why was nusrat returned?

Nusrat jaan was returned the very next morning of her marriage. The dawn had not broken and the sky held the grey clouds in its seam.

She came with her hair dishevelled, her bridal attire looking like they were dressed hurriedly on a mannequin. With her came the white crumpled linen bedspread, spotless.

Her eyes were still and vacant like a tranquil lake. She answered no one. She was a far participant. Nothing seemed to affect her. Not even the blows of the hard leather belt on her body or the sight of the oozing blood.

Her mother caressed her scalp, gathered her hair in her grasp, pulled it and led her quietly into her bedroom. She looked at her with disgust, as she dropped her and locked the door and the family later trickled into the drawing area for the latest gossip.

The bedspread was before them. Impeccable and immaculate.

There were no words, only the pile on the coffee table. The proof of the shorn honour.

'subhabakhair' an unsuspecting grandmother entered the room, still smelling of the oil dripped rice and the grilled meat balls.

Her mother laid down the tray with the crystal glasses, rented out to serve at the wedding, now filled with the sulaimani that she had brewed. Sorrow, needs its fuel and she laid that down, anything to make the lamentation better, its drop would become bitter if they fully gauged the situation before them.

Nusrat'sAmmi was barely holding it together. Her eyes had a mad anger of resentment. A pale cheek that now brushed with the fury of rejection. She was irrespective of her emotion, a woman and she could not go beyond certain strictures. She had restrained herself well. She had her head covered, her anger checked, and her throbbing veins on her forehead which she constantly rubbed with her index.

She had to be more unobtrusive and allow justice to take her course, she decided. No shouts came out as she scalded open Nusrat's flesh. She gave out no cry. A woman needs to protect what she needs to protect. Otherwise the consequences are harsh.

The honour was at stake and soon going to be executed at the knowledge of the misfortune as the uncles half woke up, groggy and the aunties, both together rubbed their eyes and asked for their next intoxication.

The steam evaporated and the warmth made the tea too hot for comfort. It was laid out before the assembly and she was waiting for its verdict.

In no time the neighbour would know, if they already did not.

Nusrat had just started her college. She had draped a hijab over her hair and braved the disapproval. She patiently made them understand it was just women scholars taught by women teachers. What harm could it do?

Her mother stood by her, like a rock. A more suitable groom would follow, she imagined, a well-mannered boy of her choice. Weren't they all getting modernised, wearing leather jackets and had their hair cut out like slick Bollywood heroes, rode out in bullets and drank beer as they munched kebab pieces. Didn't they prefer modern women, educated in universities, with their nails manicured, mouthing philosophy yet draped in traditionality, tending to their kids and pouring out chai from the English melamine crockery, just the way they do in chic English cottages. A modern simple life that they all aspired for.

Nusrat was an intelligent child. She learned fast and aped her brother. She tagged behind him and was always inquisite about what Bhaijaan had learned at school.

Nusrat'sAmmi squatted on the low stool, her palm pressed to the temple and was left wondering, where the loophole lay. What could have possibly gone wrong? Was it the too much freedom that she gave her daughter?

Hadn't she taught her daughter to look straight, look down and run at the very smell of men? She was to come straight back to her home. No ice lollies, no sweet meats, no lingering around and befriending strange creatures. She must mind herself and keep to her books.

Nusrat was all of nineteen. Ripe enough to be plucked from the branches that begot her. Her cheekbones were prominent and the skin was brushed with a tint of pink. Her eyes, her mother thought held a nasha, an intoxication that she was still unaware. Her breasts though hidden in the loose drape of black cloth around her, still held that slight heave. Just enough to waylay a man.

Isn't the woman punished by the very traits that identify her as one? Beauty for Nusrat'sAmmi if it doesn't bring in a husband causes defamation.

Everyone was in their best attire, gold still hanging from their ears, women had colour on their lips, bangles sparkling from their wrists. But the air was sombre, somebody had died. It was their family's honour.

'We had told you before.' It made her look like a complete idiot and rebelling traditions was looked down upon and she had transgressed and the reasons had backfired. Nusrat had caused her shame.

'If you had only listened to us, she would have married by now and bore you a grandchild.'

'Was Aftab, a mismatch? What did he lack?'

'A college degree. A man isn't supposed to be judged by his education.'

'He earned enough to feed the two of them.'

'It's not like the future could be predicted.'

'If only.' The words hung in the air, returning like a repugnant odour and pinched like accusations and stabbed her pride. But she must keep her quiet. It was a miscalculated move and for a woman that was not acceptable.

'She would have shamed us all, there too.'

'It wouldn't have happened, if she was not sent to college.'

'She has fooled us all.'

'What is to be done now?'

A woman after all, was best kept safe in her home and out of twisted sights and speculations.

'Was she returned with her jewellery?'

'Did she bring her luggage with her?'

The respected elderly looked at Nusrat and shook their heads. 'All our money is gone.'

'We can't ask them and be insulted again.'

'She was dragged out of bed, just look at her. What could she have gathered?'

'Tell us about your aashiq.' They closed in around Nusrat.

Nusrat gave no reply. She was still, like a mannequin about to be assaulted.

'Don't act somaasum.' Innocence for them was feigned at this hour. Nobody would fall into the trap.

'If you were so innocent, you would not have been returned.' They pressed their fingers on her cheeks, dug nails into her skin and shook her till they left their imprint.

Nusrat's uncle barged in. 'no need.' He pressed his palm on her scalp and lowering it down clawed her neck gently. 'My doll.' He said in a sonorous tone, 'you can tell me. Don't be afraid, I won't allow you to be killed.'

Nusrat's head was pressed against his chest, fear radiating from her eyes as she remembered the last time it happened.

But isn't izzat (respect) an unbreakable code and silence its agent.

Phrimna Valerious