BENGALURU: Get up, Tabu! Tabu!’ Feroza shook Tabu awake. Tabu rubbed her eyes and sat up on the divan. Feroza was sitting on the floor beside her, wisps of hair that had escaped her braid, framing her face.
‘What happened, Bibi?’ Tabu sat up, wiping the innocent dribble from her cheek.
It was still dark and the hurricane lamp that Feroza had kept lit throughout the night, was flickering on the last dregs of oil.
‘How can I be divorced, Tabu? I never asked for divorce. And if he wants to divorce, it has to be face to face!’
‘Bibi, he has divorced you. Azmat Khan told the guard...’
‘I cannot be divorced like this. He has to utter the words to my face! What was my fault? Does he believe that I came here to marry the Nawab? Can he believe that, when I’m carrying his child? But
he doesn’t know of the child. If I tell him ... Get up, call the Daroghan! I want to speak to her now!’
‘Bibi, you rest. In the morning...’
‘Go now! Tabu, my sister, please do this for me,’ Feroza pulled up Tabu and handed her her dupatta, pushing her out of the room with pleas and instructions.
It was the last part of the night. Tabu walked towards the Daroghan’s room at the other end of the common veranda. They were now housed in the Daroghan’s house until the birth of the child.
The room lay in complete darkness and Tabu raised her hand to knock when a hefty woman guard appeared and asked, ‘Ae ladki, what are you doing?’
‘Feroza Begum is calling for Daroghan bibi now.’
‘You go back! I’ll send her.’Daroghan Chhamman in her crushed night clothes salaamed and stood before an excitedly pacing Feroza.‘Daroghan bibi, I’m not divorced. I never asked for a divorce, and if my husband wants to divorce me he has to face me!’
‘Begum, I know it’s difficult for you to accept the reality. I can arrange for Murtaza Khan to give you talaq, but...’
‘Then do it! He has to utter “talaq, talaq, talaq” to my face or at least to my father’s face. Only then shall I be divorced.’Feroza continued to argue, citing the Quran and Hadith till Daroghan Chhamman promised to speak to the Nawab about it. Miya Jan was a Sheikh ul-Hadith, a master of Hadith, the sayings of the Prophet, and would often give Friday sermons at their mohalla mosque. All the children were well-instructed in the intricacies of Hadith and Islamic law.
The Nawab was informed by Daroghan Chhamman of Feroza’s demand. He smiled.‘Miya Jan Khan left Sherpur like a rat in the darkness. She has no one. Azmat Khan will not take her back and bring on his ruin. Get her the divorce she wants.’
Daroghan Chhamman dithered for a brief while, lowered her eyes and reminded the Nawab of Feroza’s pregnancy.
‘You go, and do what I order. I can feed many bastards!’
That evening, Feroza sat waiting for the gentle Murtaza in the mehman khana drawing room. She had dressed herself in a simple white churidar kurta and taken off all her jewellery to look like a widow or an abandoned woman.
She wanted to see the shame on his face.
Feroza’s father-in-law, Azmat Khan, was ushered into the room followed by Murtaza.
‘Adab, Baba,’ she touched her forehead, the way she had greeted him every morning since her marriage.
‘May you have a long life, beti,’ Azmat Khan raised his hand in blessing. His pious white beard spread on his chest and his turban towered over his head, proclaiming his position as a zamindar. Murtaza’s turban, subdued and flat, clung to his head.Excerpted with permission from The Begum and the Dastan by Dr Tarana Husain Khan, Published by Tranquebar (Westland).