‘Sin’: These stories are from the old-world aristocracy of Hyderabad in the 1950s

Shabnam and Arshad Mian were a natural match; she was beautiful and he a model of masculinity. Furthermore, Arshad Mian had not one but ten virtues that made him an exception among his peers. His loyalty was one of them.

So, when his proposal was sent for Shabbo, there was not the slightest chance of it being turned down. Shabbo, with the help of her friends, caught a glimpse of her groom-to-be; it had made her dizzy with delight.

Not long ago, two of her friends had tied the knot, but they were hesitant about introducing their husbands to other friends. She knew this was not her fate; her consort was handsome and affluent, with several servants to tend to his kitchen. He also had his own car and two others for the rest of his family.

Shabnam was elated. Their wedding night was right out of her dreams. The bridal room was opulent, like a movie set, and her groom’s words fell like nectar on her ears.

“Shabnam, like your name, you fell like dew on my heart. I can’t believe that a heavenly being is in my arms, that I can touch and feel you. You’re not a dream. I’m so happy that we found each other,” he said.

In any other scenario, Shabnam would have laughed. In this moment, she felt beautiful, loved and fortunate.

“Someone who has you, needs nothing else.”

She studied him from the corner of her eye, looked over his perfect contours, fleshy lips that moved in her praise, and a sudden sensation of heat and wetness took over all coyness.

She freshened up on the first morning of her new life in her new home and blushed as her mother-in-law entered.

“Did my son tease you too much last night?” she joked and Shabnam froze with embarrassment.

“Listen, dear, we have a certain rule in our house. The dress worn for the wedding is not worn again. It must be given away to an unmarried girl as a blessing from the bride.”

Shabnam was dejected. Her dress held immortal memories for her, not just for its delicacy but also for her first moments of rapture with her husband. However, she had to abide by the rules of the house. She consoled herself with the thought that she had enough money to buy ten such dresses. But there was more to come from the matriarch.

“You must have changed into nightwear after taking it off – that too has to be donated to someone.” She spoke without sentiment or empathy.

Shabnam listened with her head lowered. A day-old bride could hardly counter her husband’s mother. The moment her mother-in-law left, Arshad Mian entered and said, “Listen, Shabbo, you can give the wedding dress and nightdress to any of my sisters. Just don’t give any clothes to the maids.”

He saw her questioning eyes. “I have this fear. I have also told my mother that she must not give her clothes to the maids. Once she gave her sari to an old maid. When I returned from work, the maid was in that sari with her face turned away. Thinking it was my mother, I hugged her. I was ridden with shock and embarrassment. I can give new clothes to our staff but I cannot allow them to wear our old clothes.” He was as adamant as his mother.

Shabnam looked on in awe as he continued, “And, especially now, I wouldn’t want any maid in my wife’s clothes. I cannot imagine it. Please, my dear, don’t be hurt.”

Shabnam burst into a laugh.

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious, I cannot see anyone else in your clothes.”

“Okay, I will keep that in mind,” she assured him softly. But Shabnam could not keep her promise for long. There was a legion of servants and maids in the house. There was Karmu, a twenty-five-year-old man, well-built and the colour of wheat. He looked after Arshad Mian, ever ready for any task that came his way. Gulbadan catered to Shabnam. She was as removed from her name, which meant a body made of flowers, as one could imagine – plump and without the faintest trace of charm.

Shabnam was amused by Gulbadan’s name. Badan – a word that promised sensuousness, romance and a certain mischief – in this instance belonged to one who could frighten people in the moonlight would be hard to find in the dark. Shabbo was fascinated by the similarity in the colour of Shabnam’s hair and skin. She did have long, thick hair, though.

When she wore a pale sari after a shower, her damp hair fell all over her back. The thought of what would follow if she gave her clothes to Gulbadan made Shabbo chuckle. She couldn’t imagine her husband confusing Gulbadan for her. Even though six yards of a sari can wrap around a body of any size, the blouses would be too tight on her.

Little did she know that a man’s indiscretion often began with conventionally uninviting women. They rarely had the courage to lure attractive girls because their confidence was their shield, whereas a woman unhappy with her lack of appeal was easy prey. Arshad was as gallant as he was virile.

A marital bed hot with endless lovemaking had carried his desire to a new level. Now, a slight tease could chart a reckless path.

Eventually, Shabbo forgot that her husband had forbidden her from giving her clothes to anyone in the household. She had sparkled the three times she’d worn the sari. It roused her husband whenever he saw her don the striped piece. She teased him about discarding his favourite sari and the idea had irked him.

Later that week, Gulbadan came to her and warily asked her for clothes to wear to her nephew’s wedding.

“I don’t have old saris, Gulbadan. I left all my old clothes at my parents’ house,” she told the maid.

“Dulhan, please see. You must have something you can give me,” she pleaded.

This was the first time that a maid had asked Shabnam for something in her husband’s home. She could not refuse. She saw the sari on the dresser and asked Gulbadan to take it.

“It hasn’t been washed yet so still looks new. You can wear it to the wedding.”

Gulbadan had put that sari against herself several times before and admired her reflection in the mirror. Now it was hers. An overjoyed Gulbadan praised and thanked Shabbo.

That night, as Arshad Mian went to the bathroom with his green lungi and silk kurta slung over his shoulder, Shabbo said, “You know, when I wasn’t married, I disliked the lungi and kurta. Now, after marriage, I love seeing you in them.”

Arshad Mian looked at her indulgently. “Let me change and come back.”

He came out of the bathroom, lay down by her side and held her. “Oh, this is so sweet,” she whispered.

They had a spacious bathroom, without a lock. Initially, Shabbo was uncomfortable with this system. Then Arshad explained to her that every room in the house had its own bathroom so she could lock the room and use it in peace. “And when I’m in the room, there is no need to lock it anyway.”

Shabbo always locked the bedroom door before she went to the bathroom. One day, when she returned from her mother-in-law’s room, she set about looking for a lipstick that she couldn’t find on her dressing table. Eventually, she thought of searching for it in the bathroom.

Shabbo opened the bathroom door and her spine stiffened with fury, her eyes felt like burning embers, her blood congealed. The scene made her skin crawl; it was sickening enough to cling like a rotten limpet to the rest of her life with her husband. Words stuck in her throat, she slammed the door shut. But Arshad Mian saw her.

He came out expecting a storm of rage, a hysterical Shabnam calling his family and stripping him of all dignity. But she was cold and quiet. He pledged innocence and implored her to forgive him. Then, he reminded her of their first morning, when she promised him that she would not give her clothes to a maid. His words collided with her silence. She was still and soundless.

Although she wanted to break everything in sight, Shabnam knew that a fight would ease the burden of his guilt. She held on to her violent passions like fractures in a piece of crystal – no conversation, no conflict and no more promises. She watched his antics and when he grew tired of pleading his case, she called Karmu into the room.

As the strapping young man walked in, she got up from the bed and pulled out her husband’s green lungi and silk kurta from the closet.

“All your clothes are torn, so this lungi and kurta are for you.”

Excerpted with permission from Sin: Stories by Wajida Tabassum, translated from the Urdu by Reema Abbasi, Hachette India.