Zoya’s Veil

Nayantara Maitra Chakravarty

One boiling September afternoon Zoya asked her mother why she must wear a hijab to school. It is just a few minutes’ walk. Most students would have left by now. Just a handful of teachers left to accept the final assignments. No one, known or unknown, would see her. Father was at work. He needn’t know. The black cloak was a heat magnet. It soaked in the sun and baked her inside. She reasoned with mother. Why must she?

Mother sighed. It was their daily tiff. A ritual repeated, repeatedly. Zoya would give in, ultimately. But mother felt guilty and drained. The veins at her temple throbbed even before they would begin to argue. In anticipation of defeating reason with unreasonableness.

Zoya knew she would lose. But winning didn’t matter. She had to say what she felt, at least to her mother. And see her writhe in discomfort. It was her punishment for knowing that she was wrong in forcing her right.

Father was another matter. His eyes were always grave. If he ever smiled, it was behind his long bushy beard. Unseen. His brow was always creased, wrinkling the dark mark of piety in the middle of his forehead, where his head touched the floor in prayer, five times a day. In the world outside, father often lost. But he wouldn’t even think of losing to his daughter.

But, as they say, father wasn’t there that day. And Zoya was adamant. I will not wear the hijab today, mother. There was steel in her voice. Mother looked at her alarmed and excited. What had happened to this sixteen-year-old? Could Zoya really have the courage to do what she herself couldn’t dare to even think of? Go out in the street, with her face shamelessly open to the gaze of the world? What if there were men on the road?

Your father will kill you, Zoya. Someone will see. Urfi Bibi goes to the doctor on that very path, every afternoon. She will know. And she never lets anyone take a peek at her face. Not even her doctor. The shopkeepers will see you, Zoya. Have you no shame? Don’t leave the room when I am talking to you.

Zoya was at the mirror in her room. Inside that, her mother’s reflection followed: Her anxious voice droned on, talking of morality and modesty. But Zoya, deftly applying kohl around her deep dark eyes, thought of something else. Of young Mahsa Amini in Tehran, pulled out of her car by the moral police, euphemistically called the ‘guidance’ patrol. She had committed the unspeakable crime of a loose headscarf. They told her brother, cowering at the wheel, she would be returned in an hour, the time it takes to guide girls back onto the path of morality and goodness. Away from the wanton wickedness of showing their hair, and maybe a part of one ear.

But some young women in Iran are stubborn. The right path needs to be drummed into their heads, quite literally. Mahsa didn’t survive this guidance. The beating she took sent her into a coma. She died on her hospital bed, blood oozing from her ears, dark pool-like bruises spreading under her eyes. But she lived in the shunned hijabs and cast-off headscarves of thousands and thousands of grieving women. They came out singly, and in droves, out on the streets, snarling their angry despair into the faces of gun-wielding policemen, scared for they had never ever seen so many women, young and old, brave death, with such reckless willingness.

Zoya thought of the schoolgirls, across Iran, detained for taking off their hijabs. Her mind went to Asra Panahi, no older than Zoya, whose sweet face she had seen on the internet, beaten to death for refusing to join a rally that would sing praises of the Islamic rulers. Asra died chanting “women, life, freedom.” She was one among many teens, who had chosen death over the hijab.

That was in autocratic Iran. She was here, in India, where no law could force her to cloak herself. No, she won’t listen to mother today. Won’t even look at her. Zoya’s resolute hand ran the fine comb through her long hair. Her kohl-blackened eyes blazed. No, mother. No longer. Not today.

Then, the mirror caught her mother’s stricken face. A sense of guilt washed over Zoya; from the top of her head, weighing down on her shoulders, dripping down her spine. With that came resigned anger. Why are you so weak, mother? Why must you make me accept what you have done? Is it right that we women must accept 1500-year old rules of modesty? Why do you not stand up for me? They wept. Hot guilty, angry, desperate tears.

Mother held her beloved Zoya to her bosom. My child, the world is too cruel, to be alone. And that is what you will be, if you challenge it. We only have our people today. If we leave them, there will be no one to give us shelter. To protect us, when they come for us one day. It is a terrible compromise, my child. I know. But there is nothing that we can do.

Zoya looked at herself in the mirror. The kohl had flown down her cheeks. She laughed and mother joined in. Wash your face, and redo your eyes, she said. Zoya shook her head. No kohl today, mother. Let me go plain and covered. What good is darkening my eyes when most of my face will not be seen? For whom? Why? Mother understood her child. Let this be her silent protest.

Zoya had half a mind not to go to school anymore. But it was assignment deadline day. There was no option. Zoya pulled the black cloak over her long hand-embroidered shirt, and tied the black scarf around her head, pulling the half-veil over her mouth and nose. She had forgiven mother, but was not in a mood to let her know. As mother stood, breathing heavily and slowly, Zoya turned her back and walked out of the door.

Outside the sun was beating down, without mercy. The heat licked at her eyes, already burning with the salt from the tears that she had cried. Zoya walked on, like an indistinguishable blob in black, ignored by everyone who walked past her. I am a living, breathing, unique being, hidden inside this cloak. Am I nothing to any of you? An intense pounding rage filled her head. She walked on.

There was something happening at the school gate. Several young men with saffron scarves around their necks were shouting slogans at the two old guards, who nervously ignored them. These were men from the local Hindu Sena. The men would often waylay Muslim men and chase after them. Sometimes they would catch one, throw off their skull-cap, pull them by their beards and force them to repeat Hindu religious chants. Once in a while, one who resisted too much, would find himself bruised and unconscious on a hospital bed.

Zoya waited a little distance away. Hoping that the men would tire of their hatred-games and leave in a while. Ten minutes went by. Then another fifteen. The slogans were dying out. Some of the less committed in the mob had sat down on the pavement next to the gate. Perhaps, it was time to make her dash into the safety of the school.

Zoya moved swiftly, with her head bowed, her body bent inward like an armour, her assignment file held close to her beating chest. The men looked at her approach. Those lolling about stood up. One man came straight at Zoya, brought his contorted face near her and shouted a slogan right into her face. Take off your hijab, if you want to live in our nation. Take it off! Take it off! The crescendos filled the air as the men danced around her.

The deep rage burning inside Zoya’s heart flamed out in a blazing fire. I will never take off my hijab, she screamed. Allah hu Akbar, she shouted. God is great! Allah hu Akbar! I am Muslim and I will never take off my hijab! Allah hu Akbar! Allah hu Akbar!