Mehrunnisa:

A love story from Lahore

By Zeenat Mahal

[Chapter 15]

Jamal found refuge in his study. He stared into nothing. The hot molten mass of her words, would be forever stuck against his eardrums. He’d never be rid of the echo of her words.

Had he truly been so stupid? How could she have done this to him? Those sad grey eyes had fooled him. She’d played him. God! He hurt so much. There wasn’t anyone he could talk to or find solace with. She’d left him with nothing. Everything was silent. The guests had long gone. His father-in-law had not been able to meet his eyes. Everyone left. He was alone with his pain and his thoughts.

A baby…

She was going to have a baby. She carried another man’s child…and he’d fallen in love with her…another man’s woman. He’d married her. He’d…Jamal put his face in his hands and raked his hair with his fingers. He picked up a glass from the table and flung it across the room. He picked up a lamp, and sent it the same way. One by one, he smashed every single thing he could find, and still the storm of his fury would not abate.

What the hell was he supposed to do with her?

Premature baby

She’d been in love with another man. She’d been in love with someone else all this time. He slumped in his chair. She’d never loved him at all. She loved someone else.

He had to send her away somewhere. It would be obvious to everyone that the baby wasn’t his because she’d start to show soon. But if she wasn’t here, they could say it was a premature baby, once it came. Just for a moment…the fraction of a second, he thought of letting her go for good, but the sudden vast empty chasm that faced him at the thought, made him backtrack immediately, without really acknowledging why. There was no question of separating her from her child. He’d never do that to her…child…any child.

The only thing to do was to stow her away at the farmhouse maybe, for the next few months. It would be easy enough. After her fiasco of that night, no one would be too keen to make their acquaintance.

If she resisted, all he had to do was threaten to beat her. She seemed to have a fairly stereotypical image of him in her mind. He’d taken full advantage of that so far. He would continue to do so.

A pair of sad grey eyes kept intruding upon his thoughts and his rage and his hate, the brief emotion of love that he’d felt, all coalesced and stormed inside him till he wanted to scratch his eyes out.

Farm house

The next three months of Mehru’s life were in some ways the best thing that could’ve happened to her. With nothing to do but sit and brood at the farm house, she started to write again. Her short stories appeared in Urdu magazines and newspapers. Maybe she was at the right place at the right time. She was thrilled that her stories were accepted so enthusiastically.

She wrote about everything; from the story of the cook, his wife, the milkman, the dhobi, the little girl she saw ever day who dropped and picked up her little brother from a small village school. This nameless little girl, walked an hour every day to drop her brother off, all the way to a village nearby that had a school. Mehru watched from her rooftop and wrote about all these untold stories that she saw around her.

Literary sensation

She’d been shocked at Jamal’s sudden decision to dump her in this godforsaken place. But then she’d thought that it would be easier to live away from him than with him. He intruded upon her consciousness. She hated to think about him but somehow she found that she was thinking about him. Often. Far too often.

She’d tried to convince Bibi to escape. Bibi of course went into hysterics. The scandal! The scandal! Mehru’s only escape was through her writing. She wrote poetry too. These poems ranged from anger, betrayal and desire for vengeance, and included lots about a romantic figure, chivalrous, with an old world honour…a man, Mehru thought, she almost knew.

She was using her mother’s maiden name. Already Mehrunissa Siddiqui was a literary sensation in the world of Urdu literature. People were taking her name with the likes of Meeraji and Ada Jaffrey.

The fictionalised version of her own story that she’d been writing, was coming out too in a few weeks. She’d changed the names of course. It was her grandmother’s story and her mother’s too. Her grandmother’s point of view was clearer to her now. She understood her more after her betrayal of Jamal.

He was on the periphery of her life. He hadn’t once come to see her, which was a good thing because what was she going to tell him when he saw there was no child growing inside her? She’d only recently begun to think of the consequences of her lie. She’d regretted it the moment she’d seen his face. She’d already hurt him, too much. Her heart ached.

Karim Chacha came running. He looked agitated and excited.

‘Bittya…bittya…’
‘Yes, Karim Chacha? What’s the matter? Did the chicks get stolen again?’
‘No bittya…there’s a car…’

‘Oh no! Did the cow get hit by a car?’
‘No there’s a car coming this way.’

Drily, Mehru responded, ‘And here we thought we were isolated. Its probably someone who’s lost his way. Who would come here?’

The door opened behind Karim, and Mehru stood face to face with her husband.

Shock

She saw his eyes on her middle. His face registered shock. His eyes flew to hers, reflecting concern, and Mehru’s heart warmed. Karim Chacha greeted him with too much enthusiasm, and went out announcing he was going to get tea.

‘The baby…?’
Mehru stared at him, not knowing what to say.

‘Mehrunissa…are you okay?’ he came forward and then stopped. His face pale and his eyes worried. ‘Did you lose the baby? Are you alright? You should’ve called or sent a message if something has happened to your baby.’

She shook her head.

Jamal looked relieved but…confused, ‘If you didn’t lose the baby…then why do you seem…unchanged and that’s obviously not possible if you’re …’

His voice changed and dipped low, ‘Unless you lied, and you got with child after you came home? In which case, the father has to be someone here…’

He looked ill, as he whispered, ‘Please tell me it isn’t…Fahad…’

‘Ew!’

Jamal looked away, rubbing his face with one hand. Then asked, his voice still harsh, ‘Who is the father of your child?’

Mehru was trapped. There was no way out. She had to tell him the truth.

‘I wasn’t…there isn’t…there was never a baby.’

Fascination

Jamal stared, a nerve pulsating dangerously at his temple. She watched it in fascination as she confessed. He couldn’t speak. She’d flummoxed him. She explained, feeling sorry for him. ‘I…I lied. I was just angry with my father. I wanted him to suffer. He’d done the same to my mother…’ ‘Your mother was his wife.’‘Whom he abandoned. And me. I wanted him to know what it felt like. I know I succeeded and he did. A daughter’s honour is so precious. But only if it is one’s own daughter. Other people’s daughters are fair game. My mother was somebody’s daughter too and he treated her badly. Very badly. She died alone and rejected.’

Mehru’s voice wobbled and she sat down, clasping her hands. There was silence in the room except for her heavy breathing, trying to control herself.

‘I’m sorry….about your mother.’

She looked at him. He turned his face away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. Her mouth trembled but she tried not to cry.

‘So…so this was just another lie.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
Sudden desire

Jamal turned away from her and stood looking out of the window, his back to her. He wore a grey suit and his broad shoulders carried the jacket well. Mehru had the sudden desire to rest her head there and cuddle.

She shook herself. What was the matter with her? She was turning into the coquette she was pretending to be.

He sounded tired, when he spoke again. ‘Mehrunissa, for a second if you could not be the pathological liar that you are, and tell me, honestly…’

He still didn’t look at her and Mehru knew what was coming. He seemed to still have hope it seemed, and all this wanting to rest her head on his great big chest, and the sudden leap of her heart when he’d entered, and the way her heart was still thudding uncomfortably made her think that maybe…no, of course not…she wasn’t in love with him, was she?

No. Certainly not. She would never let that happen to her. She was not going to be her mother. She would never be in that position. How could she ever put herself in that position?

In a low voice, he asked, ‘Was there ever a time that you didn’t lie to me?’

Glossary:
Dhobi: launderer
Bittya: daughter

Chacha: Uncle sometimes used as respectful epithet to older men even when not related.

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