Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘Well, it would make me feel better and my position stronger, if you were to have designs on her.’

  ‘She’d have a fit if she heard our conversation. And she definitely doesn’t have any designs on me!’ he bitterly added. ‘For the last five years, Ismail has been the centre of her world! Even when I phoned from America, our conversation always gallingly centred on him. As she keeps reminding me, I’m only a younger brother to her – just because she’s six months older than me.’

  ‘I want to meet her!’

  ‘You will, in due course. Listen, that’s enough about me and Saher. Tell me about yourself?’

  ‘Well, I work in a primary school, teaching lively six-year-olds, including some children of Pakistani parents.’

  They had now waded through a good stretch of the stream. Daniela’s face glowed with delight; appreciating the feel of the cool, sparkling water over her bare, white feet.

  *

  ‘Mummy, I can see the goorie!’ Shirin shouted to her mother lying on the portable bed up on the rooftop. ‘Look, her hair is shining like gold.’ Laila joined her daughter at the low wall of their home, looking down at her brother and the Englishwoman as they turned into another lane. Heart swelling with happiness, she was about to shout down to them, when she remembered Shirin. Listlessly, she turned away from the roof wall, wondering who the goorie was and what she had to do with their Arslan? Her brother could not possibly be marrying a woman from another country!

  CHAPTER 14

  The Fairy

  Gulbahar was awake, whilst her husband in the other bed slept on. Finding her chappals from under the bed, she walked to her dressing table. Unlocking her special drawer, she pulled out a wooden casket with an intricate onyx patchwork pattern. Holding it under her arm, she left her room and stood still outside the third bedroom she hadn’t entered for more than ten years. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment as she stepped inside her daughter’s room and then steeled herself for the sight. The quilt had neither faded with time nor was it coated in dust. ‘Begum has been secretly looking after this room,’ was the first thought that whizzed through her mind. The magazines lay stacked on the bedside cabinet, next to the tall, marble lamp, just as they had the day Laila had eloped. Gulbahar did not need to look in the two wardrobes; their hollow depths had been stripped bare of all her daughter’s belongings at her command. A grey, square shape made of dust could be seen on the whitewashed wall where the large, hand-painted portrait of a beautiful 18-year-old Laila had once hung.

  Sitting on the bed, Gulbahar emptied the casket’s contents on the quilt; a stack of over 40 photos of Shirin, smuggled over the years by Begum. Fingers trembling, she turned one photograph over, showing Shirin as an eight-year-old, in a gota kinari lengha suit, standing against a background of two artificial pillars in a photographer’s studio.

  Gulbahar flicked over another, with Shirin in a pink smocked frock, her hair trimmed very short. In the third, the child’s long hair was curling magically around her chubby face. Gulbahar looked closely at the small cut on the girl’s chin in the fourth picture, showing a petulant five-year-old. Her mouth curved into a smile; the child had probably enjoyed a good tantrum with her mother. Another picture was a close-up one, the gemlike eyes sparkling with mischief, and the wide grin happily showing a gap where the tooth was missing. Gulbahar saw her granddaughter visibly grow up before her very eyes, from a small toddler to a defiant nine-year-old.

  ‘Oh, Allah Pak!’ she cried, a raw guttural sob choking her. ‘My daughter lives in this child!’

  Abandoning the pictures, she fled to the rooftop gallery where her son stood next to the railing wall, overlooking the sugarcane fields.

  ‘Could you not sleep, either, Mother?’ Arslan asked, his eyes fixed in the direction of his sister’s home.

  Gulbahar read his thoughts and painfully followed his gaze.

  ‘A fairy floated into my home today, Arslan.’

  ‘A fairy?’

  ‘Yes!’ Gulbahar smiled, fixing a tender gaze on her son. ‘A beautiful little fairy!’

  ‘Mother, there are no fairies!’ Her son’s cynical laugh dispersed the fog in Gulbahar’s head.

  ‘You are right. There are no fairies!’ Gulbahar muttered to herself, pressing a hand hard against her chest. ‘Only the dead and the living, and in this house we have both.’

  ‘Mother!’ Arslan prompted, taken aback by her train of thought and strange, nervous manner. Gulbahar wasn’t in the mood to explore what was in her head or heart and left her son staring after her. Arslan’s eyes remained on the far horizon – to the village where Saher slept.

  ‘How can she get to sleep? The jilted one! May you rot in hell, Ismail, for doing this to her. You coward!’ Arslan cried in his head.

  Only two days ago, his aunt had proudly displayed Saher’s trousseau for him to inspect. Saher had handed in her notice at work. He, himself, had purchased a diamond ring for her from a prestigious New York jeweller.

  ‘Aunt Mehreen will never see her only son get married – a day she has been longing for for years! There will be no wedding bands playing outside her home. Ismail has robbed them of that day.’

  His bitter thoughts turned to their foreign guest. The inevitable could not be delayed; Saher knew, and it just remained for Rani and Ismail’s parents to find out.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Servant’s Revolt

  Mehreen and Liaquat Ali were in the throes of entertaining visitors for a third day, and preparing for their son’s wedding, relishing every minute of it. For their servants, however, it was another matter. Rasoola was utterly fed up with all the extra wedding chores and the constant arrival of guests, many of whom had decided to arrive well before the wedding. Every day, there was the tedious task of scouring the big curry pots and stacking the best china crockery into the tall china cabinets. Barely fifteen minutes would pass before the dishes were carefully taken out again. The lavish wedding feasts meant that no sooner had one meal ended before it was time to start on the next one. The poor errand man was constantly shooting off on his motorcycle to fetch more meat, fresh vegetables or cakes and pastries. Even though it was a well-stocked home, with so many wedding guests, things like crates of soft drinks and fresh fruit, including boxes of mangoes, were constantly running short.

  Rasoola’s back was in a bad state from carrying the china-laden steel trays from the drawing room at one end of the hevali to the kitchen at the far end. Moreover, in the afternoons she had to cross the full length of the courtyard, the scathing rays of the sun beating down on her covered head. The sun was particularly punishing later in the afternoon.

  The doorbell rang for the fourteenth time that day and Rasoola’s hand shook, losing its grip on the heavy tray. Mistress Mehreen’s precious Venetian china teapot and a couple of matching cups wobbled and fell. As soon as they touched the marble floor the dainty handles, crafted in some Italian factory, flew off the cups.

  As if in a weird dream, Rasoola stared with a gaping mouth at the remains of the rosebud set and the mess of cakes and samoses. Hearing the crash, Mehreen came running out of the ground-floor bathroom, her beautiful china being one of her life’s passions, her heart and soul. She delighted in collecting special china pieces from all over the world. Her recent holiday trip to Italy had cost a lot in excess-baggage charges, with four large boxes of delicate chinaware to pay for. Horror-stricken eyes on the broken china, Mehreen’s plump cheeks reddened.

  ‘You clumsy woman!’ she raged, the words jamming in her throat. ‘What have you done?’

  Already upset, the harsh words were Rasoola’s undoing, her eyes filling, to her shame.

  ‘It was the bell!’ she explained, feeling faint, ‘I’m sorry!’

  The bell rang again.

  ‘Don’t stand there gawping, you clumsy woman! Go and answer it!’ The look of pure loathing on her mistress’s face had Rasoola cringing. Her back throbbing, she hobbled to the door, cursing whoever was on the other side for sta
rtling her into dropping the tray.

  Their visitor was none other than her hated rival Begum, from Mistress Gulbahar’s household, standing there frowning, with a large sack of rice propped on the crown of her head. Very cross, Rasoola, instead of greeting, treated Begum to a deadly stare, opening the door wide.

  Begum was extremely offended. Not to be welcomed with a ‘salaam’ was intolerable.

  The explanation for Rasoola’s obnoxious behaviour, however, soon became apparent as Begum saw the ruins of Mistress Mehreen’s most prized china set on the floor, and a livid sahiba of the house staring down at it.

  ‘Begum, how many pieces of Mistress Gulbahar’s best china have you broken?’ Mehreen challenged. ‘Look what this clumsy woman has done!’

  Begum nervously glanced at Rasoola.

  ‘In fact, at least two!’ she tartly supplied the white lie. ‘These marble floors, Mistress Mehreen, are terrible. Don’t get me wrong, but one can easily slip on them, and these trays don’t help, either.’

  ‘The doorbell, Begum, made me jump!’ Rasoola explained, grateful for the other housekeeper’s support.

  ‘Well, let me put this sack of rice down and I’ll help you clear up.’

  ‘Oh, Begum, please do!’ Mehreen gushed. ‘I wonder if Gulbahar can spare you for a few hours? There’s so much to do here, especially with all the guests and wedding preparations.’ She missed Begum’s conspiratorial look at Rasoola.

  ‘Certainly, Mistress.’ Tugging her shalwar’s hemline up to her ankles, Begum squatted on the floor to give Rasoola a hand.

  ‘They keep increasing my workload! I can’t take any more of this, Begum. They need more people to help run this place. Carrying trays around the hevali, sometimes more than fifteen times a day, is killing me.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, so relax,’ Begum offered without thinking.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ Rasoola’s eyes had become two glittering saucers.

  ‘Forget it!’ Begum hissed, reddening. It was too late.

  ‘Tell me, Begum, please!’

  ‘I wish that I had never opened my mouth,’ Begum cursed herself under her breath. Master Arslan had especially tutored her to keep quiet. And here she was gossiping with Rasoola, who like Massi Fiza could not keep a thing to herself.

  ‘Are you saying that the wedding is off?’

  ‘No …’ Begum said hesitantly.

  ‘Then what?’ Rasoola doggedly pressed, straightfaced.

  ‘Oh, look, you silly woman, you’re trying to wriggle this out of me, aren’t you!’ Begum surrendered. ‘All right, I’ll tell you – but please keep it quiet!’

  ‘Yes, I will, Begum!’ Rasoola nodded.

  ‘Ismail already has a wife! The goorie staying with us at the hevali!’ Begum heard the loud intake of breath as the broken half of the teapot slipped once again to the floor.

  Rasoola stood up with a look of pure wonder on her face. The heat in the courtyard had become a cool breeze fanning over her body. Miraculously, the pain in her back had relaxed its grip, for she stood tall. Tall with the blessed knowledge in her possession!

  ‘Are you telling the truth, Begum?’

  ‘Shush, Mistress Sahiba is coming.’ Begum quickly bent down to lift the broken pieces of crockery from the floor. Mistress Mehreen was crossing the veranda to join her guests. The men were animatedly talking about the recent elections, and were encouraging Liaquat to get more actively involved in the new governance by becoming a local councillor. Cynical about all parties, Liaquat shook his head firmly, pronouncing, ‘All have their own personal agendas, whilst the country is going down the drain and terrorist activities on the rise – it’s a nightmare! Can the new government rid us of the Taliban? Nowhere is safe at the moment. And the poor continue to suffer with rising prices, no electricity and low incomes!’

  *

  In a distinctly superior position this evening, nothing could wipe the smirk off Rasoola’s face. ‘If she dares to taunt me tonight about too much chilli powder or calls my chappatis “wonky shaped”, I’ll snuff that light out of her mean miserable eyes!’ Rasoola vowed, utterly detesting her employer.

  Grinding the almonds into the simmering hot milk for the family’s night drink, and watching the skin thicken into malai, Rasoola enjoyed a wicked smile, ready to confront her catty mistress.

  At times, Rasoola had reflected on why she hated her mistress so much, why she resented her own demeaning role as a servant, and the craving she was plagued with to own all of Mehreen’s lovely possessions. The gorgeous feel of her mistress’s luxurious fabrics against her fingers as she ironed them became a daily torment. Whilst her mistress’s jewel boxes brimmed with gem-encrusted gold necklaces, Rasoola’s small, garishly-painted, plastic trinket box only housed a paper-thin two thola gulaband necklace and a pair of earrings which had done the rounds at the goldsmith’s workshop.

  Envy was a terrible character flaw, but Rasoola offered no apologies for drowning in it, stoically telling herself, ‘This wealth would turn even a saint’s head, let alone poor old me!’

  Later, from the top gallery, Mistress Mehreen shouted down to her housekeeper in the courtyard. Rasoola stiffened, hand still on the cotton chador she was rinsing in the washbasin. After ten o’clock at night, Rasoola had time for her own chores, which included washing her clothes as well as dyeing her greying hair. She hated peering in the mirror with no sunlight to guide her dye brush over the fine grey strands of hair at the front. The back of the head was overlooked, since it was always covered by her shawl. The next morning the darkened patches of skin around the temples always made her the butt of jokes from the old gardener. ‘I can see you’ve been at the kala kola hair dye in the dark again, Rasoola!’

  ‘Coming!’ Rasoola shouted, grimacing at the twinges of pain in her back as she climbed the stairs. Outside the master bedroom, Rasoola braced herself for another bout of bickering from her highly strung mistress. Mehreen was alone, sitting on her bed, holding a mug of hot milk with an inch-thick layer of malai skin floating on top.

  ‘Rasoola, you stupid woman, you know I don’t take any sugar in my milk!’

  ‘I … I didn’t put any in your glass!’ Rasoola took the china mug from her mistress.

  ‘Are you saying I’m lying?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then taste it yourself!’

  Rasoola took a big sip, tongue automatically reaching for the thick chunk of malai, savouring the wonderful buttery feel of the congealed milk against the roof of her mouth, sugar or no sugar.

  ‘Well?’ her mistress demanded.

  Rasoola reddened. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Master Ismail’s mug – he wanted sugar in his!’

  ‘You’re useless and senile, Rasoola! You have begun breaking things.’ Mehreen paused, looking hard at her housekeeper. ‘How will you cope with the wedding work? I think you’re becoming lazy!’

  That was the last straw for Rasoola; nobody ever called her ‘lazy’ and got away with it. Even her mother regretted calling her that once. Mistress Mehreen did not realise the storm she had unleashed with that mere word. Rasoola happily grabbed the cue to wipe the smile from her mistress’s plump face.

  ‘That’s if there’s to be a wedding!’ she taunted over her shoulders, pausing at the doorway, loud enough for her mistress to hear.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Rasoola smirked, now in a delightfully wicked mood. She turned, her eyes glinting with pleasure, ‘I don’t think there’s going to be any wedding in this household, Mistress Mehreen!’ she repeated, enunciating each word clearly.

  ‘You wicked woman – explain yourself!’ Mehreen sputtered, barely able to speak.

  ‘Your darling son is already married!’ Rasoola announced with full malice, openly smirking at her highly distressed mistress.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Mehreen hissed, unable to breathe, a ball of oxygen jammed in the small pocket of her throat.

  Rasoola stood tall in her hour of victory, relishing her reve
nge. She had suffered many years of verbal abuse from this woman. Triumphant, she breathed in, ready to strike the fatal blow.

  ‘Your prince, Sahiba-ji, is married to a goorie – the one who’s staying at your sister’s home.’

  Mehreen reeled, collapsing on the bed.

  ‘What nonsense!’ she cried, thrashing her way out of the nightmarish images in her head. ‘You mad, vindictive woman!’

  ‘I’m not mad. Ask your son!’ Rasoola flung tartly over her shoulders before leaving the room with the mug of milk, head held high, delighted by her performance.

  Outside in the corridor, she slurped down the sweet milk all in one go, savouring the delicious feel of the large chunks of malai.

  Unperturbed by the havoc she had unleashed, Rasoola calmly laid out her quilted bedding in the servants’ quarters annexed to the courtyard. Her mistress had already verbally abused her. What more could she do in the middle of the night. Dismiss her? Well, come morning she would be gone anyway.

  ‘But where shall I go?’

  Rasoola shrugged her bony shoulders, feeling infinitely light-headed as a new thought sprung in her head.

  ‘Mistress Gulbahar’s hevali is a far better place to work and I like Begum. They will hire me there, I am sure.’

  Brushing aside the mosquito buzzing over her face and unable to contain her curiosity, Rasoola tiptoed across the courtyard, hiding in the shadows of a colonnade near Master Ismail’s room, and listened to the muffled, angry voices within. Someone was crying. Mistress Mehreen. The son merely repeated the words: ‘Mother, please!’

  Chuckling, Rasoola tiptoed back to bed.

  *

  Liaquat was late returning home. Three hours spent in Haider’s office discussing land deals had not dampened his good mood for the preparations for his son’s wedding. The three marquees had arrived. The six best cooks in the district had been hired for the wedding feast with thirteen dishes negotiated and agreed upon. Mumtaz, their local butcher, was honoured with the order for the wedding meat worth thousands of rupees. The quiet man with a large family to feed, educate and marry off was mightily pleased. The goldsmith had finished the work on the emerald set for Saher.