic somersaults around the circle. The cheering crowd of young men hastily stepped back to allow the monkey more space.

From a distance, a black Shogun Jeep carrying two men wound its way along the dusty road. It came to a halt close to the
mela
. The driver, a tall man in his early thirties, climbed out of the vehicle and, closing the
door behind him, leaned against the Jeep and stretched his long legs.

Removing his sunglasses, he scanned the scene in front of him with amused interest. A smile touched his face as he, too, followed the antics of the spider monkey in the open circle. After a while, bored with the act, his gaze strayed past the crowd to a horse tied to a minar tree. Near the horse, under the large green canopy of the tree, stood a young woman. The stranger’s eyes halted in their track.

Dressed in an elegant black
shalwar kameze
, a
matching
black chiffon
dupatta
was casually draped around her shoulders and over her hair, forming a very
becoming
frame for her strikingly beautiful face.

The spider monkey was now in full motion, dancing vigorously to the beat of the drum. The woman’s hands too now rose to join in the clapping. The warm summer breeze moulded the flimsy material of her
kameze
against her slim frame and blew the
dupatta
off her head, letting it fall in graceful folds around her shoulders. The woman made no move to put it back, ignoring the convention of covering her head in a public place amidst a group of men.

There were no other women present at the
mela
, apart from three elderly ladies, for it was not common or socially acceptable for young women to join openly in an all-male set of activities.

The stranger was both intrigued and amused at the woman’s open show of defiance. His mouth curved into a full smile as he noted that she still hadn’t made any effort to cover her hair.

As he watched, a young man came to stand next to her and untied the horse from the tree. The stranger’s grey eyes widened; he was suddenly very alert.
A strange stillness entered his body as he studied the young man’s face – which was, he discovered, almost a direct replica of the woman’s.

The smile now shot to his eyes. He stood up straight.

Under the tree Zarri Bano’s young brother, Jafar, stood in front of her and whispered in her ear. He turned to the assembled crowd, immediately catching sight of the man staring across at them. Jafar’s face lit up. Smiling, he waved.

‘The guests we were expecting from Karachi have arrived!’ Jafar told his sister excitedly, then his
expression
sobered. ‘Dearest sister, I wish you would make sure that your scarf manages to stay in place on your head when you are outside in a public place,’ he nagged her gently. ‘Look at your hair! Don’t you ever tie it up? It is everywhere! It is not good for a woman to be seen like this. Men, especially
Badmash
men, give women looks when they are as beautiful as you. You look so wanton! It creates a very bad impression. Not only of you, but of us and our father. Only naughty women do that sort of thing.’ He was very much conscious of the stranger’s presence and roaming eyes.

‘Have you quite finished, dearest Jafar?’ Zarri Bano smarted from his patronising tone. Her cheeks coloured, ‘I am not going to be lectured at by my baby brother. So what if my
dupatta
fell down for a few seconds? Have you never seen hair before?’

‘I don’t want to argue here,
Baji Jan
. You had better get home quickly. He has already seen you and it doesn’t seem right. It is not good for our
izzat
.’ The urge to usher his sister out of sight was very strong.

Jafar turned back to the man and waved his hand again in acknowledgement, aware of his bareheaded sister standing by his side. The stranger inclined his
head towards them in greeting. The thick dark waves of his hair fell over his forehead, glinting in the sun. He lifted his hand in return, a smile still hovering on his lips, his eyes now very much on Zarri Bano.

Zarri Bano felt the pressure of the stranger’s gaze and swayed with it. She watched the exchange between the two men with alarm – her eyes widening.

‘Oh no! Surely it cannot be him?’ she whispered in dismay. She was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, seen by the wrong people. Her heart thumped away in painful anticipation. Drinking in his appearance at one go, she beckoned to her chauffeur.

‘I am ready to go home, Nalu. Can you bring the car round to this side. There are too many men over there.’ The words tripped for no reason.

‘Yes, young Sahiba.’

She waited for the car to draw near, keeping her back to the stranger as she climbed in. She only looked out of the window when her car passed his Jeep. Unfortunately, her eyes immediately met his.
Embarrassed
, she hastily lowered hers as the car sped by.

After he had given directions to the two guests to follow behind him, Jafar fetched his horse. Riding in front of the Shogun, he led the way through the town bazaar to the outskirts and his family’s villa in Tanda Adam.

The older man, Raja Din, sitting next to his son in the passenger seat, looked at the back of the young man ahead of them on the white horse.

‘Well, if that is the brother, Sikander, then we can assume that the sister will be very attractive too,’ he said.

‘Father, she
is
very attractive,’ Sikander stated quietly. He recalled the woman’s face very clearly.

‘What do you mean? Have you seen her?’ Raja Din turned a sharp glance on him.

‘No, I am simply guessing,’ Sikander lied smoothly.

‘Well, don’t forget, my son, they have two daughters – and it is the elder one we are interested in. We don’t want to end up with the wrong girl! It has sometimes happened, you know. People go for one match, and end up with the other.’

Sikander glanced at his father, the smile
momentarily
slipping from his face. ‘Of course,’ he responded. Was she the elder or the younger? he wondered,
frowning
a little. She had been very pretty – a most pleasant surprise. The irony was, did she now know who he was?

Her suitor.

She
had
to be the one! ‘One way or other, I am going to have this woman,’ Sikander vowed silently, tapping his hand on the steering wheel.

As he watched the car in front of them disappear in a cloud of dust, Sikander Din had a strange feeling that, in the last few minutes, his life had suddenly and forever become entwined with the beautiful woman dressed in black.