Marrying Ameera Page 12

  His eyes narrowed. ‘When I spoke to you before, I didn’t think the marriage was arranged.’ He smiled slowly. ‘But now it is too late. I have lost you and you have lost me. Such is life.’

  I tried not to show how much his tone disgusted me. ‘It is fixed then, with Shaukat?’

  ‘All pukka and fixed, baby cousin. Shaukat is the lucky devil to lay you first. Or is he the first?’

  He stepped closer and this time I didn’t think about the consequences: I slapped his face and raced back to the house. I entered through the lounge and tried to slow my breathing. No one was there. Dadi jan must have been resting. There was no noise in the kitchen either so maybe Aunty Khushida was in her room. I looked out to the courtyard; Haider hadn’t followed me as I’d feared and I tried to stop worrying about how he might retaliate.

  I desperately wanted to speak to Mum. Surely I could remember the number if I tried. I crept over to the phone and dialled the number for Australia, then Adelaide, but no, I couldn’t remember Gran’s and Grandpa’s number. At home we pressed a button on the caller list. Instead I punched in Maryam’s number, hoping I had it right. I glanced at the door: still all clear.

  Mrs Yusuf answered in her uncertain English. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Yusuf, this is Ameera. Is Maryam there?’

  ‘Please speak up. Who is it?’

  ‘Ameera Hassan.’

  ‘Ah, beti,’ she reverted to Urdu, ‘how are you? How is your aunt, your uncle?’

  ‘Theik hai, fine.’

  ‘Is the weather cold?’

  I didn’t have time for this. ‘Please, is Maryam there?’

  ‘Ji, I will call her.’ She sounded surprised that I could be so rude.

  It was a whole minute before Maryam came. ‘Ameera!’ She was squealing.

  ‘Maryam—’

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I felt mean but I couldn’t waste any time. ‘Maryam, tell Tariq and Riaz the wedding is in two weeks. Can you ring my mother?’

  I couldn’t tell if she heard me or not for her sentence overlapped mine. ‘Tariq has spoken—’

  I didn’t get to hear the rest for Aunty Khushida was suddenly beside me, ripping the phone from my hand. She listened a moment then said, ‘I am sorry, Ameera cannot speak now,’ and pressed down the receiver. Then she fixed me with a look that I hadn’t seen her wear before. It made me shrink backwards out of her reach.

  ‘If you do this again I will be telling your uncle. In future, ask permission. You can be ringing your father, but no one else.’

  She was waiting for a response; I nodded. Her face told me how much trouble I was for her. But I knew what Mum would say if she heard what was going on. Maybe Riaz had told her by now.

  ‘Come, child, I need help in the kitchen,’ Aunty Khushida said. She sounded calmer.

  In the kitchen she handed me a bowl of peas to shell. I sat on the low red wooden stool I liked, with flowers hand-painted on it. Zeba had said it came from Swat. Aunty began to cut up okra on a board.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you,’ she said. ‘You are not from here. But you must relax and enjoy this time. It is like being chosen to be a princess.’

  When I didn’t comment she carried on. ‘If you win a prize in school it is because you have worked hard; you do not ask for it, you do not choose. This is the same: you have been chosen for the prize.’

  I stared at her, amazed. ‘But this is different, Aunty—this is my whole life. When I marry, my life will be totally…changed.’ I almost said ‘ruined’ but switched it in time.

  She smiled at me as if I had seen her point at last. ‘Ji, that is correct. Inshallah, everything will be changing for the better.’

  ‘What if I don’t want it to change?’

  Her smile died. She pointed the knife at me. ‘You must be fixing your attitude and accept this situation. Your father has paid much money for you to be having a good and happy life.’

  She dropped the okra into a saucepan and thumped it onto the stove, then glanced back at me. ‘Hurry with those peas. Everyone will be coming soon.’

  After dinner, while the newsreader reported more riots in Sindh, I sat with Dadi jan. She held my hand. ‘I am very happy that you are living with us.’

  A fresh surge of feeling for her rose up, making my eyes fill. ‘Dadi jan, I don’t want to get married but no one will listen.’

  Her magnified eyes regarded me through her glasses. Kids at school in Australia would call them Coke bottoms. ‘Do you remember the story of Hir and Ranjha?’

  ‘Yes. Hir was finally allowed to marry who she chose but was killed for leaving her first husband.’

  I wondered why Dadi jan had brought that up. None of the folk tales about lovers had happy endings. Was that my destiny too—to have a tragic ending?

  ‘But what did she say in the ceremony?’ There was a twinkle in Dadi jan’s eyes.

  I thought for a moment. ‘She withheld her consent.’ Then I added sourly, ‘But it did no good, they married her without it.’

  ‘However, she had a clear conscience before God when she refused her husband.’

  I sucked in my breath. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I would have to sleep with Shaukat, and for the rest of my life. This was what I had saved myself for: not for a man I loved but someone I had to marry because Papa said so.

  Dadi jan leaned towards me and whispered, ‘Child, refuse your consent. I did.’

  I was shocked. ‘You, Dadi jan?’

  She smiled. ‘I knew the old stories.’

  ‘But you were still married.’

  ‘True, no one took notice of a girl, but I did not feel guilty when I refused Zufar later.’

  ‘You did that?’

  She gave a slight twist of her head. ‘At first. Until I liked him.’ She chuckled and I was struck by how she hid her wicked humour behind wrinkles and near blindness.

  ‘He must have been a patient man.’

  ‘Hahn ji. A good man will not force you, child.’

  By the time I went to bed I had the seed of a plan.

  Jamila was brushing her hair at the dressing table. Her sorrow at losing Shaukat was beginning to ebb and at times she had a faraway look. I wondered if she and Aunty Khushida were discussing suitable men she could marry. Her distraction now suited me: I could think about how to turn my plan into action.

  I turned my back to Jamila and quietly counted what was left of the money Mum had given me. If I changed it all, I might have enough for a bus fare to Islamabad. Then I could catch a taxi to the Australian embassy. They would help me get a flight home—Grandpa would pay for it. Once I get to Islamabad I’ll be fine, I thought, but getting out of Muzaffarabad might be tricky. I could go to school with Jamila, then say I was taking Zeba to the bazaar to buy make-up for the wedding. Of course I wouldn’t take Zeba, and by the time Jamila realised she was still at school I’d be on the bus.

  It was the happiest I’d felt since I’d arrived. Amazing how satisfying it was to be able to do something constructive. I climbed into bed and pulled the heavy quilt over my shoulder. The embassy would ring Mum. I would see Tariq again.

  23

  In the morning I asked to go to school with Jamila. A glance passed between her and Aunty Khushida and I saw a slight nod from my aunt. Maybe they thought getting out of the house would be good for me. I put on extra underwear and took another shawl in a shopping bag. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion by taking the backpack. ‘It gets cold in the tent,’ I said to Jamila. I squashed my make-up into my handbag.

  Aunty Khushida had made puri halva for breakfast. It was semolina and parathas, one of my favourites, and something we couldn’t buy readily in Australia. I only ate it when Mrs Yusuf made it. How different it could have been if it was Tariq’s family I was marrying into. Mrs Yusuf would enjoy teaching me how to cook her favourite dishes. I shook my head clear: I had to keep firm in my resolve and that didn’t involve thinking about what might have been. I pictured Tariq smiling at me that
night at the party when he looked directly at me. Tariq, who had written Piari Ameera, who would change my wooden and ceramic necklace into gold. But only if I returned home.

  I went to the school with Jamila and taught English in Zeba’s class. I don’t know how I managed to keep my mind on the job. I kept thinking about what could go wrong. Maybe the buses were on strike—would that happen in Pakistan? Probably not. What if I didn’t have enough money for the fare? Or someone noticed I was alone and told the police? I’d have to make sure that didn’t happen. Pretend I was with someone else—that was Papa’s answer to travelling alone.

  The girls were all talking before I realised they weren’t doing their work. ‘Girls, be quiet.’ They stopped playing around at once and returned to writing in their exercise books.

  At the end of the lesson, I drew Zeba away from the others. ‘I’m just going down to the bazaar, I won’t be long. You can go home with Jamila.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ She looked horrified.

  I had to think fast; some of her friends were looking at us. ‘Asher will bring me back.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Can you buy me a surprise?’

  I hated telling her a fib. ‘I’ll try,’ was all I said. I hugged her. I’d grown fond of her and she’d be upset when I didn’t return.

  She ran off to play with Tariqah and I was free for the first time in weeks. It was both a heady and scary feeling. In the bazaar I changed my money in the same place as before. The man smiled at me as though he remembered me and I hurried out. I asked a woman for directions to the bus station; then thought it best to get a taxi and not draw attention to myself by walking alone. The taxi driver studied me in his rear-vision mirror until I covered my nose with my shawl.

  At the bus station I bought a ticket to Islamabad at a newly erected ticket box. The man there stared at me but didn’t ask any questions. So far so good and I still had money left. I went into the makeshift waiting room for ladies and sat near a woman with two teenage daughters. Papa would have been pleased with me: we looked the perfect family.

  ‘Are you going to Islamabad?’ the woman asked in Urdu.

  I nodded.

  ‘Where is your father?’

  I looked out the door as if he was there watching over me.

  The woman smiled at me. ‘Are you studying?’

  ‘Yes, I have just finished matriculation.’

  Her frown reminded me that the school year in Pakistan didn’t finish until March. ‘I mean for the year.’

  Her face cleared. ‘Zaitoon is studying in eighth grade and Gulshan is studying tenth grade, like you.’ She smiled indulgently at her daughters.

  I nearly corrected her about me being in tenth grade until I remembered that tenth grade is the matriculation year in Pakistan.

  Gulshan smiled shyly at me. ‘Are you from London?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You speak with an accent, I just wondered.’

  I expected the mother to tell her off for being nosy but I could see she was just as curious as her daughter. She leaned closer and I didn’t feel safe any more; I could see the speculation in her eyes. I mumbled some excuse about needing to see my father and left the room, even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do. Any father would expect his daughter to stay in the waiting room until he came to collect her.

  Outside, a large group of men from the mountains had congregated. They had long beards, black turbans and Kalashnikovs and their stares were hungry and antagonistic. Those riots on the news the night before, could they happen here? I bought a bottle of Coke from a boy with an esky on makeshift wheels and hurried back to the waiting room. The woman wasn’t as friendly this time, but I caught the girl Gulshan slipping me furtive smiles, so I returned them. I took out my book and tried to concentrate on the story. I must have read the same page ten times, and I checked my watch constantly. Once I was on the bus I would be safe, on my way back to Mum and Tariq.

  There was a shout outside. The woman began collecting her bags and telling her daughters what to do. I stood up and followed them out. A harassed-looking man was directing women onto the bus first. He must have thought I was with the woman and her daughters for he flapped his hand at me to sit with Gulshan.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked when we were settled.

  I didn’t think it would hurt to tell her. ‘Australia. I have been visiting relatives and now I am going home.’

  ‘I wish I could go to Australia,’ Gulshan said. ‘Is it like Islamabad?’

  I hadn’t seen much of Islamabad that night I arrived. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Fewer people. It’s clean, and Australians wear different clothes.’ It was difficult to describe in a few sentences. My mind followed my heart. ‘My mother is waiting for me there.’

  ‘She didn’t come with you?’ Gulshan was all consternation.

  ‘Australians are very independent,’ I said.

  Gulshan stared at me in wonder. ‘Your father isn’t here either, is he? He allows you to travel alone?’

  ‘I am not alone, I am with you.’

  She smiled at me then. It wasn’t like her mother’s smile, for her mother probably thought I was a fast and modern girl, but a smile of awe. ‘Of course, you must be my sister for this trip.’

  She seemed to feel she was part of an adventure. I didn’t share her elation; I just couldn’t wait for the bus to go. What if Jamila realised I’d left the school and came to find me? Stop being stupid, I chided myself. How could Jamila know where I am?

  It wasn’t Jamila who came; it was Haider. I saw him before he saw me. He was checking through the windows of the bus next to mine, then a young man directed him to my bus. I sank low into the seat and covered my face. There was no time to get off; besides, there were so many people pushing their way on that I’d cause a scene going against the tide. I prayed it wasn’t me he was after.

  Then he was on the step, talking to the man who’d directed me to my seat. The man pointed me out. A muscle moved near Haider’s jaw as he saw me. He made a point of saying loudly, ‘This is the wrong bus, Cousin. Come with me now.’

  Gulshan’s mother turned to look at me. She seemed slightly worried but Haider sounded reasonable. What would he do if I refused? Would the bus stay there until I got off with him?

  ‘I have the money returned from your ticket,’ he said then, as if he could read my thoughts. How polite he sounded and all so no one would know what I had tried to do. The family certainly stuck together.

  I stood and excused myself to Gulshan.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.

  I nodded. Disappointment was welling up inside me. The frustration at being so close to getting away must have showed in my eyes for she clasped my hand. ‘I’m glad I met you.’

  Haider turned away as I came down the steps and I followed him. We must have looked like a married couple: me walking a few metres behind, him confident that I was following. He led me a different way home, through an old shaded part of the bazaar I hadn’t seen before. It looked like hardware shops: I saw ropes and chains and tools. The open drains had a pungent smell and I draped my shawl over my nose. This part of the bazaar was like a maze and soon my sense of direction evaporated. There were no women; it was almost sunset, 5.30 p.m., a time when they were at home cooking. I hurried to keep Haider in sight. Suddenly he stopped. He turned to face me and waited until I was close. I paused just out of arm’s reach. He might have been the only familiar person in an unknown environment but I was still wary of him.

  He closed the gap between us and moved forward, forcing me back against a wall. What he did next came so suddenly I had no warning. He slapped me across the face so that my head hit the wall behind me. I almost blacked out, and slid to the ground.

  He pulled me up to face him. I knew what he’d do then—I saw it in his eyes—but I couldn’t move my head; it was wedged between his hands. He put his mouth over mine. I tried to struggle, but he kept me still with the length of his body. I thought
I’d die of the shame of having his tongue in my mouth. I bit down hard. His head swung away.

  ‘Leopard bitch.’ He held me with one hand and wiped his mouth. ‘Quiet rivers run deep after all. Lucky Shaukat.’ It was as if the mention of Shaukat reminded him of his job at hand. ‘We must not damage this beauty for Shaukat, my little flower.’

  He hit me across the head, so hard I thought my neck would break. His fist punched into my stomach and I doubled over and fell to the ground. I curled up as he kicked my backside and my back again and again. Then he stopped. I opened my eyes to see why. He had crouched beside me, his shoe centimetres from my face.

  ‘You have to walk home, so I can’t give you the beating you deserve. But let this be a warning, dear Cousin. If you try to dishonour our family again, trust me, I will kill you. Do you understand?’ He put a hand under my neck and pulled my hair so I had to raise my head to look at him. ‘Samajti hai? Do you understand?’

  I grunted. It was all I could manage. Why didn’t someone come? Surely there were men closing shops for the night—wouldn’t they have heard me? Or hadn’t I called out? I had no energy to scream now. Haider dropped my head to the ground then hauled me up. Now my lesson was over, he could afford to be magnanimous. He put my shawl over my head—I couldn’t lift my arms—and gave me my bags. ‘Chello. Walk now.’

  Periodically he checked I was behind him. I didn’t think I’d manage the incline to the house. My pace became slower by the minute yet I made it. Haider was by the gate when I finally limped inside. His face was a blank mask and I was determined not to show him how much I hurt. I staggered past him into the courtyard. I didn’t dare stop there, it was too cold. I needed a warm shower. I went straight to the bathroom to avoid Jamila telling me off for leaving the school.

  It was Jamila who noticed later that I couldn’t walk properly. If I’d been hurt like this in Australia, Mum would have taken me to Emergency and called the police. But no one here even mentioned it; I didn’t even know if Haider had told them where he’d found me. In silence Jamila rubbed ointment onto my buttocks and back. She checked my head and muttered once. Apart from a red mark on one cheek, my face, as Haider had promised, was untouched.