Free Typhoon by Qaisra Shahraz Page A

point of huge speculation and social debate. At least she was trying; some men shrugged, thinking of their own, rather more slapdash wives.
    Inside her bedroom, Jamila, a thirty-seven-year-old woman, had other things than her house and cleanliness on her mind. On hearing the bell, she weakly squeaked to her teenage daughter Shahnaz to go and open the gates. Shahnaz stood near the bed and held a bowl up to her mother. Jamila waved her daughter away as she felt her stomach muscles churn, twist and lurch into action again. Spluttering out some more vile tasting, greenish water into the steel bowl, she pondered miserably on who could be disturbing them this early in the morning. Riaz, the milk boy, had already visited, leaving their two full pails of milk. The thought of the creamy milk set Jamila’s stomach heaving once again.
    Pressing the tight bulge of her stomach with her two hands she wished she could simply curl up in some dark space and die. With trembling hands she swept back strands of sweat-soaked hair. Seeing Kulsoom and Naimat Bibi enter her room, she groaned aloud in dismay, hiding her face from them. She was in no mood for banal chatter. Unable to lift herself from the bed, she could not stand on ceremony with them and exchange social pleasantries, even if she were so inclined.
    Managing a shadow of a smile of welcome, Jamila watched her two friends cross the wet marble floor. Kulsoom had tentatively lifted the hemline of her shalwar. The last thing she wanted on this, of all days, was to slip on the wet floor and fracture her bony legs. Last time she had fallen it had taken her leg six months to recover and she had paid the price dearly.Literally, for she had lost heavily on her matchmaking business. Her legs had already been in plaster a number of times. A lot of walking was still ahead of her before the day ended. She thus pointed to the damp floor, warning Naimat Bibi to be careful too.
    ‘Assalam Alaikum. Jamila Jee, are you all right?’ Kulsoom asked in concern. They didn’t expect to see her still in bed at this time of the morning.
    Standing near her bed they both peered down at their friend. Jamila made a brave attempt to rise up for her friends’ sake, but soon gave up the pretence, when Kulsoom considerately stopped her. ‘Please don’t bother to get up for our sake. Your Shahnaz has told us you are not well. You do look pale Jamila! In fact, yellow as
haldi
. What is the matter?’ Kulsoom pulled her cotton chador around her head, hugging it tightly against her ears as the chill from the cold washed floor rose through her thin nylon
chappalls
. Spying a portable heater placed near the bed, she sidled over to it, wanting to warm her cold, bony legs behind their crepe-de-chine shalwar.
    When Jamila sheepishly looked away, Naimat Bibi and Kulsoom exchanged a quick glance, silently questioning each other as to what was going on in this bedroom. Then before their startled gazes they had their answer. They saw Jamila’s body double up as she leant over the basin on the floor.
    ‘You are not!’ Kulsoom exclaimed loudly.
    Jamila nodded miserably at her two friends.
    ‘Oh dear!’ Kulsoom’s commiseration came out loud and clear.
    Her friend’s reaction confirmed Jamila’s worst misgivings. This was how other people would view her predicament. And she with a teenage daughter too!It was a most embarrassing situation indeed. ‘Oh, Allah pak, if I could only bury myself in some hole?’ she groaned aloud.
    ‘But how did this happen?’ Naimat Bibi gently asked, recovering her social manners. ‘I thought you went to the family planning clinic regularly.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, the injection dose must have worn off – I guess. I am gone two months already,’ Jamila mourned helplessly to her two friends. ‘Two rotten, nightmarish, lousy months of anxiety and sickness. I tell you, my friends, I don’t want it! I cannot go through with this pregnancy. It has come at the wrong time of my