A Pair of Jeans and other stories (11 page)

Samir had thought ahead. His pension, even if he did not touch the rest of his savings, would be enough to support this household – an ideal way of honouring his wife and her dying wish. Her last words to all her children and to him had been, “Do not forget all the families that I’ve been supporting in my life – earn their heartfelt prayers by helping them. Don’t forget to keep my register of widows safe. Don’t let anyone die of poverty or ill health! Display your humanity and offer generously your
zakat
.”

His eyes on the four heads modestly draped with dupattas, Samir meditated on one possible way for these girls to get out of this poverty trap and offered. “Sister please educate your daughters… send them to any colleges that you like. I’ll pay all their fees and other costs.”

The girls’ eyes widened and lit up in wonder. The
Velati
man would do that for them! Go to the town college. The girls’ minds were swimming. Their poignant looks and smiling faces cut him to his soul. His own children, including his two daughters, had been educated to the highest degree level and had access to great opportunities. Did these poor girls not have a right to the same? He was suddenly struck and dismayed by the inequality of life. How some had everything whilst others simply worried about the next meal!

The youngest girl moved away from the doorway as Samir’s village host, who had followed him to the widow’s house, entered the room. Catching Samir’s eyes, the host signalled to him that dinner was waiting. Samir hastened to add before rising from the settee.

“Don’t worry about anything, Sister. I’ll take care of your financial situation and make sure that you get your remittances on time, including for the wheat. You have our phone numbers. Please phone for any extra financial help needed. I’ll take care of the furniture for your daughter’s dowries just as my Sabiya did for your eldest daughter… I have to go now and may Allah Pak look after you all!” He felt in his jacket pocket and shyly placed a three-thousand-rupee note in the youngest girl’s hand, lowering his gaze in embarrassment in the face of their gratitude.

He politely followed his host out of the small courtyard before turning to look back at the girls shyly peeping out of their door. “This is their humble world!” he mused, “And I live in a large house all by myself.” The thought terrified him.

He politely smiled to the other villagers that he passed in the lane. There was no-one he recognised and no welcoming look of sudden recognition. And why should there be? He chided himself. He was over seventy years old – and so far he had not seen a soul of that age group in the village.

That night he returned to Lahore to his brother’s family. Fear of hospitality had made him flee the village, afraid that if he stayed the night his hosts would incur the cost of breakfast and afternoon dinner the following day. He was familiar with their generosity and excellent hospitality. Already they had spent a lot on his behalf. Until the entire dining table was covered with plates of cakes, pastries, boiled eggs and parathas they would not be happy.

In his brother’s home there was no element of guilt – no waiting upon ceremony. They knew what he liked, and so for breakfast his brother would fetch some warm
kulchas
from the local bakery and the tea would be supplied by his
sister-in
-law.

Drinking a cool glass of
lassi
, Samir instructed the driver to take him back to Lahore, the city of his birth, the old Mughal capital of India. He wanted to call on the way at the famous Data Gunj Darbar, a favourite shrine of his mother. In his childhood days she eagerly took him to pay homage to the saint buried in the tomb, visited by thousands every day from all over the world.

Outside in the Darbar courtyard, the
daig
men were fast at work, serving food from their big pots to the needy and to those keen to take the
tabark
, food offerings, home for their family. When the man distributing bags of pilau rice touched him on his arm, Samir was lost for words and nodded, taking the bag of rice with him inside the building. In the large hall amidst the crowd of male and female devotees, peering through the open windows at the tomb draped with a green and gold embroidered sheet, Samir offered special prayers for his wife’s soul, tears gushing out of his eyes. Then a prayer for himself. He repeated the word “escape” again.

As he sheepishly entered his ancestral home, the mouths of his brother’s family fell open. They had not expected him back that night. In fact, they thought he was touring another city and here he was, large as life. Both parties energetically avoided eye contact. His brother’s family quickly recovered. They had been lounging around on sofas. It was eight o’clock and the popular drama was about to be telecast. The wife and daughter began panicking. Was their guest fed or did they have to scurry to the kitchen to rustle up a meal for him? Reading their minds perfectly, Samir wryly held the bag of rice in front of him.

“I got my meal from the Darbar, I’m sure it’s delicious. Don’t worry about me, just carry on watching.” With those words he left them to their drama, before excusing himself. “I’ll go up to my room and have a shower.”

“Yes, please do!” His sister-in-law quickly offered with a toothy grin and orangey
sak
-stained lips, sitting down to enjoy the drama with her daughter.

He came down precisely after nine pm, having given them time to finish watching their serial. In that time, he had showered, eaten the rice from the bag with his fingers and started to gather his belongings. They were expecting him and hurried to greet him, his niece standing up.

“Are you sure you will not want a meal?” His brother asked, not happy at Samir not eating. “The
darbar daig
rice was wonderful. Good to eat
tabark
sometimes. It reminds us gently what life is all about – our stomachs. Getting food into our bellies is what we work for, don’t we?” His brother cynically nodded, a director of a firm and now retired. He still had two daughters whose marriage and dowries he had to arrange. It was not just the matter of food for him. He envied his brother for having all his children wed and settled. No worries, saving that of having lost a wife.

Aloud he instructed. “Bano, go and make tea for your uncle!”

A smile fixed on her face, the eldest daughter left for the kitchen, whilst everyone else watched the news.

“Tomorrow morning I will check flight times.” Samir slipped in the information whilst sipping his tea. Heads turned, TV forgotten, surprise written on their faces.

“What brother! Already? You’ve only been here for just a week!” The sister-in-law rushed to speak.

“I think a week is enough - time to go home!” He replied, a gentle smile peeping across his features as he remembered his daughter Rosie.

Dumbfounded, they stared back at him, but did not challenge or question him further as to why. “He must be missing his children,” his brother echoed in his head. Once more all heads turned to the programme. As the eldest daughter got up to take the cups back to the kitchen, she smiled at her uncle asking if he wanted some more tea. He smiled back; it was the first full smile she had accorded him since he had arrived. Then she surprised him and her parents further with her kind offer.

“Uncle, please give me your laundry. I will see to it before you leave.”

“You stupid girl! Your uncle is not going yet!” Her father chided, red-faced. “He was only saying it. We are not going to let him go yet.”

His wife quickly echoed the same. “No brother, you are not going yet.”

“Don’t worry, Bano! I’ll get my clothes washed at home.” Samir said, surprising himself. Twice he had used the term “home.” Was not this his home, the place where he was born?

Chastened and the smile deleted, the eldest daughter took the tray of crockery back to the kitchen. In the lounge her uncle from England had already decided. He stayed up for some more polite talk and then went up to his air conditioned room. Picking up the remaining items littering the dressing table he threw them into his suitcase. His love affair with the city of his birth was over.

On the plane he found himself sitting next to a man called Ibrahim, of his age group and size; both overweight and uncomfortable with the economy seats and the narrow leg space in front of them. After exchanging polite chitchat they soon got into serious talking and were onto the question as to why they were visiting their country of birth and youth.

“The homeland?” Samir ruminated over the term and shared his musing aloud with his fellow passenger, who had similar home circumstances, including being a widower.

“The one that you have just visited, or the one that you are returning to? The place where you have spent most of your adult life? Which homeland are you trying to escape from?” Samir elaborated, making the man’s sun beaten forehead groove into three deep pleats.

“Escape?” Ibrahim was disconcerted by the term. Samir nonchalantly went onto explain. “I am escaping back to the UK – and to a new home.”

“New home?”

“Want to join me?”

The man looked blankly at him, wondering whether this was a joke. Samir chuckling went on to explain.

He returned home not having met the two college friends or walked down the tall nineteenth century corridors of the Government College of Lahore. Strangely, it really did not matter to him.

Two weeks after his arrival, Samir had moved to an elderly people’s home, leaving his five bed roomed detached house to his four children but keeping his savings and shares to see to the needs of the family he had promised to support. He made a new will, instructing his Solicitor that when he died one of his children would carry on supporting the widow and her daughters. He got his eldest daughter to phone the widow, to reassure her that he had not forgotten his promise. Social and cultural parameters had to be maintained. He was a man and would keep his distance from the widow and not compromise her honour, her
izzat
. They needed his financial help which his wife used to provide; now he would take over her role.

When he spoke to his brother on arrival in Manchester, he was asked when he would return to his homeland. After a pause Samir asked, “Homeland? Which homeland? I’m home….” An awkward silence followed. Then he had added laughing, “You can visit me next time.”

A week later, the friend he had met on the plane arrived with his daughter, carrying his suitcase. Ibrahim took the room three doors away from Samir’s, his gales of laughter echoing down the corridor. Pure joy raced through Samir lifting his spirit as he rushed to show his friend around the home, enthusiastically explaining and reassuring, introducing him to the other house guests he had befriended, Penny and Derrick.

“It’s the right decision my friend. You won’t regret it. Wave goodbye to loneliness and heartache…We are the new English
babus
, living in old people’s homes, the ones we used to ridicule once upon a time! Meals on wheels for us now – we have worked so hard – time to enjoy ourselves now, hey!”

The telephone was ringing again. The three women in the living room jumped visibly. They exchanged quick glances, silent messages transmitted from the eyes travelled to and fro.

No one spoke.

The phone began to ring persistently. Two pairs of eyes turned to one figure seated by the window.

Suriya Qureshi encompassed her two teenage daughters in one glance, noting their nervous movements. Apparently they didn’t know what to do. They were waiting for a sign from her. Waiting to see whether she would get up and answer the phone herself.

She disappointed them. By the nod of her head she motioned her youngest daughter, Farina. Out of her three daughters she was the good conversationalist. She could cope with any situation. Farina, however, drew further into the settee and nudged her elder sister Nadia.

“You go”, she hissed.

Nadia got up very reluctantly, stepping on her sister’s feet as she made a dash for the door and disappeared into the hallway.

In the living room, mother and daughter stared at one another, their hearts literally in their mouths, their ears cocked to the conversation going on over the telephone.

In both heads the same thought hammered. Was it
her
? They waited, trying to glean their information from the nuances of words and phrases that Nadia was using. The mother’s head fell back against the sofa.

It was not
her
. It was not Rubiya. Nadia would not be speaking to her like that. Her words were too polite and stilted. It sounded as if she was speaking to her Aunt Jamila. Not her again. Did she hear correctly? Or was it her imagination? Nadia was talking about Rubiya. Surely Jamila had not found out about Rubiya — surely not. Oh God! She could not bear it. She felt faint. Her heart was beating rapidly.

“I bet she has found out, and is now trying to find something out from Nadia. She is very good at doing that. Oh God, why didn’t I answer the phone and shut her up”. Surely Nadia hadn’t gone mad and blabbed out the truth: Suriya for a moment did not realise that she was speaking out her thoughts. Only when she looked at her daughter did she realise that she was speaking out aloud.

She ignored her daughter. She must do something. She must call Nadia and herself have a word with Jamila. Just as she got up from her seat she heard the clicking sound of the phone, as Nadia replaced the receiver on its cradle. Too late.

Nadia entered.

Two pairs of eyes turned towards her, scanning her face quickly for any tell-tale expression it might betray. She gave her mother and sister a watery smile, knowing too well what they were thinking about. She came further into the room and sat down gingerly in the vacant place beside her sister. She addressed her mother.

“It was Aunt Jamila. She wanted to know whether Rubiya would sew a
Shalwar Kameez
suit for her..”

“What did you say?” Suriya interrupted her daughter quickly.

“I told her that Rubiya was out, visiting a friend of hers. Therefore she could not say whether she was able to or not. She then added that she would drop in later this evening or tomorrow afternoon with the suit.”

Nadia exchanged a significant glance with her mother.

Suriya’s heart sank. Oh God, Jamila on top of everything else. She feared this sister-in-law as she did no other person, excepting her husband. Jamila, with her eagle eyes and her sharp mind she was sure to find out the truth. They could not lie to her — not to her. She was sure the horrible truth was written on their faces. Jamila would sense immediately that something was amiss. In fact everything was amiss. They were not the same, their thoughts and actions weren’t the same. It seemed that since yesterday afternoon they had entered another world, a theatre in which they themselves were strangers, puppets in fact, with Rubiya as the puppeteer.

She still marvelled at the fact that her husband had not found out. It was a sheer miracle that Haji Farook Din did not know that his elder daughter, Rubiya, had not been seen in the house since yesterday morning. He had no idea that she had left home and eloped with a young man, God knew where to. A two minute telephone call from a phone box yesterday evening gave them the most hateful, the most shocking and shameful information. She was going away with this man, and that was all they needed to know. Suriya Qureshi and her two daughters had reeled with shock.

When the phone call had come, Haji Farook was not in. Nor was he in when Farina had rushed in with the unbelievable news that she had seen Rubiya getting into a car with a strange man and drive off without saying anything. Farina omitted to say that she had seen the man with Rubiya before. At breakfast time, Haji Farook had not commented on his daughter’s absence. He probably thought that she was upstairs somewhere or still asleep. It would not have occurred to him in a thousand years that his eldest daughter was missing — that she had not slept in her bed, but was out there in the night with some young man, God knew where. Her mind revolted from the picture of this man.

Why the news would kill her husband. He would never recover from the shock. What had happened to the father of that disgraceful affair they had heard about last year. The father, long after the affair was over, was in and out of hospital. Haji Farook would never be able to hold his head upright in public, in their community, amongst their relatives and friends.

Had she herself not died a thousand deaths since yesterday afternoon? She still could not believe that this was happening to her, to them. It could not be. What had they done to deserve this? It was an unreal world she had entered since Farina came with the damning news. It was a long nightmare, from which she must wake up. Oh,
Allah Pak,
she must. It had to be a nightmare. In a few seconds her complacent, happy and respectable — oh so respectable world had toppled: to be replaced by this shame and nightmare. Her daughter, surely, could not do this to them. She could not be so cruel and so shameful. They did not deserve this treatment. Her father a Haji too! Shame on her!

They had heard of such an incident some time ago. But they had shuffled it aside in their minds. It had no relevance for them. Shame and filth was attached to this incident. Theirs was a respectable family. And both the parents could not conceive any of their daughters committing that shameful crime. They’d felt sorry for the parents who had to suffer the consequences of their daughter’s crime. Suriya recalled with bitterness the twist of fate. Once they had pitied those parents, now they were to be pitied. She couldn’t bear the thought. How would she show her face amongst her friends? What had Rubiya done?

Suriya closed her eyes in anguish, breathing heavily, her body was rocked by silent sobs. She drew her
dupatta
over her face, in order to hide it from her two daughters watching each and every movement of hers. Rubiya had thrown it all away. Her reputation, her parents’, her honour, her
izzat
and theirs, all at one go. What had she done? Again Suriya found it hard to believe that her daughter had left home, perhaps for good and committed that heinous crime. The images it conjured up in her mind left her feeling nauseous. Again the injustice of it all struck her. Every fibre, every cell of her being loathed her daughter. She had no right to cause such suffering in their household, to cause such havoc in their lives.

At the moment only she and her two daughters knew about this. She daren’t think what would happen if her husband found out or any of their relatives, especially Jamila, who would never allow them to recover from the incident. On the contrary she would gloatingly force her point home; that this was what happened if you gave your daughters too much freedom and let them become too
Westernised
. Suriya closed her eyes tightly — wanting to shut out the picture of the world outside. She’d never be ready to confront the world outside.

For how long could the three of them hide the truth from her husband and other people. Jamila said she was coming and she was bound to find out that Rubiya was not to be seen anywhere. Already one day had passed. This afternoon had given her a taste of what her ordeal was going to be like if Rubiya did not return. The sudden appearance of one of Rubiya’s friends had thrown the three into jitters, so that they had to resort to excuses and lies. All the time they’d felt guilty at guarding their shameful secret. It was the most trying moment of their lives. They fidgeted with their rings, their hair, their bangles and their clothes, hardly paying any attention to what Rubiya’s friend, Neelum was saying. Their thoughts were with Rubiya and the telephone. Their monosyllabic replies were very stilted. The girls were sure that their own nervousness would arouse suspicion. They wished their visitor gone and the time to pass quickly.

Even amongst themselves the subject of Rubiya’s elopement was a taboo. It was too terrible to discuss openly. Farina and Nadia were unable to voice their thoughts openly. Both of them condemned their sister’s action. “How could she do it?” they queried. “Had she taken leave of her senses? Did she feel no sharm?” They shuddered at the thought of their sister being in close proximity with a strange man. They tried to put themselves in her place and imagine what she felt and what must have compelled her to do what she did. Their minds, however, shied away from the situation. They knew the man Rubiya was infatuated with. There was no other term to describe this relationship. While Rubiya might have described it as ‘love’, they would have labelled it as infatuation and sheer madness. Although younger than Rubiya they knew their limits. They despised their sister’s action in wanting to ape their English girlfriends by having a boyfriend too. It would never work, they were sure. Rubiya was just infatuated and she would return. They would tire of each other soon enough, especially when they couldn’t survive in a social vacuum, surrounded by shame and rejection.

Nadia cursed herself over and over again. She was the one to be blamed. She knew what was going on but had done nothing about it. She ought to have warned her mother about it. Now Rubiya was lost forever. Even if she came back, she would carry the stigma, the stain of her action forever. The shameful deed would be labelled on her for eternity. But worst of all she had let her family down. The disgraceful deed would shroud all of them for the rest of their lives. Rubiya and their chances of marriages — well that was another story…

Rubiya had not only slammed the door on her future, but theirs too. Rubiya’s elopement would definitely mean that their own freedom to go when and where they pleased would be curtailed. They would be made Rubiya’s scapegoats — in fact, made to suffer for
her
crime. Already their mother had lost her trust in them. It was almost as if she expected both of them to do a disappearing act — as if they too would elope any minute. Thinking back, neither of the two sisters had been out of doors since yesterday afternoon.

Worse still, there was going to be social repercussions too. Friends and relatives would be pointing accusing fingers at them - referring to them as sisters of the girl who had committed that horrible crime. They would be in the limelight and each and every action of theirs scrutinised and criticised. If their father found out…

Both of them shuddered at the thought. Why he would never allow them out of their front room door. What had too much freedom brought them? Nothing but shame and disgrace. They would always be the butt of his anger. They felt sorry for their father. He would never be able to lift his head in public. Always he would be surrounded by shame. From a very respectable member of their community he would become the victim of the community’s gossip; of their pity for fathering such daughters.

Their mother too was a bag of nerves. She had not eaten or slept since yesterday night. At night she paced the house, keeping her eyes glued to the window pane in case Rubiya turned up. She did not. From nine o’clock this morning she had not left her seat by the window. Her eyes often wandered out, hungry for Rubiya’s appearance. If the telephone rang she jumped up in her seat. She did not have the nerve, however, to go and answer it herself. They understood. She would not know what to say to Rubiya, if it was her again. Although her mind and heart cursed Rubiya for what she’d done, every time the phone rang she shrank inwards. She did not want to speak to her. Her mind had already cast her out as her daughter. No love remained in her heart for this daughter. Only a loathing and burning shame, which made her want to curl and shrink in the sofa.

Since yesterday afternoon their house was a shambles. The everyday routine of washing and tidying up was lost. The girls still marvelled at themselves. Despite what they were going through, they managed to cook the evening meal, although in silence, and to act as normal as possible when their father came home for dinner yesterday afternoon and last night. It was not too difficult. After staying with their parents for what they felt was an adequate time so as not to arouse their father’s attention, Farina and Nadia escaped to their rooms. At some time or another they had dropped the hint that Rubiya was upstairs in her room. During the rest of the evening they waited nervously in their rooms, expecting any minute for their father to blow his top. Flicking through some paperbacks they waited with their beating hearts until ten o’clock. Everything however appeared normal downstairs. They’d even heard their father laughing at something. They’d felt sorry for their mother’s predicament.

When their father actually came upstairs and went to bed, their hearts stood still. They couldn’t believe their luck. They sighed with relief. Their father did not know! They marvelled furthermore when their father did not notice Rubiya’s absence at breakfast time too, the next morning.

Tonight, however, was going to be different. Their father was bound to notice Rubiya’s absence. What if he took it into his head to go and see Rubiya — see how she was doing. They’d earlier dropped a hint about her having a headache or something. Then they would have to tell him the truth. They dreaded that time.