A Pair of Jeans and other stories Read online

  He, on the contrary, was finding himself powerless, even to verbally abuse her, let alone assert his male dominance, as a husband, and as a Zemindar. His mind reeled from the thought, that if he let her get away with this action, she would always go against his decisions and undermine his authority. Would he then end up as a puppet in her hand? He didn’t know what to do; he just stared down at her in utter despair.

  She had now averted her gaze, and was looking out of the window. He continued to gaze down at her beautiful face, which was now in profile. His eyes swept, almost with hypnotic compulsion over the slim column of her beautiful neck, the soft curtain of hair framing her face. The strong beautiful features of her face were almost chiselled to perfection, and he longed to touch them, even if he wanted to strangle that slim neck of hers.

  He could explode. He had read her signals right. She would leave him, rather than compromise her principles. He could abuse her or woo her. He knew this wasn’t just a whim on her behalf. She had done this on humanitarian grounds. Life without her loomed empty. Not to have her in his room, in his arms, before his eyes – it was an unimaginable thought. She was the light of his life – the noor. Did he want to live in darkness?

  It had taken him seven years to win her hand in marriage. He had lost the best years of his life in being infatuated with her, and wanting nobody but her; turning away so many eligible women, just waiting for her – watching her grow into womanhood. When he finally won her hand, and she agreed to marry him, he was thirty-five years old while she was still twenty-three. He had heaped present upon present on her family and her, and had to compete with many suitors, some even from her clan, her baraderie. He loved her madly, but he had no inkling as to whether she felt anything for him, if at all? She was a good wife, performed her marital duties well, but had emotionally kept herself remote from him. Her haughtiness still remained. It had both repelled and attracted him simultaneously. He still didn’t know why she had accepted him in the end, and he didn’t want to know either.

  Now, at this moment, it crashed upon him that she was the centre of his world. The land and bauxite mines paled into insignificance, but he must keep that fact a secret. All he knew, at the moment, was that he was walking along a tightrope. His marriage and his relationship with Noor were hanging in the balance. She wouldn’t be bullied by him - he knew her well. She would have no second thoughts on leaving him, especially as she believed that she was morally right and he was in the wrong. Those deeds did belong to the villagers and not to him. Her defiance seemed to spill out of the curves of her lips. Her body too, cried out its own language in defiance.

  What was he going to do? Could he cope with a wife like Noor, who threatened his social and patriarchal order? Yet he could not give her up. Life without Noor was tantamount to dying. He caved in.

  He bent down on his knees in front of her and levelled his face to hers. She turned to look at him, surprise colouring her face. Then his hand went to the nape of her neck. An alarming thought dashed through her head that he was going to strangle her. Instead, he gently brought her face closer to his, his eyes on her lips. His fingers moved upward to thread themselves in the silken folds of her hair. Could he bear to give all this up?

  She looked into his eyes, the coldness ebbing away from hers, surprised at his action. Then he laughed. The rich, masculine laughter rang and echoed round the room. Then in her firm, strong voice, with no trace of humility and fear, she asked him.

  “Is there anything to laugh at, my hazoor?” She had used the word hazoor, denoting respect, deliberately to reinstate his position, his authority, as her husband. The use of the word wasn’t lost on him. It gratified him and his body relaxed with it.

  “I think so, my beautiful and wonderful wife. I have spent a fortune on dinners and feeding the whole village just to get them to sign their deeds over to me. Then my wife just hands them back on a plate!” He stared down into her face, his fingers now moving over her mouth.

  “Aren’t you angry, anymore?” She tentatively asked, holding her breath slightly.

  “Exceedingly, but there is more to life than bauxite. You are right about the devastation that the mines would cause. I don’t want anything to come between us. Having spent seven years in winning you, do you think I am ready to lose you so that you will probably be snapped up by another man before a month passes? I am not stupid nor a simpleton. I don’t want anything to jeopardise our marriage and our relationship. You looked after the needs of the villagers, when I was blinded by the thought of making money. I nearly made a fool of myself, but you saved me – I am honoured in having a wife like you. I now have the feeling that you will be the making of me yet, my beautiful Noor.”

  Noor smiled. The warmth flooded into her eyes, now glowing like gems. The facial planes of her face relaxed, as she accommodated it against his fingers. She had just managed to jump a great hurdle in her life. She was in no hurry to leave her hevali, her village, her people, and above all her hazoor. Live was about giving and taking – she had gained but also given. Respect for him had outweighed her pride.

  Without thinking, Noor’s hand went to his face in the form of a caress.

  His eyes widened slightly. It was the first spontaneous movement she had made towards him – for he had always reached out to her. He was deeply moved. He looked down, to hide the look from her. Those twelve land documents had brought her closer to him. He caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips. She bent forward towards him and revelled in the feeling of his lips against her palm. It was another humbling and wonderful experience. Instead of abuse, she had received warmth and love from her husband. How she loved him. She breathed shyly into his ear, “I want a child of my own!”

  THE MALAY HOST

  Eyes on the crispy banknotes Aziza Hamat tiptoed into the living room. Reaching the table she grasped the woven jute money basket, pulled her shawl over it and turned. Then froze.

  From the doorway, Abdul’s eyes chilled. Clutching the small basket against her chest, Aziza glared back.

  The sound of car wheels crunching to a stop on the gravel outside had her turning to the balcony window. Abdul Hamat took his chance and leapt forward, startling her and snatching the basket from her tight fist. Foreign banknotes fluttered down to their feet. Hissing abuse in Bhasa Malay, he squatted on the floor.

  “Kitchen!” he ordered, grasping a handful of colourful notes with different motifs and numbers.

  Tearfully, Aziza stumbled out of the room and went down into her soot-stained hot kitchen and blazing cooking fire.

  Swiping her wet cheeks with the end of her shawl, Aziza watched; fascinated by the hungry flames licking the sooty, simmering, aluminium pot of meat, ready to topple over and then obediently retreat as she lifted the lid.

  The slamming of the car door quickened Aziza’s heartbeat. ‘It’s now or never!’ She vowed biting her quivering lower lip.

  “Ibrahim! Ibrahim!” She softly called, tapping the creamy soot-plastered wall with the wooden cooking ladle.

  A burning log fell from the cooking fire, just missing her foot. Aziza stepped back, toppling the three-legged stool behind her and the hessian bag propped on top; the rice grains spilling out of it onto the wooden floor.

  “This is it! The last straw!” she shrieked under her breath.

  It had taken her weeks to nurse the other blistered foot. Grabbing the log from the floor, she left the kitchen by the other little door and went down the steps. Tall rubber and palm trees flanked the three sides of the house.

  Like many other rural Malay houses, it was built on a raised wooden platform, standing on eight sturdy wooden stilts and overlooked the jungle. Turning the corner, Aziza called again. “Ibrahim!” Ducking her head, she slid under the platform.

  At the front of the house the passenger car door was slammed shut. Aziza crouched, hiding behind a stilt.

  The log with its one end glowing held tightly in her hand, Aziza glimpsed two pairs of sunburnt legs, the gravel crunching u
nder their feet. They were the seventh lot of white legs entering her home today. The hairy ones belonged to a man dressed in blue knee-length shorts. The hem of the woman’s floral country dress reached above her knees.

  Another pair of masculine denim-clad legs and brown feet, slid in view.

  The thudding sound of movement in the room above made Aziza lift her head - heart still, lips parted.

  “Ibrahim”!

  Aziza’s hands shook, imagining the key turning.

  In the sunshine, the Tamil driver turned to his passengers. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth, he announced.

  “Sir, here we are for our next spot of sightseeing. – a very special place – a Malaysian country house” he grinned with satisfaction, looking up at the quaint wooden building he visited daily. He loved both the house and the wily old host with his receding grease scraped hair, gracious manners and fantastic command of English.

  Margery and Robert, a retired couple on a tour of South East Asia, stared in awe at the black and white painted house, standing on a raised wooden platform. The facade was indeed impressive with tall trees, mass of other foliage and pots of colourful orchids and hibiscus bushes strategically lining the sides of the wooden steps leading up to the house.

  “It’s a Malay version of a Welsh country cottage, Bob,” Margery marvelled, continuing to feast her eyes on the picturesque scene before them, “An opportunity to see a real Malaysian house – how enchanting, Bob. How lucky we are!” She smiled in delight.

  “Look” Robert nudged her on the arm.

  An elderly Malay man stood on the porch – smiling and beckoning for them to come up. Something was digging into Margery’s heel. She bent down to remove her sandal. It was then her startled gaze levelled with that of Aziza’s, squatting under the platform, half hidden behind the stilt. Margery smiled and waited. But the Malay woman didn’t smile back. Instead she treated her to a pointed hostile stare. Disconcerted and the smile slipping from her face, Margery stood up to follow her husband into the house whispering to him. “Bob there is a woman hiding under the house!”

  Their host stood in the middle of the room, a warm smile of welcome spread across his narrow face.

  “Salam. Welcome to my home, lady and gentleman.” He jovially began, charming them with his gentle accent.

  “Thank you.” They echoed together, curiously looking around the large, tidy room. Its four wooden shuttered windows were thrown open, allowing a warm breeze to flow through the room. ‘It’s as if we are standing on a raised platform in the middle of the jungle!’ Margery voiced in awe.

  The host’s brown face split into a wider smile – his line of greyish-black moustache more pronounced, and gestured for them to sit down.

  Margery smiled her thanks as he gallantly drew out a chair for her. Then suddenly sobered, remembering the woman down below.

  “This is my house,” continued the Malay host, sitting down on another chair. “Please make yourself at home and feel free to look around.”

  His European guests shyly let their eyes fan over the rows of greying sepia and black and white family portraits in glass frames hanging on the two walls.

  Getting up, their host proudly pointed to one picture of a young man in a military uniform.

  “This is me, when I was young. And this - my mother – She got married at fifteen and had me at sixteen!” he explained, nervously laughing, expecting them to look surprised, “Come and look. It’s alright. You are welcome.”

  Robert and Margery peered at the photographs.

  “Is this your wife? She’s very beautiful Mr -?” Margery asked, staring at the picture of a young woman dressed in traditional Malay clothes with a serene expression on her face.

  “I beg your pardon, Madam!” Colour flooded his cheeks making them a shade darker. “I haven’t introduced myself properly. I am Abdul Hamat and you are…?” His eyes on Margery, the wide smile fixed firmly in place.

  “Margery, and this is my husband Robert”, she volunteered sitting down again.

  “Welcome to Malaysia, Margery and Robert. This house belonged to my father. That man there.” He pointed to the portrait of another male. “He opened our home to the public forty years ago. Since then we have had thousands of foreign visitors - thanks to this friend of ours. They come from all over the world. Are you from the UK, Madam?”

  “Yes – Wales actually.”

  “Right, Madam Wales. Let me show you something special.”

  He padded in his soft sandals to the far corner of the room. Robert and Margery turned to look.

  “This is our bridal dais, where the bride and groom sit together when they get married. Please Madam Wales, would you like to sit on it and have a photograph taken with your husband?” He giggled, seeing her gaze drop. “You can pretend that you are a Malay bride. All my guests love having their photos taken in that corner. Come Madam, you must try it!” He coaxed with his beaming smile.

  Exchanging a nervous glance with her husband, Margery got up – worried that the ‘small thing’ the swing seat would not take both their weights. Robert sheepishly offered.

  “You sit down, Marge. I’ll take the photo.” And laughed, explaining to the host. “I don’t think it will take us both, Mr Hamat, we are big people, huh. We really don’t want to break your family heirloom!”

  Abdul Hamat openly giggled. “Yes, you westerners are tall people - probably your wife then.”

  Margery gingerly squatted down on the cerise quilted-satin padding of the dais under the attractive canopy drapes. Smoothing out her dress over her legs, Margery glanced up at their smiling host standing beside her, whilst Robert snapped away with his digital camera. “I wonder how many other foreign women have sat in this ridiculous position” she cattily echoed in her head.

  Their host, still with a smile, ushered them through a door leading to the rest of the house with the words “Mind your head – you tall people”.

  The Tamil driver remained behind at the table, reading a newspaper.

  A scraping sound against a door and a heavy grunt made Margery and Robert look expectantly at their host as they stood in the shadowy little hallway between two rooms. His smile slipping and his head turned the other way Abdul Hamat explained in a low voice. “The room on the left is our private room. The only one we keep close to the public - where as you will understand - my family – our women can gain some privacy.”

  He had now stepped into the other room on the right.

  “This is our bedroom. Come in, please!” His eyes averted, Abdul Hamat stood beside a bed. There was a square wooden table with a cotton floral tablecloth and a chair. Another open door led out onto a balcony at the side of the house.

  Ducking their head to enter through the low door, Margery and Robert gently stepped on the polished wooden floor.

  “This is our bridal bed. Used to be my parents’. Of course, it’s a bit small by your standards ….” He stopped as another thudding sound had his guests turning the other way.

  Behind them Aziza peeped from the door, half in and half out of the room. Margery stared. It was the woman from under the house. All three were looking at Aziza and the glare of her coal black eyes.

  Wanting to communicate her thanks for letting them into their home, Margery smiled.

  Abdul Hamat’s fists tightened at his sides.

  “Ah - this is - my – Aziza,” he offered brightly, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth but not quite reaching his eyes. “She can’t speak English.” And went onto explain.

  Then abruptly turned his back on Aziza, signalling with his hand from behind his back to disappear.

  “Key!” She hissed in her language.

  “Later!” He snarled under his breath in Malay.

  Panicking, Aziza’s poise faltered – her eyes on the two guests staring back at her. Then she withdrew. Margery was left admiring the woman’s native dress with its long green and turquoise crêpe de chine tunic, a matching ankle-length skirt and a scarf
tied tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders.

  The visitors were now shown the balcony. “Oh this is heavenly, Bob!” Margery exclaimed in delight. “I can see the jungle from far beyond. Wow!”

  “Yes, Madam Wales,” the host proudly chuckled, standing by her side, delighting in her childlike response. “We are very lucky to have a jungle for our garden!” His face brimmed with a wide grin. “Isn’t it lovely, Madam? This veranda is very important for our women. We are Muslims, as you know. Here, at the side of the house our women can have some privacy to enjoy both the sun and the breeze. Also it is safe here, away from the snakes from the jungle. Oh don’t worry, Madam, there are no snakes in this house!” He hastened to explain, seeing the look of horror on her face. “My mother always sat here – her favourite spot in the house and told us stories in the afternoons whilst preparing vegetables for the dinner- you see - there is always a cool breeze up here – Madam, come and sit on this stool, close your eyes and imagine that you are in my mother’s days. Is my English ok? Come Madam. You won’t fall!” he patted the stool. “It’s strong. Don’t worry - it will not break – women of all sizes have sat on it.” He chuckled, this time his body doubled over. “There was this big American lady …” he stopped himself, drawing in his cheeks filled with silent laughter, remembering his manners.

  Margery politely looked away not relishing hearing about the incident of the unfortunate American woman and instead gazed at the huge flapper-like leaves of the tall trees. Robert placed his arm protectively around her shoulders.