Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘What have you done, Begum?’ he whispered, feeling faint and reaching his hand to his sweat-beaded forehead.

  ‘I’m stupid!’ she repeated, groaning aloud, wallowing in her misery. But her husband had gone!

  Ali sprinted through the dark village lanes, stumbling over small rocks, pebbles and avoiding dry cow-dung cakes. Panting, his low hurried knocks on the wooden door prompted the potter to come running with his wife in tow. On seeing Ali, their gaunt faces became pictures of fear; it meant only one thing – Jubail.

  ‘Where’s your son?’ Ali hissed into their faces. The potter visibly shrank, as if willing himself to melt away into nothingness, his bent back even more stooped.

  ‘Come inside!’ he croaked.

  Ali gingerly stepped down into the narrow, dark hallway, afraid of stumbling against a stack of pots lined against the wall, or the open gutter outside the potter’s door.

  ‘We don’t know where he is!’ Jubail’s mother rushed to explain, not easily cowed by Haider-ji’s overbearing munshi. ‘He’s a commoner like us and so I’ll not be intimidated by him!’ she defiantly reminded herself. ‘And our son has just become a graduate.’

  ‘Well, you had better find out!’ Ali thundered in her direction, irked by women like her who spoke up first these days and who, unlike his Begum, had their wits about them. His Begum had truly lost hers!

  ‘Our young mistress is not at home, fools!’ he jeered, unable to disguise his contempt for them.

  The potter and his wife shrank against the wall, eyes standing large in their gaunt faces, mouths fallen open. Hearing their shallow breathing, Ali took pity on them, fearing that either of them might have a heart seizure. He even felt sorry for the potter’s rude ‘outspoken’ wife. Nevertheless, he brutally had to spell out their predicament to them.

  ‘If the master finds out that your son has dared to speak to his daughter again, specifically after his instructions yesterday, he’ll have your hide. The audacity of you foolish “little” people amazes me! The landlord of the village and a mere potter!’ Ali sneered. Which cuckoo land were these people living in?

  ‘You don’t have to insult us!’ The potter’s wife bitterly snapped back at the munshi, recoiling from his harsh words. ‘We know … We told him … Stupid boy! But what about her – that madam of yours? Who’s keeping an eye on her? She left her home. Our son did not drag her out of the hevali!’ Resentment had flared. Ali had no right to insult them. Who was he anyway? Just a peg or two above them!

  Ali blushed. The arrow had struck home and he immediately went on the defensive. His master and his izzat couldn’t be sullied by anyone.

  ‘My mistress is a naive young woman, I admit. But your son is a conniving snake, bent on raising himself up on the social ladder by pursuing our mistress – you know just as well as I do, you foolish folk, that both our class and caste system has firm boundaries. Even if you could jump from one to the other, it would still be unthinkable for your clan to even glance at the daughter of the most powerful man in this village, let alone contemplate anything else between them.’

  ‘Munshi-ji, we know what our son has done.’ The potter meekly intervened, scowling heavily at his wife. Trust her to make it more difficult for them.

  Ali mellowed. ‘Please find your son and send him packing back to the city. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay! Goodnight!’ Then he melted into the night.

  The potter, shuffling behind his wife, returned to his portable bed, sick at heart. Sleep forgotten, they huddled inside their cotton flattened quilts, keeping a vigil for their son, ears alert to the smallest of sounds.

  *

  Ali returned home, screaming in his head, ‘Where are they?’

  His wife eagerly ran to open the door. He shook his head. Begum stood still, a crushing weakness sweeping through her body.

  ‘Go to bed!’ He sank heavily down on his portable charpoy. ‘You can be sure that a long day awaits us!’

  Instead of sleeping, she raised her two hands in du’a to Allah Pak, fervently beseeching: ‘Please protect my Mistress Gulbahar’s household! Let nothing destroy or tarnish the honour of our master and mistress – they are good people, and don’t deserve to suffer. Please keep evil away from my master’s door!’

  ‘But evil is already at our door!’ an inner demon sneered. ‘In the shape of a foolish infatuation between the young mistress and the potter’s son.’ Were they both blind to the social situation, the incompatibility of it all?

  ‘I’m just a humble servant!’ Begum beseeched. ‘I do what my superiors ask of me. In obeying Mistress Laila, I have betrayed her parents. Allah Pak, let the divas of their home be forever lit!’

  Still praying, with hands raised, Begum stared up at the stars above her, chewing her lower lip and tasting blood. She had pulled her portable bed out into the courtyard, feeling suffocated in the small shaded space of the veranda. Her mistress and master slept peacefully in their comfortable king-sized beds, little guessing at the evil fast knocking on their door! Begum nearly fainted into her pillow.

  *

  Gulbahar happily entered her daughter’s room to show her a silver-plated tea set for her trousseau. Imagining Laila to be on the rooftop gallery she went down to see if breakfast was ready, and saw her housekeeper just coming in through the back door.

  ‘Begum?’ Frowning, Gulbahar softly called, but the housekeeper had crossed the courtyard, ignoring Mithu’s morning ‘salaam’ calls from the cage, and was already on the stairs. Confused, Gulbahar followed her housekeeper into her daughter’s room.

  She found Begum sitting on Laila’s bed.

  ‘Is Mistress Laila upstairs having breakfast?’ Begum enquired, her guilty face lowered.

  ‘Not seen her yet …’

  To her alarm, Gulbahar saw Begum’s body double over; with her face buried in her lap, she sobbed loudly into her chador.

  ‘Begum! What’s wrong?’ Gulbahar’s heart had taken flight.

  ‘You won’t want to know!’ Begum wailed aloud.

  ‘Is it to do with our Laila?’ Gulbahar commanded, her face level with Begum’s.

  Begum raised her tear-stricken face and nodded miserably. Her mistress’s look of horror would remain etched in her mind for years to come.

  ‘Where is she?’ Gulbahar stuttered, barely able to breathe, fear gripping her.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Begum replied dully, her vacant eyes on the picture of her young mistress on the wall. ‘She’s gone!’ she whispered, watching her mistress’s eyes squeeze shut. Gulbahar slid down on the bed next to Begum.

  ‘Gone, Begum! It can’t be true!’ The broken words were threaded with fear and disbelief.

  Gulbahar tried to claw her way back to reality. Her daughter’s reputation couldn’t be compromised, even in the eyes of a faithful housekeeper.

  ‘She’ll be around the hevali somewhere,’ Gulbahar brusquely replied. ‘Please, no word of this to your master or anyone else,’ she added softly, head lowered, before leaving the room.

  Begum wanted to shout out: ‘Laila has gone! She’s been out all night with her lover!’ But love and respect for her mistress prevented her from uttering the terrible words aloud. Instead, she picked up a large framed photograph of Laila taken under the moonlight. ‘Little Mistress, we never knew that you would become so self-destructive and do this to your parents!’

  Begum wearily stood up. Breakfast still had to be prepared; there was the shopping for fresh vegetables to organise for the afternoon dinner. Laila’s new in-laws were coming this evening to discuss dates and practicalities relating to the forthcoming wedding. The new maid assigned with responsibility for the upper-floor rooms had to be supervised, especially to ensure that she had dusted behind the bed posts and other items of furniture.

  Downstairs in the large courtyard, a nightly breeze always meant a thicker layer of dust to sweep away the following morning. Everything had to be ritually polished, scrubbed or hosed down before the guests arrived. Women guests often had
a tendency to wander and look around the beautiful hevali out of curiosity.

  ‘I haven’t slept a wink all night. How will I be able to do anything today?’ Begum groaned to herself, going downstairs to inspect the work of the new maid, and scowled. The silly chit was still watering the plants around the colonnades; the hanging baskets of geraniums were leaking water everywhere onto the marble surface. Begum could not be bothered to remind her of the safety hazard.

  Her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘I must keep out of Mistress Gulbahar’s path today!’

  CHAPTER 5

  The Elopement

  Begum was sitting at the kitchen table dicing aubergines into quarters for the afternoon dinner when Ali apeared in front of her under the ceiling fan, wiping his tanned forehead with his fingertips. The look in his eyes made Begum stagger to her feet; eyes automatically darting to the door, fearful of someone entering.

  ‘Ali?’ She felt faint. ‘Please say it’s not bad news?’

  ‘No, Begum, it’s very bad news,’ he contradicted. ‘Our spoilt Mistress Laila has eloped with the potter’s brat!’

  Mouth fallen open, Begum swayed. Ali reached to catch her. The knife and the piece of aubergine were on the tiled kitchen floor.

  ‘Run off with the potter’s son!’ Begum cried, voice faint.

  ‘Manzoor, our taxi man … said that he had dropped Jubail and a veiled woman at the bus station. He thought that it was a female relative of his, but it was our Laila. He saw her face – saw them get on the Islamabad bus. I’ve told him not to utter a word about this to anyone.’

  Begum sank into a heap on the footstool. ‘All my fault … I gave her the message … Allah Pak help us!’

  ‘Yes, Begum, beg Allah Pak to help us all!’ he corrected. ‘That selfish pair has thrown us into the middle of the flour-grinding machine, a chaki,’ he taunted.

  ‘What are we going to do, Ali?’

  ‘The potters are already frightened out of their wits – poor souls. I must get to them before the master finds out.’

  Then he was gone. Putting her head in her lap, Begum wept bitterly, unaware of time and space until she heard footsteps.

  ‘Begum, are you all right?’

  Begum raised fearful eyes at her mistress, unable to contain the bad news inside her any longer. ‘Laila has gone, Mistress!’ she wailed aloud. ‘Left the village last night with Jubail!’

  Gulbahar froze, eyes now orbs of horror. Begum stumbled up from the footstool to reach her mistress, but Gulbahar blindly turned and left the room – the dinner forgotten.

  *

  Ali sprinted through the village lanes to reach the potter’s home. Once there, he pressed his face to the door, knocking hard and not caring who heard. It was immediately opened by the potter, his wife hovering behind him. The sight of both their faces clearly told him that neither had slept.

  Ali shot them a bitter look. ‘You’d better pack your bags and leave immediately! Your devil of a son, shaitan, has eloped with our Master Haider’s daughter. His pure impudence is unimaginable!’ He ignored their shocked, indrawn breaths. ‘As to where he gets it from – I really can’t fathom? Not from you simple folks. You can imagine what will happen once Master Haider finds out. You’d better reach him!’

  His eyes swept over their stricken faces; he could almost hear the flutter of their timid heartbeats, and he relented, feeling sorry for them, but then reminded himself that it was their responsibility to guide their wayward son. They had let everyone down.

  The potter’s hands were shaking as he bolted the front door. His wife was rubbing her two calloused palms together in a traditional gesture to demonstrate outrage.

  ‘What has our son done?’ she croaked in disbelief.

  ‘Education, Rahmat Bibi – giving people foolish illusions! Making them fly high in fairy lands. Spend more money on him, you said,’ the potter jeered. ‘Well, this is the result! Now deal with it.’

  *

  Ali was fixing the broken leg of the veranda charpoy when the shrill ringing tone of his mobile phone made him drop his hammer. It was Mistress Laila.

  ‘Where are you, Mistress? We’re worried sick …’ Ali stammered, maintaining his code of respect in addressing her, although he wanted to deliver spades full of anger over the phone. She abruptly vanquished him with her brazen anouncement.

  ‘I’ve married Jubail! Please inform my parents – ask them to forgive me.’

  ‘Mistress Laila …’ he croaked but the line was already dead. Laila was in no mood for angry lectures from a mere servant.

  Ali slid onto the nearby chair, brushing his moist palm over his flushed face. His Adam’s apple was energetically bobbing up and down.

  ‘Mad Laila! What have you done?’ he mourned aloud, frightening the two black crows hopping on Begum’s linen kurtha on her washing line.

  He remained slumped for a long time on his old chair, under the shade of the veranda, not knowing what to do. How could he keep this bombshell buried inside him?

  ‘Allah Pak, please help them!’ He fervently prayed that the potter’s lot had fled. For there would be no corner for them to hide in the village from the master’s wrath!

  Shame scorched his face. No child did this sort of thing! To disobey was one thing; to marry in secret was another, and to such an unsuitable man simply unthinkable!

  His heart bled for his Master Sahib. A proud man and admired by all; used to holding his head high up in his village community. How would he ever recover from this catastrophe?

  ‘Oh, God! No!’ Ali cried. Laila’s prospective in-laws were due to arrive that very night. ‘Shameless girl! Laila, if you were my daughter, I’d have strangled you by now!’

  ‘But she’s not the only one to blame!’ the inner voice mocked. His idiotic Begum had played a pivotal role in this family’s destruction. It looked as if they, too, would be fleeing with the potter’s family; two faithful servants had turned into traitors.

  *

  Ali peeped from behind the minar tree in the open ground. When the Jeep had disappeared over the horizon, he dashed into the hevali. Face flushed, he wandered around the building looking for Begum. To his dismay, he eventually found her in Mistress Gulbahar’s room where two keen pairs of eyes assessed his face. Their intuition immediately alerted them that he had some terrible news to impart about Laila.

  Hovering awkwardly near the door, Ali shuffled his feet, studiously avoiding eye contact with them. Begum leaned back against the bed post, afraid of falling in a heap on the floor from her panting heart if her husband didn’t speak up soon.

  ‘Begum, can I see you for a moment?’ he ventured to ask.

  ‘Ali, whatever you have come to say to Begum, please say it in front of me – that is if it’s to do with my daughter?’ Gulbahar coolly chided.

  Ali desperately sought escape. ‘It’s our portable bed … I want to show it to Begum for one minute, if you could excuse her, Mistress?’

  ‘Ali, you’ve never lied before!’ Gulbahar stiffly mocked.

  Ali turned and bowed his head against the wooden doorframe.

  The two women nervously waited.

  ‘Mistress Laila has married the potter’s son!’

  Reaching her mistress’s side, Begum gently held her in her arms and guided her to the armchair. She crouched on the floor, clutching her mistress’s legs, fearing they would give way beneath her. Ali’s forehead was still pressed against the door-frame. Begum stared at the clock as if her whole life depended on it. The master was due back in half an hour.

  Hearing his mistress’s steps, Ali sidled away from the door, head lowered.

  ‘Ali, I’ll tell your master myself … Please phone Laila’s in-laws to cancel their visit … say that we have left for the city because of a family bereavement or something,’ Gulbahar instructed, before leaving.

  Begum sobbed loudly into her muslin shawl, unable to meet her husband’s accusing eyes.

  *

  Gulbahar leaned against the cold marble surfa
ce of the veranda colonnade, her eyes shut tight.

  ‘Sahiba-ji!’ Begum timidly asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  Gulbahar ignored her question and the chattering call of the parakeet swinging in his cage and returned to her bedroom. Husband and wife exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘What are we going to do, Ali?’ Begum beseeched.

  ‘Run!’

  Begum nodded, fear etched across her face.

  Ali’s bitter laugh frightened the two crows pecking the pomegranate fruit sewn inside little cotton bags in one corner of the courtyard. ‘Sometimes I wonder what your head is stuffed with – sawdust?’

  ‘You are cruel, Ali. I never expected our Laila would do this!’

  ‘She always had you wound round her pretty little finger, didn’t she? And you always became her puppet, her phutley that she manipulated to her heart’s content.’

  ‘You indulged and loved her too, Ali!’

  ‘Yes … but not in the reckless way you doted on her. She used you, Begum. For God’s sake, wake up woman!’ His words were her undoing.

  Begum wept in self-pity. It was true; she had been thoroughly manipulated by her selfish young mistress.

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ young Arslan demanded from the rooftop, peering down over the railing. The question was innocent enough, but Ali and his wife, down below in the courtyard, stared up wide-eyed at the young master-ji flying a green kite.

  ‘She’s about somewhere!’ Ali lightly quipped, recovering first.

  ‘I want to fly my other kite with her. Tell her to come up when you see her!’

  ‘OK, Master Arslan.’ Begum whispered to her husband, ‘There will be more things flying tonight!’ Her heart bled for young Arslan, wondering how he would cope with Laila’s elopement.