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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
A young woman defies convention in a small Pakistani village, with devastating results for her and her family. A stunning, immense beautiful novel about courage, family and the meaning of love, when everything seems lost… 'A compelling and compassionate story' Anna Mazzola, author of The Story Keeper 'A shocking portrait of lives lived under the shadow of threat and prejudice. A brave book' Vaseem Khan, author of the Inspector Chopra series 'A bold, gifted storyteller, dealing with a gritty, thorny issue of female honour. Compulsive reading' Qaisra Shahraz MBE, author of The Holy Woman 'Beautifully written and immersive, No Honour starts with a powerful opening that propels you into the shocking themes. A must-read' Sarah Pearse, author of The Sanatorium _______________ In sixteen-year-old Abida's small Pakistani village, there are age-old rules to live by, and her family's honour to protect. And, yet, her spirit is defiant and she yearns to make a home with the man she loves. When the unthinkable happens, Abida faces the same fate as other young girls who have chosen unacceptable alliances – certain, public death. Fired by a fierce determination to resist everything she knows to be wrong about the society into which she was born, and aided by her devoted father, Jamil, who puts his own life on the line to help her, she escapes to Lahore and then disappears. Jamil goes to Lahore in search of Abida – a city where the prejudices that dominate their village take on a new and horrifying form – and father and daughter are caught in a world from which they may never escape. Moving from the depths of rural Pakistan, riddled with poverty and religious fervour, to the dangerous streets of over-populated Lahore, No Honour is a story of family, of the indomitable spirit of love in its many forms … a story of courage and resilience, when all seems lost, and the inextinguishable fire that lights one young woman's battle for change. _______________ 'So powerful' Heat magazine 'Addictive, brave and powerful' Louise Fein 'Deeply emotional' Eastern Eye 'A stunningly written, immensely important book' A. A. Chaudhuri 'Perfectly paced story structure and eloquent dialogue … shocking, deeply moving and hugely important' Carol Lovekin 'A truly heart-wrenching tale of the human spirit's quest for love, freedom and survival' Tim Glister 'It will shake you, anger and sadden you, but also restore hope in the power of love to triumph over evil, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles' Tony Frobisher, Daily Times 'Soul deep, mind-blowing and heart-wrenching … you are left reeling' Faiqa Mansab 'Khan is a masterful storyteller' Aliya Ali-Afzal 'Khan writes about the dance between fathers and daughters, men and women, authority and no authority, and No Honour is a page-turner' Soniah Kamal 'Tense and gripping' Polly Crosby 'Beautifully rendered, moving and insightful' Neema Shah 'Spectacular… a joy from start to finish' Charlie Carroll 'This book is devastating, vitally important and beautifully written. Astonishing' Rob Parker 'Insightful and sympathetic to the unique experiences of women, whilst evoking the atmosphere of Lahore … hard to put down' Alex Morrall 'A gripping, horrifying, compulsive read' Jennie Godfrey 'Compelling main characters make it memorable and the heavy subject matter in handled the way it should have been – with empathy' Mashable
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In sixteen-year-old Abida’s small Pakistani village there are age-old rules to live by, and her family’s honour to protect. And, yet, her spirit is defiant and she yearns to make a home with the man she loves.
When the unthinkable happens, Abida faces the same fate as other young girls who have chosen unacceptable alliances – certain, public death. Fired by a fierce determination to resist everything she knows to be wrong about the society into which she was born, and aided by her devoted father, Jamil, who puts his own life on the line to help her, she escapes to Lahore and then disappears.
Jamil goes to Lahore in search of Abida – a city where the prejudices that dominate their village take on a new and horrifying form – and father and daughter are caught in a world from which they may never escape.
Moving from the depths of rural Pakistan, riddled with poverty and religious fervour, to the dangerous streets of over-populated Lahore, No Honour is a story of family, of the indomitable spirit of love in its many forms … a story of courage and resilience, when all seems lost, and the inextinguishable fire that lights one young woman’s battle for change.
No Honour
AWAIS KHAN
For Begum Shamim Akhtar Sahiba (Amaji), who lives on in our hearts…
‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’
—George Eliot
‘He who does not know one thing knows another.’
—African Proverb
Contents
Khan Wala Village, Pakistan 6.30 am
It was when they snatched the baby from her that she realised how serious the situation had become. She watched her twin brother, Aslam, wrap her daughter – his niece – in a filthy rag that he might have picked up in the stables. She could smell the damp fabric from where she lay on the floor. He tossed the knitted shawl she had made for the baby onto the ground.
Tears burst from her eyes.
‘Give her back,’ she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, her legs thrashing weakly on the floor. The midwife was cleaning up, her eyes darting towards Aslam as she hastily pulled a shalwar over Shabnam’s legs, buttoning it at her waist.
‘Please, tell him to give my baby back to me. She needs me,’ Shabnam begged.
The midwife averted her eyes. ‘It is none of my business. You should have thought of that before you brought this filth into your home. You should be grateful your family asked me for help. Girls like you get thrown into the river if they’re lucky. Burned alive if they’re not. Pray that your brother is merciful. A lot of brothers aren’t.’
‘Oh, she’s one of the lucky ones,’ Aslam said. ‘Fortunately for her, Pir Sahab doesn’t like fire. It draws too much attention.’
The midwife drew herself to her full height. ‘If that is what you had in mind, why did you ask me to help with the birth? What was the point?’
‘To make sure she doesn’t avoid her real punishment,’ Aslam said, his eyes gleaming. ‘Dying in childbirth is too good for the likes of her.’
The midwife’s face drained of colour. She hurriedly packed up her things and left the house without a backward glance.
With a herculean effort, Shabnam managed to prop herself on her elbows. The birth had utterly drained her. Every muscle in her body screamed. Her throat was parched, but she was too afraid to ask for water. There was no telling what Aslam might do. For now, he was captivated by the baby, playing with her tiny fists. Maybe he loves her enough, she prayed.
Maybe.
Their mother had her back to Shabnam, her heaving shoulders the only indication of her emotion.
‘How could you, Shabnam?’ she whispered. ‘I begged you to run away.’ One glance at her son, and she changed gear. ‘How could you?’ she said, louder this time. ‘Your father must be turning in his grave.’
Shabnam closed her eyes, her mind travelling back to the day when she had been goaded into giving herself to that man, the one she had been engaged to marry. He was fifteen years older than she was, over thirty, but when he suggested they take a walk down the river, no one batted an eyelid, least of all Aslam, whose eyes were fixed on the cartons of mangos The Man had brought for him. The Man – she refused even to think of him by his name – had promised her the world. He had promised to take her to the big city.
Her mother had done nothing to warn her about men and their ways. When Shabnam had come of age, she had simply thrust a dirty rag at her and ordered her to use it to soak up the blood that came every month. But now she had accepted lavish gifts from The Man, and had sent her fifteen-year-old daughter down the path of destruction. Shabnam didn’t hold her greed against her. She only wished her mother hadn’t raised her to be so naïve.
Shabnam had tried not to let her surprise show when The Man had led her into the fields, when his soft words tickled her skin, when he whispered fond things into her ear, making her blush with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Despite her ignorance, she had seen a few Punjabi films, and knew it was not commonplace for a man to ask a girl to shed her clothes. At first she resisted, but then she saw a shadow settle on The Man’s face, and her heart quailed. She thought of the cartons of mangos at home, the countless rolls of silk and chiffon he had brought them, the satisfaction on her mother’s face, and smiled her assent. Even then, she didn’t know what she was agreeing to. It wasn’t until she thought she was being split in two that she screamed, but there was no one to hear her.
And now here she was at age sixteen, with a fiancé she’d not seen since that day and a newborn baby ripped from her arms.
‘All he wanted was your virginity,’ Aslam said. ‘Don’t fool yourself by thinking it was love. It wasn’t even lust. These city boys are all the same, Pir Sahab says. They come prancing in with sweet gifts and try to buy our daughters’ innocence. And you spread your legs for him at the first opportunity.’
Her mother slapped her palms against her forehead. ‘Haye, why did this happen to us?’
‘Because you gave birth to a kanjari, that’s why? A kanjari who sold her honour for a few gifts.’
Shabnam didn’t have the energy to argue with them. Her ears were trained towards the door. She could hear raised voices outside. Men’s voices. Her mother shuddered as if something had blocked her windpipe.
‘They’re here,’ she whispered to her son, her voice choked with fear. ‘Quick, open the door, or they’ll burn the house down. Try to talk them out of it.’
Aslam smirked. ‘Gladly.’
‘Aslam, no!’ Shabnam raised herself to her feet. The room spun in front of her, and she almost lost her balance. ‘Give me the baby, please. I promise I’ll leave and never come back.’
Aslam scratched his chin. ‘What puzzles me is how you managed to hide your fat belly for so long. But, then, you’ve always been lazy. It was no real surprise to see you gaining more weight.’ His eyes darkened, and he directed his gaze at their mother. ‘Did you know?’
Their mother put a hand on her heart. ‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’
She had known for months, of course, and had said nothing, hoping against hope that The Man would return. When seven moons had passed since Shabnam’s last blood, her mother had thrust a pouch at her, containing her life’s savings and some jewellery, and pleaded with her to run away. By then it was too late. There were rumours of gangs of rapists prowling the neighbouring villages. Every day they heard of women being kidnapped and raped. Even if her mother had accompanied her, they wouldn’t have been safe. These men had been known to rape women in their seventies, and there was no way she would have put her mother through something like that. Shabnam decided to face her fate. She wasn’t going to run away.
Now she wished she had. What a fool she had been to think her brother would support her. As the knocking became urgent pounding, she turned to her brother again.
‘I’m her mother,’ she said. ‘Have you no heart?’ When he looked away, she tried the one thing she knew would get a response out of him. She took a hold of his free hand and held it on her breast where her milk welled. ‘See? Can’t you see she needs me?’
Aslam sprang away from her as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘What kind of kanjari would try to seduce her own brother?’
Shabnam wanted to slap him across the face, anything to make him understand, but he held that precious bundle in his arms.
Every thud on the door intensified the beat of her heart till she felt she would collapse. She leaned against the wall for support. The room was thick with the smell of blood. The coppery taste of it clung to her mouth. Time was running out.
As soon as Aslam opened the door, everything happened quickly. Her baby was shoved into the hands of a stranger, and Aslam, with a couple of other men, dragged Shabnam out of the house. Day was breaking and there was a nip in the air. She felt it on her exposed arms as she was pulled towards the village square. She was so weak that her vision was clouded and she caught only glimpses of the crowd of people who had gathered in the village square. It was only when they brought her face to face with the pir that she saw the smile on his face, his hands folded over his belly.
‘Take her to the riverbank,’ he said mildly.
The cold morning air seemed to settle around her heart. Just beyond the row of thatched houses was a clearing by the river where the villagers often congregated for festivals. At this time of the year, the water would not be frigid, but it wouldn’t be warm either.
‘Courage,’ she whispered to herself. ‘For my baby.’
A few of the older women spat at her as she was led down the road, the mud clumping around her ankles. Children threw dirt in her eyes, pulled at her hair.
‘Haramal,’ they called her baby. ‘Born outside marriage. Shame.’
‘Filthy kanjari, Shabnam.’
‘Burn her alive.’
‘Shoot her.’
‘Drown her.’
Her brother smiled all through the procession, the beads of sweat on his forehead the only proof of his anger.
‘Shooting her would be too easy,’ he replied to a man baying for her blood, the smile still fixed on his face. ‘She needs to understand what she’s done, and I need to restore my family’s honour.’
‘Hear, hear,’ the crowd cheered. ‘There’s a man who knows what he has to do.’
The jeers continued all the way to the clearing. It may have been a carnival ground, with the trees cut back and the packed earth beneath their feet, but this place carried a hint of foreboding even at the best of times. Shabnam knew full well how many women had been tortured here. The current must be strong as she could already hear the water.
Shabnam pleaded with Aslam with her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to open her mouth. She pleaded for her baby. She knew she would die, but at least her baby could live. A part of her…
Her brother seemed to read her mind. He held up a hand to silence the crowd. ‘First’ – he removed the rag that wrapped the baby – ‘bring a bucket of milk.’
No, she thought. You wouldn’t dare.
She didn’t think she had the energy to speak, but when they lowered her child into the bucket, she wailed. The little one’s cries died as soon as she vanished into the bucket, but Shabnam couldn’t stop screaming. The milk sloshed over the edge, splashing onto the bare earth. Small bubbles rose to the surface, but soon the ripples settled.
‘Good riddance,’ the pir said. ‘We must never let such filth tarnish our village. The baby was born out of wedlock, an abomination on this earth. Good work, my son.’
Aslam grinned, and for a moment he looked like the sixteen-year-old boy he was, not the demon he had just become.
Shabnam hardly felt the breath leave her body as she was thrown into the river.
She embraced the coolness of the water, and let it pull her down, away from the madness and pain.
Peace, at last.
Jamil
As they had every day for years, Jamil’s eyes opened to the sound of a baby crying. His youngest, Shugufta, this time. His wife, Farida, tried to muffle the sound by swaddling the baby inside her kameez, close to her heart, but the shrill cries persisted. And to think babies were considered weak.
Jamil rolled his eyes and shifted on his charpai, trying to go back to sleep. It wasn’t yet April, and his kameez was already soaked in sweat. They should start sleeping outside soon. Through the open window he could see an orange dawn breaking over the wheat fields, rows of sparrows lined up on the wire that supplied electricity to their house. Jamil both loved and hated living so far from the village proper. While the distance allowed them some degree of freedom, it also meant that they faced the longest and most regular power outages. They seemed innocuous enough now, but in the heat of June, the absence of a fan could mean the children wailing the entire night. Jamil sighed. The day hadn’t even started yet, and already he was thinking doleful thoughts. It would be time to get ready for work soon.
Blood, feathers and innards. That was his life as a butcher. No matter how hard he scrubbed underneath his nails, the smell of blood never quite left him. In the soft light he examined the palm of his hand: calloused, the skin as rough as sandpaper. His children cried if he stroked their cheeks, so he had stopped doing that. Besides, what father had ever shown affection for his children? He didn’t want to appear weak.
Beyond the rag hanging across the doorframe, in the second room, the other children were beginning to stir. Too young, all of them. Jamil sighed. After Abida, they had tried for years to have another child, but without success. Just as they had given up, Farida had told him she was with child. The much-awaited son, Yousaf, came, followed by Abbas a year later. And then, the four daughters: Farhana, Nasiba, Saeeda and Shugufta. Jamil couldn’t remember what Farida had looked like when she was not expecting. He was afraid to get too close to her now, for fear that they’d have another. Her body was plump and inviting, but her eyes were vacant, and Jamil knew she didn’t have it in her to carry another baby. They had been celibate since the birth of Shugufta.
‘Is Abida up?’ he asked Farida, trying to ignore the sound of the suckling baby. He felt as if he was invading a private moment. ‘She is supposed to help me with the chickens.’
Farida sighed. ‘When has that girl ever helped you? Tell her to collect the birds for slaughter, and she’ll play with them. I worry for her, Ji.’
‘She’s only sixteen, Farida. And for God’s sake, you can say my name when we’re alone.’
‘I was married at fourteen, Jamil.’
‘That was different. Times are changing.’
Farida huffed, shifting the now-sleeping Shugufta to her shoulder and rubbing her back. ‘Don’t tell me a girl is too young to get married once she’s had her blood. And Abida has been having her blood for years now. We ought to find her a husband.’
Rage stirred inside him at her tone, but he swallowed it. ‘As soon as we have some money saved, we’ll start looking for a suitable boy.’
‘Sell my jewellery and we’ll make her a dowry. Don’t forget, Jamil, you have six other children to worry about. Marrying her off would mean one less mouth to feed.’
Stung, he threw out his arm and gave her a sharp shake, disturbing the baby on her shoulder so that she fell into Farida’s lap. Thankfully, Shugufta didn’t wake up. ‘How could you say that about your own daughter?’
Farida began to cry.
Jamil pulled at his hair. ‘Farida, please forgive me. It’s not like I slapped you. Come now, everything will be as you say. I will spread the word that we are looking for a suitable boy for Abida. Now stop crying. You’ll wake the other children.’
‘She is sixteen, Jamil. We need to find someone now. You need to stop dawdling.’
His hand itched to smack her, but instead he pressed it against the thick jute of the charpai they were sitting on.
‘Why do you think I let Pir Sahab order me around? His son has just returned from Faisalabad. He has more than fourteen years of study under his belt.’ He had heard that Pir Sadiq had proper beds with feather mattresses in his home, and he hoped that one day his daughter would have one too. Jamil didn’t have money for something so lavish. And anyway, the charpai was good enough for him and Farida. And in the punishing summer, the air circulated under the jute.
Farida’s eyes were as round as dinner plates, and the dupatta slid from her head, revealing the thick brown tresses he adored. ‘Fourteen years. Ya khuda, he must be a genius.’
Jamil smiled. ‘Nothing less for my beloved daughter.’
‘But how will you manage it? The pir is so rich and influential, his servants probably earn more than us.’
‘He’s my friend, Farida,’ he replied coldly. He waved away her protests. ‘Just leave it to me.’
‘Do you think he would hire our Yousaf as an apprentice?’
Farida was a good wife, a doting mother, but sometimes she could be dense. Jamil sighed. ‘I’m trying to fix our daughter’s marriage with the pir’s son, and all you can think of is Yousaf’s apprenticeship.’
‘Has Pir Sahab given you any hint that he wants the same thing?’
‘No, I just dreamed the entire thing. Have some sense, Farida.’
She wasn’t fully convinced, but the way her frown settled and her eyes went dreamy, he knew she had lapsed into her world of dreams, most of which had remained unfulfilled. Jamil intended to fulfil this one. He covered her hand with his. ‘And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shaken you like that. You know violence is not my style, but sometimes you go too far.’
But Farida’s tears had dried long ago and, laying down the now-sleeping baby, she opened her arms to him.
‘It’s forgotten, Jamil.’ Her dark eyes glittered, making her look a decade younger. The old playful Farida. ‘Why don’t we celebrate this decision? The children will sleep for a while yet.’
‘Are you sure? We can’t afford another baby.’
‘Of course, I’m sure. I’ve picked up a few things about my body over the years. You may think your wife is a ullu but I have some sense.’
Despite himself, a smile spread across his face as he took her in his arms.
His high spirits evaporated when he opened his shop. The village was abuzz with the news of a karo kari – an honour killing. Jamil’s heart sank as the neighbouring shop’s owner, Naeem, recounted the events of the previous day. He closed his eyes when he learned that it was the brother who had pushed his sister into the river. And for what? Something that wasn’t the girl’s fault. All in the name of honour. He marvelled that the man’s contribution to the woman’s plight went largely unnoticed.
‘Tied her hands and threw her into the water like she was a sack of trash,’ Naeem said, his bottom lip quivering. Jamil interpreted it as distress, but then Naeem let out a loud laugh. ‘The little gushti. Thought she could get away with it. Giving birth to the spawn of Satan. Unmarried. Setting a bad example to other girls. It was a relief when Pir Sahab intervened.’
Jamil was sharpening his knife. His head jerked up and he set it down. ‘Pir Sahab was behind this?’
Naeem grinned. ‘Why, of course. If it wasn’t for him, this village would have fallen prey to evil ideas from the city long ago. We’re lucky to have him as head of the jirga. Who else would have the guts for something like this?’
‘What did they do with the baby?’ Jamil asked quietly, not wanting to hear the answer.
‘Drowned her in a bucket of milk. What else? Exactly what she deserved.’
Jamil closed his eyes.
Just a baby. It wasn’t uncommon, and karo karis happened more frequently than anyone in this village would care to admit.
His mother’s face swam before his eyes and he thought of her back then, forever looking over her shoulder for the cousins who would murder her. He shook his head and opened his eyes again. He couldn’t think of her while Naeem was watching. Any display of emotion for the dead girl could damage his reputation forever. Word would travel back to the people in the jirga and to Sadiq, the pir himself.
‘Are you sure Pir Sadiq was behind the murder of the girl?’
‘Don’t call it that.’ Naeem’s tone was sharp. ‘It wasn’t a murder. Besides, can you blame a brother for trying to protect his family’s honour? Every man has the right to marry a chaste wife of their choosing and raise his children with a family name that is pure. If his sister was dumb enough to get pregnant before marriage, she deserved to die. Some women are no better than animals when lust overcomes them, I tell you.’
‘Most men too,’ Jamil countered.
‘Men are allowed to be whatever they want. That’s how it has always been and will always be.’
‘And doesn’t that right extend to women?’ The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
To his surprise, Naeem laughed, his eyes crinkling up with a hundred lines. ‘Jamil Bhai, that was a good joke. Imagine if the women in this village were free to choose. Aren’t things bad enough in the cities that you want our villages polluted with this too? It would be chaos, Jamil Bhai, chaos!’ He drummed his fingers on the wooden slab where Jamil kept his knives. ‘We are lucky that the jirga here takes honour seriously.’
‘Honour.’ Jamil didn’t like the way the word rolled over his tongue. ‘Such a tricky thing.’
‘Without it, we are lost.’
‘Of course, Naeem Bhai.’ Jamil set down the knife he was sharpening. His hands were shaking and his heart thumped as if he’d run miles. Why, he thought to himself, did he care so much about the girl who had been drowned?
The answer came to him hours later as he was closing the shop. The ill-fated girl could just as easily have been Abida.
Abida
‘Enough, Kalim. Let go of me now.’ Abida pushed against his chest, but only half-heartedly. In truth, she wanted him to hold her and never let go.
Kalim tightened his grip. ‘Really? A few moments ago you couldn’t get enough of me, and now you’re pushing me away.’
Abida giggled into his chest, breathing in his earthy scent, like sunshine and cinnamon. ‘Are you calling me devious, Kalim Sahab?’
He tapped his chin, breaking into a smile. ‘I suppose I am,’ he said, rolling on top of her.
Abida wished she could have held on to that moment for ever. It reminded her of the first time they had seen each other, in these same mustard fields. It was last June, a month when the sun scorched the earth. There had been no rains and the roads had baked in the constant heat, making it impossible to walk barefoot. With their homes heating up like furnaces, most of the village women had taken to spending time at the tube well, where cool, running water soothed their frayed nerves and short tempers. It was a place to relax, a place so far from the prying eyes of the village that the women could afford to remove the dupattas from their heads and fling them in the water. There could be as many as twenty women playing in the small pool, taking turns to hold their heads beneath the running water. It was sheer bliss.
Abida had been soaked, her cotton kameez clinging to her, revealing every contour of her body. She knew she couldn’t face her father like that, so she walked through a nearby mustard field and lay in the shade of an old oak, waiting for her clothes to dry.
‘Just so you know, this oak tree is where the jirga meets sometimes.’
She almost leapt out of her skin. ‘Who’s there?’
A man emerged from the fields and stood before her with his hands on his hips. He was young, only a few years older than her, but what took her completely off guard was the way he pretended they were having a routine conversation. His eyes did not travel down her body like any other man’s would. Instead, he lowered his gaze. ‘My father is in the jirga and they’re all coming down here today for the meeting. It’s cooler here, away from the village, and this oak is a favourite.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Kalim, by the way. I just returned from Lahore.’
Abida had stared at him. He had good manners, but how on earth could he expect her to shake his hand. ‘I don’t know you.’
Kalim withdrew his hand as if remembering. ‘Ah yes, I sometimes forget. I’m Hafizullah’s son. I was studying in Faisalabad. You probably don’t even remember me, but I’ve seen you around. At least I think it was you. You’ve grown.’
Abida was now extremely conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing her dupatta.
As if on cue, he’d nodded at her dupatta drying on the ground. ‘You better get that and follow me. You don’t want to end up bumping into the men from the jirga in this condition. Not when they are probably going to be deciding the fate of women who’ve been’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘erm … naughty. To put it mildly.’
She was in such a daze, her heart pounding in her chest, the heat making her lightheaded, that she took his hand and let him lead her into the fields and away from the savage old men. The way Kalim had behaved that day was how her father would describe a gentleman.
There had been no turning back from there.
Now, Kalim lay on his side on the coarse blanket they had spread deep inside one of the mustard fields. Despite the arrival of spring, the bare earth was still cold to the touch. He watched her as she shook the insects off her clothes and started to put them on.
‘What are you looking at? Haven’t you seen enough?’
‘I could never see enough of you.’ He winked at her.
Abida blushed. Their banter was partly why she loved spending time with him. He made her feel like a princess, not that she knew what a princess was like. In the village, even the richest man could be seen milking his own cows or mending a damaged wall. Still, when she was with Kalim she could be herself. She could speak her mind without any fear. At home, her mother was always scolding her for being outspoken, blaming her poor father for spoiling her.
‘I tell you this girl will be the death of us,’ she’d wail at Jamil whenever Abida forgot to cover her head or said something out of turn. ‘Look how she walks with her chest thrown out. What will people say? You’ve spoiled her, Ji.’
But, then, she was spoiled, wasn’t she? What pious, God-fearing, unmarried girl would ever contemplate having an affair? Each time she met Kalim, she told herself that they would soon be married, yet the niggle remained that she would be abandoned. A girl holds her own honour between her legs she had always been told. And yet she had given it away so freely. Girls had been murdered for less. A shiver crept down her spine.
‘Do you love me?’ she asked, without thinking. Taken aback, she shifted her eyes away from him, focusing on straightening her scarf over her head.
Kalim didn’t speak for a moment, which made her heart skip a beat. She was about to burst into tears, when he said, ‘Look at me.’
Her vision blurred with tears, and she blinked several times before turning to face him. He looked serious, his beautiful mouth set in a grim line, the forehead that had been smooth now lined with concern or anger, she couldn’t tell.
‘If I didn’t love you, do you think we would be doing this?’ He sat up and spread his arms. ‘Do you think I would be hunting for a job in Lahore if I didn’t love you?’
‘Kalim, I didn’t—’
In one deft movement he was up, his fingers encircling her wrists. He laid one of her hands flat on his chest. His heart was thumping like a frightened animal’s.
‘This is what you do to me when you question my love.’
Now she allowed the tears to fall down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Kalim, forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that I have been distracted lately.’
Before she could elaborate, Kalim’s pocket buzzed. Kalim was one of the few, proud owners of a mobile phone in the village, even though coverage was sketchy at best. Abida knew it made him feel like a city boy – which he yearned to become. She wanted him to though. She wanted to be far away from the villagers who breathed down her neck. Nosy people who would have accompanied her to the bathroom if it wasn’t for the stench, satisfying themselves by staring instead.
Kalim was talking rapidly to someone, his face a mask of worry. But after he ended the call, he averted his gaze, claiming it was nothing.
When she asked him for the tenth time – sternly – he looked at her feet. ‘I suppose you’ll hear about it in the village anyway, so I might as well tell you.’
‘Did someone die?’ Abida breathed.
‘Your house is a bit of a distance away, so the news might not have reached you yet. They killed a girl called Shabnam yesterday. Her brother threw her into the river.’
Abida clapped her hands to her mouth. ‘But why? Poor Shabnam. I used to see her in the square sometimes.’ Their village was not a large one. The muddy alleys all led into an open space where a couple of towering shisham trees shaded a few stalls, most of them selling fresh fish and vegetables. The village’s few shops all faced the square, so it was only natural for people to bump into each other there, even people as reclusive as Shabnam. Now that she thought about it, Shabnam had been keeping to herself for the better part of the year. Abida sighed. ‘She was such a gentle soul. It doesn’t make sense.’
This time Kalim met her eyes. ‘She had a child out of wedlock. Abida. We need to be careful as well. Are you sure you’re not…?’
Before he could finish, Abida turned away from him. She felt as if she was about to be sick. Kalim embraced her, his relief palpable from the way he squeezed her gently, but she still didn’t say anything. Maybe she had temporarily lost the ability to speak. It was as if a knife had sliced through her heart.
Even as they parted before the fields ended, she remained silent, giving Kalim a short wave. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she had already missed two periods.
Jamil
They said that the body was bloated beyond recognition. It appeared that Shabnam had been cursed in death too.
The pir had agreed to a burial because the body had snagged in a fishing net and was pulled out of the river a couple of days ago. The smell was unbearable. The villagers didn’t want the girl’s sinful flesh to contaminate their precious water supply.
‘Kanjari,’ they still shouted, whenever Shabnam’s killing came up in their talk. ‘She deserved it.’
The baby had been so small that with just a couple of hacks into the ground the burial was done.
Poor child, Jamil thought, as he watched them lower the girl’s body into the grave. Although it was wrapped in starched white cloth, the roundness of the corpse was clear, and no matter how much they perfumed it, the odour was thick in his nostrils. This was what death smelled like, rancid with a peculiar sweetness. Like bitter honey, he thought. They had tried to clean the body as best as they could, but a brownish fluid seeped from it, soaking the fabric.
Shabnam’s mother’s eyes were dry, but there were dark circles underneath them, and Jamil knew from the grip her son had on her shoulder that she had been forbidden to cry.
‘I pray I never have a daughter,’ his mother used to say. ‘There is no greater punishment than to be born a woman in this place.’
She had got her wish. Her mother didn’t have any children after Jamil. For a long time, the absence of a sibling had puzzled Jamil, especially when he saw women with legions of kids in tow, but gradually he began to realise that his mother was ahead of her time. He remembered her keeping track of the days she had to use the bloody rag between her legs. She obviously knew something most women in the village didn’t, something Farida seemed to have figured out only now, after years of marriage.
Jamil closed his eyes when he thought of all those kids at home.
‘What a waste.’ The pir sighed, walking up to stand next to Jamil. ‘It hurts me to see the youth die like this.’ He pointed a henna-stained finger towards the mother. ‘No parent should have to bury their child. That’s not the way things are meant to be. Yet Shabnam doomed her mother to this fate when she frolicked in the fields with a man.’
‘Wasn’t he her fiancé?’ Jamil asked in a small voice. ‘He might have forced himself on her.’
The pir laughed, the pure white turban on his head quivering. ‘My dear Jamil, words like these make me wonder whose side you are on. Having had so many children yourself, I’m shocked that you still haven’t understood how base and insatiable a woman’s desire can be. A man is helpless in the face of it.’
‘I’d like to think that I have my own desires as well,’ Jamil started, but the way the pir’s eyes flashed made him reconsider. What was Shabnam to him, anyway? Why was he arguing with the man over a girl who was already dead and forgotten? He backtracked. ‘Of course you are right, Pir Sahab. Women can be clever creatures when they want to be. Imagine if they were as physically strong as men are. I’m certain they would rule the world.’
‘Women will never rule the world,’ the pir said quietly.
Jamil cringed. Pir’s hatred of women made him wonder about his past. Did he really want Abida associating with people of his kind? He was about to step away from the pir when Farida’s face swam into his mind, with her dire warnings about Abida. Sixteen years old. His daughter was on her way to becoming an old maid. He lowered his head in respect. ‘Of course, Pir Sahab.’
People were beginning to scatter now that the body had been buried. Jamil saw a few boys looking crestfallen, no doubt having waited unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of the corpse.
Jamil stepped on a large beetle. It gave a satisfying crunch. One less insect to feast on the body, he thought.
‘I hear Khalil is back from the city,’ he began, desperate to change the conversation, and to his relief, the pir brightened instantly. The edges of his white moustache perked up as his face broke into a genuine smile. Up close, Jamil noticed for the first time that his eyes were an electric green. No wonder he mesmerised whoever he met.
‘He has just come back from Faisalabad after studying there for four years. He has a bachelor’s now.’ He looked sideways at Jamil. ‘You do know what that is?’
Jamil knew, but he also knew that his ignorance would give the pir more pleasure. ‘All I have heard from the villagers is that he has had fourteen years of education. Forgive me, Pir Sahab, but having spent just a few months in school myself, I don’t know much about education.’ Another lie, but on someone as self-obsessed as the pir, it worked like a charm.
The pir’s chest puffed out, and his smile grew wider. ‘A bachelor’s means he has a proper degree from a chartered university. He can go anywhere and he will get a job.’
‘Anywhere in Pakistan?’ Jamil asked, astonished.
‘Anywhere in the world,’ Pir Sadiq boomed. ‘He could go anywhere in the world and people will be bending backward to accommodate him. I’ve spent a fortune on his education and, with the grace of God, it is being repaid in kind.’
‘Farida was telling me that Begum Sahiba is in search of a suitable bride for Khalil.’
‘I don’t recall Rukhsana being friends with your wife, Jamil,’ the pir quipped, but he was grinning.
Jamil smiled back. ‘It is a small village, Pir Sahab. Word spreads, especially when it has something to do with your family.’
He was laying it on thick, but to his astonishment, the pir was lapping it up.
‘Why don’t we sit and talk somewhere more pleasant,’ the pir sniffed, ‘than this shithole? Our work here is done.’
They made their way to a nearby stall where tea was being served. It was another warm day, the sun high in the sky, the heat starting to bite the skin. Soon, it would be impossible to sit and enjoy the sunshine. Pir Sadiq bought them both steaming glasses of milky tea. Jamil had to blow on his to push away the thick layer of cream on top. Having a large family and not so large a business, he seldom had the chance to drink something so rich. He took a sip and almost groaned. It tasted like heaven.
‘Not that I ever notice any females, but I have heard from Rukhsana that your daughter has turned out beautiful and dutiful.’
‘She’s the apple of my eye, Pir Sahab. My firstborn.’
‘Indeed,’ the pir said, slurping noisily. ‘Not too educated, is she?’
‘With so many children and a small butcher’s shop, I’m lucky to be able to make ends meet, let alone think about sending my daughters to school. The boys go, of course.’
‘Good, good. Why bother giving women an education if they’re going to stay at home and look after children?’ He leaned closer. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. My daughter, Bushra, had the preposterous idea of going to school when she saw her older brother leaving for college in Faisalabad. I nipped that idea in the bud. And now she’s happily married with two children.’ He leaned back and slurped more of his tea. ‘Abida sounds like an obedient daughter, well trained in household tasks. I’m sure my wife would like to meet her.’
Jamil didn’t know if this was his cue, but he took it as such. ‘Why don’t you and your family come to my home for lunch? The house is small, but I have a decent seating arrangement outside, with shade from a large tree, and my wife can prepare the main room for the ladies.’ He knew he was babbling. He did that when he got nervous.
But Pir Sadiq seemed to be enjoying his awkwardness. ‘Why, of course, my dear man. Rukhsana and I would be pleased to come for lunch.’ He checked his watch ostentatiously, to show off its glinting gems. ‘Let’s say Monday next week? I’ll bring Khalil and my daughter as well.’
Jamil swallowed when he thought of the expense such a lunch would incur, but he kept his smile in place. ‘It would be a pleasure, Pir Sahab.’
Abida
She had once heard a midwife say that after two months of pregnancy, the baby was the size of a bean. She had been accompanying her mother, who’d gone to see the woman complaining of labour pains. But the midwife had scoffed.
‘You have a case of gas, beti. The baby isn’t due for another month. Believe me, I know.’
And she had gone on to enlighten them about the various stages of pregnancy. Abida looked at her naked belly in the mirror. She could see no change. Her stomach was as flat as it had ever been … or was that a slight curve low down? She couldn’t be sure. If she stood up straight with her chest thrown out, the curve was undetectable. But she couldn’t walk around like that – she was a girl. What would people say?
Her mother banged on the door to the bathroom, and she hastily covered herself.
‘What is it with you? I have never known a girl take as long as you to get ready.’
If only you knew what I am doing right now, Abida thought, willing the baby to dislodge itself. The news of Shabnam had hit her hard. There was no place in this village for unmarried girls with child, and if Kalim didn’t marry her soon, her humiliation would be sealed. Probably her death too.
Don’t think that. Her father would never let any harm come to her. He had spent his life defending her from her mother. Surely, he wouldn’t let them drag her through the square? But then, she was with child out of wedlock. No respectable man would ever support her.
Stop it, she thought again. Things weren’t that dire.
Besides, when she slid into a fitted shirt, it fit her perfectly. She stood in front of the spotted mirror for a moment, taking pride in her slim figure. Covering herself with a dupatta, she smiled at herself. She was still slim, so why worry?
Only for a few more weeks, a voice whispered in her mind. She ignored it. She would think about it later. Right now, there was a lunch to get ready for.
By the time she emerged, her mother had vanished back to the outside kitchen. Usually she could smell only smoke and lentils inside, but today the scent in the air was so rich that Abida’s mouth watered.
Meat. That was what it was. She hurried outside to confirm it and, sure enough, several steaming pots were standing on the ground, each containing a different delicacy: lamb and cauliflower, chicken in a spicy gravy and beef stewed in spinach. Her mother must have been up since dawn to prepare all this. Abida’s cheeks burned: she hadn’t lifted a finger to help, too busy dreaming about a life with Kalim.
Her eyes filled with tears when she saw her exhausted mother sitting in front of the fire, roasting lamb chops over a spit with one hand while with the other she pounded a mound of dough. Her younger sisters, Farhana, Nasiba and Saeeda, were nowhere to be seen. Maybe her mother had drugged them and they were now sleeping in the fields. Abida chuckled at the thought, and when her mother looked up, she hurried over to take over the dough, sitting on a small stool to avoid the earthen floor.
‘I don’t understand, Ammi,’ she said. ‘Who is this important person for whom you’ve gone to such lengths? I don’t remember the last time I tasted lamb – probably at Eid – but here we have three dishes of meat. Surely we can’t afford this. You could have sent the little ones to school with this money.’
‘The boys already go to school, Abida,’ her mother snapped. ‘And girls don’t need to study. Between your father’s shop and my embroidery business, we are managing.’
‘I would have liked to read,’ Abida mused. ‘When I see Yousaf and Abbas reading their school books, I wish I could do the same.’ She didn’t tell her mother that she had already started learning secretly from Yousaf. He was all of ten years and growing up fast, but at heart he was still a little boy. He was supposed to be a child, but the village had a way of forcing children to grow up before their time. Only last night, they had read a page from his Urdu storybook, Abida whispering the words in Yousaf’s ear.
‘You read like a robot, Aapi,’ Yousaf had told her, sniggering behind his fist. ‘You’re human, you know.’
Despite herself, she had laughed at the cheek. She remembered praying that he wouldn’t grow up to become a criminal, like so many boys in the village. Or a murderer, given the sins his sister had committed.
She hadn’t even noticed that she had stopped kneading the bread. Clearing her throat, she added, ‘Farhana, Nasiba and Saeeda are already old enough to go to school.’
Her mother frowned at her. ‘Honestly, Abida, wherever do you get these ideas from? Pir Sahab would have a heart attack if he heard you.’
‘What’s Pir Sahab got to do with it?’
Her mother’s cheeks reddened. ‘Pir Sahab has a hand in everything that happens in this village.’
Abida stood up. ‘That’s not what you meant. Pir Sahab makes everyone’s business his own business, but your tone suggested something more personal.’ Her heart sank. ‘Pir Sahab is coming for lunch, isn’t he?’
Her mother wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Ya Khuda, I’m sweating in this weather. What will happen to me when summer really arrives? And yes, Pir Sahab is coming with his entire family.’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘There is no need to tell you. They are simply coming to meet us. You are only going to greet the pir’s wife. At this point, that’s enough.’
Realisation dawned on Abida just as the sound of tyres crunching against gravel reached her ears. ‘You want me to marry his son, don’t you? Oh, Ammi, have you even seen him? I will not marry him, not in a million years.’
In one swift motion, her mother rose and slapped Abida’s cheek. Hard. ‘You will not make things more difficult than they already are. Do you have any idea how much we have spent on this feast? And just for your happiness, so that you can have a better chance at life.’ She dug her nails into Abida’s upper arm. ‘Now go to your room and stay there until I call you outside.’
Nausea rose in her throat, and Abida almost vomited. She took deep breaths. ‘You don’t understand. I can’t just marry anyone you please.’
‘That is exactly what you’re going to do,’ her mother said, her voice brokering no argument. She pulled her into the room Abida shared with her siblings.
Abida made a beeline for the window looking onto the courtyard, just in time to catch a couple of black jeeps coming to a halt in a cloud of dust. The occupants of the jeeps remained inside until the breeze had carried the dust away into the wheat fields. When they stepped out, Abida recognised the pir immediately. There was no mistaking that starched white turban and that puffed out-chest, as if he was doing the world a favour just by existing.
‘Kanjars,’ Abida whispered. ‘The whole lot of you.’
A pair of burqa-clad women climbed out next – presumably the wife and daughter – and as they stood shaking the dust from their clothing, Khalil emerged. Abida nearly gagged again. She could see his flabby stomach dancing behind his white kameez, and when he knelt to retrieve the sunglasses that had fallen off his head, the kameez became lodged in his ass. She laughed, hoping this would be enough to stop her father committing her to this man – this family.
As her father rushed over, hugged each of the men and bowed in front of the ladies, Abida thought she could hear his soft, respectful voice. She was too far to make out what was being said, but no matter how much her father sucked up to the pir, she was never going to marry Khalil.
‘Get away from the window,’ her mother hissed from the doorway. Abida turned to see that she had already managed to put herself together for the guests. That must be a record time, even for her mother, who was always the first one out of the door. She could see the excitement bubbling in her eyes. She had made a clumsy attempt at putting on makeup, overdoing the foundation and lipstick so that she looked like one of the monsters the village elders warned them about. A snort escaped her, and was replaced with a sob. She wanted to bang her head against the wall to make them understand, but they never would.
Instead she watched her mother bustle outside to greet her female guests. Abida sat down on one of the many charpais lining the room, running her hand over the old cotton sheet. It was flimsy enough to tear and she could feel the coarse jute underneath that held the bedstead together. She raised her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs. She had never felt so alone in her life. Conversation began in the other room, which her parents had converted into a living space for the day. In addition to her mother’s earnest voice, there was a thin one, which most likely belonged to the pir’s wife. There was a lot of scraping and scratching of the bamboo wicker chairs on the brick floor before the ladies settled in. Since there was just a rag separating Abida from them, she could hear every word.
‘Spring is here in full swing already,’ the woman with the thin voice exclaimed. ‘God knows what will happen with us come June.’
‘Would you like a hand fan, Rukhsana Apa?’ Farida asked. ‘I can have Abida fetch it in a second.’
Abida heard the desperation in her mother’s voice, and her stomach lurched. She turned her face away from the curtain. Sitting on the charpai had calmed the nausea, but she couldn’t believe what was happening. How could she even begin to consider this proposal given her current state? And what about her love for Kalim?
Rukhsana seemed to have refused the offer of the fan, for the women had lapsed into silence.
‘It must be difficult,’ Rukhsana spoke up, ‘to fit the entire family into two rooms.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Farida replied, unaware of the attack that had just come her way. ‘We have all this open space outside. And there is the courtyard too. The children are outdoors most of the time. It’s just my husband and me in the house.’
‘I see. Well, then, it’s no wonder you have so many children. If I had been alone with Pir Sahab so much, I don’t know how many I would have had.’
Abida heard her mother laugh, but the sound was hollow. It seemed she had finally got the message – Rukhsana was here to insult her.
‘Human nature is funny,’ Rukhsana continued. ‘We are so consumed by our desire for the flesh that sometimes we fail to take our circumstances into account. Just the other day, I was visiting my cousin, and I discovered that she had ten children. Ten. And her husband is a pedlar.’ She allowed a pause for effect. ‘Naturally, they’re struggling to make ends meet and rely on handouts from people like us.’
‘We manage just fine,’ Farida said in a small voice.
Abida clenched and unclenched her fists. The nerve of that woman. And this was the kind of home her parents wanted her to go to.
‘Oh, of course you do. Your home is wonderful,’ Rukhsana replied. ‘I’m dying to see your daughter. Pir Sahab was so full of praise for her. You’ve heard of my son, Khalil, I presume? He’s just returned from Faisalabad with a bachelor’s degree.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about education, Apa, but my husband told me that he is very well educated. I can imagine any girl who marries him would be very lucky.’
‘Speaking of girls, where is your Abida?’
