The Price She Paid

“Aren’t you looking wonderful! Omer will be delighted to see his young bride!” the woman in the gaudy purple dress and towering beehive exclaimed, gazing at Amina with excited eyes. The other lady, rather plump and pink faced, decked in a sequined parrot green dress bent over and whispered, “You did a wise thing, Amina, not to challenge your father’s decision. Just look at Sakina.” She spoke with the authority of someone wise, and the bits of saunf,1 which clung to her teeth and tongue, made Amina’s head shift back reflexively.
Having said their hearts’ content and without further ado, both women glanced at their images in the dresser mirror and, a delicate patting of an updo and dabbing of straying lipstick later, tucked their purses between their arms and left the room.
Amina sat in a daze. Muffled singing voices from the garden flew in through the window, but they escaped her happy acknowledgment. She stared at the deco-painted dresser and didn’t even hear her mother enter the room until she had sat down on the bed and touched her lightly on the shoulder. Their eyes met for a brief instance, immediately after which Amina pretended to inspect the duvet, separating with her fingers, the silky fringes on its border.
“Amina …,” Amma2 began, “I know it’s not easy, and I don’t promise things will be perfect for you but you … you have to realize that whatever your Abba3—we—did was—”
“I know!” Amina suddenly shouted, cutting Amma short and then, realizing her sharp tone, acquired control. “I know, Amma, we have had this conversation many times—I’m a sacrificial lamb and will remain so always; no one can do anything about it, so please just go and attend to your guests.”
“Shhh! someone could hear you,” Amma whispered.
The tears started flowing again, running down in streams, trailing black streaks of what had been carefully applied kohl in their wake.
“Girl, you are spoiling your makeup—and your dress!” Amma grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and began patting Amina’s shirt with it.
Amina stared at her mother’s face: black eyes that had once been fetching were effete, hair that had been a thick sea of black was now a meager cluster of salt-and-pepper tied into a modest bun, slender lipsticked lips, reflecting years of submission, planted in a perfectly oval, glowing face. Amma had once been a stunning beauty, Amina was sure, but that would have to be a time when she was single, for after that, her life had been dominated by a rigid man who wouldn’t hear no for an answer.
“I better check on the food,” Amma said distractedly and left.
Amina looked at her image in the mirror. She felt that she looked much older than her years because of her heavily painted face. When not hidden under layers of makeup, Amina was pale complexioned, her large brown eyes expressive, and her lips slender. Today, her own features were unrecognizable to herself: the paleness of her skin hid under layers of olive foundation, her animated eyes were over-shadowed by a mass of colour, and lip liner had thickened her slender lips.
Her thoughts went to shattered dreams of studying art in a prestigious institute, destroyed because of her father’s wish of uniting his daughter with the son of a relative. It seemed more like a strengthening of familial ties than a union of two hearts.
“Girls get married young; that’s how it is supposed to be.” That was her father’s one and only statement.
Tired of sitting on the bed, Amina ventured out to the terrace and took in the garden from a bird’s eye. Little girls dressed in colourful and profligately adorned dresses were frolicking about, holding cups of ice cold kulfi 4. Set at the head of the garden was the canopy arrangement of red drapery over a wrought-iron sofa for the bride and groom. At the rear end near the entrance gate were four lines of tables laden with a variety of salads and food trays, which were heating on a low flame. Waiters from the catering hotel, decked in the traditional black-and-white with a red waistband, roamed about, refilling empty cocktail glasses with either juice or soda. She saw her father giving some instructions to the cameramen.
Even families who cannot afford extravagant weddings are compelled to spend a fortune on unnecessary arrangements such as entertainment and excessive decorations. One of the biggest expenses in a daughters wedding is incurred by the tradition of jahez5 assets for which are sometimes begun to be accumulated from the time of her birth.
Amina beheld the view with the authority of the owner, but the truth quickly washed over her and took the momentary feeling of luxury away. This was Amina’s affluent uncle Wasti’s house. Her own wasn’t spacious enough to hold such an event.
In the midst of colour and beauty, Amina’s eyes caught hold of something rather dull. Dressed in a brown cotton dress was Sakina, the eldest of the three sisters. Sakina craved to be invisible, not that it was much of an ordeal; with her dark skin, tiny eyes, and features as plain as the Sahara, she was nowhere close to the idea of conventional beauty. With Sakina, the adage of beauty lying skin deep came true; she was soft-spoken and trustworthy. Unfortunately, most people did not care for all the qualities she possessed in character; they could not see past the homely appearance, and in a culture of arranged marriages, that is probably the reason she is unmarried.

Amina sighed and averted her gaze to a tall girl, whose curls of auburn hair were glistening under the lights. Dressed in an exquisite purple and silver gharara6, the girl stood out from the rest in the gathering. She leaned over Sakina and whispered something in her ear. A mischievous smile crossed Sakina’s face as brought a hand to her mouth.
The girl was Rubab, the second eldest sister and the unmistakable beauty in the family. She had the good fortune to possess flawless creamy skin, sparkling green eyes, and a pink rosebud of a mouth. At the tender age of twelve, the clever aunts of the family had quickly recognized Rubab’s potential and eagerly sent proposals of their sons.
But life can be especially hard for beautiful girls, as when Rubab was only sixteen, a local television actor, who was in the city on a social campaign, spotted her. Taken by her beauty, he used his sources to obtain her address and, two days later, arrived with a proposal. A grand marriage took place, with a host of celebrities roaming in their splendour as Amina and her cousins watched in awe. However, the union did not last long, as Hasan had a dark side, much different from his charming on-screen persona. He was aggressive and moody. He was also an incorrigible playboy.
Amina watched as a stocky man with a shiny balding head in his late thirties walked over to Rubab, turned her gently by the arm, and said something. A flicker of concern flashed on Rubab’s face and nodding hurriedly, she walked off. The man was Ikram, a maternal cousin whose proposal had arrived not long after Rubab’s divorce.
A shadow fell upon the terrace floor. Amina turned to see her mother’s uneasy face. “The imam7 is here.”
There were six people in the room. The imam recited verses from the Quran and, with eyes downcast, asked, “Is this marriage acceptable to you? If so, say yes thrice; otherwise, maintain your silence.”
An uneasy silence filled the room. The imam’s eyes shifted across the carpeted floor. One of the witnesses clicked his pen. Amina felt the intense gaze of Abba on her. She took a deep breath and said, “Qabool hai,8 qabool hai, qabool hai.”

As Amina entered the garden with Sakina and Rubab by her sides and followed by a trail of female cousins, she was blinded by a bright light as a cameraman focused on her. She was led tentatively toward her settee by Sakina and Rubab, who held her in a resilient grip, lest she should stumble in the high heels. Amina could feel eyes on herself. Little girls gazed at her in awe. Aunts looked on with pleased smiles plastered upon their caked faces, and the male guests dutifully averted their eyes after a quick glimpse of the bride.
Half of Amina’s face was draped under the dupatta, and she could see the silhouette of her husband. His head was covered with a floral head garb, and as Amina approached, a man next to him seemed to give him some signal to stand. Amina’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Will he be a dictator like Abba, a cheater like Hasan or plain repulsive like Ikram? She wondered what fate would bring.

Five long hours later, when the last of the guests had finally departed and only the family members remained, the bride and groom found themselves in the guest room of her uncle’s house. The room had been decorated with roses on the ceiling and walls. Petals had been scattered all over the bed.
Although Omer was the son of Abba’s second cousin, Amina had never met or seen him before. He had been participating in professional courses in Britain and had returned just a few weeks ago. Amina was told that he had been offered a prestigious job in Pakistan.
Amina stared at the man eleven years older to her. He was tall and lean and had a long face with a fuzz of unshaven hair on his chin and jaw. His eyes, though small and overshadowed by bushy eyebrows, were somewhat pleasant and warm.
Finally, he said something that Amina could not decipher, and she pardoned herself four times before she realized that he was actually greeting her.
“You look different from the photographs,” he then said, saying the words slowly this time.
Amina was suddenly self-conscious.
“You are much prettier in person.”
“Oh, I don’t know … but I can make pretty things … Have you seen the painting of the village girl in uncle Wasti’s hall? I made that,” Amina blabbered. She had never learned how to handle compliments.
“That’s lovely, Amina, you should make some paintings for our house now.”
Amina blushed, but her muscles relaxed. Omer had instantaneously put her at ease.

A week after the wedding, the bride and groom moved to Lahore, where Omer resumed his new job as a telecommunication engineer in a major company. Omer rented a cosy two-bedroom apartment in a posh neighbourhood.
Amina placed Omer in the category of “good” husbands. It was all luck of the draw, and to herself, Amina seemed very lucky. He was pleasant and sober and did not show addiction to any habits such as smoking and drinking.
Omer travelled frequently for business to other cities and, each time, brought her a small gift. He would often take the early morning bus to Islamabad to meet his parents for a few hours before returning home the same evening. Amina would spend the time painting.
One morning, three months after the wedding, Aunt Seemi called from Karachi.
“Amina! I’m so sorry for not attending the wedding. Fardeen and I were away for series of conferences in the Middle East, and we just got back.”
“Aunt Seemi, I know, I got your message. I really, really wanted you there. It happened so quickly, so I understand that you couldn’t plan in advance.”
“Well, I am relieved. How is your husband?”
“How can I tell when I hardly see him myself? He is always gone on business trips!” Amina joked. She wanted Aunt Seemi to know that her husband was a busy man and that he earned well.
“Hmm … so enjoying marriage?” Aunt Seemi teased, but Amina didn’t miss the flicker of worry in her tone.
“So far, everything’s going well.”
“What are you doing about your admission?”
Amina had dreaded the question. “I haven’t spoken to him about it—yet.”
Aunt Seemi was calling from work, so the conversation had to be kept short. She made Amina promise to call back when she had spoken to Omer about obtaining admission in an arts university, and then they said their good-byes.
An elder second cousin from the maternal side, Aunt Seemi was quite close to Amina. She admired Amina’s art and knew that she was capable of producing masterpieces if given the proper training.
Aunt Seemi had recognized the independent spirit in Amina and had often urged her uncle—Amina’s father—to allow her to get admission in an affluent art school in Karachi, offering to let Amina stay with herself. She always told Amina that marriage can wait—a girl must first acquire an education and establish a career. A living proof of her preachings, she was the branch manager at a prestigious bank in Karachi and was engaged to a charming man whom she had met—and fallen in love with—during her years at university.

One morning when the day seemed bright and something special lingered in the air, Amina woke and walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was a Saturday; Omer went to work later than the usual 8:15 AM. She noticed a package on the countertop.
Amina tore open the bright wrapping. Inside was a round chocolate cake with the words “Happy Nineteenth Birthday, Amina” written in sugar icing. A smile made its way onto Amina’s lazy morning face. The brightness of the day had been brought into effect; it was her birthday. Smiling, she took out the handmade birthday card from her sisters. She noticed another envelope tucked in between the card.
Amina’s heart started thudding wildly when she saw the return address. It was from the Valley Institute of Arts. Amina tore open the envelope and proceeded to read the letter inside:

Amina Bokhari
63-2, Gulraiz
Peshawar

March 4, 2008

Dear Ms. Amina Bokhari,

This letter is referring to your application to the Gifted Females Scholarship Program at the Valley Institute of Karachi.

We are pleased inform you that based on your art samples, you have been selected into the program. The scholarship will cover your tuition fees only.

In order to verify the art samples, you must contact the school as soon as you receive this letter.

Sincerely,

Sabina Khan
Director, Scholarship Program


Amina stared at the words so intently that they blurred. Then she exclaimed, “Oh my God! It can’t be—I don’t believe this!”
Omer rushed into the kitchen, dripping wet and wearing only a towel. As a reflex, Amina hid the letter behind her and smiled wildly at him, controlling her urge to jump around the house like a little child.
Omer smiled brightly. “Oh! You’re up—happy birthday!”
He gestured to the box on the table. “The guy from gifts express came while you were sleeping.”
He peeked inside at the cake. “Wow, nice sisters you have. Listen—don’t you dare cook; we are going out for dinner.”
Amina stared at Omer’s face and continued to smile.
Omer seemed to notice Amina’s lost gaze, and his eyes went to her hands, which were still behind her back. “A card …?”
“Oh no—it’s a bill,” Amina mustered, coming back.
“Which bill?” Omer said and extended his hand.
Amina handed the letter and observed as confusion followed by relief registered onto Omer’s face. “What’s this?”
“I had applied to the program before the wedding,” Amina said, somewhat glumly.
Omer stared at Amina’s face and then broke into a small smile. “Amina, you have talent, but in order to take this scholarship, you will have to live in Karachi for two years; I might be okay with that—but what about our families?”
Amina knew she had received her answer. She decided to stay quiet.
Omer continued, “I’m not one of those males who wouldn’t want you to get an education; I understand your passion. If you find a similar program in Lahore, I won’t stop you.”
Amina’s hopes soared momentarily. But reality sunk in. How many scholarships can one get? She thought. “I think you should change; I’ll make breakfast,” Amina said, changing the topic.

That night, Amina was lost in thought during dinner at the Chinese restaurant Omer had taken her to. She felt as if she had been interrupted from a beautiful dream and was not allowed to resume sleep. Omer was sensitive enough to comprehend her pain, but he did not touch upon the topic of her unrest. It was a quiet evening.
When they returned home, Amina had a surprise in store for her. While she changed, Omer prepared tea and lit the birthday cake with three candles. When Amina emerged from the washroom, Omer led her gently by the shoulder to the dining table, where he had placed, along with the cake and tea, a small velvet box. Amina cut the cake and then opened the box. In it was a gold ring lined with three tiny zircon stones. It was simple yet absolutely beautiful, and Amina was touched from the entire scenario that Omer had created for her.

That night Amina thought of the day that had gone by. She felt terrible whenever she thought of the letter, but the way Omer had conveyed to her the reasons—why it was not fit to accept, the thoughtfulness of the tea, and yes, the ring—it stirred in her feelings of being accepted and loved. And perhaps it was more important than a dream. She struggled with contradictory thoughts until slumber finally captured her.

The next day, Amina awoke deeply motivated. She had decided she would research art institutes in Lahore. She would have to make a fresh start, but, she realized that with an amazing husband’s support, it would be well worth the struggle.

Having a large collection of books, Omer had converted the spare bedroom in the apartment into a study. The furniture consisted of a solitary shelf stocked with books of varying width and length, a thick chestnut table on which was a desktop computer, a chair, and a sofa. Yet more books were found in every corner of the room, even towering one upon the other in the corners. Amina liked to call it her art room, as she had put her art supplies here as well. She found herself in this very room the next morning after Omer had left.
She began feverishly surfing the Internet. The connection was slow and kept disconnecting, and so by midafternoon, Amina had come up with the details of two institutes. Neither of them had any open scholarships, which left Amina feeling dismayed. Her stomach started to grumble, and she realized she had not cooked lunch. Turning off the computer, she decided to continue her research the next day.
That night Omer informed Amina that he would be leaving early in the morning for an official trip to the capital and would return by the night coach. “I feel bad leaving you all by yourself so frequently …”
He was seated on the dining table, and Amina had just placed a hot roti9 on his plate. “That’s alright—I’ll be looking up some art institutes on the Net tomorrow,” Amina said enthusiastically.
“Uh-huh …,” Omer responded, apparently without a trace of interest.
They ate the meal in silence.

When Amina woke the next day, she found that the enthusiasm of the previous morning had all but vanished. The space next to her on the bed was vacant, and the door was ajar, which meant that Omer had departed.
Amina walked into the kitchen dejectedly. She put the kettle to boil and went into the washroom.
After breakfast, Amina did some household chores; after which she found herself completely idle. She went into the study. The computer was there, reminding her of an excited afternoon just the day before.
It had taken that single gesture of indifference—perhaps indicating disapproval—to bring Amina to a halt. That’s how she had been reared: to always put others’ happiness before her own. She was now sure that her husband was not the least bit interested in her aims. She realized that he was the sort of person who would say things to make someone feel temporarily comfortable—and not mean them. It crushed her.
She slumped miserably on the sofa. An hour passed in bitter thoughts; then Amina decided that she would not indulge in further self-pity, so she got up and looked around the room.
She thought she might as well read to divert herself. She scanned the shelf for book titles; most of which were on information technology and communication, and there were course books. A title caught Amina’s eye, and she propped her tiny frame on her toes to take out the book from the topmost plank.
She stared at the cover. “Emma by Jane Austen,” she said aloud. She opened the cover and was startled by the handwritten message in the middle of the page.

Cambridge
March 2005

Dearest Omer,

Hope you’ll think of me while reading this!

Love,
Jane Dover

Who was Jane? Why would she want Omer to think of her? What is this? A train of questions rose in her mind. The phone was ringing now.
“No one by that name lives here, wrong number.” Amina carried the book to her bedroom and crumpled onto the bed. Her heart was beating wildly. She felt a sudden burst of ravaging jealousy. Who is this other woman in my husbands’ life? she thought.
She stared at the message again. A teacher? Colleague? Colleague’s wife? She counted the possibilities.
“Don’t be stupid, why would either of them write that they want him to think of her? And ‘love’?”
It made her feel betrayed that there had been a woman in her husband’s life. She herself had never been involved with anyone, and perhaps, she felt that she was making a mountain out of a molehill, but she had always wanted a man without a romantic past, since she herself was without one.
She opened her eyes and realized that she had fallen asleep. The bedside clock read half past five. Her eyes fell on the book on the bed. Picking up the copy, she walked into the kitchen. She arranged a cup and saucer and filled the teapot with water. Then she walked to the study and stood on her toes to return the book to its place. The books were stocked so tightly together that she had to make a space with one hand while pushing in the book with another. She lost her balance and stumbled backward as books flew out of the shelf. Regaining her composure and shaking her head irately, she noticed a bunch of papers tucked at the back of the shelf, which had been covered by the books. Grabbing the chair over from the desk, she climbed and seized the papers. What she saw seemed like a bunch of important documents, licenses, a degree and a marriage certificate. Amina’s eyes bulged out of their sockets.
She gaped at the document. It was a court licensing the union of two individuals: Omer Lateef and Jane Dover.
In a sudden moment, her world came crashing down. Nothing that had happened in the past few months could be compared to the immense pain she felt now. In a daze, she circled the room and turned back to the book shelf, which stood there, looking like a cruel monster, with many uneven teeth laughing at her destiny. Feeling weak, she dropped to the ground. I cannot believe this. How could this be? She thought, tears streaming down her cheeks.
From the kitchen, the rattling of the teapot thundered in her ears. She dragged herself to the kitchen and turned the flame off. Then she crumpled on the floor.
Lying on the cool linoleum of the kitchen, Amina had lost track of the time. Her eyes opened and flew to the clock on top of the fridge across. It showed a quarter after seven. Amina walked to her room and searched her drawers. She took out the letter along with another chit of paper containing a phone number.
A decision had been made. I am sorry, Abba, Amma, if I am letting you down, but I complied with your wish; now I must live my life with some of my own wishes. If my husband gives me any valid reason for what I just witnessed, for hiding such a profound truth, and if I’m willing to accept that, he will have to adjust to what I want. I am taking a big step; it’s scary, but I trust myself. I know I can do it. I don’t really have much to lose now anyway. How ironic to pay such a price to attain a dream …
Amina looked at the scholarship letter in her hands and then picked the phone. She dialed, and the phone rang twice before it was received by a melodious hello.
“Aunt Seemi—” Her voice was urgent.
“Amina? Yes—are you all right?”
“I need your help to accept a scholarship that I’ve received.”


1. Sweet fennel seeds
2. Mother
3. Father
4. Frozen dessert
5. Dowry
6. Traditional fancy dress, mostly worn at weddings
7. High-ranking and esteemed religious authority, who also conducts the nikkah or marriage contract
8. Meaning, “I accept.” It is mandatory that both bride and groom repeat it thrice.
9. Soft flat bread made of wheat

THE END

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.05.2010

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