A love story from Lahore

By Zeenat Mahal

Chapter one

The grand old dame sat on a diwan like a queen. Her silver white hair was swept back from her forehead, parted in the middle. An off-white diaphanous dupatta framed her face.

Pearls glinted around her throat and in her ears. Her white shararah, the skirt-like dress split in two, wide-cut and embellished with lace and embroidery. It didn’t seem to have a single wrinkle, nor did the embroidered white shirt she wore.

Her voice rang out in the zennanah quarters they’d been brought to, crisp and commanding, ‘How dare you defile my home by bringing this half-caste here? She is nothing to us. Send her back where she came from. She does not belong here.’

Mehru watched her grandmother in mute fascination. Such hatred. What a long time to hold on to something so toxic. Why had she allowed Bibi to bring her here, to these strangers?

‘Ami Begum, please. Lispeth…she’s gone.’

Mehru turned towards her father instinctively when his voice broke, but then, stopped herself. Her mother had died alone, like she’d lived. What good were his tears to her now?

He’d chosen to abandon them. The half-caste wife and the half-caste daughter had been traded for a life of comfort and his mother’s approval.

Sole caretaker

If regrets could change the past, the world would be a different place. Mehru exchanged a glance with Bibi, her sole caretaker since her mother had died three weeks ago.

The room was full of people. All of them, her uncles, aunts and cousins, and she knew none of them. She’d lived in isolation, as an outcast. Which one of these women was her father’s chosen wife? The one he’d lived with every day, while her mother withered away, still in love with him, still waiting for him to make good on his promises.

The familiar anger burnt in her gut. It had been a mistake to come. She turned towards Bibiagain, imploring her with her eyes. Please, let’s leave. Bibi shook her head a fraction.

Mehru kept her face carefully blank. No one in that room was going to get the satisfaction of seeing her anguish. Her father stood irresolutely at her side. Struggling to keep her anger and her hurt under control, she stared at her grandmother. There was no softness in her face, or tenderness in any line or wrinkle of her visage. Her eyes were flinty and unrelenting.

‘She looks nothing like you,’ she said. ‘Maybe you aren’t even the father. Who knows with these trashy women? And you brought her daughter into my home. Did you expect me to forget?’

She’d called her mother a whore. Mehru’s whole body reacted. She stepped forward, her mouth open, ready to defend her mother but Bibi was at her side, pulling her back. She squeezed Mehru’s hand in warning. Bibi’s usual calm and beautiful face was rigid and her eyes, the soft brown loving eyes, were hard and flat. She was angry too. Yet, she’d stopped her from jeopardising the slim chances that they’d be given sanctuary there.

Anger and pride

‘You must be accepted in your father’s house, Mehru. So leave your anger and your pride here, at this doorstep when you step outside. I wish there was another way, but with no money, and no protection, what option do we have?’ she’d said.

‘I have no desire to see him, or his family. He hasn’t visited us in months. If he’d come, he’d have known she was ill. He might have been here when she…when she…’ She hadn’t been able to say the dreadful words.

She knew Bibi had written to him. Her mother had too, before she became too ill to even write. Even Mehru had put her pride on the line and written to him. And he still hadn’t ‘What is this ‘he’ nonsense? He is your father. Call him Baba as is proper. Make your mother proud over there. Show them what a remarkable young woman our Lispeth raised.’

‘Bibi, since we’re not going anywhere, least of all to impress people I don’t care about in the least, this conversation is useless.’

That was when Bibi’s Durga avatar had taken over and she’d said in that husky voice she used when she was trying to control her ire, ‘Look, young lady, I may be a courtesan who sold her body once, but I’ve always been a woman of integrity. Don’t make the mistake of thinking they’re mutually exclusive.

I made a promise to your dying mother, my best friend, my only friend…’ Then they’d cried again together. They’d lived in the small loft atop Paan Gali, far enough from the inner city to be respectable, and not close enough to posh Lahore to be acceptable. They’d lived there all her life, but suddenly Bibi was nervous.

Maybe it had something to do with the landlord coming at odd hours and the other neighbours too. None of the women had come after that first time of condolences but men continued to visit. The argument that had won over Mehru, into this foolhardy plan of visiting her father, was Bibi’s fear. It was unthinkable that she should be afraid, she’d never seen Bibi fear anything. ‘You don’t know the minds of men, my love. You’re young, still so innocent. A woman’s beauty is her best weapon and her worst enemy. I must take you to your father’s house.’

Aphorisms

Mehru sighed. Bibi loved dramatic aphorisms. Apparently they got the job done.

It was clear that Bibi was afraid for their safety and she was beyond reason or emotional blackmail. Mehru had agreed to come because she’d been left no choice. She was pulled back into the present as her father put his arm around her protectively.

She stiffened.

‘If she goes, I go.’

Mehru almost laughed out loud. Ha! Now? He said that now? Tomorrow is nothing, today is too late; the good lived yesterday.

The words by Marcus Aurelious, echoed in her mind. There were always so many thoughts in her head, bright and dark, some spun like gold and always those horrible little demons which never left her alone. Memories. So many memories of neglect, of betrayal and abandonment, the sense of not belonging, of being unwanted, and worse, her mother’s constant efforts to make her father proud of Mehru.

Beautiful poem

‘Why don’t you show your father that beautiful poem you wrote?’ her mother would say. There was always something: bring that drawing you did, show him the book you’re reading. He’d look panic-stricken, as if he was afraid his mother would see him petting his daughter and incinerate him with a curse.

‘That’s great. Well done, Mehru. But, some other time I’m in a hurry now…’

He’d always been in a hurry. There were so many little incidents, so many disappointments, his vague looks at her, his guilty furtiveness that had scarred her and ripped at her heart. How long had her mother suffered alone? Did she ever accept in her heart that her husband was never coming back? Or did she till the end hold on to the belief that he loved her?

‘She’s my daughter, Ami Begum,’ her father announced, twenty two years after the fact. Who was he trying to convince? His mother or himself?

‘Please. Don’t do this again. I beg of you.’ His voice was hoarse and his mother probably caught the inflection too.

Her expression changed. Was she willing to relent after all? Her step-mother, discerning the situation took up the banner against Mehru, and said in a tearful voice, ‘Forgive my intrusion Ami Begum, but I cannot remain silent any longer.

I cannot allow such an insult to me. I cannot have my husband’s bastard in the same house as my children. My family will not bear this insult in silence. I come from a distinguished bloodline.’

She was attired like Mehru’s grandmother. Except that her clothes were colourful and even more embellished. What did she have that her mother didn’t except for a distinguished bloodline?

‘Lispeth was my wife. Watch your words, Saleha begum,’ he snarled at his wife.

Insulted

His face was ashen. Was he insulted for her sake or his? Mehru realised she didn’t really care. Her grandmother, no longer wavering, said, ‘Will you let that woman’s daughter destroy your life like her mother tried to do?’

Her father blinked several times and then said, ‘What do you want me to do, Ami Begum? Haven’t I wronged her enough already? You want me to send her to live alone? A young woman? My daughter? Your grand-daughter?’

Mehru thought it was high time she spoke. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.

‘I’m not alone. I have Bibi.’

Suddenly the room went quiet. It was only for an instant, but it was as if Time itself had stopped. Then her grandmother sneered, some of the younger people sniggered.

‘Mehru, please…’ her father whispered, looking embarrassed.

‘Is this what she was taught by that woman then? To interrupt her elders. She has no decorum. Uncouth,’ she said her face showing her distaste. Then she mocked her further, ‘But what else could I expect from one such as her? Bravo, Farooq Hassan Mirza. Bravo! What a gem of a daughter you have…’

This time their laughter was unhindered. Mehru looked her grandmother in the eye and said, ‘I did not interrupt. I only provided a solution to the problem when none seemed to be forthcoming from the elders.’

Problem

Her grandmother glared. The room went silent again. Then her grandmother’s steel ones vibrated in the room, ‘Do not presume to address me, young woman. You are the problem.’

‘Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves,’ Mehru murmured the line from young Emily Bronte loud enough to be heard.

Her grandmother’s complexion changed. It darkened, her nostrils flared, and her lips compressed. Her ramrod straight back stiffened further. Looking regal like Britannia, her voice shaking with anger, she said, ‘Take this reminder of your folly and that woman’s treachery out of my sight, this instant.’

Her father looked lost for a moment and then his eyes met hers. He blinked several times as if clearing cobwebs from his eyes and then he took her hand and said, ‘Goodbye then Ami Begum. I’ll take my daughter with me and this time I will not come back.’ His wife let out a muffled cry and fell on the diwan. A young girl, perhaps 16, ran to her and hugged her. Must be the other daughter. Her father took her hand and marched towards the door, Bibi in tow. They’d almost reached the door when her grandmother’s cold command whipped out at them from behind, ‘Stop, Farooq.’

Glossary of terms

Diwan: chaise longue. A carved wooden seat designed for easy repose

Zennanah: lady’s quarters shararah: a skirt divided in two, wide legged trouser shape but pleated at the knees to give flare and design. A traditional dress on Muslim women of the sub-continent.

Dupatta: A long drape, shawl, of any material worn by Muslim women as veil, not necessarily across the face.

Paan Gali: Name of a street.
Begum: a word of respect used as prefix or suffix, meaning lady.
Durga: goddess of vengeance in Hindu mythology

To be continued
Zeenat Mahal invites reader comments and feedback: [email protected]