Amal Unbound

by Aisha Saeed

  I followed Mumtaz into an attached room that turned out to be an enormous closet filled with Nasreen Baji’s clothes and shoes. Through the closet we entered another room, rectangular and compact. The walls were a pale blue, with a border of elephants and giraffes.

  “This is where you’ll be staying,” Mumtaz said.

  “Here?” I looked around at the nursery. “This is my room?”

  “There are many who would do a lot for a room in this part of the house. Now, put away your things, and then meet Nasreen,” she said before leaving.

  I thought of the stuffy, windowless concrete room from earlier today. Mumtaz was right. This room had air-conditioning and a blue tiled bathroom with a porcelain sink and chrome handles like I’d seen on television. I unpacked my suitcase and glanced at the door, wondering what lay in store for me on the other side.

  The light still glowed from beneath the closed bathroom door when I stepped back into her room. I glanced at my satchel. I’d forgotten to put it away, but I did need to call my mother just to let her know I was safe. I took out my phone, but a knock on the bedroom door made me jump. Jawad Sahib stepped inside.

  “Bored already?” he said, looking at my phone.

  Is this how it would be here? This man lurking around every bend and curve?

  “I wanted to let my mother know I’m all right.”

  “Your obligations are to me now.” He grabbed the phone from me. “The more you learn how to leave your backward ways behind, the easier things will be for you. Your days of being an idle farm girl are over.”

  Idle farm girl? Backward ways?

  I stared at my phone in his hands. My mother would tell me to be quiet right now and ignore these words. But how could he tear me from my home, take away the only connection I had to it, and then pronounce me backward? The words couldn’t be stopped.

  “I’ve never been idle. I went to school. I cared for my sisters. I helped my family.” My voice broke. “The ones you took me away from.”

  He looked at me as though watching a field mouse develop the skill of speech. His eyes narrowed.

  The bathroom door opened.

  “Jawad, what’s going on?”

  “I’m telling her how things will be.”

  “That’s my job, isn’t it?” She walked up to him. “If you take that away, what is there for me to do?”

  “You’re right.” He kissed her cheek. His anger from moments earlier vanished.

  They chatted a bit longer. He told her he was heading out now. Bilal was staying back this time. He asked her to keep an eye on him. He told her he would stop by her favorite sweet shop on his way home. He promised to call. And then, he tucked my phone into his pocket and walked away, taking the one lifeline I had to my family with him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Nasreen Baji walked to her makeup table and sat down on the cushioned bench. I watched her, uncertain what to do. Did I ask her how I could help? Or wait for her to tell me what she needed? Was I supposed to stand with my hands to the side? Or folded in front?

  The list of things I didn’t know was endless. I stood frozen by the door.

  Nasreen Baji tapped her fingers against the table and then glanced into the mirror.

  “I could use some help,” she told me, and when I walked up to her, she nodded at the brush on the table.

  I picked up the wooden brush and parted Nasreen Baji’s hair. I’d done this for my mother and sisters countless times but never performed such an intimate task on a stranger. Nasreen Baji’s hair was straight and brown with threads of gray. My mother’s hair was black like the night sky, falling over her shoulders in waves. Last time I brushed my mother’s hair, taking care to gently tease out the knots with my fingers, she hummed lullabies to Safa, who lay curled in her lap.

  Thinking of my mother kept my hands steady.

  “Did Mumtaz tell you what you are expected to do in this household?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her.

  “You are here for me and anything I may need. You bring my meals and wait on me. When there’s company, you wait on all of us. You massage my head if it hurts and bring me my migraine medication. You will sleep with your door open so if I need you, you can hear me. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  Before she could say more, the phone resting on the makeup table vibrated.

  “My husband.” She picked up the phone.

  Khan Sahib.

  I was so afraid of Jawad Sahib, I’d forgotten about his father, the monster in my childhood dreams. The bogeyman our mothers used to threaten us with when we were slow to finish our meals. He slept in this very room.

  “Thought you forgot to phone me,” she said when she answered. “Gazala called this morning. She switched her dinner party to next month for us. I told her we’ll be there.” She listened and smiled. “Yes, glad something can wrench you from politics.” They spoke a little longer before she hung up.

  “He’s away more than he’s here. Off with my eldest boys in Islamabad. Chasing politics at his age. Can you imagine?”

  I tried to mask my relief. At least there was that—the man who haunted my childhood dreams was hardly ever here.

  “You must be missing your family,” she said. “This can’t be easy.”

  Unlike her son’s, her words contained no malice. I nodded.

  “I can relate. Of course I married into the family, but no matter the circumstances, missing your family feels the same. You’re from Nabay Chak, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m from Banway Chak.”

  “Banway? But that’s a ten-minute walk from my house! It’s on the other side of the market.”

  “True,” she said. “You know the Marali family?”

  I nodded. The Marali family was a huge clan, scattered over many of the nearby villages.

  “That’s my family.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I could see the family resemblance in her straight dark hair and her high cheekbones.

  “Najam and Sana were my classmates,” I told her.

  “My sister’s children.” Her eyes brightened. “How are they?”

  “They were doing well last time I saw them,” I said. “I’ve known them since I was five.”

  “Smart girls. Khan Sahib will pay for college when the time comes. I’ll make sure he does. Tell me. Is Masud Baba still running the produce store at the market? He was my father’s closest friend.”

  “Shaukat, his son, runs it now.”

  “Shaukat?” Her expression fell. “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “He does a good job,” I said. “His prices are fair, and he sells the best produce.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “It’s just I knew him when we were little. He had different dreams back then.”

  I tried picturing Shaukat as a child sharing his dreams with the woman in emerald earrings sitting across from me. I couldn’t.

  “But . . . how did you end up here?”

  Nasreen Baji began laughing.

  I stiffened. Why did I say that aloud?

  “Blurting things out used to get me in trouble, too, when I was your age,” she said. “Just be careful. My son didn’t inherit my sense of humor.

  “Our marriage surprised many people,” she continued. “Khan Sahib’s family is distantly related to the Maralis. He saw me at a family wedding. His parents wanted a bride from a wealthy family, of course, but when you’re the youngest, you get your way.”

  Nasreen Baji told me about her family back in her village, and it turned out we had other neighbors in common. She was so easy to talk to, and the more she spoke, the less intimidating she seemed.

  It was the strangest thing to find within these walls someone who was more like myself than I could have imagined.

  Fo
r the first time since I arrived, I felt a little less afraid.

  Chapter 19

  My first job the next morning was to get Nasreen Baji’s breakfast tray ready to bring up to her. The meal was a simple one: tea, toast with a dollop of jam, and a plate of sliced apples. Mumtaz showed me where the trays and teacups were kept in the kitchen before she left to sweep the terrace. I turned on the chai percolator and arranged the tray. Nabila wiped down the countertop next to the sink. Fatima swept up crumbs from the floor while her father stored chopped vegetables in the refrigerator.

  As I waited for the water to heat, I looked out the window. With Jawad Sahib gone, the servants were relaxed and our verandah was busy. Toqir, the elderly servant who dusted and swept the main level of the estate, rested on a charpai. Shagufta sat on a bench and chatted with another cleaning girl. The gardener was still holding a clipper in one hand as he was drinking tea and chatting with a few other men.

  When the chai was ready, I poured it into a porcelain cup etched with hummingbirds. Fatima tugged at my kamiz. “You want to try some?”

  “Try what?” I asked.

  “The chai,” Fatima said. “I can get you a cup from the other cupboard.”

  “I don’t think I’m allowed.”

  “If they don’t find out, then it’s not wrong. That’s what Nabila always says. She sneaks things all the time!”

  “Hush!” Nabila glowered at the girl.

  Fatima reddened and hurried to the back of the kitchen.

  “She’s just a kid,” I told Nabila. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “You don’t get to come here for a day and tell me what she did or didn’t mean.”

  I wanted to ask her what her problem was, but I bit my tongue. She could hate me for whatever reason she wanted, I thought. My father was collecting money for me at this very moment, and soon enough, I’d be gone.

  Mumtaz hadn’t mentioned how much sugar Nasreen Baji took, so to be safe, I placed five sugar cubes in a crystal bowl and set it on the tray.

  “What are you doing?” Nabila frowned at my tray. “Why aren’t you using the proper breakfast tray?”

  “Proper breakfast tray? I got this one from the drawer Mumtaz showed me.”

  “There’s more than one drawer.” She smirked and pointed to a cabinet under the sink. “She uses the pink one with the gold trim for breakfast. Always has.”

  I walked over to the sink and leaned down to open the cupboard and sift through the fancy plates and serving dishes. I craned my neck. There were no trays. Would Nasreen Baji be angry if I served her breakfast on the wrong one?

  When I walked back to the counter, the tray I’d prepared was missing.

  “She took it.” Fatima sat cross-legged, peeling potatoes. “She took it,” she repeated. “Probably went to Nasreen Baji herself.”

  I rushed down the hall and up the stairs into Nasreen Baji’s bedroom. Nabila stood in front of Nasreen Baji holding the tray in her hands.

  “I’m sorry.” Nabila’s voice shook. “I wanted to make sure you had it exactly the way you liked it.”

  “But you’re not my maidservant anymore, Nabila. You understand that, don’t you?”

  She looked down at the ground and nodded.

  “Go on now and check with Mumtaz to see what needs to be done in the kitchen.”

  Nabila set down the tray on the nightstand by the bed and rushed past me. Her elbow bumped sharply into me. I walked over to Nasreen Baji and mixed in her sugar—two cubes, she told me. Like my mother.

  “I’ll make it with the right amount of sugar next time.” I handed her the cup. “And I’m sorry about the tray. I should have paid better attention.”

  “Nabila is having a difficult time adjusting to the new situation.” Nasreen Baji took a sip of tea. “She was my maidservant before you came.”

  “She was? But why did you replace her with me?” I blurted out.

  “Nabila is a good girl, but she just made too many mistakes. The timing of your arrival was perfect. I was planning to replace her anyway.”

  I carried the tray back down the stairs to the kitchen and thought about Nabila. It was clear she despised me almost since the moment I arrived. But it made sense now. My life had changed overnight—and hers had, too.

  Chapter 20

  Some of us are trying to work. You might want to try it,” Nabila said to me later that week as I made my way down the stairs carrying Nasreen Baji’s empty breakfast tray. Nabila was dusting the chandelier with a long brush and shot me one of her hateful glances as I passed.

  I could have stated the obvious—I was working, wasn’t I? But what was the point? It looked like I had an enemy whether I liked it or not.

  I rinsed out the teacups and glanced out the window. A breeze swept through the trees. A handful of servants rested on charpais. Maybe I could get a chance today to step outside for a little while and feel the fresh air against my face.

  Fatima poked her head into the kitchen. “Nasreen Baji wants to see you right away.”

  I dried my hands against a towel and hurried upstairs. Nasreen Baji was about to shower when I left. What could have happened?

  When I stepped inside, Nasreen Baji stared at her armoire. She wore a teal-blue robe. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line.

  “Amal, what did you do?” She pulled out a silk shalwar kamiz from the armoire. I gasped. The kamiz was charred straight through the center. I had ironed it along with three other outfits yesterday. I took care to use the gentlest setting. It took nearly an hour to press out all the wrinkles.

  “Burning this is bad enough,” she said. “But to hide it from me? As if I wouldn’t notice?”

  “Burn it? But, Nasreen Baji—”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed you knew how to handle expensive fabrics like these. You’re not to touch my things again until Mumtaz goes over all the settings with you. Understood?”

  But I knew how to iron. Just because we were not as rich as she was didn’t mean I had never handled nice things. But I saw her expression. She’d already made up her mind. She wouldn’t believe me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled before leaving the room.

  When I walked into the kitchen, Nabila was there.

  “Too bad about the ironing,” she said.

  “What? I didn’t . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “I’d be careful,” she said, brushing past me. “Nasreen Baji does not tolerate mistakes very well.”

  I stared at her retreating figure. Nabila did this! But what could I do? It was my word against hers. Why would Nasreen Baji believe me when she barely knew me?

  I rushed outside to the servants’ verandah and inhaled a deep breath to steady myself. Whether in the sugarcane fields or by the leafy stream bordering my family’s land, being outside had always calmed me.

  But it was different here.

  Looking out at the perfectly trimmed lawn only made me miss the dirt backyard of my parents’ home. And no matter how beautiful the fragrant gardens were, they were surrounded, as I was, by ten-foot brick walls.

  I was outside, but the walls reminded me that I was not free.

  “Malik’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  I recognized the man addressing me as Ghulam, the driver who had brought me here. He was with Bilal, Jawad Sahib’s gangly servant. They sat on low-seated woven stools, a brass hookah between them.

  “I worked for your grandfather when I was a child,” Ghulam said. “Chopped the sugarcane and helped harvest the wheat. Recognized your house as soon as I pulled up.”

  “Her family owns land?” Bilal asked. He cocked his head up and scrutinized me.

  “I’d say a good twenty-four acres at least.” The older man nodded.

  “Ah. So even the mighty can fall down, too.” Bilal laughed.

  How easy it was for Bi
lal to laugh. His laugh was a pinprick: not sharp enough to cut, but deep enough to sting. I had Nabila to set me in my place. I didn’t need more.

  I turned to walk back into the house.

  “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Bilal said. “We’re not so bad, I promise.”

  “You don’t have to make fun of me! I’m just trying my best to fit in.”

  “Looking like you’ll shrivel into dust at a few words isn’t fitting in. It’s only going to make things worse for you,” Bilal said. “We heard what happened today. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing.” I folded my arms. “I’m not going to sink to her level.”

  “That isn’t fitting in,” Bilal replied. “That’s letting people take advantage of you. Talk back and hold your own. Or lose it forever.”

  “I don’t need it forever!” I said. “And back home—”

  “Except you’re not back home, you’re here,” the older man interrupted. His voice was neither harsh nor mocking. Instead it was filled with pity. “Pay attention. Learn. You decide how you will be treated.”

  I walked back into the main house.

  They were right.

  My father would come and take me home any day now, but until then I had to play by the rules of this house. And that meant I had to stand up for myself.

  Chapter 21

  Let the kitchen staff know they don’t need to bother with my lunch,” Nasreen Baji said the next morning. “I won’t be back until dinnertime.”

  “Yes, Baji,” I said. “And Mumtaz said she’ll show me the settings for the iron today.”

  “Oh, that.” Nasreen looked up at me and sighed. “I meant to talk to you. I know you didn’t do it.”

  “You do?” Relief flooded my body.

  “I have my eyes and ears in the household,” she said. “The person responsible has been handled.”

  “Thank you, Baji.”

  “Good choice on the flowers, by the way.” She nodded to the crystal vases on the coffee table and the nightstand. I had replaced the drooping violets this morning with white and pink roses.