The Holy Woman (31 page)

Walking back together in silence towards their tent, Sikander quietly tossed at her: ‘Pakinaz told us earlier that that Musa man wanted to marry you.’

Zarri Bano stopped walking. ‘I … Did she? She had no right.’

‘Why not? And why did you refuse him?’ he pressed, his voice dangerously low.

‘Brother Sikander! As you well know, I cannot marry nor do I
wish
to marry any man – that is why!’ she reminded him hotly, a blush seeping through her cheeks.

‘Ruby tells me that your father has released you from that oath,’ Sikander doggedly cut in, still not looking at her.

Zarri Bano stood still on one side of a portable chemist cabin, ignoring the queue of pilgrims buying medicine. Sikander stopped too. Their bodies taut, they faced each other. She scrutinised his face, blinking in surprise at his combative stare.

‘I don’t know what Ruby or Pakinaz has told you. The fact remains that I am a Holy Woman and do not wish to marry
anyone
. It is offensive of you even to suggest it or to make an issue of it.’ Her own eyes were now icy cold.

‘It didn’t look very offensive to me when you were having your cosy little
tête-à-tête
with that unsuitable fellow.’ Sikander shocked both himself and Zarri Bano by the words that leaped viciously out of his mouth.

‘Brother Sikander!’ Zarri Bano was scandalised. ‘How dare you insult me. What has come over you? What is it to you anyway?’ she taunted, her stare matching his in hostility.

‘You dare to ask me that!’ he hissed under his breath. Leaning forward, oblivious to the human throng
milling
around them, he ground out: ‘I am the man you jilted, Zarri Bano – in case you have forgotten.
That
is what the matter is with me.’ He grabbed hold of her arm and shook her, hard. ‘As your ex-fiancé it is natural I should be interested in your love life!’

‘Get your hands off me!’ Zarri Bano nearly screamed into his face. ‘Don’t you dare touch me! I will not listen to any more of your madness. I think that the afternoon sun has got to you. You do not know what you are saying or doing. A love life – me? How dare you insult me so!’

He dropped her arm as if it burned him. ‘Do you think I enjoyed watching you making eyes at him?’ he said passionately. ‘Him! A man who any fool can see is still in love with you, not as a holy sister but as a woman.’ Sikander was quivering with suppressed emotion, his body all a-tremble.

‘Stop right there!’ Zarri Bano’s tall, slim frame behind her
burqa
also trembled – but with rage. ‘You have trespassed all barriers of decency, Sikander Sahib! I didn’t imagine that you could stoop so low. I am a Holy Woman, in case you have forgotten. A woman who has renounced marriage and one who has no interest in worldly relationships, let alone with men and
love
!’ She spat the word as if it was acid burning her tongue.

Then she took a deep breath and said more calmly ‘I will forgive you this time, Brother Sikander, but do not ever,
ever
, talk to me on this topic again! You have no hold over me, any more than Ibrahim Musa does, that stranger from another country. Except, of course, that you are my brother-in-law. Husband of my beloved
sister
and father of my beloved nephew. We have nothing between us, Sikander,’ she said painfully. ‘We never had. No other links – save platonic ones. Our past that you delight in referring to and the woman you thought you knew are both buried six feet deep in my brother’s grave.’ At the thought of Jafar, tears came into her eyes and she swallowed hard. ‘We are performing
hajj
here, Brother Sikander. It is a holy pilgrimage, supposedly taking us on to an elevated plane. Do not thus debase our holy spiritual journey with your base insults and innuendoes and sick imagination.’ Anger reawakened in her.

‘Furthermore, I do not need you walking by my side. You are not my chaperone, my father is. You are Ruby’s
husband and that is where you should be – by her side, not by mine! You are with the wrong sister, Brother Sikander! The wrong woman, in fact!’ Then gathering her black robe around her body and pulling the hood lower over her forehead, she strode away from him, her head held high.

As the pilgrims walked around Sikander, some still carrying trays of meat to their tents, he watched Zarri Bano disappear, fighting an insatiable urge to grab hold of her and wring her slim neck. Somehow she always brought out the worst in him! He let out a long, slow breath. Needing to take a walk around the camp he set off, only returning much later to their tent.

During the evening mealtime, Zarri Bano and Sikander didn’t exchange a single word or look but resolutely maintained a stony silence towards one another. Zarri Bano had managed to erect an almost tangible barrier between them. Resignedly Sikander let her. Apparently, as she had said the past was indeed buried and the woman he knew with it. He recalled the evening on the beach collecting seashells in Karachi. ‘When was that? Where has that carefree girl gone? Did that joyful occasion ever take place?’ Sikander sadly asked himself as he looked at the woman who
steadfastly
refused to acknowledge his presence in the tent although she was lying on a rug only a foot away. He was vexed for betraying and making an utter fool of himself.

Pakinaz, Ibrahim Musa and his parents came to visit Zarri Bano’s parents later in the evening, but Sikander left the tent soon after they arrived.

O
N THE MORNING
of the last day of
hajj
, a mood of melancholy and nostalgia hung over Minah,
compelling
some pilgrims to wonder whether they were
destined
to return to the plain again in their lifetime or if it was to be their last visit.

The sun beat heavily on the shaved heads of the male pilgrims as they threw pebbles at the Devil’s site for the last time. In Zarri Bano’s party, Sikander volunteered to throw pebbles for everyone. In the human mass of pilgrims congregating around a small site, it
sometimes
turned out to be a contest of the fittest and the sturdiest being able to survive the crush.

By the late morning, pilgrims and their guides had begun to gather their belongings together and to
dismantle
their tents. Ahead of them, they all had one important
hajj
schedule: to go to Mecca to the Holy
Kaba
, to pay their respects. Zarri Bano had visited Pakinaz’s family early in the morning and exchanged phone numbers and addresses of their respective hotels in Mecca.

Coaches, buses and cars crawled along the road to Mecca. The highway was a hive of activity, with horns blaring away all day. On reaching the city, Habib’s party went first to their hotel to freshen up and to deposit their belongings before they departed for the Holy Mosque. In the Holy
Kaba
they joined the throng of pilgrims in the long corridors and the large square courtyard of the mosque, to perform their final devotion.

Entering via the doorway known as ‘Bab Ibrahim’, their eyes met a spectacular sight. The courtyard was swollen with pilgrims. With not half a foot apart, the
hajjis
clustered around the
Al-Kaba
like a swarm of bees, the chanting sound and rhythm of their prayers resounding around the mosque.

Habib told his family to perform
umrah
, starting first with the
safa-marwa
, by walking up and down the long corridor seven times. After this ritual they rested together in the balconied corridor and watched the other pilgrims walking around the holy
Kaba
seven times.

‘Mother,’ Zarri Bano suggested, ‘I think you should perform your
Tawaf-e-Ziarat
in the upper corridors. It will be less crowded and much cooler up there, although obviously it will take you longer.’

‘Yes, I think I will do what you suggest,’ Shahzada told her gratefully. ‘Just look at that crowd! What about your father?’

‘Oh don’t be silly, I will be fine.’ Habib shrugged disdainfully.

‘But that crowd, Habib Sahib – how are you all going to get in? Don’t, for goodness sake, try to kiss the
Hajar-e-Aswad
, the holy black stone today, Zarri Bano and Ruby.’

‘No, we won’t attempt it. Not today, Mother.’ Ruby pulled at her father’s arm. ‘Come on, Father, let’s go in.’

Ruby stepped down the white alabaster marble steps and advanced eagerly towards the crowd of pilgrims. Habib took hold of her hand. Zarri Bano, too, stepped down, closely followed by Sikander. He didn’t touch her or hold her hand but stood directly behind her, shielding her from the crowds with his arms. They then joined the
tawaf
circumbulation, reciting
surahs
from
the Holy Quran as they walked around the black square building that was draped in a beautiful, new, gold cloth, embroidered with
surahs
from the Holy Quran, lovingly hand-stitched by hundreds of women each year.

Shahzada watched her family anxiously, standing against a marble pillar for a few seconds before turning to go up to the second floor to perform her own
umrah
where it would be less crowded.

‘Are you all right, Sister Zarri Bano?’ Sikander murmured into her neck, his arms held out protectively on both sides of her, preventing her from being jostled by other men.

It was the first exchange between them since their bitter outburst in Minah. Pushed from behind, Sikander grasped hold of Zarri Bano’s arm and held onto it tightly. Drawing closer to him, she accepted his protection knowing that it was for her own safety.

Being very tall, Sikander kept a close watch also on Habib and Ruby. They were three rows ahead of them. Turning, Ruby caught her husband’s eye and smiled. He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners with pleasure.

As Ruby turned back, a nightmare began to unfold as one pilgrim suffered a heart attack and fell to the ground. Those immediately around the man, including his wife, tried to pull him up but they, too, stumbled in their turn and fell on top of him. Panic spread through the crowd like a flame. People struggled to flee and found themselves trapped in the crowd unable to go anywhere.

Zarri Bano was thrust forward, away from Sikander’s side. His arm snaked out to reach her, but already three pilgrims divided them. Before his horrified eyes he saw
her disappear from sight. Then he found himself
tripping
over the bent figure of an older Turkish woman. He grabbed her arm and pulled her up. Panic-stricken, she smiled her thanks – her lips trembling badly.

Helplessly carried along with the crowd, Zarri Bano fought against her terror and tried to stay calm. A young, strong Nigerian woman fell against her chest, crushing her lungs. Unable to breathe and with the instinct to survive uppermost in her mind, Zarri Bano pushed her aside with all her strength. The woman’s face now pressed against Zarri Bano’s. ‘Please!’ Zarri Bano shouted in Arabic, and the woman, using her elbows, managed to heave aside the Indonesian man who was wedged against both of them. Finding a small space between the pilgrims, Zarri Bano cautiously eased herself away from the congested area. Those around her were dispersing in all directions. The cries and screams tore at her soul.

Clinging to a pillar, Zarri Bano anxiously scanned the faces and heads of the pilgrims she saw below, hoping they belonged to her loved ones. Standing on tiptoe, and afraid of tumbling down, she leaned over to look. ‘They should be here! Where are they?’ she screamed out loud.

Miraculously, before her eyes, she saw Sikander. She would recognise that head anywhere! He was still stuck amongst the crowd of rioting pilgrims. ‘Sikander!’ Zarri Bano found herself shouting, tears of relief
pouring
down her cheeks.

To her joy he heard her. A look of sheer relief flashed across his face, as he saw her standing in safety against the tall marble pillar of the corridor. She had not realised how dear that handsome face was, until this moment.

‘Stay there!’ he bellowed, over the head of an elderly woman in a black
chador
.

Sikander knew where to go now. He pushed his way urgently between the packed bodies, ignoring the cries of protest, very much afraid for Zarri Bano’s safety. She was standing against the pillar. One little shove and she could be crushed against it. To Zarri Bano it seemed like an eternity before he inched his hand slowly towards her, reaching over the shaven head of an old Bedouin. Their fingers touched. He then grabbed her whole hand in a tight grasp. The next minute he was standing directly in front of her.

His breathing ragged, Sikander looked into her eyes. ‘Zarri Bano! Zarri Bano!’ he whispered. ‘I thought I had lost you for good!’

With rivulets of tears trickling down her face she whispered back, ‘I thought when that big Nigerian woman fell on top of me, that was my last moment, Sikander.’

‘I know,’ he answered gravely, realising how close they had both been to death.

‘Do you know where Father and Ruby are?’ she asked fearfully. ‘I can’t see them anywhere. Please find them.’

He scanned the crowd of pilgrims swarming around the
Al-Kaba
building.

‘Of course I will. But come – let’s get you out of here first.’ He towed her behind him into the relative safety of the large corridor. Other pilgrims too were swarming towards the sanctuary of the upper corridor.

Turning to Zarri Bano he advised, ‘Stay here. I’ll go and look.’

The fear of separation evident in her face and voice, Zarri Bano objected. ‘No, Sikander, I want to go with you!’

He smiled tenderly down at her. ‘OK,’ he breathed, his hand aching to caress her cheek. His face sobered as he glanced up. ‘Look, the police are going in. Where is Ruby? I must go and find her and your father.’

He couldn’t mask the fear in his voice as he saw the police supervising the proceedings in the holy mosque, hurriedly pushing their way towards the scene of the tragedy. Waving their batons menacingly in front of the crowd they made pathways to the
Al-Kaba
building
. With Zarri Bano by his side, Sikander went along the corridor, peering over the shoulders of the pilgrims, looking for Ruby and Habib.

As he looked at the large square-shaped central courtyard, Sikander’s heart turned to stone. The
policemen
were carrying out the dead and the injured.

‘Just stay here, Zarri Bano!’ Sikander ordered her roughly, before hurrying away to see what the police were doing.

The bodies of the dead had been laid out in one section of the corridor, on the carpeted floor. Shocked pilgrims with fearful glances peered over them, unable to take in the tragedy.

On reaching the spot, Sikander looked down in dread; his gaze skipping over the faces of the victims. His heart stood perfectly still as his eyes fell on a body lying beside that of a Chinese pilgrim. He squatted down on his haunches over Habib, the man he had once hated.

Zarri Bano reached his side, peering over his bent shoulders.

‘Father,’ she uttered in horror. Her hand pressed to her mouth to stop the scream, she fell to her knees beside the corpse. ‘Oh
Allah Pak
, no! Surely it can’t be!’

With dread in his heart Sikander searched for his
wife, hoping that she wouldn’t be among the dead. Then before his stricken gaze, he saw two policemen carrying Ruby out to the corridor.

‘Ruby! Ruby!’ he cried. His wife’s eyes opened and she stared vacantly at him.

Upon hearing her sister’s name, Zarri Bano looked up in hope. Leaving her father, for whom she could do nothing, she rushed to her sister’s side. But Ruby’s breathing was ragged. Her white headscarf had fallen off. Bending down over her, Sikander felt her chest and began to press, desperate to revive her.

‘Ruby! Ruby! My darling.’

Ruby just softly uttered her son’s name: ‘Haris!’ It was the last word on her lips. Then her head rolled backwards, her mouth and eyes open.

‘
No-o-o-o!
’ Sikander’s agonised roar reached through to Zarri Bano’s numbed state. Tears blinded her gaze.

‘Brother Sikander, what has happened to us?’ she sobbed, glancing at the lifeless bodies of her beloved father and sister on the carpeted floor of the mosque corridor. Pilgrims crowded around, staring down at them in horror, before moving away.

Squatting on her knees Zarri Bano held her sister’s beloved face in her hands.

‘My darling sister, you cannot die. We haven’t
finished
our
umrah
yet. What about Haris? He is waiting for you in Karachi. Oh
Allah Pak
, why wasn’t it me, instead of you? You have a son, Ruby! You cannot die!’

The policemen returned with a medical team and lifted Ruby, Habib and other victims onto the stretchers. Sikander clamped down on his personal anguish, knowing he had to think and act fast. There were the funerals to arrange. As was the custom, pilgrims who died on the premises of the Holy Mosque
were buried in the holy city of Mecca. It was a secret dream cherished by many pilgrims, who prayed: ‘Let it be there, in the Holy Mosque.’

‘Zarri Bano, I must go with these men,’ he told her compassionately. ‘They cannot leave your father and sister here. You will need to tell your mother. Go and find her, but let her finish her
Tawaf-e-Ziarat
first. Take her to the hotel and I will meet you there later. I will also have to phone Pakistan. The funeral arrangements will take place here. You must finish your
umrah
.’

‘What has happened to our loved ones, Brother Sikander?’ she asked again, and turned a horror-stricken face to him. Sharing her pain and wanting to comfort her, Sikander didn’t know what to say or what to do. He could barely control his own grief.

He followed the policeman out of the Holy Mosque and into an ambulance, where they had placed Ruby and Habib next to each other. Once the doors had closed, he put his head in his hands and wept.

As if in a dream, Zarri Bano watched them go. The silence after the pandemonium was deafening. Her head throbbing with the words, ‘Oh my God. What am I going to tell Haris and Mother?’ she quietly left the scene, remembering Sikander’s instructions, telling her that she must finish her
umrah
.

Chanting the words, ‘
Labbaika Allahumma Labbaik
,’ through chattering teeth, Zarri Bano stepped once more into the human circle going around the
Al-Kaba
building. ‘How is it possible that my father and sister have already reached Allah?’ she queried, brushing the tears from her cheeks.

When it was over, she climbed the steps leading to the top corridor with a heavy heart, to search for her
mother. Was it all a nightmare? she asked herself again, feeling dazed. If so, when would she wake up?

The air hostess removed the untouched trays of food from the three passengers. Zarri Bano looked out of the plane window and watched the white fleecy clouds below. Shahzada sat next to her, silent with grief. It was left to Sikander to comfort both mother and daughter, and to see to everything in the last two days. He had telephoned his own family and Siraj Din in the village – gently breaking the news to them all.

Exhausted, Shahzada finally fell asleep. Zarri Bano, sitting beside Sikander, turned a tearful glance at him. ‘I am so sorry, Brother Sikander. I wish we had never come to do
hajj
.’

‘No, dear sister, it was fated to happen. Get to sleep now. You haven’t slept for two nights. Here, let me clean your face,’ he offered, and, taking a napkin, he gently wiped her tears away, almost like a father
touching
a child’s face.