Sheik Naseem was a happy man. He had a steady job as a teacher in the New York middle school. He had adapted to life in the Big Apple, over the two years since he migrated from Naubatpur, a tiny village in Pakistan four years ago. Naseem had blended in nicely. He enjoyed the vibrant life in New York. He dated many girls – white, black, Latino, Asian. He enjoyed beer, and frequented the pubs. And he had developed a taste for bacon. All forbidden in his Islamic religion. But Naseem had no qualms about these.
In spite of everything, Naseem had one yearning. He missed home food. He missed conversing in his mother tongue. And he wanted a balance. His life was too American now. He wanted a Pakistani wife.
***
Naseem was in Muzzafarabad, a village outside Quetta. His cousin had arranged the meeting with Muhamad Balkish Sarwar. Muhamad had 8 daughters, and was desperate to marry them off. Naseem was paired with Muhamad’s third daughter, Rabia. Naseem was pleased with Rabia. She was pretty, wheat complexioned, demure and a great cook. She spoke Pashtun, Naseem’s native tongue. It was a marriage made in heaven.
But Naseem was realistic. Rabia had had a strict Islamic upbringing, and all she knew was this rural hell-hole. How would she adapt in New York? Will she be able to cope with the cultural shock? Well, she would have to. He will make sure of that.
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The bleak landscape of the Sind region of Pakistan was broken by the mud-walled thatched huts of Muzzafarabad. The women worked on the dry rocky land. Rabia was dressed in a black burqa, as were all the other women. She toiled from dawn to dusk, in her father’s small parched plot, tilling, planting, weeding and watering. She also tended the goats and the chickens. The work was never done. And the girls bore the brunt of the curses which their parents rained on them incessantly. But today, it looked like Rabia’s luck was turning. A man was coming, from America, to look at her, and possibly marry her. It sounded too good to be true.
So when Naseem appeared, Rabia realised that this was a gift from the heavens. Naseem looked so handsome in his western clothes. And he spoke so glowingly of the good life in America. Rabia was a little confused. She had always been told that America was the land of the devil. The land of infidels. Enemy No 1. But then she wanted to get away from Muzzafarabad. No matter what. Nothing could be worse than Muzzafarabad.
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Naseem was puzzled. He had expected resistance from Rabia, but not to this extent. He had coaxed her to include ham in her meals. And even to drink beer. After much persuasion, she had done so, albeit reluctantly. But Rabia looked so depressed. She seldom spoke. Naseem had expected her to get used to things here, but she seemed to be bottling everything up, and had become increasingly withdrawn. Well, time is a great healer. Even this will pass, he thought.
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Rabia lay on her bed, the tears wetting the pillow. Soon after arriving in their new home in New York, the stark reality of her new life had dawned on her. Her home was an apartment, quite different from the thatched mud-hut in Muzzafarabad. But this gave little comfort. It was a decrepit 5th floor flat, which she had to walk up to. The whole place was squalid and filthy, and infested with rats and roaches. All her neighbours were immigrants, mainly from Latino or East European counties. She couldn’t understand a word of what they spoke. But she could sense the animosity . She witnessed criminal acts every day. And Naseem – he was a different man now. Rabia sobbed as she recalled the first time he brought home the food – hog’s meat. Rabia had almost thrown up. But he insisted that she eat it. After mush resistance, she swallowed some. Then came the alcohol. Again she had to take a sip. Naseem also bought her short revealing dresses, which she loathed. She had been taught to cover her “aurat”, which for females meant covering almost the whole body. And here was her husband, whom she had to obey, asking her to walk around semi-naked.
That morning they had a big fight. Rabia had shouted at Naseem. “It is against Allah. I will not do it. We will go to Hell if we eat the filthy hog’s meat.” Naseem had slapped her. And cursed her family. “I can file a case against your father. I can bring him to his knees. He will lose everything. Your family will be on the streets, penniless and homeless,” he had threatened.
***
Rabia turned. Naseem lay on the bed next to her. He slept, snoring loudly, his mouth open. A thin stream of saliva dribbled out. It was a disgusting sight. As Rabia watched, she knew what she had to do. She had to face the devil. She had to do it.
***
Rabia paused. She held the kitchen knife tightly with both hands. And then, she closed her eyes tight, and stabbed Naseem repeatedly, slashing his face and neck as he awoke, screaming, and trying to fend off the blows. Rabia was astounded by her own strength. Soon he lay still. Rabia looked at the bloody mess. Then she looked at the knife in her hands. She felt a strange sense of peace. The knife slipped from her hands.
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