The Price She Paid - Ayesha Pervez (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

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