The Holy Woman (3 page)

When Ruby came up later and told her that they wanted to come again, Zarri Bano made no comment. Downstairs, she passed their housekeeper, Fatima, in the hall. A smile lit the older woman’s face.

‘This one is good-looking, isn’t he?’ Fatima teased. Very fond of Zarri Bano, Fatima was prone to talk honestly with her.

‘Oh, he is all right, I suppose. We will see what happens,’ Zarri Bano replied, her cheek dimpling playfully.

‘But you do like him, don’t you?’ Fatima persisted, wanting to make sure.

Zarri Bano merely laughed aloud, as she turned to go into the dining room. Fatima stared after her young mistress. She wished for nothing more than to have their Zarri Bano, and her own daughter, Firdaus,
married
off happily. She prayed for their health and their futures. Above all, for her to have Khawar for a son-
in-law
– that was Fatima’s own true dream.

Later, alone with her husband in their bedroom, Shahzada scanned Habib’s face with trepidation. He sat on the sofa, a business account ledger spread out on his lap.

‘I am not happy with the
munshi
’s land account. There is something not quite right here.’ Habib glanced up briefly at his wife from across the room.

‘But are you happy with Sikander?’ Shahzada softly ventured.

Habib’s head jerked up, but he looked quickly down again and crisply turned the page of the ledger,
marking
it in one corner with his gold pen.

‘I think that our daughter has, at last, found her match,’ Shahzada tried again. She experienced the urgent need to pursue the subject, for she had glimpsed
a strange look in her husband’s eyes. She knew that he was hiding his thoughts behind the business ledger.

‘You think so?’ Habib queried, turning to his wife and throwing the gold pen on to the table in front of him.

‘Yes,’ Shahzada answered bravely. ‘Did you not see, Habib Sahib, the look in your daughter’s eyes when she returned from the
mela
, and her reaction as she met him? She has never looked like that before.’
Disregarding
the chilled look in her husband’s eyes – they were as cold as the Kashmiri Mountains – Shahzada boldly persisted, ‘I think this handsome tycoon will be our daughter’s destiny …’

She abruptly stopped as her husband knocked the heavy wooden coffee table aside with his foot and stood up, a towering figure glaring down at her, letting the ledger fall to the marble floor with a loud clatter.

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ He spoke implacably. ‘It is obvious that you are besotted with him. That conceited bastard was more concerned with biscuits than giving my daughter the respect and attention she deserves. He barely glanced at my Zarri Bano, Shahzada! Men have been falling in love with my daughter since she was a teenager, whereas he could not even be bothered to look at her properly. That I find very offensive!’

‘But what about your daughter? Didn’t you see the look in her eyes?’ Shahzada begged.

‘Yes, I did,’ he ground out. ‘All the more reason for me to be cautious. I am the head of the family and
I
will decide what is good for my Zarri Bano. I don’t like this man, Shahzada.’

‘Habib, you are being too protective. I tell you, our Zarri Bano is keen on him. You must have seen how she reacted in his presence? Did you not see how she—’

‘This man has the power to hurt my beloved daughter. I feel it in my very bones!’ Habib replied angrily, cutting his wife short. ‘I will not let anyone do anything to cause her any pain or insult her in any way. You forget, Shahzada, in our clan, destinies are made and dictated by us.
I
will decide if this man is to be my daughter’s destiny or not.’

‘No, Habib, no!’ Shahzada appealed, her words echoing in the empty room, as Habib strode out of it banging the heavy walnut door behind him.

Shahzada stared at the intricate carvings on the back of the door with a sense of foreboding.

C
HAUDHARANI
K
ANIZ
WAS
being driven back from a two-week holiday in the resort of Murri on the Kashmir border. She had also, on her way, visited two of her sisters, who were married and settled in Lahore, in the province of Punjab.

Despite the stifling summer heat of Sind she was glad to be nearly home. She hoped that her son, Khawar, was well and that everything was running smoothly in her household, left in the capable hands of her servant, Neesa.

In Chaudharani Kaniz’s mind, the
rishta
or eligible bride to whom her youngest sister Sabra had introduced her in Lahore, would be an excellent wife for Khawar. The young woman was attractive and well-educated, but more to the point she came from a wealthy family of good repute and background.

The only snag, however, was whether the young
woman and her family would find their proposal acceptable. The thought was firmly lodged in Kaniz’s mind like a thorn: would a middle-class, educated and citified Lahori woman relish coming to the quiet
backwaters
of a rural village in scorching Sind?

That was the problem and a big problem at that! For it was an understood fact boasted by Lahori women that very few of them favoured the rural life, no matter what facilities they were offered. Even electricity, video recorders and air conditioning were no compensation for the teeming nightlife, entertainment and shopping facilities offered by the old capital of Pakistan.

Born and bred in the rural world, Kaniz herself didn’t care a
paisa
for city ways. When she had been given the option of either marrying into an ‘ordinary’ but very much an urban family, or staying on in the village and marrying a very wealthy landlord, Kaniz without a moment’s hesitation had plummeted for the honour of becoming a
zemindar
’s wife. Blessed with a generous store of commonsense and shrewdness from an early age, coupled with an innate avarice, Kaniz thought she would have to be deranged to turn down an offer like that!

Becoming a
chaudharani
and reigning supreme as the headwoman in a close-knit village hierarchy was an opportunity which didn’t walk up to one’s doorstep every day. She had offered seventy thanksgiving
nafl
prayers to Allah for bringing such good
kismet
her way. Kaniz thus had no qualms at all about settling
permanently
in the village.

The shallow allure and glitter of the city life failed to beckon to her. ‘With acres of land to his name and plenty of revenue coming from it, you and your
husband
Sarwar will never be short of anything,’ her
mother had drummed into her excitedly. She didn’t have to be told that her wildest materialistic dreams would be realised – and so they were.

The only thing that had spoilt it all, and continued to rankle unto this day, was the fact that her husband had been jilted by another village woman before Kaniz came on the scene. She had been his second choice. This was the thorn, the serpent in her rose garden, whose cancerous effect on her life she could neither dig out nor dislodge.

In the early years, too, she had chafed miserably from being labelled as the ‘
Second Chaudharani
’. For everyone knew and it was an undisputed fact that Shahzada was the first and most important local landowner. When Habib Khan and his Chaudharani Shahzada had moved to the nearest town, Tanda Adam, ten years ago, Kaniz had simply been elated. Only the old man, Siraj Din, remained in his large
hawaili
, in the village. Up till then Shahzada, as Siraj Din’s eldest daughter-in-law, had unwittingly and innocently robbed all the
limelight
from poor Kaniz.

Now she, Kaniz, was the only
chaudharani
in the village and she never let a single soul forget it! With her snooty manner and imperious ways, she kept most of the villagers at arm’s length. For she had imbibed very early on the ancient wisdom that says it never pays to be too familiar with one’s servants and neighbours. How else was she to maintain her special position and authority over everybody, Kaniz thought, if she rubbed shoulders with every Tom, Dick and Harry? Without her authority, she was nothing!

Kaniz winced as the car slid off the main road onto the bumpy track leading towards Chiragpur. She
happily
speculated as to how many people would note her
arrival. By tonight the whole village would know that Chaudharani Kaniz was back, for there were only four cars in the village: theirs, Siraj Din’s and the two belonging to the
nouveaux riche
families who had recently begun to accumulate wealth thanks to their sons going abroad to work in the Middle East. First it was a giant fridge, then a VCR and finally they had ostentatiously progressed to brand new Jeeps!

Kaniz turned her head with a sniff, a sneer twisting her beautiful mouth. Jeeps and VCRs didn’t change the lineage. She and her family had both background
and
wealth. Rows of shiny cars could not put their
shan
in the shade!

The dusty road wound through green vegetable fields for a mile. Kaniz peered out of the window,
sniffing
the fresh country air with pleasure. It was good to be back!

Squinting, her eyes latched on to the figure of a man on a white horse. Was that her Khawar? He was the only one with a white horse in the district. Without her glasses, she couldn’t quite make him out at such a
distance
. Frowning, she tried to identify the other figure with him. It was a young woman, walking a few yards ahead of Khawar. Kaniz saw the woman trip and then fall to the ground, into the cauliflower field.

Her son jumped off his horse and helped the woman up. Khawar was now speaking to her and she was
replying
before turning to walk away. Taking hold of the horse’s bridal, Khawar began to walk back with the woman, towards the village.

Who is that silly chit? Kaniz wondered waspishly. Why did her son have to behave so idiotically? It wasn’t right for a young single man to be alone in the fields having a cosy
tête-á-tête
with a young woman, even if it
was by accident. It was a most
improper
thing to do, compromising both his and, more particularly, the woman’s reputation. Kaniz must remind him about
village
proprieties and social etiquette when she got home. Chiragpur was a small place, and a woman’s
izzat
, her honour, was the most treasured commodity of all.

Kaniz continued to watch as she saw the woman hasten her step. Then she turned round to say
something
to him. ‘The hussy!’ Kaniz hissed under her breath.

Khawar stopped following her. Climbing back onto his horse he cantered off in the other direction. Much to Kaniz’s annoyance, her son still hadn’t spotted his mother’s car on the lane.

The young woman had now come onto the lane and was walking in the same direction as the car – towards the village. She turned her head to look at the car at the very same moment Kaniz herself looked out of the
passenger
window, her body swelling with curiosity as to the identity of the girl. As the car sped by, Kaniz fell back from the window, her face flushed with sudden heat.

Firdaus! The washerwoman’s daughter! Daughter of her enemy!
How could her son do this to her
?

‘How demeaning. That vixen! I bet she has got her claws in my son,’ Kaniz spat, choking with outrage. ‘We will see about this. I will nip this affair in the bud, if my name is not Kaniz!’ she vowed, swiping her hand clean over her face from her forehead down to her chin, in a village gesture of personal challenge. ‘
Meeting
my son stealthily alone in the fields!
Gushty
! The slut!’

Kaniz’s son didn’t return home until the evening. By that time she had managed to work herself up into quite a frenzy. The furnace of hate for that young woman sent her lashing out at her housekeeper, Neesa, as soon as she stepped inside her front door.

‘Where has my son been spending his time, Neesa?’ she demanded. ‘It looks as if he has been making the most of my absence. As the old saying goes: “When the cat is away the house becomes overrun by mice”. In this case, when the mother is away …’

‘He has been in and out all the time, mistress.
Getting
on with his business, I presume,’ Neesa hastily replied. ‘You must be tired. Would you like to lie down? I will wake you when the young master comes home.’

‘No, Neesa, I cannot rest until I have seen my Khawar. I am a widow and I shoulder all the
responsibilities
alone. I, therefore, need to be kept abreast with everything. If you have noticed anything untoward in my son’s behaviour it is your duty to tell me, Neesa. He is my only son. I need to be made aware of every minute detail to do with his welfare.’

‘What is the matter, mistress?’ Neesa timidly enquired, curious to know the source of her
chaudharani
’s ill temper. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No, nothing has happened. Off you go now. Send Khawar to me when he comes in.’ Kaniz dismissed her housekeeper.

Neesa stared at her mistress’s broad, back-turned figure for a few seconds, then quietly turned and left the room. Kaniz wasn’t an easy woman to work for. Both proud and cruel, she rarely praised, but expected everything to be done to the highest of standards. She kept all of her servants at a distance, including Neesa – her housekeeper for twenty-nine long years. As her
subordinate, she didn’t think it was right to ‘honour’ Neesa with her confidence.

Sighing to herself, Neesa returned to her cleaning. She must go and check again every room, every pillar, for dust and cobwebs, in case she had the misfortune to have missed any odd crevice. A very tidy person and obsessively proud of her home, Mistress Kaniz would definitely be ritually fingering and inspecting all the windows, and all the surfaces for dust before she went to sleep. It was a task she always meticulously
performed
whenever she returned from a journey away from home – no matter how achingly tired she was.

Her employer was already in a foul mood. Neesa didn’t want to give her another excuse to vent her
temper
, and this time on her. Resignedly, she picked up her dusting cloth and
boker
stick again.

Khawar, the twenty-six-year-old son and heir to all of his mother’s worldly wealth, found Kaniz reclining on a small mountain of cushions on the sofa in front of the television, watching a video film – a new release from Bollywood, India.

‘
Assalam-Alaikum
, Mother. I didn’t expect you back yet. I thought you were returning next week,’ Khawar informed her, bending down and kissing her warmly on the forehead.

‘Apparently so. I have been waiting hours for you to come home, my son. Where have you been? Gadding about the fields on your horse, I suppose, or holding important
rendezvous
?’ she insinuated hotly.

‘I went to settle the account with our
chaprassi
for next week, Mother, and to sort out the flour-grinding machine,’ he answered good-humouredly, choosing to ignore her petulant mood.

‘I saw you earlier,’ Kaniz snapped, her voice low, her dark, almond-shaped eyes now glittering menacingly in her fair face.

‘Where?’ Khawar slid down on the sofa beside his mother. She turned to give him the full benefit of a slow, detailed facial examination, evidently seeking any telltale sign of guilt.

‘In the fields – with that young woman!’ Kaniz spat, her eyes screwed into tiny slits.

‘What do you mean by
that young woman?
’ Undaunted, Khawar stared squarely back into his mother’s eyes.

‘Well, apparently you were so engrossed in that washerwoman’s daughter that you didn’t even notice your mother’s car when it passed you by.’

‘I was not engrossed, Mother – don’t be silly! Firdaus fell down and I helped her up. That is all.’

‘No, you didn’t just help her up! I was watching you. You walked with her and were having a cosy chat with her.’

‘What is this, Mother?’ Khawar shifted irritably on the sofa. ‘An inquisition? So what if I was talking to her! She is a fellow villager and, after all, I have played with her as a child. It is not a crime to talk to her, is it? I was only asking her about the school. Remember, I am one of the school’s management committee members.’

Kaniz patiently heard him out, before addressing him in a measured tone. She couldn’t afford him to make the mistake of taking her words lightly, or
misunderstanding
them. She was thus forced to spell it out for him. ‘I want you to keep away from that woman,’ she told him. ‘I will not let you have anything to do with her, nor her family. It is too degrading for
a wealthy, well-born landlord to go chasing after a washerwoman’s daughter.’

Unable to bear his mother’s insults and taunts any longer, Khawar stood up and threw caution to the winds.

‘Firdaus is a Deputy Headmistress of the school, Mother! Why is it that you always so conveniently
forget
that fact? You delight in insulting her by labelling her as the “washerwoman’s daughter!” What sort of a kick do you get from verbally abusing her? She is
not
a washerwoman’s daughter!’

‘Well, I think she is. And I don’t get kicks, you rascal! I am telling you, my son, not to dishonour our name by linking it with theirs. Anyway, I have a great match in mind for you, in Lahore, with a very beautiful and educated woman. Your Auntie Sabra has been so busy on your behalf.’

‘Really.’ Khawar whistled softly, releasing the tight rein of his temper. Proud, like his mother, he was unable to bear her imperious, tyrannical manner. ‘You and Auntie Sabra can do what you like with that “Lahori” woman,’ he said icily. ‘If I want to, I can marry that
chit
– that
washerwoman’s daughter
and there is nothing you can do to stop me, Mother.’ He glared down at her, in no mood to humour her further.

Her beautiful mouth dropping open, Kaniz watched her son stride angrily out of the room. She was only prevented from going into hysterics by the realisation that Khawar was simply goading her. He has said that in anger to get back at me, she thought. He knows his duty and would never do anything so unforgivable as that!