Revolt (38 page)

‘As human beings we need to treat each other with respect,’ she had passionately beseeched while her daughters had mocked her with a look of pure bewilderment.

‘Mother, she’s like a servant! How can she be our equal?’ Shabnum blurted. Which planet did their mother live on?

‘You callous snobs, all three of you!’ Rukhsar bitterly lashed out, chilled by their statement. ‘How would you like it if somebody called you lowly? In the social hierarchy, the goldsmith is at the lower end, for your information! The sun also rises and sets for all people.’ That sobered the girls.

Their mother continued with her lecture. ‘In the eyes of our Allah Pak, we are all equal! Doesn’t everyone pray together in mosques and perform Hajj together in Mecca? And you are complaining about a woman who has done so much for you spoilt girls.

‘So, enough of this
lowly
nonsense! Fiza-ji may wash people’s clothes in our village but she’s my best friend and I’m not ashamed of her. But I am
extremely
ashamed of you all, for harbouring such wicked thoughts.’ She turned her back on them.

‘But, Mother. Everybody thinks like us – not like you!’ Shabnum boldly reminded her mother.

‘Does that make it OK? I thought I had you well educated, my girls, but apparently those women’s magazines have only taught you fashion, make-up tips and to text “twits” on your phones.’

‘Tweets, Mother!’ Ruhi corrected. They all laughed – their mother was catching on to the use of social media.

Their mother was not amused. ‘Twits or tweets, now, go and be nice to your Aunt Fiza. And put those damn phones away, girls! Can’t you keep your hands free from them for even a few minutes?’ Smiling, all three sisters vigorously shook their heads. Their phones and iPads were their link to the big ‘outside’ world.

Rukhsar had made the soup herself, with the right quantity of chilli seasoning, and had even thrown in some new potatoes which Massi Fiza loved.

‘Shabnum, it was Massi Fiza-ji who embroidered the lace on your
dupatta
at midnight once!’

Chastised thus, Shabnum dutifully carried the tray to Massi Fiza, pinning a pleasant smile to her lips. She sat with their guest for up to an hour, trying her very best to entertain her while inside she cynically wondered what a boarding-school and college girl could have in common with an illiterate older woman? In any event, poor Aunt Fiza was quite depressed and her mouth had a permanent downward tilt, no matter how many jokes Shabnum told her. When her mother finally walked in, she let out a sigh of relief.

Rukhsar was determined to get her friend out of this dismal mood.

‘Massi Fiza-ji,’ she began, ‘I bring you some good news. The baker’s wife has just told me that Mistress Laila and her daughter have returned and both are now at her parents’ house. Can you believe it?’

Massi Fiza’s head shot up from the pillow, her round eyes alight with interest.

‘Really!’ she croaked.

‘Yes, really! Apparently mother and daughter came the other night. It was our sweetmaker who kindly informed the baker’s wife after getting a large order for hot
jalebis
for the granddaughter.’

‘What, Rukhsar-ji! They have accepted the potter’s brat into their home!’

‘It’s their grandchild, don’t forget, Massi Fiza!’ Rukhsar coldly reminded her. Massi Fiza was just as bad as her daughters for putting people down.

Massi Fiza was now sitting up. Excitement was to be found elsewhere and there was nothing to be gained in moping around in bed. Fancy Rukhsar bringing her some news for a change!

‘Rukhsar-ji, I’m well enough now! I would like to thank you for your hospitality …’

‘You’re going nowhere!’ Rukhsar chuckled, reading her friend’s thoughts very accurately, and gently pushing her down on the bed. ‘Not until you’ve fully recovered your strength. I know you want to see what it’s like at Master Haider’s home, but you’ll leave when I say so! Is that clear, Massi Fiza-ji?’

Massi Fiza, bemused, dumbly nodded.

She persisted, however. ‘Please, Rukhsar-ji, ring Begum and tell her that I’ll be down in the
hevali
for their washing tomorrow morning.’

‘OK,
acha baba.
What do you think will happen if the potter’s son ends up on their doorstep? Will they take him in or not?’

‘I don’t know, Rukhsar-ji, but I’m so pleased that Mistress Laila is back at home. I can’t wait to see her daughter walking around the
hevali
– that’s if Begum lets me in … She’s always telling me off for spreading rumours. As if I would!’

‘Yes, as if you would!’ Rukhsar chuckled.

‘Well, I gossip, and mainly with you. And it’s quite harmless … you know that.’ Massi Fiza looked aggrieved. ‘I’m not a malicious person and would never speak ill of anyone.’

‘Yes,’ Rukhsar agreed with alacrity. ‘You’re an honest, gentle soul.’

‘Thank you, Rukhsar-ji.’

‘Well, you can show your gratitude by drinking this wonderful soup. I used a full chicken – not skimped on anything … so that you can gain your energy back!’

Touched by her friend’s kindness and with shiny, tearful eyes, Massi Fiza noisily slurped down the bowl of soup, picking at the tender chicken meat with her chapped fingertips.

Rukhsar watched her friend happily, shrugging aside the thought of work on the big necklace for the lecturer’s daughter’s wedding. Massi Fiza had given so many hours and days of her life to her family.

Nobody in Master Haider’s household was prepared for Jubail’s arrival two days later. ‘Daddy’s here!’ Shirin came running into the central courtyard.

Laila’s heart plummeted, the pea-pod shell popping out of her fingers. She was sitting under the veranda, giving Begum a hand in preparing the vegetables for the evening meal and enjoying the breeze from the water cooler. Her mother, engrossed in the chopping and quartering of lemons and raw green mangoes for the pickle, sat up straight in her chair, the small knife poised in mid-air, and exchanged a nervous glance with her daughter as the outside door was thrust open.

Jubail stood in the doorway, body tall and stiff, eyes quickly locating his wife and coolly resting on her face. Laila coloured, noting the rigidness of his face and his hostile gaze, now on her mother. Spellbound, Gulbahar was caught in the moment, taking her fill of the man who had stolen their daughter and blanketed their lives with misery for over a decade.

Jubail could not quite fathom his mother-in-law’s expression. There was neither hostility nor welcome. He scrutinised his wife’s demeanour, seeking telltale signs.

Then his daughter joyously flung her small arms around his waist. Laila glanced down at the bowl of peas. Bile rushed through Jubail – she had finally chosen her family over him.

They all heard the footsteps on the marble staircase. A ball of nervous energy spiralled through the three women, their hearts thudding and breath held.

Haider had taken his afternoon nap and was on his way back
to the office for a meeting with two of his tenants, unprepared for the sight in the courtyard. On seeing Jubail, he stood still, reading carefully the scene in front of him, noting his daughter’s bowed head and the mixture of dread and appeal on his wife’s face. A petrified Begum leaned against the marble pillar, her two fingers, gripping a pinch of birdseed, stuck in the parakeet’s cage. And there, just inside his courtyard, stood the ‘beast’, with his arm protectively around his own daughter, eyes defiant.

Sensing the tension in the courtyard, Shirin’s timid gaze flitted from one adult face to the other, hands clutching at her father’s jeans. It was that little action alone that brought home to her grandfather exactly what was at stake.

The girl.

Laila was drowning, distressed by her divided loyalties – pulled between parents who had suffered so much and a hostile husband about to walk out of her life.

Haider strode to his daughter’s side, placing his arm protectively around her shoulders. Laila’s head shot up. Bemused, Jubail’s fingers lovingly threaded through his own daughter’s curls.

Laila’s mouth fell open as Jubail, pulling his daughter behind him, headed for the door. He had his answer; his wife had chosen her family.

‘Welcome home, my son. Will you not stay?’ Haider’s cool, authoritative voice sliced across the courtyard, shocking everyone into a strange stillness, freezing Jubail’s hand on the door handle. Tears of gratitude pricked Laila’s eyelids and a sob caught in her throat.

Gulbahar remained sitting, etched against the marble pillar. Surely it had to be a dream.

For Begum it was no dream; she came alive, rushing to take up the cue from her master. ‘Please, Jubail-ji, come inside, you are welcome!’

Lost for words, Jubail stared at them blankly, unable to make sense of the scenario facing him.

Haider, firmly in control of the new tableau he had created, gently came to his aid. ‘Laila, my dear, please take your husband upstairs. He will need to rest after his journey.’

Laila struggled to her feet. Gaze lowered, mouth dry, she found herself uttering the words she had fantasised over for so long, but had lost all hope of ever using.

‘Jubail-ji, let me show you to our room,’ she coaxed in her husky, trembling voice, feeling him stiffen as she crossed the courtyard and gripped his arm hard, making him realise that if he snubbed her father’s welcome and walked out, it would all be over for them, the ten-year-old battle between them concluded. She never forgot her parents and he never forgave. Laila wouldn’t let her family down twice and Jubail knew that, but he also knew that he was walking a tightrope. Grateful for the cue, he followed, gently pulling his daughter with him. He would do it for his daughter’s sake; she was the glue holding them together.

‘Daddy, let me show you my room – I’ve this really big room,’ Shirin excitedly hopped ahead, bringing a smile to everyone’s lips, relaxing all in the central courtyard. Mouth softening and gaze lowered, Jubail exchanged a shy smile with the three adults. They watched him cross the courtyard. For the first time ever, he was going to the first floor. When he worked with the horses, he had respectfully remained outside the private quarters of the
hevali
, in the horse’s paddock.

Gulbahar beamed at her husband, treating him to a warm smile of gratitude. ‘Thank you.’ Again Haider’s gentle words chastised her.

‘She’s my daughter, too, Gulbahar!’

Begum, tears of joy streaming down her face, dashed to her master’s side, startling him by grasping his hand and printing feverish kisses all over it.

‘Oh, thank you, Sahib-ji,’ she echoed. Chuckling and touched by their housekeeper’s reaction, Haider teased, ‘You’re going to be even busier, Begum – not that you’re not already! See that our daughter, her husband and especially our granddaughter are well looked after.’

‘Erm, yes, of course. I’ve dreamed of this, Master-ji, for so
long that I don’t care if my limbs fall off my body from exhaustion. I’ll never tire of lavishing my love on this family.’

Haider gently withdrew his hand from her grasp, feeling the texture of her chapped fingers. ‘You’re a good woman, Begum.’

‘Forgive me, Master, for my past mistakes,’ Begum pleaded, sobbing. The need to repent and beg forgiveness was swamping her.

‘Hush, Begum, there’s nothing to forgive,’ Haider gently consoled their treasure of a housekeeper, who was simply indispensable. ‘You’re a good soul, Begum. Let’s forget the past, shall we? It’s the future that matters.’ Then he walked off towards his office quarters.

Flushed with joy Begum reached out to her mistress, hugging her tightly, revelling in the moment, their eyes automatically looking up to the top gallery.

Mehreen stood watching her son and daughter-in-law packing a suitcase, feeling bereft. Many bags of gifts, collected from different bazaars and city shopping malls, littered the floor. Only two more days left of their stay. Ismail was now trying to make space amongst a pile of clothes for two pairs of traditional
khussa
shoes and a box of six dozen multi-coloured glass bangles for Daniela.

‘Please wait. Rasoola!’ Mehreen called her housekeeper standing outside the door. ‘I’ve something for Daniela.’

Ismail looked up, exasperated. ‘Mother, we’ve already far exceeded the weight limit.’

Mehreen looked away in embarrassment from the shape of Daniela’s breasts pressed against the fabric of her tight dress. Could her son not advise his wife to wear a padded bra or a shawl around her shoulders? Thank goodness her husband was not with her.

Rasoola entered with an armful of clothes.

‘What’s this, Mother?’

‘Your wedding presents, especially suits for Daniela.’

Daniela quickly asked, ‘What’s your mother saying?’

‘These are all for you, my darling. But how are we going to take them?’

Overwhelmed, Daniela watched Rasoola, grinning from ear to ear, place a pile of velvet, silk and chiffon outfits on the embroidered bedspread.

Tearful and feeling very lonely, Mehreen left them to finish the packing. Despite her show of generosity that night, Gulbahar
had not phoned once. What had hurt the most was that she had learned about Laila’s arrival from Rasoola.

‘Gulbahar hates me so much that she could not even be bothered to share such wonderful news with me,’ Mehreen mourned, wanting so much to visit her niece.

Instead, she had phoned Rani, whose strident tone tore through the phone line, quickening Mehreen’s heartbeat.

‘No, I was not told about Laila and I don’t care!’

Mehreen had no inkling that for her middle sister, the pining had begun again; the desperate longing for Rashid and the heartache that went with it.

The last thing Mehreen wanted was to jeopardise the fragile bond they had recently cemented as sisters. Gulbahar was now the blessed one, with both her children at home. Mehreen crushed the envy rushing through her, reminding herself how much she owed her elder sister.

‘Shall we visit Gulbahar? Did you know that Laila is back?’ she asked her husband later in the evening, standing in front of him.

‘Mehreen, if we’ve not been informed, then is it right for us to foist our company where it’s not wanted?’ he stiffly reminded her, turning away, his eyes cool.

Thanks to her paranoia and idiotic runaway tongue, she had had him banished from her sister’s side. How he missed Gulbahar’s company!

Unhappily, Mehreen slipped into her own bed with no expectations of her husband joining her.