They met when she was nineteen going on twenty. It was an ordinary summer in a very hot country. Life was full of possibilities and poetry. It was a long expectant breath to be taken only for him; her hero; her man. At least that is how it felt to her. Why? Why what? That is like asking why the sky is blue or whether cows are ugly and why some mangoes are sweet and others not so sweet. It was the wrong time of course. It was always the wrong time. It seemed to her that Time was an ogre chasing her and always found her just when she had managed to find a safe spot. Here was University, and there the Groom. Somehow the romance and the proposal of marriage was more important than boring old University. The Bride is only 21 and the proposal is good. The Boy (if a thirty three year old can be called a Boy!), works in a Multinational (or was it PIA or the Civil Services? Or maybe he has His Own Business).

People always tell stories of awful men who hurt young girls; breaking promises that should never have been made. Then there are the horror stories of abuse and neglect. The stories of girls-who-come-home-from–America. Then somewhere where people never talk about it is the ‘ordinary’ marriage. The torture of never being really sure whether one should be happy or unhappy. Whether what he did just now was abuse or not. Is it okay if she cries, because she wants to, only she doesn’t know whether this would be the right reason to cry. Is she being a baby? Is she immature and spoilt?. Plus he is so sweet to her when she cries a lot. The problem is that she cries a lot and often, somehow the tears are never enough to take the pain away. Somehow the pain is never enough to let her walk out of the door. Somehow he always calls her back. Somehow the worried parents and friends are never told the truth. Saira doesn’t even know the truth herself, how can she tell anyone else?

"Is everything okay, baitay (son)?" (Girls are usually called baitay even though grammatically the correct word is baitee (daughter). Being called ‘baitay’ always felt better than ‘baitee’. Saira didn’t know of any of her girlfriends who were called ‘baitee’ at home. It is always ‘baitay’. It feels more loving somehow and it is a way for parents to show that they love their daughters (equally).

"Jee Ammi (Mother). I am fine. We were out late and I feel a bit sleepy". "What is this mark on your arm?"

"Nothing Ammi. I hurt myself peeling potatoes". "Tell me if he hurts you, baitay. Is he all right with you?"

"Of-course, Ammi". How can she tell her mother about the way she felt sometimes as though she was a toy Asif had brought home to play with when he felt like it. She loved going to her home. Home was where she was Saira and not Mrs Asif whom she hardly recognized and did not like.

Ammi is silent. She is snipping cloth for a new razai. "Hold the edge baitay".


"Ammi... Ammi, I don’t want any babies abhi (now). Can I do something about it? Asif wants children immediately. But I don’t".

Ammi remained silent. She worried about Saira’s streak of obstinacy, otherwise such a good-tempered girl. If Asif wanted children, Asif ought to get them. After all that is why he had married?. Time passed in its unhurried and entire way, wiping out whole chunks of questions. One day Saira came home and said she won’t go back. She said the mother-in-law was mean to her in the uniquely petty way of most mother-in-laws. She said Asif is nice but still she won’t go back. Little incidents, petty arguments; not enough for a divorce. But enough to make Saira look years older. Not in a definable way with wrinkles and over weight. It was her eyes and the sort of silence there. The way one couldn’t look straight into them because they seemed to be looking at something only Saira could see.

A few details slipped out like bookmarks from a loose leafed book. The bad dreams Saira had. The late night sobbing. Many times Ammi would slip into her room just to check if she was all right.

Of-course there were arguments. Abbu wouldn’t agree. "I have known Asif’s father for years. The Boy (he was still ‘the Boy’ at 34 years of age) is a good Boy. He is earning and well-settled. Your daughter is a little spoilt. What did the poor Boy do anyway? Yes, what did he do?" Saira wouldn’t say. She said a lot of things, but somehow they weren’t Divorce material. They were petty issues. Petty issues are not worth Divorce. Especially for a woman. What will she do afterwards? Who will marry her? A divorced woman is like a cracked matka (earthen water pot). So useless.

Ammi saw, felt and heard all this and Saira’s silence. In the end the silence won. It took years because according to the marriage contract Saira could not divorce her husband. In paragraph no. 7 of the Nikah Nama (marriage deed) it was clearly asked, "Does the groom give the woman the right of divorce?". In Saira’s case the whole section was crossed out. At the Nikah (signing ceremony) three years ago she had read the large creamy yellow paper. It felt a lot like one was reading the translation of the Koran. Solemn, scary and talking to someone else behind her. First came the part where she could sign or put the angootha (thumb print), she remembered rejecting the angootha with a momentary flash of amusement. ‘And here I am a graduate!’. Then the section where her right of divorce was crossed out. The feeling of fear, ‘Oh my God, a whole lifetime without an option, without a choice.’ The maulvi hadn’t even thought that any girl could object. Her question met with shocked surprise. "Baitay, why are you thinking of divorce? This is a marriage committment’’ said her mother. The witnesses’ shocked, "shaadi larki ki marzi sey ho rahi hai?"(Is the marriage taking place with the wish of the girl?") And Saira, confused, afraid, of-course she loved Asif, of-course Everything was all right, signed the Nikah Nama in a what-will-the-phoopijad-relatives-say (fathers family) kind of hurry. And here she was looking at the paper like it was a prison sentence. "Qaid ba mushakat!! Teen saal ki saza hui"(Three years with hard labour). The fat nasty Judge screamed.

In the meantime (during the Qaid Ba Mushakat), Saira got on with life (or rather, the Mushakat). She led the kind of life people with a handicap lead. It is a strange kind of label, the Separated-Divorced label. Even though there is no special queue for divorced women at banks, supermarkets and airport counters, it is a perfect slot. (Maybe the banks can learn from it...label a counter ‘Divorcees only’ ). ‘Why does it stick so well?’, Saira often wondered. Maybe because the label is put from inside. No-one actually lifted a finger to point Saira out, and nobody said wear white to prove your piety. Nobody needed to because Saira had donned the label herself. It was much easier to slip out of invitations and weddings than to attend them. Even if she did go she didn’t participate in the rasams. (bridal preparations). Either married women or unmarried women did the rasams and she, poor soul, was neither. In fact she should not have been attending a happy occasion like that, A Divorcee. But people were a bit more tolerant in the cities. Things had become more ‘Westernized’ in Pakistan and girls like her were becoming more common. "This Western influence is destroying our youth. Western Education, English medium schools and now the ‘dish’ has really destroyed girls. More and more are wearing Western clothes and walking openly in the streets", screamed the fat Judge again. Saira was desperate to prove that being A Divorcee did not mean she was Unstable, Western, Fast and Non-marriage material.

Her parents didn’t know what to do with her. Saira didn’t know herself what she wanted to do with herself. Was she especially brilliant at something so she could be a singer, a dancer, a writer, a Banker, an actress, a model? (The Judge frowned at some and smiled at others). Who was she? Saira Kadir. The nut who ditched a Banker. The fast divorcee who threw away a marriage. The unnatural Eastern woman who didn’t want children. A tough unfeminine sort of woman, who didn’t care about anyone or anything except herself. "No-good wife material", said the fat Judge with a sly wink. This time Saira whipped with, "who wants to be a good wife anyway? I didn’t like being a wife! Asif was the biggest spoilt brat ever. And he always oggled at the ‘Westernized’ women at Zamzama Boulevard. And he was sooo boring. All he could talk about was how jealous his boss was of him and he was mean to beggars and he hurt my dog and I don’t want to touch him ever!!." The Judge had been shrinking recently. He had stopped telling Saira how bad she was. It was difficult to convince someone they were bad when they knew what badness was.

Saira had to carve out Saira herself. The Kadir family had washed their hands off her. Except for the daily attacks on Western values, or the fate-of-single-women-in-Pakistan, her parents were silent. Saira went back to University for a higher degree. Life had a purpose, University looked much more interesting than it had before. Finally the Official Divorce came through. Saira had to give up her Haq-Meher (Divorce payment from the groom) and her jewellery, said the Divorce Deed but she was free. Saira flipped the page over and looked at the Nikah Nama. She smiled at its stupidity and a tear rolled down her nose. The Judge had shrunk to an unrecognizable husk of himself but moments like these gave him new life. He whispered rather than spoke, "So, what will you do now? Where to from here? Who will love you? Who will care? You are alone. At least the Nikah Nama gave you status if not self-respect. You are wrong to want freedom." Saira knew all this and more. She knew it was the Nikah Nama that was wrong. Not she. She was a living, breathing human being who wanted to live. She did not want to become like the Judge. The Judge was always right but never kind. Somehow, the Judge had never learnt to live; he had never needed to learn because fear had always been enough. She folded the Nikah Nama and shoved it in the bottom-most drawer of her cabinet, underneath packets of old letters and faded photographs. The Judge stayed a part of her (he gave excellent advice about practical things like business investments) but it took barely a nod to dismiss him when he started becoming mean.