Durrani Tehmina - My feudal lord

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

Author's Note

There is a fantasy of a feudal lord as as exotic, tall, dark and handsome man, with flashing eyes and traces of quick-tempered gypsy blood. Images of him parrying thrusts with the fiercest of swordsmen and riding off into the sunset on his black steed set the pubescent heart aflutter. He is seen as a passionate ladies' man and something of a rough diamond, the archetypal male chauvinist who forces a woman to love him despite his treatment of her.

But the fantasy is far from reality, and my country of Pakistan must face up to reality if it is ever to grow and prosper.

When I decided to write this book, I was aware of the perils of exposing the details of my private life to a male-dominated Muslim society. But I had to cast aside my personal considerations in favour of the greater good. There is a deep-rooted deficiency in the feudal-value system; it must be diagnosed before it is treated.

T.D.

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012

http://archive.org/details/myfeudallordOOtehm

Dedication

I dedicate this book:

To the people of Pakistan, who have repeatedly trusted and supported their leaders - leaders who have, in return, used the hungry, oppressed, miserable multitudes to further their personal interests. I want the people of my country to know the truth behind the rhetoric, so that they might learn to look beyond the facade.

To the five other ex-wives of Mustafa Khar, who have silently suffered pain and dishonour while he walked away with impunity. As his sixth wife, I am holding him accountable.

To Mustafa Khar himself. I wish that this book might serve as a mirror, so that he may see in it reflections of the man, the husband, the father, the leader and the friend he is.

To my beloved children, who, in our closed society, shall have to suffer the trials of a family exposed. I trust that this book will help them muster strength and courage to face continuing trauma. I want them to reject wrong and endorse right. I hope and pray that their values may be based on true Islamic principles, rather than a distorted, self-serving interpretation. May their love and respect for

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their motherland cause them to reject any compromise. May my sons never oppress the weak; may my daughters learn to fight oppression.

Finally, to my grandmother. No-one could have understood my story better. May her soul, wherever it may be, know that I survived.

vin

Acknowledgements

Four special people helped me through the nearly impossible task of writing this book. They understood the risks of speaking out, of breaking the taboos of a closed society, yet bravely saw the project through. One remarkable man and two women have encouraged and helped me relive the traumas of the past. A fourth person, under similar restrictions of security, typed the manuscript. I cannot take the responsibility of naming them, but I am indebted to them all.

I offer special appreciation to Bernard Fixot and Antoine Audouard for carrying the story to the world.

Thanks to Jean Souza for producing the map.

BALUCHISTAN

China

'NORTHWEST, FRONTIER

Afghanistan

Islamabad

.ahore/

(PUNJAB

India

SIND

Karachi

Arabian Sea

PAKISTAN

200 mil**

Murree

Rawalpindi

Islamabad

Kot Addu

Lahore,

&

Multan

jf District of

Muzzafargarh

^

Punjab

Detail

200 km I

200 miles

MY FEUDAL LORD

PART ONE

LION OF THE PUNJAB

MY PALE-GREEN CHIFFON SARI RUSTLED SOFTLY AS I MOVED, AND MY

braided plait of auburn hair fell all the way to my knees. Around my neck a row of diamonds matched my earrings. As I checked my appearance in a full-length mirror my face flushed with self-conscious pleasure.

It was spring 1974, in Lahore, the second-largest city of Pakistan. The reception was being held in the main hall of the Punjab Club. Summoned by the honorary consul of Spain, Lahore's beautiful people were celebrating Spain's National Day. My uncle had invited my husband Anees and me to accompany him. Having arrived in Lahore only the week before, it was our first opportunity to meet the city's elite. Anees felt flattered and pleased to be included. He was only a junior executive in the state-owned National Shipping Corporation - these were people he felt he should know. As for me - could any sense of foreboding have told me that I was about to have the most crucial meeting of my life?

Anees wandered off on his own, making contacts, and I was suddenly alone - a twenty-one-year-old woman feeling very

MY FEUDAL LORD

self-conscious among this older crowd, who seemed so self-assured. Around me, in the spacious halls and shaded patios of the Punjab Club, I could sense the atmosphere of the British Raj that had ended twenty-seven years earlier with independence and the splitting up of British India into two separate states. This was Pakistan, my country; beyond the border-crossing just outside Lahore lay India, our overpowering neighbour. Sharing, to a large extent, a common heritage of culture, language, and family ties, the two countries are locked in a fateful, and at times bloody, relationship of love and hate. I found a seat and took a glass offered by a bearer, as waiters are called here. They are trained to attend, at a mere wink, to the needs of the former colonial, and now indigenous, members of this distinguished club. With their long white coats, buttoned all the way down over baggy trousers, their stiffly starched turbans arranged in peacock shapes, they were figures from our Imperial past. Looking around, I exchanged a formal smile with my neighbour. She made an effort to talk, and I was pleased to realize that I had a friend for the evening. Her name was Dr Shahida Amjad. She was a physician and well-versed in the game of who's who. I told her that I was new to Lahore, and feeling rather lost. Too well-mannered to point, she gestured with her eyes towards various people in the crowd as she delivered quiet potted biographies.

Lahore proudly calls itself the cultural capital of Pakistan. Twenty years ago it could still live up to this reputation with splendour. At its heart, the centuries-old walled city, with its overflowing bazaars and its splendid, though dilapidated family mansions, broad canals lined by old trees, and shady avenues were not yet polluted by an ever-increasing flow of traffic. Formal gardens created by Mogul emperors centuries ago had become public parks, but were not yet crowded at all hours with thousands of visitors. Along the Mall, the city's main avenue, lay the stately buildings from its colonial past: the Governor's House, Aitchison College, the High Court, the Punjab Club. This was where the well-mannered and highly educated members of Lahore's elite had congregated this evening. The gentlemen were wearing western suits or the traditional achkans, buttoned coats in black or white, made of silk or the finest wool. Alcoholic drinks such as whisky-and-soda and gin-and-tonic were freely offered and accepted (nowadays they have