by Aisha Saeed
“Had a bit of flour left over, so I’m making us some fresh rotis,” Hamid said when he saw me. He slapped a floured circle of dough onto the skillet and flipped it. “Get the food quick while it’s nice and warm. We’ll clean up after.”
I hadn’t had fresh rotis in so long. I quickly made myself a plate along with the other servants.
I trailed behind Mumtaz and sat down next to her.
“Is it true?” Hamid asked me when he joined us. “Did you really talk back to those officers?”
“She did,” Bilal said. “I froze up as usual.”
“No one blames you for being afraid around those monsters,” Mumtaz said. “Not one bit.”
“Were they the same police officers that came by last time?” Ghulam asked between bites.
“No,” Bilal said. “These were different ones.”
“It’s a parade of them these days,” Ghulam remarked.
Bilal shrugged and picked at his food. He didn’t say anything. I was lucky I got to work for Nasreen Baji. I couldn’t imagine having to cater to a person like Jawad Sahib.
I cleaned up my dishes and put them away. When I stepped into the hallway, Bilal and Nabila followed behind.
“Thank you.” Bilal stuffed his hands in his kamiz. “Thank you for speaking up. You really saved me.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s okay. Really.”
“Well, Nabila and I were talking.” He glanced at her and then at me. “We know you like reading and were enjoying Jawad’s library, weren’t you?”
“It was a mistake,” I said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“But what if you could read again?” Nabila asked.
I stared at her.
“Well, we were talking about it, and I know when he’s here, when he’s gone, and when he’s coming back,” Bilal said. “So maybe, if we were the lookout, you could borrow books again?”
“Why?” I asked. “Why would you help me?”
“Because we owe you,” Nabila said. “It’s our way to thank you.”
“He would notice his books were missing,” I said.
“Not if he forgot those books are even there. Come on,” she said. “Follow us.”
I trailed behind them down the hall to the library. Nabila walked over to one of the filing cabinets. She and Bilal pulled it forward to reveal a bookshelf wedged behind it.
“He jammed that new cabinet in there a few months back and hasn’t moved it since. He probably doesn’t even remember that there are books behind it.”
I looked at Nabila. As tempting as the books were, how many times could I fall for her tricks?
“Amal,” Nabila said. “I know I haven’t made it easy. I’m sorry. But you can trust us, really. You’re one of us now. As Mumtaz says, we have to look out for each other.”
I looked at her and then at the books. I slipped out a thin collection of poems and short stories. I ran my hand over the cover.
I didn’t expect to have this chance again—to be able to turn pages and learn new things and keep my mind alive.
I couldn’t say no.
It was worth the risk to have books in my life again.
Chapter 30
Bilal and Nabila remained true to their word. It had been one month since I began borrowing books from the library again. I’d gone through seven already. “You’ll have a few hours now if you want to get a book,” Bilal whispered to me now as we cleaned up after breakfast.
“Thanks,” I told him. “I’ll go in a few minutes.”
I put away the breakfast tray and rinsed out the milk saucer before slipping into the library to get a book. I barely glanced at the title before cloaking it in my chador. My hands shook, waiting as I always did for someone to walk in on me, but no one did.
Nasreen Baji was resting when I stepped into her room, so I had some time to read. I closed my door halfway and sat down on the bed.
I looked down at the book—God’s Own Land—and turned to the first page.
“You think I might be able to read books like that one day?” a voice whispered.
I nearly leapt off the bed, but it was just Fatima. She lingered by the edge of the door.
“Yes.” I gestured for her to close the door. “I know reading seems really complicated right now, but once you get the hang of it, it will be as easy as breathing.”
“Could you read to me?” She took a step toward me.
“Well . . .” I looked down at the book. “This book is a little complicated.”
“That’s okay. I just want to hear it.”
Fatima sat down next to me and I read to her.
I was wrong to expect her to get restless; instead she hung on to every word.
* * *
• • •
“Mumtaz and I are taking a break outside—join us?” Nabila asked me later that day, after Nasreen Baji had gone to visit a friend.
The thought of spending time with her still made me uneasy, but my mother’s words from arguments with my sisters came to mind—you have to find a way to get along; you can’t cast off your family. Nabila wasn’t my family, but she was who I lived with now. I had to do my part and make peace.
I joined Nabila and Mumtaz on a charpai on the verandah. Rain drizzled down in the garden and a warm mist coated the air.
“Here, have some soda,” Mumtaz said, handing us cola bottles. “Went to the store this morning for a few things. Figured you girls could use a treat.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“No shaking it this time, Nabila,” Mumtaz said. “Remember what happened last time?”
“As if anyone lets me forget anything in this house!” Nabila exclaimed.
Mumtaz laughed and took a sip of tea.
“Did the soda erupt?” I asked.
“Yes. And how was I supposed to know it would sputter and fly out like that?” Nabila protested. “You shake up the mango juice and nothing happens—I figured it would be the same!”
“My sister made that mistake, too. She jumped up and down so much, the top flew off. Our ceiling is still stained from the fizzy soda.”
“See?” Nabila smiled at me before turning to Mumtaz. “I’m not the only one who’s done that! It’s a common mistake.”
I smiled back at her. Nabila didn’t need to know Safa was two years old when this happened.
I removed the metal top and took a sip of the frosty drink—the fizzy bubbles reminded me of my sisters’ laughter.
“Can’t remember the last time we had a good rainfall.” Mumtaz nodded to the sky. “When I first came here, it seemed like my husband and I sat here all the time watching the raindrops dance.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. He was a gardener for the estate many years ago.”
“You lived together here?”
“We lived with his family back then. But when my husband passed, I decided I’d rather live here.”
How bad must it have been at her husband’s home to choose this as a better alternative? But then I realized that Parvin had done the same thing. She lived in a shed behind our house instead of with her parents or her late husband’s family. I had always assumed she came to live with us because she wanted to be near us, but perhaps it was more complicated than that.
“It’s nice you’re teaching Fatima to read,” Nabila said. “She’s so proud of herself. Can’t stop tracing the latest letter you taught her.”
“I’m glad she’s enjoying it,” I said.
“It’s not too late for you to learn to read,” Mumtaz said, nudging Nabila. “I’m sure Amal could teach you.”
“Yes, I could,” I said, trying to hide my surprise that Nabila couldn’t read. But it made sense. Nabila came when she was Fatima’s age, and where would she have had the chance to keep up with whatever she might have learned
before?
“Maybe,” Nabila said, but she quickly changed the topic. “Did you hear the latest on the wedding drama?”
“I haven’t.” Mumtaz lowered her chai.
“The latest girl Nasreen Baji wants Jawad Sahib to see is Rashida’s daughter!”
“Now, that’s something.” Mumtaz shook her head.
“Jawad was engaged to a cousin in that family,” Nabila explained to me.
“He was engaged?”
“Well, barely. It only lasted two days. They didn’t even announce it before he changed his mind,” Mumtaz said.
“That’s what he says,” Nabila scoffed. “I heard she called it off when she heard about his temper. He was crushed.”
“That’s a foolish girl if that’s true,” Mumtaz said.
“Why?” I asked. “If she said no to him, she sounds like a smart girl to me.”
“Nonsense,” Mumtaz said. “This is a good life for someone who knows how to comport herself and is smart enough to figure him out.”
“It’s not fair,” I said. “Why should anyone have to figure him out?”
“No, it’s not fair. But that’s life.”
There it was yet again, my father’s words: Life isn’t fair. Maybe it was true, but why was that a reason to just accept everything and go along with it? I hoped the rumor about the girl turning down Jawad Sahib was true. I hoped there really was someone out there who had the courage to stand up to him and say no.
Chapter 31
Nasreen Baji shut the phone and sighed. She was sitting in the sunken living room next to Jawad Sahib as I handed her a cup of chai. The television was on low in the background.
“What’s the matter?” Jawad Sahib asked.
“Zeba canceled our shopping trip to Lahore again.”
“You probably don’t want to go anyway,” he said. “Traffic is terrible there these days.”
“I need a new sari for your cousin’s wedding, and I’m two seasons behind with all my clothes. But ever since Zeba’s grandchild was born, she has no time.”
“Go yourself, then.”
“It’s lonely traveling to the city alone. Come with me?” She reached out and patted his hand. “We haven’t done anything together in so long.”
“You know how much work I have.”
She frowned. Then she looked at me.
“That’s it. Amal, you’re coming with me,” Nasreen said.
“Me?”
“It’s a long drive, two hours if the traffic cooperates. Pack some dried snacks, water, and a thermos with chai.”
Would Jawad Sahib interject? Tell her I couldn’t leave the estate? He clicked on his phone and said nothing.
* * *
• • •
“Going to Lahore?” Nabila asked me when I walked into the kitchen.
“Yes, I need to get her snacks and tea in order,” I said cautiously. Did she wish she was going instead of me? We’d gotten along fine in the months since our truce, but I couldn’t completely forget her treachery.
“The bags get really heavy,” she said. “By the end my arms usually feel like they’ll fall off. Make sure to put the bags down every chance you get.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, and she smiled at me.
Sitting across from Nasreen Baji in the black town car that afternoon, we drove past cotton fields, orange groves, and sugarcane fields. Soon, my neighborhood snapped into view as we turned down the main street, the same one whose path I’d traveled nearly every week. We passed by the open-air market. Shaukat stood outside, talking to a kulfi vendor. I pressed my fingers against the darkened glass, watching the market slide past me, out of sight.
“Was that Shaukat?” Nasreen Baji asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“For a second I thought it was his father. Things looked quiet there.”
“It’s not delivery day. On Tuesdays and Fridays, you can’t find a spot to stand.”
“Two shipments a week? That’s impressive.”
“They’ve added more space in the back. You can’t see it from the road.”
“I forget how it is with our villages. Only those who live there know exactly what is going on.”
We drove past my street. And then, for a brief moment, my house flitted in and out of view. It looked smaller somehow. I wondered if all my memories of home would grow as distant as Nasreen Baji’s had. Watching my village slip away in the rearview, I felt like I was losing a piece of myself.
* * *
• • •
I thought I knew what Lahore would be like, but it was one thing to read about it in a book or see it on television, and another to experience it for myself. Unlike the steady stream of the highway, here rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, and cars shared the narrow roads alongside bicycles and throngs of people. Stores pressed against other stores on either side of us, large signs in Urdu and in English towering on billboards overhead.
Suddenly, the car jerked to a stop.
“We can’t be there yet, can we?” Nasreen Baji asked Ghulam.
“Almost. It’s another one of those protests blocking traffic.”
“What’s this one about?” She leaned against the car seat and sighed.
“Judge Barsi,” he said as the car snaked slowly through the snarl of traffic. “That’s what the signs say, anyhow.”
I looked out the window. The sidewalks and streets up ahead were filled with people holding signs. Some had photos of the judge with angry red Xs splashed across his face.
A woman in a red hijab stood on a crate. She picked up a horn and shouted, “Jail Judge Barsi!” The crowd chanted along with her, and their voices made the car vibrate.
“So a judge does something they don’t like and we pay the price by sitting in traffic?” Nasreen Baji complained. “I swear, every week they find something new to get angry about.”
I’d seen protests on the news, but seeing it in person, I felt the energy in the air. Even through the closed and darkened window it crackled through me.
At last, we reached the bazaar. I hopped out of the car and trailed behind Nasreen Baji through the arched entrance into the Anarkali bazaar. The smell of samosas and pakoras filled the air. In my old village there was one stall for all the snack foods. Here, stall after stall was lined up as far as I could see. Men shouted their prices over one another, and their voices echoed through the bazaar. We passed four different spice stores, each with turmeric and chilies lining the shelves and spices in colors and with names I had never seen before.
Streams of people brushed past us, and with the loud bargaining, the laughter, the arguing, and the honking of cars in the distance, everything felt like it was merging into one beating pulse.
And the people. Some girls were dressed like me in plain shalwar kamizes. Other girls wore pants and blouses. I saw some fully covered with nothing but their eyes revealed, while others wore short-sleeved shirts.
All this time I’d wanted to travel to faraway cities, but here, just a few hours away, was Lahore, another planet.
We passed a shoe store, a handbag store, and a shop where rows and rows of bangles lined the walls. I wanted to take a moment and absorb everything, but I had to keep up with Nasreen Baji as she hurried toward the sari shop.
Stepping inside, I stood against the back wall. Nasreen Baji sat down on a red cushioned pillow and pointed to the rows of fabric lining the walls. The shopkeepers pulled off the bolts of silk and unfurled them across the floor in front of her. Soon the floor was a sea of green, sky blue, and petal pink. It would take hours for them to put everything back in place, but the men didn’t seem to care. Nasreen Baji sifted through the different saris and picked three.
I had never seen anyone shop with the freedom of Nasreen Baji. After the sari shop, she walked into store after store and simply pointed to what
she liked—gold earrings, silver heeled shoes, ruby-encrusted bangles—and just like that, they became hers.
The sun was beginning to set when we got into the car. Nabila was right about the heavy bags—my arms strained from the weight of them.
The sky flushed pink, then deepened into purple as we drove. It was fully set when we passed our villages. I looked at my school under the glow of the moon. Hafsa’s house.
My own.
“You didn’t tell me Shabnum is getting married,” Nasreen Baji said.
“Shabnum?” I repeated. That was Hafsa’s oldest sister.
“Shaukat’s daughter. This weekend. Borrowed some money for her dowry, even though it’ll still be a modest one, given their financial circumstances. Your family never mentioned it?”
“I don’t have a phone,” I told her.
“Everyone has a phone. Why didn’t you bring one?”
“Jawad Sahib took mine when I first arrived.”
“You mean to tell me you haven’t spoken to your family since you came?”
I shook my head.
“Your poor mother, she must be so worried!” Her eyes widened. “That settles it. She deserves to see for herself that you’re all right. You can have three days. Attend the festivities and spend some time with your family.”
“Would Jawad Sahib let me?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” she asked. “You have time off. It’s entitled to you.”
I’d lived at their estate long enough, but there was still so much I didn’t understand. But those thoughts were quickly replaced by thoughts of home. How badly did I miss the familiar curve of my bed? My mother’s food? Seema and my little sisters? My friends?
I knew I should thank Nasreen Baji. Tell her how much this meant to me. But how could I possibly express my gratitude? Words failed.
I could go home. However briefly, I could go home.
Chapter 32
Can’t you drive faster?” I asked Ghulam.
