The Holy Woman Read online

  Praise for Qaisra Shahraz:

  ‘A lean, lyrical meditation on tradition and independence, sensuality and sacrifice, set against the mortal background of modern day Pakistan, Shahraz’s debut beguiles throughout’ The Times

  ‘Gripping, hugely involving and very satisfying’ Kate Mosse

  ‘Full of vivid details about the lives and loves, the duties and desires in Muslim family life’ Yasmin Alibhai-Brown

  ‘An international bestseller … an extraordinary story of love and betrayal in rural Pakistan’ Manchester Evening News

  ‘An absorbing adventure, from a vivid imagination’ She

  ‘A riveting family saga’ Bradford Telegraph and Argus

  ‘Stunning debut novel. An intricate study of love, family, politics and sacrifice’ Eastern Eye

  ‘Compulsive reading … An intriguing tale of love, envy and jealousy’ Asian Times

  ‘A real story-telling gift’ Sue Gee

  ‘A very moving tale of love, passion and Islamic traditions … difficult to put down’ BBC National Asian Network

  THE HOLY WOMAN

  Qaisra Shahraz

  For my sons Farakh Shuyab, Gulraiz Sarfaraz, Shahrukh Raees and my beloved nephew Raees Hamza

  Acknowledgements

  Many, many thanks to Joan Deitch and John Shaw for their hard work.

  My gratitude goes to my friends and colleagues: Professor Akbar S. Ahmed; Sajida Ahmed; Maulana Qamaruzzaman Azmi; Amanda Challis; Lizbeth Cheatle; Ann Gibson; Dr Afshan Khawaja; Shahed Saduallah; Jamil Dehlavi; Julie Northey; Maulana Habib Ur Rahman; Lynda Robinson; Richard Seidel and Masarat Shafi.

  I would also like to thank Ken Ashberry; John O’Brien; Andrew Brown; Glenda Cox; Bel Crompton; Carl Delaney; George Hastings; Patricia Kushnick; Samima Ahmed; Marie Froggatt; Nita Patel; Cari Ryan; Jane Sladen; Habidah Usman; Ann Vause; Madeleine Bedford and Merillie Vaughan Huxley.

  Thanks also go to: Colin Muir; Lavinia Murray; Peter Ridsdale Scott; Susie Smith; Lucy Scher; Sherry Ashworth; Elizabeth Baines; Cathy Bolton; Beverly Hughesdan; Pete Kalu; Jennifer Whitelaw; Cllr Qassim Afzal (ppc); Huma; Ali Azeem; Neil Broady; Khalid Hussain; Vice-Consul Jamil Ahmad Khan; Raza Khan; Keelin Watson; Bridgette O’ Connor; Asad Zaman and Angharad Jackson.

  Special thanks to Lord Nazir Ahmed of Rotherham; Iftikhar Qaiser; Zahoor Niazi; Elizabeth Wright; Dr Musharaf Hussain; Faisal Munir Khan; Saba and Aamer Naeem; Asad; Mohsan and Sherry Qureshi; Maqsood Ellahie Sheikh; Dr Sidra Hasan; Bashir Mann; Mohamed Sarwar MP; Habib Ullah; Ghulam Rabbani MBE; Tahir Inam Sheikh; Yacub Nizami; Naveed Aziz; Bailie Cllr Muhammad Shoaib JP; Nisar Naqvi; Baldev Mavi; Rafaqat Hussain and Nazia Khalid.

  In Pakistan my gratitude to my Uncle Mohamed Ashraf and his son Ejaz Ashraf; Muhammad Iqbal and Khalid Mahmood.

  My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Saeed Ahmad; my parents Mohamed Aslam and Amina Akhtar; my brothers and their wives – Dr Suhail Abbas; Dr Zulfiqar Babar; Dr Waqar Aslam; Sajida Parveen and Dr Naushene Sara and my sister Farah Shahnaz for their lasting support.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part Two

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Part One

  How from my garden I chanced to stray,

  And how I was whirlwind trapped, I cannot say.

  Sir Mohammed Iqbal (1873–1938)

  Translated from Urdu by K.C. Kanda

  From Masterpieces of Urdu Ghazal 17th–20th Century

  (Sterling Publishers, New Delhi, 1998)

  Prologue

  IN THE PROVINCE of Sind, on the outskirts of a small town, a mela was in full swing. Held in an open dusty field, the annual fair drew men from the surrounding villages to eat hot and cold snacks, to enjoy themselves and watch the antics of the clowns, jugglers and the other entertainers.

  Travelling from the four provinces of Pakistan, the performers had come to show off their special skills and artistry to the rural people of Sind. Brusque clapping of hands, hoots of laughter and loud whistling by the young men lent an air of gaiety and expectation to the hot summer afternoon. Forming an ever-enlarging circle, they cheered one of the jugglers – a dextrous fellow who kept three balls simultaneously in the air.

  Next into the dusty circle stepped a wiry old man, with a mirror beaded hat on his head, trailing a spider monkey by a lead. The spectators roared with laughter as the animal, dressed in a small frilly skirt and a red fez, started to dance and wriggle its tiny body on a jute mat. The owner turned a gap-toothed smile on his audience, then began to play a tabla drum with two slender sticks, prompting the animal to do a succession of comic somersaults around the circle. The cheering crowd of young men hastily stepped back to allow the monkey more space.

  From a distance, a black Shogun Jeep carrying two men wound its way along the dusty road. It came to a halt close to the mela. The driver, a tall man in his early thirties, climbed out of the vehicle and, closing the door behind him, leaned against the Jeep and stretched his long legs.

  Removing his sunglasses, he scanned the scene in front of him with amused interest. A smile touched his face as he, too, followed the antics of the spider monkey in the open circle. After a while, bored with the act, his gaze strayed past the crowd to a horse tied to a minar tree. Near the horse, under the large green canopy of the tree, stood a young woman. The stranger’s eyes halted in their track.

  Dressed in an elegant black shalwar kameze, a matching black chiffon dupatta was casually draped around her shoulders and over her hair, forming a very becoming frame for her strikingly beautiful face.

  The spider monkey was now in full motion, dancing vigorously to the beat of the drum. The woman’s hands too now rose to join in the clapping. The warm summer breeze moulded the flimsy material of her kameze against her slim frame and blew the dupatta off her head, letting it fall in graceful folds around
her shoulders. The woman made no move to put it back, ignoring the convention of covering her head in a public place amidst a group of men.

  There were no other women present at the mela, apart from three elderly ladies, for it was not common or socially acceptable for young women to join openly in an all-male set of activities.

  The stranger was both intrigued and amused at the woman’s open show of defiance. His mouth curved into a full smile as he noted that she still hadn’t made any effort to cover her hair.

  As he watched, a young man came to stand next to her and untied the horse from the tree. The stranger’s grey eyes widened; he was suddenly very alert. A strange stillness entered his body as he studied the young man’s face – which was, he discovered, almost a direct replica of the woman’s.

  The smile now shot to his eyes. He stood up straight.

  Under the tree Zarri Bano’s young brother, Jafar, stood in front of her and whispered in her ear. He turned to the assembled crowd, immediately catching sight of the man staring across at them. Jafar’s face lit up. Smiling, he waved.

  ‘The guests we were expecting from Karachi have arrived!’ Jafar told his sister excitedly, then his expression sobered. ‘Dearest sister, I wish you would make sure that your scarf manages to stay in place on your head when you are outside in a public place,’ he nagged her gently. ‘Look at your hair! Don’t you ever tie it up? It is everywhere! It is not good for a woman to be seen like this. Men, especially Badmash men, give women looks when they are as beautiful as you. You look so wanton! It creates a very bad impression. Not only of you, but of us and our father. Only naughty women do that sort of thing.’ He was very much conscious of the stranger’s presence and roaming eyes.

  ‘Have you quite finished, dearest Jafar?’ Zarri Bano smarted from his patronising tone. Her cheeks coloured, ‘I am not going to be lectured at by my baby brother. So what if my dupatta fell down for a few seconds? Have you never seen hair before?’

  ‘I don’t want to argue here, Baji Jan. You had better get home quickly. He has already seen you and it doesn’t seem right. It is not good for our izzat.’ The urge to usher his sister out of sight was very strong.

  Jafar turned back to the man and waved his hand again in acknowledgement, aware of his bareheaded sister standing by his side. The stranger inclined his head towards them in greeting. The thick dark waves of his hair fell over his forehead, glinting in the sun. He lifted his hand in return, a smile still hovering on his lips, his eyes now very much on Zarri Bano.

  Zarri Bano felt the pressure of the stranger’s gaze and swayed with it. She watched the exchange between the two men with alarm – her eyes widening.

  ‘Oh no! Surely it cannot be him?’ she whispered in dismay. She was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, seen by the wrong people. Her heart thumped away in painful anticipation. Drinking in his appearance at one go, she beckoned to her chauffeur.

  ‘I am ready to go home, Nalu. Can you bring the car round to this side. There are too many men over there.’ The words tripped for no reason.

  ‘Yes, young Sahiba.’

  She waited for the car to draw near, keeping her back to the stranger as she climbed in. She only looked out of the window when her car passed his Jeep. Unfortunately, her eyes immediately met his. Embarrassed, she hastily lowered hers as the car sped by.

  After he had given directions to the two guests to follow behind him, Jafar fetched his horse. Riding in front of the Shogun, he led the way through the town bazaar to the outskirts and his family’s villa in Tanda Adam.

  The older man, Raja Din, sitting next to his son in the passenger seat, looked at the back of the young man ahead of them on the white horse.

  ‘Well, if that is the brother, Sikander, then we can assume that the sister will be very attractive too,’ he said.

  ‘Father, she is very attractive,’ Sikander stated quietly. He recalled the woman’s face very clearly.

  ‘What do you mean? Have you seen her?’ Raja Din turned a sharp glance on him.

  ‘No, I am simply guessing,’ Sikander lied smoothly.

  ‘Well, don’t forget, my son, they have two daughters – and it is the elder one we are interested in. We don’t want to end up with the wrong girl! It has sometimes happened, you know. People go for one match, and end up with the other.’

  Sikander glanced at his father, the smile momentarily slipping from his face. ‘Of course,’ he responded. Was she the elder or the younger? he wondered, frowning a little. She had been very pretty – a most pleasant surprise. The irony was, did she now know who he was?

  Her suitor.

  She had to be the one! ‘One way or other, I am going to have this woman,’ Sikander vowed silently, tapping his hand on the steering wheel.

  As he watched the car in front of them disappear in a cloud of dust, Sikander Din had a strange feeling that, in the last few minutes, his life had suddenly and forever become entwined with the beautiful woman dressed in black.

  Chapter 1

  THERE WAS A flurry of activity at the villa. After alerting everyone that their expected guests from Karachi were well on their way, Zarri Bano dashed straight upstairs to her bedroom, two steps at a time, and quickly changed into another designer outfit, this time in a pale shade of pink. Her younger sister Ruby came into the room and teasingly assessed Zarri from head to foot.

  ‘You have changed! You are actually going to go down and face the guests! I don’t believe it,’ she said, pretending to be astonished. ‘Normally you don’t even deign to meet either your suitors or their parents. This man must therefore be very special if my malika, my queen of a sister, makes an effort to change.’ Ruby’s eyes moved appreciatively over her sister’s slim figure.

  ‘Oh, come on, Ruby. I have been to the mela with Jafar. I felt hot and sweaty and decided to change. Who says that I am actually going down to meet him? He has a cheek in coming personally, and not even bothering to send a photograph of himself in advance.’ Zarri Bano chastised her sister in the mirror, while fixing a curl in place as she pinned her hair up in an attractive chignon on top of her head, letting some wispy tendrils escape around her ears. She was piqued that the stranger had seen her and probably knew who she was. He had caught her at a disadvantage.

  ‘So that you could have a preview?’ Ruby read her sister’s thoughts accurately.

  ‘No,’ Zarri Bano lied.

  They had both had a preview. Remembering his searing glance she felt herself go hot with embarrassment and indignation. When her car had passed his Jeep, he had again looked at her closely – almost as if he had dived deeply into her soul. Shuddering in front of the mirror she glimpsed a look of uncertainty in her eyes, and something else.

  Finished, she went to stand near the window overlooking the large, beautifully landscaped central courtyard of their villa. It was then that the black Jeep entered through the open gates and came to a halt next to the Banos’ grey car.

  Sikander helped his father out, then both men stood and looked round the courtyard with interest. There was a central rose bed in full bloom, and on all sides, profusely flowering oleanders and perfumed bougainvillaea climbed to the top of the six foot walls. A long veranda, with alabaster pillars and a mosaic tiled floor, led into the house. As the young man’s eyes swept up to the bedroom windows, Zarri Bano hastily stepped back behind the curtains, afraid that he might have seen her.

  Noting her sister’s actions, Ruby moved to the window and peered down. Jafar had now joined their two guests.

  ‘Gosh, Ma’shallah, he is very attractive. No wonder you have changed.’ Ruby chuckled at the tide of colour sinking into her sister’s cheeks.

  Irked by this teasing, Zarri Bano said crossly, ‘Who says he is attractive? Do you remember Ali? Could any man compete with his looks!’

  ‘Yes, Ali was very, very good-looking. But there is something about this man – some kind of charisma. I think he may have the bait to draw you into his net, his web – even if it is not his looks.’
/>
  ‘Don’t talk to me about nets and webs!’ Zarri Bano snapped, moving away from the window. ‘I am not a fish to be angled at, caught and trapped, Ruby.’

  ‘I am sorry, Baji Jan. That was unforgivable of me, especially knowing how you feel about such analogies and with you being a feminist too.’

  ‘Yes, so you should be. I am a free woman. I will decide if I want this or any other man. This is why ten years have elapsed and I have still not married. You’ll probably marry before me, and I will be an old maid,’ she joked.

  ‘You’ll never be an old maid, Zarri Bano. You are too beautiful and glamorous to be left on the shelf. Someone will snap you up some day, if not this man. Do you know, I will probably end up marrying before you, the way you are turning people down. I shall probably land up with one of your jilted suitors. Do you know how many times Chaudharani Kaniz has been to visit us, even after you declined to marry Khawar? I think she has got her eye on me now. If you won’t marry him, she thinks I’ll do instead.’

  ‘Neither of us will be marrying Khawar. He is more like a brother to us. Anyway can you imagine you or me as the next snobbish Chaudharani Kaniz in the village? No thanks. I’d be bored out of my wits.’

  This little exchange had done Zarri Bano the world of good. It had helped her to recover her normal poise. Just because I have caught him staring at me from a crowd of people, and I have stared back, she told herself resolutely, it doesn’t mean anything. I am not going to fall under his spell, as Ruby seems to think.

  She did, however, wonder why, contrary to her normal practice, she was prepared to go and meet these guests and spend time in their presence. Normally she found these meetings with would-be suitors nauseous and demeaning, particularly when she knew she would be declining their proposals of marriage.

  To hell with all the analysis, she thought emphatically as she descended the ornate circular staircase leading into the central hallway, and walked with a firm step towards the guest drawing room. She was a mature woman of twenty-seven years of age, not a simpering teenager, whose hand had been asked for. She was going to treat this man as a normal guest. Holding herself tall and erect, Zarri Bano stood outside the door, ready to make her formal entrance.