A Pair of Jeans and other stories (12 page)

At six o’clock when their father came home, the girls felt very edgy. They did not know what to do with themselves; how to behave; what to say. All they seemed to be doing was exchanging silent glances with one another.

Mother and daughters dreaded the time when their father would mention Rubiya. In Nadia’s head, a plan was already forming. If her father wanted to visit Rubiya in her bedroom, then she’d sleep in Rubiya’s bed, and pretend to be her and hope for the best that he wouldn’t wake her up if he saw her fast asleep. They’d toyed with their meal not feeling very hungry, but were very much aware of the tension mounting up in the dining room. It was almost tangible; they were sure they could slice their way through it with a knife.

Back in the living room, after the meal and the clearing up in the kitchen, television held no interest for them. Usually Thursday evening found themselves glued to their TV set, especially for ‘Top of the Pops’. Today, however when their father switched onto another channel, the girls did not bat an eyelid. They’d hardly noticed the prancing figures on the pop stage. Their thoughts were elsewhere. They were busy devising ways of creeping out of the room without arousing their father’s interest. Haji Farook, an intelligent and perceptive man, couldn’t help but notice their fidgety movements. At one stage in the evening he commented on their noncommittal remarks and monosyllabic rejoinders.

At about nine o’clock he got up and went out of the room. The girls relaxed. When they heard him climb the stairs, they looked at their mother. Fear was etched on her features. They too were afraid. What if he took it into his head to look at Rubiya, they asked themselves.

Nadia got up resolutely. She knew what she was going to do. Her father was in the bathroom. They could tell by the treading of his feet above. Perhaps she still had time to carry out her plan. She went out of the room.

Suriya heard the backdoor open and then click shut. What was Nadia up to she asked herself. It was not the day for the dustbins to be placed outside. She waited for her to return so that she could ask her this. At the same time she was listening to her husband’s footsteps upstairs. Her heart had begun to beat a tattoo again. Her husband’s footsteps were now in Rubiya’s room.

This was the moment. This was the time they all dreaded. Now the whole world would explode. Suriya shrank inwards — she could not cope with this!

Farina was listening to her father’s footsteps too, her eyes staring above at the ceiling.

Neither the mother nor the daughter noticed the living room open and a young woman dressed in outdoor clothes enter the room When Suriya caught sight of her, she almost leapt out of her seat. Farina’s mouth stood open, unable to believe her eyes. It was almost as if they were watching a Shakespearian play at the Royal Exchange Theatre. “Rubiya,” she whispered the magical word. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her. For there stood Rubiya, looking worn out and dishevelled. She was apparently struggling to stick a brave and confident expression on her face, but without much success.

Not daring to look at her mother, she addressed her sister.

“I came the back way”, she said quietly as if in explanation of how she got inside the house. She held the key to her sister. As the steps thudded down the stairs, three pairs of eyes turned to the door. Rubiya swivelled a desperate look at her mother. Suriya stared back, her face expressionless. Her mind was already thinking ahead. She’d loathed her daughter, but she was in control once again. She was the puppeteer now, not Rubiya her daughter.

Haji Farook on entering the room, noticed his eldest daughter standing in the middle of the room. A baffled expression settled on his face. He looked at his wife and his youngest daughter, Farina. He returned to look at Rubiya.

“I thought you had a headache. Nadia just told me you were asleep”.

He noticed for the first time the outdoor summer jacket that Rubiya was wearing and the handbag she was clutching to her side. Haji Farook looked at his wife for an answer. Suriya had already decided upon her answer two minutes ago.

“Rubiya went to Jamila’s house just before you returned home. Jamila wanted her to sew a
kameez
for her. Nadia did not know about this. Jamila has just dropped her off….”

“Go to bed child. You look tired. You should not have gone with Jamila if you had a headache”

With a wave of his hand, Haji Farook dismissed his daughter. Unaware of the charade-like nature of the situation, he settled in his seat to await the Nine o’clock News on BBC1. Rubiya could not believe her luck. He did not know!

Damn the man! Damn him! her mind cursed. She would never be the same again. She was a fool.

Thankfully she made her exit. Her head held high, she muttered her “Goodnight” to no-one in particular. As she left the room she felt her mother’s and sister’s eyes boring into her back.

Sher Khan got on the bus from his village, heading for the city of Lahore. Almost the entire village had come to see him off, out of respect - the men, women and children. He was a
busurgh
, one of the two remaining village elders. The children ran alongside him and offered salaam. The young women, whom he treated as his own daughters, ducked their covered head in front of him out of respect, so that he could pat them on the head, as was the custom for an elder
busurgh
.

As he sat on the bus, his self-respect and dignity was never higher. The young men had helped him with his
ghitries
, his three parcels, onto the bus. The three parcels were presents, mainly home grown vegetables and pastries for his two
lifelong
friends, who were now settled in Lahore, a large teeming city, once the capital city of Pakistan and the home of the Mughal emperors.

Sher Khan was looking forward to meeting his two friends. He had spent his childhood, youth and most of his adult life with these two friends in the village. This was the first time he was going to visit them, since they had left almost a decade ago. The friends had often visited him in the village. He always offered his home and his warm hospitality whenever they visited.

He was dressed in his best, crisply starched clothes which his daughter-in-law had prepared for him. He donned his
pagh
, his special turban, on his head and had dyed his white hair and beard with henna and trimmed his moustache.

The journey on the bus was a lonely one. He wished that he had brought his wife with him. The coach reached Lahore on time. It was almost evening. Sher Khan, struggling to hold his three parcels, got off the coach. He hadn’t realised how heavy they were. There was always someone to carry things for him, so had never carried anything before. The village lads had carried them for him. Now he stood on the pavement with two of them on the ground near to his feet, and one in his arm. The hustle and bustle of the city disconcerted him - the traffic, the people, the buildings, and anonymity of it all. Nobody knew him, and nobody was going to rush to help him with his parcels. He anxiously rummaged through the pocket of his jacket to find the paper with the addresses of his two friends. The paper was still there and he felt himself sigh with relief.

Seeing a taxi, he waved it to stop, and the driver helped him into the taxi. As he neared his destination, Sher Khan remembered that he had not written to his friend to tell them he was visiting them. He hoped that they didn’t mind his coming out of the blue, like this, but they never wrote to him when they came. He recalled his own and his family’s pleasure at receiving guests no matter on which day or at what time they arrived, so he assumed that his friend and his family were the same. As the taxi wove through the maze of small streets and bazaars, exuding different smells of the city, Sher Khan almost felt nostalgic. He missed the clean, fresh air of his village fields. Here it was a crowded scene, verging on almost a slum. Houses and living quarters were packed into one another. He wasn’t sure where one accommodation started and another ended. The lanes were teeming with life, with people and traffic. Eventually, the taxi drew to a halt and the driver pointed to a small building. It was a shop. Sher Khan looked at it, confused. His friend hadn’t told him that it was a shop.

“Are you sure, young man, that this is the right place?”

“Oh yes,” replied the taxi driver, “there is the number. The people you want probably live above that shop. You go up those stairs.” Sher Khan spotted the two concrete steps leading to a door, and with the driver helping him with his parcels, he stepped out.

As the taxi drove away, Sher Khan looked around helplessly. How was he going to take his parcels up? He summoned the courage to call to the shop vendor, nearby, selling make-up and toiletries, and asked if he would allow his young assistant to help him? The man obliged quickly.

“Yes, of course, Baba-ji.” He answered using the respectful term of ‘Baba-ji’, for an old man. Sher Khan’s face brightened at the man’s answer. The young man came and lifted the three parcels effortlessly.

Together they climbed the steps, and went through the door to find more stairs, which they climbed to the top to find themselves in a dark hallway. Sher Khan knocked on the door.

“You should have rung the bell, Baba-ji”, the young man said.

The door opened and a young woman stood in front of them. She stared blankly at them both with no words of greeting from her mouth. Her head remained prominently uncovered. Sher Khan’s facial muscles faltered into a semblance of a smile.

“Salam Alaikum, my daughter. You must be Noor Ali’s daughter?”

“Wa laikum Salam, yes.” She answered. Her face didn’t light up in the way his own daughters and daughter-in-laws did when they faced a guest. Without a further word, she disappeared inside, leaving both standing outside. Sher Khan found this an unpleasant and a novel experience to be left standing at the door. He was used to being treated with pomp and ceremony, whenever he deigned to visit any household or relatives in the village.

“Mum, there is a
buddha
, an old man, standing at the front door and talking about dad.” Sher Khan heard her distinctly say, although it was in a hushed tone. His cheeks coloured in indignation. He had never been referred to in such an offensive term as
buddha
- ‘old man’. He was always called uncle, father-figure, or the respectable term
busurgh
, but never
buddha
. The girl hadn’t quite endeared herself to Sher Khan. Sher Khan, of course, made allowances that they had lived in the city for a long time, and therefore they wouldn’t remember him.

Then Noor Ali’s wife appeared. She was pleased to see him and recognised him. She bade them to go into their
bathek
, their guest room. Sher Khan turned to the young man and thanked and tipped him for his help.

“
Bismillah
, come in, come in!” Noor Ali’s wife beckoned. Sher Khan looked around at the dwelling, as he stood in the darkness of a small central courtyard. There were probably just four rooms around the central courtyard. It was a small place compared to the one they had owned in the village, which had the huge open courtyard and a large
pasars
, the living rooms. He entered the
bathek
and asked for his friend, Noor Ali, and was told that he had gone out shopping and would be back later.

Sher Khan sat perched on the high-back chair, unsure whether he ought to recline on the
palang
, a chaise longue. The woman, as was the Muslim custom, left him alone. It wasn’t right for a woman to entertain a man, without the presence of her husband. Sher Khan looked around the room with interest.

He must have dozed off on the chair, for suddenly he heard voices. His ears pricked up as he heard his friend’s voice. Through the crack, between the wall and the door, he caught a glimpse of his old friend. His wife was talking to him, apparently telling him about their guest.

Sher Khan watched his friend’s face with interest. He noted with dismay and humiliation that his friends face didn’t light up as he expected, at being told of his arrival. It was a bitter pill for Sher Khan to swallow. When Noor Ali, walked into the room, a few seconds later, Sher Khan found it difficult to look his friend in the eye. His body worked mechanically as he got up and greeted his friend with an embrace, in the normal fashion. Sher Khan marvelled at the change in his friend, and his greeting. It didn’t tally with the glimpse he had earlier of him - now everything was suspect. Again he recalled that look, that naked raw look, without the urbane veneer and polish. The week of expectations of exchanging news and marvelling in each other’s company seemed a dream. It was almost as if they were strangers. They exchanged news and pleasantries, yet they weren’t on the same wavelength; the mutual rapport was missing.

After years and years of being worshipped as a village elder, whose every word and sigh was a law and command onto itself and whose ideas and wishes were respected, here, Sher Khan felt as if he had been robbed of his identity. It all came as a crushing blow to Sher Khan; firstly there was the attitude of the young daughter, then the manner in which he had been abandoned with just a cup of tea and dry biscuits, and finally the reaction of his own friend.

His friend asked if he’d eaten; Sher Khan replied that he wasn’t hungry. Noor Ali almost shouted to his wife to find out if dinner was ready. She replied from the kitchen that it was on its way.

“It’s alright, my friend. I had a heavy meal before I left the village.” Sher Khan said, trying to make light of the matter. “Your wife didn’t know I was coming.”

“You should have written. I would have gone to pick you up from the coach station.”

“I know that I should have, but it was no problem in getting to your home.”

“How long have you come for? I hope you are going to stay a week with us, at least.” His friend volunteered.

“I think that I can only spare a day.” Sher Khan heard himself saying. He didn’t know what made him say that, but it just came out. Perhaps it was due to his friend’s lack of enthusiasm on hearing that he was here, or perhaps it was his pride that hadn’t let him say otherwise or to tell the truth that he had indeed come to spend a week in Lahore with him, and to see the city. His friend had often stayed for weeks.

“Ah, that’s a pity.” Noor Ali replied, not bothering to ask why Sher Khan could only ‘spare a day’, and the matter was closed.

Sher Khan dropped his gaze from his friend’s. Disappointment and humiliation vying with each other, was mirrored in his eyes. His friend hadn’t pressed him to stay. Apparently he was the unwanted guest. Sher Khan moved awkwardly on his chair.

Noor Ali kindly asked him to sit on the
palang
and put up his legs, as he must be tired from the long journey. Sher Khan did so, but as a shy awkward guest, and not as a lifelong friend. A few minutes later, mother and daughter brought in the dinner. It all fitted on one tray: there was one curry casserole, some chapattis and a small plate of salad and water. Sher Khan noted that his friend hadn’t expected anything else. As he shifted the potato cubes around his plate with his chapatti, Sher Khan recalled bitterly how his daughter and daughter-in-law waited hand and foot on their guests, cooking up different dishes and sweets, including those things that were not as widely available in the village, as in the city, where everything was accessible round the corner in the small bazaars. His daughter-in-law looked after their guests, even to the extent of bringing a bowl of water for him to wash his hand, and preparing a smoke pipe, a hookah, for him to smoke. There was no bowl of water here for him to wash his hands.

Early next morning Sher Khan arose and didn’t know what to do with himself. Should he make it known to his hosts that he was awake? Normally, in the village, he arose with the call of the muezzin from the central mosque. Here, he had heard the mosques ringing with calls at about six o’clock, but nobody had stirred in the household. Not knowing where the local mosque was, he decided to say his prayers at home, on the prayer mat provided by his host the previous night, after his ablutions.

Sitting on his bed, cuddled up in his quilt, and missing his morning hookah, Sher Khan timed them. The first sound he heard was at eight o’clock, much too late, according to his village standards. Outside, the traffic was in full swing. By this time, his daughter and daughter-in-law would have finished the household chores, as well as serving breakfast. How he missed them and his early morning breakfast.

Here, in Lahore, in his friend’s house he had breakfast at about nine o’clock. The
parathas
, buttered hot chapattis, were cooked at home, the rest of the halwa, the breakfast, and the chana curry were brought from a local breakfast take-away in the bazaar.

After some more small talk, Sher Khan decided it was time to leave. His friend and wife pressed him to stay, saying that they would show him around the bazaars and some sightseeing to some museums and the Shalamar Gardens. Sher Khan, still doubting their sincerity, told them that he must leave. They didn’t press him further. As well as the parcel of presents for his friend and his family, Sher Khan also gave money to Noor Ali’s daughter.

Sher Khan reached his next destination before eleven o’clock. He had taken a taxi from his friend’s home. The hustle and bustle of the crowded scenes of the inner city ebbed away, as Sher Khan’s taxi ploughed through the clean, leafy almost deserted outer suburbs of Lahore.

There were very few houses or shops. There were definitely no bazaars, but shopping plazas. He now saw only large and well-spaced-out beautiful
khoties
, villas. Sher Khan marvelled at the elegance and the splendour of these beautiful buildings. At the same time, he began to feel the stirrings of unease in the pit of his stomach. The second friend, unlike Noor Ali, who lived in humble surroundings in the inner city, had certainly progressed well in the world. Sher Khan had heard how well his friend had done. How he had opened a factory with the help of his three sons, since he had left the village.

The reality of the gulf between his own standard of living and the way of life of his second friend, washed over him, in wave after wave. As he paid the driver, he stood outside the gigantic elegant villa of his friend. The taxi disappeared and he found himself standing outside the white filigree wrought iron gate. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in the wide street.

Sher Khan peered through the large gates, and saw a beautifully kept lawn and flower beds and the elegant alabaster pillars of the large porch with its marble chipped floor. He tried to open the gates, but they wouldn’t open. He shook them hard and suddenly a large dog bounded out from somewhere from the back of the villa. It stopped on the other side of the gates and bared its teeth. Sher Khan stepped back in fear, his heart beginning to thud inside his chest. A middle-aged man appeared and stood near the dog. From his clothing and general demeanour, Sher Khan guessed this man to be one of his friend’s home helpers or servants.