Yasmin Bibi - The Second Marriage

Yasmin Bibi was always up and about much before the early morning azaan – the muezzin’s call to the faithful – woke the rest of the neighborhood up as well as her household. Having completed her absolution she sat kneeling on the carpet facing west and towards the small mosque of her village, waiting for the prayers to begin. A year ago, it was her husband who would have led the prayer but not today. He had divorced her a year ago, and she had to leave her home and both her children behind. The prayer started and she whispered the first surah of the raquat – the Surah Al-Fatiha, invoking the blessings of Allah. As she recited the first two raquats of Sunnat Mokada, the tears started to flow. Through the flowing tears, she completed them and switched to the raquats of Fard. It was a while before she had completed her prayers. The sound outside faded and she bowed before closing the holy Quran, wrapping it up and putting it back on its place. As she got up, she wiped her eyes and wet cheeks. This was going to be the toughest day of her life. Actually no; the toughest one was the day she had packed her small bag and left her home of fifteen years, leaving behind the two people she loved the most – her twelve-year-old son Faizan and little Zoya. She did not even have the time to plead with her husband to take her back, not even the stipulated period of the three months of idaah which she would have got had she been divorced once. She had accepted her faith and moved out, fearing retribution in the form of not being allowed to see her children, if she upset the family in any way. They eventually granted her the right to see the children once a week between sunrise and sunset, for two hours of her choice. It was all decided in front of the mandatory four witnesses. She had kept quiet all through. She shifted to her brother’s house – into the small room on the terrace which was earlier a store to stock wood. Both her brother and his wife protested, begging her to move into the main quarters of the house but she refused. She needed to be alone, to ponder and pray. If there was a message, a learning, she did not want to miss. The only time the ache was bearable was when she prayed. She rolled the mat, put it on the lower shelf and went down the stairs into the kitchen. In many ways she was lucky; if her brother had not given shelter, she had no idea what she would have done. All her life she had devoted to her husband and children. She did not know any other way of life, knew nothing about how to take care of herself without someone looking out for her. First, it was her father, then her brother and finally, her husband. Maybe if Zayan was around, he would have taken care of her but he had gone. Now that her husband had left her, she was for the first time left alone and helpless. She berated herself for thinking this way, thanked her brother in her mind and asked for forgiveness for not being grateful. Before the household stirred, she had breakfast ready, had packed lunch for the children and her brother. In a small box – too small to hold anything substantial – she packed a bit of food for her son. He had defied everyone and each day, sneaked in to visit her after school and before returning home. If her brother or his wife knew, they did not show it. She would receive him at the back of the kitchen, well hidden by the trees, hug him tight for a few seconds and press his hands to her wet face. He would stand there stiff, unable to say anything but fiercely blinking the tears away. The only time his eyes would cloud over was when she asked to bring Zoya with him sometime. It was one risk he would not have run, afraid of being found out and then not being able to come himself to see her. The small box he took back and shared with his sister – having sworn her to secrecy. Caught between the pain of both mother and sister, he kept his feelings in check. As she chopped the vegetables in the kitchen, she had thought of her husband and her own predicament. He was a good man; he had worked hard to provide for her and their children, was kind to her and treated her with respect. The way he would take care of her and the children when she fell ill was admirable. A silly argument had ended it all. In a fit of rage, he had spat the word talaq – divorce – at her thrice, and it was all over. It was not done the way it was decreed. The next few months had drained her of all life – had he uttered the word once, or even twice, he could have reversed his decision and taken her back in marriage. Having said it thrice, he had sealed her fate. A year of separation later, he had come to meet her and ask her forgiveness. She would have been more than glad to pack her belongings and go back to her home and children but the Sharia law stood in the way. And this was where even her brother would not stand by her. To get back to her husband she would need to marry someone else first, consummate the marriage – there was no choice there, for if it was not, she would not be able to get back to her husband unless she made an attempt with a third man. Then she would have to wait for her second husband to divorce her, wait for the stipulated three months – should he decide to withdraw the divorce or she became pregnant – and then only would she be free to remarry her first husband. She shuddered to think of another man touching her body. There were other interpretations of the law but she trusted the maulana in the nearby mosque and she went by what he said. After a late lunch and asar – the third prayer of the day, she sat facing west with her head resting on the prayer book. The shaft of winter sunlight fell on her, warming her skin and somehow, she felt at peace for the moment. She whispered a name – Zayan, her first son whom she had not seen or heard from for ages. One night some men had come and taken him away. Her husband had sold him to them. She knew he had no choice – she had seen the gun. But something had snapped inside her that night. ‘Protect him wherever he is,’ she pleaded to her god. When she was approached for marriage though, her heart soared; this must be a sign, she thought to herself. If she said yes, she would have conformed to the first step of getting back to her husband and children. The man was fifty-eight years old, had married twice and divorced both – so she had hope. That he had no children made things easier for it would have been difficult for her to think of anyone else as her children. After consulting the local maulvi, the date was set and so was the mehr, her alimony should he decide to divorce her. She felt strange, becoming a bride again at forty-five but what had to be done had to be done. She needed to go home, to her children, to the house where someday Zayan might return, for that was the only home he knew. She wanted to be the first one to see him and then she would hit him, berate him, before cradling him in her lap. One thing she was sure of – she would see him sooner or later. Her prayers could not go waste. On the day of the nikah, she wore a simple but elegant dress; it suited her somber mood. Her brother suggested something more flamboyant but she refused. She also knew it was beyond his reach. Her naturally curled hair was oiled and perfumed; a local beautician cleaned her face and made her up as best as she could and was allowed to. She would personally not face the groom or the men who would come to get her to sign the marriage documents. All she had to do was to agree to the marriage. They all arrived in a car – she heard them come in and the small banter before the more serious issue cropped up. Much later, she was ushered into the room and made to sit behind the partition. ‘Yasmin Bibi, do you take Bashir Khan as your legally wedded husband for a mehr of twenty thousand rupees – qubool hai?’ Her heart lurched and her mouth went dry. Seconds ticked by and she did not reply. ‘Yasmin Bibi, do you take Bashir Khan as your legally wedded husband for a mehr of twenty thousand rupees – qubool hai?’ This time she felt the nudge from her sister-in-law. She looked around in panic but all she saw were frowns. She looked at her brother with pleading eyes but met with a glare. ‘Qubool hai,’ she said haltingly – I agree. And she was officially married. Late in the evening, a group of men and women came in for the feast – all from the groom’s family and a few from her own. There was much singing and dancing in the women’s quarters while the men sat down hurriedly for dinner. She herself could not bear to eat even a morsel and she survived drinking tea. Before she could count the hours it was all over. With her heart sinking and the veil drawn till her shoulder, she got into the car and left the home she had grown up in and where she had later taken refuge. The countdown had started – from now on she would have to wait for him to divorce her, but before that was that issue of consummating the marriage. The journey took over eight hours in the hired car, crossing a few mountains with nonexistent roads. She reached her new home, small but comfortable – with a sit out and a garden. She was introduced to all the extended family members and curious neighbors. She was tired and sleepy and it showed on her face. Eventually, she was taken into the bridal chamber – what would be their bedroom. It was bedecked with simple flowers. She was about to doze off when her husband entered and locked the door. She could hear her heartbeat. He sat beside her and held her hand gently. ‘At our age companionship is the most important thing and besides, you have an impeccable reputation of being a chaste woman,’ he started without any preamble. With a faraway look he continued, ‘I was too alone and needed someone to talk to, someone who would take care of me and I would in return. I could have gotten married to a much younger woman but I chose you due to your age,’ he continued. ‘I am sure at this stage in life you would not mind having a man who is fully capable of taking care of all your needs but cannot produce children. You see, I am impotent.’ Her marriage never got consummated. Her new husband did not divorce her either. She never left the village and no one came to see her. She did not attend her daughter’s or son’s marriage. Yasmin Bibi never went home.