A Pair of Jeans and other stories (13 page)

“Assalama-Alaikum, Aba-ji. Did you want to see anybody?”

“Yes. I have come to see my friend Mohammed. Does he live here?”

“Yes. He has gone to the factory, but he will be here soon. I’ll take the dog away first and I’ll open the gates so that you can come inside and wait for Sahib. You should have rung the bell. It is over there on the pillar.”

“Oh, I didn’t see it.”

“Just wait there while I press the button to open the gates. You see they are electronically controlled.”

Sher Khan stood and watched, marvelling as the gates parted as if by magic. They disappeared behind the high walls, draped with shrubs and rose bushes.

Just at that moment a shiny, well-polished black saloon drew up at the villa and finding the gates open, went through. Sher Khan moved aside, and looked carefully into the car. He saw his friend Mohammed sitting in the front seat beside one of his sons. Mohammed stared back at him, blankly to Sher Khan’s dismay. There was no trace of recognition in that look, or if there was, it was well hidden. It was almost as if Mohammed had looked right through a wall, and not a lifelong friend, whom he had seen three years ago in the village.

The car disappeared from sight as it went round the back of the villa. Sher Khan remained standing outside; his mind and heart were in a whirl.

The manservant returned: “Baba-ji. Mohammed Sahib has returned. I’ll inform them about you.” Sher Khan noted the use of ‘them’ as he referred to his employer.

Sher Khan tried to swim out of the swamp of humiliation and claw back some of his own dignity and human respect.

“No. It’s O.K. Just give him this.” He passed the second parcel he had brought with him to the manservant.

“Who shall I say gave this?”

“It doesn’t matter. Say an old friend. He probably doesn’t remember me. I’ll be off then. Assalam Alaikum.”

“Walaikum Salam. Are you sure you won’t come in? Shall I call a taxi for you?”

“No, it’s alright; I’ll find one on the way.” Sher Khan didn’t want to bump into his friend, and therefore hastened away.

It was more easily said than done, Sher Khan thought as he walked forlornly from street to street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a taxi. In this area people had cars. They didn’t need taxis, he told himself, as he went into one
khotie
to ask if someone would call a taxi for him. In the end, one kind young man drove him to Lahore’s coach station where he caught the coach back to his village.

Mohammed was handed the parcel that Sher Khan had brought for him. He looked at the gauche parcel with distaste. He wanted to distance himself from his past life in the village.

“An old friend of yours came and left this, but he wouldn’t come to meet you.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” Mohammed remembered the old man and the face, but didn’t want to be reminded of it. “You take it, Ali. It is probably some
sag
, some spinach. I’ve had my fill of it, in all those years I spent in that village.”

The servant took the parcel to his quarters, at the back of the villa, and gave it to his wife. She marvelled at the packet’s contents as she unwrapped it. As well as fresh vegetables, there was
ghee
, purified butter, home-made pastries and three
hand-embroidered
pillow cases, with crocheted lace edges.

At that moment, Sher Khan was deep in thought, in the coach, wrestling and debating with himself as to what plausible excuse he could gave to his family and fellow villages for returning after just one day, when he was supposed to be away for two weeks.

The only plausible reason he could come up with was that the city wasn’t for him, nor its people, the ‘
sherries
’.

THE DISCOVERY
 
 
 

 

 

In order to please his wife, Jamil had decided to clear up their spare bedroom. She was always reminding him of that room. It was a small room, which they hoped to set up as a baby’s room, for their forthcoming child in six month’s time.

Now as Jamil shifted himself around the contents of the room he found it hard work. Different types of boxes and bags had to be sorted, their contents rifled through, and quick decisions made as to what could be discarded and what ought to be kept.

Much of the stuff in this room belonged to his wife, Rubiya. There were magazines, books, clothes and bags of all sorts. There were three other carrier bags to sort out and then the room would be dusted and wiped clean. In fact, beautifully clean before his wife arrived home from her work. He looked at his watch. There was still an hour to go. He had plenty of time. In fact all of this would be finished in perhaps half an hour’s time, and he could then start with the dinner. It was his occasional day off from work. He was definitely making the most of it in pleasing his wife. He’d vacuumed the entire house in the morning, Then he had worked on the bathroom later in the afternoon. And now for the last hour had been working in this room. Today the dinner would be ready for her for a change. He smiled to himself, imagining her look of pleasure as she surveyed the work he’d done.

The box finished he grabbed another carrier bag. He peeped inside and put his hand in. Dust flew out. There were a lot of very dusty papers and pamphlets. He flicked through the papers — reading quickly, to see what they were about. Here was another paper, but this time he recognised his wife’s writing. As his eyes followed the words on it, his mind froze.

Jamil threw the paper back in the bag as if it burned him, and stood up, his face set and his eyes glaring out of the window. He bent down and lifted the hag. Taking the piece of paper he’d just thrown in, he kicked the bag aside and left the room. He shoved the paper into his trouser pocket. He was going downstairs, and then he changed his mind and came up again. Pushing the door open, he entered his bedroom.

The first thing that caught his eyes was the framed picture of him and Rubiya as Bride and Bridegroom “Dhullan” and “Dhulla” on the dressing table. Jamil purposely walked to the dressing table and once there he flung the picture onto the floor. The glass frame broke into three pieces. He looked at them, but didn’t bother picking them up. Rubiya’s radiant, jewel-clad face stared back at him. He turned away.

He walked to the window and stared out in space, not seeing the green open field in front of him. He swore under his breath. He fumed. To think he had spent the entire day working away cleaning the house in order to please
her
. “The filthy hussy” - the words came out again under his suppressed breath. Moving away from the window he flopped down onto the bed. He switched on the bedside radio. Thoughts and anecdotes whizzed through his mind. He wanted a distraction. Madonna’s No. 1 hit didn’t mean anything to him. He switched the radio off and pushed his face into the pillow. All the hints and thoughts which had meant nothing to him earlier now fell into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Now he understood why she didn’t go to that wedding. The damned excuses she’d used. And he a blind fool, worshipping her for her gorgeous face, had played to her tune. He detested himself. Now he understood why she avoided some of her friends!

Jamil was still staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t tell for how long, when he heard the front door open. That was
her
. He didn’t move a muscle. Normally he would have raced down the stairs to greet her, to hug her. Not today. He heard her call him. Then again. No sound escaped his lips. Then she was clambering up the stairs. And was now in the bedroom. He needed time to think, to decide. He didn’t want to see her face.

“Oh, here you are”, Rubiya spoke over her shoulder, as she peeled off her outdoor coat, ‘Because you didn’t answer, I thought you had gone outside.’

Wordlessly, Jamil got off the bed and went outside onto the landing, his hand balled inside his pocket, fingering the piece of paper. His hand clenched it. His wife was speaking again. “Did you clean the small room then, Jamil?” she called. He was unable to prevent the retort that came out. “Yes. Guess what I found there?” The words sounded rough and alien to his ears. They were laced with anger and bitterness. He pushed the door open and went inside the room.

Rubiya was lying languidly on the bed, flicking off her high stiletto court shoes. He looked down at her close cropped hair with brown highlights, her
well-made
face accentuating her regular well-formed features. She looked very attractive in the sleek maroon jump-suit hugging her body. Normally he would have been by her side on the bed by now. At the moment he was seeing her through the eyes of other men. The vision sickened him. God knew, how many men she had attracted with her looks, looks which nauseated him at the moment. Wasn’t he himself allured by them? But whereas before he’d thought he was the only one entitled to admire her looks, now he wasn’t so sure. There was definitely someone lurking about from her past, whom Rubiya had tantalised. Unable to bear the picture it conjured up in his mind he wanted to hit out.

Instead he drew out the piece of paper and flicked it down onto her chest. He wanted to erase that confident, self-possessed smile from her face. Shaking a curl from her eyes, Rubiya got up on her elbows and picked up the paper. As she recognised the paper and her eyes traced the words on it, the smile was whipped away, as Jamil had anticipated. The words, written by herself five years ago, stared back at her. She froze. She was living a nightmare. She’d always imagined her husband confronting her with her past deed, but never for the world imagined that her own hand would betray her. She looked again at the piece, the hateful words swimming before her eyes.


My darling. Rashid, I am ready to do what you suggest. I will leave home and my family in order to be with you. I will contrive a way in order to go away with you. I will meet you in the afternoon at 2.00 p.m. near the post office at the end of the road.’

Her heart was beating erratically. The self-assurance which was earlier etched on her features was there no more. She stared back at her husband. Jamil looked pointedly into her eyes. He didn’t trust himself. He certainly didn’t trust his tongue. He wanted to lash out at her, call her the horrible things that she was. He wanted to even do physical damage to her. He looked at her body again. It was soiled for him. He was the only one with whom she had a physical relationship, but the thought of the other man, Rashid, being near her, was driving him insane. She was ugly, she was tainted.

He lashed her with his eyes. She felt hedged in. Between them stood another world — a world of Rubiya’s past. Her past had caught up with her. She saw the hate and loathing imprinted on his face. She must make an effort to defend herself. She couldn’t bear the look on his face. She got off the bed and flicked the paper in the basket. Her mind was still dizzy from this outcome.

“Oh, that letter was written while I was still at school. All girls were writing such letters in those days. And I did the same” She finished lamely.

Jamil, however, had already left the room, banging the door behind him. The next minute she heard him go outside, and the car started to purr into action and away it was gone.

Rubiya sank onto the bed and covered her eyes with her hand. From a happy evening she was looking forward to it had turned into a nightmare. Oh, God, he knew. For two years she’d made every effort to hide that stupid, lousy secret of hers. And here it was, now in the open. She’d always imagined Jamil’s feeling of horror and revulsion, but somehow now that he knew it seemed much worse. She remembered the look in his eyes. He had looked at her as if she were something hideous. She hated that look. She’d never seen it before. Always he had looked at her if not with reverence, at least something near to it. Now she knew that look would never return.

He was a good husband. Unlike so many couples, they had an equal relationship. They’d had lovely times together, and she knew he adored her good looks. She caught sight of the broken picture frame. Somehow the action was symbolic. It meant he couldn’t bear the sight of her. The broken pieces mirrored the tainted image that Jamil had of her now in his heart and mind. Her mind still reeled from the shock. To think, a small action could have such disastrous results. All she had done was to go away with a man for a day, whom she later detested. Nothing had come out of it and she’d returned. She hadn’t even let him get within an arm’s length of her. Who would ever believe her?

She braced her shoulders. She was going to make an effort to redeem herself in Jamil’s mind and to save her marriage. She was certainly going to try. She would explain to him everything. She looked at the clock. She didn’t know whether the dinner was made or not. But if it was not she would make it. She went downstairs into the kitchen and found it wasn’t.

The next evening Rubiya was making dinner again. Jamil was out. He had not told her where he was going. Nor had she asked, fearing his earlier sarcastic remark. “What is it to you where I am going? Unlike you I am not likely to go off with anybody.” Rubiya had flinched from his remark, hurt to her very soul. Normally if he made any sarcastic remarks she’d never let him get away with it. She would lash out immediately and lace her own remark with as much sarcasm as she could muster. Not this time, however. It was not her right, her priority. If she did, he would only taunt her as he had done last night.

She remembered the previous evening. She told him everything when he returned home. She might as well not have bothered. He was deaf to any pleas, her explanation. He was not affected in any way. The new spectacles through which he was viewing her weren’t to be removed. They were well and truly stuck. When she mentioned ‘dinner’ he’d barked at her that he’d already had it elsewhere, but she needn’t ask where. Again she had fumed inwardly, unable to retaliate. She didn’t know how to react. She’d never been in such a situation with him before. That horrible deed was making her more and more vulnerable. If she called him, he didn’t bother answering her. The table wasn’t set for the breakfast. Nor was hers made. He had eaten and then departed for work, without even saying goodbye. At night he’d lain by her side, but made no effort to touch her. On the contrary, she had the impression that if she touched him accidentally he would have flinched.

Did he hate her that much? She was still the same person. Surely he couldn’t change that much towards her. Where was his love, his gentle, considerate ways? He hadn’t changed! What was changed was the image of her in his mind and he had changed to suit that image. She hated the image he created of her in his mind, as a soiled wife, an image in which he had lost both respect and trust.

Her day at work was clouded by what had happened the previous evening. All day her mind dwelt on Jamil, on what he was thinking and how he was going to behave tonight. To say that she had not liked his mood last night was the understatement of the year. Her mind buzzed over remarks she could make in order to defend herself, if the situation arose. The situation didn’t arise. He wasn’t in when she got home. She waited patiently, prepared the dinner and then ate it by herself. Three hours ticked away. He still hadn’t returned. Nor had he phoned her to let her know where he was. If he had done that at any other time, she would have been in a blazing temper by now, and would have flared at him the moment he entered the door. Now, however, she feared the repercussions, if she approached him about it. She was shaking with anger. In her mind she saw a picture of Jamil gradually turning into a tyrant and she herself gradually becoming more and more obsequious because of his discovery.

Rubiya shoved the plate away from her. She might as well have been eating sawdust. No! It couldn’t be. It was a psychological blackmail. No person had the right to dominate another in such a way. The situation revolted her. If Jamil stayed in this mood and taunted her whenever it suited him, she would he a silent sufferer always, taking the brunt of his anger, and unable to air her own.

No! She wasn’t going to go through that again. She had too much pride. She wasn’t made to be smothered under someone else’s feet. She’d already been smothered enough. She wasn’t going to relive the nightmare of three previous years spent at her parents. There she was made to suffer for her deed daily. Her mother, who never forgave her for what she had done or what she made them go through during those two fatal days made her a perpetual scapegoat for her anger. She was not to be trusted any more. Unless accompanied by either of her two sisters she was not allowed to go anywhere. Her mother feared that she might elope again and bring disaster upon them all.

Over the three years she saw her normal buoyant self being smothered under her mother’s tyranny and the obsequious mantle she was forced to wear. In her mind there flashed a vision of her reliving those three years but this time for life, and with her husband. A shudder escaped from her spine. She loved her husband, and wanted to save her marriage; there was no doubt about that, but not at the expense of her sanity, of her emotional survival. She was not born to receive her husband’s taunts for the rest of her life, for a supposed crime. Life could not be so unfair. She tasted gall in her mouth.

With shaking hands, Rubiya pushed her plate aside and got up from the table. She turned away from the kitchen, without giving the dishes another glance. The pretty china plate perched on the edge of the table had no place in her mind. It could fall and break for all she cared. She banged the door behind her and went up to her room. She too could bang doors as much as she liked. In a strange way she felt better for it. She wasn’t born to be locked up in a marriage where she danced to her husband’s tune.

Almost mechanically she put on her coat and got her handbag. She left everything as it was and went downstairs. She was not sure what she was going to do, but she knew one thing — she was not going to spend this night in this house. She wasn’t going to go through yesterday evening again. Opening the door she stepped outside. A blast of cold air attacked her face, the street lamps shining in the dark. She pulled the collar of her coat closer to her face and slammed the door behind her. Strangely, the fogginess she earlier experienced disappeared. Her mind was clear. She was back to her normal self; the self of her teenage years. She purposefully walked towards the garden gate. She had suffered enough for her crime. Tonight she would go to her parents’, but later she would set up her own home, by herself if need be. Thoughts of her forthcoming baby didn’t affect her. Setting up a home by herself would create another murmur in her community. She’d already lost everything, this action of hers in leaving her home and living by herself wouldn’t cost her much. She braced herself for her parents’ reaction when they found out she was abandoning her home, her husband and her marriage. Bitterness seeped through her. She didn’t care a dime for what they thought. Nora Helmer’s slamming of her house’s door in Ibsen’s
The Doll

s House
came to her mind. She recalled the twittering of Claire Bloom in the screen version of the play. Her mind revolted from the picture of herself twittering around Jamil, dancing to his tune. She was a twentieth century Muslim Nora. A Nora who was slamming the door not only on her husband but also on her past.

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