Mystic Notes: Honour killing of the other kind

January 8, 2006


By Amar Jaleel

Preamble: Kindly read the following story in the backdrop of the notorious Thana culture in Pakistan. Sindh alone doesn’t exercise monopoly over the condemnable custom of honour killing. Punjab has a lion’s share in it. Pathans and Balochs do not lag behind. They too slaughter their daughters, sisters, and wives in the name of honour. After killing his own sister, daughter or wife, the murderer, in most cases, promptly reports at a nearby Police Station, called ‘Thana’ in the Pakistani languages.

A Thana evolves its own awful culture. It is soul shattering and brutish. Upon entering a Thana, the perpetrator of crime is humiliated and beaten. Even a person apprehended on suspicion is not spared. He too goes through the mill. However, the things do not remain the same when the slaughterer of womenfolk in the name of honour killing presents himself at the Thana. He is looked at as a brave and a gheratmand. He is called mard ka bacha (son of a brave person), and sher da putar (son of a lion). In rural Pakistan honour killing is not condemned. It is indirectly encouraged. Thana culture is a common culture of Pakistan. In the following story facts are interwoven with fiction.

Story: A woman in her early thirties, a mother of four children mustered up courage, bought a butcher’s knife, wrapped it in a piece of coarse cloth and brought it home. It was a frightening experience for her. She turned pale and trembled. She felt as if she was being followed and watched. She feared she would be caught before accomplishing her task. Then, she won’t be able to root out evil from her life, she thought.

She peeped out from the window. She saw no one except a solitary dog in the street. She turned around, and looked at the wall clock. Her four sons were out playing football in the nearby ground. Soon they will be back. Her husband, an Excise and Taxation Inspector was not at home. She knew he would return after midnight. Before her sons could come she promptly hid the knife at a secret place in the kitchen.

The double standards of our society give men supreme authority over the lives of women, and there are no exceptions to this rule

Let us call her Zeenat. Zeenat put on a relaxed face, but from within she was upset. Apprehensions were consuming her. Fears like serpents surrounded her. A query kept echoing in her disturbed mind, ‘Would it be possible for her to slaughter her husband?’ Women do not slaughter animals and birds. It is man’s job. Zeenat had not killed even a cockroach in her life. But, volcanic fire for settling her account with the husband reinforced her determination. She had trusted him all her life, but he betrayed her.

He developed illicit relations with a colleague’s wife. It was unbearable for her. She passed countless nights turning and tossing on the bed. She constantly entered into monologue, ‘What should I do, what should I do?’, ‘Kill him, kill him, kill him.’ Determined to kill her husband, Zeenat had bought the butcher’s knife and hid it at a safe place in the kitchen. She served dinner to her children, let them watch TV programmes for about an hour and send them to bed.

The vendor had told her that the knife was blunt, and it required to be sharpened. Before sharpening the knife she went the bedroom of her children. They were fast asleep. She returned to the kitchen and pulled out the knife from the secret place, and began sharpening it on sandstone.

Her teeth clinched, she vigorously sharpened the knife. Although it was a cool winter night and the wind gushed through the kitchen window, she perspired profusely. To ascertain the sharpness of the knife, she picked up a sturdy potato and placed it on a chopping board under the knife. Like a block of butter the knife slit the potato into two pieces.

Zeenat wrapped the knife in the piece of coarse cloth and walked stealthily to her husband’s bedroom, and placed it under his bed. She then returned to the living room and turned on the TV set in mute mode and sank in an old-fashioned sofa. She inattentively changed the cannels and waited for her husband to return. At times she became restless, and rose to her feet. Twice or thrice she went to the bedroom of the children, leaned over them, hugged them and kissed them. They were fast a sleep. Tears rolling down her cheeks she retreated to the living room and sank in the sofa.

Her husband returned after midnight, drunk. He staggered as he walked. She helped him to his bedroom. He flung on the bed and within no time snored. Zeenat removed his shoes and socks, and covered him with a blanket. She then ran her fingers through his hair. He was sleeping like a log. She leaned down and drew the knife from the coarse cloth. Without a second thought she ran knife on his throat and slit it open. Blood oozed out from hefty man’s throat, and splashed on Zeenat’s face. His huge body momentarily rose from the bed and collapsed. He was dead. Blood-stained knife in her hand, Zeenat walked up to the Thana with firm steps. The policemen were taken aback. Zeenat said, “My husband betrayed my trust and I killed him. Book me under honour killing.”

They did not book her under honour killing, for there is no such provision for a woman. Instead, four savage policemen took her to a room and bolted the door.