The Holy Woman (25 page)

H
ER ROOM SOAKED
in darkness, Zarri Bano sat on an armchair, her hands folded in front of her on her lap. Eyes squeezed shut, she rocked herself to and fro,
desperate
to block out images that threatened to topple the wall of her inner world, the wall she had constructed after the veiling ceremony.

The past, however, in all its colour and radiant glory came thundering back with a vengeance, as if the last year of her life had never taken place. Sikander and his face flitted everywhere in her mind. She capitulated, letting the scenes roll lovingly before her closed eyes, ending with the one of her fingertips tracing the shape of his mouth. As her body grew warm with longing, Zarri Bano recoiled, shaking her head in a desperate attempt to dislodge the thoughts and images that plagued and ensnared her.

‘I hate you, Sikander!’ she cried aloud. Then:

‘Oh
Allah pak,
please help me. This is the worst test You could have devised. You are testing my willpower and purity of mind and heart. In this test I can never hope to win! How can I be pure of mind when the thought of Sikander with my sister slices through me
like a knife? I bleed from the shattering pain. Also I hate and despise myself for what I have been reduced to. For my female weaknesses.’

An hour later, still in her
burqa,
she crept into bed. How she had longed for this bed, after the
uncomfortable
nights she had spent in Ajmeir Sharif. Tossing and turning she smothered her face in the pillow,
attempting
to block everything from her mind.

She had known that Sikander would marry one day. Thus she had been mentally prepared for that
eventuality.
So why was she feeling as if the last breath was being snuffed out of her body? The answer came in an agonising moan.

‘It is because she is my sister. I will have to witness her life, and imagine what it might have been if
I
had married him.’ Was it sheer envy she felt? ‘
Yes!
’ the inner voice cried out, loud and clear. She didn’t want her sister to marry him. Any other man, yes, but not Sikander! It was the cruellest of all blows.

‘He will share his life and raise a family with my sister.’ The knife twisted inside her again as she thought of the marital intimacies they would enjoy. Had he swapped one sister, one body, for another? ‘Sikander, is this the revenge you promised? How could you do this to me?’ she wept, sinking her face once more in the damp hollow of her pillow.

Some time later she sat bolt upright in her bed. She looked at the clock on the wall: it was nearly 2 a.m. How could her family sleep peacefully when they had thrown a thunderbolt like this at her and snatched her very sanity from her?

‘
Allah pak,
help me!’ she beseeched again through dry, quivering lips.

She stood up resolutely to say her late-night prayers.
She believed in her Allah pak and in Him she would seek peace and solace. She knew she would get it.

As she stood on the prayer mat, she had to
concentrate
hard, making sure that she had recited the correct verses and number of cycles in prayers. In her
concentration
she forgot all about Ruby and Sikander. When it came to offering her personal prayers, her
du’ah,
Zarri Bano raised her hands high in front of her and appealed with all her heart.

‘Allah pak,
please heed the prayers of a weak woman, a sinner. Guide me back onto Your path of peace and religious devotion. Tear out this ugly human emotion that is renting me apart and torturing my soul. Douse this longing, this fire that is engulfing my body. I am supposed to be a pure woman. How can I be that, while I harbour such base feelings? Enfold me in Your holy mantle of female modesty. Rid my mind and heart of this man who haunts me at this moment. Show me Your path; for that is the path I seek.

‘I thought I was on that path, the road of peace and female innocence. I thought I had happily parted
company
from the old Zarri Bano. Today I have not only lost my identity, but also my way. I have been thrown asunder. I do not know which way to turn – where my destination lies. I don’t want to neglect my
Shahzadi Ibadat
duties and role. Help me to keep these ugly thoughts and feelings at bay, to purify myself and
exorcise
all traces of my past life, so that I can begin again, in a new state of utter purity. Rinse out of my heart the passionate feelings I still harbour for Sikander! Give me strength so that I can rapturously rejoice in my sister’s marriage. Instil in me a sense of indifference, so that when I look at him, I will feel nothing for myself, or for him but only joy for my sister. Please help me to reach
this state of mind! Otherwise I am a lost soul. I will not be able to bear this torment or face my sister.’

Depleted of energy and ending her fervent prayers, Zarri Bano stepped off the prayer-mat and sat in her bed. Leafing through the pages she read two chapters from the Holy Quran and a few pages from the Hadith. Rolling her rosary beads five times mechanically between her fingers gave her a distinct purpose, and took her away from the havoc of her inner world.

Finally at peace with herself, Zarri Bano fell asleep and woke up at about eleven o’clock in the morning, thus missing her early morning prayers. As she washed and dressed, she mused over her present state of mind, for now she felt indeed calm and peaceful.

When she beheld her sister downstairs, in the lounge, the smile Zarri Bano gave to Ruby was warm and genuine. Zarri Bano glowed inside, in the
knowledge
that now she could meet her sister and share her joy with no reserve on her part. Faced with her sister’s smile, Ruby basked in the warmth of it and let the cobwebs of worry blow away. She hadn’t slept either, dreading this meeting with her this morning.

It was only Shahzada who saw the haunted look in her elder daughter’s eyes. Apart from that, there was no sign to show that Zarri Bano had clawed her way up a mountain in the night and had claimed victory,
triumphing
over herself, and her longings.

To prove this to herself, Zarri Bano immersed herself in her religious devotions as never before. At the same time, she also took a keen interest in the preparations for her sister’s wedding.

As yet Zarri Bano had not come across Sikander. He didn’t visit. On the day he was expected, Zarri Bano
took herself off on a religious errand, leading a prayer meeting in a nearby
darbar.

‘One day I will have to meet him, but not now, not yet.’ Her female intuition warned her clearly that she was still too emotionally bruised to come face to face with him so soon.

In fact she didn’t have to face Sikander until the day of the
mehndi,
the party organised for Ruby, three days before the wedding day. Meant for the women and young girls, the party included singing and dancing to popular music, as well as the traditional wedding folk songs to the music of a
dholki,
a small drum.

The girls’ cousin Gulshan had arrived a week earlier to help with the preparations and to join in everything. On the morning of the party, Gulshan had approached Zarri Bano with a twinkle in her eye and made a special request. ‘My dear, I will not let you appear in a
burqa
at the party. There will only be women and girls there.’

‘I must wear the
burqa,
Gulshan,’ Zarri Bano blurted out.

‘Please forget your
holy
self for just one night. I want you to dance at your sister’s party.’ The trace of sarcasm was not lost on Zarri Bano.

A hushed silence followed as a stunned Zarri Bano took in what her cousin had suggested.

‘Me, dance! Now that is utterly out of the question, Gulshan. When have you seen a Holy Woman dancing?’

‘I don’t know any Holy Women, apart from you. You are also my cousin and a woman like me. I will make you dance – just see if I don’t,’ Gulshan teased,
laughing
up into Zarri Bano’s scandalised face. ‘But first come upstairs to Ruby’s room. I have a surprise for you. Ruby and I have sorted out an outfit for you. It is red
and white, we definitely do not want you to wear black, although it has become your favourite colour. Only bright colours will do for your sister’s wedding.’

‘I cannot go through with it. You must understand, Gulshan!’ Genuinely upset, Zarri Bano tried to free her hands from her cousin’s grasp, as she led her up the stairs.

‘Look, Zarri Bano, today we want a glimpse of the old glamorous you – all right? How can it be a crime for you to dress up or to dance in front of us women? Why do you behave like this? You don’t have to deny yourself the pleasure of dancing or dressing up. Both gave you a great deal of pleasure once, as I recall.’

And that was that. Zarri Bano couldn’t get out of it. At about six o’ clock, she was ushered into Ruby’s room, and was shown the outfit. In the end, Gulshan helped Zarri Bano to get dressed in her own room. There was no tall mirror in Zarri Bano’s room any more, therefore she had no idea what she looked like in the flowing
shahrarah
outfit, with a long red chiffon skirt and white matching tunic, with sequins
embroidered
on to it. Gulshan had skilfully made up her face, and her hair, which had now grown abundantly to her shoulders, was allowed to swing around her face in bouncy curls. A necklace complemented the outfit.

Gulshan stared at her cousin in satisfaction. How petty it seemed now that she had once envied Zarri Bano. She couldn’t wait to show Zarri Bano off, and to announce her entrance theatrically, knowing that everyone would be amazed and all heads would be turned. She thus went ahead of Zarri Bano into the large hall where music was being played and the
clapping
of hands could be heard, punctuating the
movements
of one of the women dancers.

After a few minutes, Zarri Bano stepped out of her room, feeling as if another woman had taken over her body. These clothes felt so strange and cumbersome. The ornaments clawed at her skin. The urge to go back and wipe her face clean was very strong. The make-up made her feel as if she was wearing a heavy mask. The weird sensation of having her hair swing openly and wantonly around her face made her long to sweep it all back and hide every single strand under her
burqa
hood. Instead, she carried her
burqa
over her arm.

About to descend and holding up her skirt
awkwardly
from the floor with one hand, Zarri Bano heard footsteps in the hall below. She glanced down and then stood transfixed on the top step of the long curving staircase.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Sikander gazed up at her. He smiled, mistaking her for Ruby. Then his eyes narrowed as they focused on the black garment on her arm, and he gasped. It was Zarri Bano!

For a split second, the world stood still for Sikander. His heart pounding with a dull beat, the smile slowly ebbed from his face. Seeing the beautiful picture she made standing at the top of the stairs, the ache he had managed to suppress in the last year rose in him with a gigantic leap. A sob of longing caught in his throat.

Zarri Bano continued to stare down at him, caught up in a spell. The last year of her life of religious
devotion
peeled away from her mind. Only the present mattered. Oh, how powerful was this spell! The world stood still.

Then a sound from a nearby room drew Zarri Bano painfully back to reality. Gave a great ragged sigh then, sweeping round, she disappeared from sight.

Sikander stood rooted to the spot. ‘We haven’t
exchanged a single word,’ he mourned. This was the first time he had seen her since the day of her veiling ceremony.

He was still standing in the large hall, but away from the stairs, when he heard her come down. He looked up expectantly, ready to greet her.

She was dressed in her black ‘holy’
burqa
again. The contrast to her earlier appearance could not have been more poignant. Holding her head high and looking ahead, she swept past him. The only words of greeting in reply to his were, ‘
Assalam-Alaikum,
Brother Sikander.’

The words sent a chill through him. The spell was broken: Zarri Bano was back in her religious shell. His attractive mouth curved in a bitter line. He was certainly going to be her brother.

For a moment, Sikander nearly gave way to despair. He was betrothed to Ruby, a loyal, loving girl … but still in love with her sister, his true betrothed. And he didn’t know what to do about any of it.

‘Z
ARRI
B
ANO, WHY
are you still wearing the
burqa?’
screeched Gulshan, catching sight of her cousin in her black veil.

‘I have to wear it. A man could walk in here, at any time,’ Zarri Bano offered defensively as she came to stand next to her.

‘But there aren’t any strangers here, and apart from our family members there is, of course, only the groom himself. He will soon be your brother-in-law, therefore
he cannot be a stranger for long. Here, let me take it off!’ Swiftly Gulshan pulled the
burqa
off.

Zarri Bano stood awkwardly in the middle of a circle of seated women, noting both their in-drawn breaths and amazed stares. It was as if she was in a freak show.

‘Gulshan, I will deal with you later,’ Zarri Bano hissed as she quickly sat down. ‘I feel terrible! What will people think of me? Do you think that they will ever respect me again? I am dressed in such a vulgar fashion – almost like a lady of the night!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ her cousin scoffed. ‘You are dressed in the height of fashion and you know it. Just as you also know that at this moment and in this room, you are the most attractive woman here.’

Colour ebbed from Zarri Bano’s cheeks. ‘What is the purpose of all this?’ she asked simply.

‘The purpose? To enjoy life, of course. To celebrate beauty! To take pleasure in this moment in time – which happens to be your sister’s
mehndi.
You won’t have this opportunity again, Zarri Bano.’

‘Gulshan, it is true what you say, but please
remember
, I am a Holy Woman.’

‘So you think your sister’s party is frivolous?’ Gulshan accused. ‘Come on, forget your holy self for once. Give us back the old Zarri Bano just for one evening. Please come and join us in the fun to celebrate our Ruby’s wedding. Come!’ Grabbing hold of Zarri Bano’s hand, Gulshan dragged her into the empty space left for dancing in the middle of the circle. Flushed with embarrassment, Zarri Bano tried to draw her hand away from her cousin.

‘Please, Gulshan,’ she appealed, panicking. ‘Don’t do this to me – this is most unseemly.’

‘Right, girls, Zarri Bano and I are going to dance to
pakeeza’
s song “Cheltah cheltah”. Please start the music, and everyone can join in by clapping!’

In high spirits the women started to clap. Gulshan began to sway to the music, moving her supple body in elegant movements, her chiffon skirt billowing out around her. Zarri Bano looked at the crowd of women sitting on the floor. She caught her sister’s eye. Ruby was sitting on the raised platform, waiting to have her hands painted with henna patterns. ‘Please,’ Ruby’s eyes begged.

Zarri Bano surrendered, entering the dancing arena. Slowly her arms, hands and legs began to sway in graceful fluid movements around the circle. The
Shahzadi Ibadat
was forgotten as her body remembered how to weave magic in movement and rhythm. The rhythmic clapping spurred her on. She responded to the tune, smiling and dimpling down at the women. Rising and dipping with ever more elegant movements of her body, finally reaching a crescendo to the sad music.

At last the song ended and her body swirled to stop. Her eyes slowly focused on the faces of the women, watching enthralled. Then they stumbled upon one face. She froze. It was Sikander, sitting hidden in the shadows at the far end of the hall.

Zarri Bano felt faint as the realisation hit her that he had been there all the time. She dropped heavily down on the cushioned seat next to Gulshan. Twice in one day he had seen her without her
burqa,
this time in an even more compromising situation – dancing in open abandonment. It was his wedding and she had performed like a
kanjari,
a dancing girl in front of him. Colour flooded her cheeks in shame – no man had seen her like this.

With trembling hands she dragged the
burqa
back
over her body, fixing the hood neatly over her hair. Even if the women begged her on their knees, she would not get up and make a fool of herself again. Remembering the exact, sensuous movements of her dance, her body went cold again in embarrassment. She hadn’t worn any
dupatta
nor a shawl to cover her front.

Once in control of herself, Zarri Bano ventured to glance around at the assembled group and thought wryly: I suppose, at least, I have made Ruby and Gulshan and all these women happy. Renowned for her dancing skills, at
mehndi
parties she was often dragged to the dance floor and normally not allowed off it, until she had danced to at least five popular songs.

For the remainder of the ceremony she let Gulshan take the lead in the celebrations. Later in the evening, she ventured to look in the corner where Sikander had been sitting. The space was empty. Breathing more freely, she promised herself that she was going to avoid him as much as possible. There would be times, of course, when she would have to meet him and talk to him, but never would she willingly seek his
company
. She had already made plans to immerse herself thoroughly in her new role, in an effort to distance herself from her past life and in particular from him, the serpent gnawing away at the delicate petals of her rose garden of religious devotion.

On the day of the wedding, Zarri Bano, like her parents, was kept busy and thus had little time to dwell on Sikander. The guests had all duly arrived and had to be seen to. All the wedding arrangements had been carried out. The hall was decorated for the reception and the ceremony. The morning passed in a hectic
whirl of different activities. Ruby was locked away with Gulshan and the beautician.

Zarri Bano helped her mother with the last-minute errands. At about eleven o’clock she decided to check up on her sister to see how her bridal preparations were progressing. Beholding Ruby’s breathtaking
appearance,
a lump caught in her throat. ‘Oh my dear, you look wonderful!’

At precisely twelve-thirty, the groom and his party arrived for the ceremony from Karachi. Most of Zarri Bano’s clan were assembled in the front courtyard to receive and welcome them. Young girls holding small china bowls were waiting to shower rose petals over the heads of the groom and his party.

Alone, Zarri Bano watched from her bedroom window – the line of cars, the accompanying band of musicians, on foot, gaily playing wedding tunes. Heading the procession was the groom on a white horse, leading the way, following the centuries-old custom.

Zarri Bano hardly recognised Sikander dressed as a groom, with a traditional bead-studded
khullah
on his head and a long white jacket with a matching
shalwar.
Zarri Bano’s eyes rested on his face. The horse cantered to a stop outside the gate.

‘
Kismet,
you are so cruel.’ Zarri Bano turned from the window, wondering how many other women and men had experienced this nightmare scenario. ‘How do they came to terms with it?’ she murmured.

Then: ‘I am a
Shahzadi Ibadat!
’ she bitterly reminded herself. ‘A woman who has denounced marriage and a normal life. I am the one who turned him away.’ Yet she was paying for it now. His words mocked her: ‘
You will die for me on my wedding day.’

She had prayed to Allah and had kept herself busy. Today, however, the mere sight of him had shown her that beneath it all she was still a vulnerable human being – just another victim of life’s pains and triumphs.

‘I
am
dying for you, Sikander. You’ve had your revenge.’ Zarri Bano brushed the tears angrily from her cheeks. Through gritted teeth she promised herself, ‘Zarri Bano will never cry for a man again! I am going to lock away, bury forever, these vulnerable parts of me. I will show myself and the world that I am indeed the pure one, the holy one! To do this I have to first unearth Sikander from the essence of my being.’

She fumbled open one of the drawers of her dressing table and drew out three seashells hidden in a small trinket box. Nestled against the palm of her hand, Zarri Bano looked at them for a long time. Lifting the net curtains, she threw the shells through the open window, far over the wall of her home. Her last link with Sikander was gone.

During the wedding ceremony, Zarri Bano remained in the background. The ‘milk greeting’ ceremony, with the sisters traditionally offering a glass of milk to the groom, in exchange for gifts of money, Zarri Bano had delegated to Gulshan. She couldn’t have stood in front of him. As she watched her sister sitting next to Sikander on the stage after the wedding ceremony and laughing up into his face, Zarri Bano knew that the ties of the past would be truly severed that night.

Hungrily, she watched Sikander’s eyes. ‘They once glowed into mine too!’ she grieved. He couldn’t see her, but she feasted her eyes on him for the last time.

Unable to bear any more, Zarri Bano left the hall and walked out into the rear courtyard. Sitting on a chair on
the patio she stared dejectedly at the rose bed. Hearing a sound behind her, she hastened to assume the
mask-like
expression on her face.

Fatima stood behind her. ‘I too found it hot in the hall, my dear,’ she volunteered.

‘Yes, Fatima.’ Zarri Bano stood up to leave.

‘Take a rest, my dear. You’ve been very busy.’ Fatima gently pulled Zarri Bano into the chair, a deep silence of understanding hovering between them. ‘He is not worth it,’ the woman said sadly.

Zarri Bano’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Fatima. If you are referring to Sikander, then you have no need to worry on my account – but he is definitely worth my sister marrying. I am so happy for her. Remember I am a Holy Woman. How can you harbour such a thought? Really …’ Zarri Bano’s nervous laugh made her feel light inside. ‘Come, we need to show Ruby’s trousseau to all the women. Gulshan has been doing everything. You and I will take on this task between us.’

Years later, Zarri Bano realised that it was at that moment, in the garden, that the hurdle she had craved so badly to jump had been managed, at the end, thanks to Fatima’s sympathetic words. To prove to herself that nothing mattered to her any more, Zarri Bano had even volunteered to accompany Ruby to Sikander’s home.

‘I am a strong-willed person and will prove to myself and to the world that I am indeed a Holy Woman. I hope Sikander finds happiness with my sister. There will be no more suitors in my life ever again!’ She offered this personal prayer, as she knelt on her
prayer-mat
on the night of her sister’s wedding day.