Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘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.

  Attempting to salvage the situation, Ali dutifully stepped behind Arslan’s figure, cutting him off from Laila. Ali’s tearful eyes begged forgiveness of the woman who offered an anguished screen of shimmering blue water.

  The shocked well-wishers nervously stepped aside to let Arslan and Haider pass. Some mischievous pairs of eyes remained on the crushed garland and the woman who mutely stared across at Mistress Gulbahar’s stricken face peeping from behind the hevali door. Then Mistress Gulbahar hurriedly drew back as her two beloved men entered, thrusting the tall door wide open. A small group of relatives followed behind.

  Ali, last to enter, shut the door behind him.

  The village people, talking in hushed voices and casting their last glances at the woman still staring at the closed gates, made their way back to their homes.

  Behind the hevali gates, a pair of keen eyes rested on the remaining pink and red roses scattered on the dusty ground.

  *

  In the hevali courtyard, Arslan stood stiffly in his mother’s arms, letting her rain kisses over his face and shoulders in a bid to reassure herself that he was actually back – all in one piece. Gulbahar just couldn’t get enough of her son.

  ‘He’s home, Haider Sahib!’ her quivering voice addressed her unsmiling husband from across the courtyard. Then she looked expectantly at her son. Smile faltering, Gulbahar stepped back.

  ‘Arslan?’

  Arslan pointedly held his father’s gaze, mouth parted to storm at them, but the words died on his lips as he watched the light of love slip from his beloved mother’s face. The dull wary look was back, the beautiful mouth drooped. Where had that sparkle from his childhood days gone? But he knew – did he not?

  ‘I’m tired from the journey, Mother,’ he gently offered, masking his thoughts and feelings; after all, it was not his mother’s fault. ‘I need to rest.’

  ‘Guests are waiting to meet you, my son,’ his father mocked.

  ‘They can wait!’ Arslan swiftly rounded on his father. ‘As someone else had to wait for ten years – just to have a door slammed in her face!’

  Ignoring his father’s stony face, Arslan entered his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Gulbahar nervously exchanged a look with her husband, feeling her chest tighten. Two shocks in one day – first the girl, then her mother. Begum, ever watchful and protective of her mistress’s welfare, dragged a chair from under the veranda. Gulbahar collapsed into it, only to be threatened by the stiff looming shadow of her husband.

  ‘What sort of children did you raise, Gulbahar?’ he accused.

  ‘Beautiful children, Haider,’ she valiantly shot back, hysterical laughter rumbling through her body.

  Ruefully shaking his head at his wife’s words, Haider strode into the dining room and bid his male guests to eat and make themselves fully at home while Arslan rested.

  *

  In the dimly lit bedroom, Laila stared down at the crushed rosebuds in the fold of her chador, strangling a scream ripping through her throat. Shirin dropped her skipping rope and came running to see what was wrong with her mother.

  ‘Are you crying again, Mummy?’ she demanded, her young mind trying to judge whether her mother was upset.

  ‘No! Stop badgering me, Shirin. Go and play outside!’ Laila shouted, looking away.

  Shirin di
d not obey; instead she watched her mother empty the crushed rosebuds into a small china dish on the dressing table and cover it with a crocheted-edged muslin cloth.

  *

  After serving the guests, Begum had sneaked home and was fast at work in her living room. The thick darning needle threaded with wool swung in and out of the remains of seven rosebud stems she had scooped from outside the hevali gates, her anxious eyes often straying to the wall clock. Mistress Gulbahar’s two sisters, Mehreen and Rani, had probably arrived by now. Job done, Begum hid the garland beneath her chador and hastened back to work.

  Sneaking in through the servants’ entrance, Begum was crossing the central courtyard when Mistress Gulbahar caught her.

  ‘Begum, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, even in the paddock!’

  Sheepishly Begum pulled up her chador to show the garland. Her eyes widening, Gulbahar was about to reprimand her and then stopped short when she heard her husband’s footsteps behind her. Meanwhile, Begum slipped into the young master’s room.

  The air conditioner noisily purring away sent jets of cool air swishing across the high ceiling of the whitewashed room. Master Arslan was wide awake, struggling with the reality of straddling two worlds. A lost traveller wedged between two lands – that of his homeland and America, yet belonging to neither; unable to come to terms with his parents’ world and running away from the other that had become increasingly hostile to him since the awful events of 9/11.

  ‘Master Arslan!’ Begum stood beside the bed, lovingly gazing down at the young man she had looked after for many years. Arslan sat up, attempting to smile. ‘Master Arslan,’ Begum’s secretive voice wooed, lifting her chador to show the remains of Laila’s garland.

  ‘Begum …’ Eyes softening, Arslan was humbled by Begum’s loving endeavour.

  ‘See! Threaded it for you, my prince.’

  Arslan stared at the clumsily threaded rosebuds, closing his eyes to smell the crushed petals.

  ‘How could I let her garland, threaded by her beautiful loving fingers go to waste? I scooped every single petal into my chador! You know I love you both – I’d do anything for you two!’

  ‘I know Begum!’ Arslan slipped off the bed to place the garland around his neck. ‘Thank you!’

  Begum preened, advising, ‘Wear it with pride, my little prince!’

  ‘I will. No matter what the rest of this household thinks … or says!’

  Begum followed him out of the room, keeping her triumphant eyes lowered. She was a traitor once again, but a happy and unrepentant one this time!

  Haider, who was having his overcoat brushed down by Ali, stiffened when his son stepped out of his room with the garland around his neck.

  Arslan nonchalantly walked to the marble fountain, cooling his hand under the spray of water in the large basin where as a toddler, dressed only in shorts, Begum used to sit him down and let him splash around. His gaze shot up to the roof terrace where as a young boy he used to play kites. As if reading his thoughts, Begum strolled over to caress him on his cheek, gaze softening with love.

  ‘Master Arslan, you’ll get sunstroke standing out in the heat. This is not America.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, Begum. It gets really hot in the summer in the USA. Sometimes your skin begins to peel off!’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Really!’ he mimicked, bursting into laughter and splashing her with a scoopful of water as he used to do as a child. Shrieking, she stepped back wiping her wet face. Begum was still his favourite person, the woman who successfully weaned him out of many of his childhood sulks.

  ‘Master Arslan, your two aunties have been waiting for hours. And have not eaten yet. Poor things didn’t want to disturb your sleep. Guess who else is here?’

  She paused, her eyes fixed on his face, anticipating the telltale tide of colour that would sweep his cheeks at the mention of a name.

  ‘Saher,’ she whispered and delightedly watched the colour jump into his face. ‘Has America whitened your blood, my handsome prince?’

  ‘No, Begum, it’s still very red and warm! The American experience has given me an insight into another world and another way of thinking about my life, that’s all. On the whole I loved my stay and study there. Made many friends and learned a lot about equality and celebration of diversity.’

  ‘So you find our ways are not to your liking any more, Master Arslan?’ Begum drily quipped, disappointed at his response.

  ‘No, Begum, let’s say we beg to differ! Shall we go and meet my dear ladies?’ he gruffly offered, not in any mood to debate further about his life in America, its virtues and its vices.

  As soon as he opened the dining-room door, his eyes sought Saher, joy rushing through him. Her face lighting up, she strolled over and planted a kiss near his mouth, shocking him into stillness, cheek smarting and eyes hooded.

  ‘Well, our prince returns!’ she teased, smiling, fingers resting on his bare arm and voice warm with laughter.

  ‘My handsome graduate nephew returns!’ His Auntie Mehreen gathered him in her arms.

  ‘Yes, Auntie, a fully-fledged American postgraduate with a PhD – for whatever that’s worth here,’ he corrected, sauntering over to Saher’s mother, Rani, who had remained sitting at the table, frowning at her daughter’s action in kissing Arslan. She lightly patted him on his shoulder; the cool awkward smile did not quite reach her eyes. Inside, Rani was recoiling from the look she had glimpsed in his eyes as they fell on her daughter.

  ‘The rascal!’ she fumed under her breath. Why didn’t anyone else notice it? Just as well, for her daughter’s sake!

  ‘Come and sit down, my beautiful son,’ Gulbahar stiffly requested from across the room, her eyes shying away from Laila’s garland around his neck. ‘Your aunts waited to eat with you.’

  Arslan pulled out a chair for Saher before sitting next to her at the table.

  ‘Gorgeous as ever!’ Leaning over he whispered into her ears, as his aunts busied themselves with the food. Blushing, Saher looked away from the wicked glint in his eyes.

  ‘And America has made you a very impudent badmash man!’ she retaliated, punishing him for his unwanted compliment.

  A shadow crossing his face, Arslan spoke in English so that his mother and aunts could not follow their conversation.

  ‘Things have become really difficult for some of us again as a result of recent events. Many innocent Muslims are detained and questioned, including at the airports.’

  ‘OK, let’s not talk about that now but it’s so good to have you back,’ she warmly smiled.

  ‘But there was still some humanity in America even after 9/11!’ he mocked, looking away, afraid to lose himself in the depths of her grey eyes.

  ‘And there isn’t any here, Arslan?’ she enquired, sobering.

  ‘Well, I see no sign of humanity in this household!’ He had deliberately switched to Urdu, his eyes on his mother.

  The three sisters listened, spoons poised nervously over their food.

  ‘And you sisters are no better! Can you not make my mother see sense? Are your hearts made of stone, too?’ His accusing gaze transfixed them into silence.

  ‘Arslan!’ His mother’s aggrieved voice sliced across the table, watching Begum nervously hovering over Saher’s shoulders with a large dish of pilau rice weighing down her arms.

  ‘I’m not very hungry, Mother!’ Noisily scraping back his chair on the marble floor, Arslan strode out of the room, leaving the five women staring after him.

  ‘Rude boy!’ Rani sneered.

  ‘Saher, please go after him. You are good with him.’ Ignoring Rani’s hostile stare Gulbahar coaxed her niece, upset at her son’s reaction.

  ‘Arslan!’ Saher called. Hearing her footsteps, he ran up the marble stairs, taking two strides at a time.

  Smiling, Saher followed him up to the rooftop terrace with its elegant alcoves, wall niches, marble floor, and rows of earthenware-potted petunias and geraniums in full bloom, propped against th
e iron railings. Some bushes trailed over the railings, creating an attractive profusion of yellow and purple flowers.

  Saher pressed her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Flinching, he rounded on her, ‘I’m not a child!’

  ‘I never said you were! I’m sorry.’ Alarmed, she stepped back.

  ‘Then why did you kiss me earlier?’ he asked, confusing her further.

  ‘Because I wanted to … and missed you!’ she stammered, trying to explain; she had followed the social custom of being able to kiss one’s own younger brothers and cousins.

  ‘I recommend that from now on you keep all your kisses for your fiancé!’ he jeered, bent on hurting her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Arslan?’ Saher was both shocked and offended. ‘Why are you behaving so strangely and saying such nasty things to me?’

  ‘I’m just reminding you about social propriety; that women in our culture do not go around kissing men or touching them physically unless they are very young or married to them or blood sisters! You are none of these!’

  ‘You’re being silly! You are like a brother to me!’ she retaliated, flummoxed by his reaction.

  ‘Does that make it legitimate for you to touch me?’ he snarled. ‘Why have you never touched Ismail?’ Cynically watching the tide of crimson colour flooding her cheeks, ‘Because he’s your fiancé, is that why?’

  ‘This is all mad talk! I’ll not touch you ever again, you silly man! I don’t know what has happened to you? Is this what America has turned you into? This horrible cruel beast bent on offending everyone?’

  ‘No, you’ll never understand! Leave me alone, Saher! Don’t ever touch me again!’ He turned his back to her.

  Then the fight went out of him.

  ‘Have you seen Laila?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘I saw her earlier. Father publicly humiliated both of us and almost dragged me into the house. She just stood there … That look on her face, Saher – I’ll never forget it!’

  An awkward silence ensued.

  ‘But surely you know the score, Arslan?’ Saher lamely offered.