Disconcerted by the intrusion, Laila hurriedly pulled down her shawl to hide both her breast and her daughter, scowling at her husband for not bolting the door. Jubail sat on the chair scribbling business notes for the engineering firm he was working for in Islamabad.
Laila’s confounded glance immediately spelt to the dhoban that she was not her favourite person, nor was she welcome in her home. Massi Fiza’s narrow shoulders stiffened with mock outrage, unperturbed by the landlord’s daughter’s open show of hostility. The potter’s hovel was hardly a place for Master Haider’s imperious daughter to display her ‘queenly’ tantrums, Massi Fiza silently scoffed. On the contrary, Laila was now one of them, downgraded to the same class, living in the same lane, in a house worse than hers! There were no Alis or Begums to serve her night and day. It was time the haughty young mistress dispensed with her airs and came to accept her new station in life with grace.
Even she, a humble laundrywoman, had one room with chipped marble floors. In the potter’s house, not one tiny piece of marble graced any floor surface, let alone the stairs and the two sorry-looking, cement-coated pillars. Moreover, Massi Fiza was sure her home was bigger by at least two merlas than the potter’s humble dwelling.
On glimpsing the burning resentment in the tall, wiry, middle-aged woman, Laila schooled her face to form a welcoming smile. Whether she liked it or not, the dhoban would be a useful errand woman – the ideal messenger and go-between for herself and Begum. Laila discreetly kept her chador down over her naked breast, shielding it from the interested gaze of Massi Fiza who had been on the point of jabbering aloud, ‘You have beautiful breasts, Laila-ji,’ but stopped short in embarrassment. Female breasts were of special interest to her. For Allah Pak had been particularly mean to her, in furnishing her with only tiny pads of flesh. She always kept herself covered not for modesty’s sake, but in shame at having a flat chest.
‘Massi Fiza-ji, please inform Begum that I have arrived with my baby,’ Laila curtly instructed. ‘Here, please take these for your errand.’ The smile and the cold, blue eyes mocked Massi Fiza and her greed.
Reluctant to proffer her hand, Massi Fiza’s fingers nevertheless folded the two crisp red 100-rupee notes in her tight fist. Money always came in handy – no matter from what source. Pride never helped, and similarly it was idiotic to offer an empty gesture and reject the offering.
Massi Fiza excitedly flew to the hevali. ‘She might be living in the humble potter’s home, but Laila still has her father’s blood drumming through her veins,’ Massi Fiza reminded herself.
In the hevali, Begum was in the midst of the sensuous throes of Queen Noor Jahan’s delightful Punjabi melodies. Her eyes firmly shut and reddish-orange sak-stained mouth softly parted, Begum was humming the lyrics when Massi Fiza burst in with her message. Begum stopped the kitchen cassette recorder, annoyed at the rude interruption. But on learning the news, she ran out of her kitchen.
Her first port of call was Arslan, and she found him playing cricket with other boys in a school playground. Begum watched him whack the ball high into the air, bringing a smile of pride to their housekeeper’s face. Laila loved horses and Arslan played cricket. Begum wistfully wondered if their young master would be the next Imran Khan of Pakistan.
Ignoring his angry scowl at being interrupted, Begum whispered in his ear. Face lighting up, Arslan dropped his bat and ran after Begum. Later, like two guilty thieves in the night, they sneaked into the potter’s home, with Begum glancing fearfully over her shoulder before entering. She could not risk being seen entering this home with the young master!
As her wretched luck would have it, Massi Fiza materialised from behind her door and treated Begum to a smug conspiratorial smile before entering the goldsmith’s house for a good natter with her friend Rukhsar.
‘Damn the woman!’ Begum cursed, gritting her teeth. Was the dhoban spying on them from behind the crack in her door?
*
The goldsmith’s living quarters were on the second floor. And the workshop with its shutters always down was on the first floor, where business and the real ‘gold’ work took place. Everyone knew where they had to go. The actual gold jewellery was locked away in cabinets upstairs, or tucked into little parcels and kept in a large pillowcase carefully guarded by the goldsmith’s wife and his three daughters. At night, the pillowcase was always placed next to the goldsmith’s bed on a chair, for one never knew with thieves. Burglars wouldn’t pick up a pillow and run away. The funny thing was, courtesy of Massi Fiza-ji’s slip of the tongue, everyone in the village knew where he stored his gold items. And it wasn’t in the safe, where he kept old jewellery other people handed in to be repaired.
Upon entering, Massi Fiza excitedly announced to Rukhsar, ‘Master Arslan is here with the potter’s grandchild!’ Then continued, ‘A beautiful little girl – not at all like the potter’s son, thank goodness!’
‘Hey, what’s wrong with him?’ Rukhsar challenged her friend, affronted by her supercilious manner. ‘Does Master Haider know?’ she mischievously asked. All this drama was going on two doors away and she did not know, thanks to her work keeping her busy all day long!
‘No, I doubt it,’ Massi Fiza proclaimed. ‘Begum looked as if she was going to have a heart attack when she saw me, which is mean of her; after all, I was the one who told her. But I forgive her.’ Smiling, she glanced down at Rukhsar’s hands.
‘What are you doing, my friend?’
‘Only what I’m destined to do in this home – stringing these wretched pearls onto this thread! You know how tiny these things are? I’m fed up with my lazy daughters. They never lend me a hand. The only thing they love doing is trying on other people’s jewellery and preening themselves in front of mirrors – silly girls.’
‘Rukhsar-ji, don’t be harsh on them. They are girls after all, and bound to love jewellery. Well, having said that, my niece doesn’t. She always has her head in one of those fashion magazines.’
‘Don’t let her read all those women’s magazines with stories about love and all that rubbish! They’ll turn the girl’s head, you know. I supervise my daughters’ reading habits quite closely,’ Rukhsar commented before adding, with a twinkle in her eyes: ‘Have you ever been in love, Massi Fiza-ji?’
‘Ooh! What a question to ask?’ Massi Fiza blurted, blushing beetroot. ‘No, Sister Rukhsar. Love played no part in my humble life.’
‘Don’t be silly, Massi Fiza-ji, everybody falls in love. It’s nothing to do with your station in life,’ Rukhsar innocently commented.
‘Then, Rukhsar-ji, you must have been in love yourself!’ Massi Fiza slyly prompted, neatly turning the table on her friend. It was now Rukhsar’s turn to blush, with tides of colour flushing through her olive-skinned cheeks.
‘No, my friend,’ she glibly lied, her eyes determinedly fixed on the bead and the needle. Not for anything would she utter a word to Massi Fiza about the college boy who lived next door to her parents’ home and her secret pining for him. All those afternoons of peering over the rooftop gallery. Oh, how she loved him. That was until he got married to another college student. Love then turned to hatred for him and self-loathing! Thank goodness her reputation and izzat hadn’t been sullied, and her parents didn’t have to get involved at the end
‘Thankfully love didn’t darken my parents’ door,’ her lying tongue loftily preached. ‘I’ll tell you, my friend, love means trouble – big, mighty trouble.’
‘It sounds as if you are an expert in this matter and know what you are talking about, Rukhsar-ji,’ Massi Fiza chuckled, not easily fooled, her small round eyes interestingly noting the flush which had, by now, sunk to Rukhsar’s rounded throat.
‘Yes, definitely so,’ Rukhsar assented, carefully avoiding her friend’s eyes, painfully aware of her heated face. ‘Trust my cheeks to betray me,’ she chided herself.
Aloud she continued, ‘See where it has landed the potter’s entire family … exiled because of their son’s foolish infatuation. And whe
re has the mighty daughter of Haider Ali ended up? Cooking her own meals on an old stove next to the muddy potter’s wheel! Save us all from this pathetic mad disease, my friend. Love is not worth it, I tell you!’ Having said that with passion, Rukhsar was now boldly able to raise her eyes to her friend.
‘We’re not the ones who need to worry about this, Rukhsar-ji. We’re too old, and not likely to elope with anyone to anywhere, are we? Nor will anyone offer to elope with us older ladies for that matter! You just need to keep your eye on your daughters and make sure that they don’t go out horse riding. After all, that was what did it for that pair.’
‘Horse riding – my daughters! Massi Fiza-ji, they would never go near such a beast, let alone ride one. I think Haider Ali’s daughter is totally mad. They spoilt her rotten because of those big blue eyes of hers that she always flashed at everyone. How could poor Jubail resist such a woman, and if she was throwing herself at him!’ Rukhsar sneered. She could never stand the elegant, beautiful daughter of the landlord. And, in particular, she resented Laila’s eyes. That young woman had always eclipsed her daughters’ looks and their education.
‘Yes, Rukhsar, I can’t help melting into those eyes myself!’ Massi Fiza admitted. ‘All she has to do is to look at you and you become her slave! Imagine what it must be like for the poor potter’s son – what chance did he stand when a beauty just throws herself at him? I had better get home – three sacks full of laundry from the butcher’s family waiting to be washed. You know what their greasy, blood-stained clothes are like? My hands get worn down with all that scrubbing! Even my two washing machines are no good for their clothes.’
The thought of the mountain of laundry waiting for her at home, and most of it white linen, was now sending waves of panic through her.
‘Well, you had better hurry up, but don’t forget to tell me what’s happening in the potter’s house, won’t you? I just can’t seem to get out of my house these days. Customers keep coming and I have to entertain the wives with tea and mithaei, whilst the husbands bargain away. By the way, do you know if Gulbahar’s younger sister’s son has gone to England?’
‘You mean Mehreen’s son, Ismail – yes, why do you ask?’ Massi Fiza was puzzled.
‘Well, you know …’ Rukhsar stuttered, dropping her gaze and unable to continue, pride making it impossible.
Massi Fiza immediately understood her friend; it was her turn to be deliciously catty. ‘I don’t think any of your daughters will be going to England. If it’s anybody he takes with him it will be Saher, Rani’s daughter. I am sure the sisters have an unofficial agreement that their children will marry one day. He’s only young – 21, I think. He’s not likely to come back to marry for some time, you know. Your daughters are too young yet.’
‘One has to plan for daughters,’ Rukhsar stiffly reminded her. ‘By the way, what if he marries a goorie, a white woman, out there?’
‘Oh, gosh!’ Massi Fiza’s mouth gaped open in wonder. ‘Allah Pak, he wouldn’t do something like that, would he?’
‘You never know, these things happen all the time, my friend. Young men have been known to bring home foreign brides.’ Rukhsar stopped, grimacing as she saw her youngest daughter come in with two china cups of coffee. Why did her Ruhi always treat everyone the same? Did the village dhoban really deserve to be served in their best china, the same as their local councillor’s wife? Her face straight and smiling, she skilfully signalled her displeasure to her daughter. Understanding her mother perfectly, Ruhi, in a rebellious mood for having to sort out her mother’s wardrobe, just as skilfully ignored her mother’s look. She offered, instead, a packet of their best biscuits, richly dipped in chocolate, to their humble visitor.
Massi Fiza happily dunked the whole round biscuit into her hot drink and saw the chocolate melt into the coffee. Shocked, she dipped her fingers into the cup to grab the soggy wet biscuit, popping one half into her mouth whilst the other plopped back into the creamy dark liquid. Massi Fiza shrugged. It was all going to end up in her stomach anyway. Noisily she slurped down the rich chocolatey coffee to the last drop and, smiling her thanks, handed back the china cup.
‘You’re a very kind girl, Ruhi … always treating me to life’s little luxuries.’
If only Ruhi … Massi Fiza halted her errant thoughts there and then as she remembered the washing. Her two sons and their future brides could wait!
‘Yes, she is!’ Rukhsar drily agreed.
‘Imagine a goorie in our midst, Rukhsar, in our village!’ Massie Fiza was lost in thought of a white, European woman visiting their village. Her friend merely smiled; she would let the dhoban dream on. One had to have some luxurious daydreams in life.
*
Laila proudly offered her daughter to her brother, before hugging him herself. ‘Oh, how you have grown, my beautiful prince!’ Arslan was glaring at his sister’s husband over her shoulder, the man who had robbed him of his beloved sister.
Jubail coolly returned his young brother-in-law’s gaze, understanding his resentment perfectly.
‘She’s beautiful, baji jan!’ Arslan whispered, looking down in wonder at his little niece and touching her tiny fingers.
‘Yes! Just like her uncle.’ Beaming with pleasure, Laila proudly claimed, ‘She has our eyes and colouring.’
Lovingly tucking the shawl tightly around her little body, Begum smiled down at the baby girl. Inside, her heart wept, feeling the coarse texture of the nondescript baby blanket between her chapped fingers and scanning the humble surroundings in distress. Was this her young mistress’s destiny?
‘Oh, Mistress Laila,’ she mourned later on her way home. ‘If you had this first child inside the walls of your parents’ home, you would have been spoilt rotten – Mistress Gulbahar would have purchased the finest of woollen cashmere! But this … this …’ She couldn’t continue as utter despair hit her hard. It was so unreal to imagine her young mistress living amidst such squalor and poverty.
She had so many questions to ask: about the birth; the after care; who helped her mistress in her hour of need; did she breastfeed? Had she given birth at home or did she go to a proper hospital? Did she need anything and, above all, was she happy? Yet, she had asked none, only behaved as a criminal who had stolen into a forbidden world and wanted to scurry away – eager to be gone from that street.
‘I did not want to betray our masters, but I have done so yet again, Ali!’ She could never keep anything from her Ali, even though he always gave her a hard time. ‘But how could I not take Master Arslan to see his beloved sister?’ she defensively cried, baulking at the horror-struck look in his eyes.
‘Beloved sister, you said?’ her husband snarled into her face. ‘If she had an ounce of love for her family, Begum, she wouldn’t have abandoned them. How I despise you! See how she manages to use you every time. You fall for that enchanting face of hers. Tell me, what magic potion does she give you? What light, noor, flashes out of those blue eyes that beguile you so much? I don’t know what to do with you any more!’ He capped his verbal abuse with a look of utter contempt, making his wife recoil in outrage.
‘I take no magic potion from her, you silly man!’ Begum bitterly retorted. ‘Go on, give me another one of your lousy lectures. But I believe that we are destroying this child. He cannot make any sense of the situation – too young to feel or understand his parents’ suffering. We’ll end up destroying him, emotionally, if we carry on like this – just you wait and see, Ali.’ Her eyes scanned her husband’s face, hoping that he understood. ‘He sees no wrong in his sister’s actions. In his eyes she has only got married. He misses her terribly and wants her back home. In fact, he blames his parents for the whole thing. I’ll tell you this, Ali, Arslan’s resentment is destructive. One of these days he is going to blow up – he will turn on his parents, hurting them even more than Laila. Can you bear that to happen? The next time, our Master Haider may never come out of his room. So please allow Arslan to meet his sister secretly. It means so much to him.�
� Her impassioned words melted Ali’s anger.
‘I really don’t know where you get your twisted reasoning or strange wisdom from. Certainly not from your basic primary education,’ Ali good-humouredly mocked, giving in to his wife’s logic, his eyebrows arching up to their thin, grey peaks. ‘All I know is that one day you’ll have us both turned out onto the streets in disgrace!’
‘Don’t be silly!’ Begum added, her eyes sparkling. ‘Do you think we should show the baby to Mistress Gulbahar? She’s the grandmother, for goodness sake.’ She quickly defended herself, noticing the angry glint leap into her husband’s eyes.
‘I don’t think it will be Arslan who will break this family, but you, my foolish wife. Do you think that the master and mistress will want to look at the potter’s son’s brat? It’ll be like sprinkling salt onto their gaping wounds, you foolish woman! Don’t you have any common sense?’
Begum turned on him, resenting his derogatory term ‘foolish woman’. ‘It’s their daughter’s baby, too – their grandchild!’
‘Yes!’ Her husband sneered back, rising to his feet. ‘In their eyes their daughter is dead, and her personal belongings were thrown out. Now, you want to foist a baby in front of their eyes. For God’s sake, woman, wake up! Just forget your foolish dreams for once. Laila, with or without a daughter, is a doomed shadow passing through the village. Nobody will acknowledge her or go near her! They’ll do what the landlord is doing – ignore them! The girl will be ignored all her life.’
‘Oh! That’s cruel, Ali,’ Begum stammered, tears brimming. ‘The baby’s lovely. I tell you that little girl will one day bring her grandfather and grandmother to their knees!’
Revolt Page 9
