Typhoon

by Qaisra Shahraz

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

"Typhoon" is set in Chiragpur, a Pakistani village warped in time, space and guilt, whose inhabitants are still traumatised by what happened some twenty years earlier in a courtroom (kacheri). With the arrival of a beautiful stranger from the city, the villagers are helplessly swept along by a typhoon-like series of events and become buried under the burden of their guilt. Closely guarding their small silk parcels containing a lock of a woman's hair, they all hope to return it to its rightful owner and beg her forgiveness."Typhoon" is a tragic tale of three young women, each one demonised by their past: Naghmana - the glamorous stranger from the city; Chaudharani Kaniz - the village land baron, and Gulshan - the innocent wife. One is caught in the arms of another woman's husband in the middle of the night; another was raped in her youth; and the third woman's world fell apart as she lost her husband, before her eyes, to a total stranger and her mother vowed revenge. For all three there is no escape from what fate has in store.

Release date: June 23, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 350

Sample

Tuesday, May 2002

THE VILLAGE OF Chiragpur was in mourning. Its revered head man, Baba Siraj Din, was dying. Straight after the call to prayer, from the mosque, the local qazi or judge made an emotional appeal to the villagers, to offer a special prayer for the departure of the old man’s soul.


Inside his large whitewashed home Baba Siraj Din lay on his bed.

‘Thalak! I divorce you!’


Those terrible words came echoing back down the years.

The crimson lips curved into a smile, as she peeped up at him from behind the dark sunglasses – her long hair draping to her hips. A confident foot strapped in elegant black sandals had stepped out. The second one faltered, his stern mask of disapproval whipping away her smile.


‘Assalam Alaikum, Baba Jee!’ She greeted him politely.


She was a stranger in ‘his’ village and one who didn’t attempt to cover her head in his presence. Siraj Din dismissed her salutation and pointedly ignoring her walked on. The woman remained standing next to her car, bewildered by his rudeness. He turned his henna-dyed head and rested his green gaze on her bare arms and the thick curtain of hair spread over her right shoulder. Tapping his ivory walking stick firmly on the ground, Siraj Din ruthlessly trod on.


‘Aba Jan!’ His daughter-in-law’s honey-sweet voice beckoned, willing him back to her world.


The dying man’s head jerked up and nestled on a fresh cool spot on the pillow, he ignored Shahzada’s intrusive voice, returning instead to the reel of memories rolling away behind his age-worn eyelids.

With the tightly-wound chador around her shoulders and bowed head, she glanced up from beneath the edge of the shawl. Her eyes were those of a wounded deer. Beseeching and resigned.


‘I divorce you!’ The words dropped on the hushed silence.


The awed leaves on the tree in the courtyard stopped rattling. The warm afternoon breeze stilled. The villagers held their breath.


‘I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!’


Three deadly thalaks pelted down onto her bent body, forcing her head to fall on her chest.


‘Aba Jan!’ The unwelcome voice of Shahzada careered in again, scattering the memories to join the chaos at the back of his mind. Her cold hand was massaging his forehead now, bringing him back to the present.

Baba Siraj Din opened his eyes wide. Their icy green glare charged up to meet the warm brown glow of Shahzada’s; unafraid, and beaming down their steadfast love at him. Then, miraculously his eyes softened. It was Shahzada, his beloved daughter-in-law. His tongue slipped out of his mouth, moistening his dry lips.

‘Shahzada, my daughter!’ he croaked, craning up his neck and trying to speak once again. ‘I am dying!’ His hand feebly reached out to her arm. ‘Listen to me. Call her! Her!’


Shahzada looked astounded. ‘Zarri Bano?’

The old man’s head shook on the pillow. ‘No, her! Her! You must find her for me! Don’t let me die without seeing her, please!’ His head rested back again, his eyes closing tightly.


She was looking up at him again from beneath her shawl, her wounded eyes and sad words boring into him: ‘I forgive you! I forgive you all!’


The old man’s head jerked up on the pillow again, the gaunt face now supplicating, his hands held high in prayer: ‘Allah pak, forgive me. Grant me enough life to beg for her forgiveness,’ Siraj Din loudly begged of his Almighty Lord, alarming his eldest granddaughter Zarri Bano who was standing at her mother’s side.


‘Mother, who does Grandfather want to see?’

Shahzada stared at her baby grandson Adam in her daughter’s arms. She didn’t answer Zarri Bano’s question. She knew. She had promised him: it was his dying wish. Without a word she turned on her heel and went to summon the village matchmaker, Kulsoom Bibi, to the house. It was an errand that only she, with her enormous networking skill, could perform.

‘Zarri Bano?’ The old man smiled up at his beautiful eldest granddaughter, dressed in her habitual black veil, the burqa. Their Holy Woman.


Zarri Bano placed her hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. With a great effort, Siraj Din raised his two frail hands and held them up in mafi to the young woman begging her forgiveness.


‘Zarri Bano,’ he panted, raising his head. ‘Forgive me for making you a Holy Woman six years ago. It was a cruel thing to do.’

‘Please, Grandfather don’t say that. There is nothing to forgive – I am very happy with my life. It’s all in the past now. Look at my son, your great-grandson.’

His hand brushed baby Adam’s head. Contentedly he closed his eyes. But a moment later, his head moved agitatedly from side to side. His past would not let him rest.


‘Zarri Bano, find her for me! You must find her for me!’ the dry lips desperately repeated.

‘Who, Grandfather? Who?’

‘The doomed, badkismet woman!’ came the low whimper. ‘I have to see her!’


Zarri Bano stood up. ‘I don’t understand, Grandfather. Who are you talking about?’

But there was no answer. Her grandfather had sunk into total delirium.

Kulsoom Bibi, the fifty-six-year-old village matchmaker, had been summoned to the hawaili, Baba Siraj Din’s ornate home, on a special errand by Chaudharani Shahzada. Always very honoured to be invited there, her face and body, nevertheless wore the strain of this particular errand. It was a heavy burden to carry. After saying her ‘salam’ and paying her respects to the dying man, Kulsoom headed off to the kitchen quarters to see the cook, her best friend, Naimat Bibi.

Naimat Bibi was busy making stacks of chapattis. Guests were expected from different towns and cities within the next few hours, descending on Chiragpur to pay their last respects. It was reckoned by most that the old man would die before the night was over. Thus a five-inch pile of chapattis lay stacked on a round aluminium tray. It was better to prepare ahead. Who was going to bother helping her in the middle of the night? And hungry guests had to be fed, no matter what the hour.


Crouched in front of her stove, on a footstool, Naimat Bibi was just about to lay the chapatti on the flat round pan to cook it, when her friend, Kulsoom Bibi, breezed in.


Naimat Bibi quickly slapped the chapatti down on the hot pan, burning her little finger in the process. Pulling another stool out with one foot for her friend to sit on, she peered up at the other woman’s face, ignoring her throbbing finger. ‘What is it, Kulsoom Jee?’

It wasn’t the deadpan expression on Kulsoom’s dark, narrow face, but the look in her eyes that immediately signalled alarm to Naimat Bibi. She knew how to interpret that look after thirty years of friendship.

‘What’s wrong?’ she squeaked with trepidation.

Kulsoom merely stared back at her friend. It was a long while before she answered.

‘The old man wants to see her.’


As her friend carried on staring back at her, failing to understand her meaning, Kulsoom Bibi’s heart thumped away; she felt duty bound to explain.

‘He is dying and he wants to see …’ She whispered, leaning over and looking straight into her friend’s fearful eyes … ‘Her! Naimat Bibi! Her! Don’t you remember? The kacheri! Twenty years ago!’


Her friend’s heavy lidded eyes twitched wide open. She ignored the burning chapatti on the hot pan and her feet shoved aside the basin of dough that lay next to her stool. ‘Have you still got your silk parcel, Kulsoom Jee?’ she asked.

Her throat dry, Kulsoom Bibi swallowed and her shawled head dipped in assent. ‘Have you got yours?’ she croaked.

‘Yes,’ Naimat Bibi turned to the burning chapatti, as the smoke nearly choked them both, and plucked it off the pan. The tips of her fingers scorched, she threw the charred remains onto the concrete floor. ‘We are cursed, my friend,’ she added, meeting the fear in Kulsoom Bibi’s eyes: ‘We must return her pride.’


The stack of chapattis and the remainder of the dough were forgotten as she thought of the small silk parcel, tucked deep into one corner of her steel trunk; it was probably moth-eaten by now, but she had to find it. Resolutely she stood up to go. Guests, dinner and chapattis could wait.

‘Yes, we must return our parcels to her!’ Kulsoom said heavily. ‘I shall go and find mine!’ She stood up to follow her friend.





NAIMAT BIBI FINISHED hanging up Zarri Bano’s clothes, leaving them to dry on the rooftop courtyard, and peered over the railing at the village fields below. Her eyes scanned the scene and then focused on a car crawling slowly along the narrow, winding road towards the village. She didn’t recognise the car. It belonged to no one in Chiragpur. It had to be one of the guests heading for Baba Siraj Din’s hawaili. What if it was her?


‘Kulsoom Jee!’ she shouted excitedly, panting down the steps to the central courtyard, where Kulsoom was busy playing with Zarri Bano’s baby son Adam in his cot under the shade of the verandah.

‘What is it?’ Kulsoom, looked up in concern, holding the baby’s rattle poised over his small face. She was desperately trying to get him off to sleep – her aching arms couldn’t possibly carry him around for another hour. If only he would take a short nap, she could then slip out to visit Sardara Jee, their village milk woman.

‘I think she is here!’ Naimat Bibi whispered solemnly. Kulsoom Bibi, gently lifted the baby from his cot.


‘I will give the child back to Zarri Bano Sahiba. I am getting nowhere with him. Go and watch, I’ll come up in a minute.’

The car that had brought Naimat Bibi rushing down to her friend was travelling slowly along the road, blowing up gentle clouds of fine dust in its wake. The driver, his face impassive, turned to survey his female passenger, but she studiously ignored his quiet scrutiny. They were now passing the tall wall of sugarcane crops on either side of the road. Beyond, almost hidden from view, was Chiragpur, with its eleven narrow streets, meandering in and out of one another. An assortment of buildings and houses of all shapes and sizes lined the village horizon. The tall ones, with their elegant imposing marble and alabaster facades, mingled quite happily with the humbler, brick-lined and mud-baked dwellings.


‘Haroon, please stop,’ the woman commanded quietly. The words hung heavy between them – the first uttered during the three-hour car journey. Their effect was immediate. The driver obeyed at once, and the car came to a gentle standstill.

His face impassive, he waited, wondering what she was going to say. Silently she opened the car door and climbed out onto the dusty road. She didn’t look back, but headed for the footpath between the mustard field, with its swaying yellow carpet, and the cabbage field.

The driver stared bleakly through the car windscreen. He had guessed her destination. When she reached the spot he pressed his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes in despair.

She stood under the tree, next to the old well. This used to be the watering place, the hub of female activity where, in the olden days, everyone in the village had drawn their water. The beauty and the tranquillity of the green fields suffocated Gulshan. No one was in sight. The only sign of life came from a tractor far away, ploughing the land. Three green parakeets pecked at the leaves in the tree above her. Gulshan’s chiffon dupatta flew off her head in the warm afternoon breeze. She snatched it back and wrapped it tightly around her, tucking the grey strands of hair neatly behind her ears. Turning, she glanced at the round cavern of the well, afraid to peer down. She had always been afraid of the well, of falling into its dark surface and drowning in its mysterious depths. Leaning against the tree, she squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to block out the haunting images that seared her brain and every living cell of her body.


When she felt her cheeks get wet, she gently wiped them clean with the long end of her cotton chador, draped casually around her shoulders. She raised her wistful eyes and warm face to the sun, hoping that it would not only dry her tears, but also heal the scars inside her. Above all, she prayed for it to thaw the icy prison which had enclosed her for the last twenty years.


Her eyes shut tight, she recalled the sight of Haroon’s face bent over the woman’s, his arms reaching around her, holding her close. The woman’s head was pressed intimately against his chest … Through the blur of tears, Gulshan turned back to the road. The car was still there. He was still waiting. Would always wait.

Slowly she retraced her steps. This time she kept to the dusty path. Quietly, she climbed back into the car and sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap. Haroon watched her profile. A lock of grey hair had escaped from her plait. Remains of a tear still clung forlornly to the edge of her eyelash. His hands tightening on the wheel, Haroon set the car in motion and whisked his window shut against the dust and the flies from the road.

Familiar, homely silence prevailed once again. Both retreated into their own personal worlds, watching the village materialise before them through the car windscreen. A few moments later, the car reached the old man’s imposing house in the centre of Chiragpur. Haroon parked it alongside five others on the carport reserved for visitors to Baba Siraj Din’s home. Gulshan climbed out of the car and then waited.


From the rooftop, Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi had hypnotically followed the car’s slow journey towards the hawaili. Holding her breath, Naimat Bibi leaned over the railing, wondering who the driver was. When she saw a tall, grey-haired man get out, she immediately recognised him. ‘My God, it’s Haroon!’ she cried to her friend.

‘Let me see.’ Kulsoom, too, peered over, trying to catch a better view. It was her misfortune that she was two inches shorter than Naimat Bibi, and her friend never let her forget it.

‘Where is Gulshan going?’ Naimat Bibi asked, as she saw the woman walk away in the other direction rather than following her husband into the house.

Kulsoom stepped away from the rooftop railing – disappointed. ‘I thought it was her!’ She said quietly to her friend. ‘The old man called this pair as well. Can you imagine it? What a reunion it will be at his funeral!’


Hobbling on her bony legs, taking one step at a time, she clung to the banister as she went down the stairs. She hated stairs, especially slippery marble ones. They were going to be very busy. She and Naimat Bibi had to help Chaudharani Shahzada and her daughter to look after their new guests. She wondered what would happen when ‘that lot’ all met again. ‘She’ and ‘she’ and ‘he’. Especially her, the unfortunate one. Kulsoom’s hand reached up to feel the small silk parcel, now tucked away in her pocket. She could not wait to get rid of it, but it had to be placed in the hands of its rightful owner. She had waited twenty years for this moment.


Her head modestly draped with her white cotton chador, Gulshan crossed the two village lanes until she reached the one she knew so well. Apart from the new brickwork of the lanes and the guttering, hardly anything else had changed. She ignored the passers-by, keeping her head lowered, afraid of being recognised – yet cynically wondering if anybody did remember her at all. Some probably weren’t even born then.

Her feet stalled outside her mother’s old house – her birthplace. Once a lively family home, it now stood abandoned in a row of other nondescript houses with their tall wooden doors. Her hands trembling, Gulshan reached up and pulled the heavy aluminium chain down. With the palms of her hands she thrust the two doors open, climbed the concrete step and entered her old home.

A desolate sight met her eyes. Dust and crushed leaves caked the walls and floor of the small square-shaped courtyard and the dimly lit hallway. Cobwebs were meshed over every crack in the brickwork where the cement had eroded from the rain. They clung in long fragile ropes around the pillars supporting the small verandah and along the washing line. Rolled insects lay trapped in them. Only the tandoor, the mud-baked oven used by the neighbour Naimat Bibi for her business, stood distinctly apart from the rest. The area around it was kept meticulously tidy. The rim of the oven itself had a newly baked look with its sleek layer of mud. The inside was coated with inches of soot.


Gulshan closed her eyes and imagined her mother stepping out of her bedroom door, holding her grandson Moeen in her arms.

Her gaze swivelled to another room. The door was shut. Her eager feet padded over to it. With a gentle push it creaked open. Gulshan stepped inside and straight into the past. The room, as always, was in darkness. Only through the small stained-glass windows, roshandans, did a dull glimmer of light creep into the gloom.


Gulshan opened her eyes wide to make out the strange shapes in the dusk. Bales of animal fodder were piled up against the wall, where once she had shared a bed with her husband. No bed now, only dusty clay pots stacked one on top of each other and bundles of hay propped against them. Her mother had sold the house to Sardara, the milk woman, who apparently used it as a storehouse for her animal feed. With her arthritic hips, she very rarely visited this place.

‘This was my bedroom!’ Gulshan moaned aloud.

In anguish, she went up to the stacks of hay and leaned against them. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against the soft hay, imagining it to be the pillow on her bed a long time ago. This is where it all began. Sighing deeply, she welcomed back the haunting images, and let them dance before her eyes. That night … the night from which there was no escape for either her or her husband Haroon. Twenty years ago.





May, 1982

HALF ASLEEP, GULSHAN’S eyes opened and then closed, feeling the movement beside her on the bed. A ray of moonlight beaming through the two windows almost touched the ceiling, casting Haroon’s shadow on the wall as he rose.


He looked down with uncertainty at the sleeping figure of his wife. Then in a decisive movement he buttoned the collar of his night-shirt, while his feet prowled about on the concrete floor for his sandals. Finding them, he picked them up and trod barefoot across the bedroom. On reaching the door, he opened it quietly.

Out in the shadows of the moonlit verandah, Haroon cast a surreptitious glance at the closed door of his mother-in-law’s bedroom. Slipping his feet into the sandals he padded lightly across the small square courtyard. Moving his fingers through his hair, he furtively looked over his shoulders at the two closed doors.

Inside the bedroom, Gulshan stirred, her hand reaching out to the warm, empty space beside her in the bed. She heard the click of the latch of the outside door. Now wide-awake, she sat up in bed and stared at the shadows taunting her on the wall.

‘Where is Haroon?’ Gulshan asked the silent room. ‘Where could her husband be going at this time of night?’

A sudden chill snaked up her body as her feet touched the cold surface of the floor. Blindly, her feet shuffled under the bed, seeking her leather sandals with her big toe. Finding one, she urgently sought the other while she plucked up her woollen chador from the chair next to the bed. Flinging it hurriedly around her shoulders, she stepped out onto the verandah.


Hurrying across the small courtyard, Gulshan reached for the wooden door – it had been left ajar. Letting herself out, she pulled the door shut behind her and carefully descended the two concrete steps onto the narrow cobbled lane of the village.

She peered into the darkness and, at first, saw nothing. Then she glimpsed a figure disappearing around the corner at the far end of the lane.

‘Haroon!’ she called softly – not wanting to wake their neighbours. Kulsoom Bibi, was a light sleeper and also had a tendency to get up very early in the morning.

The village was draped in a cold silence as it slept. Even the dogs were quiet. Gulshan drew her chador tightly around her head and against her chest, and stared up at the six-foot-high brick wall of her neighbour’s courtyard, studded with jagged pieces of glass to keep intruders out. What was she doing here, standing all alone in the dark, in the middle of the night? Where was her husband going? What had happened to him?

Panicking, she lifted up the hemline of her trousers in case she tripped over the cobbles, and started to run after him. Criss-crossing the lane, she intuitively avoided little dirty pools of water, where the stones or bricks had gone missing.

Breathless now, she shouted, ‘Haroon!’ once more, as she ran after him through the narrow maze of lanes. The last one led out of the village and ended in a large open clearing, near the village fields. Gulshan stood alone on a small dusty path. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. The dark fields of rape and other vegetables spanned around her, disappearing into the starry horizon.


Gulshan peered down, hastily moving away from the grassy edge of the footpath. Snakes were known to make their nesting places here at night-time; coiled under or around the thick tufts of dry grass and the roots of the sturdy sugarcane plants.

Nervously she pulled her shawl even tighter around her head and body, holding its two embroidered edges around her face to protect her cold ears. The night air wafted against her cotton shalwar-clad legs. The lawn cotton fabric afforded no protection in the chilly breeze. Shivering, she pressed her mouth shut.

‘Haroon must have gone further up the path – but that is going out of the village!’ Gulshan ran up the path, tripping on the small stones in the dark. ‘I must follow him,’ she panted.

The path turned sharply to the right towards the old village well. A tall mature tree stood in the middle of the crossroads, and Gulshan leaned against its trunk, trying to regain her breath. A sudden shaft of moonlight revealed her husband walking up to the well beside an old Banyan tree, with its dry, gnarled roots spread out on the path and disappearing into the nearby field.

‘Har …’ Her husband’s name jammed in her throat when a tall young woman stepped out from behind the tree. Bare-headed, and with her long hair draped like a dark curtain behind her back, she walked up to Haroon and leaned towards him. Instantly, and with a sickening jolt, Gulshan knew who the woman was.

Gulshan’s world stood still on its axis, as she watched the woman lay her head intimately against Haroon’s chest. Before Gulshan’s dazed eyes, her husband’s arms rose and clasped the woman in a firm embrace.


A scream of agony ripped through Gulshan’s throat before reaching her mouth. Frantically she stuffed the edge of her chador in her mouth and bit onto the cloth, strangling her scream.

Before her horror-struck eyes, she saw her beloved husband bend down over the woman’s face and shower it with passionate kisses, moving from her forehead down to her throat.

A sense of unreality and disbelief crashed over Gulshan. Caught up in the nightmare, she found her feet held to the ground. Whilst her senses reeled with a kind of deadly fascination, her eyes stayed fastened on the pair. It was like a theatre, with the well and the tree as the romantic backcloth and Haroon and the woman as the chief performers. Now the woman was returning his kisses with the same fervour!

Beads of sweat rolled down the side of Gulshan’s forehead. Animal sounds of distress tore between her lips. Gulshan’s world had simply collapsed around her. Then, from somewhere, primitive jealousy seized and spurred her on, giving her the strength to fight her body. She fled – stumbling on the pebbly, uneven path. Tripping over one tuft of grass, she slipped down into the field below, twisting her foot in the process. ‘Arrgh!’ Pain shot through her, blurring her eyes with tears. Dragging her foot up from a cauliflower plant she shook the dust out of her sandal.

Her chador had fallen off her head and was now trailing behind her – its loose end touching the ground. Her body didn’t feel the cold any more, sweat continued to fall from her forehead onto her face. As she entered the village lanes, her heart was beating like a drum. When her foot skidded into a small pool of dirty water, between the missing cobbles, Gulshan wrenched off her dirty wet sandal and limped the rest of the way home, not caring if she were to step on shards of glass.


Once back, she thrust open the tall wooden door with the soiled sandal and entered the courtyard. A sob ripped through her throat again. Leaning against the door, she pushed her wrist into her mouth – biting on the soft flesh. The primitive animal sound was suffocated. Feeling the pain, she pulled her wrist from her mouth and looked down at the dark teeth-marks. Fiercely she brushed the tears from her face.

Remembering her dirty foot, she walked up to the bucket standing against a pillar on the verandah. The silver balti of water contained clean water and was kept overnight in case of water shortage to rinse the morning dishes. Gulshan now dipped her whole foot into it, making the water pleat – dirty.


She shook her ankle to dry it, but the damp hemline of her trousers clung to her cold skin. Her wet foot slippery on the marble floor, Gulshan limped to her bedroom. Throwing open the door, she strode over to her dresser. Rummaging in t. . .