She quickly advised me that my single status, at the ancient age of twenty-four, was a sign of her progressive thinking, something she had even boasted about to her friends. But to have her only daughterremain single beyond that age was inconceivable. “Hameed is a good boy, from a good family,” my mother informed me. “This marriage has been arranged for a long time. Hameed is about to leave for Oxford, and his family wants the nikah to take place before he goes to that rain-soaked land and, God forbid, falls in love with a white woman.”
Hameed was the son of one of my father’s friends. We had never exchanged more than five words altogether. And now I was supposed to report to my wedding as if I were going to Dr. Aziz for an immunization shot? I would sooner eat a bottle of turmeric.
My mother was upset by my proclamation that I would remain single, and I learned that the other aunties had been giving her a hard time. Ammi was a strong woman, but deep down she was also a traditionalist. She understood and accepted the world she lived in. Her rebellions were small in scope, while mine contained multitudes. She wanted to see me settled, but I was unsettled by nature. She thought I would come around eventually, so she began to plan my wedding without me. Of course a nikah is not valid without the bride’s consent, but my parents were certain I would change my mind, once I realized how much it would mean to them both.
I had thought I had the perfect life, yet in that moment I felt as if I didn’t know my parents. As if I had woken from a pleasant dream to find I lived in a nightmare. It wasn’t until the engagement ceremony that I realized they considered me their property.
The wedding date was fixed and invitations soon dispatched. Ammi looked through her jewellery collection and went shopping for myjahaz, my trousseau. I stayed at home and refused to eat. I stopped playing cards and going riding, and the rifle-range coach was so concerned he came to the house to assure himself that I was still alive.
Yet no one in the family seemed to care. They thought I was playing the part of the shy, reluctant bride. As you know, Hana, I have never been shy in my life. Instead, I was plotting.
Over a thousand people had been invited to witness my nikah ceremony. We had many guests staying from out of town, including at least a dozen of my giggling girl cousins. I could hear them downstairs, singing wedding songs about shy brides and confident grooms, manipulative mothers-in-law and clever daughters-in-law. I had been left by myself to prepare for the wedding night and make the necessary prayers before the ceremony. Thedu’as that a bride makes on her wedding day are said to be particularly potent. But so are the prayers of the oppressed, and I was planning my escape.
I was dressed in a heavy redlenghadecorated with delicate gold embroidery. The pearl and diamondmaang tikkaswung against my forehead as I manoeuvred out of the bedroom window. Thankfully I had decided on two heavy gold bangles instead of the usual glass bracelets, which would have made too much noise during my escape. The gold chains on my feet did have tiny bells on them, but everyone inside the house was too occupied to hear them tinkle. My thin goldnathnose ring swayed with the weight of pearls and rubies and kept getting caught on the large red dupatta draped over my head.
I was lucky. The only people who spotted me were the caterers and the people hired to put up the enormous wedding tent in our backyard. They weren’t being paid to question why the bride was climbing out a first-floor window hours before the nikah. Or why I then ran towards the nawab sahib’s mango orchard. For all they knew, I was feeling peckish. A bride should always be humoured on her wedding day.
Beside the mango orchard, a large banyan tree had stood on thevery edge of our property for generations. A small bench had been built beside the tree. I had done target practice from that bench since I was old enough to hold a gun.
The rifle I now held in my hands was large. I had to shift it and the box of ammunition to one arm to hike the full skirt of thelenghato my knees. I threw off my embroidered slippers and began to climb the gnarled branches, not stopping until I had a clear view of the wedding festivities. Then I lay the rifle across my lap and waited.
My outfit was itchy, and the branch I sat on was hard. I snacked on the pakoras and barfi I had brought with me. I had to keep my strength up for the scene I knew was coming.
Finally, around nine p.m., with the nikah set to begin, my parents realized they were short one bride. I could see the alarm spreading quickly through the house. Some of my more high-strung relatives began to wail and lament, convinced I had been kidnapped and held for ransom. By this time the groom’sbaraat, his entourage, had arrived: Hameed, garlanded with flowers, was perched unsteadily on a horse, while his family followed behind on foot, accompanied by hired drummers. They had arrived to claim their bride, but I was nowhere to be found.
One of the tent wallahs must have tipped them off, because it wasn’t long before my father, in his regimental dress uniform, and my mother, in a dark blue silk sari with silver zari embroidery, approached the banyan tree, a substantial crowd behind them. I raised my gun, took careful aim, and shot at the ground before my father’s feet.
My father was so shocked he was rendered mute. I had done the worst thing a child could do: I was Making a Scene in Front of Family.
“Beti, come down this instant!” Ammi said. Naturally I refused.
One of my boy cousins made a big show of approaching the tree. “Don’t worry mamu-ji, I’ll get her down,” he said.
I shot at the ground by his feet too, and then smiled sweetly. “I’m fine where I am, Ladoo,” I said. He hated that nickname.
I don’t think my parents had fully realized the lengths I would go to stop that wedding. I laid my terms before them: “Ammi, Baba, I will come down if you cancel the nikah.”
“But thebaraatis here already!” Ammi wailed. I saw the full realization of what I had done hit her like a tidal wave. We would be the laughingstock of the entire neighbourhood. The servants would compose mocking songs about us behind our backs. We were ruined.
Even so, I did not waver. They had made their choice when they refused to listen to me, and now I was making mine. I cocked the rifle and pointed it at the crowd.
“If you bring that drip Hameed anywhere near me, I’ll shoot his left foot and then his right foot. And then I will move higher,” I vowed. The men in the crowd instinctively cupped their privates and exchanged uneasy glances.
Meanwhile, Hameed, his face covered by a veil of jasmine flowers, had dismounted from that ridiculous horse and made his way to the front of the crowd. Hameed’s mother caught the tail end of my threat. Shrieking, she threw herself in front of her son.
“Batameez! Pagal!”she screamed up at me. Ill-mannered, crazy. “That bastard whore witch will never get anywhere near my son. The wedding is cancelled!”
This pronouncement was followed by several minutes of yelling and arguing. I took advantage of the confusion to climb down from the tree. By the time I had straightened up, the groom and hisbaraathad disappeared.
My family went inside, though a circle of aunts stayed behind for a long time to berate me. After a while they left too. It was dark bythen, and I watched the tent wallahs dismantle the wedding venue. I wondered if they would get paid even though the bride had threatened to shoot the groom. I asked the person in charge, a gruff older man dressed in a simple white lungi and dress shirt. He patted me on the arm when I asked. “Don’t worry about it,beti,” he said.
It was the first kind word anyone had spoken to me in so long, I burst into tears. I stood there sobbing while they removed the tent, the hanging lights, the tables and food. Once I had stopped crying, I went inside the house, changed out of my wedding finery, and went to sleep.
I had won, but I had also lost. My parents didn’t talk to me for almost an entire year afterwards. I never received another rishta proposal from anyone else.
My father died when I was thirty-five. My mother died when I was forty-two. I didn’t meet Mohammad, the love of my life, until I was forty-five. We had fifteen wonderful years together before Allah called him to Jannah. I know he’s waiting for me there, but I also know I have many good years left on Earth, and I want to make the most of them.
Chapter Forty-Six
