The Contract

  The Contract

  AN INDIROM NOVELLA

  PUBLISHED BY INDIREADS

  Zeenat Mahal

  Version 1.0

  Copyright © Zeenat Mahal 2013

  Published in 2013 by

  Indireads Incorporated

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-927826-15-7

  Cover Illustration: Fatima Amal Uppal

  DEDICATION

  To my darling friends Fatima Navid, Sehr Sajjad, Amna Hussnain, Saman Roshail and Afia Raheal, for being there with me through thick and thin. Love you gals.

  ACKNOWLDEGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Khadija Zulqarnain for suggesting Indireads to me and vice versa. You were the one, Khadija, who read that first embarrassing and hilarious romance ‘Koh-i-Noor’ and kept me entertained with your letters and cards while I recuperated from ‘mumps’. Thank you for being such a good friend then and now.

  A huge thanks to Naheed Hassan for writing that first email of appreciation that got me going. And thank you for thinking of this fabulous idea of Indireads and giving me the opportunity to see my writing in print.

  I would like to give special thanks to my editor, Sabahat Muhammad, whose invaluable assistance and hard work is much appreciated. I hope this is the beginning of a long and successful partnership.

  NOTE TO THE READER

  The Contract is an Indirom novella brought to you by Indireads. As a young publisher that aims to connect South Asian writers and readers, we are keen to hear from you—our readers.

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  CONTENTS

  Dedications and Acknowledgments

  Note to the Reader

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  About the Author

  About Indireads

  ONE

  “To being thirty and officially of un-marriageable age and therefore—free,” Shahira toasted herself.

  Laughing, Nina piped up, “Really, Shahira, you’re still young...”

  “Oh, don’t be such a buzz kill, Nina,” Shahira responded with a laugh.

  “And she’s divorced with a kid. What self-respecting Pakistani male is going to want her?” Misbah joked.

  “Hear, hear!” added Shahira spiritedly.

  Happy and grateful that her life no longer included her psycho ex-husband, she reached home in the evening. One of her students, Natasha, was coming to visit with her grandmother to wish Shahira. She’d taught Natasha since the fifth grade and now three years later, both Natasha and her grandmother were very good friends. Natasha was dropped and picked up from school by the driver and a Filipino maid. She was a bright girl, and Shahira’s heart broke to see her so neglected. The only time she seemed happy was when she talked of the latest gift her father had sent her, or the few minutes of time he spared for her between his flights from one international destination to the next.

  “Aunty, don’t you think Natasha needs at least her father’s presence, especially since she doesn’t have her mother?” Shahira’s tone was hesitant, because they weren’t supposed to interfere in student’s lives, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “I’ve asked Hussain to re-marry so many times but he’s so stubborn. Just like his father! I’m not going to be here forever and then what is he going to do, I ask you?” Aunty Salma asked in high dudgeon.

  Shahira thought it prudent not to answer, feeling she’d done what she could.

  But then soon after, her own worries overwhelmed her, and drove all other concerns out of her mind. One ordinary day, just like any other, she returned from school to find her mother fighting for breath, her face pale and her eyes rolling in her head. Frantically, Shahira managed to put her into the car. She drove as fast as she could but by the time they reached the nearest hospital, it was already too late.

  Hysterical with shock and pain, she babbled, “She was just breathless…she was fine a few minutes ago. She can’t be…dead…that’s impossible!”

  No one was interested in her tragedy, however. It was routine for so many of them.

  “Is there someone we can call, bibi? Is there a male relative who can come and take care of the formalities?”

  Shahira stared at the man. There was no one but her and her little boy. So she shook her head and gathered herself. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She had depended on herself for the last six years. Those years had been the happiest of her life because they hadn’t included her deranged in-laws and abusive ex-husband. She could only put trust in herself, after God.

  Trying to bank the pain that threatened to devour her, she followed the ambulance in her car. Only six years ago she’d lost her father and now, her mother had gone too.

  “Is she really dead? Has Nani gone to Allah now?” Shahaan asked.

  “Yes.” Who did that hoarse voice belong to?

  At home, she helped wrap her mother in her white death robes, the kaffan, and waited for the silence to descend into her very being. Eventually that was all that would be left; a gaping absence, a huge void, a great emptiness that would never be filled. And when the pain came, she wanted to scream and howl in agony. It was so intense and deep and, she realized in awe, permanent.

  A kind neighbor came the next day with breakfast and stayed with her to make sure she ate a little. The few distant relatives she had, and her friends, came and went; she knew from experience that life stopped for no one, and no one put their lives on hold for anyone’s pain. Why should they?

  People sat in unnatural silence punctuated with hushed whispers, reading the Quran, reciting the Qul Shareef on a thousand date stones, cleaned and washed for this very purpose.

  When they had all left, Shahira couldn’t think beyond the one fact that haunted her. She’d lost everyone. She was all alone now. She had no one except her son and she had to be strong for him. She had to survive one day at a time.

  Soon, she realized how difficult it was for a young, single woman to survive unscathed in a country that prided itself on its religious morality. Several ‘friendly’ male neighbors and relatives called at various times of the day or late at night, and Shahira was running out of patience and ways of thwarting them.

  Natasha and her grandmother visited often. One day, when Natasha went off to play with Shahaan, Aunty Salma said hesitantly, “Shahira, I’m very fond of you, and I’ve known you for three years now, so I hope you won’t mind what I’m going to say. I just want you to think about it with an open mind.”

  Having no idea what Aunty Salma could possibly want from her, she listened with a polite smile fixed on her face.

  “Shahira, Natasha needs a mother and I c
ould do with a lively companion, and my son definitely needs a wife. So if you agree, I would like very much that you marry Hussain.”

  For a moment Shahira just stared at her, she was so stunned. Aunty Salma pressed her advantage.

  “Look, Shahira, you’re still young, you don’t know the bitter realities of this world. Men are like hungry wolves and soon they’ll be at your door sniffing, and they won’t be kept at bay for long. I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but these are the realities of life. You must know that I’ve grown to care for you very deeply. You don’t have to answer right now. Just think about it. I’ll give Hussain your phone number and he’ll call you. The two of you can talk and get to know each other.”

  It was clear to her that Aunty Salma wasn’t seeking permission so much as giving her a heads-up. What she had said was true—the wolves were already circling. Shahira promised she’d think about it, just to reassure Aunty Salma for the time.

  ***

  A week later, her phone rang early in the morning. Too early. She answered, irritated that people could call at such an inconvenient time without a thought for other people’s comfort.

  “Hello, yes?”

  A crisp, deep, masculine voice at the other end, said, “Is this Ms. Shahira?”

  “Yes, this is she,” she replied mystified. She hardly ever got any calls, let alone from urbane sounding men.

  When he spoke again, his voice had an edge to it, “Ms. Shahira, I believe my mother spoke to you about a marriage proposal. My daughter Natasha and my mother are extremely fond of you.” He paused. “You must be really good.”

  It sounded like a sneer.

  His voice cold, he added, “Well, you can say goodbye to your dreams of ensnaring a rich husband because they’re about to be foiled. You may have thought that a child and a sentimental old woman were easy targets, but I find your methods despicable. You misused your authority and your status as a teacher. Your circumstances are not of my making and I’m certainly not going to take responsibility for you, but…”

  “Now just hold on a minute!” Shahira cut in, outraged at his presumption. She wasn’t going to let any male browbeat her ever again. She’d learned to defend her rights. Firmly, anger latent in every word, she gave the man on the other end of the line a piece of her mind.

  “I have no desire to marry you. Nor do I have any designs on your wealth. If I didn’t see another man for the rest of my life, it would be too soon. I was merely kind to Natasha; attentive to a child who, apparently, has no one but her grandmother to take care of her. And you don’t know your mother very well if you think she’s sentimental or senile. I reiterate—I was merely kind to Natasha because she needed it. While you’re busy adding to your wealth, she’s pining away for a father. Think about that before you point fingers at others. Good day!”

  She cut the line. She’d had enough of men who thought they could do and say as they pleased with no fear of reckoning. Never again was she going to let anyone speak to her or treat her the way she’d been treated by Usman, her ex-husband and his family.

  She fumed and paced in impotent anger but then deciding she had better things to do, made popcorn and watched Ice Age 2 with her son again. They were both in fits over the nutty squirrel.

  The next day, Shahira received another call.

  “Hello?”

  Sobs and indistinct noises. Shahira sighed. Life was getting way too complicated with all the strange phone calls.

  “Shahira, I’m so happy! Hussain really liked you. Thank you, thank you, my darling, I’m so happy...” Aunty Salma trailed off sobbing.

  “Aunty, I think you’re mistaken…” Shahira began, uncomprehending.

  “Oh, oh, I’m so happy! I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later.” Still sobbing, she cut in, and then hung up.

  Shahira had not quite digested this piece of incomprehensible news when her phone rang again. She stared at it for a few seconds before answering it.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously.

  “Ms. Shahira, this is Hussain.” Hastily, he added, “Kindly hear me out before you hang up on me again—I’m a very busy man.”

  He sounded irritable. Taking Shahira’s shocked silence for acquiescence he continued, “After our last conversation, I’m of the opinion that we’re entirely suited to each other…”

  Shahira couldn’t help it; she made an outraged sound of disbelief.

  He pressed on, “I understand that you have as little desire to take a husband as I do to acquire a wife. But my mother’s taken a very strong liking to you and so has Natasha and as you so patently pointed out—Natasha needs someone to take care of her. I’m offering you a solution to everybody’s dilemmas, including yours. It’s a…slightly unconventional arrangement, but do take it in the spirit that it’s being offered.”

  Shahira tried to interrupt, “I have no…”

  “Kindly allow me to finish,” his request more a brusque order than anything else and he continued, “Like I said, it’s an unconventional arrangement, but something that will suit both of us admirably. If you’re as independent as you claim to be, you’ll be smart to take it.’

  He hesitated for just a moment and then said in the same no-nonsense tones, “My offer is that we get married in a purely business transaction. You’ll appear to be, to all practical purposes, my wife. However, between the two of us, we’ll know that you are in fact my wife in name only. Think of it as…employment. I’ll pay you a regular salary. I’ll continue to live as I do now, without any ties or matrimonial pressures, as will you. If you agree, the marriage vows can be taken on the phone on Saturday, since I have an hour free in the morning.”

  Shahira was too shocked to reply.

  After a pause he said, “Ms…er?”

  He didn’t even remember her name. He had an hour free on Saturday? To employ her as a wife, no less. Wonderful. Tally ho, Mad-Hatter.

  “Are you finished?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, I’m going to hang up on you now.”

  And she did, with great satisfaction. It was true what they said about people with money, they thought they could buy anything. The nerve of the man! What an outrageous suggestion. In my employment, indeed.

  However, Shahira found the disturbing phone call intruding upon her consciousness again and again. Although she’d hung up on him most self-righteously, she couldn’t help thinking about her dire situation and wondering. Her first thoughts had been that this was a perfect example of how bad things were for her. Men thought she was helpless and they could make any damn offer they pleased. She’d seen enough of the world to know that her circumstances were precarious. She didn’t have much money, and social security meant having the ‘protection’ of a man in the guise of marriage, no matter how traumatic that may be.

  She was in a serious dilemma; social constraints versus personal freedom. She didn’t have anyone she could depend on. Financially, she was far from secure. Both her parents were dead and there was no one else she could trust to look after Shahaan in a crisis.

  And she thought, what am I doing?

  This was a tailor-made solution. After all, hadn’t she been an unpaid maid and bed-warmer in Usman’s house? This man was offering her money and social security with no strings attached. According to the terms of the offer, she wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation that Usman had put her through. She shuddered in revulsion as she thought of her brief married life. He’d scarred her for life. The physical scars had faded but the emotional scars remained.

  Switching her thoughts to the present with an effort, Shahira argued with herself that it was only sensible that she should think of a secure future for herself and her son. She was a pragmatic woman in her thirties; moreover, a mother, and she needed to think realistically and practically.

  She did, for a full week, and then decided to give Natasha’s father a call. This was just another job, she told herself. She’d be paid to be a mother and a companion
; that was all.

  Et n'était pas juste parfait?

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Hussain,” he said in his deep voice.

  “Hi. This is Shahira…Natasha’s teacher? I was wondering if you have time…”

  “I don’t. I’m about to go in a meeting. If this means you want to re-negotiate the deal, I’ll call you back.”

  “Yes, I…I believe I do. I’ll wait for your call.”

  She was probably out of her depth, she thought, listening to the dead tone of the phone for a few moments after he’d cut the line. She was a schoolteacher with no money or prospects, and this man was a globe-trotting, suave, rich womanizer, who didn’t even have time for his only child. She was not going to let him get the better of her. She intended to drive a hard bargain. After all, a person who could suggest such a ludicrous idea, and expect someone to actually consider it, had better be ready to pay through the nose. And by all accounts, he could afford to.

  He called at five that evening.

  “Sorry for the delay, I got stuck. You’ll have to be quick because I have another meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “I think…” she began. She’d been practicing her pitch—a sensible piece of rhetoric giving him clear and concise reasons for her acceptance. Then she thought, why should I? He’s the one who suggested it. So she asked instead, “How much money?”

  “Two lakh rupees per month.”

  “Eight lakh per month and that’s separate from the household running expenses and miscellaneous expenditure like clothing, schooling, etcetera.”

  “You seem to have rather a high opinion of yourself.”

  “You’re not paying for me. You’re paying me for a job you offered. I do have a high opinion of my abilities, yes. Ask your mother if you don’t believe me.”

  “Three then.”

  “Five and that’s final.”