being has a choice! There is nothing in the world that is bound for ever. What you really mean is that you don’t have the choice of whether to give your daughter acres of land or nothing at all. I don’t want your fields, Father! And I don’t want to be your Holy Woman, your
Shahzadi Ibadat.
’ She paused, scanning his face closely for signs of having penetrated his core of human decency.
The implacable expression, the cold, distant eyes only spelt one message to Zarri Bano. She was merely clutching at straws. Her voice sinking in appeal, she burst out anew, ‘I want to be a normal woman, Father, and live a normal life! I want to get married. I am not a very religious person, as you know. I am a twentieth-century , modern, educated woman. I am not living in the Mughal period – a pawn in a game of male chess. Don’t you see, Father, I have hardly ever prayed in my life, nor opened the Holy Quran on a regular basis. How can I thus become a Holy Woman? I am not suited to that role. Father, I want—’
‘What you are trying to say is that you want a man in your life,’ he sneered, cutting her short.
Her cheeks crimson with shame and shock, Zarri Bano stared mutely at her father. Then her gaze fell asembarrassment and a torrent of boiling rage assaulted her body. For the first time in her life, she hated her father as she never thought possible. The sexual connotations to his words had shaken her to the core.
‘I didn’t say that I wanted a man!’ She spoke so quietly now that he almost couldn’t hear her. ‘I just want to be normal and lead a normal life, like any other woman.’
‘If you don’t want …’ Habib stopped. One didn’t talk to one’s daughter in this vein or manner. ‘If you don’t want the company of a man,’ he amended, ‘or desire it, then why are you so against becoming a
Shahzadi Ibadat
? As a normal woman, as a wife, you will be tied to one man. That life in no way can compare to the
izzat
, the honour and the fame that your new role will bring to you and your family.’
‘The glory? The
izzat
? The fame? I don’t want any of those, Father. Don’t you understand? Please leave me alone!’ Zarri Bano shouted. ‘Am I banging my head against a brick wall?’
Habib stood up and crossed to the door. There he stopped and turned, and with a sinking heart, Zarri Bano read the cold, determined glint in his eyes.
‘You can shout as much as you like, my proud, beloved daughter, but you will do as I say – I know you will. We are two of a kind. You will never let me down, I know, nor our traditions, nor your grandfather. If you cannot abide by my decision, at least think of your grandfather.’ He saw her eyes, shimmering with tears like huge emeralds in her face, but today they had no impact.
Zarri Bano was hit by the first panic attack of her life. Sheer terror engulfed her: her mouth was dry, her breathing laboured.
Her father had set a trap and had captured her neatly, using sexuality as ammunition. The words thundered through her head: ‘
what you want is a man
.’ Zarri Bano physically recoiled, holding her arms against her chest as she recalled her own feelings for Sikander. Yes, she desired him, but her father had cheapened and degraded marriage and what it stood for, insulting both her and the essence of her womanhood, by his underlying insinuation that what she
really
craved was a man’s presence in her life.
Still wrestling with the terrifying sensation of being at the bottom of a dark pit, Zarri Bano recognised bitterly that her father had won. For she could never let him or the world know that she wanted and desired Sikander. It was an impossible situation. And there was no way out for her.
Minutes lapsed into hours. The clock remorselessly ticked away in the night. Nobody came to her room. Thoughts fled and dashed through her mind as she gazed up at the high whitewashed ceiling.
‘I cannot let him or my family down,’ she sobbed. ‘He has won! He has
Shahzadi Ibadat.
’ She paused, scanning his face closely for signs of having penetrated his core of human decency.
The implacable expression, the cold, distant eyes only spelt one message to Zarri Bano. She was merely clutching at straws. Her voice sinking in appeal, she burst out anew, ‘I want to be a normal woman, Father, and live a normal life! I want to get married. I am not a very religious person, as you know. I am a twentieth-century , modern, educated woman. I am not living in the Mughal period – a pawn in a game of male chess. Don’t you see, Father, I have hardly ever prayed in my life, nor opened the Holy Quran on a regular basis. How can I thus become a Holy Woman? I am not suited to that role. Father, I want—’
‘What you are trying to say is that you want a man in your life,’ he sneered, cutting her short.
Her cheeks crimson with shame and shock, Zarri Bano stared mutely at her father. Then her gaze fell asembarrassment and a torrent of boiling rage assaulted her body. For the first time in her life, she hated her father as she never thought possible. The sexual connotations to his words had shaken her to the core.
‘I didn’t say that I wanted a man!’ She spoke so quietly now that he almost couldn’t hear her. ‘I just want to be normal and lead a normal life, like any other woman.’
‘If you don’t want …’ Habib stopped. One didn’t talk to one’s daughter in this vein or manner. ‘If you don’t want the company of a man,’ he amended, ‘or desire it, then why are you so against becoming a
Shahzadi Ibadat
? As a normal woman, as a wife, you will be tied to one man. That life in no way can compare to the
izzat
, the honour and the fame that your new role will bring to you and your family.’
‘The glory? The
izzat
? The fame? I don’t want any of those, Father. Don’t you understand? Please leave me alone!’ Zarri Bano shouted. ‘Am I banging my head against a brick wall?’
Habib stood up and crossed to the door. There he stopped and turned, and with a sinking heart, Zarri Bano read the cold, determined glint in his eyes.
‘You can shout as much as you like, my proud, beloved daughter, but you will do as I say – I know you will. We are two of a kind. You will never let me down, I know, nor our traditions, nor your grandfather. If you cannot abide by my decision, at least think of your grandfather.’ He saw her eyes, shimmering with tears like huge emeralds in her face, but today they had no impact.
Zarri Bano was hit by the first panic attack of her life. Sheer terror engulfed her: her mouth was dry, her breathing laboured.
Her father had set a trap and had captured her neatly, using sexuality as ammunition. The words thundered through her head: ‘
what you want is a man
.’ Zarri Bano physically recoiled, holding her arms against her chest as she recalled her own feelings for Sikander. Yes, she desired him, but her father had cheapened and degraded marriage and what it stood for, insulting both her and the essence of her womanhood, by his underlying insinuation that what she
really
craved was a man’s presence in her life.
Still wrestling with the terrifying sensation of being at the bottom of a dark pit, Zarri Bano recognised bitterly that her father had won. For she could never let him or the world know that she wanted and desired Sikander. It was an impossible situation. And there was no way out for her.
Minutes lapsed into hours. The clock remorselessly ticked away in the night. Nobody came to her room. Thoughts fled and dashed through her mind as she gazed up at the high whitewashed ceiling.
‘I cannot let him or my family down,’ she sobbed. ‘He has won! He has
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