A Pair of Jeans and other stories (4 page)

“They won’t spill anything and never mind their feet. Anyway, they will be offered refreshments outside in the dining room.”

“What! In the dining room?” exclaimed Bilkees, thunderstruck. “Why, you only use it for your family? You are not allowing these gauche village women to sit at your wooden walnut designer suite? I think you are going too far, Mistress. It will go to their heads; they will boast to everybody at having sat at your table! In your seat!”

“Let them, Bilkees, if it gives them pleasure – all the better. Now come on.”

Bilkees just shook her head in dismay. What had happened to her Mistress? Had she taken leave of her senses? Parameters had to be maintained and social barriers fenced in place. That was how there was order and how things worked. The Mistress was going to create chaos, where nobody knew the social boundaries. She shrugged, for she would leave it to the Master to sort out his wife, after all it was not her job or role to do so.

The girls and women waited in the drawing room in a state of uneasy excitement. The
Zemindar
and his wife the Chaudharani Noor Sahaba entered. The
Zemindar
welcomed all the village women politely and told them that this time his wife would do the honour of presenting the gifts. Noor stepped forward, looking as breathtakingly beautiful and elegant as ever, making some of the young women envious. “Yes, I hope the young ladies will like the fabrics I have chosen for them from the city. For some girls, I have included something else. It is something that their fathers left with the
Zemindar
for safe keeping, but I am sure that you all can look after your own property now.” She paused. “It is your documents and deeds”, she uttered softly lifting the folds of the fabric and holding out the papers. As she did so, she cast a quick challenging glace towards her husband. He had paled, losing some of his poise. He caught her steely glance and something flashed in his eye, and the smile on his face ebbed away, replaced by a look of anger. She stared at him for a further few seconds and then before everyone’s eyes she handed the first gift to Kaniz’s daughter and then to the others. Kaniz’s face beamed as she stood next to the wall. In each case, as she did so, she took out the document, read out the name, and showed it to the woman and then handed it the daughter.

By the time the twelfth and final document had been given away, the
Zemindar
felt that he was losing his composure entirely and turned away to look out of the window into the courtyard. He didn’t want to face the group of women when he was not in control of himself. When he was able to pin a smile to his face, he turned and joined his wife. He felt that he needed to say something to save face. His wife had given away, back to their owners, the deeds that he wanted, and he felt it would look strange if he didn’t mention them. After all they were supposed to be in his safekeeping. She had very adeptly destroyed his plans, but he had to do something to save face. He had to give the women the idea that the documents were coming from him, otherwise the villagers would think it was his wife who was giving them away. Who ruled this household – he or his wife?

“Thank you everyone for coming!” he uttered with authority. His shoulders stiff with anger, he had turned to the women and stepped in front of his wife, shielding her from them. She had very neatly usurped his role. “I hope you will keep these documents safe. These are your properties, and we thought that we would take this special occasion to return them to you. Please take them home and hand them to your menfolk. If you do, by any chance, wish to sell them, please sell them to your neighbours, rather than outsiders.” He deliberately refrained from saying that they should sell them to him. He stepped back and moved to the window and looked out onto the lawn of the courtyard, expecting the women to leave.

Summoning a smile, Noor stepped forward again and thanked the women for coming and wished them
Eid Mubarak
, a happy Eid. They returned the greeting and Bilkees, who was standing near the door, led the women out.

Closing the door, Noor turned to her husband. He was still standing near the window with his back to her. She surveyed his tall, tense, body, as she went to sit on the sofa. She waited for him, expecting him to explode.

He was aware of her presence in the room, and the tense silence that reigned in the room after the departure of the women. He didn’t trust himself to turn and face her. He was unsure of what he was capable of or how she would react. He waited and when nothing was forthcoming from her, he turned and stood two yards from his wife. He seemed to be towering over her seated body. Exuding aggression, he looked down at her face and into those cold green eyes. They were at their coldest now and just stared defiantly in return. He tried to dominate her with his manly glare, but her eyes didn’t waver nor fall away. They just calmly stared into his. He stepped back disconcerted and dumbfounded.

Noor patiently waited for his explosion. He was owed that and he had the right to it, but she was determined to stare him out; after all she was in the right. She had done the right and humane thing, even though it had angered her husband. For sure, she knew that she had ruined his plans, but now she was a defender of the villagers. Was the choice to be the villagers or her husband? Had she already jeopardised her marriage and her relationship with her husband.

The towering
Zemindar
, in his turn, was holding a tight rein on his temper. His eyes scanned her beautiful face. He had never been so angry in his life, and with his wife it was the first time. She had done an unpardonable thing! His mind was also signalling and flashing all sorts of troubling images; above all, that of his wife’s capacity to undermine his authority and to usurp his role: the master, the
Zemindar
, of the village. He struggled with the concept again. Who was the master in his marriage? Who was in control, he or she? By her action, her
juruth
, in doing what she had done, she posed a direct threat to him as a man, as a husband and as a
Zemindar
. His head filled with the thought that she wasn’t just the decorative wife he had chosen, but she posed a greater and more dangerous threat, one that he had been hitherto unaware of. His heart sank.

He had ignored her previous action in tearing up the documents in the office – indulging her. This time what she had done went far beyond tolerance and indulgence. She had not given any form of indication of what she was going to do, nor had she consulted him. He had almost lost face in front of the village women. But the most alarming thought which thundered through his mind was what would she be capable of doing next? Would he ever get to know her mind? Would she ever open up to him?

Noor had an inkling of what he was thinking; she was both very intelligent and astute. As the seconds ticked away on the large clock on the wall, they both tried to read each other’s mind as to what was to happen next. Both were fighting from their own corners and both were struggling. Both were proud and neither of them saw themselves as compromising. She knew that if it came to the crunch, she would have to leave his home as a matter of principle. He struggled with the reality of the situation of living with such a wife, trying to weigh one side against other. He recalled his own obedient mother, always looking up to his father. He remembered one incident when she had spoken in front of another man in a slightly disparaging tone, and his father had never let her forget it. He had thundered and verbally lashed out at her. His mother had literally shrivelled and didn’t come out of the room for two days. His father had established who was the Master, and whose words held power and authority. And in the old days, he had heard about his grandfather beating his grandmother over minor things – that was his brutal way of controlling his wife.

He, on the contrary, was finding himself powerless, even to verbally abuse her, let alone assert his male dominance, as a husband, and as a
Zemindar
. His mind reeled from the thought, that if he let her get away with this action, she would always go against his decisions and undermine his authority. Would he then end up as a puppet in her hand? He didn’t know what to do; he just stared down at her in utter despair.

She had now averted her gaze, and was looking out of the window. He continued to gaze down at her beautiful face, which was now in profile. His eyes swept, almost with hypnotic compulsion over the slim column of her beautiful neck, the soft curtain of hair framing her face. The strong beautiful features of her face were almost chiselled to perfection, and he longed to touch them, even if he wanted to strangle that slim neck of hers.

He could explode. He had read her signals right. She would leave him, rather than compromise her principles. He could abuse her or woo her. He knew this wasn’t just a whim on her behalf. She had done this on humanitarian grounds. Life without her loomed empty. Not to have her in his room, in his arms, before his eyes – it was an unimaginable thought. She was the light of his life – the
noor
. Did he want to live in darkness?

It had taken him seven years to win her hand in marriage. He had lost the best years of his life in being infatuated with her, and wanting nobody but her; turning away so many eligible women, just waiting for her – watching her grow into womanhood. When he finally won her hand, and she agreed to marry him, he was thirty-five years old while she was still twenty-three. He had heaped present upon present on her family and her, and had to compete with many suitors, some even from her clan, her
baraderie
. He loved her madly, but he had no inkling as to whether she felt anything for him, if at all? She was a good wife, performed her marital duties well, but had emotionally kept herself remote from him. Her haughtiness still remained. It had both repelled and attracted him simultaneously. He still didn’t know why she had accepted him in the end, and he didn’t want to know either.

Now, at this moment, it crashed upon him that she was the centre of his world. The land and bauxite mines paled into insignificance, but he must keep that fact a secret. All he knew, at the moment, was that he was walking along a tightrope. His marriage and his relationship with Noor were hanging in the balance. She wouldn’t be bullied by him - he knew her well. She would have no second thoughts on leaving him, especially as she believed that she was morally right and he was in the wrong. Those deeds did belong to the villagers and not to him. Her defiance seemed to spill out of the curves of her lips. Her body too, cried out its own language in defiance.

What was he going to do? Could he cope with a wife like Noor, who threatened his social and patriarchal order? Yet he could not give her up. Life without Noor was tantamount to dying. He caved in.

He bent down on his knees in front of her and levelled his face to hers. She turned to look at him, surprise colouring her face. Then his hand went to the nape of her neck. An alarming thought dashed through her head that he was going to strangle her. Instead, he gently brought her face closer to his, his eyes on her lips. His fingers moved upward to thread themselves in the silken folds of her hair. Could he bear to give all this up?

She looked into his eyes, the coldness ebbing away from hers, surprised at his action. Then he laughed. The rich, masculine laughter rang and echoed round the room. Then in her firm, strong voice, with no trace of humility and fear, she asked him.

“Is there anything to laugh at, my
hazoor
?” She had used the word
hazoor
, denoting respect, deliberately to reinstate his position, his authority, as her husband. The use of the word wasn’t lost on him. It gratified him and his body relaxed with it.

“I think so, my beautiful and wonderful wife. I have spent a fortune on dinners and feeding the whole village just to get them to sign their deeds over to me. Then my wife just hands them back on a plate!” He stared down into her face, his fingers now moving over her mouth.

“Aren’t you angry, anymore?” She tentatively asked, holding her breath slightly.

“Exceedingly, but there is more to life than bauxite. You are right about the devastation that the mines would cause. I don’t want anything to come between us. Having spent seven years in winning you, do you think I am ready to lose you so that you will probably be snapped up by another man before a month passes? I am not stupid nor a simpleton. I don’t want anything to jeopardise our marriage and our relationship. You looked after the needs of the villagers, when I was blinded by the thought of making money. I nearly made a fool of myself, but you saved me – I am honoured in having a wife like you. I now have the feeling that you will be the making of me yet, my beautiful Noor.”

Noor smiled. The warmth flooded into her eyes, now glowing like gems. The facial planes of her face relaxed, as she accommodated it against his fingers. She had just managed to jump a great hurdle in her life. She was in no hurry to leave her
hevali
, her village, her people, and above all her
hazoor
. Live was about giving and taking – she had gained but also given. Respect for him had outweighed her pride.

Without thinking, Noor’s hand went to his face in the form of a caress.

His eyes widened slightly. It was the first spontaneous movement she had made towards him – for he had always reached out to her. He was deeply moved. He looked down, to hide the look from her. Those twelve land documents had brought her closer to him. He caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips. She bent forward towards him and revelled in the feeling of his lips against her palm. It was another humbling and wonderful experience. Instead of abuse, she had received warmth and love from her husband. How she loved him. She breathed shyly into his ear, “I want a child of my own!”

Eyes on the crispy banknotes Aziza Hamat tiptoed into the living room. Reaching the table she grasped the woven jute money basket, pulled her shawl over it and turned. Then froze.

From the doorway, Abdul’s eyes chilled. Clutching the small basket against her chest, Aziza glared back.

The sound of car wheels crunching to a stop on the gravel outside had her turning to the balcony window. Abdul Hamat took his chance and leapt forward, startling her and snatching the basket from her tight fist. Foreign banknotes fluttered down to their feet. Hissing abuse in Bhasa Malay, he squatted on the floor.

“Kitchen!” he ordered, grasping a handful of colourful notes with different motifs and numbers.

Tearfully, Aziza stumbled out of the room and went down into her
soot-stained
hot kitchen and blazing cooking fire.

Swiping her wet cheeks with the end of her shawl, Aziza watched; fascinated by the hungry flames licking the sooty, simmering, aluminium pot of meat, ready to topple over and then obediently retreat as she lifted the lid.

The slamming of the car door quickened Aziza’s heartbeat. ‘It’s now or never!’ She vowed biting her quivering lower lip.

“Ibrahim! Ibrahim!” She softly called, tapping the creamy soot-plastered wall with the wooden cooking ladle.

A burning log fell from the cooking fire, just missing her foot. Aziza stepped back, toppling the three-legged stool behind her and the hessian bag propped on top; the rice grains spilling out of it onto the wooden floor.

“This is it! The last straw!” she shrieked under her breath.

It had taken her weeks to nurse the other blistered foot. Grabbing the log from the floor, she left the kitchen by the other little door and went down the steps. Tall rubber and palm trees flanked the three sides of the house.

Like many other rural Malay houses, it was built on a raised wooden platform, standing on eight sturdy wooden stilts and overlooked the jungle. Turning the corner, Aziza called again. “Ibrahim!” Ducking her head, she slid under the platform.

At the front of the house the passenger car door was slammed shut. Aziza crouched, hiding behind a stilt.

The log with its one end glowing held tightly in her hand, Aziza glimpsed two pairs of sunburnt legs, the gravel crunching under their feet. They were the seventh lot of white legs entering her home today. The hairy ones belonged to a man dressed in blue knee-length shorts. The hem of the woman’s floral country dress reached above her knees.

Another pair of masculine denim-clad legs and brown feet, slid in view.

The thudding sound of movement in the room above made Aziza lift her head - heart still, lips parted.

“Ibrahim”!

Aziza’s hands shook, imagining the key turning.

In the sunshine, the Tamil driver turned to his passengers. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth, he announced.

“Sir, here we are for our next spot of sightseeing. – a very special place – a Malaysian country house” he grinned with satisfaction, looking up at the quaint wooden building he visited daily. He loved both the house and the wily old host with his receding grease scraped hair, gracious manners and fantastic command of English.

Margery and Robert, a retired couple on a tour of South East Asia, stared in awe at the black and white painted house, standing on a raised wooden platform. The facade was indeed impressive with tall trees, mass of other foliage and pots of colourful orchids and hibiscus bushes strategically lining the sides of the wooden steps leading up to the house.

“It’s a Malay version of a Welsh country cottage, Bob,” Margery marvelled, continuing to feast her eyes on the picturesque scene before them, “An opportunity to see a real Malaysian house – how enchanting, Bob. How lucky we are!” She smiled in delight.

“Look” Robert nudged her on the arm.

An elderly Malay man stood on the porch – smiling and beckoning for them to come up. Something was digging into Margery’s heel. She bent down to remove her sandal. It was then her startled gaze levelled with that of Aziza’s, squatting under the platform, half hidden behind the stilt. Margery smiled and waited. But the Malay woman didn’t smile back. Instead she treated her to a pointed hostile stare. Disconcerted and the smile slipping from her face, Margery stood up to follow her husband into the house whispering to him. “Bob there is a woman hiding under the house!”

Their host stood in the middle of the room, a warm smile of welcome spread across his narrow face.

“Salam. Welcome to my home, lady and gentleman.” He jovially began, charming them with his gentle accent.

“Thank you.” They echoed together, curiously looking around the large, tidy room. Its four wooden shuttered windows were thrown open, allowing a warm breeze to flow through the room. ‘It’s as if we are standing on a raised platform in the middle of the jungle!’ Margery voiced in awe.

The host’s brown face split into a wider smile – his line of greyish-black moustache more pronounced, and gestured for them to sit down.

Margery smiled her thanks as he gallantly drew out a chair for her. Then suddenly sobered, remembering the woman down below.

“This is my house,” continued the Malay host, sitting down on another chair. “Please make yourself at home and feel free to look around.”

His European guests shyly let their eyes fan over the rows of greying sepia and black and white family portraits in glass frames hanging on the two walls.

Getting up, their host proudly pointed to one picture of a young man in a military uniform.

“This is me, when I was young. And this - my mother – She got married at fifteen and had me at sixteen!” he explained, nervously laughing, expecting them to look surprised, “Come and look. It’s alright. You are welcome.”

Robert and Margery peered at the photographs.

“Is this your wife? She’s very beautiful Mr -?” Margery asked, staring at the picture of a young woman dressed in traditional Malay clothes with a serene expression on her face.

“I beg your pardon, Madam!” Colour flooded his cheeks making them a shade darker. “I haven’t introduced myself properly. I am Abdul Hamat and you are…?” His eyes on Margery, the wide smile fixed firmly in place.

“Margery, and this is my husband Robert”, she volunteered sitting down again.

“Welcome to Malaysia, Margery and Robert. This house belonged to my father. That man there.” He pointed to the portrait of another male. “He opened our home to the public forty years ago. Since then we have had thousands of foreign visitors - thanks to this friend of ours. They come from all over the world. Are you from the UK, Madam?”

“Yes – Wales actually.”

“Right, Madam Wales. Let me show you something special.”

He padded in his soft sandals to the far corner of the room. Robert and Margery turned to look.

“This is our bridal dais, where the bride and groom sit together when they get married. Please Madam Wales, would you like to sit on it and have a photograph taken with your husband?” He giggled, seeing her gaze drop. “You can pretend that you are a Malay bride. All my guests love having their photos taken in that corner. Come Madam, you must try it!” He coaxed with his beaming smile.

Exchanging a nervous glance with her husband, Margery got up – worried that the ‘small thing’ the swing seat would not take both their weights. Robert sheepishly offered.

“You sit down, Marge. I’ll take the photo.” And laughed, explaining to the host. “I don’t think it will take us both, Mr Hamat, we are big people, huh. We really don’t want to break your family heirloom!”

Abdul Hamat openly giggled. “Yes, you westerners are tall people - probably your wife then.”

Margery gingerly squatted down on the cerise quilted-satin padding of the dais under the attractive canopy drapes. Smoothing out her dress over her legs, Margery glanced up at their smiling host standing beside her, whilst Robert snapped away with his digital camera. “I wonder how many other foreign women have sat in this ridiculous position” she cattily echoed in her head.

Their host, still with a smile, ushered them through a door leading to the rest of the house with the words “Mind your head – you tall people”.

The Tamil driver remained behind at the table, reading a newspaper.

A scraping sound against a door and a heavy grunt made Margery and Robert look expectantly at their host as they stood in the shadowy little hallway between two rooms. His smile slipping and his head turned the other way Abdul Hamat explained in a low voice. “The room on the left is our private room. The only one we keep close to the public - where as you will understand - my family – our women can gain some privacy.”

He had now stepped into the other room on the right.

“This is our bedroom. Come in, please!” His eyes averted, Abdul Hamat stood beside a bed. There was a square wooden table with a cotton floral tablecloth and a chair. Another open door led out onto a balcony at the side of the house.

Ducking their head to enter through the low door, Margery and Robert gently stepped on the polished wooden floor.

“This is our bridal bed. Used to be my parents’. Of course, it’s a bit small by your standards ….” He stopped as another thudding sound had his guests turning the other way.

Behind them Aziza peeped from the door, half in and half out of the room. Margery stared. It was the woman from under the house. All three were looking at Aziza and the glare of her coal black eyes.

Wanting to communicate her thanks for letting them into their home, Margery smiled.

Abdul Hamat’s fists tightened at his sides.

“Ah - this is - my – Aziza,” he offered brightly, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth but not quite reaching his eyes. “She can’t speak English.” And went onto explain.

Then abruptly turned his back on Aziza, signalling with his hand from behind his back to disappear.

“Key!” She hissed in her language.

“Later!” He snarled under his breath in Malay.

Panicking, Aziza’s poise faltered – her eyes on the two guests staring back at her. Then she withdrew. Margery was left admiring the woman’s native dress with its long green and turquoise crêpe de chine tunic, a matching ankle-length skirt and a scarf tied tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders.

The visitors were now shown the balcony. “Oh this is heavenly, Bob!” Margery exclaimed in delight. “I can see the jungle from far beyond. Wow!”

“Yes, Madam Wales,” the host proudly chuckled, standing by her side, delighting in her childlike response. “We are very lucky to have a jungle for our garden!” His face brimmed with a wide grin. “Isn’t it lovely, Madam? This veranda is very important for our women. We are Muslims, as you know. Here, at the side of the house our women can have some privacy to enjoy both the sun and the breeze. Also it is safe here, away from the snakes from the jungle. Oh don’t worry, Madam, there are no snakes in this house!” He hastened to explain, seeing the look of horror on her face. “My mother always sat here – her favourite spot in the house and told us stories in the afternoons whilst preparing vegetables for the dinner- you see - there is always a cool breeze up here – Madam, come and sit on this stool, close your eyes and imagine that you are in my mother’s days. Is my English ok? Come Madam. You won’t fall!” he patted the stool. “It’s strong. Don’t worry - it will not break – women of all sizes have sat on it.” He chuckled, this time his body doubled over. “There was this big American lady …” he stopped himself, drawing in his cheeks filled with silent laughter, remembering his manners.

Margery politely looked away not relishing hearing about the incident of the unfortunate American woman and instead gazed at the huge flapper-like leaves of the tall trees. Robert placed his arm protectively around her shoulders.

Aziza tiptoed back into the room, watched them for a few seconds –praying that they would not dawdle too long in the house. Abdul Hamat did not see her pull a small parcel tied in an old rag from under the mattress of the bed and then scurry to stand outside the other door, softly calling. “Ibrahim - Soon! I will get the key.”

Still on tiptoe she went down to the kitchen and dropped the two small parcels containing money and jewellery into a small aluminium pot and propped it near the door.

Hand trembling, she waited listening to their footsteps.

On the balcony, Margery wrinkled her nose. “I can smell wood burning, Robert.”

“That Madam Wales - is our Aziza cooking the dinner down below.” Their host was quick to explain.” Come and see our lovely kitchen. I am sure it’s different from yours. We still like to use wood like the old days- In this house we don’t like modern cookers. You can taste our special stew later.”

Margery reluctantly got up from the stool, “I could sit here all day, Bob,” She mourned, wanting to savour the scene for a few more minutes.

They followed their host to the kitchen on a lower level, gingerly standing on the wooden steps. Margery wondered whether they could have strangers inspecting their house in Bangor like this. The thought horrified her.

From the steps, their eyes skirted over the sooty paintwork, the kitchen items dangling from the walls and the open fire with its aluminium cooking pot on top. Kitchen furniture consisted of two wall cabinets crammed with crockery, a stool and one old wooden chair.

Aziza stepped into the kitchen from the other little door - her face paling at the two visitors staring curiously down at the piece of burning wood in her hand. Her face breaking into a polite smile and eyes steady she put the burning log back under the cooking pot.

Abdul Hamat addressed Aziza in Malay. Keeping her eyes on the fire, she muttered something back. Margery and Robert looked away, unable to understand but feeling the tension in the air.

Their amiable host turned to them, pinning a bright smile to his face.

“Here, Sir, take a picture. You can show your friends back home what an
old-fashioned
Malay kitchen looks like.”

Margery now wished to be gone. The body language, the expression, and the look in the woman’s eyes spelt to even the dimmest that they were intruders and had no right to be patronisingly surveying her kitchen and taking snaps!