The Story of Fatima

Fatima looked at him. He seemed a catch but could he be a policeman, she thought to herself but then decided to take the plunge. She notice he was eyeing her and she gazed back with a smile. Cautious of people around, he waved his hand to a certain direction to follow. Fatima followed and when she reached an audible distance, he murmured a salam to her. Wa’laikum Assalam, she said and kept quiet. Aap kisi ka intizaar kar rahi hein, he softly spoke. Nahi to, she hurried her response. Kaya aap meray saath chalain ge? Kahan aur kitnay log hon gay, she exercised her right to inquire before she could proceed along with the “business.” I live near Lal Masjid and it’s not far away from here. We can walk and I am alone, he said and asked as to how much money would she charge for the night. In a process of nanoseconds she evaluated him because it was already late in the night and she was still without the “client” and she cannot go back to her place empty handed fourth night in a row. “Madam will kill me,” she thought and tossed the maximum rate she could think of: teen hazar. What, 3,000? It’s a little too much but I can give you 2,000. So should we move? He gently asked and Fatima agreed in a second because she was expecting not more than 1,500 and out of which, her part was only 500. Madam used to tell them that she would need her part and the part of the local police officer, Bilal. “You do not know, how difficult it is these days to do business. These moron policemen keep coming to us with their stupid demands,” Sehba a.k.a. Madam told her. So, now she could make 1,000 as she wont tell the madam that she had made extra 500 rupees per night.

She smiled. It was her lucky night!

Only one person. Five hundred rupees in extra; a “good” sleep of 5 hours; taxi fare in the morning to come back and of course two times meal. She came on his side and both started walking as if they were man and wife out for their after dinner walk. What would Aisha, Khadija and Zainab be doing right at this moment, she wondered. Would have they gotten any “good clients” or were sitting with a wagon driver on the frontseat, gently cajoling the stinky and foul mouthed drivers making obscene gestures in the rearview mirror to his conductor? Why do I care? Why should I ruin my “lucky night?” She castigated herself. He looks good. Physically not threatening and is paying me 2,000.

Just be with him, she admonished herself.

They were walking from the Holiday Inn stop at the Melody Market and now were passing by the huge compound that used to be the Naval Headquarters and next to them was Lal Masjid where they could hear the Mullah calling for the implementation of the Islamic law. “We shall not compromise on the sanctity of our religious schools for they are the forts of Islam. We shall fight till the end. This government is acting as a servant of the America and we shall fight it,” Mullah used his vocal chords and the audience shouted the slogan: Na’ar-e-Takbeer, Allaho Akbar. Allah is the greatest of all.

Sure He is, Fatima smiled. After all, if He wasn’t the greatest and kindest how could she have found a client when her previous three nights were empty? Allaho Akbar, she silently said in her mind.

She was enjoying the walk with him. They soon reached the small crossing near the Lal Masjid, turned right to go to Maktaba-e-Islamia market. How much she love the Doodh-Jalaibi from the small restaurant. Would they have some by now? Would he bring me some if I ask him, she tickled herself with the thought. What’s your name, he brought her out of her thoughts. Sonia, she said. Is this your real name, he softly smiled? She nodded in a yes. He quietly smiled and his eyes said: I don’t believe you. She gazed away. It was 9.30. He can have maximum two shots or may be three. Men are always like that. It means, that she could sleep in “pockets” at least for five “disturbed” hours. He would wake me up when he’ll be up but it’s okay. After all, he is paying me a thousand rupees of my own.

They got into the intricate street system of one of Islamabad’s oldest sectors. She didn’t know that area well but “does that matter?” No, that doesn’t matter at all, Fatima thought.

Alright. Here’s my street. Now please do not walk by my side and keep a distance of at least ten steps. Follow me. I shall open the door and meanwhile, I unlock it, reach to me and just enter the house. There’s no street light and hopefully no one would see you coming, he breathlessly instructed. Poor men. Why are they so afraid of the people if they want us? Fatima quickly thought, nodded in the process and slowed down. He paced ahead. Turned left and all she could sense was a narrow, dark and a long street. People in houses around were preparing to either sleep or eat. What does it mean to be a housewife? Fatima wondered. She spotted him halting, taking out keys and quickly opening the door. By the time the door was unlocked, she was close. She looked around without moving her head and quickly vanished through the half-open door.

It was a small governmental quarter and she was familiar with the soft-stink of the small rooms, a smaller courtyard, kitchen and the toilet. All so close to eachother that they stood like a family, hand in hand. None of the rooms, I am sure, would like the toilet but could they live without one, she examined and smiled.

He took her to his bed room and asked her for chai or botal? Pepsi hay, she asked. Yes and he poured her a glass. Aap easy ho jaayen, he suggested and then we can have company, she thought of completing the sentence but killed the urge to utter.

He sat at a distance and calmly sipped his Pepsi. He didn’t seem in a hurry. She looked around the room and saw a picture. It was him, probably with his wife but where’s she. He caught her eye and said that his wife wasn’t home. She’s expecting and is with her family in Lahore. She will be back three weeks down the road, he answered all the questions. Unfaithful bastard, she thought but as long as he’s giving her a thousand extra, she shouldn’t think that.

He got up and came closer and put his Pepsi aside and so did she.

It was the time of business.

It certainly was.



Meet me. I am Fatima Sheharbano. My father’s name is Sayyed Sheharyar Hussain. His name is but he was. People killed him on 23rd March, year 2000. There couldn’t be a better start of the 21st century for us. Oh. Excuse me. Let me introduce “us.” My mother is Sayyeda Nasreen. We are two sisters and a brother. I am in the middle. Brother is older, married and separated. My little sister, Kulsoom Sheharbano, is studying at Fatima Jinnah Medical College in Lahore. I hope she becomes a good doctor and treats the patients well. My mother is blind and mentally shaken since the day my father died.

We lived in sector G-6/3 and Abba worked at Central Board of Revenue. His office was just across the three blocks and he would walk everyday to his office. We went along with him to school near his office in sector G-6/4. He was a senior assistant. He was honest and hated. I still remember how I clutched his hand with my three fingers. How safe I felt! How safe!!

The member of the sales tax didn’t like him for my father profoundly checked every figure and work as per the law dictates. So all he, the member sales tax, did was to file a case of bribery against my father when he refused to carry out his instructions for remitting some money which wasn’t due yet. Since law applies equally to all, and more equally to those who are below grade 17, he was arrested, charged and produced before the court in three days. And since courts are there to dispense justice, justice was done in two months. He was sentenced for seven years. No pension. No provident fund. Just lusty eyes of the mailroom clerk and settlement officer. We were thrown out of our governmental house.

We got one room with attached bath at another sector of Islamabad. It was year 1996.

My mother could teach, stitch and – sigh. She did all three. We all grew up in that one room house for seven years. My brother fell in love with his classmate and married her and left us. My mother got beads in her eyes and thus couldn’t work. Kulsoom passed her F.Sc. in first division and could qualify for the medical college. My mother needed medicine and she needed admission.

Abba was lucky to die four years after in prison. I saw his dead body and saw how safe he felt! How safe – in death!!

5:00 p.m. August 14, 2003: it was my 23rd birthday and we were hungry for two days. I decided not to be hungry anymore. I decided to help end the hunger in the eyes of corner grocery-wala who would always touch my hand when I would pay his bill and would exclaim joy when he would see me.

7:00 p.m. August 14, 2003: He wasn’t hungry anymore and nor were us. Kulsoom got admission in Fatima Jinnah and my mother got medicine and I got submission in a life that a Sayyeda could never imagine of.

At times, now, I would think myself as a service provider and thus would seek the forgiveness of Allah. After all, how many women would be doing that? Not many, I am sure.



Are you lost somewhere? he asked her atop. No I am not, she lied and he kept busy. Both of them were spent. They slept. He had her twice and she got sleep of a little more than six hours. Ah - One of those rare nights!

Fatima was preparing to leave his small governmental quarter when the faithful called for morning prayers. Allaho Akbar: Allah is the greatest of all.

Sure He is.