Typhoon (20 page)

But Kaniz did not read it, nor did she wish to. She merely turned her head away, humiliated to her very soul. This man had no right to look at her like this. The desire was still there. She’d been blind to it twenty years ago. Now it was spitting at her. Was she mad? Or was he? Who was the maddest of the two?

‘All I ask, Kaniz, is that you read the note. It only has three sentences in it. It won’t take up too much of your time, I assure you. If you do not like what you read, then shred the paper into tiny pieces and scatter them in the wind. If you feel my letter deserves an answer, then I prefer that you answer and deliver it yourself, Chaudharani Kaniz. Whatever you do with this note, I will understand. May Allah pak give you health,
skoon
and a long life. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. If I have offended you in any way, I
ask for your forgiveness. I will bid you goodbye. Allah hafiz.’

He strode out of the room, a tall stiff figure, holding himself high. Kaniz stared at the back of his
well-groomed
head. The same man. The same head. She remained standing in her bethak, a typhoon in her head, until she heard his jeep drive away.

She glanced down at the blue folded note on her coffee-table. Then looked out of the open door and saw a green parrot fly across her courtyard in the sunlight and swing across a branch of the guava tree in the centre. Shaking her head, she went over and picked up the note, fearing that Neesa might find it later.
Crumpling
it up in her fist, Kaniz threw it in the waste-paper basket. As soon as she turned her back, she glanced down. ‘Somebody might find it in there. What if Firdaus were to look!’

She quickly retrieved the note, crushing it in her hand again. Leaving the room, she climbed the stairs to the rooftop verandah of her hawaili. It was her favourite place, giving her both privacy and a unique panoramic view of the village.

Walking to the shoulder-high tiled brick wall of the rooftop, her eyes skirted the village road. It meandered out of the village, through the green fields and joined onto the Multan GT Road. Younus Raees’s jeep was just turning onto a narrow side road leading to his village.

Kaniz gazed down at the crop of sugar cane ready to be harvested, circling the entire village. About to turn away, she remembered the note still crushed in her tight fist. Holding up her hand, she opened it and stared at the blue note. A tiny shiver of dread rippled down her back as she spread out the paper in her palm.

Her eyes skimmed over the three black bold lines written in
nastaliq
Urdu. Finally she closed her eyes. Then opened them to read and trace the lines again and again. She crumpled the paper back into her fist.

Hysterical laughter rumbled through her chest. Experiencing one of her hot flushes, she threw off her chiffon dupatta from around her shoulders.

‘Mad! Madman! Mad!
Majnoon
!’ Kaniz shouted over the wall of the rooftop. Then she glanced up at the clear blue sky above her.

His words ringing in her ears, she opened out her fist. With her long tapering fingernails she shredded the note into the tiniest pieces she could manage. Scooping up the tiny pieces, she threw them over the wall of her rooftop. The wind carried the confetti across the village. She saw one piece land on the wall ledge. Picking it up, she flicked it over. She wanted no trace of that man in her life. Or any man!

‘Younus Raees, that’s my answer,’ she called out. ‘You wanted it either in the wind or from me. The wind will be my messenger. It will carry my answer back to you.’ Kaniz felt the hysteria spiral inside her again. Leaning against one of the pillars supporting her patioed verandah, she rested her back.

Then, ‘Firdaus! The baby! Mary! What am I doing, scattering pieces of paper to the wind?’ she shrilled, semi-hysterical, rushing down to the first floor of her home.

N
AGHMANA AND HER
husband sat beside Siraj Din’s palang, watching the elder village Buzurgh lose consciousness again, his shallow breathing punctuated by short gasps of air. He had opened his eyes – wide. Took in Naghmana’s appearance and presence and then sighed. His two frail hands had risen to pat her head, reaching towards her, then fell to his side as she
nervously
edged away. She would not let her head be
patted
this time. Instead she flinched away from the old man on the bed, the cobra of her nightmares, unable to make sense of her feelings towards him. Were they pity or hatred? She regretted her reaction in her husband’s presence. He had noted it with interest, taken aback by her seemingly cruel action. Sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, she sank her head in her damp hands, aching to delete the images threatening to enfold her in a new nightmare. The ferocious eye of a typhoon beckoned.

Zarri Bano, Siraj Din’s thirty-two-year-old
granddaughter
, entered the room, her black-cloaked body gracefully moving to her grandfather’s side. She was closely followed by Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi, the
village
matchmaker and the cook. Professor Jahanghir watched the three women with a speculative gleam in his eye. All were odd-looking in their own distinctive way. Zarri Bano, was wearing a burqa, her body hidden behind a black loose garment. He wondered why she
wore the veil at home. Was it because of the male guests’ presence in the house? His eyes next swept over the two village women. One was tall and wiry, the other short and stocky at the waist, but with amazingly long bony arms, jangling with dozens of glass bangles. All too big for her arms, in too many colours and too many to count. Both had weathered skin, their cheeks marked with uneven pigmented patches. Naimat Bibi’s sunken eyes skimmed uneasily over Naghmana and the tall very official-looking grey-haired man sitting on another chair by her side.

Zarri Bano stood next to her grandfather’s bed and informed their new very important guests. ‘Naghmana Jee, Kulsoom Bibi and Naimat Bibi are very keen to meet you. They are from our village.’

Bending down, she lovingly picked up her
grandfather’s
hand and held it between her own, massaging gently the soft wrinkled pink flesh. After checking his pulse she listened to his chest, to the rhythm of his breathing – was it dull or rapid? Satisfying herself that it was stable, she left the room, smiling politely at the four visitors in her grandfather’s bedroom. She and her mother were now used to the presence of many strange guests. Streams of visitors had flocked into the room every half-hour. Crowding around the bed, whispering their greetings to the dying man. It had become Zarri Bano’s duty to take them inside and then leave them to pay their last respects to her beloved grandfather, whilst she went to collect others.

Leaving her four guests together she went straight to her bedroom to phone her husband, Sikander, in Karachi. ‘I need you, Sikander, please come. My
grandfather
is dying,’ she earnestly requested. ‘I miss you so. It’s so difficult here – so many people coming all at
once. Some are total strangers; I don’t recognise or know them at all. Now a university professor and his wife have arrived, and everybody is reacting so strangely towards her. Apparently whoever meets this lady, is shocked into silence. I don’t know who she is, but according to Mother, Grandfather was very keen to see her. It was really hard to track her down but our matchmaker did it. Please come! Mother and I are
finding
it very difficult to cope by ourselves – we need you here.’ She stopped breathless.

At the other end, her husband sitting in his office, smiled to himself as he listened. It was good to hear his wife’s voice. He ached to hold her. ‘It is nice to know that I am wanted. I’ll come on one condition.’

‘What is that?’ Zarri Bano quickly asked.

‘Just tell me that you love me very much and that you will come straight back home as soon as it is
practically
possible for you to do so. It’s been two months – I miss you and my son terribly, Zarri Bano. Have pity on me!’ He wasn’t teasing. His voice was low and husky.

‘Do you still need to hear it from me?’ she marvelled. Did he still not believe her? ‘I simply adore you, Sikander, you know that. I am dying to go home to you and to get back to my desk in my publishing company. I am only here because of Grandfather and because Mother is all alone and needs me. Will you come – please? Tonight?’

His wife’s pleading tone cut Sikander to the quick.

‘Don’t say “please” Zarri Bano. I’ll be there in two hours.’ His voice had roughened.

‘Thank you.’ She placed the phone down
thoughtfully
. She hadn’t given her husband much thought in the last few days. Not even missed his phone calls.
Now all of a sudden, she wanted him with her that very minute. ‘I can’t wait to see you, Sikander,’ she
murmured
, and glanced down at her sleeping son, in his cot. Their little treasure – her prince. She missed Haris also, her nephew. She must phone him later. Smiling she left to look for her mother.

In Baba Siraj Din’s bedroom Kulsoom Bibi and Naimat Bibi continued to stare at the elegant, middle-aged woman sitting beside the distinguished grey-haired man.

It is actually her!
The thought darted in both the friends’ minds, as they enviously noted that time had dealt kindly with Naghmana, the young fashionable city woman who had caused such a furore – a
tofan
– in their village twenty years ago. And left them all buried under it. They wondered in awe whether it was the magic work of expensive cosmetics or pots of creams from the posh plaza stores or the urban indoor lifestyle, far away from the scorching sun’s rays that made it possible for a woman, who in all likelihood was only a few years younger than them, to look so attractive and youthful. It wasn’t fair. ‘Look at her slim, taut waist!’ they signalled to each other. Just as she had fascinated all the young and older women twenty years ago, now she had become the focus of their jealous stares, for both youth and looks just seemed to have passed the friends by. Allah pak had only blessed them with homely looks, for which they had to be grateful.

And her hair …

Kulsoom Bibi’s gaze dropped before Naghmana’s. She nudged her friend awkwardly forward. A nervous look danced in both their eyes. The urban sahib, with
his designer Western suit, was still watching them with indolent amusement, his body totally relaxed.

Kulsoom’s pride asserted itself. Why did men like that have to look at them as if they were dirt? Humble yes, but decent, knowledgeable women they were nevertheless. Adept at their crafts and the art of
survival
. They weren’t royalty, granted, but nor were they totally gauche!

With a firm step, Kulsoom approached Naghmana. They were here on an important errand. They had waited twenty years for this moment. She was smiling politely at them, wondering who these strange women were and what business they had with her.

‘Assalam Alaikum,’ Kulsoom Bibi greeted her, her face grave.

‘Walaikum Salam, ladies,’ Naghmana replied warmly, wondering whether to call them aunts or
sisters
, ‘I don’t appear to recognise you two. Should I know you?’ Her eyes skipped over the head of one woman to the other, a warm flush spreading across her cheeks for some reason. Was one face familiar? It was from the front row. Three places away from her aunt. Naghmana’s breath stalled.

‘Yes. You probably don’t know us personally and remember us, but we remember you clearly. In fact, the whole village remembers you.’ The conspiratorial look was aimed at Naghmana. She caught it. She
remembered
and the air thickened with it. The polite, urbane mask was stripped away. A wary, shuttered look replaced it and something else that Kulsoom couldn’t quite fathom. Is it fear? she speculated.

‘We have come to ask your forgiveness,’ Naimat Bibi had decided that she had to venture first in this
important
tête-à-tête with Naghmana, otherwise Kulsoom
would, as usual, monopolise it all and leave her
tongue-tied
.

‘My forgiveness?’ Naghmana stammered, her gaze faltering before them. Her husband’s body language told her that he was listening. Unaware of the tension mounting between the husband and the wife, Kulsoom innocently hastened to explain.

‘For what happened to you twenty years earlier in the village. We feel we were partly responsible for that kacheri. It was us two who spread the rumour.’ Her eyes drifting away, Kulsoom had to add the last bit. It was her form of expiation for their sin. Her voice had sunk low nevertheless. Ashamed.

Naghmana’s head lowered, she tried to still her
shaking
fingers. She was caught between the two women who knew too much of her past and her husband, who knew very little – but was learning fast. She licked her dry lips.

‘There is nothing for me to forgive you for, Bibi Jee,’ she said without looking up, in a brave attempt to divert her husband’s attention.

‘Oh, but there is,’ Kulsoom magnanimously expanded, taking a step forward and raising her two hands in supplication. ‘Please forgive us!’

Naimat Bibi quickly followed suit in miming the same action. Now both the women stood with their upraised hands in front of her, with beseeching eyes.

Naghmana panicked. She slid back on her chair,
finding
herself pressed further and further down into the soft sands of oblivion. No escape.

Still blind to the charged atmosphere in the room, Kulsoom Bibi drew out a small stained silk parcel and, prising it apart with her long bony fingers, held it up to
the woman they had disgraced with their
gossip-mongering
.

Naghmana stared back blankly, unable to
understand
what was going on. Copying her friend, Naimat Bibi too drew out her little soot-stained parcel from her dress pocket and proffered it gently near Naghmana’s face.

‘We return your ‘pride’ to you,’ Kulsoom whispered, her hand shaking as she held the small silk parcel,
trying
to cover the tiny hole where the moth had chewed away the old silk cloth.

Naghmana took the silk parcel from Kulsoom Bibi. Holding it in the palm of her hand she looked down at the discoloured creamy square of silk. There was a lock of hair nestling inside it. Naghmana glanced up, seeking explanation.

‘It’s your hair. We have kept it for you! Treasured it! We all have – Jamila – Sardara!’ Kulsoom whispered, in a voice tinged with sadness.

Her fingers visibly trembling before her husband’s gaze and her heart sunk in the deep well of heartache, Naghmana picked up her large lock of hair. Then her body betrayed her. The mask slipping away. Nature took its course. She let out a loud animal-like groan, dropping the lock on the floor, her face twisted in pain. Baba Siraj Din stirred on his bed.

Shocked, Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi quickly stepped back.

‘Naghmana!’ Professor Jahanghir leapt up from his chair in concern. ‘Naghmana!’

A wild look in her eye, she ignored his arm and rushed past the two women, out of the room. Naimat Bibi’s and Kulsoom Bibi’s hearts were now urgently thudding away. They were sure the whole hawaili could
hear the sound of their heartbeats. What had they done wrong?

‘What have you done to my wife?’ the Professor demanded of the two ‘lowly’ women, who had
somehow
dared to upset Naghmana. ‘Who are you anyway?’ he thundered.

‘We are sorry, Master Jee,’ Kulsoom mumbled,
backing
away, suddenly very eager to be gone.

Professor Jahanghir watched the two women hastily retreat from the room. The old man was moving his head on the pillow. Jahanghir’s eyes went down to the long lock of hair lying near his feet. Squatting on the floor he picked it up. They had said it was his wife’s. From the bed the revered village Buzurgh mumbled in his sleep, ‘Forgive me, Naghmana, my daughter. May Allah pak forgive me for my sin!’

Jahanghir glanced up from the lock of hair in his hand and looked at the old man’s face on the bed. His nostrils flared. He had heard the words very clearly. What had his wife done with the old man? All this business about ‘forgiveness’. First those two women, now the old man from his deathbed. Naghmana had a lot of explaining to do. He went looking for his wife.

Her head leaning over the edge, he found her lying on the bed in the guestroom. His hard, male tread on the shining marble floor didn’t disturb her. Standing next to her, anger deserted Jahanghir’s body, as he looked at his wife.

‘Naghmana?’ he softly enquired, bending down and peering into her face. She didn’t see him. Only the spot on the whitewashed wall in the far corner of the room.

‘Naghmana, please tell me why you screamed in that
room? And why did those strange women and even the old man, ask for your forgiveness? What is going on? What is your relationship with these people? What have you done?’

Naghmana didn’t answer. She had left him behind. Instead she suddenly let out another ragged,
animal-like
sound, startling her husband into hurriedly placing a hand across her mouth. ‘Shush!’ Squatting down on the floor beside the bed, he tried to maintain
eye-contact
with her – but couldn’t. Her eyes just looked right through him.

‘What is the matter with you, my beautiful wife? Why are you screaming? Don’t you know that we are in someone else’s home? We are guests here. What will they think if they should hear your noises?’

Before his eyes, he saw his wife’s face contort in anguish as she burst into tears, brushing aside his hand from her mouth. Jahanghir watched helplessly. ‘Naghmana! Naghmana! Please tell me!’ he begged, drawing her limp body into his arms and hugging her tightly.

‘My first husband. The snakes! The snakes! They are here. The kacheri!’ Naghmana moaned aloud on his shoulder.

‘Snakes?’ Jahanghir asked, turning her body round and holding her face in his hands. ‘Look at me, Naghmana. What snakes? Your husband – is he here?’