Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘Shirin, come back.’ Panicking and lifting up the hem of her shalwar, Laila ran after her daughter, beseeching her Allah Pak above the clear blue sky to come to her aid. For he now held her fate in his hands. Her daughter had disappeared straight into the crowd of men. Laila leaned against the mud-baked wall of the woodcutter’s house and held up her face to the beaming hot rays of the sun.

  Behind her closed eyelids, images of the past plagued. Renowned for his generosity, her father hosted big celebratory parties, like on the day of her brother’s birth, the haqiqa party, to which the whole village had been invited. Her aunties, Mehreen and Rani, accompanied by other women, had danced to their hearts’ content till their legs collapsed under them, inside the inner courtyard, swaying to loud music, away from the men’s lewd gazes. The male guests, too, had enthusiastically rejoiced with several bhangra dances to the loud beating of the drums in the hevali’s outer courtyard, with the crowd spilling out into the village lanes. Not only that, in every home some form of celebration had taken place; for their landlord was blessed at last with a son after many years of waiting. Everyone wholeheartedly shared in his joy.

  Laila could not get enough of cuddling her young brother and holding his face against her cheek and running down to Begum for his feeds when he refused to suck his mother’s breast. The two aunties also fought for time to demonstrate their affection for their longed-for nephew. Both with young children of their own, they had stayed for over two weeks to help look after their sister, the new baby and all the guests who constantly streamed in to congratulate the family. Many relatives stayed for days, lingering on to enjoy the festive atmosphere and the marvellous feasts on offer. Rani was often late in breastfeeding her own young daughter, Saher, as she supervised the feasts served in the dining rooms on her sister’s behalf.

  The crushing ache for her parents’ home leapt and then died a quick death. ‘It was the past – I have to let go of it,’ Laila mourned.

  The loud drumming of the dhols and the music of the Scottish bagpipes sounded the same as on the day of her brother’s haqiqa party. The musicians had played tirelessly all day, their faces lit with joy for the popular zemindar, their aching hands and limbs forgotten. Master Haider, in return, thanked them by lavishing expensive gifts on them.

  Today’s celebration marked Aslan’s homecoming; it had been a long time since the hevali sounded with the celebratory beat of the drums. Sadly, the villagers mourned that their landlord had been robbed of the biggest celebration of all – his beloved daughter’s wedding.

  They also felt sorry for Chaudharani Gulbahar for not giving birth to any other children. ‘What it all shows,’ Rasoola had cattily twittered to her friend, ‘is that all the bags of money notes in the world, or dozens of gold bangles on your wrists can’t buy you fertility or furnish your womb with children. That’s a blessing indeed, my friend, that only Allah Pak can bestow on us.’

  Did Allah Pak deliberately overlook others? The village women shook their heads. The baker’s wife could not stop herself from voicing aloud her thoughts and commiserating, ‘None of the three sisters is blessed with many children. Rani has just one daughter, but of course she was a widow, so that accounted for it. Mehreen has only one son and Gulbahar one son and one daughter. Between the three of them only four children. They are indeed impoverished in numbers, though there are so many rooms in their homes.’

  ‘Well, they could not compete with Khanum Bibi with her brood of eight and still happy to go on adding, boasting philosophically, “If Allah Pak has blessed me in this way, why should I turn away his blessing?” Can you believe it, sisters! Is the woman mad or merely witless?’ The women agreed unanimously that Khanum Bibi was utterly ‘witless’.

  ‘She’s also cruelly skilful in delegating the childcare to her three teenage daughters. The poor girls have lost their own childhood – they’ve been propping babies on their hips and changing nappies since they were seven. And what about when all the kids grow into adults, ready for marriage? Has that idea never dawned on her? Or would she delegate that task to others, too? She nearly died during the seventh birth – or was it the eighth, I can’t quite remember,’ the baker’s wife bitchily continued.

  ‘Perhaps with the active breeding she has no brain cells left,’ gossiped the greengrocer’s wife, who prided herself on having a perfect family of two sons and two daughters; sons were needed for looking after the parents, but daughters were a must for household chores.

  Quite a few of the women were still openly speculating on the fertility status of the three land-owning sisters. With so much wealth why did they not seek medical help abroad? Was it the sisters or their spouses who were infertile? Yet, all three? Surely that couldn’t be right. It must be the sisters themselves! Especially Mehreen, the pompous one. Heads had unanimously nodded.

  ‘No woman wishes to be infertile!’ Begum angrily cut short the women’s malicious gossiping. They had all forgotten that she, too, was childless. ‘It’s all in Allah Pak’s hands! And don’t forget fertility is not guaranteed for life – either for yourself or your daughters. I, too, have no children. You’ve not commented on my fertility status! Do you think I did not want any? Mean women! So shut up, the lot of you! Bitching about the very household that is feeding you!’

  A loyal servant and a personal friend of Mistress Gulbahar, Begum found it very painful to listen to their spiteful chit-chat and was especially cross with Rasoola for starting it all off. She let her know it with a mighty scowl.

  Seething, the women shut up, pursing their mouths and exchanging hate-filled, heated glances. Why was Begum always championing her mistress? What was wrong with her? Did she not enjoy a bit of harmless gossip?

  As soon as Begum had left the room, it was their cue to happily begin again. After all, they had to entertain themselves. This time the gossip hinged on Mehreen, the most reviled of the three landladies! It was the master tailor’s wife who started the ball rolling. For she was thoroughly fed up with Sahiba Mehreen’s complaints about her dressmaking skills, in particular with the positioning of the darts and zips on her dresses!

  ‘With all her snooty airs and graces, just look where it has got her as a woman – she has lost her only son to a foreign woman! On that subject, tell me, ladies, why do all these rich folks, waderas, want to send their children abroad, when they have all the worldly goods they need at home? The sisters have had their fair share of family calamities, haven’t they? From Laila’s marriage to the potter’s son, to Ismail bringing home an English bride and to Saher being jilted by her cousin.’

  They all chuckled under their breath, afraid of another one of Begum’s scoldings raining down on them. They still had to be fed by her. ‘Now where have Mehreen’s airs and graces disappeared to? If one overreaches, Allah Pak, let me tell you, has a delicious way of dropping us down to earth. Well, our almighty Mistress Mehreen’s ego has been badly bruised, by the look of things!’ The tailor’s wife stopped, seeing Begum reappear in the marquee with a tray of drinks. The women enjoyed another bout of sniggers before reaching for the glasses of cool home-made sherbet.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Jealousy

  Mehreen was sitting on her bed, debating whether to attend her nephew’s celebration party.

  ‘There’ll be so many people there, practically the whole village. I can’t face them, Liaquat-ji!’ she pleaded, desperate to be spared the public ordeal of meeting people. Surely her husband could not be so cruel as to force her to go.

  ‘Mehreen, we cannot, and will not hide from the outside world because of this foreign woman!’ he calmly informed her through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll have to be strong, my dear. I know that it’s difficult, but you’ll have to face the world sometime. Imagine what it has been like for your beloved Gulbahar with Laila’s elopement. Do you not recall her suffering? It is a really challenging time for her now with Laila back in the village. You’ve always been so caught up with your own life that you leave absolutely no time for others!
’ He tried hard to disguise his sarcasm, but she heard it distinctly. Jealousy always made her ears sharper.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Mehreen squeaked in indignation, unable to believe that her husband could be so cruel to her, especially at a time like this. ‘Are you telling me or suggesting that I’m a very selfish person, who has no time for others?’

  ‘No!’ He tried to calm her: ‘I’m just reminding you what it has been like for others in crisis.’

  ‘I know jolly well what it has been like for my sister, Liaquat!’ Her fiery eyes scorched him, omitting the ‘ji’ to his name.

  ‘Mehreen, I’m just pointing out to you that your sister is suffering, too … She has paid a costly price for it – with her heart! Laila destroyed her health. In fact, my own heart aches for your dear sister.’

  ‘I know your heart aches for her. Sometimes I wonder if you married the wrong sister!’ Mehreen burst out, unable to hold back the bitter words or stop the vicious pangs of jealousy tearing at her. ‘You’d rather have married Gulbahar, wouldn’t you?’ Her voice was now dangerously calm, as the ugly secret carried inside for so long slipped out in the open.

  ‘What?’ Liaquat scanned his wife’s face, taken aback.

  ‘You don’t want me. It’s her – Gulbahar – who sits on the throne of your heart! You’re always going on about her!’

  ‘I … I …’ Lost for words, the colour had drained out of Liaquat’s face.

  ‘Well?’ she challenged, mouth contemptuously curved at the corners.

  ‘What a terrible thing to say, but I’ll forgive you!’

  ‘Forgive me? How grand of you, my dear husband! But it doesn’t take away the horrible thought in my head that you desire my sister!’

  ‘For goodness sake, woman, shut up!’ he shouted, thoroughly livid, his voice raw. ‘Are you mad?’

  Mehreen was drowning in a flood of jealousy. All along, she had suspected that her husband had lost interest in her. But there was always a special light in his eyes and a softening of the face when he spoke about or to Gulbahar. And surely that could not be mere brotherly admiration? Heart sinking, her knowing eyes were agonisingly sketching a concrete picture in her head. It wasn’t her imagination playing tricks on her. A slow tide of colour crept up her husband’s neck under her feverish gaze.

  Sickened, she turned away. She had her answer – at last.

  ‘Mehreen,’ he paused, then changed the subject. ‘Mehreen, are you going to the celebrations or not?’

  ‘Yes!’ she replied flatly, eager to be rid of him. She remained standing with her eyes closed. Somehow the goorie, the unwanted guest in her home, no longer posed as great a threat to her world as her own eldest sister.

  *

  Liaquat had waited long enough; the matter of the goorie had not been sorted out yet. Entering their bedroom, he hovered behind Mehreen, experiencing a strange awkwardness.

  ‘Mehreen, no matter what our son has done, we still have to face the world.’ He waited for her to say something, but only silence greeted him.

  ‘At least our son is not dead!’

  ‘How dare you!’ Mehreen sprang into life, shoving his arm away from her shoulder, panting.

  ‘See how you react when it comes to his well-being. Tell me what’s wrong,’ he asked tenderly.

  ‘Nothing!’ she whispered. In her head the words ‘You and Gulbahar’ hammered. ‘What about her – the goorie? I mean, shall we take her, too?’

  ‘Do what you want!’ was his parting shot. She was left staring at the closed door, a stranger in her own home.

  *

  In the party crowd, Shirin peered from behind the man with the big chest, her hand brushing his arm. He stiffened, looked down, and then a wicked look flashed across his face. He winked at his friend, the village butcher, standing beside him. Shirin was eagerly peeping through the gap between the two burly, sweaty bodies and missed the wink.

  Wow, to have in their midst the landlord’s granddaughter. The man with the big chest smiled with pure malice. A golden opportunity, not to be missed, had danced straight into his fat palms and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste! Fixing a smiling mask on his face, he kindly proffered his chubby, roughened hand to Shirin.

  ‘Want to get a better view, my little one? Let’s get you in front.’

  Shirin eagerly nodded, craning her neck to see his face. The look on his face troubled her somewhat, but she reluctantly took the man’s hand, hating its warm grasp. She looked over her shoulder, wishing all of a sudden that her mother was there, too, as the big-chested man aggressively pushed through the crowd. Shirin shielded her face from the male bodies with her small hand. Then she was in the front – facing the two marquees outside her grandfather’s hevali.

  Led by their jockeys, three horses cantered around in the open ground in front of the rows of chairs set out for Haider’s relatives. There were six grand-looking chairs with padded seats and tall backs, all vacant at the moment.

  Shirin began to watch with interest, her eyes on the horse and rider.

  *

  Gulbahar remained in her room; her son’s homecoming party no longer mattered, only the vision of the departing figure of the little fairy from the hevali gates, after catching a glimpse of her grandfather.

  She heard Mehreen’s raised voice in her room. Through the dense fog in her head, Gulbahar waded back to reality.

  But the image still beckoned of the beautiful fairy striding away; head and chin held high, a small figure in a white cotton frock, the bouncy auburn curls swinging and glinting in the sun. It was the pert little mouth, the soft lips pursed tight, that captivated the anxious audience.

  Gulbahar recalled the stunned look on Shirin’s face the moment her eyes had fallen on her grandfather. Her uncle’s downstretched arms, ready to pluck her up for a ride, were totally forgotten. In front of a stunned crowd of guests, she had left the side of the big-chested man and had walked up to one horse, looking up at the rider, and not realising that it was her own uncle, had innocently asked:

  ‘Can I have a ride on your horse, please?’ Those who could hear, including her grandparents seated in the front row, caught their breath and gasped. Everybody wondered what would happen next.

  Arslan was totally taken aback, but a smile of delight washed over his face and he leaned down to pick her up, arms aching to fold her in a warm grasp. Then, Shirin heard a cough and swept round to locate it.

  She was startled to see that it was the older man with the reddish hair and cold blue eyes. Shirin paled; she was at the party of that horrible man who had made her fall. Arslan watched in a daze as his niece slipped away through the crowd and out of sight, leaving over a hundred pairs of eyes staring after her and at each other.

  ‘How could you, Gulbahar?’ her sister’s accusing tone frightened Gulbahar – the eyes glowing, the body aggressively poised beside the bed.

  ‘Why have you disturbed me?’ Gulbahar wanted to shout. But her mouth wouldn’t open.

  ‘How could you, Gulbahar?’ the irate sister repeated. Gulbahar had never before glimpsed such fury in her sister’s face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mehreen?’ Gulbahar quietly uttered, still fighting the ache inside her for the fairy.

  ‘How could you?’ Mehreen spluttered for the third time. ‘How could you take on Rasoola, after what she has done?’

  Gulbahar’s eyes widened.

  ‘What? Is that all?’ The fog in her head was dashed away. Sitting up, Gulbahar composed her features. There was a lot going on behind her sister’s dark fury-ridden pupils and burning cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ she softly offered. Diplomacy was the best option with this sister.

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ Mehreen screeched. Gulbahar’s eyes traced the planes of her sister’s face. This did not sound like Mehreen’s normal tantrum. And Gulbahar didn’t have long to speculate.

  ‘I hate you!’ Mehreen pelted her sister with her venom.

  Gulbahar’s body shot up straight, heart
thudding.

  ‘Mehreen!’ she quailed, nervously tugging at the end of her chador lying over her pillow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gulbahar tried again. But Mehreen was ruthlessly bent on punishing her.

  ‘I hate you!’ she lashed.

  Her eldest sister, her protector all her life and who had even made an enemy of her middle sister on Mehreen’s behalf, was utterly devastated. Tears of self-pity blurred her vision.

  ‘Give me back my husband, Gulbahar!’ The agonised words electrified her sister, trying to grapple with their meaning. What was her spoilt sister saying?

  Through parched lips, she uttered, ‘Mehreen, I know you are upset about Rasoola, but what rubbish did you just utter now?’

  ‘Return my husband to me!’ Mehreen repeated. No fury this time, only misery.

  Gulbahar reached forward and slapped her sister straight across her cheek. Stepping back and cradling her smarting red cheek, Mehreen slid down into her sister’s armchair, eyes downcast.

  ‘Liaquat likes you! It’s you he really wants!’

  Gulbahar’s ears burned, eyes aggrieved. Even her daughter’s elopement had not wounded her as much as her sister’s accusation.

  ‘Do you realise what you are saying?’ Gulbahar hissed in despair. ‘How dare you sully my ears with your wickedness! Have you actually flipped, Mehreen?’

  But her sister was beyond caring, the words just fell out of her mouth.

  ‘He has always loved you, Gulbahar!’

  ‘Mehreen, stop!’ Gulbahar shouted, striding across the room, wanting to get as far away as possible from the dirty swamp of Mehreen’s twisted imagination.

  On unsteady legs, Gulbahar fled to the fresh air – to the sanctuary of their rooftop gallery.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Falling Out

  Massi Fiza was in a mighty hurry to reach her friend, Rukhsar, with the news about the goorie in a shalwar kameez and the drama of Shirin angrily striding out of her grandfather’s hevali, leaving her grandparents and the guests wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The goorie was accompanied by her infamous husband, who had brought catastrophe to three households. She was dressed in a turquoise shalwar kameez suit, her legs discreetly covered, and a matching taffeta dupatta draped over her head. Apart from her fair freckled face and her golden fringe, she looked every bit a desi woman.