"Inside the houses, women only cover their heads with a dupatta (scarf). An elderly relative brought it out for me and demonstrated how it was worn, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all."

Salim's house had a large blue gate. He rang the doorbell and a small slat was opened. Clothes were drying. Large water tanks took up most of the front space. A pretty young girl, his sister, peeped out. Inside the houses, women only cover their heads with a dupatta (scarf); they are not concealed behind a burqa (veil). An elderly relative brought it out for me and demonstrated how it was worn, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. This is what amazed me - she found it funny.

There were three young girls in the house. Fahima was to be married soon. Ali, the brother, was lounging on a coir cot when I entered the room; he said he would miss his sister. She had not met her husband-to-be. Wasn't she worried? Did she have no expectations? She giggled, which is when Ali intervened and said, 'A girl has it better than us. In the street, if there is an older woman with her who has seen the boy, then he is pointed out, so even through the burqa she can see what he looks like. We men are not so lucky.'

* * *

The room had a television set, a music system, and fine crockery; they were a comfortably-placed family. There was a basement to keep them cool in summer and warm in winter. I was allowed to take pictures. The father had even granted his daughters permission to have their photographs taken, but they were too shy. Endless cups of green tea, like mossy liquid, were served. There was no chariness that Salim and Ali were chatting so openly with me, sitting cross-legged on a cot. Both the brothers liked their free-spirited young aunt, Naheeda.

We went to her house a few doors away. The chachi (paternal aunt) truly turned out to be quite an unusual creature. She had been educated in Islamabad. How did it feel to move to Peshawar? Was there a cultural difference? She spoke with a remarkable degree of confidence. 'Initially, I could not understand some things, but now it is better. I do not wear a burqa even when I go out, so people have become used to it now and they don't care. I also insisted on planning my family, or else in these seven years I would have six kids...now I have three. People here like to have children around the house.'

She smiled indulgently as a naked little one, the youngest, kept jumping on the bed. We sat in a small, dark, unkempt room. There were some Afghani rotis (bread) and curry in an aluminium bowl on a table; the older children would occasionally tear large chunks of the bread and dunk them in the gravy, holding the rag-like bits over their open mouths as the liquid left trails of speckled brown on their chins. Naheeda shooed them away.

She had not let childbirth and housework mar her looks, although some chubbiness had settled on her cheeks and chin. Her head was uncovered and her black hair was tied in a loose braid. 'I want to work too, but I get no time. The schools are far, so I have to drop the children there. Women rule in the house. If I were under any restrictions, do you think I could talk to you in privacy? My husband is there praying, he could have stopped me.' Just then he called out to her. She returned within minutes. 'He has asked me not to let you leave without having lunch with us. He has to remind me to be a good hostess, I just talk so much that I forget basic manners.' And what happened to the education she had acquired? 'In future I don't know, but for now my children will benefit. And it shows in the way I conduct my life. No one can boss over me.' While her husband and mother-in-law were busy with their afternoon prayers, she did not feel it necessary to join them.

I had to leave. 'If you cannot eat with us now, come later. Check out of the hotel, stay with us, it is safer here. There people will wonder. Here we can protect you.' I felt truly humbled by such a spirit of acceptance.

Three years later...

I was greeted warmly by his mother. Two young women I had not met before came out. Both Salim and Ali were now married. Salim was the father of a two-year-old boy. Their quarters were on the first floor. These had been constructed to give them privacy and more space. They shared a common bathroom, but their rooms were different. Salim's wife had brought along silver-plated jugs and plates; they adorned a glass showcase. The bed had a red velvet spread over it. A sofa and chair upholstered in suede were against the other wall. Ali's room had glass crockery and a printed bedsheet.

These were gifts the wives had got from their parents. Salim's mother assured me that if it reflected any disparity, it was more to do with how the girls' families wanted them to live. Below, the hierarchy ceased to exist. The younger daughter-in-law was openly curious. She asked me about India, the big cities, people, and films. Salim's wife stood silently. Being older and richer was her psychological advantage.

'How is your aunt Naheeda?' I asked Ali about the woman he had admired so much for her rebellious spirit.

'She wears a burqa now,' he stated without emotion.

She wasn't there, so we could not meet. I wanted to know more about her. Ali was a reluctant raconteur. Unlike earlier, he did not sit with us. We were in the same room I had sat in three years ago. The coir cot now had foam mattresses. The glass-fronted shelf housed a model of the globe, two cups and saucers, a showpiece that arched towards an egg-shaped bowl. Perched on it, rather incongruously, was a pair of Ray Ban glasses.

I did not find any religious motifs. Salim's mother volunteered the information I was seeking. 'We keep those inside.' She turned her hand upwards and then touched her heart. Her God lay within.

Our non-verbal communication interspersed with monosyllables conveyed much more than sentences would.

Naheeda continued to intrigue me in her absence. I asked Salim about her. 'She gives tuitions to the children in the neighbourhood.' Nothing could stop her and nothing did. The veil was just another garment, I reasoned.

* * *

(This is an extract from A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan (Harper Collins, India).)

Farzana Versey is the Mumbai-based author of A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan. She can be reached at kaaghaz.kalam@gmail.com .