In the Company of Strangers, page 11
And neither did her friends wish to leave just yet.
Someone with a mic had just announced the arrival of a famous singer from India, which had instantly aroused the general mood of the party.
‘Oh look, Iqra has started dancing,’ Alia cried. ‘Looks like Ali the model is going to be joining Iqra too.’
‘Ali? Where? Where’s he dancing?’ Mona craned her neck in the direction of the dance floor, but the lights had been dimmed further, the flickering disco lights making it even more difficult to see.
‘Calm down, lady. Let’s get ourselves a little closer to the scene.’
Mona willed her pounding heart to subside – what was wrong with her?
As the Indian singer settled himself into a series of peppy classics from the 1980s and 1990s (aptly chosen to imbue nostalgia and a yearning for youth that caused them to dance and cheer all the harder), Mona and her friends crept closer to the congregation of people surrounding the dance floor. Here, the smell of whiskey, air freshener and sweat had mingled to create an unpalatable stench, kind of like that of cauliflower about to spoil, only laced with a dose of spirits. Bilal was at the other end of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on the dancing forms of Iqra and Meera, both of them involved in a series of seductive dance steps with a lot of hip thrusts and chest heaving. Most of the men had their eyes trained on the dancing couple, both of whom seemed oblivious until Mona detected Iqra’s furtive glances in the direction of the men, her eyes never leaving those of a particular gentleman. She took Ali, who was dancing nearby, by the hand, and threw herself against him, wrapping a leg around his hips, a gesture that drew catcalls from the audience. Ali followed her cue, but his mouth was open in wonder as he met each of her erotic steps with a restrained one of his own.
Standing next to Mona, Shabeena drew a sharp breath. ‘Astakfirullah! What in the name of God is your friend doing? And her models? Look at that harlot and Ali. If not for their clothes, they might well be engaged in that unspeakable act reserved for the bedroom.’
‘God forbid the thought of something as offensive as sex enter your mind, Shabeena,’ Alia spoke in mock horror, winking at Mona. ‘It was the stork that brought you your babies, right?’
Shabeena was poised to retort, but Mona cut her off. ‘Please ladies, act like ladies for—’ but before she could finish, someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her forward.
Instantly, she found herself on the dance floor face to face with Meera. ‘I thought you could use some fun tonight,’ she said, bumping her hip against Mona’s.
‘Oh Meera, now really.’
‘Here, dance with my most prime model, Ali. I wouldn’t suggest going near Iqra as she’s on a rampage, but Iman isn’t bad. And then there are some of the others who’ve arrived, but I don’t remember their names.’
Mona stood still, her heart pounding against her ribcage. ‘Meera, I can’t. Bilal’s watching, but in spite of that, I cannot dance with a person I don’t even know.’
‘But we do know one another,’ Ali spoke up from behind her. ‘We met outside on the lawn while you people were busy partying,’ he explained to Meera.
‘Well then, what are you waiting for? Knock yourselves out.’
Meera vanished somewhere in the dense crowd, leaving Mona alone with Ali who very gallantly extended an arm in her direction. ‘If I could tempt you with a dance, my lady?’
His attempt at a British accent made her smile. So many people had closed in on the dance floor that Mona had a hard time spotting her husband, but when she did, her blood ran hot. Iqra had her arms drawn around Bilal’s neck, her head bunched together with his, as Bilal ran his expansive hands down her back and around the curve of her derrière.
Mona forced herself to close her open mouth, and unclench her bunched-up fists. After taking another moment to compose her expression, she smiled at Ali, and took his hand. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
His hand was warm and dry, so large that Mona felt it enclose hers completely. Her breath caught in her chest as Ali ran one hand around her back. For the first few seconds, she was on edge, but Ali’s hand never wandered. It remained fixed on her lower back. In time, she relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the dance. They were doing a slow version of the traditional waltz, but she didn’t dare put her own hand over his shoulder. It was still an awkward dance, with her hand slunk on her side, but when someone from the crowd signalled at the singer to crank up the pace and volume, and the singer launched into a fast track that made the waltz look useless, Ali removed his hand from her back and with one hand, twirled her, his lips murmuring the lyrics of the song. Mona thought to stop him, but the light-headedness was a welcome relief and she found herself panting when they both arrived at the edge of the dance floor.
‘Wow, you can really dance,’ Ali shouted in her ear over the noise. ‘I swear even Meera cannot match your grace.’
Mona felt her face flaming under his gaze. ‘You did most of the work. I merely stood there.’
Ali reached forward and pressed her hand, once. ‘You sell yourself short. You’re beautiful, Mona.’
Mona met his eyes, properly, for the first time that evening. In the flickering light, she discovered that his eyes weren’t jet black after all. There was a smattering of deep hazel in his irises that she hadn’t noticed in the darkness outside.
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
*
‘Meera’s party again? I’m not sure I like the sound of it.’ Shabeena’s sternness floated in from the cordless phone. ‘I’ve heard some pretty nasty rumours regarding her so-called parties. Apparently, no one’s up to any good there. Dancing, you say? Ya Allah! I think I had enough at Shahida’s little get together the other day.’
Mona almost laughed at Shabeena’s euphemisms. Curling her legs beneath her on the couch, she leaned back, the phone glued to her ear. She flicked on the television to prevent anyone outside from eavesdropping. God knew how many servants Bilal had recruited to spy on her. It had been three weeks since the party and she knew she was being watched like prey. Suffice to say, Bilal hadn’t been pleased to hear she had danced with someone; Mona was thankful he hadn’t actually seen her or he might have had her shackled to the couch. Still, simple fear of Bilal’s displeasure was no reason to skip a party – a party well within the bounds of decorum.
‘It’s just a party, Shabeena,’ she reasoned. ‘Like the ones we have all the time. The only thing that will be different is that there will be some new people there. People we don’t usually hang out with. Younger people, I guess.’
Shabeena sucked in her breath. ‘So the rumours are true then. They say that the Colonel’s wife was wooed by a young man at one of these parties. I didn’t believe it at first, but now… One of my friends at the Centre tells me that after her husband discovered the affair, he drained all the money from his wife’s account, and now she’s back at her parents’ abandoned house, broke and humiliated.’
‘My God, Shabeena, that woman must be like sixty.’
‘Exactly,’ came back the terse reply. ‘These single men are known to play with older women’s feelings, and after extorting every single cent out of them, they abandon them.’
Mona felt it was the other way around these days. ‘Maybe it’s love,’ she thought aloud.
‘Mona! How could you? Have you forgotten we’re Muslim women? Once married, we’re supposed to stay with our husbands – for better or worse. We can’t even think these thoughts. It’s haram. Having an affair, why that’s akin to killing someone.’
Mona switched the phone to her other ear, and got up to pace toward the window overlooking the lush gardens of her mansion. Despite Shabeena’s chastising, she was at ease – as tranquil as a lake. ‘Let’s not be melodramatic, Shabeena. We are drifting away from the topic here. I just meant that if a woman has a chance at finding true love – even after marriage – then why shouldn’t she take it up? What’s the harm? And besides, divorce is allowed in Islam.’
‘It is frowned upon.’
A stab of annoyance imbued Mona’s calm. ‘Well, so is inebriation. I see your husband does plenty of that.’
‘Mona… let’s not go there.’ Shabeena’s tone was icy.
Mona rued her decision of confiding in Shabeena – a religious woman of all people. But what would she have done? Alia was in Spain with her husband, and instead of speaking about this with Kulsoom, she might as well announce it to the world. Kulsoom wasn’t known for her discretion. That left Shabeena.
When Mona spoke, her tone was placid. ‘Shabeena, listen to me. I’m not a child. I think I’m capable of making it through a party without sleeping with a guy half my age.’
‘Don’t go,’ Shabeena pleaded. ‘Not when there’s been that dreadful blast in Peshawar last week. Lahore might be next.’
‘If I let the bomb blasts dictate my life, Shabeena, then I’d be stuck at home for a very long time. And besides, attending these parties is my way of standing up to these terrorists.’
‘But you don’t know,’ Shabeena insisted. ‘The women at the Centre told me, oh the sins unsuspecting women have committed, you have no—’
‘Oh please, not the Centre again, Shabeena.’ Her patience, already worn thin, had snapped. ‘Those women are hypocrites; you know they are. Desperate old bores lusting for a fling, but too self-righteous to admit it.’
Shabeena’s silence told her that the hit had struck too close to home. Mona cursed herself inside, before taking a deep breath. ‘Look, Shabeena. You’re one of my best friends, and that’s the reason why I confided in you about the party. I didn’t ask for your opinion. I simply needed a friend, not a lecture. And about the Centre, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Can you forgive me?’
But Shabeena had hung up.
‘Great!’ What a useless bunch of friends she had. For once she needed these women, and this was how they repaid her kindness. Had Shabeena forgotten the hours Mona had spent with her as she nursed the wounds she had suffered from her husband’s drunken beatings? Where were her religious friends then? And Alia? Ten days, and she hadn’t even bothered to grace Mona with a phone call. And the less said about Kulsoom, the better. It was just like talking to a ten-year-old. Disgraceful – the whole lot of them.
Mona turned away from the window, and flung the phone toward the couch. It hit Bilal’s treasured Lalique crystal vase instead, and both things shattered on the wooden floor. ‘God!’
She flung her bedroom door open, and yelled for Shugufta. She’d be damned before she allowed Bilal a chance to complain about this too.
Satisfied with Shugufta’s reply of ‘Ayi Bibi!’ she retreated back into the room, and stepped into her walk-in wardrobe. Today was Tuesday, and the party was supposed to be on Saturday. Excellent, she thought as she rummaged through her wardrobe for suitable clothes. Bilal would be on one of his little clandestine excursions, the ones he thought she didn’t know about. Making an excuse for work on Saturday, he would drive off to Johar Town to meet one of his darlings. He tried to mask the scent of women by drenching himself with cologne, but Mona knew. She always knew, but never said anything. Their attempt at rekindling their romance had only lasted a few weeks. Mona was back to drinking in the guest room to drown her anger, and lately, indifference in the clichéd bottle of rum.
Not anymore.
He didn’t even deserve her indifference, especially after he had continued his affairs despite their so-called romantic reconciliation. It had just been an excuse to get her more passionate in bed, and it had succeeded. Thinking too highly of him, she had abandoned keeping tabs on his whereabouts, and convinced herself of his love for her. And then, just like delicate china, the dream had shattered into a million shards after she went through his mobile phone one night when Bilal was in the shower and discovered not one, but three girls he was in a relationship with.
Her eye caught a flashy red dress with a provocative slit that showed a considerable amount of leg. Bilal had gifted it to her in one of his rare acts of contrition, or more likely when he hadn’t found satisfaction outside, and came looking for it at home.
She hugged the dress, and admired the effect in the mirror. It looked splendid, and would look even more so with some red lingerie. She’d have to get some from the store, but that wasn’t a problem. Nobody would raise an eyebrow. Who would even think of faulting a dutiful wife striving to please her husband?
A crackle of laughter burst from her mouth at the thought.
Over the past few weeks, she had surprised even herself with the sudden shift in her mood, and behaviour. There was an unyielding need to follow Meera’s example, to revive her beauty again. She had begun to live again, to breathe again.
‘Thank God for you, Meera,’ she murmured, spraying one of her old perfumes in the air in anticipation of the reek of sweat and unwashed clothing that always accompanied Shugufta.
Chapter Twelve
Mir Rabiullah
The girls undressed without making a sound. They shrugged out of their dull wool dresses, revealing bodies charming enough to melt a rock. The headscarves were the last to go. Mir Rabiullah watched them hoping that this time he’d experience something even close to excitement.
But nothing. It seemed like he had finally arrived at an age where the allure of the female body melted away into nothing. He covered himself with a sheet and ordered them to leave.
‘But, Mir Sahab, we’ve been instructed—’
Rabiullah slapped the girl. She crumpled to the ground. ‘You dare speak up to me? You foul-mouthed bitch. Get out of here.’
‘They’ll beat us if we leave now,’ another girl whimpered. ‘They’ll know we didn’t do our job.’
The girl looked to be no more than fourteen years old. And already in the flesh trade, the Mir thought. No wonder the government was gaining ground on them. He could feel a headache coming on, and if he didn’t get rid of these girls, he would end up strangling them.
He hated being old.
Someone coughed outside his tent.
‘Come in,’ Rabiullah said, throwing on a kameez over his body.
It was Usman, one of their more senior recruits, about to head out on a suicide mission. He lowered his eyes when he saw the naked girls cowering in the corner. ‘The Leader has asked for you, Mir Sahab,’ he said.
Rabiullah had a sudden idea.
He spread his arms. ‘As a token of my appreciation for what you’re about to do, Usman, you may spend some time with these girls. Bring your friends too.’
‘But Mir Sahab,’ one the girls gasped, ‘they are animals. We were only instructed to—’
‘Silence,’ Rabiullah shouted. ‘You will do as I say or I shall have you stoned to death. And not a word to anyone.’
Usman’s eyes went wide with hunger. Rabiullah patted his back as he exited the tent.
Usman kissed Rabiullah’s hand. ‘Mir Sahab, I thank you.’
As Rabiullah walked away from the tent, he spotted four other recruits rushing inside.
He smiled.
He was panting by the time he arrived at the Leader’s tent.
Inside, everyone was silent.
One of the men rose from his place to offer his seat, but Rabiullah brushed him away. His place was next to the Leader. He navigated his way through the bamboo mats, careful not to step over bowls of porridge that people were having. In the middle, on a large, patterned cushion, sat the Leader. His eyes were closed and even at this age, he held his back straight, his entire posture erect. He probably had no problems in bed, Rabiullah thought, surprising himself at the bitterness he felt.
He thought of Usman and the boys ravaging the girls and he shivered with pleasure. He lowered himself in front of the Leader and kissed the hem of his kameez. ‘You called me?’
The Leader didn’t open his eyes. Rabiullah noticed that he had applied kohl to his eyes, something he only did on special occasions.
‘What has happened?’ he asked the person seated next to him.
He shook his head. ‘The Leader has received word about our newest recruit, the one Samiullah had trained.’
‘The one we sent to Karachi?’
‘The very same.’
‘Indeed,’ Rabiullah replied, his throat going dry. ‘And the word is?’
‘Failure,’ the Leader said, opening his eyes.
The gathering quailed at the anger in the Leader’s voice.
‘Samiullah has failed me. The recruit was arrested before he could perform his duty. The Karachi centre might be under threat.’
There was a collective intake of breath around the room.
The Leader held up his hand to the gathering of people. ‘But no matter. Samiullah will pay for his mistakes.’ His gaze turned toward Rabiullah. ‘Did you enjoy the gift of girls I sent you?’
Before Rabiullah could reply, the Leader continued, ‘Good. I want you to flush everything out of your system so that your devotion to the cause is complete.’
‘When has it ever been in question, Abuzar?’ Rabiullah whispered.
Rabiullah relished taking the Leader’s name, something no one else in the camp could boast of.
‘Good,’ the Leader replied, his eyes dancing with intrigue. ‘Because I have a plan.’
Chapter Thirteen
