Marrying Ameera Page 14

  ‘I can’t believe you have learnt your lesson so quickly,’ he said. ‘I thought you would need more persuasion.’

  I fought down my disgust as I saw he had been looking forward to teaching me more lessons.

  Then he said evenly, ‘Who is Mr Tariq Yusuf?’

  My eyes opened wide while my mind raced. He couldn’t have heard me on the phone the other day. Then I remembered my old mobile. He must have checked my contacts list. There were no messages so he couldn’t know anything for sure.

  ‘He…he is my best friend’s brother. She doesn’t have a phone and he gives her my messages.’ I hoped none of what I felt for Tariq had slipped into my voice.

  Haider pulled me closer and my shawl slipped. It was as if I was paralysed—I made no protest. ‘So, Shaukat is getting damaged goods.’

  Haider had said he would kill me if I dishonoured the family. The initial affront of him ripping into my privacy was swiftly overcome by terror. Dread burst in my chest like a bomb. ‘No.’

  Haider laughed, but then he stopped and stared at me. The violence I feared hadn’t flowered yet but his laughter unnerved me. He put his hands around my neck. His fingers seemed gentle but I knew what they were capable of. ‘So beautiful,’ he murmured and stared at me through his lashes. My stomach churned as he quoted an old proverb: ‘A lie has no legs to stand on.’ I felt the pressure of his thumbs on the arteries in my neck. ‘If you are lying, and you ever contact this Tariq, I will kill him too.’

  Nervous reaction made me grin stupidly. Surely he was joking. ‘In Australia?’

  ‘You are so ignorant.’ His face was close to mine. ‘Sunno, listen, all you have to do is be a good girl and all will be well.’ Then his fingers found Tariq’s necklace under my scarf. ‘What’s this stupid thing? Wood?’

  He yanked at it. My throat constricted and I gagged. I thought I’d be strangled after all, but mercifully the thread broke. The beads scattered on the ground; I heard them bounce away from me. I forced myself not to pick them up or he would know how much the necklace meant to me. Instead, I stood staring past his shoulder and he pushed me away as if I was the one who had been restraining him.

  When he had gone I salvaged what I could of Tariq’s necklace and retreated to the Persian garden. I sat on the bench in the pavilion shaking, and it was nothing to do with the cold. The beads were clenched in my hand; the tears still hadn’t come.

  ‘Meri bachi,’ said an ancient voice. ‘My child.’

  I looked up; it was Baba ji. He shuffled closer and handed me more beads and then put his hand on my head in blessing. He was just a gardener, yet at that moment he reminded me of Grandpa and his hand on my head felt like the brush of an angel’s wing.

  26

  Everyone was busy over the next week.

  Food for the wedding was organised with the local barbers. It sounds weird but traditionally Pakistani barbers always cook for weddings. Aunty Khushida and Meena had bought the outfit Shaukat would wear at the ceremony, just as Aunt Bibi had bought mine. It was hanging in Aunty Khushida’s room. Once I went in to look at it. It was long and elegant with a Nehru collar, cream with gold stitching, pure silk. I could imagine it on Tariq. I began to wonder what Shaukat was like. Would I even get to meet him or would Frank turn up first?

  So far Frank hadn’t made contact again. A week wouldn’t seem so long to him but for me it was the length of my life as I knew it.

  Haider put up lights around the outside walls. I made sure I was never in the garden or courtyard at a time he could be home and so managed to avoid him. He may have broken my necklace but there were enough beads left to make an anklet, and I wore it in defiance.

  The week before the wedding was called ‘mayon’. Cousins and aunts I’d never met before came to the house to sit with me and sing songs. From that night Meena put me in an old yellow shalwar qameez and I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. Each day she pulled the curtains in my room to darken it and I was only allowed to drink milk, eat fresh fruit and sweet dishes to help cleanse my skin: the Pakistani version of detox. At least I was safe from Haider, but it meant I couldn’t ring Frank for I was never alone.

  Every day of mayon I was given a beauty treatment. The first day Aunt Bibi and her married daughter, Fozia, came with a special paste called uptan, made from oil, turmeric and flour, and spread it over my face and hands. Then Aunt Bibi blessed me. The uptan was like something from the Body Shop, but it didn’t smell as good and I was sure it’d make me look jaundiced. Meena waved my objections aside. She was the one who spread the uptan over my body every day until the wedding. She never made a direct comment about my bruises the first time I lay on my stomach, just clucked.

  Aunt Bibi came again another day and by her air of excitement I could tell that Shaukat had arrived home. She was looking at me as though I was about to receive the biggest blessing ever. I suddenly thought how disappointed she’d be when I disappeared. Right then I wouldn’t have minded if Frank turned up on a magic carpet. There were only a few days left: where was he?

  Two days before the ceremony all the women of the house went to Aunt Bibi’s to sing songs for the groom and to put uptan on his face and hands. Jamila was chosen to put henna on his little finger; I felt sorry that all she reaped from her dreams was a little finger. Of course I wasn’t allowed to join in the fun. So when they were all at Aunt Bibi’s I took the chance to contact Frank.

  He answered immediately like last time. ‘Frank here.’

  I was so relieved that I started to babble. ‘I was wondering how everything’s going. I haven’t been able to ring—someone’s been with me all the time.’

  ‘Sorry I haven’t contacted you. I’ve been waiting for something good to tell you.’

  His voice sounded tired and my heart sank. ‘There’s a problem?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The Australian passport’s under way but it’s the police assistance that’s holding us up. This has to be done legally—you understand?’

  There was a pause and I spoke quietly into it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The police have been caught up with extra work because of the riots since Bhutto’s death, but it’s easing now. We just have to get the paperwork through. I’m trying my best, Ameera.’

  I was sure he was but would his best be enough? To my mind the marriage was the end; there was no life after that.

  ‘What will happen if you can’t make it?’ I asked.

  ‘If we can’t get there in time, then keep the mobile with you and we’ll get your new contact details. Do you know where you’ll be living after the wedding?’

  I didn’t like the way he said that, as if the wedding was going to happen. ‘I can find out.’

  ‘Do that just in case. And, Ameera, we will get you out. I’m sorry if it’s after the wedding, but can you…’ He stopped and sighed with what sounded like exasperation. ‘This is a hard job. Look, I’ll say this straight. Maybe the groom won’t force himself. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Dadi jan had said the same: refuse the groom. At least until I liked him. But didn’t a marriage have to be consummated to be valid? The walima—the wedding party two days after the ceremony—was expressly for celebrating just that: the consummation of the wedding. Just two days.

  ‘Will you hurry though?’ I said it before I could stop myself. Then I whispered, ‘People are kind but I’m…I’m frightened.’

  ‘We’ll be there as soon as the police paperwork comes through—it’s the last thing. You have to be strong—one way or the other we’ll get you out.’

  But would he be too late? No other man would have me if the wedding had been consummated. I couldn’t ask that even of Tariq.

  I sniffled as I put the phone in my handbag, then blew my nose. A faint noise made me glance at the doorway. Asher stood there staring at me. How much had he heard? I couldn’t read his expression. I closed my eyes, imagining the consequences if they found out about Frank. What would they do? What would Ha
ider do? My eyes flew open, then I remembered that Haider couldn’t come in here.

  I relaxed and smiled tentatively at Asher. ‘You didn’t go to Aunt Bibi’s?’

  ‘I am here to look after you.’

  He hesitated in the doorway, then came in slowly. He was young enough to know he was allowed, old enough to want to be barred. I checked his face. He had none of Haider’s anger. Would he tell Uncle Rasheed that I had another phone? But his eyes were guileless.

  ‘I wish you weren’t leaving,’ he said. Then he grinned, a boy again. ‘You would only have to wait ten years then you could marry me.’

  ‘I’d have grey hair by then.’ I followed his lead; he was playing this light. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the phone.

  ‘All this fuss over a wedding. So much money, and I have friends at school who still live in tents.’

  Surprise made me gasp.

  ‘One of my friends says it is disrespectful to have a wedding so soon after Begum Bhutto’s death.’

  I wished I’d thought of that. Maybe I could have had it postponed.

  ‘Perhaps your parents feel it’s okay since it was already arranged,’ I said.

  ‘Abu says life has to go on—weddings, births, deaths. It is the life cycle and we can’t stop everything for a tragedy or the militants have affected us after all.’ Then he said, ‘Why were you crying? Don’t you want to marry Shaukat?’

  Could I trust him? I hesitated but the need to let my feelings out was strong. ‘No. I don’t expect you to understand but where I come from people meet each other before they are married. They marry because they want to, not because they’re told to.’

  ‘You didn’t know you were going to be married when you came, did you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Haider said you would be trouble because Uncle Hassan had not told you.’

  There was no doubt Haider thought I was trouble even now, when I was pretending I was enjoying myself.

  ‘It is not fair,’ Asher said. ‘You do not want to get married and Jamila does.’

  I attempted a grin. ‘They should just swap us, eh?’

  ‘It is not possible. Aunt Bibi likes doing things in the old way—she is having a big mirror after the nikah and in it Shaukat will see you for the first time.’

  I sighed. ‘I was joking.’

  He sat on the bed and sighed with me. ‘When I get married I am not going to force my wife or daughters to do anything.’

  ‘No? How will you manage that?’

  ‘I shall be the boss.’ He stared at me defiantly.

  I smiled at his innocence. He still didn’t understand the force of the culture we were born into, how it often made people act differently from what they wanted.

  ‘Asher, do you know the address of Aunt Bibi’s house?’

  ‘Everyone knows where Iqbal Iman and Bibi Zufar live. Do not worry, the limousine will take you there after the wedding. Everything will be done for you.’

  That was what I was afraid of.

  ‘And Shaukat—where is his clinic in the mountains? Have you been there?’

  Asher shook his head. ‘It is near a place called Oghi on the border of Khala Dhaka.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  He shrugged. ‘Many hours by car, more in winter. He comes across the mountains from Mansehra to visit Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal.’ Then his face brightened. ‘He has a first-class car, I saw it yesterday—a Toyota Prado. It is four-wheel drive. Only the foreigners from aid agencies have cars like that.’ Then it was as if he couldn’t contain himself and I wondered if this was why he’d come to seek me out. ‘There are so many surprises for you, but there is a special one tomorrow.’

  ‘Seeing Shaukat at last?’ I said dryly.

  ‘No, another special surprise.’

  Asher’s eyes brimmed with it but he wouldn’t tell me. I just hoped it wasn’t a surprise like the one Papa had sprung on me.

  27

  The next day was the mehndi ceremony during which the groom’s female relatives draw henna patterns on the bride’s hands. ‘Mehndi’ is the Urdu word for henna, which is a symbol of joy. I felt as if I was in a trance, as if all this was happening to someone else.

  As I was being dressed in a lovely but simple unembroidered green outfit, Jamila told me about the fun at Aunt Bibi’s the day before. I saw speculation in her eyes and wasn’t sure what it meant. Was it jealousy? Awe? Pity? By then my imagination was running wild; I wasn’t sure of anything except that the sand in my hourglass was running out. Every time there was a knock on the gate I’d tense, wondering if it was Frank, but it was always more relatives I’d never met.

  Aunt Bibi, her three daughters-in-law, Fozia and a menagerie of distant female relatives arrived bearing pots of henna paste prepared by Fozia. ‘Fresh is better than bazaar-bought for such an important occasion,’ Aunt Bibi said. Meena and Jamila were there as well as numerous cousins I didn’t know. Zeba was vying for the front seat and asking to do some patterns, but Fozia was an artist, apparently, and had been elected for the task. I hadn’t been allowed to have a shower the whole week because of the uptan treatment. Now I had to sit on the little Swati stool in the bedroom with my head lowered while Fozia brought the henna in on a round tray decorated with gold tinsel. She danced, and the other women clapped and sang a song about the groom.

  Oh my beau! Thy mare is so lovely;

  Graced with the saddle, a saddle worth thousands of lakhs,

  I be thy sacrifice, O thou darling of thy mother; Come marching through the garden, Beating kettledrums.

  Then Meena and Jamila led the women from our family to sing a song in return:

  The daughter’s mother and father weep Like the clouds of the rainy season. Why do you weep, my parents? This is what befalls the whole world.

  There was a lot of laughing, and jokes were thrown back and forth, though I didn’t catch the meanings. I understood the song about the parents weeping. Mum would be crying if she knew this was happening. Not Papa though.

  Then all the women danced while Fozia kneeled on a cushion and drew designs on my hands. She used the Kashmiri leaf motif that Australians call paisley, along with dots, lines, flowers and arches. Even a few hearts. What a joke. There was nothing about this wedding that engaged my heart, except that it was breaking for Tariq. Henna was meant to mark the bride for happiness, but I felt stained.

  ‘Shall I put the groom’s name?’ Fozia asked.

  I shook my head in horror and hoped I just appeared shy.

  When Fozia was finished the dancing stopped and Aunt Bibi called my name. ‘Ameera, we have a surprise for you.’

  So Asher was right. I knew some families allowed the bridegroom to visit the mehndi ceremony, though he wouldn’t see much of the bride for her head was always kept lowered. I wasn’t ready to see Shaukat and stubbornly I refused to look up.

  ‘Ameera.’ Aunt Bibi’s voice bubbled with joy as she called me again and there was a hush in the room. Curiosity won. I looked up, and my breath caught in my throat. It was Papa. He was smiling at me with tears in his eyes. I stood and the women made way for me. I couldn’t hug him for I’d ruin the henna: it took hours for the dye to set. There was so much I wanted to say to Papa but I couldn’t speak in front of an audience or I’d dishonour everybody.

  ‘You look truly Kashmiri, beti. I have waited for this day.’

  Aunt Bibi flittered around him like a peahen. ‘Wait till you see her tomorrow, Hassan—you won’t recognise her.’

  ‘Why have you come, Papa? Is Mum here?’ He shook his head at Mum’s name. ‘I have come to see you married—to make sure this actually happens.’

  The women laughed easily, but I wondered why he’d said such a thing. Did he guess I may try to escape?

  ‘It makes me so happy to see you like this, to see you embracing our ways.’

  ‘Can I talk with you alone?’ I asked.

  Aunty Khushida nodded and I took Papa into the courtyard. Though it must have been cold, I didn’t n
otice. We sat on a stringed bed and, encouraged by the tears in his eyes, I begged for his understanding.

  ‘Papa, I don’t want to marry. If you can’t stop it I will refuse my consent. No one listened to me, and now I just have tomorrow to say no.’

  Papa closed his eyes and when he opened them I was struck by the hurt and disbelief I saw there. ‘Rasheed said you were happy about the wedding now.’

  ‘They don’t know how I feel. They don’t understand, but you’re my father. You want me to be happy.’

  ‘Of course. That is why I have arranged the wedding with Shaukat.’

  ‘They wouldn’t even let me see him.’

  ‘We thought it best under the circumstances.’

  ‘Papa, you understand, don’t you, that I can’t marry tomorrow?’ I saw how it could all happen: I could go back with him. ‘You and I could travel home. We can be together again, just the four of us.’

  Papa stood up and looked away; when he turned to face me, the softness was gone. ‘There is something you must understand: this cannot be undone. I have arranged it out of love so you will be happy. You don’t understand how settled you will be after marriage, you have to trust me.’

  ‘Everyone wants me to trust them, but why can’t someone trust me and my feelings?’

  ‘Feelings?’ His face screwed up as though I’d said a foreign word. ‘You are being foolish now. Do you not think your elders know more than you about how to organise your life? You must trust your elders.’

  My resolve was slipping. I’d never been able to defy Papa. ‘What can be done?’

  ‘Not what you are asking. And believe me: afterwards you will be glad.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no buts. Listen carefully: if you do not obey me tomorrow you will incur God’s wrath. Which will you choose: a marriage lived in paradise or an eternity of damnation?’