Two times twenty

A young girl desperate for an guiding hand to realize her dreams or a middle aged woman looking abck on her life as hopegul young woman both caught between the ethical dilemmas they face and what being a woman of substance truly means

Two times twenty

By Madiha Riaz 

“I wonder if she will come today”, Mrs. Farhat had thought fixing her hair back in a bun. She wore a shalwar kameez of crisp white cotton with shadow work embroidery; a voluminous chiffon duppatta covering her chest. There were no arrogant convolutions in her shalwar it was almost as straight as a pajama. She wore no jewellery save a wedding ring. Her feet were bare. 

She left the room and headed towards her sunlit living room where she had her mid morning cup of tea, her feet lightly making contact with the cool marbled floor. One would imagine her to be an elegant dancer from the way she moved swift and sure like she knew her purpose and had compassed her body in search of its possession or perhaps even a character inhibiting various manifestations of an old folk tale whose end is unknown but life story often retold. 

Aliya Akram’s impressions did not stray far from such impressions when she sensed her sudden presence behind her. To her she was a ghost; an unwelcome intruder but like all ghosts the subject of much inquisition and curiosity. Who was she, this woman who walked into her dreams blowing goose bumps on her arms during early morning musings? Why did she want to see her if only for reminiscence? It couldn’t be their entwined lives for they both knew how gaping they found them, full of craters like the moon’s surface. They felt akin to the white orb, in its solitary dignified standing and with its empty spaces. “Or maybe she’s an alien cosmically linked to me in a misplaced dimension of the universe,” Ms. Akram groaned inwardly at herself before directing a guarded gaze towards the older woman, “Who are you?” she asked. 

“Who do you think? You know me. You know me well. There might be sides to me you know even better than I do, sides I may have forgotten. You know who I am,” Mrs. Farhat had regarded her gaze with a steady look-over of her own. She gestured discreetly towards the sofa sitting down to pour tea from the trolley set nearby, “One spoonful of sugar?” she asked enjoying the way her young guest’s eyes widened in disbelief as she nodded slowly. 

Ms. Akram fully believed her identity a split second later. “Are you a ghost?”  

“No, you should be one but you couldn’t be so I find myself resigning this tea party of ours as a phenomenon beyond my…our comprehension.” Mrs. Farhat replied. 

“A freak incident, you mean?”  

“Precisely,” Mrs. Farhat smiled at her. Apart from her self conscious demure, the young woman was oddly charming with henna designs decorating her hands. 

“Is that something you do often, I mean, the resignation towards the unexplainable?”  

“Well, there are some questions with no answers. There will always be questions with no answers. No definite answers, I mean. You need to understand that. Having said that let me also say that as long as you continue to search for an ideal there’s a calm contentment worth every blister you might get en route.” 

“Did you reach your ideal, achieve your goal, and complete your search?” Ms. Akram asked her clenching her hands together in her lap. The question had rolled of her tongue on its own accord like it had to escape from the confines of her mind sometime.  

“I can’t give you an answer you will approve of…not really…no I never did…I know you didn’t get…the answer you wanted before..…honestly….I…I’ve always resigned myself to fate…” Mrs. Farhat’s gaze drifted off towards the open bay windows and into the garden. 

“Don’t you think that fate is the screen we hide behind times….wha….when we don’t want to confront our real fears…we use fate as an excuse?” Ms. Akram burst out empathically, “I know I am no different, it’s the easiest thing to do...when in despair play the blame game…hang on to outdated customs…churn, churn, churn in the same wheel of hypocrisy…” She trailed off a little embarrassed and over awed at her own expressiveness. 

Mrs. Farhat face had gone white, “I knew it would haunt me one day…” She whispered to herself getting up from the couch and walking slowly to the window, “The henna on your hands….why…what was the occasion?” 

“My friend’s shaadi but it’s been a while since than, as you can see.” Ms. Akram held up one hand to display a brown pattern flecked with orange. She looked a bit confused and overwhelmed by her present scenario. It smelled familiar and yet she felt herself caught in a maze of echoing thoughts and voices; lyrics to a song she was unable to recall. Mrs. Farhat turned away from the window then gazed at Ms. Akram, who understood in that instant that she was the one who knew the lyrics to her song.  
 
“How old are you, Ms. Akram?” 

“Twenty....why do you ask? I want to know…I want to know what you know…tell me everything…”  

“I am not certain myself…it has been so long…it was a little after that I really lost faith…when I stopped acting upon my subversive instincts. I couldn’t take it anymore…you were right, when we can’t face the possibility of consequences we hide behind preconceived notions making up a divine plan…of course with time we also convince ourselves that our suffering will earn us a palace in heaven.” Mrs. Farhat sat down next to her now, “Forgive me; I’m going off the tangent here.” 

“Not, at all.” Ms. Akram replied looking slightly amused. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself.” Mrs. Farhat smiled at her, “But I thought you might be more curious about my life.” 

“I’m afraid to ask.” 

“You can ask. You should ask. Why else are you here?” 

“I don’t want this to be a dream.”  

“It should lend more strength to your questions because no one else has excess to your dreams.”  

“I don’t wish to forget this meeting either.”  

“You’ve been wondering about me for quite a while. I see you sometimes although I wish…when I talk like I just did, when I’m inspired I feel as though your heart is beating in my chest.” Mrs. Farhat looked at Ms. Akram, “I believe you are near to the time when you will get married.” 

“Married? I don’t think so.”  

“You may not think as such but you will.” 

“Well, eventually…I’d like to.” Ms. Akram admitted taking a small sip of her tea, now cold, “but who wouldn’t? In our culture marriages are held in high esteem. They are considered the cornerstone of families.” 

“True. Very true but you are needlessly skirting around yourself.” 
 

“I…I know,” Ms. Akram sighed, “err…are you married?”

 

“Yes, it’s been almost twenty years now.” 

“Twenty! How old are you now?” 

“I’m will be forty next month.” Mrs. Farhat’s face had lost some of its pallor now. Indeed, it was beginning to weigh on her mind that perhaps it was she who had called the young woman to her, it was she who had needed her and it was forty years of struggle and sorrow which required redressing. 

“When did you get married?” Ms. Akram asked quietly.  

“I was twenty-one when the nikkah ceremony was held but the rukhsati wasn’t until a year later. I resisted at first; I thought I was too young, too immature to handle marriage. I was afraid I would fail…even get bored and simply walk out…I’ll find people to blame for the break up…it made me feel inadequate as a person, as a woman to think such thoughts but there were offers and they were good matches, specifically one. I had heard so many times before, ‘that you get married when it’s written for you or when it’s your time,’ but of course family elders determine that time, it’s your choice they assure you but really, they expect a yes. After all he’s well educated; has a stable job, they say. They tell you they’ve checked up on him, asked around about his morals and to top it all off, he’s good looking too. What more could a girl want? And so the family pressure builds on, subtle pricks here and there like when you’re at a mayoon or a mehndi, you will playfully be offered a piece of the same laddo the bride took a bite of. I found those customs infuriating especially since I knew they were an indirect reflection of what was expected of me. Eventually I gave in because I let my parents convince me I would have a good life. Of course, I didn’t tell them I had no enthusiasm for a good life; an easy life because I was too scared of what might happen if I was to find my path alone. What if I wasn’t strong enough? Fear forced me to utter, ‘qubul hai, qubul hai, qubul hai,’ and I signed my life over to another family.” Mrs. Farhat twisted her wedding ring around her finger then looked up from her lap. Ms. Akram was watching her silently.  

“Are you happy?” She asked her. 

“Yes. I do get frustrated sometimes, of course but I have my children, two girls. All your life you hear mothers say how their children are the light of their life but it’s only when you have your own do you understand the depth of those words. They are my real accomplishment in life.” Mrs. Farhat smiled at her now, “I don’t think I would change much about my life. It might be that  
 

I’ve grown used to life abiding to familiar albeit nonsensical traditions and false proclamations to God but I’d be lying if I said I never wondered what would have become of the impetuous young woman I knew as Aliya, had she braved to steer her own way through life…she was strong, mind you,” She smiled at her again, “sometimes when I’m puttering about the house I think she might have truly lived.” 

Ms. Akram smiled back at her. 
 

Glossary: 

Shalwar- Baggy pants that are worn with a kameez 

Kameez- A loose tunic of varying length 

Duppatta- A piece of cloth of varying length 

Nikkah- Part of the ceremony in which couples signs official marriage papers and vocally accepts their respective spouses 

Rukhsati- When the ‘bride’ is officially given away and lives with the groom and his family from then onwards 

Mayoon/mehndi (henna) – small ceremonies held before the actual wedding day.  

Laddo- A sweat commonly eaten on weddings 

Qubul hai – ‘I accept’ is repeated three times by the bride to signify her consent