Noor was always the first to arrive. The private security guards at the gate waved her in without asking to see her pass, and inside the main compound the cheeky young guard at the car-barrier — a long pole, lifted and lowered by means of a rope — pretended he was about to release the barrier to send it flying up between her legs as she stepped over it. She didn’t mind, but the henna-bearded ‘controller of drivers’ invariably looked up from the clipboard on which he was making complex charts of his drivers’ schedules for the day to mutter some comment about the young guard’s lack of respect. Noor liked him for the fact that he never commented on the obvious insincerity of her smiling objection to the young guard’s cheekiness. The controller was both the oldest and the most pious among the guards and drivers; his attitude acted as deterrent to any remarks from the others accusing her of immodesty.
The guard at the front door propped his rifle against the wall as he saw her approach, and extracted his keychain from his pocket, his fingers rather than his eyes allowing him to isolate the correct key — with large, wide-gapped teeth — in the pre-dawn gloom. That particular morning she was feeling more bold than usual, so she picked up his rifle by the barrel and swung it like a pendulum for a moment or two, until the weight of it made her drop it with an ‘Uff!’
‘A cotton bud has more strength,’ the guard laughed, holding the door open for her.
She knew she would go home and tell her sisters that the Pathan guard with the green eyes had called her ‘cotton bud.’ How they’d shriek!
Noor switched on lights as she made her way from the reception room through the open plan newsroom where dozens of sleeping computers hummed, and into the make-up studio. Her domain. Every other part of this two-year-old office was glass and chrome and shininess, but in this windowless cubbyhole there was another atmosphere — not of newness and technology, but of yearning. They all came through here, all Kyoon TV’s guests and regulars — politicians, newscasters, comedians, cricketers, chefs, journalists, lawyers, maulanas, actresses, models, singers, artists, CEO’s, DJ’s, VJ’s, everyone who was anyone, wannabes and coulda-beens, retired this and retired that. And in the end, whatever their different positions and opinions, they all wanted the same thing: to hide their blemishes from the world. That was where the yearning came from — it wasn’t that they yearned to be liked or admired; they knew from the start that a segment of the viewers would automatically take against them based on whether they appeared ‘too fundo’ or ‘too Western,’ ‘pro-army’ or ‘pro-sleazy-politicians,’ ‘naive’ or ‘conspiracy-theorist,’ ‘typical Muhajir’ or ‘typical Punjabi’ … no, likeability was not an option. But looking better on television than in real life, beaming out an image of themselves to the world which was preferable to the image which stared back at them from the mirror at the start and end of every day — that path remained. And who did they rely on to put them on that path? Her — Noor, the girl with nothing more than a matric pass, though both her sisters were nurses at the grandest of Karachi’s hospitals, the one where all the out-of-power politicians convicted of corruption went into private wards with air conditioners and visiting hours when their doctors insisted they were too unwell to be kept in prison and had to be moved to a medical facility.
She filled the electric kettle with mineral water — at home boiled water would do, but here in the Temple of Aspiration only one brand of mineral water could pass muster — and went about the rest of her morning routine: switching on the lights which framed the mirrors above the two make-up tables, unlocking the drawer which contained her large cosmetics case, unlocking the other drawer which housed the hairbrushes, pulling out the strands of hair caught in the bristles and rolling them into a ball which she dropped into the trash can (really just an empty tin of cooking oil), switching on the wall-mounted television to MTV Pakistan, and finally settling down on one of the two swivel chairs with its cracked vinyl covers with her cup of tea (with tea bag left inside to steep, so that by the final sips it would have reached optimum strength).
This was the best half hour of the day. Watching music videos, sipping hot tea, and anticipating which celebrities might come through the door that day. Most of all, it was the quiet she enjoyed. No eyes on her, no one looking and judging, no need to appear this way or that way. But by the time 5:30 a.m. came round, and she heard the sound of footsteps walking towards the make-up room she was almost always ready to return to her true self, which was a creature of interaction rather than introspection, of bustle over silence.
Some days were better than others. That particular day was middling. No big celebrities, but no one who complained about eye make-up either, no sudden pile-up of six people who all needed to be made up in the next five minutes before going on live to some roundtable discussion about something or the other. By 3 that afternoon she was glad that only one of her regulars stood between her and the end of her shift.
The polite knock on the door — two short, gentle raps — told her he had arrived. All day she’d been switching between MTV and Kyoon TV (she wasn’t really interested in news and current affairs channels, but she liked to see how her clients looked on-camera) but now she moved to the Islam Channel, to save the Maulana the trouble of having to ask her to do so.
Part Two
He entered, smelling freshly of rose-water as always, his white shalwar-kameez gleaming and uncreased. The first time she’d felt bold enough to speak to him she suggested that Allah’s light was so strong in him that it made even his clothes gleam and he’d smiled and said no, actually, it was the brand of washing soap his wife used. He glanced up at the television and nodded his thanks. She didn’t see why he always wanted to watch the show from which he’d been fired, but he insisted and, to be honest, she thoroughly enjoyed ‘Answers’ herself — far more than she enjoyed the Maulana’s very dull fifteen-minute segment on Kyoon TV, during which he interpreted and explained different verses from the Quran; everyone knew he had been brought on board in order to appease a particular investor who objected to the fashion programme hosted by the gay designer, and the talk show with the model-turned-actress who crossed and uncrossed her legs in that suggestive manner.
The Maulana sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Noor dipped a comb in a glass of mineral water and ran it through his beard. On the tv, the two maulanas — Longbeard and Shortbeard, Noor referred to them in her mind — who dispensed often contradictory advice on personal issues greeted their viewers and reminded them that if they used Bomb Mobile to call in it would cost less than any other mobile carrier or landline.
‘I don’t use Bomb Mobile,’ Noor said to please the Maulana before switching on the hairdryer and drowning out the first caller’s question.
Everyone at Kyoon knew the real story behind his expulsion from the Islam channel, thanks to one of the drivers who used to work there. Shortbeard and the Maulana had been hosting ‘Answers’ for a little over a year, disagreeing with each other every week with the fervour of two men who are each assured that his opinion is the only one in line with religious doctrine, when a man called during Ramzan to ask if the proscription against intercourse during the hours of fasting meant it was also forbidden to kiss one’s wife in that time.
The Maulana had said that Islam never forbids affection within a marriage, under any circumstances, so if the kiss is merely affectionate there is no barrier against it. But it is important to ensure that the kiss does not cause ‘excitement,’ because that will break the fast.
But Shortbeard had turned to him with a look of incredulity. Ensure the kiss does not cause excitement, he said, mimicking the Maulana’s slightly high-pitched voice. How can a man ensure such a thing? No, no, of course a man cannot kiss his wife while fasting. It is too easy to fall into a state of excitement. And then he paused and added, ‘…except for those who are entirely certain that they cannot easily get excited. For them, it is allowed.’ And then he glanced, just for a moment, at the Maulana.
Well, it was clear to everyone watching — the driver insisted — exactly what he was trying to say about the Maulana. Particularly after that high-pitched impersonation, exaggerated just enough to make the Maulana’s voice sound girl-like. What choice did the Maulana have but to tell the producers that either Shortbeard would have to go, or he would?
Noor switched off the hair-dryer and the Maulana patted his beard approvingly. She knew how to smooth out its natural wiriness with a judicious addition of product. By now, Longbeard and Shortbeard had already moved on to the next call.
The caller was a woman, neither old nor young from the sound of her voice, who identified herself as Shireen.
‘What can we help you with, Shireen Bibi?’ Shortbeard asked, as the Maulana tipped back his head and closed his eyes so that Noor could apply foundation and eye-liner, and just a little lipstick to fill out the thin lines of his mouth which otherwise, the producer insisted, made him look disapproving.
‘I have just returned from Hajj,’ Shireen said.
Longbeard and Shortbeard — and the Maulana — all quickly uttered congratulations and invoked blessings, and Noor felt compelled to join in.
‘You must not call yourself Shireen,’ Shortbeard said. ‘You are now Hajjan Shireen.’
There was a pause from Shireen that went on too long.
‘She’s regretting this call,’ the Maulana said, with the satisfaction of one who knows himself closely attuned to the psychological undercurrents of callers.
‘Something…disturbing happened,’ Shireen said, and Noor, who was about to sweep the eye-liner brush across the Maulana’s lower lid, paused.
With his eyes still closed, the Maulana said, ‘You can listen just as well while attending to my eyes.’
‘Sorry,’ Noor mumbled, and touched the brush to his eyelid.
‘I couldn’t see the Ka’aba.’
The Maulana’s eyes jerked open and a line of black smeared across his cheek.
‘What do you mean?’ Shortbeard said.
‘What are you saying?’ Longbeard said.
‘I couldn’t see it. I was with my husband, and his two sisters, and they all said, what a glorious sight, doesn’t it fill you heart with light. Don’t you feel Allah’s presence? And I said, what are you talking about? What is it you’re looking at? The Ka’aba of course, they replied. What else is anyone looking at? At first I thought, well, my eyes are weaker than theirs and I haven’t had my prescription checked in a long time, perhaps I need to walk a few steps closer to see what is visible to the rest of them…’
While the Maulana was staring with concentration at the TV Noor quickly spat onto a tissue and wiped away the smear of eyeliner from his cheek. So what did this woman expect? That just because she went on Hajj, her eyesight should become perfect? She wished Shireen would hang up so they could move on to the next call. It was the questions about family relationships she most enjoyed — how to deal with a feud between your wife and mother, what to say when a decent boy with a good career proposes for your younger daughter when your older daughter is still unmarried, what to do when your husband is posted to America and tells you you’ll have to bring up your children there for the next few years.
Noor had once heard the henna-haired controller complain that these TV shows were giving too much power to the maulanas, making them fulfill the advisory roles that belonged by rights to the elders of a family. The role of the maulana is simple, he said. To officiate at weddings and funerals, and to teach children how to recite the Quran in Arabic so their lips can form the sacred words. But giving advice? What mad idea was this to think they should give advice? Noor listened sympathetically and nodded as he said this, but couldn’t help thinking that if the elders of her own family hosted ‘Answers’ it would be very boring.
Shireen was still talking. ‘We drew closer and closer to the Ka’aba, and still I couldn’t see it. But something had taken possession of my brain — I can’t explain it, but I could feel it, something inside my brain.’
This was beginning to get interesting. The Maulana nodded his head thoughtfully and pinched his lips between thumb and forefinger. Thank god she hadn’t applied the lipstick yet.
‘Go on,’ Longbeard said.
‘Finally when my husband and sisters-in-law insisted it was looming up in front of us, so close they could almost touch it, I finally saw it. But only for a moment.’
‘What do you mean only for a moment?’ Shortbeard said in a voice so stern it made Noor frightened for the woman calling in. She had done something terrible — Shortbeard’s voice left no doubt about it.
‘It wavered. One moment there, then gone. Again, one moment there, then gone. And then, whatever it was that had taken hold of my brain, it made me faint. Right there, just ten feet away from the Ka’aba, I fainted. Please tell me, what does it mean?’
Part Three
There was a long pause that followed, in which time Shortbeard and Longbeard exchanged a glance filled with knowledge, Longbeard shaking his head. Noor found herself executing a rapid series of tongue-against-roof-of-mouth clicks, to show she was treating the situation with the gravity it deserved.
Longbeard said something in Arabic.
‘Understand, Shireen?’ Shortbeard thundered, and a whimpered ‘no’ was his answer. ‘Do you understand any language other than Urdu?’
‘English.’
‘Why do you understand English, and not Arabic?’
Well that seemed entirely unfair, Noor thought. Did the Arabs rule over Pakistan for a hundred years? Was Arabic the language of the Internet? She glanced over at the Maulana, but he was saying nothing.
‘Let’s not get distracted.’ Longbeard placed a restraining hand on Shortbeard’s arm. ‘Listen closely, Shireen. The verse from the Quran which I just quoted said: Allah has placed a seal on their heart and hearing, and on their eyes is a veil. A grievous punishment awaits them!’
‘On their eyes is a veil!’ Shortbeard echoed.
‘I know that verse,’ Shireen said. ‘It’s about the infidels. I’m not an infidel.’
‘ON THEIR EYES IS A VEIL!’
The Maulana was looking down at his fingernails and pushing back the cuticles to accentuate hishalf-moons.
‘What have you done? What sin have you committed which made you unfit to see the Holy Place?’
‘Me? I haven’t done anything. I’m telling you, something took possession of my brain. I think it was some kind of djinn. How do I make sure it’s gone? I haven’t felt it since they carried me back to my tent that afternoon and I drank a glass of Aab-e-Zamzam, so perhaps the Sacred Water drove it out, but I need to be sure. So all I’m asking is, what prayers do I say to expel it?’
‘A djinn took possession of you while you were performing Hajj? A djinn has the power to cloak the Ka’aba? Woman, what blasphemy is this? Do you think the djinns don’t acknowledge the sacredness of the most sacred of places in the universe?’
‘You stood before the Ka’aba, and you did not see it.’ Shortbeard’s tone was flat, his voice suddenly quiet.
His words reverberated through the room. Noor was overcome with the awfulness of what he’d just said. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to be the one person among the hundreds of thousands who was denied a glimpse of the Holy Place. It was too sickening to comprehend. It quenches every thirst that has burnt inside you your entire life, her neighbour had once told her when he returned from Hajj and she asked him what it was like to stand before the Ka’aba. So just imagine being surrounded by a multitude who are having their thirst quenched while you’re standing in their midst aware of nothing but the burning.
‘You know he used to be an actor on PTV many years ago,’ the Maulana said, gesturing at Shortbeard. ‘Not very good.’
What did that have to do with anything? Noor wondered if someone had sealed up the Maulana’s hearing — he seemed so unaware of the gravity of what was unfolding on the television just above their heads.
‘Tell us what sin you’ve committed
Are you an apostate
Do you perform black magic
Have you burnt a Quran
Are you an adulteress
Do you tempt the pious into sin?’
‘Enough! Enough!’ Shireen said. ‘None of that. Nothing like that. I’m an ordinary woman. I’m married, I have two children, I say my prayers, I keep my fasts, I’m honest, I’m modest, I give to the poor every Eid, big and small.’
‘But you’ve still committed some terrible sin. Tell us what it is?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Why else would Allah place a veil on your eyes in front of the Ka’aba? What did you do that even his great mercy could not forgive? Remember, he is All-Knowing.’
‘But then he knows something that I don’t!’
‘Eyeliner,’ the Maulana said to Noor.
Noor looked blankly at him. Shireen wasn’t lying. She could hear it in her voice. But Longbeard and Shortbeard must be right. In that place where the infirm felt strength return, where the weary of heart felt lightness infuse their spirit, who ever heard of someone losing, rather than gaining, sight? Was it possible to commit a sin of such magnitude it excluded you from Allah’s grace…and not know it? She sat down heavily in the vinyl chair.
Part Four
‘Are you all right? Can I get you some water?’
Water? What could water do! Noor wasn’t always modest, she wasn’t always honest, she didn’t give to the poor, she only prayed during Ramzan, and sometimes during Ramzan she pretended her menstrual cycle was continuing on longer than it really was just in order to have one or two extra days off from fasting. She had always thought these were small sins, but who was she to judge? What was the line that separated the sins that could be erased from the Ledger by a night of prayer from the ones that marked you as beyond redemption? She had always thought that line would be deep and wide and clear to anyone who considered leaping across it. But Shortbeard had asked ‘Do you tempt the pious into sin,’ as if that was enough on its own to make Allah place a veil over your sight and plan a grievous punishment for you. And Noor tempted all sorts, she knew that. Did she ask if they were pious before she walked past them, her hips swaying just a little, her eyes teasing…? No, never. In fact, she’d even once seen the henna-haired controller look at her in that particular way of tempted men, and it did nothing to stop her from stepping over, instead of around, the car-barrier which the cheeky guard pretended to raise between her legs.
‘Where is your husband? Call your husband to the phone!’
‘Yes, yes. He’s outside, just across the road. Wait — I’ll call him. He’ll tell you I’ve done nothing wrong.’
A minute or so passed, in which time Longbeard and Shortbeard said nothing, but only shook their heads and lifted their hands in prayer, and Noor received a text message from one of her cousins telling her she HAD TO tune in to the Islam channel NOW, while the Maulana sighed exaggeratedly and started to apply lipstick to his own mouth.
Finally a man’s voice came on the phone. ‘Yes?’
‘You are Shireen’s husband?’ Shortbeard’s voice echoed strangely. Shireen must have turned on the television in her house.
‘I am. I’m Haji Ali. She just told me what you’ve said to her. Now listen — I don’t know what happened to her in front of the Ka’aba, but I know she’s a good woman, a good Muslim.’
‘Are you saying you know more than the Almighty does? That He was wrong? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying…’
‘What?’
‘You’re wrong.’
The Maulana let out a high-pitched cackle. Noor glanced at him. He’d applied the lipstick in a way that made his lips even thinner than normal.
Shortbeard leaned back, his hands folded together. ‘Really? We’ll see.’ He turned to the cameras.
‘Viewers, some one among you may know what crime Shireen, wife of Haji Ali, has committed. Our second phone line is waiting for your call. The number is at the bottom of the screen.’
‘And remember,’ said Longbeard, ‘Use Bomb Mobile for the lowest charges.’
Almost immediately, a female caller’s voice was piped into the studio. ‘I know what she’s done.’
‘Khala, what are you doing?’ Haji Ali said. ‘Please don’t listen to her. She’s my mother’s oldest sister. Her mind stopped working some years ago.’
‘Quiet, Haji Ali. Please, caller, continue.’
‘She does black magic.’
Noor shook her head in disbelief. She knew what mother’s older sisters were like. Her own eldest Khala carried around a ruler to measure how deep her nieces’ necklines were and if the figure was even a millimetre over the limits of modesty she’d clip the girl across the ear and accuse her parents of negligence.
‘You’ve seen her perform black magic?’ Longbeard asked.
‘I’ve seen her. That’s enough. My nephew could have married any girl. Why would he choose someone with such dark dark skin if she hadn’t done black magic on him?’
Noor smiled at her own fair-skinned reflection in the mirror.
‘I’m afraid that isn’t proof enough,’ Longbeard said.
‘But if she is doing black magic she’s not going to do it in full view of her family,’ Shortbeard cut in.
‘Such things are done in secret. The only witness is Allah.’
‘But we can’t just…’ Longbeard started.
‘There was a veil before her eyes. In front of the Ka’aba.’ Shortbeard turned to Longbeard. ‘Are you saying there is any doubt about her guilt, regardless of whether or not we know what she’s guilty of.’
‘Don’t give in, don’t give in,’ the Maulana urged.
‘Of course I’m not saying that.’
The Maulana sighed. ‘Coward.’
‘Haji Ali,’ Shortbeard said softly. ‘You know what you have to do now.’
‘What does he have to do, Maulana Sahib?,’ Noor asked, her voice surprising her with its trembling quality.
‘Improve viewer figures so that Bomb Mobile renews its advertising.’
There was no time to respond to this ridiculous remark because Shortbeard pointed his finger in the direction of the camera and said, ‘Haji Ali, divorce her.’
‘Ya Allah!’ the Maulana bellowed, and Noor texted her cousin to say ‘OMG!!!!!’
‘Say it three times!’ Shortbeard instructed. ‘I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you.’
‘For the sake of your children!’
‘For the sake of your soul!’
There was a long beeping sound. Haji Ali had hung up.
Shortbeard turned to Longbeard. ‘It’s a good thing we have Caller ID.’ He called out to someone in the studio: ‘Phone them back!’
Longbeard tilted his head in a way that Noor recognised as indicating someone was speaking to him through his earpiece.
‘We’re transitioning to a new phone system,’ he said. ‘Caller ID is temporarily disabled.’
Shortbeard made a gesture of disbelief. ‘Viewers, it’s time for an ad break. Please stay tuned.’
Part Five
Maulana switched off the television. He always switched it off just after Shortbeard instructed the viewers to ‘stay tuned.’
‘But…why couldn’t she see the Ka’aba?’ Noor wanted to know. ‘Switch it back on. Maybe she’ll call back.’
The Maulana looked at her as if she was something very small and far from grace.
‘What? I just want to know what she did wrong.’
‘You should worry more about yourself and less about others.’
‘Me? Why? I don’t have anything to worry about?’
The Maulana looked ruefully in the mirror — his incomplete eye make-up, his thin, smeared lips. ‘Do you think Shireen worried until the day she stood in front of the Ka’aba?’
They didn’t say another word to each other as she finished readying him for the camera.
A few minutes later she was on her way to the bus-stop. She hadn’t even glanced at the Pathan guard as she exited the building, and she’d stepped around instead of over the car-barrier. The mid-afternoon sun was hot overhead, and there were no trees for shade on this long road, just one office building after another, and the slightly fishy whiff from the harbour. Cars drove past full of men. She didn’t look in their direction. Tomorrow she would wear a looser shalwar-kameez with longer sleeves. Perhaps she’d cover her head with a dupatta. Yes, why not?
She turned the corner just in time to see her bus pull out from the bus stop. All this thinking had slowed her down. She trudged over to the stop, and waited. So hot. The pavement itself burning through the thin soles of her shoes. And her head was beginning to ache.
She was shifting from one foot to the other when a motorbike screeched to a stop and the green-eyed Pathan guard smiled at her. ‘Oh, cotton bud. Get on, I’ll give you a ride.’
She turned her face away from him. ‘I’ll take the bus.’
‘O-ho. No one that we know is looking. Come on.’
‘And then you’ll say I tempted you into sin.’
‘You? Tempt me? Don’t be ridiculous.’
She turned to him, anger flaring, but he was laughing. ‘I’m the one who intends to tempt you.’
Her bus had just departed. There was no shade. The sun was so hot. Her shoes too thin.
‘I’ll resist,’ she said firmly.
Then she hopped on to the back of his motorbike, sidesaddle, her arms around his waist. ‘But keep trying.’
