A Pair of Jeans and other stories by Qaisra Shahraz

sat down to watch television.
    Fatima left the meal she was preparing and went to speak to Begum. They talked for nearly five minutes. There were several moments of awkward pauses on either side of the telephone receivers. By the time the conversation ended a pinched look had settled around Fatima’s mouth.
    Begum had nervously said her ‘Salam’. Fatima had quite literally forgotten to return the greeting at the end, but silently put the receiver down. Her eyes stared at the wall.
    At the other end, with her head bent over her legs, Begum thanked Allah that it was over and done with. She sank down against the banister of the stairs. She felt bad, oh God, terribly bad. She had hated herself every minute of that conversation and the role she had been forced to play. Putting herself in Fatima’s position, she realised how painful it must be for her. How would she feel if she had found out that her daughter was to be jilted at the last minute?
    Mechanically, as if in a daze, and with her hand held against her temple, Fatima, for her part, went into the living room. Going to the sofa, she sat down and absent-mindedly pushed the cushion aside and stared in front of her, at the fireplace.
    Miriam did not notice anything unusual about her mother until she realised that her mother had not said a word since she entered the room. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked quietly – her heart’s rhythm had altered for some reason.
    “I – I,” Fatima stalled as she sought to answer her daughter’s question. She was not yet ready to divulge what she had learnt. She was still reeling from the shock herself. What would it do to her daughter? She turned her face away from her daughter.
    “What is it, Mother?” Miriam’s heart had now gained a steady sharp beat. Dread entered. “What did Aunt Begum say?” she asked again.
    Unable to control herself any longer Fatima bitterly burst out with, “She said that your engagement had to be broken off!”
    Miriam paled. Her heart had now sunk to the pit of her stomach. “Why, Mother?” she said quietly. She was amazed at how clearly her mind was functioning, although a buzzing sound seemed to hammer in her head.
    “She said that they came yesterday to inform us, but found it impossible to get around to doing so. Begum says that her sister insists that her daughter was betrothed to Farook. That they were well-matched together. She says she is very sorry and apologises, but apparently her sister comes first.”
    “Liars! What a lousy excuse!” Miriam’s mind screamed, but she uttered not a word – instead left the room.
    She ran upstairs to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Standing in the middle of the room, she drew in a deep breath.
    Where did this sister come from? Why was it she was never heard of before?
    “Not to marry Farook?” Miriam voiced loudly. Why, only yesterday she was planning how they were going to lead their lives together. In fact deciding in which area they were going to purchase their house, after they got married and had jobs.
    Her mouth twisted into a cynical line. In her heart she knew. From that first moment she saw them that night in her jeans and short vest, she had had a dreadful premonition. She had known, although she had denied it emphatically to herself, that something was wrong or bound to go wrong. Their faces, their body language had told the whole story.
    The buzzing sound was still hammering in her head. Going to her wardrobe, she pulled it open and looked inside. Her eyes sought wildly and her hands rummaged through the clothes and the hangers, until she found what she was seeking.
    She pulled off from the hanger the repugnant looking article and threw it on the floor, as if it burned her to hold it. She stared at it as if mesmerised by it. Then with her foot she gave it a vicious kick. Her mouth resumed its cynical twist. Her friends would never believe her if she told them.
    The shabby-looking and much worn pair of jeans lay