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Authors: Fatima Bhutto
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Asserting all his dwindling strength over the rigid gear stick and tight clutch, he pulled the car over to the kerb.
‘Mina,’ he said softly, ‘the tape is yours. It was your favourite.’
Mina stared at her husband, her eyes glowing, glistening.
‘You always listened to it in the car; you know all the words of all the songs. You used to beat your chest to the music, like it was devotional. You said that you believed she wasn’t singing for Pakistan. She was singing for us, for the small, for the forgotten. For Mir Ali.’
Mina’s eyelids fluttered. She remembered the heavily made-up singer, her thick auburn hair woven into a bun starting at the nape of her neck and messily gathered on the crown of her head. She would walk to the stage in tiny steps, like Japanese Geisha girls or Chinese ladies whose feet had been painfully bound. The sari tucked her body into a curvaceous column, Mina remembered. She remembered her hourglass figure. She remembered how she had wished she too could place jasmine buds in her hair and sing of war and death as if they were earthly delights.
Mina put her fingers through the small crack of the window and gripped her chest with her other hand, beating her heart like she was resuscitating it.
Ya Ali, ya Ali
. She hit her heart and let her ink-stained tears fall on her white, crumpled
shalwar kameez
, and repeated the words over and over to herself while Sikandar drove home in silence.
That was months ago. Sikandar has kept his phone on silent since then, a quiet protest against the ongoing funeral invasions. The kitchen boy is sent to collect Mina when she causes a scene and no one speaks of the sari-clad songbird. Sikandar tried to keep Mina’s secret for as long as he could, bringing his wife home and hurriedly sequestering her in their bedroom, locking the door and pulling the curtains shut so no one would see her wail and scream. But Mina’s cries could be heard across the house. For weeks, Zainab stood at the bottom of the staircase, unable and afraid to make the climb, listening to her daughter-in-law sob. Upstairs, Sikandar would open the door only long enough to assure his mother that there was nothing to worry about.
‘She just needs rest,’ he would tell his family as they lowered their eyes uncomfortably at the kitchen table. ‘It’s natural, this kind of reaction.’ He was a doctor; he knew these things.Sikandar did his best to cover Mina’s depressive rants, but he could not hide the funerals for very long.
Zainab started to receive phone calls, too. Women her age, friends and acquaintances, called and besieged her with stories of Mina’s trespasses. Her daughter-in-law was crazy, they said. She should speak to her doctor son about having her committed. She was causing trouble and upsetting good families in Mir Ali. It was simply unacceptable. It simply wasn’t done.
When Zainab told Sikandar about the phone calls he looked away from his mother and lied. ‘She just needs rest,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘It’s natural, this type of reaction.’
So now Aman Erum and Hayat keep out of her way. Zainab speaks to her daughter-in-law only at meal times. She does not call Mina to her room and she no longer asks her to shell pistachios for her in the afternoon. Zainab and Mina used to frequent Tabana’s beauty parlour to have their eyebrows threaded and their hair coloured. Tabana had four girls who did the waxing and the hair ironing. She had even begun to offer Japanese bonding, a new fashion from abroad. ‘Instantly straight hair,’ Tabana promised. ‘No more fuss. Very popular.’ Mina had laughed and told her mother-in-law that when Tabana stopped washing her hair in the kitchen sink she might consider the adventurous foreign hair treatments, but not before then. Zainab now goes alone to the parlours run out of women’s kitchens and living rooms, like Tabana’s, that have sprung up all over Mir Ali. And no one mentions Mina’s outings.
The Suzuki
‘Mina,’ he said softly, ‘the tape is yours. It was your favourite.’
Mina stared at her husband, her eyes glowing, glistening.
‘You always listened to it in the car; you know all the words of all the songs. You used to beat your chest to the music, like it was devotional. You said that you believed she wasn’t singing for Pakistan. She was singing for us, for the small, for the forgotten. For Mir Ali.’
Mina’s eyelids fluttered. She remembered the heavily made-up singer, her thick auburn hair woven into a bun starting at the nape of her neck and messily gathered on the crown of her head. She would walk to the stage in tiny steps, like Japanese Geisha girls or Chinese ladies whose feet had been painfully bound. The sari tucked her body into a curvaceous column, Mina remembered. She remembered her hourglass figure. She remembered how she had wished she too could place jasmine buds in her hair and sing of war and death as if they were earthly delights.
Mina put her fingers through the small crack of the window and gripped her chest with her other hand, beating her heart like she was resuscitating it.
Ya Ali, ya Ali
. She hit her heart and let her ink-stained tears fall on her white, crumpled
shalwar kameez
, and repeated the words over and over to herself while Sikandar drove home in silence.
That was months ago. Sikandar has kept his phone on silent since then, a quiet protest against the ongoing funeral invasions. The kitchen boy is sent to collect Mina when she causes a scene and no one speaks of the sari-clad songbird. Sikandar tried to keep Mina’s secret for as long as he could, bringing his wife home and hurriedly sequestering her in their bedroom, locking the door and pulling the curtains shut so no one would see her wail and scream. But Mina’s cries could be heard across the house. For weeks, Zainab stood at the bottom of the staircase, unable and afraid to make the climb, listening to her daughter-in-law sob. Upstairs, Sikandar would open the door only long enough to assure his mother that there was nothing to worry about.
‘She just needs rest,’ he would tell his family as they lowered their eyes uncomfortably at the kitchen table. ‘It’s natural, this kind of reaction.’ He was a doctor; he knew these things.Sikandar did his best to cover Mina’s depressive rants, but he could not hide the funerals for very long.
Zainab started to receive phone calls, too. Women her age, friends and acquaintances, called and besieged her with stories of Mina’s trespasses. Her daughter-in-law was crazy, they said. She should speak to her doctor son about having her committed. She was causing trouble and upsetting good families in Mir Ali. It was simply unacceptable. It simply wasn’t done.
When Zainab told Sikandar about the phone calls he looked away from his mother and lied. ‘She just needs rest,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘It’s natural, this type of reaction.’
So now Aman Erum and Hayat keep out of her way. Zainab speaks to her daughter-in-law only at meal times. She does not call Mina to her room and she no longer asks her to shell pistachios for her in the afternoon. Zainab and Mina used to frequent Tabana’s beauty parlour to have their eyebrows threaded and their hair coloured. Tabana had four girls who did the waxing and the hair ironing. She had even begun to offer Japanese bonding, a new fashion from abroad. ‘Instantly straight hair,’ Tabana promised. ‘No more fuss. Very popular.’ Mina had laughed and told her mother-in-law that when Tabana stopped washing her hair in the kitchen sink she might consider the adventurous foreign hair treatments, but not before then. Zainab now goes alone to the parlours run out of women’s kitchens and living rooms, like Tabana’s, that have sprung up all over Mir Ali. And no one mentions Mina’s outings.
The Suzuki
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