Marrying Ameera Read online

  Aunty called to me. ‘Ameera, come eat, the food will be cold.’

  After dinner Uncle Rasheed came in. ‘How was your first day with us, beti?’

  ‘Good, thank you, Uncle ji.’

  Actually I didn’t think I could remember a longer day. I was surprised I hadn’t fallen asleep into my curry; Aunty’s chai must have kept me awake. At this rate, I thought, the month will feel like a year. I had a sudden burst of longing for Mum. Was she thinking of me? At least Uncle Rasheed reminded me of Papa and that helped.

  ‘If there is anything you need, then you must ask me or your aunt,’ he told me. There was no talk of giving me money of my own and I didn’t know how to broach the subject.

  ‘Would you like to ring your father?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Then I looked at my watch: 9 p.m. ‘Won’t it be too late there?’

  He laughed. ‘Not too late for Hassan. I often ring him after dinner. Try and see.’

  Uncle Rasheed, Aunty Khushida, Zeba and Asher all listened while I dialled the number to Australia. Jamila stopped washing the dishes and came to hover in the doorway once I had connected. After ten rings Papa answered.

  ‘Papa, I’m sorry to wake you, but Uncle Rasheed said it would be fine to let you know I arrived safely.’

  ‘Accha, beti. It is good to hear your voice.’

  No wonder my relatives were hanging around: they had a conference speaker on the phone. Papa’s voice boomed into the lounge room. ‘Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Yes.’ What else could I say? ‘Jamila and I went to the bazaar and bought an outfit.’

  ‘I hope you enjoy your stay. It will make me happy.’

  ‘Papa, is Mum awake?’

  He hesitated. ‘No, she went to bed hours ago.’

  ‘Could you wake her?’

  I had an irrational urge to hear her voice; that if I didn’t, something terrible would happen.

  ‘That’s not very thoughtful, beti. Ring in the morning.’

  Mum wouldn’t have minded being woken to speak to me, but I couldn’t argue with all the rellies listening. ‘Is she okay?’ I said instead.

  ‘Of course, why shouldn’t she be?’

  ‘Can you say—’ I stopped. I’d been about to say ‘Happy Christmas’ but that wouldn’t go down well in the present company. ‘Could you tell her I was thinking about her today?’ I wanted to know if she’d found the gift I’d left under her pillow.

  ‘Zarur, of course, beti.’ Papa was using more Urdu words than usual; I guessed he knew about the conference speaker.

  Uncle Rasheed took the receiver from me and told Papa about some tribal rugs he had seen. I waited for him to finish, and then he hung up.

  ‘I hadn’t said goodbye, Uncle.’

  ‘I thought you had, sorry, beti. There will be other times.’

  A glance passed between him and my aunt, and suddenly I felt so tired I couldn’t think a straight sentence, let alone speak one. I was horrified to find my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Best you go to bed now.’ It was Aunty Khushida who tucked me in and when she left I hadn’t even the energy to message Tariq.

  14

  The next morning I slept in again after being woken before dawn by the Azan. My tiredness must have been jetlag, and fortunately Aunty Khushida seemed to understand for no one dragged me out of bed. The children had already gone to school when I got up, but Jamila was still in the house: I could hear the thump of the mortar and pestle. I took my mobile and the Paktel card into the bathroom, inserted the card, then rang the prescribed number and followed the prompts. I rang home first, but Mum must have gone out: the phone rang through to the message bank. I blinked, forcing the tears back, and left a message for her and Papa. I hoped my voice sounded steady.

  Now for Tariq. I keyed in a message that I had arrived safely and missed him; then pressed the send button. The screen went blank and the word ‘Error’ flashed. I tried again, and again. How would I contact him if the mobile never worked? Maybe the card was only for land lines. I couldn’t ring him on the family phone, and if I went to a shop to ring it could get back to Uncle Rasheed. It was too risky. I washed myself and went back to my room to pray.

  When I emerged Aunty seemed relieved to see me. ‘Accha,’ she said. ‘Did you sleep well?’ She hardly waited for my nod. ‘There is much to do. Your father’s sister, Bibi, and your Uncle Iqbal are coming for dinner tonight. We shall eat together and use the table. Meena will come too.’

  ‘Will any of Aunt Bibi’s children come?’ I was looking forward to seeing more of my cousins if they were like Meena.

  Aunty Khushida’s face puckered in annoyance. I never seemed to say the right thing. ‘Of course not.’

  Dadi jan was sitting on a low stool peeling garlic. ‘Come here, child,’ she said. I kneeled in front of her and she laid her hand on my head. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Dadi jan. I had a good sleep.’

  I thought I heard a snort from Jamila. She was picking stones out of a tray of rice—another thing we didn’t have to do in Australia. Aunty was rolling chapatti dough; I wasn’t asked to help her this time. Then I noticed the oven was open and everything had been taken out.

  Aunty saw me staring. ‘This would be a good time for you to be making an Australian cake.’

  ‘Why?’

  She stopped rolling and frowned at me.

  ‘I mean, I’d love to make one. You think Uncle Iqbal and Aunty Bibi would like one? That’s great,’ I babbled, afraid I was sounding unhelpful.

  Aunty put a bowl on the bench. ‘Tell me what you need. If we are missing an item, Baba ji can get it.’

  ‘Flour, baking powder, eggs, milk, sugar. What flavour would you like?’

  ‘They like spice ones best,’ she said after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Then ground cinnamon, cloves, a little ginger and nutmeg.’

  Aunty’s face cleared. ‘Ji, we have all that. You can start now.’

  Once the cake was in the oven I was given the split peas to take outside and clean. This involved picking out little stones and bits of grass and dirt. It was out in the courtyard that Haider found me. He started talking straightaway. I half-smiled at him; he was my cousin, after all, even though the family practised segregation.

  ‘So, Cousin Ameera.’ He sat next to me, quite close. Was he supposed to do that? ‘You are a good actress.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I know what you Australian girls are like. You might be able to fool my parents, but you can’t fool me.’

  My smile faded. Papa must have told them why I’d been sent here after all. ‘What do you mean?’

  He put his hand on my arm; I shook it off. ‘How dare you,’ I said. ‘I’m a guest in your home. I’m your sister while I’m here.’

  His eyes sparked at the word ‘sister’, then his gaze swept from my shoes back up to my eyes. That look made me draw my shawl closer around me. ‘You,’ he paused for emphasis, ‘are not my sister. Your father never said how beautiful you are.’

  His voice had a tone I didn’t like and I stood abruptly. The tray of peas slid to the ground.

  ‘Take care,’ he went on. ‘Your beauty is razor sharp, but I don’t cut easily.’

  He used the Urdu word for sharp, ‘tez’, and I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘How dare you talk to me about beauty? Don’t you care that I am Muslim? Where is your respect?’

  He smiled slowly. ‘But you’re not pukki, are you? You’re half-Christian and we all know what Christian girls are like. You girls do just what you want.’

  Pure Maryam sprang to my mind. ‘Christian girls are not like you are insinuating,’ I said. ‘Where did you get such a disgusting idea?’

  ‘I see the DVDs from your country. If what they allow actresses to do is anything to go by, imagine what you all must be like in real life—like mangoes on a tree, ripe for picking.’

  ‘I’m not like that and if you talk to me like this again, I’ll tell
your father.’

  Haider laughed. ‘And who do you think he will believe? A half-cooked Christian girl or his pride and heir?’ He looked at me through his long eyelashes. ‘Why have you come here alone?’

  I wished Riaz or Tariq were there. Or even Papa.

  ‘You’re my cousin.’ I said ‘cousin’ in the same way I’d say ‘brother’, hoping he’d leave me alone.

  He smirked: ‘Yes, cousin, but this isn’t Australia. In Pakistan, cousins marry. You know that, don’t you?’

  Yes, I knew, but Mum didn’t like the custom of cousins marrying. She thought it was incestuous and her family thought so too.

  ‘Tell my father,’ Haider went on. ‘The most honourable thing for me to do would be to marry you.’

  ‘Marry you?’ Surely he didn’t think I’d want to marry him.

  I searched for a way to leave the courtyard without any more of a scene. I hoped none of this exchange had been overheard. I was about to pick up the tray of split peas and salvage what I could when his tone gentled.

  ‘You can be coy if you like, but you can’t tell me you don’t know why you’re here.’ Then he stared at me as though some realisation had just come to him. ‘So, you really do think you are here for a holiday?’ He licked his lips. ‘Remember this then: you could have me. Or you might wish you had.’

  It was as if he knew all about me and Tariq. But if he did, surely he wouldn’t pass up the chance to throw it in my face?

  I’d had enough. I kneeled to pick up the split peas, and when I stood up he had gone.

  15

  That afternoon, when most of the work was done and Aunty was resting and Jamila had gone to the school, I took my phone outside. It would be dinnertime at home and I needed to speak to Papa.

  It was Riaz who answered. ‘Ames, we miss you around here. How ya doing?’

  ‘I’m okay. How’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s staying at Grandpa’s and Gran’s.’

  ‘For Christmas?’

  He paused. ‘Yeah, I’m going over tomorrow.’

  I thought of them all at the beach without me. Having barbecues, playing French cricket on the sand, eating icecream cones on the jetty. Mum always took halal meat for me and I could wear what I wanted. I missed Uncle Richard’s hugs and teasing too. He was such a stirrer, but he never let my faith make a difference to him. I pulled my shawl tight around me.

  ‘Can you give her my love?’ I said. ‘I don’t know why she hasn’t rung.’ I couldn’t stop my uneasiness pouring out. ‘Haider isn’t as nice as you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ There was an edge to Riaz’s voice but I wanted to tell Papa.

  ‘Is Papa there?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure, and Ames…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Keep in contact.’

  I smiled at his new protectiveness. ‘Okay.’

  He put Papa on. ‘Hello, beti. Are you settling in?’

  ‘Papa, I have to tell you something.’

  His voice grew guarded. ‘What is it, beti?’

  ‘Haider touched me.’

  Papa sighed. ‘I told them to treat you like a daughter and sister. Riaz touches you.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s just being brotherly.’

  ‘Can’t you say something to Uncle Rasheed?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Wait till you meet Bibi’s eldest son. I know him better than Haider.’

  Why was he so relaxed about this? He’d go ballistic if I said a boy had touched me in Australia.

  ‘Papa, do they know why you sent me here?’

  There was a silence, then, ‘What do you mean, beti? I sent you on a trip to see the family. Maybe I’ll send Riaz next—he can learn more about the carpet business.’

  How could he have forgotten the Collinses party? His anger?

  ‘Papa, Jamila’s not happy, not like a bride should be.’

  ‘She’ll get over it.’ It sounded as though he knew something I didn’t.

  ‘Get over what? Isn’t she getting married any more?’

  Maybe that’s what the frowns and dark looks were about, I thought. Maybe her marriage had fallen through.

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but these things happen sometimes. Perhaps you can be a good friend to your cousin.’

  ‘I’ll try, Papa.’

  ‘I’ll say hello to your mother for you when she comes home from work. Bye now, beti.’

  It wasn’t until after I’d pressed the end button that I remembered what Riaz had said: that Mum was staying at Grandpa’s and Gran’s. Why did Papa say she was coming home after work?

  ‘Ameera?’

  I swung around. Asher. ‘You’re home.’ I quickly flipped my mobile shut. How much had he heard?

  ‘I’ve been home for ages,’ he said, and watched me put my mobile in the pocket of my qameez. ‘Have you heard? Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal are coming for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve made a cake.’

  I tried to calm down. Surely Asher was too young to wonder why I wasn’t using the family phone.

  He grinned. ‘They will like that. Jamila will not have a chance.’

  ‘Why won’t Jamila have a chance? She’s helped make chapattis and curry.’

  Asher was watching me. I thought I understood that furtiveness in his eyes: he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Come on, tell me. What’s our cooking got to do with anything?’

  Very slowly, he said, ‘When a family chooses a bride, they like to eat the girl’s food so they know they won’t be poisoned for the rest of their lives.’

  So maybe Jamila’s marriage wasn’t arranged yet, I thought. Papa just thought it had been. Maybe her bad mood was due to nervousness. I nodded slowly at Asher, glad I’d worked it out at last. ‘So who is the boy they want a bride for?’

  Asher checked my face first, then looked behind him. When he seemed satisfied, he said, ‘Shaukat, Aunt Bibi’s eldest. He is a doctor. Jamila thought they would choose her.’

  I could tell there was more he wasn’t telling me, but it helped me to understand Jamila better at least. Shaukat must be the boy Papa had mentioned: his sister’s eldest son. He wouldn’t come to the dinner; only the parents would meet the girl and decide. I felt sorry for Jamila: it must be like sitting an exam. I could see what Asher meant about the cake, and I didn’t understand why Aunty Khushida had pressed me to make one if it was going to outshine Jamila’s curry.

  Asher said, ‘If I was Shaukat I’d want to marry you—you’re prettier than Jamila and kinder too.’ He flushed.

  I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Asher, I’m not marrying anyone, so Jamila has a clear field.’

  ‘Haider wants to marry you too.’

  Asher didn’t mean any harm but suddenly I felt as if I was standing on a lone rock with the tide rushing in and no retreat in sight. They had all been looking forward to Jamila’s marriage and now it seemed I was here ruining it. No wonder she looked daggers at me.

  Zeba came running out. ‘Ummie wants you to come, Ameera. She has an outfit for you to wear.’

  ‘Why can’t I wear my own clothes?’

  ‘Silly,’ Zeba said. ‘You have to wear a special outfit tonight. Aunt Bibi’s coming.’

  Asher was still watching me; it was rather an appraising look for a thirteen-year-old. A tremor shivered through me as I remembered his words: ‘when a family chooses a bride’.

  16

  By the time I reached the house I realised how stupid my fears were; I’d let Asher’s words transport me on a flight of fantasy. This was Jamila’s night. Besides, if there was any misunderstanding and Aunt Bibi thought I wanted to get married too, I could easily put them right and say I was returning to Australia in a month to go to uni. Problem solved. Haider, I’d have to deal with later.

  ‘Ameera!’ Aunty Khushida called to me from her bedroom. ‘Hurry, child.’

  Zeba led me in. Dadi jan and Jamila were there too. Dadi jan smiled at me, but Jamila’s eyes were puffy and red, and sh
e turned her face to the wall when I attempted a smile. Aunty beckoned me closer. Then I saw the dress. It was laid out on the bed: musk pink, a high waist, gold shining through from underneath. The border around the hem was stitched in gold thread and was thirty centimetres deep at least. Instead of the shalwar there was the narrow pyjama worn in Bollywood movies called churidar. Gold high-heeled sandals stood erect on the floor. Aunty picked up the dupatta. It also had gold stitching on the border and hung in perfect folds; if it were on my head, my face would be framed in gold. I had never worn anything so exquisite.

  Why give me such an outfit? I felt as though a cage was closing around me.

  I glanced at Jamila. ‘I can’t wear this.’

  Aunty’s frown came into full play. She too glanced at Jamila, then chose to interpret my comment as polite incredulity. ‘Of course you can. Your father has paid for it so there is no need to be embarrassed. He wanted you to look your best for your Aunt Bibi.’

  Aunt Bibi had married well. She and Uncle Iqbal had houses in Islamabad and Karachi, though they lived much of the year in Azad Kashmir. I could understand Papa wanting me well-dressed to meet her. I relaxed a little.

  ‘What about you, Jamila?’ I said, trying to cheer her up, refusing to accept that her mood had anything to do with me. ‘Do you have an outfit like this?’

  Jamila clutched her hand to her mouth and ran out of the room. I looked to Aunty Khushida to tell me what was going on, but she pursed her lips and said nothing about Jamila. She addressed Zeba instead. ‘Get Ameera’s hairbrush, you can brush her hair.’

  ‘I can do my own hair, Aunty ji.’

  Aunty Khushida looked me full in the face then. The lines around her mouth were more pronounced and her cheeks sagged. Why did she look so tired and sad?

  ‘There is so much about our culture you do not know, child,’ she said. ‘And I thought you would. It is very difficult.’

  Her tone made me want to apologise. She sighed as if she knew this. ‘It is not your fault. Like all of us, you are just a game piece.’

  It was my turn to frown, but she turned away, not welcoming questions. ‘Meena will be coming shortly to help you get ready.’