In the Company of Strangers, page 14
Meeting his gaze for just a moment to exhibit her triumph, Mona turned away from her husband, satisfied at the impression she had produced. She moved toward the supposed mother of the groom, a stout fifty-something woman, whose expression revealed a mixture of awe and disgust. She was wearing a shocking pink silk suit underneath her embroidered white chaddar, her henna-coloured hair peeking from where the chaddar didn’t cover it. She may have been beautiful once but age and weight had robbed her of any lingering attraction, transforming her into a shapeless bulk. Mona stepped closer, and the woman rose to give her a one-armed hug. ‘Assalam Alaikum,’ she drawled, her body smelling of cheap perfume and old sweat. ‘They call me Saeeda, and this is my husband, Sardar Wazir.’
‘Walaikum Salam,’ Mona replied, nodding at the white-bearded husband who gaped at her like she was an extinct species suddenly reappeared. Sardar Wazir muttered a scandalised ‘By God, the women of today’ under his breath, but his gaze remained fixed on her.
Her skin crawled. Saeeda’s son and daughter made no move to greet her. She ignored them, taking her seat in a lonely armchair, away from the odd family but right opposite the piercing stares of Bilal and Nighat.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
‘Ahem,’ Saeeda said, twisting the heavy gold necklace around her neck. ‘We were just talking about Aimen. Studying in Canada, is she?’
Mona nodded, still unsure how to proceed.
‘In New Yaark, right?’
For a moment, Mona just stared before recovering herself, and muttering, ‘Toronto.’
Nighat gestured toward the pastries and nibbles laid out on the coffee table. ‘Have some more, Saeeda, Wazir Khan. The frosted pastries are simply exquisite.’
Sardar Wazir picked up a pineapple-glazed pastry, and bit off a sizable chunk, chewing noisily. ‘Tasty, but I like my kheer and jalebis more. Aunty Jaan, do you know we have entire herds of buffaloes in Vehari? The milk they produce… exquisite. You’ll forget this Gora food once you have some of our desi food.’
Mona felt nausea clawing her throat. Buffaloes? These people had herds of buffaloes. ‘And where do you people live?’ she asked.
Saeeda looked stricken. ‘Why Baji, we live in our haveli among our farmlands and animals. Sardar Sahab and I would die before we leave Vehari to live someplace else. Our land is our livelihood. Even Ubaid here agrees with us. After studying from Landan, he came right back to Vehari, to live with us.’
Mona cringed.
‘London, Ammi, London,’ Ubaid corrected her.
Ubaid leaned forward, his chubby face shining as if he had polished it with oil. His greasy hair had been swept back giving him the impression of a well-groomed pig. ‘Indeed, Ammi Jaan is right. I missed Vehari so much while I was in London. There is something inherently wrong with a place that doesn’t have cow dung drying on its walls.’
‘Well said, beta,’ Sardar Wazir boomed as Saeeda beamed at her son. Ubaid’s face broke into a crooked smile, resembling a cat in possession of its favourite cream.
‘Impressive,’ Mona said, glancing at Bilal who looked like he had swallowed a bunch of stones. He met her gaze, and she saw revulsion mixed with grudging appreciation in it. He knew she had been right in questioning these people from the get-go, and she knew he would never admit it. Still, there was a certain perverse pleasure in seeing Bilal so uncomfortable.
Vehari? Buffalo farms? What had he been thinking?
Saeeda chattered on, recounting Ubaid’s many qualities while Sardar Wazir nodded with his head held high. Their meek daughter (Mona never learned her name) sank lower and lower into the couch, her face veiled behind a crimson dupatta. She hadn’t spoken a single word the entire time.
‘Why are you so silent, beta?’ Mona asked her, partly to shut Saeeda up, and partly because she was curious.
‘Girls from good households don’t run their mouths like a clutch of hens,’ Saeeda remarked. She looked at Nighat, but if she was hoping for the old lady’s approval, she was mistaken.
Nighat edged forward from her seat, her back straightening to accommodate her vast body. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked testily.
Saeeda seemed unperturbed. ‘I said that good, sensible girls don’t go talking nonsense. A girl’s job is to respect and honour her husband by staying silent, and doing as she is told.’
‘Always?’
‘Always. To utter even a single word of disagreement is akin to committing adultery.’
‘Really?’ Nighat seemed to swell, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. ‘What makes you think that? While I agree that arguing with your husband is fruitless, not saying anything at all, even when you’re in the right? Why you must possess a type of patience we’re not aware of, Saeeda. Do you think I reached where I am today by keeping silent?’
Bilal put a hand over his mother’s, but otherwise remained silent. Mona knew this gesture well; her husband put up this nonchalant face whenever a storm was breaking out inside him. She breathed in with satisfaction, and crossing her legs, leaned back on the soft velvet-backed chair. There was no way this rishta was happening.
A flicker of genuine fear crossed Saeeda’s features, and her eyes darted toward her husband who was pretending to be busy examining his nails. Saeeda hastily attempted to backtrack. ‘Of course, I didn’t mean you, Nighat Baji. You are an elderly woman, and we should all treat our elders with respect and kindness. I only meant that independence and audacity are things that a girl should set aside once she assumes marriageable age. I mean, there are only so many well-to-do families in Lahore who would be willing to take a girl who is known for her uncontrollable mouth. Even in old age, and by that I don’t mean you Baji, I believe it is better for a woman to be humble and contrite rather than risk societal expulsion by being a big mouth.’
She seemed to be going from bad to worse, and with each word, the grimace on Nighat’s face deepened. ‘Brashness and public speaking are not for girls,’ Saeeda continued. ‘Our job is to manage the home, and take an active interest in the welfare of our husbands. The thoughts of working somewhere other than home, and building a career, well it does sound preposterous if you know what I mean.’
Some amends, thought Mona, a smile threatening to break across her face. She bit it back, as Bilal stared daggers at her. The hand he had extended to cover his mother’s was white with pressure to the point that Nighat freed herself from him with a reproachful glance.
The old woman now directed the full extent of her fury on Saeeda.
‘You mean to tell me, Saeeda, that you’d rather shut your daughter-in-law in the home than allow her to be honest, and speak her mind? You would shut my granddaughter in that farm of yours. Not to mention, you like relegating older women to some obscure corner of the house to lose their minds to senility in peace?’
‘Of course not, Baji, I—’
‘You do realise this is the twenty-first century? My granddaughter is studying in Toronto, not Vehari. She is an independent young woman who will most likely work after marriage.’
‘Work?’ Saeeda and Wazir Khan sputtered in unison.
‘Yes, work!’ barked Nighat.
‘But that is simply not acceptable,’ Wazir Khan exclaimed, bunching his snow-white beard in his fist, then straightening it in downward motions. ‘No daughter-in-law of mine will work in the barns or factories like some farmhand.’
‘Farm?’ Nighat boomed.
A snort escaped Mona before she could stop it.
Bilal closed his eyes.
Shaking with rage, Nighat pushed herself out of the armchair, a formidable force. ‘Get out. The whole lot of you. I’ve heard enough. What kind of old-fashioned thinking is this? Are you people rich agriculturists or stupid pinheads? Who let you in the house?’
Saeeda replaced the chaddar back on her head in haste, and looked at her husband for directions. Ubaid glanced at Aimen’s photograph on the side table with a glum face, and pushed himself to his feet when he saw his father rising.
‘Chalo Saeeda,’ Wazir Khan said, his walking stick quivering as he absorbed the amount of disrespect ladled on him by a woman. He strode out of the room with the gait of a man much younger, the walking stick being dragged along like a rag doll.
Saeeda and her kids also departed without a word, scurrying out when they saw that no one had risen to see them off. The maid closed the drawing room doors with a resounding boom as if to emphasise the significance of what had happened, leaving Mona alone with Nighat and Bilal.
Clearing her throat, Nighat leaned back in her seat, and pulled a plate of soggy pakoras toward her. The room was so silent that Mona even heard the smack of Nighat’s lips as she bit into the sweating pakora. ‘Now,’ she said between bites, ‘before any of you pounces on me, remember that I did the right thing. There was no way in hell that those people would have kept Aimen happy. I just did you all a service.’ Brandishing the pakora in Mona’s direction, with bits of onion and green chilli flying out of her mouth, she added, ‘Having just made this speech about women’s rights, it does sound a bit ironic to say this, but I do not want my daughter-in-law to appear like this in public. Ever.’
‘Get dressed,’ Bilal breathed, not looking at her. With his elbows on the armrests, he was watching his fingertips as they touched. His voice was so low that Mona had to lean forward to make out what he was trying to say.
‘Sorry?’
‘He said that you should get dressed,’ Nighat replied on behalf of her son. Licking the sticky oil off her fingers, she pointed at her. ‘That Wazir Khan almost passed out at the sight of you. I repeat, don’t wear this dress in front of these people. I don’t care what you wear to your parties, but in this house, my rules still apply.’
Mona bristled. ‘There is nothing wrong with what I am wearing, and considering the fact that I’m fully covered, I don’t understand what the fuss is about.’
Nighat gave out a bark of laughter. ‘Covered, indeed. That is a great improvisation of clothes if I’ve ever seen one’
‘I am wearing a dupatta, aren’t I?’
Bilal slapped his hands on the wooden armrests of the armchair. ‘Don’t make me say this again. Get dressed! Now.’
Mona folded her arms, and sank into the armchair. ‘Or what? And, why should I dress right in front of paindu zamindaars (backward feudal lords) you insist on inviting to see our daughter. Do you really want to show the world how desperate you are? The more you invite these nonentities to this house, the worse off our daughter will be. Do you honestly think that a racist, self-deprecating cow like Saeeda will keep her happy? Poor Aimen would have died of suffocation.’
‘She does have a point,’ Nighat remarked, sucking on a juicy chicken bone. In between the slurping noises, she patted her stomach, and moaned with satisfaction.
‘Still, this shouldn’t have happened,’ Bilal said. ‘These people have long roots in Southern Punjab, and who knows what kind of damage they may inflict upon our reputation there.’
‘Oh, who cares about Southern Punjab!’ Mona stamped her heel on the marble. The whole room rang with the sound of steel on stone. ‘For God’s sake, Bilal, let it go! Whatever happened, happened for the best.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You shouldn’t have invited them here in the first place. We’ll find a decent rishta for Aimen. When the time is right.’
Nighat burped loudly, and covered her mouth as she fell into the throes of a huge yawn. ‘Oh well, seems like the day has come to a fantastic end before it even began.’ She scanned the room for her maid before heaving herself from the armchair. The seat cushions plumped back as air rushed into them. Ruffling Bilal’s hair with a wizened hand, she added, ‘You guys enjoy yourselves, and mind you, don’t fight too much.’
Mona watched as her mother-in-law laboured across the vast space between the armchair and door, her numerous folds of fat wobbling as she complained about her knees.
Bilal seemed to have taken no notice of his mother. His hair still stood up at the odd angle where Nighat had ruffled it; he seemed unperturbed by it, a fact that intrigued but also worried Mona.
She pursed her lips as the door clicked shut. Sensing Bilal’s simmering gaze on her, she clucked her tongue. ‘Oh God, I’m starving. Did you have any lunch?’ Hands on the armrest, she leaned forward to heave herself out of the chair. ‘I think I’ll just see what’s left in the kitchen—’
‘Sit down.’
‘But—’
‘I said sit down.’
His eyes looked murderous.
Without a sound, Mona sank back into the armchair, the softness of the foam encasing her rump – a difficult position to rise from in case he launched himself on her.
Bilal crossed, then uncrossed his legs, watching her from his heavy-lidded eyes, the afternoon light reflecting a macabre glint off them.
He meant business today.
Her heart began thudding painfully in her chest, but she struggled to keep her breathing even, her face impassive. She knew the drill – any sign of weakness from her and Bilal would pounce on her like a hungry lion, and devour her inside out. It had happened many times before.
She had been at Gymkhana, sipping coffee with her friends when the idea to leave for Malaysia unannounced sprang up. Mona had been married for only two years.
‘Why should men have all the fun? Why can’t we just run off to Malaysia? Just like that!’ Shabeena had said, snapping her fingers. This was back when she was younger, and playful enough to care about what others thought of her.
Within minutes, the rest of them had agreed to the idea, and in a matter of hours maids had been forewarned to care for the kids, cash was withdrawn, and tickets were booked that would take them aboard a Pakistan International Airlines jet to Kuala Lumpur via Karachi.
‘Imagine! We don’t even need a visa,’ Kulsoom squealed, clapping her hands together in the plane while they were leaving for Karachi. ‘It’s visa on arrival for Pakistanis, and I’ve heard one of my friends say that it’s magical. Like a paradise on earth.’
Mona had called Bilal from her hotel room in Karachi that night. She had already alerted Farhan’s maid regarding her departure, and since Bilal wasn’t at home, she had thought she’d wait until late at night to call him.
Tilting her head sideways to balance the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder, she lathered moisturiser on her legs, a wistful smile on her face as she heard her husband’s gruff ‘Hello’.
‘It’s me.’
A pause. ‘I know.’
Mona frowned at his tone, and her hands paused in their kneading of her calf muscles. ‘I called Zafreen earlier, but you weren’t at home. It’s sort of crazy actually, and please don’t laugh at me, but the girls just made a plan for Malaysia at lunch, and I sort of went with it.’ She let out a nervous laugh, half expecting him to break into fits of laughter, and badger her for leaving her toiletries behind.
He didn’t. A huge chasm of silence filled the distance between them, and all she could sense was his increasing heart rate as his breaths came out in short pants.
‘Uh, Bilal. Are you there?’
‘You fool.’ The words sounded like nails on a blackboard as he ground them out of his mouth. ‘What kind of a stupid mother leaves her child in the hands of a maid she hired yesterday. What the hell are you smoking, woman?
His words took her by surprise; her mind whirled. In those early years of marriage, the fights were rare. She didn’t know the drill; she had no idea how to respond. Instinctively, the words ‘I’m sorry’ escaped her lips.
That is when the tirade began.
‘Sorry? Sorry? You think your measly little sorry covers your gaping blunder? You know Amma’s in Multan, and still you left the kid alone without a second thought? Who does that? Those bloody contractors… they left. I had to leave my meeting because of your insufferable childishness. Leaving the child alone in the house. Do you know how much this has cost me? Do you?’
The phone receiver slipped from her shoulder. She caught it, abandoning her legs, pulling them beneath her. Tears slid down her cheeks in parallel lines, pooling in the nape of her neck as she kept repeating, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
Those weak, useless words rang in her head today, as she looked at her husband. The years came unravelling back at her, the undulating waves of abuse that had never tapered off, only climbed in their intensity. She could feel the heat rising from her skin as Bilal rose from the armchair and advanced toward her, his teeth bared. The rug absorbed the sound of his footsteps, and since Bilal had always been a light walker, it seemed as if he was gliding, not walking. The silence unnerved her even though she knew what to expect. This was the chase, the inevitable dance of pursuit that allowed Bilal to assert his dominance, his supremacy.
‘You did this on purpose. Even after I strictly told you not to, you wore these filthy clothes in front of the guests. Are you a common slut now? Have you degraded yourself to that status?’ He stopped in front of her, his leather moccasins stepping over her front toes as he leaned forward to face her.
She gasped in pain.
‘You disgust me.’ His shoes pressed hard on her toes, squashing the nails so that they bit into the soft flesh underneath. His breath smelled of fresh mint and Colgate, his clothes of the Mont Blanc cologne he loved.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she cried, trying to push him off, but it was like trying to shift a bull. Her hands fell back in her lap, defeated.
She averted her eyes as he unbuckled his belt.
‘Deep inside, you know you deserve what’s coming,’ he said as he straightened himself again. ‘Who knows, a pervert like you might even enjoy it.’
‘Bilal, please.’
‘Shut up, Mona. You should have thought of this before you disobeyed me.’
Mona braced herself as the first blow rained down on her cheek.
