The Contract
Authors: Zeenat Mahal
The Contract
A N I N D I R O M N O V E L L A
P U B L I S H E D B Y I N D I R E A D S
Zeenat Mahal
Version 1.0
Copyright © Zeenat Mahal 2013
Published in 2013 by
Indireads Incorporated
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. This is a
work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-927826-15-7
Cover Illustration: Fatima Amal Uppal
D E D I C A T I O N
To my darling friends Fatima Navid, Sehr Sajjad, Amna Hussnain, Saman Roshail and
Afia Raheal, for being there with me through thick and thin. Love you gals.
A C K N O W L D E G E M E N T S
I would like to thank Khadija Zulqarnain for suggesting Indireads to me and vice versa.
You were the one, Khadija, who read that first embarrassing and hilarious romance ‘Koh-
i-Noor’ and kept me entertained with your letters and cards while I recuperated from
‘mumps’. Thank you for being such a good friend then and now.
A huge thanks to Naheed Hassan for writing that first email of appreciation that got me
going. And thank you for thinking of this fabulous idea of Indireads and giving me the
opportunity to see my writing in print.
I would like to give special thanks to my editor, Sabahat Muhammad, whose invaluable
assistance and hard work is much appreciated. I hope this is the beginning of a long and
successful partnership.
N O T E T O T H E R E A D E R
The Contract is an Indirom novella brought to you by Indireads. As a young publisher
that aims to connect South Asian writers and readers, we are keen to hear from you—our
readers.
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C O N T E N T S
Dedications and Acknowledgments
ONE
“To being thirty and officially of un-marriageable age and therefore—free,” Shahira toasted herself.
Laughing, Nina piped up, “Really, Shahira, you’re still young...”
“Oh, don’t be such a buzz kill, Nina,” Shahira responded with a laugh.
“And she’s divorced with a kid. What self-respecting Pakistani male is going to want her?”
Misbah joked.
“Hear, hear!” added Shahira spiritedly.
Happy and grateful that her life no longer included her psycho ex-husband, she reached home in the
evening. One of her students, Natasha, was coming to visit with her grandmother to wish Shahira.
She’d taught Natasha since the fifth grade and now three years later, both Natasha and her
grandmother were very good friends. Natasha was dropped and picked up from school by the driver
and a Filipino maid. She was a bright girl, and Shahira’s heart broke to see her so neglected. The only
time she seemed happy was when she talked of the latest gift her father had sent her, or the few
minutes of time he spared for her between his flights from one international destination to the next.
“Aunty, don’t you think Natasha needs at least her father’s presence, especially since she doesn’t
have her mother?” Shahira’s tone was hesitant, because they weren’t supposed to interfere in
student’s lives, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I’ve asked Hussain to re-marry so many times but he’s so stubborn. Just like his father! I’m not
going to be here forever and then what is he going to do, I ask you?” Aunty Salma asked in high
dudgeon.
Shahira thought it prudent not to answer, feeling she’d done what she could.
But then soon after, her own worries overwhelmed her, and drove all other concerns out of her
mind. One ordinary day, just like any other, she returned from school to find her mother fighting for
breath, her face pale and her eyes rolling in her head. Frantically, Shahira managed to put her into the
car. She drove as fast as she could but by the time they reached the nearest hospital, it was already
too late.
Hysterical with shock and pain, she babbled, “She was just breathless…she was fine a few
minutes ago. She can’t be…
dead
…that’s impossible!”
No one was interested in her tragedy, however. It was routine for so many of them.
“Is there someone we can call,
bibi
? Is there a male relative who can come and take care of the
formalities?”
Shahira stared at the man. There was no one but her and her little boy. So she shook her head and
gathered herself. “I’ll take care of it.”
She had depended on herself for the last six years. Those years had been the happiest of her life
because they hadn’t included her deranged in-laws and abusive ex-husband. She could only put trust
in herself, after God.
Trying to bank the pain that threatened to devour her, she followed the ambulance in her car. Only
six years ago she’d lost her father and now, her mother had gone too.
“Is she really dead? Has
Nani
gone to Allah now?” Shahaan asked.
“Yes.” Who did that hoarse voice belong to?
At home, she helped wrap her mother in her white death robes, the
kaffan
, and waited for the
silence to descend into her very being. Eventually that was all that would be left; a gaping absence, a
huge void, a great emptiness that would never be filled. And when the pain came, she wanted to
scream and howl in agony. It was so intense and deep and, she realized in awe, permanent.
A kind neighbor came the next day with breakfast and stayed with her to make sure she ate a little.
The few distant relatives she had, and her friends, came and went; she knew from experience that life
stopped for no one, and no one put their lives on hold for anyone’s pain. Why should they?
People sat in unnatural silence punctuated with hushed whispers, reading the Quran, reciting the
Qul Shareef
on a thousand date stones, cleaned and washed for this very purpose.
When they had all left, Shahira couldn’t think beyond the one fact that haunted her. She’d lost
everyone. She was all alone now. She had no one except her son and she had to be strong for him. She
had to survive one day at a time.
Soon, she realized how difficult it was for a young, single woman to survive unscathed in a country
that prided itself on its religious morality. Several ‘friendly’ male neighbors and relatives called at
various times of the day or late at night, and Shahira was running out of patience and ways of
thwarting them.
Natasha and her grandmother visited often. One day, when Natasha went off to play with Shahaan,
Aunty Salma said hesitantly, “Shahira, I’m very fond of you, and I’ve known you for three years now,
so I hope you won’t mind what I’m going to say. I just want you to think about it with an open mind.”
Having no idea what Aunty Salma could possibly want from her, she listened with a polite smile
fixed on her face.
“Shahira, Natasha needs a mother and I could do with a lively companion, and my son definitely
needs a wife. So if you agree, I would like very much that you marry Hussain.”
For a moment Shahira just stared at her, she was so stunned. Aunty Salma pressed her advantage.
“Look, Shahira, you’re still young, you don’t know the bitter realities of this world. Men are like
hungry wolves and soon they’ll be at your door sniffing, and they won’t be kept at bay for long. I
know you don’t want to hear this right now, but these are the realities of life. You must know that I’ve
grown to care for you very deeply. You don’t have to answer right now. Just think about it. I’ll give
Hussain your phone number and he’ll call you. The two of you can talk and get to know each other.”
It was clear to her that Aunty Salma wasn’t seeking permission so much as giving her a heads-up.
What she had said was true—the wolves were already circling. Shahira promised she’d think about
it, just to reassure Aunty Salma for the time.
* * *
A week later, her phone rang early in the morning. Too early. She answered, irritated that people
could call at such an inconvenient time without a thought for other people’s comfort.
“Hello, yes?”
A crisp, deep, masculine voice at the other end, said, “Is this Ms. Shahira?”
“Yes, this is she,” she replied mystified. She hardly ever got any calls, let alone from urbane
sounding men.
When he spoke again, his voice had an edge to it, “Ms. Shahira, I believe my mother spoke to you
about a marriage proposal. My daughter Natasha and my mother are extremely fond of you.” He
paused. “You must be
really
good.”
It sounded like a sneer.
His voice cold, he added, “Well, you can say goodbye to your dreams of ensnaring a rich husband
because they’re about to be foiled. You may have thought that a child and a sentimental old woman
were easy targets, but I find your methods despicable. You misused your authority and your status as a
teacher. Your circumstances are not of my making and I’m certainly not going to take responsibility
for you, but…”
“Now just hold on a minute!” Shahira cut in, outraged at his presumption. She wasn’t going to let
any male browbeat her ever again. She’d learned to defend her rights. Firmly, anger latent in every
word, she gave the man on the other end of the line a piece of her mind.
“I have no desire to marry you. Nor do I have any designs on your wealth. If I didn’t see another
man for the rest of my life, it would be too soon. I was merely kind to Natasha; attentive to a child
who, apparently, has no one but her grandmother to take care of her. And you don’t know your mother
very well if you think she’s sentimental or senile. I reiterate—I was merely kind to Natasha because
she needed it. While you’re busy adding to your wealth, she’s pining away for a father. Think about
that before you point fingers at others. Good day!”
She cut the line. She’d had enough of men who thought they could do and say as they pleased with