Chapter 3

On a crispy spring afternoon in 1977 Dr. Anwar sat on a chair next to the takhat in Qaiser Jahan Begum’s inner hall. He was wearing a visibly worn-out suit and his shoes were dirty and torn. On his face was a secret smile. He was 28 years old.

This was the first time he was going to meet Qaiser. But it was not the first time he had heard of her, or her daughter, Nasreen. For the last 6 years he was intimately, and painfully, aware of their existence.

His own mother, Kaneez Kubra, was a big fan of Qaiser’s, and was seemingly in love with the elusive Nasreen. For Kaneez, there could be no better match for her beloved son, who she thought was more charming than the moon. And so, for the last 6 years she had tried repeatedly to secure Nasreen’s hand in marriage for her son, but failed each time.

This time, she had requested some of Qaiser’s closest confidants to intercede on her son’s behalf. Afterall, he was a doctor! And he was the beloved first born of his family — his parents and uncles and grand parents had their hearts wound round his finger since the moment he was born. He was handsome and well versed in Urdu, Arabic, Persian and English literature. He had a following of nurses at the Civil Hospital in Hazratganj where he was completing his training. And now, with the government sending him off on assignments to various primary health clinics in the neighboring villages, he really needed a wife.

And who better than the daughter of the most honorable Dr. Rafiq Husain and his enterprising wife, Qaiser? Nasreen had remarkably remained unmarried, and was now pursuing research in Industrial Psychology from IIMA — all the way in Ahmedabad. Surely it could not have been easy for her parents to allow this? Her broken engagements were the talk of the town, and her cousins made a point to ensure they were talked about in the most unsavory terms. Yet Kaneez was unphased. She was close enough to the family to know the truth. And to know, without a moment of doubt that she and Anwar would make each other very happy. She was finally able to secure a meeting with Qaiser.

Qaiser was walking over to the takhat now. She surveyed the worn suit and tattered shoe and the brilliant eyes looking shyly at her now with a warm heart. He stood up out of respect and greeted her, “May peace be with you, dear Aunt”. She returned the greeting with a smile as she sat up on the takhat and asked him a few introductory questions while they waited for the tea to be served.

Nafees, Nasreen’s younger sister, was peeping from one of the rooms and surveying the situation. He looked like a sincere person as he engaged in gentle conversation with her mother, his eyes cast down out of respect, most of the time, and his hands effortlessly holding the fine China tea cup. A bit different from her irreverent brothers, she thought. And now Qaiser was coming towards her after making some sly excuse. It was a big responsibility to make this decision on Nasreen’s behalf.

Qaiser was direct, as usual. And Nafees was also direct, as usual. They both liked him. If he thought he was testing them to see if they would see past the surface to the man he was, then they won. And while on previous occasions Qaiser had struggled with the social stigma associated with his family’s background of being weavers, she could see that Dr. Anwar had broken away from it to the extent an individual was allowed to do. And perhaps with her support, and in this new world, new doors could be opened for a man like him. This indeed could be a beautiful future for her beloved daughter. Nafees agreed.

Qaiser walked back to the takhat with a crisp white handkerchief and a hundred and one rupees in cash. With Dr. Anwar’s permission, she opened the doors of the imambara, whispered her greetings to hazrat Abbas, and placed the kerchief in the imambara, the cash on the kerchief. For a brief moment she prayed to the master of the youth of paradise for his intercession: surely if Allah deemed this match suitable for her daughter then it would materialize, and if he did not, then it will unravel. She took a long piece of red cotton string, tied one end of it to one of the pillars of the imambara, and wrapped the other end around Dr. Anwar’s wrists and prayed again to the oppressed Imam for his intercession: surely if Allah wills, this young man would be protected from the intentions of those who seek to harm him.

She then took the kerchief and cash and placed it in Dr. Anwar’s hands as a gift blessed by the holy saints. He was now engaged to her daughter, Nasreen.