She often wished that the man she married was a disgusting tyrant; that he’d beat and belittle her and sleep around.
She would have deserved that.
She didn’t deserve Iqbal.
Big-hearted, warm-natured, easy-going Iqbal.
In her blasphemous moments she wondered if he could be an incarnation of Ayub**, so patient he was to put up with her many episodes in the early months of their marriage.
When her pregnancy became apparent, he was even more attentive and loving while Zeenat just felt bereft.
She knew there was a very real possibility that the child may not be Iqbal’s.
She took to her musallah with an insane ferocity, remembering desperately the God she once tried to forget.
When her forehead began to bruise from her penance, she prayed even harder, convinced that the larger the mark on her head, the smaller the stains would be on her soul.
She stopped accepting invites to suppers and weddings; these pesky things disrupted her conversations with God. When visitors came to the house they would find her in prolonged prostration, without even an acknowledgement of their presence.
Her behaviour was just not rational anymore. Her family and in-laws were convinced there was a jinn possession at play.
They brought over the india moulanas and people who could communicate with the fire-born.
But Zeenat just kept on praying.
As unwavering as she was, so too was Iqbal.
Kind, sweet Iqbal.
He would change the alarm clocks Zeenat set for 1am so that she’d sleep through the most part of the night and only awake for the Fajr prayer.
He made sure she took her supplements and ate full meals.
He didn’t leave her side during the labour and only followed the nurses to make sure Shakira was tagged properly and safe in her cot.
When Zeenat held her baby girl for the first time, she immediately inspected the hour-old face.
There was nothing of Ridwaan.
Zeenat read a few verses of the Quran softly and blew over her baby. She handed Shakira back to Iqbal and closed her eyes. The inside of her lids no longer felt like leaded sandpaper and she slept better than she did in a long time.
But despite the initial relief, Zeenat would always question Shakira’s paternity.
Over they years, she’d plot her daughter’s features, looking out for the incriminating, double-checking the trick of light that once made the eyes look a bit curved at the corners..
But she never found it. Shakira was the image of her mother. So much so, it didn’t even seem that Iqbal had any hand in the matter.
It was almost as if Zeenat’s importunate pleas had rendered a miracle. An immaculate conception to her mind, the fruit of forgiveness.
So while Zeenat did still pray regularly, it was with a little less fervour and the marks on her forehead faded.

 

**Job

–

(Part 5 tomorrow)

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