Marrying Ameera (5 page)

Papa said he wouldn’t take me to Kashmir himself. ‘You will get to know your relatives better on your own. It will be good for you. Your uncle will meet you at Islamabad airport. You’ll go through Singapore—it’s the safest and shortest way. Just wait in the airport and wear your dupatta—no one will bother you.’ He had thought of everything.

‘Will Uncle Rasheed know me?’ I asked.

Papa smiled. ‘I have sent last year’s school picture. He will see the family resemblance.’

Only a day to pack. I went through my wardrobe. It was winter there; I had a thicker shalwar qameez I could take. Mum came and helped me.

‘Your father will pay for clothes when you arrive so you won’t need to pack much,’ she told me.

She looked so sad that I stopped what I was doing and hugged her.

‘Are you okay with this, Ameera?’ she said suddenly. ‘You don’t have to go. We could get around it somehow. Leave the house or something.’

I wondered why she was talking like that. How could we go against what Papa wanted? I would be worse than ungrateful. Maybe this trip would help everything get back to normal when I returned. I didn’t want anything to interfere with going to uni.
I may even enjoy myself,
I thought. I would see Meena again, though she’d married since I saw her last. And I could brush up on my Urdu, even though Uncle’s family were educated and also spoke English.

I pulled away from Mum. ‘Why would we leave? Because he made a decision without you?’

Mum faltered. ‘It could lead to other things…’

I knew Mum would never leave. She might argue with Papa but in the end she did what he wanted. I understood, for I was the same.

‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘Papa wants me to. It’s just been so long since I was there.’ Then I smiled at her. ‘I wish you were coming too.’

‘I suggested that, but your father says you need to spend time with the family by yourself. If I went, we’d do things together, speak English.’ She frowned. ‘I guess it is only a month. If that wasn’t a return ticket…’

Since I was leaving the next day I risked a message to Tariq. Leaving 4 pakistan in morning, was all I wrote.

He rang immediately. There were none of his usual preliminaries. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Papa’s little surprise—a trip to Azad Kashmir for a month.’

There was a short silence, then, ‘Pakistan.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want to go?’

I heard the hurt tone in his voice and hesitated. If I hadn’t met Tariq I would love to go to Kashmir for a holiday. ‘Papa really wants me to go. He’s been planning it for ages.’

‘I haven’t heard from you. You blocked my calls.’

‘I’m sorry.’ What could I say? I decided to tell him the truth. ‘Someone saw me at Samuel Collinses party.’

‘I can come and explain.’

He made it sound easy, but he didn’t understand what a traditionalist Papa had become.

‘No. That’s kind, Tariq, but Papa knows you were there too. Best you stay clear of him for a while.’

There was a longer silence. I almost asked if he was still there. Then he said slowly, ‘So he’s still sending you on a trip. Is it a reward for finishing school?’

‘I don’t know.’

Again I felt the unease that had come when Papa first told me about his surprise. Why was he rewarding me when I’d disappointed him so badly? I pushed away the feeling of being sent away in disgrace. Maybe he was sorry for what he’d said to me.

‘I don’t think Azad Kashmir will be the same since the earthquake,’ Tariq said. ‘Where does your family live?’

‘Muzaffarabad.’

‘Take your mobile. You can buy a prepaid phone card, and ringing from there is cheap.’ He paused. ‘I won’t ring you in case it makes trouble for you.’ There was another silence before he spoke again. ‘I’m glad for
you. I hope you have a good time.’ I felt his words wash over me, warm and cleansing. ‘But,’ his voice quietened and I had to strain to hear, ‘I will miss you, Ameera.’

His voice caught on my name and I knew he still cared. What had I been thinking of, not ringing him when I needed him the most?

I echoed his words: ‘I’ll miss you too.’

I should have said that I wouldn’t ring him again; that if Papa knew about this call I wouldn’t be getting a trip. But I couldn’t say it. He hung up while I sat with the phone warm in my hands.

Mum came in when I was transferring my shampoo and conditioner into travel bottles. I’d already packed sanitary items that I mightn’t find in Muzaffarabad.

‘You can’t take any liquids into the cabin with you,’ she said. ‘Terrorism restrictions.’ She slipped me some money. ‘Your father said he’s sent money to your uncle for your keep, but you might not see it. This is in case you need anything personal.’

‘Mum, you’re a treasure.’

We stood leaning against each other. ‘What are they like?’ I asked. ‘I can’t remember them much, except Meena.’

Mum thought for a minute. ‘Your uncle’s an older version of your father. Your Aunt Khushida’s quite a bit younger than Rasheed—you’ll be able to talk to her. Then there’s your Aunt Bibi, your father’s big sister. He is very fond of her—she should be kind to you.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘What if Papa had married someone like Raniya’s mother? I’d have no one to talk to.’

Mum’s tone was dry as she answered. ‘If he had married someone like her, he might not be acting like this now.’ She frowned and looked out the window.

Raniya had said that too; was it true? Raniya’s parents were both practising Muslims but Raniya was allowed to make her own decisions. She just happened to make the right ones. Perhaps that was the result of growing up with two parents with the same faith and ideals.

‘Mum, you love Papa, don’t you?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. I always have.’

‘But you think he’s changed?’

Mum sat heavily on the bed. ‘I don’t know what’s happened. When I met him he was so easy-going. He said he’d respect my faith, though our children must be brought up Muslim. I accepted that. It didn’t seem so different at the time. We both believed in one God, we had the same kind of morality and ideas about the world. He kept his word, but I didn’t realise how traditional he was underneath. His father had traditional ideals and wanted the women in his family to keep purdah.’ She sighed. ‘This last year Hassan’s not been himself at all. He’d hate to think he’s growing like his father. Many men change with added responsibility, go through some sort of mid-life crisis, but it seems more than that.’ She paused. ‘Sameena Yusuf told me that it can be difficult for traditional men in a Western culture. It gets to them after a while.’

‘Can you talk to him about it?’

Mum shook her head. ‘He won’t talk, and won’t go to a counsellor. He doesn’t think he has a problem. Still, I feel he’s under some sort of stress. It’s not the business—he says that’s going well. I don’t know what it is.’ She turned to me. ‘Even though he’s difficult at times, he does love you and wants what’s best for you.’ She frowned again. ‘It’s just that we think so differently now about what’s best for you children.’

I sat quietly. I thought I knew the reason for my father’s stress. It was me. He’d changed when I went into Year 11, as if he’d just realised he had to bring me up properly and how hard it was to do that in Australia. Maybe if I went away for a while, to Kashmir, where I’d be amongst his family, he could relax. Though I didn’t think he would totally relax until I was safely married. And that wouldn’t happen for years. First there was university.

Maryam came with us to the airport. After I hugged her, she gave me a small package to open on the plane. Her eyes were curious as I took it. Perhaps she was wondering why Papa had decided to send me overseas so suddenly. I smiled as I accepted the package, thinking how Mum would find a framed picture of me under her pillow later.

‘Have some puri halva for me in Muzaffarabad,’ Maryam said. ‘And jellabies.’

‘I will.’

We were saying silly things. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was. It was the first time I had gone anywhere alone. My whole life I had been almost cloistered, except for school, and here I was being shipped ten thousand kilometres by myself.

When we checked in, Papa ordered halal food for me on the plane and even asked for the stewards to be told I was travelling unaccompanied.

‘I’m seventeen,’ I hissed at him as the check-in attendant tied a label to my handbag.

Papa seemed happy, almost his old self as he hugged me. ‘You will have a nice time, beti. You will thank me for this trip—it will be the making of you, the trip of a lifetime.’

Mum and I stared at him. How could a trip to an earthquake-ravaged area be the trip of a lifetime? Maybe he meant that in Azad Kashmir I would get to see life in all its rawness and suffering. No doubt that would be maturing. He often said life was too easy in Australia.

Riaz hugged me goodbye and whispered in my ear, ‘Remember: if a month is too long let us know. You don’t have to put up with something you don’t want.’

I stood back and nodded at him, amazed at how he had changed so much in the last week.

I hugged Mum the longest. People were filing through the gate when I finally let go. ‘Keep in contact,’ she said quickly when Papa pulled me away from her. For a moment she looked frightened.

‘I’ll be okay, Mum.’ I waved, but then the line pushed me forward and I couldn’t see her any more.

I found my seat inside the plane; it was near the stewards’ station with all the unaccompanied kids. A Chinese girl said, ‘Are you helping to look after us?’

I let her think that, and all the way to Singapore I took kids to the toilet and the cockpit, and ripped open their refresher towels. Good thing Papa had pre-ordered my meal, for all the kids had hamburgers with bacon. I would have gone hungry.

Maryam’s package made a bump in my handbag and I took it out and unwrapped it. How nice of her to give
me a gift when I was only going on a holiday. Then my hands stilled. It wasn’t from Maryam. There was a note:

Piari Ameera, you are the moon and I am but an unworthy star daring to shine in your glory. I made this for you to wear, and one day I hope to exchange it for gold. Tariq

It was a necklace of wooden and ceramic beads, blue and purple. How sweet was that? I tied it around my neck. His reference to gold thrilled me. I knew his intentions now: he wanted to marry me. I would persuade Papa to accept Tariq when I was older. Papa loved me; surely he would want the best for me and what made me happiest? I sat staring out the window. Tariq and I were kindred spirits; it was as if we experienced the world with the same soul. I didn’t have to touch him to know he felt the same.

Singapore airport was clean and ordered. I had five hours to wait there before my flight to Islamabad. Papa had booked my backpack straight through. I sat near a Pakistani family and hoped people would think I was with them. It didn’t stop a young man, about Tariq’s age, from approaching me. He took a seat nearby.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Azad Kashmir.’ I wasn’t sure if I should be talking to him. He looked Pakistani and should have known better.

‘Would you like coffee?’ he said.

I repeated Papa’s instructions: ‘You need to ask my father.’

The young man realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I include your father as well. It’s just that you look so like a Bollywood actress, I didn’t think. Please excuse me.’ And he abruptly left.

I sat bemused. A Bollywood actress? That was a modern metaphor for a beautiful girl. Wouldn’t Riaz laugh? I was fairer than most Pakistanis because of Mum. Papa’s skin wasn’t very dark either: something to do with being a Kashmiri with Pushtun ancestors. And my hair was dark brown, not almost-black like Maryam’s and Tariq’s. Fair skin and brown hair adds up to beauty in Pakistan.

Eventually, I was back on a plane and drawing closer to Pakistan by the hour. I was also becoming more nervous. What if I didn’t recognise Uncle Rasheed and he missed me? What would I do alone in a strange country? And my backpack: what if it didn’t arrive?
Stop worrying,
I told myself. Pakistan was the land of my father’s ancestors. At least I’d look like I belonged.

I had dual citizenship and two passports, so when I arrived in Islamabad I joined the Pakistani line. The man behind the counter appeared bored but as he checked me through his camera lens, he said, ‘Khushumderd, welcome home,’ and smiled politely.

‘Shukriya, thank you.’ He unsettled me for I hadn’t come home.

I followed a line to pick up my bag, and then went to an exit. I held my breath, waited for a family to walk through and tagged along with them. ‘Don’t advertise
you are travelling alone,’ Papa had said. His instructions were seared into my brain.

Outside I was met by the noise of traffic and the cool, sharp smell of spices and drains. Even though it was late at night, there were so many people—mainly men—waiting to claim their relatives. How would I find Uncle? Instantly my excitement dissipated; here I was visiting the land of my ancestors and all I felt was fear. I followed the line of travellers, trying not to look any men in the eyes yet searching for Uncle. I saw a man holding up a card with something written in Urdu. Perhaps Uncle would do that too, but I couldn’t read Urdu. Some cards were in English and I scanned as many as I could as I walked. Then I noticed a man who looked like Papa. He had a grey beard and his card was held high. ‘Welcome Ameera Hassan’ was written in English capitals. I was so relieved I could have hugged him.

‘Uncle Rasheed?’

His eyes widened. ‘Ameera? But you’ve grown so…so…’ Then he remembered his manners and smiled. ‘Photos never tell the full story, beti.’ He called me ‘daughter’, as Papa did, and I felt a calmness steal over me.

He took my backpack, slung it over his shoulder and led me to his car. Porters asked to help and beggars thrust their hands in my face, but Uncle waved them away.

When we got to the car, it looked like a wreck; the Australian police would have ordered it off the road. I wasn’t sure whether it was safe to get in, and hovered by the front door, but an old beggar kept pestering me for
money. ‘Muaf karo, forgive me,’ I said. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have any local currency yet.

Uncle Rasheed slipped the beggar some money. The man called down Allah’s blessings on us and melted into the night.

‘Get into the back, beti,’ Uncle said, and opened the door for me. Just as well, for it stuck and he had to thump it to release the catch. Just as I slipped into the lumpy back seat, a young man hurried over, yanked open the front door, jumped in and slammed it shut. The little car rocked. My uncle stared at him as if he was counting to ten. I thought he’d tell him off, but all he said was, ‘Haider, this is your cousin. Say hello.’

Haider barely turned his head, only enough for me to see his beardless features, a hooked nose like Papa’s, and his skin just a shade darker than mine. I heard a grunt.

I hoped my other cousins were friendlier.