Revolt (2 page)

In Gulistan village, the morning sun was high up over the sugarcane fields. Nine-year-old Shirin, in a white frilly frock with matching
chooridaar pyjama
, her auburn curls swinging around her shoulders, hopped along the dusty path to her favourite spot – the large termite mound.

Thrusting back her thick fringe with her small hand, she excitedly peered at the mound; colander-like dotted with holes. Yesterday she had delightedly watched hundreds of lively ants swarming out and zigzagging down the dry cakey outer crust.

Disappointed, Shirin aggressively poked holes with her sharp twig. A small crust, alive with dozens of little ‘beasts,’ came away in her hand. Shrieking she dropped it. Scrambling out of the holes, the stringy rows of ants were marching down the
sun-baked
mound.

Startled on hearing the sound of horses’ hooves and the imperious voice shouting, ‘Get out of our way, girl!’ she stepped back, stumbling over a stone.

Shirin fell straight onto a dry tuft of grass and tangles of brushwood, their sharp blades digging into her soft thighs. Howling in pain, she blinked up at the towering horse’s white legs. The rider with his thick crop of reddish-brown hair glinting fire in the morning sun glared down at the girl. Her lower lip quivering, Shirin’s vision blurred. Then Ali, another rider, appeared, coming to an abrupt stop near her, gripping tightly onto the reins of his horse. It was the girl!

The man with the reddish-brown hair pulled tightly at his reins and sped his horse towards the village, leaving a heavy screen of warm, dewy morning dust behind him.

‘Are you all right,
piari shahzadi
?’ Ali whispered.

His gentle tone and endearing words, ‘lovely princess’, triggered the flood of tears Shirin had been holding back.

Distressed on her behalf, he asked, ‘Shall I take you home?’ reaching down to pull her up onto his horse.

‘Ali!’

Ali’s hand tightened on the girl’s arm as he faced his master. Trembling, Shirin turned a bewildered look at the other rider glaring at them from a distance and then pulled herself away, staring down in horror at the grassy stains soiling her favourite frock.

His mouth an angry slit, Ali asked. ‘All right, princess?’

Shirin nodded; mouth a beguiling small pout and eyes two shimmering blue gems. She liked this man; he had brought them food the other night and always called her
piari shahzadi.

Satisfied that the girl was OK, Ali sped up the path to the village square, stealing a look over his shoulder and flashing another kind smile at her.

Shirin remained staring after them, until she felt the tiny bites on her bare toes. Ants were scurrying around her feet.

Angrily wiping her tears with her small fist, she started to walk back, eyes on the white horse disappearing into the big white mansion, the
hevali
. Suddenly, a fully cloaked young woman in a pale blue linen
chador
stepped out from the tall sugarcane plants, startling her.

Shirin stared, innocently asking, ‘Did you poo in the sugarcane field?’ Her mother had told her once that in the old days, people used the fields to defecate at night or early in the morning.

Blushing, Salma, the quiltmaker’s daughter, taken aback by the question, shook her head, trying her best to smile, and began to walk by her side. Shirin nervously glanced up at the woman, wondering if she would talk. It was only as they passed the
hevali
in the village square, that the woman murmured, ‘You and I can’t enter certain doors …’ Her fingertips brushed across the whitewashed railings ‘These gates … are closed to you! Two doors in the next street are closed to me.’

The small space between Shirin’s dainty triangular-shaped
eyebrows furrowed. The word
pagaal
darted into her head. As if reading her mind, Salma drily murmured, ‘I’m not mad … Ask your mum,’ her eyes sweeping over the imposing building.

In the main village lane, the bricklayer’s pregnant
daughter-in
-law with her reddish
sak
-stained lips and a basket of fresh vegetables held in the curve of one arm was sauntering towards them. Her other hand clutched the shawl discreetly draped around her shoulders to hide her heavily swollen, seven-month mound. Eyes averted, Salma raised the edge of her blue
chador
tightly to her chin and hurried away, protecting the other woman from her
perchanvah
, her evil shadow.

Begum, Ali’s wife, had his square-shaped
paratha
ready with a slice of mango pickle on a steel
chappati
tray. The dollop of fresh
makhan
churned before dawn in her clay milking pot had turned to a white fatty pool in the middle of it.

‘Ali?’

Begum knew instantly that something was wrong when her husband reached for his mug of milky cinnamon tea, kicking aside the footstool. After three noisy, scalding-hot sips, Ali thrust it back on the tray, turning to leave.

‘What’s wrong, Ali?’ Begum asked, quite vexed by his strange behaviour. What had got into him this morning? ‘Your
paratha
, Ali!’ she sternly reminded him. Four minutes to shape and cook, and the sizzling-hot ghee fat had burned her second finger on the blackened
tava
pan this morning.

‘I don’t want it!’ he hissed. Why would the darned woman not leave him alone?

‘What!’ Scandalised, Begum leaned back on her footstool. Ali never missed his daily
paratha
. So today was a strange omission and he had a very busy day ahead of him.

‘I said, I don’t want it!’ he aggressively rounded on her. Begum, equally annoyed, tugged at his trousers.

‘OK! I’ll eat the damn thing, woman!’ Angrily he slapped her hand away.

‘Forget the
paratha
!’ she fumed. ‘Tell me what’s wrong!’

‘The girl,’ he muttered, his large Adam’s apple, poking through the thin brown skin, bobbing up and down.

‘I’ve bought a new dress for her. Massi Fiza will smuggle it out to …’

‘Master Haider shouted at her!’

‘What?’ Begum struggled to her feet, hand held against her mouth.

‘The poor mite was in his way, Begum, nearly getting herself trodden! Master managed to pull his horse back!’ Ali faithfully explained in a bid to excuse his master’s actions. ‘Then she fell, with big fat tears streaming down her lovely face. I wanted to jump off my horse and give her a tight hug, but Master called me – looking very fierce!’

‘Well you had no choice, Ali. Comfort her or disobey our master.’ Begum reassured her husband, her rebellious spirit tightening her mouth. ‘And we’ve done quite a bit of disobeying,’ she added, but he was already out of the courtyard, rattling the tall wooden door shut behind him.

Breakfast was not on Ali’s mind. Master Haider wanted Ali to oversee the preparation for Arslan’s homecoming village feast and get all the horses ready for the party parade.

In her soot-stained kitchen corner of the veranda, Begum made a face at the three-layered
paratha
dripping with fat and the half pot of creamy cinnamon tea left on the stove. Draping her
chador
carefully around her shoulders, she headed for Master Haider’s
hevali
a street away.

Mistress Gulbahar was dreading her two sisters’ simultaneous arrival at the
hevali
. With her beloved son’s homecoming, she had plenty to do rather than having to put up with Mehreen’s childish tantrums and Rani’s supercilious looks. Gulbahar secretly hoped that Rani, her middle sister, would not be staying for long, for she was a law unto herself and stiffly rebuffed any attempt at ‘sisterly’ persuasion or friendship. On the other hand, Gulbahar was looking forward to having a good discussion with her brother-
in-law
, Liaquat, about the wedding arrangements for his son, Ismail.

‘Thank goodness I have Begum. She’ll see to the feast,’ Gulbahar congratulated herself. She had not quite bargained on her housekeeper’s sullen mood this morning, however, and was deeply offended by Begum’s neglect in offering her customary morning
salaam
.

The girl, not a greeting, was on Begum’s mind. Bristling with resentment at her employers and their ‘cruel hearts’, Begum headed straight for the kitchen but found herself annoyingly waylaid in the lobby of the back entrance by Massi Fiza, clutching a bulky sack of linen in her arms.

‘Third round this morning, Begum!’ A grinning Massi Fiza eagerly boasted, ‘Here even before you! Mistress Gulbahar instructed me yesterday to wash lots of items.’

Begum angrily rounded on the laundrywoman, putting the
dhoban
in her place. ‘I’m well aware of what goes on here, Fiza! Mistress Gulbahar shares all household matters with me.’

‘How do you think I’m going to manage all this washing in one day?’ Massi Fiza breezily asked, eager to start a conversation, blissfully unaware of the housekeeper’s hostile mood this morning.

‘As you’ve greedily grabbed all the washing from this household, I’m sure you’ll find a way. Where you’ll dry it all, I just don’t know or care!’ Then Begum cattily added, chuckling, ‘Why don’t you get your Rukhsar’s glamorous college-educated daughters to lend you their manicured hands!’

Dismissing the laundrywoman, Begum entered ‘her’ domain, the large well-equipped kitchen with all modern conveniences and two marble sinks, both overlooking the central courtyard with its large marble shell-shaped fountain basin.

‘Chance of a bowl of pink tea, Begum-ji?’ Massi Fiza requested with a sheepish grin, head popped around the door, body poised to take flight in case Begum threw anything at her.

Begum glared back her answer, loathing the woman and her pestering this morning. If she had not been holding a basinful of flour, she could easily have wrung Massi Fiza’s scrawny neck with its three dangling, black amulets, reverently purchased from the sweetmaker’s wife’s
pir
.

‘Massi Fiza, take the laundry and get lost! I’m in no mood for your gossiping or to make you bowls of
sabz
tea!’ Begum hissed, trying to still her panting heartbeat. ‘Get your best friend Rukhsar to make you their Italian coffee! I’ve plenty to do with the guests arriving …’ She stopped short, glimpsing the speculative look in Massi Fiza’s eyes.

Always eager to know about the goings-on in the
hevali
, Massi Fiza inevitably ended up gossiping with her
siniaran
friend. Begum banged the door shut with her foot on Massi Fiza’s shocked face.

Mistress Gulbahar entered the kitchen, highly mystified by her housekeeper’s non-appearance in her bedroom this morning.

‘Begum, I want the red rose china set brought out for the dinner. Make sure Jeena does not chip any more gold rims off the plates,’ Gulbahar instructed.

‘I’ll wash the entire set myself,’ Begum muttered, keeping her gaze averted from her mistress’s. Deeply aggrieved by her housekeeper’s tone and behaviour Gulbahar waited patiently for her to explain herself. Begum, however, appeared to be glued to the freezer lid.

‘Begum?’ Gulbahar prompted, smiling. They had been close friends for over two decades.

‘Mother and daughter are back in the village!’ Begum bitterly announced, waiting for some sound or word. She held her breath, nearly choking, hand frozen on the large bundle of lamb chops.

‘Begum, don’t forget to add yoghurt to the rice,’ Gulbahar quietly ordered before walking out.

Her eyes squeezed tight in disbelief, Begum banged the freezer lid shut. ‘What did you expect, woman?’

Leaning against the crockery sink, Begum stared out of the grilled window overlooking the courtyard. Mistress Gulbahar was feeding Mithu, their parakeet, its breakfast of seeds, her two fingers thrust in a cage dangling from one of the marble veranda colonnades. The parakeet mattered. Not the
girl
.

Shirin’s leather-sandaled steps threaded across the small veranda of the potter’s home three lanes away. Through the grilled window bars of the main bedroom she saw her mother sorting out the bedding. A folded quilt propped on her head, Laila headed for the rooftop terrace to air it in the sun, carefully avoiding the two broken steps with their missing bricks. Smiling at her daughter, she returned to collect the other quilt.

Laila pulled her daughter into her arms. A loud wail was Shirin’s answer. When her mother squatted in front of her everything swam before her eyes. ‘Shirin?’

Alarmed, Laila peered into Shirin’s eyes, now magnified into large sky-blue orbs swaying in a clear bed of water.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’

Shirin nodded, pulling herself out of her mother’s arms to show her dress. ‘Look, my birthday dress, it’s all ruined!’

‘I’ll buy you another one! Massi Fiza will give this one a special wash. How did you fall?’

Face screwed up in pain. ‘I tripped, and … and that horrible old man’s eyes kept glaring at me …’ Shirin explained.

‘The old man!’ Laila’s body stilled. ‘What old man?’

‘On a white horse – with face tassels. He … he said, “Get out of our way, girl!” I hate him.’

Pressing her daughter’s sobbing body against her chest, Laila planted kisses on her auburn curls, aflame in the morning sunlight peeping through the meshwork of the veranda tiles.

‘This man, did he just appear?’ Laila gently prompted.

‘Yes!’

‘And he had blue eyes and brown hair?’ she whispered, a dullness spreading through her.

‘Yes … how do you know?’ Shirin kept her eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the raw hatred in the man’s face.

Laila stood up. ‘You must have done something!’

‘I didn’t!’ Shirin turned on her mother with a shrill, indignant cry, eyes flashing. ‘I was looking at ants … and I fell down. The horse’s legs nearly hit me.’ The loud sobs were back and this time with a vengeance.

‘Guess what kind of
paratha
I’ve made you this morning?’ Laila coaxed, keen to change the subject and wiping away her tears. ‘And, by the way, he’s not an old man!’ she reprimanded.

Shirin shrugged at her mother’s comment on the man’s age – not caring.

‘A spinach
paratha
– with an omelette – no onions, I promise,’ her mother added. The mention of her favourite breakfast did the job; Shirin’s rosebud mouth wedged into a reluctant smile.

Later on the rooftop, after hanging her daughter’s dress to dry, Laila’s head automatically turned to the other section of the village; to the
hevali
. With its light peachy paintwork and glossy white marble tiles gleaming in the hot sun, the large villa was a beacon to all. With its tall roof gallery, green and white flags flying high from two of the corners, Master Haider’s
hevali
could easily be spotted at a distance.

Sighing, Laila sank down on the portable wooden bed to get on with an important task. A bucketful of roses had to be threaded fast. Begum’s note tucked amidst the flowers had categorically stated two o’clock.

Laila dug the thick darning needle in and out of the rose stems, ignoring her sore thumbs and fingertips. Her daughter, now fed, bathed, dressed in a new frock and with her damp hair brushed flat against her scalp was sitting beside her.

‘What’re you doing, Mummy?’ she enquired, feeling the soft petals between her fingertips.

‘I’m making a
welcoming
flower garland, my darling.’

‘Who for?’

‘For a very special person, my darling,’ she whispered, voice husky, kissing her daughter on her wet head.

‘It’s Daddy!’ she shrieked with delight.

Laila’s smile slipped. ‘No! You can meet this person when he arrives. You’ve got a very special job to do, my princess. Look through those holes in the wall tiles. When you see three or four cars coming together into the village, with the big black Jeep in front, you must immediately call me, Shirin.’

Gulbahar stood lost beside the marble fountain, trying to recall the chore she had forgotten.

Face clearing, ‘Begum!’ she called. ‘Have you switched on the air conditioning in
all
the rooms? Remember my beautiful son is coming from a cold country.’

Begum materialised from the main guest dining room, having given the last touches to the table with a vase of fresh orchids. The glass panels and mirrors in all the rooms had been thoroughly inspected for dust and smear marks.

‘Yes, Sahiba-ji, it’s on full blast – in all of the rooms! Ali will wheel in a water cooler near Mistress Mehreen’s bed, for her hot flushes.’

‘How thoughtful! What about the dinner? I wish you had let me ask Rasoola to help you!’

Begum vigorously shook her head, face creasing in distaste at the thought of
that
woman working in her kitchen. Rasoola, Mehreen’s housekeeper, was cursed with a
complaining
disposition; about virtually everyone and everything, including her bad back. And the gravest sin of all – she had not one ounce of loyalty to her employers.

Begum did, however, gracefully welcome the town cook, Nalu, into her kitchen. To her surprise, not only was he wonderful at cooking but fantastic company, too; he had kept her giggling all morning with tales about his simple ‘
bholi
’ wife, who continuously fell victim to the children’s pranks. Before long, Begum had forgotten about the master’s treatment of the girl and was delighted with Nalu’s gift of a bag of his special freshly ground herbs.

‘Sahiba-ji, please don’t worry,’ Begum reassured her mistress. ‘Nalu has already cooked two large pots of meat. The rice is done and the watermelons are drowning nicely in icy water. I’m about to slice them … Shall I use the crystal bowls, Mistress?’

‘Of course!’ Gulbahar gently chided. Everything had to be crystalware for her beloved son’s homecoming!

‘Oh, Begum!’ Gulbahar exclaimed, as another thought struck her. ‘What about the
halvie
? Did he say if the
jalebis
will be ready in the evening?’

‘All sorted, Mistress. Ali is collecting three baskets at six; the sweetmaker, thanks to his wife’s good nagging is punctual with the orders, unlike the horrid baker … Remember how he kept us waiting for the
chappatis
with all the hungry guests to feed on Bakra Eid.’

‘Great! Thanks, Begum. I must get ready. Can’t wait to see my son!’

‘Please, Mistress, don’t worry. Will you stand and wait outside in the street with everyone else?’

‘I think …’ Gulbahar frowned. ‘I’ll compromise this time, Begum, by standing inside, but peeping out of the door. You know I’m not in purdah but your master really hates men’s eyes ogling me.’

Begum chuckled, eyes twinkling. ‘Of course, he has every right to do so – he’s very possessive about you and his family! Not surprising when he has a beautiful wife like you and a daughter …’ Begum faltered, as her mistress’s eyes automatically squeezed shut, a shadow crossing her face.

‘Excuse me …’ Begum stammered, cursing her stupid runaway tongue. ‘Need to thread the garland!’ she nervously added.

Gulbahar stiffly assented with her head, mood lightening. Her sisters were on their way. Saher, her lawyer niece, had taken a day off from her office work to personally welcome her cousin home, and she, his mother, hadn’t even got changed!

‘Mummy! Mummy! I can see the cars!’ Shirin excitedly shouted from the rooftop to her mother down below in the courtyard. ‘Are you there, Mummy?’

Laila stepped out from under the veranda, the
kajal
stick in her hand. Her daughter was peering over the low balcony wall from the rooftop. ‘Be careful, darling. You’ll fall!’ Laila anxiously called.

A few moments later, her body swathed in a lawn
chador
, Laila stepped into the lane and collided with Massi Fiza and her bundle of clean laundry. Laila prayed that the laundrywoman wasn’t heading for the same place and suddenly decided that she didn’t want her daughter to accompany her.

‘Shirin, please play at home or in the fields!’

‘I want to go to the fields.’

Smiling, she left her daughter and hastened down the lane, the garland held tightly against her chest under the fold of her
chador
.

The sweetmaker’s wife, Jennat Bibi, had just been to see her
pir
in the next village. Face glowing, she hopped off the bus on the GT road and hurried home to tell her family the good news she had learned. Ahead of her, a large group of excited well-wishers had gathered outside Master Haider’s
hevali
to welcome back young Master Arslan. With garlands of flowers proudly draped over their arms, some talked animatedly amongst themselves.

Jennat Bibi spotted her friend Neelam amongst the crowd of women well-wishers and hastened her pace.

‘Assalam alaikum
, Jennat Bibi. How are you?’ Neelum turned, smiling.

‘Wa laikum salam
, with God’s blessing I’m well and very happy.’

‘Been visiting your relatives in the city?’

‘No, my
pir
.’

‘Why?’

‘Good news! Tell you later – but why are you here?’

‘Don’t you know? Master Arslan is coming home from America. Did your husband not get the big order for the
mithai
for his homecoming party?’

‘Oh … Yes, of course. I forgot. I’ll join you, as I’m here anyway!’

‘Yes, do! Look! See who else is here! Hiding behind that tree … it’s her …’

Both women glanced surreptitiously at the cloaked woman half hidden behind the tree.

‘Well, Sister Jennat Bibi. What did your
pir
say?’ Neelum eagerly pressed, wanting to know the truth behind her friend’s flushed face and laughing brown eyes.

‘Go on then … You’ll be the first to know. My
pir
tells me that Faiza is going to have a son!’

‘How wonderful! Congratulations!’

‘Thank you!’ Jennat Bibi winked. ‘This is going to be fun! Look at Massi Fiza – just because she collects the dirty linen from the
hevali
, she’s hogging the gates as if she owns them,’ she sneered, having never seen eye to eye with the laundrywoman since the
dhoban
had ruined her white silk shawl with red dye from another garment. She grimaced at the garland in her friend’s hands, wishing that she had one, too.

And why was her foolish husband not here? Could he not spare a few measly minutes to leave his greasy
jalebi
-frying wok and syrup pot to attend this gathering? Did he not know the importance of remaining in the good books of the rich and the influential ones? Luckily for the sweetmaker’s household, she was the blessed one – with plenty of worldly wisdom, augmented by her
pir
’s guidance. Her husband was only fit to make
ladoos
!

‘They are here!’ Begum excitedly shrieked to her Sahiba-ji, standing discreetly behind the door with a large china plate piled high with an assortment of sweetmeats in her hand, relishing the warmth of the freshly baked
ladoos
.

The three cars with the Jeep in front rode up the dusty road to the
hevali
gates. The well-wishers excitedly rushed to greet. Haider stepped out first, followed by his beloved son, Arslan.

Excited cries of
‘Mubarak, Mubarak
, Haider Sahib!’ jetted
loudly out of everyone’s mouths. Arslan, a twenty-six-year-old young man, was immediately hemmed in by a circle of well-wishers and warm hugs. Grinning, he took it all in good grace, letting men eagerly drop their flower and money garlands over his neck.

Haider stood aside, proudly watching.

Unable to wait, Gulbahar boldly thrust the door wide open, desperate for the other people to leave her son alone, aching to smother his face with kisses. Her eyes scanned the heads of the villagers and then drifted to the old
neem
tree facing the
hevali
’s gates.

Gulbahar froze, watching a woman’s cloaked figure move forward. Wide-eyed, her fingers tightly gripped a plate of sweetmeats.

Ali, too, happened to look behind, eyes fixed on the woman’s beseeching gaze, requesting his permission to either step forward into the crowd or to disappear into anonymity once more.

Laila drew her garland of thickly knotted rosebuds from under her
chador
. Ali closed his eyes tight. Hers continued to plead.

‘Please let me!’ they begged.

Ali surrendered, humanity kicking in. A smile of approval flickered across his face, head dipping. It was up to almighty Allah now.

Heart thudding, Laila took tentative steps into the crowd, pressing the flower garland to her chest, her other hand holding the fold of the
chador
up to her mouth. Some well-wishers, recognising her, let her pass and waited with bated breath.

Laila hovered three paces behind the tall broad-shouldered young man. Soft lips parting and voice husky, ‘Arslan,’ she whispered.

Arslan turned, his handsome mouth parting in pleasure, the cobalt-blue eyes scanning the partially hidden face of the woman standing in front of him. Laila heard the indrawn breath of Master Haider, standing two yards away.

Laila held her garland in her hands. Standing on her toes, she reached up for his neck, but another masculine arm neatly sliced between them, pulling him away.

Laila stumbled backwards and the garland fell to the ground. Arslan glared at his father, electrifying the villagers looking on.

Keeping his face straight in front of the well-wishers, Haider coldly announced, ‘Your mother is waiting, my son!’ digging his fingers hard into his son’s elbow. ‘Let’s go inside!’ Arslan felt the full ruthless strength of his father’s fingers and surrendered, letting himself be pulled, his bewildered gaze fixed on Laila’s lowered face.

Then, before his horrified eyes, his father’s silver-embroidered
khussa
-clad foot fell flat on Laila’s garland, crushing the neatly threaded rosebuds into the dust.

Laila raised a pain-filled face, but the head had already turned.