Authors: Qaisra Shahraz
‘Neesa, why are you crying?’ Kaniz asked. ‘There’s nothing to cry about! You are my sister, just like Sabra. Today I want to show you and the whole world, by this small gesture of a suit and a necklace, how much I hold you dearly and value the time you have devoted to me and my son.
‘You have brought up Khawer with your loving
tender
care as if he was your own. Today it is his wedding day, my dear. I have dispensed presents to strangers, to beggars in the streets, to all the village women and girls. Can’t I, therefore, give this to someone who has devoted nearly thirty years of her life to us and who has grey hairs in the process? Take this as a small token of my appreciation, please. I have begun to regard you as a beloved and a dear sister …’
Kaniz’s voice petered away into an awkward silence. She now did something she never dreamed in her life she would ever do. She held up her hands together at Neesa, her woman servant. ‘Neesa, look at my hands. They are held up in
mafi
to you, in supplication.
Forgive me for all of my past cruelty to you. I know I am a difficult woman to work for. I now cannot live without you, Neesa! This home has been your home since you came here as an orphaned teenager. You didn’t even marry, in order to stay with us. Today you will stand by my side, dressed like me,
not
in the role of my housekeeper, but as my sister and Khawar’s second mother, and you will receive guests by my side. So please, Neesa, don’t cry. I want you to change into this suit and wear this necklace.’
‘No mistress, I can’t do this,’ Neesa uttered,
physically
moving a step back and panicking, before
eventually
finding her tongue. ‘I cannot compete with you.’ Her respect for her employer would not allow her to cross the social barriers. Kaniz was the mother of an important landlord of the village, while she was just a servant!
‘Neesa, I insist. It is an order – if you like!’ Kaniz smilingly cajoled, touched by Nessa’s words; her own eyes were now very moist.
‘I insist, too.’ Sabra’s warm voice made them both jump. Leaning against the doorpost she smiled at the two women.
‘Sabra! How long have you been there?’ Kaniz
enquired,
embarrassed by the scenario she was caught in.
‘Long enough, my dear sister, to make me so proud of you. I love you so much, Kaniz.’ Stepping forward Sabra gathered her elder sister in her arms. Over Kaniz’s shoulder, she smiled at Neesa, still staring at them with tears in her eyes. Neesa was beginning to wonder how long this weird and wonderful dream would last. Both of the sisters were now in her room!
‘Come on, Sister Kaniz, Baba Siraj Din is getting really impatient. I am sure his walking stick has by now
made a nice round hole in your silk carpet, the way he keeps tapping it. The
bharat
is all ready. All the elder men from the village have arrived. You should see them all, Kaniz – all overdressed and their starched clothes seem to have stiffened their manners, too. They are all standing around, proud as peacocks strutting about in your courtyard. Their wives, not to be outdone by their men, are preening themselves in their gaudy colours and cheap suits. It is hardly surprising, as it is not every day that two members from every household and each and every caste in the village are invited to join the
bharat
party. You’ve auspiciously not deigned to miss anyone. You have been generous indeed, my sister,
defying
us all and turning the tables on the whole social order of this village community.’
‘It is my only son’s wedding, Sabra. I want everyone to enjoy it. I shall not see another,’ Kaniz replied simply. ‘I want it to be the one to be talked about and remembered for decades. Also a Principal, my Firdaus, is coming into this home. She deserves the best
reception
there could ever be. Now hurry up, Neesa, and get dressed,’ Kaniz imperiously summoned over her shoulder as she and her sister left Neesa’s quarters.
‘Have you got the bundles of five-rupee bills?’ Kaniz asked suddenly remembering the village children. They were bound to be present in droves in the street outside, and would eagerly follow the
bharat
procession. Kaniz wasn’t going to have her son belittled by showering him with coins, or one-rupee notes. No, it had to be crisp new five-rupee notes; she had ordered them in bundles from the local bank, amounting to thousands of rupees. Kaniz beamed to herself. It was such a
pleasurable
thought to entertain. The notes floating over her son’s head and his party, to be caught and plucked away
by the children’s greedy nimble fingers and then eagerly stuffed into their bulging pockets.
‘Five-rupee notes! You are definitely getting carried away now, Kaniz,’ snorted Sabra dismissively as they walked across the courtyard.
‘Sabra, indulge me.’ Kaniz shot an appealing look at her sister. ‘It is only the wedding of my son that has pulled me away from the precipice of my
self-destruction.
What is money for, if you cannot buy happiness with it?’ she finished rhetorically.
‘Yes, yes, my sister, I am sorry, forgive me,’ Sabra answered tritely. She didn’t want to recall her sister’s suffering – not on this day of all days.
‘Why is Younas Raees here at my son’s wedding? I didn’t invite him, Sabra.’ The uneasy look was back in Kaniz’s face.
‘Your son did.’
‘I don’t want him in my
hawaili
!’
‘Don’t be silly, Kaniz. Now forget Younas Raees and get a move on! Baba Siraj is waiting.’
In her room, Neesa hugged the suit to her body, her eyes squeezed tight. Then with trembling hands she drew out the necklace set and marvelled at it. She had never owned nor dreamed of ever owning anything so expensive in her life.
Replacing the suit in its box she pulled out the clothes she had originally intended to wear.
In this instant and for the first time in her life, Neesa was going to disobey her mistress. She would wear the suit, but at another time – not today. She could never lower her mistress’s standing by being so
presumptuous
as to dress like her. Her sister Sabra could, but not she.
‘T
HE
DHOLI
IS
coming, Sabra Jee!’ Neesa shouted excitedly down into the central courtyard, peering over the
hawaili’
s roof balcony. Her eyes eagerly followed the
bharat’
s journey as it meandered its way through the village lanes.
As she stepped away, Neesa caught one end of the new embroidered chiffon
dupatta
that Chaudharani Kaniz had given her that very morning, on the iron railings. Her eyes widened in horror at the big tear, right across one corner. ‘How foolish of me to go peering over the railings like a child in this outfit,’ Neesa wailed, wishing she hadn’t worn the outfit. Chaudharani Kaniz had, however, insisted that she wear it. She had made her return to her quarters and change.
What a day it had been! Neesa wasn’t quite sure what had been more exciting, her beloved young
master’s
wedding or her, a middle-aged servant, all dolled up in a gorgeous wedding outfit, topped with a real gold necklace hanging round her crinkled throat. All afternoon, she had been unable to decide whether to be flattered or embarrassed by all the sly glances she had received from the other village women as she sat at the top dinner table beside Sabra and Kaniz. One thing was certain: there would be plenty of gossip and tittle-tattle in the days to come. Neesa knew from which source it would come too – Kulsoom the matchmaker. Kulsoom in particular seemed to have resented the seating arrangement. She had secretly hoped that Mistress Kaniz would bestow the honour on
her
of sitting at the
top table. After all, wasn’t she the crucial link between the two families? It appeared, however, that her
rightful
place had been supplanted by a mere servant woman!
Four young men especially hired for the wedding carried the
dholi,
the traditional bridal palanquin, with Firdaus in it on their shoulders. They gracefully led the entourage of wedding guests from the reception marquee out through the village lanes, heading back towards Kaniz’s
hawaili.
Kaniz, Chaudharani Shahzada and other women
relatives
walked beside the palanquin, gaily talking and singing popular folk wedding songs. Khawar, flanked by Baba Siraj Din, his male friends and relations, walked ahead of the
doli.
Down in the
hawaili
courtyard Neesa shakily handed Sabra the crystal-cut bowl of oil and a large copy of the Holy Quran. Carrying a small basket of traditional sweetmeats, Neesa then followed Sabra and stationed herself strategically at the entrance door to welcome home the groom and his new bride. She thrust wide open the gates for the guests to enter.
Reaching the
hawaili,
the procession came to a stop. The palanquin was lowered and placed on the ground near the gates. Stepping forward, Kaniz lifted the maroon brocade flap and peered inside.
‘How was your journey, my dear?’ she asked,
beaming
at her daughter-in-law.
Firdaus, sitting huddled inside the four-foot wide wooden space and still clutching precariously at the two side bars with her hands, glanced up nervously at her mother-in-law.
‘As well as one can expect, Auntie,’ she managed politely. ‘It is not every day that one has the honour of being carried on the shoulders of four men.’
‘Come, my daughter, I’ll help you out. You were only carried for two streets; I was carried for two miles. I know just how you are really feeling. I kept thinking to myself that I would fall out and break my neck. Of course I didn’t,’ Shahzada chuckled. ‘Welcome to your new home, my dear.’
Letting Chaudharani Shahzada help Firdaus out of the
dholi,
Kaniz joined her sister and stood in the
doorway
of her home to welcome them all inside.
Firdaus straightened out her bridal skirt, consisting of seven yards of heavily embroidered silk, that had become crushed beneath her legs, before being helped out of the
dholi.
‘Come, my dear. Your mother-in-law awaits you at the entrance to your new home,’ Shahzada whispered in Firdaus’s ear, leading her through the gates. Khawar walked by her side.
A small china bowl of oil held in the palm of her hand, Kaniz waited with a beating heart, her eyes poised on Firdaus’s face as she stood outside the carved walnut wooden doorway leading into the
hawaili
. She stooped down to pour a few drops of oil on the two corners of the doorstep, reminiscent of the centuries-old Hindu tradition of welcoming the new bride into her new home. Still bent on the ground, her large embroidered shawl touching the step, Kaniz caught Firdaus’s wary glance.
The world stood still for the two proud women as they both simultaneously remembered the scene in the school office. Firdaus cringed to recall her own flippant words: ‘I’d rather die than enter your
hawaili’
. Then, from somewhere, came the frightening thought: Wouldn’t it be Kaniz’s sweetest revenge if she were now to turn me away from her doorstep?
In Kaniz’s head, her own bitter words stabbed. ‘I’ll never let that washerwoman’s daughter step into my
hawaili!
’
Bleakly, Firdaus dropped her eyes before Kaniz, in utter shame. Chaudharani Kaniz now held her
izzat
, her honour in her two hands. She was the one holding the scales of power. It was now all up to her.
Sighing, Kaniz stood tall, rising triumphantly out of the muddy whirlpool of her past life. A smile lit her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she took the Holy Quran from Sabra and circled it ceremoniously over her daughter-in-law’s head in a traditional gesture of welcome. ‘Welcome home, my Firdaus,’ she greeted her in a loud, clear voice.
Relieved and grateful, Firdaus stepped into her new home, only to be immediately pulled into the warm embrace of her mother-in-law’s arms.
‘Sister, you’ll ruin her suit,’ Sabra scolded Kaniz. Everybody had witnessed Firdaus’s reception,
including
Fatima, who had trailed behind the other women. She brushed away tears of happiness from her eyes. There were no worries now concerning her daughter’s future – Kaniz had made it plain to everyone that she was going to be a good mother-in-law. She just hoped and prayed that her own daughter would learn to be a tender and kind woman like Kaniz – and accept
everything
in life with the same humility and maturity.
Smiling up into the video camera, focused on her by the cameraman brought in from Karachi, Kaniz led her daughter-in-law and son into the drawing room, and seated them on her new special white leather sofa. Following the other relatives into the room, Fatima hesitated for a moment, in the doorway. When Kaniz looked up and saw her, she rose and then, with a
purposeful step, went up to Fatima and gathered her in a bear-like hug. Fatima stood frozen in her enemy’s arms, and then hugged her back.
‘
Mubarak,
my sister, welcome. Thank you for giving away your daughter to us. We are honoured to have her. You have made me and my son very happy, Sister Fatima.’
Humbled to the very core of her being by Kaniz’s generosity, Fatima couldn’t help but have a good cry in her big pink cotton handkerchief as she sat down next to her friend and mistress. ‘It is my prerogative anyway, as mother of the bride to have a good cry,’ she sniffed happily to Chaudharani Shahzada.
The women in this room can never guess the heights to which my heart has soared. They think I cry from sadness, Fatima thought as she sat next to her mistress Shahzada and glanced proudly around the room. All this is now my daughter’s. Her heart soared again at the prospect of her daughter becoming the next
chaudharani
and mistress of this
hawaili
and its tracts of land.
Sitting beside Khawar, Siraj Din was observing everything and everyone with philosophical wisdom from under his bushy brown eyebrows. Every day proved to be a revelation – there was always something new to amaze him.
‘Well, Khawar, my son, did you ever in your wildest dreams anticipate your mother embracing her lifelong enemy?’ Siraj Din asked rhetorically, pointing his stick at Kaniz and Fatima sitting together, both smiling warmly and unreservedly into each other”s face.
‘No, but
al-Hamidulillah,
with yours and everyone’s prayers, Allah Pak has blessed this household. My mother is a changed woman. She bears no grudge against anyone, even those who have humiliated her.’
Firdaus blushed, knowing the barb was aimed at her.
‘I am so glad. I’ll leave you two alone and will go and sit with my daughter Shahzada.’ Siraj Din stood up and, with the aid of his ivory stick, walked over to the other sofa. As he approached, Fatima quickly vacated her seat to him, deciding to go and sit with her
husband
Fiaz, out in the courtyard.
‘Well, I must say, you do look grand,’ Khawar teased, turning to look at his bride. ‘I would never have recognised you, Madam Principal, coming out of the
dholi.
Now that was a sight indeed! So was the one of you stepping into my home.’
‘Trust you to remind me of that, Khawar. You didn’t manage to drown me in the well in our childhood days, but you’ll probably kill me with your pointed taunts now!’ she tartly said. Khawar’s peal of laughter rang around the room. Firdaus fidgeted with her
gold-embroidered,
jewel-encrusted handbag, feeling all the women’s eyes on them.
‘They are really happy, Shahzada,’ Siraj Din observed, watching the bride and groom from across the room. ‘I hope my own granddaughter Zarri Bano is happy too, wherever she is with her husband.’
‘
Amin
!’ Shahzada voiced fervently, a worried look entering her eyes. ‘If only that were so!’ she
half-whispered
to herself.
‘
Aba Jan,
last night I had a dream in which I saw a beautiful child in my Zarri Bano’s lap – looking just like her. If only my dream could come true! I was
thinking
that if she is now going to be settled, more or less, in Karachi, there is nothing for me now in the
kothi
in the town. Fatima too, has left us, to return to Chiragpur and look after Fiaz. I was wondering, therefore, whether you would have me come and stay here in the village, in
the
hawaili
with you? I like it here much, much better than in the town. If I am here I can also look after you in the last years of your life. Also Fatima, my friend, is here and I can see her every day …’
Shahzada stopped, seeing her father-in-law’s green eyes shine with tears. ‘
Aba Jan
?’ she queried in concern.
‘Shahzada, my dearest, dearest of daughter-in-laws. You have made me so happy! There is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to have you back in the
hawaili.
It has never been the same since you left the village and your mother-in-law Zulaikha died. With you here, the place will come alive again. People will flock to my home and keep you company. Zarri Bano will come and
Insha’allah
bring her children with her. She’ll have to stay on in the
hawaili.
After all, it will be her children who will inherit it and most of this land, my dear Shahzada.
‘To have all this happen in the last days, weeks, months and years of my life would be Allah’s true
blessing
indeed. Thank you my dearest, my Shahzada. You have the place of the daughter I never had in my heart. You know that, don’t you?’
‘The pleasure will be all mine,
Aba Jan.
’ Shahzada was touched to the core of her being, her own eyes swimming in tears. She raised her father-in-law’s hand and respectfully kissed it, pressing it to her cheek.
Coming back into the room, Fatima had watched the exchange between Shahzada and Siraj Din. She went over to Shahzada and held out her hand. ‘Come, Chaudharani Sahiba, you mustn’t cry, not today. It is a day of celebration. Come and have a look at my Firdaus’s bedroom.’
‘Yes, Chaudharani Sahiba,’ Kulsoom said eagerly, overhearing Fatima’s words and coming to stand by her
side, ‘it is reputed that Chaudharani Kaniz has spent
lakhs
of rupees on furnishing the bride’s bedroom for this wedding.’
Wiping her tears away with the corner of her
chador,
Shahzada took hold of Fatima’s hand, her lifelong friend, and stood up.
Kulsoom automatically twitched her long dangling earrings in place on her ears, then nearly cried out with the pain. As she led the two up the
hawaili’
s staircase to the first floor she was wondering when exactly Kaniz was going to do her the honour of giving her a gift for her services. She so fervently hoped that it would be a gold pendant. Her poor little ears couldn’t cope with any more earrings.
Hoisting her large frame with its bony legs up the marble stairs, Kulsoom just wished to Allah that these important people didn’t have so many floors. It would serve them right if, one day, they found her dead on their stairs. Then they would be cursed for life.
Smiling indulgently at Kulsoom’s panting face and her rasping breath, Kaniz stood at the top of the
staircase
and led them gracefully down the corridor. She thrust one door wide open and proudly stood aside, allowing the three women to enter and marvel at length at the contents and the furnishings of the room.
Just for one moment, Kaniz’s head tilted proudly to one side, in a gesture reminiscent of the old haughty Chaudharani Kaniz. The expression of wonder and humility on Fatima’s face as she gazed reverently around the room, touching and examining everything with awe, was worth each and every
paisa
spent on it.