A Pair of Jeans and other stories by Qaisra Shahraz Read Free Book Online Page A

they get married. Please Madam Wales, would you like to sit on it and have a photograph taken with your husband?” He giggled, seeing her gaze drop. “You can pretend that you are a Malay bride. All my guests love having their photos taken in that corner. Come Madam, you must try it!” He coaxed with his beaming smile.
    Exchanging a nervous glance with her husband, Margery got up – worried that the ‘small thing’ the swing seat would not take both their weights. Robert sheepishly offered.
    “You sit down, Marge. I’ll take the photo.” And laughed, explaining to the host. “I don’t think it will take us both, Mr Hamat, we are big people, huh. We really don’t want to break your family heirloom!”
    Abdul Hamat openly giggled. “Yes, you westerners are tall people - probably your wife then.”
    Margery gingerly squatted down on the cerise quilted-satin padding of the dais under the attractive canopy drapes. Smoothing out her dress over her legs, Margery glanced up at their smiling host standing beside her, whilst Robert snapped away with his digital camera. “I wonder how many other foreign women have sat in this ridiculous position” she cattily echoed in her head.
    Their host, still with a smile, ushered them through a door leading to the rest of the house with the words “Mind your head – you tall people”.
    The Tamil driver remained behind at the table, reading a newspaper.
    A scraping sound against a door and a heavy grunt made Margery and Robert look expectantly at their host as they stood in the shadowy little hallway between two rooms. His smile slipping and his head turned the other way Abdul Hamat explained in a low voice. “The room on the left is our private room. The only one we keep close to the public - where as you will understand - my family – our women can gain some privacy.”
    He had now stepped into the other room on the right.
    “This is our bedroom. Come in, please!” His eyes averted, Abdul Hamat stood beside a bed. There was a square wooden table with a cotton floral tablecloth and a chair. Another open door led out onto a balcony at the side of the house.
    Ducking their head to enter through the low door, Margery and Robert gently stepped on the polished wooden floor.
    “This is our bridal bed. Used to be my parents’. Of course, it’s a bit small by your standards ….” He stopped as another thudding sound had his guests turning the other way.
    Behind them Aziza peeped from the door, half in and half out of the room. Margery stared. It was the woman from under the house. All three were looking at Aziza and the glare of her coal black eyes.
    Wanting to communicate her thanks for letting them into their home, Margery smiled.
    Abdul Hamat’s fists tightened at his sides.
    “Ah - this is - my – Aziza,” he offered brightly, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth but not quite reaching his eyes. “She can’t speak English.” And went onto explain.
    Then abruptly turned his back on Aziza, signalling with his hand from behind his back to disappear.
    “Key!” She hissed in her language.
    “Later!” He snarled under his breath in Malay.
    Panicking, Aziza’s poise faltered – her eyes on the two guests staring back at her. Then she withdrew. Margery was left admiring the woman’s native dress with its long green and turquoise crêpe de chine tunic, a matching ankle-length skirt and a scarf tied tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders.
    The visitors were now shown the balcony. “Oh this is heavenly, Bob!” Margery exclaimed in delight. “I can see the jungle from far beyond. Wow!”
    “Yes, Madam Wales,” the host proudly chuckled, standing by her side, delighting in her childlike response. “We are very lucky to have a jungle for our garden!” His face brimmed with a wide grin. “Isn’t it lovely, Madam? This veranda is very important for our women. We are Muslims, as you know. Here, at the side of the house our women can have some