Marrying Ameera (12 page)

The next day all Aunty Khushida could talk about was the bus arriving in Muzaffarabad from Srinagar. It captured her attention even more than Benazir Bhutto’s assassination. A bus service had begun between Indian Kashmir and Pakistani Azad Kashmir and for the first time in sixty years relatives would be able to visit each other.

‘I have never seen my cousin who lives in Srinagar,’ Aunty said. ‘Now I can.’

I wondered if militants would attack the bus. It would only run once a fortnight: no doubt a test to see if anyone dared use it.

I sat gingerly at the breakfast table. Zeba catapulted into my lap and I gasped with pain.

‘You were late yesterday,’ she said, ‘and Asher couldn’t find you.’

So Asher hadn’t let on that I’d never arranged to meet him. How interesting. Zeba studied my face. I touched the cheek Haider had slapped. Was there still a mark there?

‘Did you get me something?’ she asked.

I squinted at her, wondering what she meant.

‘My surprise.’ And she smiled. I was forgiven if I had a surprise.

I thought of the bag of sweets from the gold shop. ‘You have to hop off and then I can get it.’ It hurt again when she jumped down. I pushed myself up and tried to move normally, but she noticed.

‘Do you have a sore back, Ameera?’

‘Must have been how I slept.’

Why did I cover it up? I thought of the chance that they may know about the beating. I couldn’t bear to tell Uncle Rasheed and then find out that he had ordered it.

‘Dadi jan gets a sore back in her sleep,’ Zeba said, and so I was dismissed.

I found reaching down difficult, but I sat on my bed and dragged my backpack closer so I could pull out the paper bag. I looked inside and smiled: the sweets were barfi, made from condensed milk and almond flavouring. Mrs Yusuf made barfi at Christmas; it was square, like the coconut ice that Gran made. There was a lot in the bag so I took a few pieces out, then my hand froze. My fingers had touched plastic. I checked inside and found a mobile phone and a compact charger. I remembered the young man’s face as he gave the bag to me. ‘For later,’ he’d said quietly. He’d smiled when I’d said I’d eat them later, as if I was repeating part of a code.

There was a note too.
Dear Miss Ameera Hassan,
it said.
I am in Special Services with the Australian High Commission and I go by the name of Frank. We have been contacted by a person in Australia who is worried
about you. Please ring this number and tell me if you are in trouble or if you are just on holiday here. Please keep this phone secret. Learn the number and destroy this letter.
Below was his signature and the number. It had two sets of triple digits and would be easy to learn. There was a password too.

How weird was that? How did the young man in the gold shop know to give it to me? Suddenly I realised how stupid I’d been to think I could leave by myself. Any one of the people I’d seen could have tipped off Haider: the money-changer, the taxi driver, the ticket-seller. My family probably knew everyone. It would have been easy for the messenger to simply watch out for the new Australian girl.

‘Ameera?’

It was Zeba. I quickly stuffed the phone into my handbag as she came into the room.

‘I have something for you, Zeba.’

She came to sit with me on the bed. ‘Mmm, almond barfi. My favourite.’

She chattered on about sweets at weddings and Eid, and which flavours she liked the best, but I couldn’t concentrate. Tears sprang into my eyes; help was coming after all.

It was late afternoon before I managed to ring Frank. I sat in the pavilion by the Persian garden. It must have been his personal number for he answered immediately. ‘Frank here.’ He sounded efficient.

‘This is Ameera Hassan. You gave me a phone?’

‘Ah, yes.’ His voice was like my Uncle Richard’s, earthy and strong. It made me feel he could do anything. ‘Right.’ He paused slightly. ‘Your mother has rung me and says you have a problem.’

‘Mum? I’ve been here over a week and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. Is she okay?’

‘Sure, but very worried about you. She wanted us to send mercenaries in to get you,’ he chuckled, ‘but I’m the closest she’ll get. At least I was in the SAS. Besides, helping you has to be done legally. Now, she’s been trying to contact you every day apparently, but your relatives always say you’re out.’

I stood up. ‘No one told me Mum rang.’

There was a pause. ‘I’m afraid they’re blocking your mother’s calls. She says her husband would have asked them to do that. For your benefit, no doubt.’ His tone was dry.

‘But that’s terrible. I’ll ask—’

‘Ameera, don’t say anything to them.’

‘But—’

‘How will you explain how you know?’

I could see his point and stayed silent.

‘Your brother thinks there’s a wedding being arranged,’ he went on. ‘Is that true?’

His straight talk made it easier to admit the truth. ‘Yes, it’s for me.’

‘Are you happy about that?’

‘No. I want to go home.’

‘But they’re not listening?’

‘No. My family here say it’s a wonderful opportunity.’

‘And you don’t agree?’

‘No.’

‘Right, that’s all I needed to hear. It’s an offence to marry a girl without her permission. It’s not supported by Islam or by the judicial system in Australia, or here now either.’

I felt a lightening sensation in my head. ‘It’s illegal here?’

‘Yes, since the government passed a bill last year. That doesn’t stop it happening though, but it does mean we can get you out of there.’

I caught myself holding my breath. ‘Truly? When?’

‘It’s tricky—we have to get police assistance and that can take a while, especially now with Benazir Bhutto’s assassination. When’s the wedding?’

‘Less than two weeks. I think they’re even skipping the engagement party to make it go through quicker. Actually, they act as though I’m already engaged, but I didn’t consent to anything.’

I remembered Aunt Bibi putting the red dupatta over my head and the ring on my finger: that had probably been the engagement. At the time I’d had no idea.

He made a sound I didn’t catch.

‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

‘There are always problems. Look, we’ll do our best to get there in time.’ He asked for my address. ‘Is that where the wedding will be?’

‘I think so. Part of it anyway.’

‘I don’t suppose you have your passport?’

‘No, my uncle took both my passports.’

‘I’ll try to pull some strings. I’ll text information through.’ It sounded as though he was writing notes. ‘Okay, keep this phone hidden and on silent, and check for messages. Oh, and Ameera?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know a Tariq Yusuf?’

I hesitated.

‘He seems to know you.’ There was humour in Frank’s voice.

‘He’s my brother’s friend.’

‘Hmm. Actually I’ve spoken to both of them. So are you happy if Mr Yusuf and your brother are included in the progress of your situation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother wanted to come to Pakistan but I have persuaded her not to.’

I started to protest but he cut in. ‘It’ll be easier for us to get you out without your mother to worry about as well. We’ve found mothers are powerless to stop a wedding and she may be put in danger. Do you understand?’

My voice was small when I answered. ‘I think so.’ How good it would have been to see Mum. My eyes were tearing up and I blinked them clear.

‘Ring whenever you feel worried, okay? But only use this phone. Have you been threatened at all?’

‘My cousin beat me up yesterday.’ There was a silence on the other end. ‘I tried to run away,’ I added.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Frank’s voice was quieter. ‘But there’s something I want you to do.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t try to run again. From now on you must go along with the wedding plans.’

‘Why?’

‘So they won’t be watching you all the time. If they think you’ve accepted the marriage, they’ll relax and it’ll be easier to get you out. Trust me on this.’

Two different men had told me that in the space of twenty-four hours. Even Aunty Khushida had said it. Could I trust Frank any more than Haider and Aunty? I had to; he was my only option. ‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Good girl. Now don’t worry. The British Forced Marriage Unit makes the run up your way every week. We’ll sort something out for you.’

Relief and surprise almost made my knees sag. There was actually a department for this?

‘I’ll ring your mother now to get a photo. Any message?’

My voice choked up suddenly as I answered. ‘Please tell her I miss her and I wish I was home.’ It was all I could manage.

There was a short pause, then he said quietly, ‘Hang in there. And try to look happy.’ Then he rang off.

I sank onto the pavilion bench. In all my wildest imaginings I hadn’t expected this. I wondered if the phone would cope with me ringing Tariq. If I could hear his voice, even just for a moment, maybe I could be brave until Frank came.

I entered the number of Tariq’s mobile and held my breath. I heard the dial tones, counted five, six, seven…was he there? Then a click. ‘Hello.’

I would recognise the vibrancy of that voice anywhere. ‘Tariq.’

‘Ameera.’ He hesitated as though he was shutting a door. ‘Are you okay?’

I closed my eyes. What a relief to hear my name just the way he said it, with that slight roll of the ‘R’, the ‘A’ like the fluttering of a prayer. I forced myself not to cry. ‘Not really, but I just spoke to the Australian embassy. They’ll try and get me out of the country, but I’m scared—’

Tariq cut in. ‘What of?’

‘If they don’t get here in time, of Haider.’

‘Is Haider the…the groom?’ His voice couldn’t conceal his pain.

‘No, he’s another cousin, and he thinks he’s responsible for keeping me in line.’

‘Tell your uncle.’

‘I don’t think that will help. They all think the marriage is a great idea, and don’t know why I’m so ungrateful.’

‘Ameera, this kills me. I wish I was there.’

I hardly hesitated. ‘If you were here I’d be happy about a wedding.’

There was a silence while he must have wondered how brazen I’d become. But I wanted him to know. ‘Tariq, it’s you I love.’

It was like a dam bursting. ‘And I will love you no matter what happens. Will you remember that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whatever happens—even if you decide you should go through with the wedding—’

‘I’ll never—’

‘I’m sorry, I have to say this. My background isn’t so different from yours and I know the pressures. No one should be forced to marry, but if you do it for your own sake, and you’re happy about it, I can live with it.’

His words made me cry. ‘Tariq, don’t say that. I don’t want to marry anyone else.’

‘Then I’ll do all I can. All I think about is what you must be feeling.’ His voice broke then. ‘I love you, Ameera. I hope that will comfort you in whatever happens.’

We were both quiet a moment, then I said, ‘Thank you for the necklace—it helps.’

‘You’re welcome.’ They were light-hearted words but his voice sounded wobbly.

I didn’t want to but I ended the call in case the credit ran out and I wasn’t able to ring Frank later. I sat in a trance afterwards. Tariq had made me feel stronger. I prayed out there in the garden, even though it was cold and it hurt to kneel, and then went inside with my shalwar damp from the grass.

That night there was a message for me:

Tariq helping me send this. Have contacted embassy. They have experience helping girls out of the country. Do everything frank says. We wont ring this no, too risky for you. All the family here praying. Can’t wait to see you. All my love mum.

The next morning I put Frank’s advice into action. I thanked Aunty Khushida for the trouble she’d gone to for me. Her mouth opened and shut twice before she managed to respond. ‘Accha, that’s good.’ Then she looked at me long and hard. I smiled at her.

‘Bibi wants to take you shopping,’ she said eventually.

‘What time shall I be ready?’

Aunty Khushida was lost for words except for one phrase: Al hum du lillah. She whispered it as a prayer. I thought I shouldn’t overdo it; for one thing, I felt like a hypocrite, and secondly, it didn’t take much to remind me that this wasn’t a game. If it all went wrong I could be stuck here for good. I didn’t even know how Frank was going to ‘get me out’ as he called it. I just had to trust that something would happen before the wedding.

Meena came with us to the bazaar. I remembered to cover my head when the Azan sounded, and tried to look interested when gold brocade material was laid out in front of me. Aunt Bibi shook her head and the shopkeeper flung out more clouds of cloth like sails on a
summer’s day. I lost count of how many lengths of fabric she bought. I wasn’t asked what I liked. Aunt Bibi would put a bolt of cloth against my face and Meena would say how much it suited me and that was it. Then we were off to the tailors. Aunt Bibi had to pay double for having the outfits sewed quicker.

‘She’s only just arrived from Australia for the wedding,’ Aunt Bibi explained. She enveloped me in a hug and I felt myself slipping down a dark tunnel. I chanted God’s names in my head to mask the fear, to remind me I was still me.

I wasn’t consulted about the designs either. I could sew well and was usually interested in fabrics and designs, but Meena had that all sorted. She gave the tailor pictures of shalwar qameezes from fashion magazines. ‘Copy these,’ she said. It took ages to explain which cloth went with which design. The man wrote it all down in an old exercise book, making painstaking curls with a blunt pencil stub. I watched in a haze, managing to smile when Aunt Bibi glanced at me.

My wedding suit was bought ready-made: a gharara, red and gold, with a shawl to match. Instead of a shalwar there was a long divided skirt. The embroidery on the dupatta was sewn with thread spun from pure gold. My soul was being sold, and only Frank’s voice in my head stopped me from telling Aunt Bibi I couldn’t do this any more.

Shoes were bought with the same intensity. David Jones would make a killing if 160 million Pakistanis lived in Australia, I thought wryly. There was a pair of shoes for each suit; Meena had kept a swatch from each piece
of cloth to match the colours. Make-up was given the same attention: for each cloth, a different lipstick, eye shadow, nail polish. Everything matched and everything was haggled over. We went to henna shops, sweet shops, bangle shops, underwear shops, although there was nothing in Muzaffarabad like the lingerie shops back home. I tried not to cringe when Meena waved a coneshaped bra in front of my eyes. I wouldn’t have wanted Tariq to see me dead in it.

Meena and Aunt Bibi were laughing as if they were at a party. For the first time I let myself wonder what it would be like if I went through with the wedding. Papa would be happy with me. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about the alternative yet: that if I stood Shaukat up at the ceremony, I would be disowned. I would lose my whole Pakistani family, my identity. Could I be brave enough for that? And was it bravery or disobedience? Would God disown me too? I knew Mum and Riaz, Grandpa and Gran wouldn’t disown me. Nor would Tariq. The thought of him brought a true smile to my lips.

There was so much to carry, Aunt Bibi paid two boys to take it all to her house. I was glad for my back ached: I still hadn’t recovered from the beating. She returned with me to Uncle Rasheed’s and she and Aunty Khushida chuckled together in the kitchen. I was struck by the sound: it was the first time I’d heard Aunty Khushida laugh since I’d arrived.

After supper Uncle Rasheed came to watch TV with us. He smiled at me. ‘I hear you enjoyed shopping today, beti. Inshallah, you will enjoy the next days very much—the happiest of a girl’s life. I am glad to be making you happy.’

I stared at him; he really meant it. Frank’s idea was working, but a fresh wave of fear crashed onto me. What was I doing? I felt as if I was drowning myself and it would be my fault when the sea closed over me and the air ran out.

‘Ji, beti,’ he said. ‘You will be thankful. You come from a different place but our hearts are one. You will be happy with us. It is good you are seeing this at last.’

Aunty Khushida smiled at me too. They probably thought I’d just been acting like a spoilt kid and now I was being mature about it. Dadi jan, Asher and Jamila watched me unsmiling. Were they fooled? I wasn’t sure.

Haider wasn’t fooled. He waylaid me in the courtyard next morning after prayer time. I’d taken to praying in the garden; I felt closer to God in the cold air under an open sky. I’d never prayed so much. If Papa had seen me he would have said sending me to Pakistan had worked out for the best, but I was praying for an escape. I had been taught that to obey Papa was also following God but now I was confused. Was it possible to keep God’s blessing if I defied Papa? I was deep in thought when Haider grabbed my arm. I couldn’t help my reaction. The trembling started in my legs and relentlessly moved up my body until I could hardly breathe. How brave was I now? Faced with danger, I turned into a rabbit. I hoped my fear didn’t show but I swear he knew. He smiled in that sleazy way of his but anger sparked in his eyes too.

‘I can’t believe you have learnt your lesson so quickly,’ he said. ‘I thought you would need more persuasion.’

I fought down my disgust as I saw he had been looking forward to teaching me more lessons.

Then he said evenly, ‘Who is Mr Tariq Yusuf?’

My eyes opened wide while my mind raced. He couldn’t have heard me on the phone the other day. Then I remembered my old mobile. He must have checked my contacts list. There were no messages so he couldn’t know anything for sure.

‘He…he is my best friend’s brother. She doesn’t have a phone and he gives her my messages.’ I hoped none of what I felt for Tariq had slipped into my voice.

Haider pulled me closer and my shawl slipped. It was as if I was paralysed—I made no protest. ‘So, Shaukat is getting damaged goods.’

Haider had said he would kill me if I dishonoured the family. The initial affront of him ripping into my privacy was swiftly overcome by terror. Dread burst in my chest like a bomb. ‘No.’

Haider laughed, but then he stopped and stared at me. The violence I feared hadn’t flowered yet but his laughter unnerved me. He put his hands around my neck. His fingers seemed gentle but I knew what they were capable of. ‘So beautiful,’ he murmured and stared at me through his lashes. My stomach churned as he quoted an old proverb: ‘A lie has no legs to stand on.’ I felt the pressure of his thumbs on the arteries in my neck. ‘If you are lying, and you ever contact this Tariq, I will kill him too.’

Nervous reaction made me grin stupidly. Surely he was joking. ‘In Australia?’

‘You are so ignorant.’ His face was close to mine. ‘Sunno, listen, all you have to do is be a good girl and all will be well.’ Then his fingers found Tariq’s necklace under my scarf. ‘What’s this stupid thing? Wood?’

He yanked at it. My throat constricted and I gagged. I thought I’d be strangled after all, but mercifully the thread broke. The beads scattered on the ground; I heard them bounce away from me. I forced myself not to pick them up or he would know how much the necklace meant to me. Instead, I stood staring past his shoulder and he pushed me away as if I was the one who had been restraining him.

When he had gone I salvaged what I could of Tariq’s necklace and retreated to the Persian garden. I sat on the bench in the pavilion shaking, and it was nothing to do with the cold. The beads were clenched in my hand; the tears still hadn’t come.

‘Meri bachi,’ said an ancient voice. ‘My child.’

I looked up; it was Baba ji. He shuffled closer and handed me more beads and then put his hand on my head in blessing. He was just a gardener, yet at that moment he reminded me of Grandpa and his hand on my head felt like the brush of an angel’s wing.