by Owen Mullen
For all that, he treated her like a jealously-guarded possession, even with the rest of his family. Chandra and his mother wore saris wrapped round and draped over their shoulders, occasionally Chandra wore jeans. Quasim insisted his wife cover herself from head to toe.
Afra had no say in her clothes, they appeared in the wardrobe the day after the wedding, heavy black and brown shrouds that itched and scratched.
Things were very different from the house in Mundhi; for one, it was many times larger. Afra still hadn’t seen most of the rooms. In time, Zamir and Firdos would bring their wives to live here and the corridors would echo with the laughter of their children. It was hard to know if anyone else was in the building it was so quiet; traffic on the road outside was no more than a distant hum, most times, not even that, and at night the gates were closed against Lahore.
Afra had been out of the house just twice, each time Quasim met with a business associate. On the first occasion, she was kept in a room while the men talked; no one offered her anything to drink. The second meeting was shorter. They went to the outskirts of the city. Quasim said, ‘Stay in the car’ and locked the doors. Afra wondered why he bothered to bring her. It should have been good except it was another lonely experience. She missed the argumentative chickens disputing every crumb and Uncu lying in the shade, too stupid to be unhappy. Her one companion was the cage bird. Afra fed it scraps saved from breakfast. If Mrs Dilawar Hussein was having her afternoon nap, she lifted its golden prison from the window to the garden. It liked the sunshine and sang a clear melodious song that stopped when she took it back inside.
Ten weeks since the wedding and already she was bored. This new life demanded little and gave less. Quasim returned in the evening and told her what he wanted her to do or not do. Conversation, as she’d known it, didn’t exist. Walking from the fields, waiting for Jameel to ask the same question every night seemed wonderful now. A picture of him kicking stones rose behind her eyes.
tomorrow then?
She saw his face the time she’d been cross with him and hated herself for her impatience. That look was the saddest thing. Afra cried. He’d been her best friend in the world. Nobody could say where he’d gone. Maybe Karachi. Afra had heard it was a dangerous place and prayed he was safe.
She rolled on to her back, an arm over her eyes, shutting out the light. The bangles brushed her face. This would never be home. Home was wherever Jameel was. The fan calmed her, lulled her, she felt tired. In the middle of the afternoon, how could that be?
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Afra felt herself falling into space, her head cracked the wooden floor and she landed on her back with her clothes bunched around her waist. She opened her eyes, shocked. The kick buried itself in her side like a hammer. ‘Get up!’
Another blow crashed into her bare thigh. ‘Get up!’
Quasim towered over her. ‘Get up, woman.’
She struggled to her knees. What had happened? The last memory she had was of feeling tired, then this. Her head spun. Something bitter rose in her throat. Quasim grew tired of waiting; a hand hauled her to her feet before she was ready. Her legs collapsed. She staggered and tried to focus. ‘Quasim?’
Her skin bruised under his grip, fear made Afra vomit. Her husband watched. Quasim, the ranting madman was replaced by a more terrible twin; an unsmiling torturer; a man who could cripple her without anger. She wanted to scream. Who would hear or help even if they did?
‘Quasim.’ The words sounded thick and slurred. ‘What’s wrong?’
The blow came from nowhere and caught her on the temple. He lifted her and threw her to the bed. ‘Do you know what time it is? Not even five o’clock. And you sleep.’
‘I was tired, just tired. I closed my eyes, that’s all.’
She begged him to listen. Quasim hauled her to her feet, drew back his arm and struck. Afra doubled in agony. Pain like she’d never known exploded in her belly. He spun her round and let go. She crashed into the far wall and blacked out.
When she came to, Quasim knelt beside her holding a glass of water. And he wasn’t angry anymore. ‘Drink this.’ He placed the glass to her lips, his hand steady. The liquid ran down her chin. Moments ago, he’d been beating her, now he nursed the damage he’d done. ‘I want you to stay here. I’ll say you’re not feeling well.’
She lay against the wall and heard him shut the door behind him. Afra crawled under the sheets and her body closed down. Sleep was the medicine it found.
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In the dark, she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her back ached and her arm throbbed where he’d gripped it while he struck. Images of the attack came unbidden. The top of her head felt torn open yet these injuries hadn’t brought her awake. Something more serious was wrong; her stomach was on fire. Somewhere inside lay real hurt.
Afra eased herself off the bed and limped to the bathroom. Her husband slept, untroubled, snoring the night away. The pain was intense, her head swam, she was going to faint. She lowered herself to the floor, to the cool tiles, while the furnace in her belly raged. She lost consciousness again.
When her eyes opened it was light. The floor was cold against her skin. Her body hummed with pain but the hurt in her stomach was gone. A metallic smell filled the room and the inside of her thighs were wet. Afra pulled her clothes away and saw the blood.
Tears fell. She raised herself on to the toilet seat and scooped water from the bowl. More tears came. Her sobbing echoed in the bathroom as the last of the foetus was washed away.
If Quasim knew he’d blame her for losing his child.
Not hers, not theirs. His.
It would never be born. And she was glad.
Chapter 13
After six months in the house, things changed.
No subtlety was employed. Mrs Dilawar Hussein had no use for it. Since the miscarriage, Afra was obedient and said nothing unless spoken to. It worked. Quasim hadn’t wanted a partner or a friend – he would never want those things. His motives were less complex. All he needed was a sexual vessel and a son. The first she could supply, even tolerate, so long as she took her mind to another place during the act. It made her smile to imagine what the brute would think if he knew that during sex his wife was busy feeding chickens in Mundhi.
She’d been bought for another purpose, and in that, Quasim was destined to be disappointed. Afra believed any hope of a baby had been washed away in the night. That was one secret. The other circled her wrist. Many times every day, she ran her fingers over the delicate engravings, drawing hope and strength from them, praying they’d lead Jameel to her.
Mrs Dilawar Hussein broke the breakfast silence, spitting a question at her eldest son and answering it herself. ‘What use is she? No use!’
The anger was naked. Afra didn’t raise her head although the woman was talking about her. ‘Six months and nothing.’
The son kept on eating. Afra suspected he’d already heard this rant. ‘There’s time,’ he said.
‘You think so? I believe we’ve made a bad bargain.’
Quasim didn’t defend his wife while they discussed her as if she wasn’t there. The niqab gave her something to hide behind. Chandra listened to the exchange between her mother and brother. There would be no support from her. In six months, she’d spoken just twice. Zamir and Firdos seemed to want no part in the debate either, they concentrated on their food. Quasim sighed, uncomfortable with the conversation.
‘What would you have me do?’
His mother sneered. ‘I expect you’re doing all you can. This girl has cost us.’ She glared at her daughter-in-law. ‘From tomorrow, she can start to pay it back. We’ll have our money’s worth, one way or another.’
Quasim didn’t argue. He reached for another chapati, broke off a piece and dipped it in gravy. Soon after, the men left to go to their work, where they sold agricultural machinery – tools, fertiliser and the rest – to farmers in the country beyond Lahore. Quasim, the eldest, was the boss. The third and last tim
e he’d taken her out with him, he had a meeting with an important customer. Afra stayed in the car yet again, while her husband went inside a metal-framed building with ‘Dilawar Hussein’ painted in large letters on the side, and she’d known she was looking at the source of the family’s money.
With breakfast over, the women had drifted to their own parts of the house. Zana hurried to clear the crockery and debris. The rest of the day passed like every day, in silence. Afra understood the older woman’s unhappiness; she’d been brought to their house to give birth, and be an unresisting body in the night. She was failing and would continue to fail, thanks – though Mrs Dilawar Hussein would never know – to her son. The family’s reaction would be horribly predictable. Afra remembered the treatment meted out to her for nothing. What her punishment would be for losing the child wasn’t a thought worth keeping.
Next morning, when she followed her husband to breakfast, there was no place set for her. Five chairs stood with the table. The others ignored her until their mother arrived. She beckoned Afra to follow her. They walked through the house, downstairs into a steamy dungeon. Zana and another woman Afra had never seen worked at a stove. The sour smell of burned fat and stale spices wafted in the air. The matriarch spoke to the cook, glanced at Afra and nodded. Mrs Dilawar Hussein marched away.
The cook looked her up and down. ‘Find a brush and get started. I hear you’ve a debt to pay. I can find plenty of ways for you to work it off.’
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‘Clean! I want it clean!’
The pail of rubbish, swept from the kitchen floor, was kicked across the cold stone slabs; scraps of food bobbed in puddles of dirty water. Afra didn’t argue. The kitchen was clean, certainly cleaner than when she’d first been pressed into service with Zana and the cook. They were gone.
Early one morning she’d found the kitchen in darkness. She put water on to heat and mixed the dough for bread. After an hour, no one had shown up and the truth of her station became clear. She was the servant. And the cook. The other women had been kept on long enough to teach her what was required. They probably hadn’t known, though even if they had, what difference would it have made?
Quasim’s mother appeared in the doorway, casting round for something to be dissatisfied about, always able to find it. Afra, on her knees, hadn’t noticed her standing over her. Mrs Dilawar Hussein brought her foot down on the edge of the bucket. The pail of water got the same treatment, swamping the trash, creating a bigger mess.
The contrast between the women was stark. One screamed, the other cowered like a frightened dog.
In the dining-room, the brothers talked while the new Zana laid the food in front of them. Quasim ignored his wife. It took several trips before everything was out. When the last of it was on the table, she knelt in the kitchen and gathered the remnants of vegetables and fruit. Making her mind blank was the only way to survive. Questions weakened her will to carry on. Two especially: What had she done to deserve this?
And would she ever see Jameel and Mundhi again?
To the first the answer was clear: nothing, she’d done nothing.
The second was equally clear: not in this life.
Zana’s departure meant someone had to do her work. Mrs Dilawar Hussein had informed her daughter-in-law that someone was her. Afra followed the overweight woman round the house, hearing the never-ending list of tasks. ‘Do you understand what your duties are?’
‘I think so.’
‘Thinking will not be good enough. Do it and do it right.’
The work was too much for one. She was being ordered to do the jobs of three people; all she could do was try. There was no way to finish everything this crazy woman demanded. She’d be dead from exhaustion in a month.
‘And I almost forgot, there’s one more room I want you to see. Follow me.’
Afra did, up two flights of stairs the older woman struggled to climb. The second staircase was neither polished nor carpeted with walls that hadn’t been painted in years. The mother’s chest rose and fell; she coughed and spluttered. At the top, they reached an unvarnished door. ‘Open it.’
Afra gripped the handle. The mechanism was slow. Behind it was a box worse than the one at Bilal’s house. A child-sized bed took most of the space, a sink and a toilet, chipped and marked and foul-smelling, took up the rest.
‘This is your new room. Before you do anything else bring your things up here.’
Afra sat on the bed. Damp from the cover seeped through to her skin. In a cracked mirror above the sink, she saw a face: Nadira’s.
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The door had no lock and was always open for Quasim. He seldom came near her and when he did, it was only for a few minutes; he no longer found her desirable.
She’d lost track of time and couldn’t say how long she’d been in the house. In fact, it had been more than three years.
During winter, when the barren room was freezing, Afra paced to keep warm. Once she went to the kitchen and huddled in front of the oven where it was warmer. But it wasn’t worth the risk, so she suffered in the cell at the top of the house.
In the summer months, the opposite was true. At night, there was barely a breath of air. And all the time she worked like a dog. Days seemed to last forever, attending to chore after chore before she fell on the bed and slept, often too tired to eat whatever the others had left.
The unremitting toil stripped the flesh from her bones: the light within her dimmed. Her hair, once thick and lustrous, came out in handfuls. Her teeth suffered under the burden of labour and the poverty of her diet. Sometimes they hurt more than she could stand, stealing the precious hours of rest from her before the body-breaking, mind-numbing cycle began again.
And, at times, the past crept up on her in distant memories: Fatimah and Shafi wrestling Jameel to the ground amid wild shouting and screaming. Did they ever wonder what had become of their sister? As for Jameel, would she look up and find him ready to take her with him?
She smiled a small unhappy smile. Whatever else happened, that wouldn’t be it. Even if he found where she was, her jailers guarded her too well. She wouldn’t have the strength to flee and would rather die than have Jameel see what she’d become. No, when daydreams came, she swept them away like the leavings on the kitchen floor: the useless things of yesterday.
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Afra didn’t wear the bangles now; the work was too rough to expose her only possession to it and they slipped off her stick of an arm. She kept them under a loose floorboard, putting them on when she most needed to feel their strength against her skin. Quasim didn’t come to her room – not even sometimes – and for that at least, she was grateful. If experience had taught her anything since coming to Lahore, it was that there was always something worse. Not long ago, she’d felt sorry for Nadira.
The change in Zamir and Firdos went unnoticed. Quasim’s younger brothers watched. They wanted her. Neither discussed his lust because to desire a brother’s wife was an abomination. Each waited and planned for the moment when the servant was least expecting their attention.
Zamir was first to take the treatment of the woman to a new low. The middle son was similar in looks to his older brother, but very different. Where Quasim was arrogant and smart, Zamir was just arrogant. His life had been one of silent resentment towards the head of the family since their father’s death. No matter how much Chandra and the two boys disagreed with him, only their mother dared speak with anything other than respect.
Zamir knew Firdos had a secret. Late at night, he crept out of the house to visit the prostitutes in Heera Mandi. Zamir had seen him more than once. He wouldn’t go there – it wasn’t safe in any number of ways – yet he was readying himself to play an even more dangerous game. And Zamir Dilawar Hussein had a secret of his own; he was thirty-one-years-old and had never been with a woman. The prospect scared him. Women were alien creatures to the second son. He didn’t see them as people, only as objects of desire.
Here in the house,
day after day, year after year, he studied his brother’s wife, imagining her under the unflattering clothes. Their very shapelessness aroused him. Zamir had wanted to possess her from the first but if he acted on what was in his heart, he’d dishonour his brother. As time passed, he felt thwarted in this as in everything, making him reckless and, considering what he itched to do, recklessness made him stupid. Feelings of injustice swamped his brain, while thoughts of caution or danger or consequence were forgotten. Zamir believed he felt lust. He didn’t. What consumed him was hatred: of his brother, his father, his mother, the whole family. The whole world.
The second son of the Dilawar Hussein family looked normal. No one suspected Zamir was insane: Afra was the vehicle for his revenge.
One morning at breakfast, he put a hand to his head and slumped forward. ‘Zamir,’ his mother said with her usual impatience, ‘are you all right?’
Zamir pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t know. I feel ill.’
‘Girl! Bring some water for Zamir.’
Afra ran to the kitchen, filled a glass jug and returned. At the table everything was as it had been. Zamir bent forward looking unwell, his family stared at him.
Quasim said, ‘Are you sick, brother?’
‘I feel it. I’ll lie down for a while.’
Whatever his brother’s shortcomings, Zamir never missed a day’s work. The others finished their breakfast and left. In the kitchen, Afra started to clean, ignorant of the danger she was in. Upstairs, Zamir lay relishing the opportunity he’d created.
By the middle of the morning Afra was almost finished downstairs and had forgotten all about her husband’s brother. As far as she knew, everyone had gone, leaving her to her crushing routine. Three pots of prepared vegetables were ready to cook. She assessed her work, folded a cloth and laid it near the sink.
