Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  ‘She indeed made a spectacle. They had come out, in the open ground, just as Mistress Gulbahar had walked back into the hevali after seeing her granddaughter dramatically leave. Arslan had got off his horse and stormed into the house. Master Haider then went inside, too, his mouth tightly pursed.’

  ‘It was a quite a do, Rukhsar-ji. You should have been there,’ Massi Fiza expanded, her eyes lingering on the necklace box lying on the cushion in front of her. Rukhsar gave her full attention to Massi Fiza. ‘Oh, I wish I was there.’

  ‘Well, why you don’t come along? The party is still in full swing. You’ve been invited like everyone else in the village, and the meal has not been served yet. Begum boasts that there will be so much to eat and plenty of meat.’

  Rukhsar looked at her friend in disdain, ‘Oh, what do I care about meat,’ she loftily informed her neighbour. ‘My husband through his hard work has ensured that meat is served twice a day in this household. So, Massi Fiza-ji, these landowners’ feasts mean nothing to us. Our palates do not salivate for Haider-ji’s dinner feasts!’

  Embarrassed and feeling well-rebuked, Massi Fiza reddened down to her scrawny neck, and was quick to defend her own diet and station in life. ‘We don’t all roll in gold, my friend, or have the means to enjoy meat even once a day. Do you know how much red meat costs? Some folks like us have to depend on rich folk’s parties for a lavish meal.’

  The sarcasm was not lost on her friend. Eyeing a bristling Massi Fiza with her mouth angrily pursed into a fine line, Rukhsar laughed aloud. ‘Sorry, I did not mean to offend you. Let me go and fetch my shawl from the other room. I can’t be bothered to change these clothes. They’ll have to do, but I do need a special chador to match this suit.’

  Forgetting her necklace set on the cushion cover, Rukhsar walked out. Massi Fiza was taken aback by this strange occurrence. For the first time in her life, Rukhsar had left her valued property lying unguarded. And Massi Fiza was all alone with it.

  And the butcher’s daughter’s five tholas worth of necklace sparkled mischievously in front of Massi Fiza’s eyes. Massi Fiza stared in utter fascination. The sound of running feet made her quickly snatch her gaze and, straightening up, she leaned her body far back in an effort to distance herself from the gold.

  Rukhsar dashed in, breathing ragged, the shawl in one hand, anxious eyes falling straight onto the cushion cover with the gold necklace.

  Massi Fiza was mortally wounded; blood rushed through her brown-pigmented cheeks.

  ‘Your gold is still here, Rukhsar. Not walked off into my kurtha pocket!’ she stiffly informed her dear friend, feeling utterly betrayed.

  Rukhsar neatly crimsoned. After an embarrassing pause, she picked up the necklace and muttered, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in two minutes. I’ve one or two things to sort out here.’

  Deeply affronted, Massi Fiza was already out of the door, leaving her friend to hide her jewellery. Calling her youngest daughter to lock the necklace set in their safe, Rukhsar knew she owed her friend an apology, but hoped nevertheless that Massi Fiza would understand. Gold was such a temptation; even saints were said to be tempted by it, and siblings fought over it. Therefore what was to stop her humble paisa-earning neighbour from grabbing it, Rukhsar reasoned with herself.

  Later, as they walked side by side in the village lanes, Rukhsar diplomatically ignored her friend’s tight-lipped silence and hostile manner, not wanting to mar this rare occasion of her leaving her home to attend a party. The real reason was, of course, to catch a glimpse of the goorie wearing a desi shalwar kameez and that was why she decided to honour Master Haider’s son’s homecoming party with her presence.

  At the entrance of the marquee, the friends stiffly parted company. Massi Fiza eagerly went searching for Rasoola, for news of all the latest goings-on in the hevali. Discreet and faithful, Begum would never utter a word against the family she worked for, unlike Rasoola who had no scruples whatsoever in parting with any information.

  Rukhsar, with a dignified step, reached the side of Bano, the tailor master’s wife. There were plenty of suits to be stitched for her daughter’s wedding trousseau. A warm conversation with the wife always helped; quite a few rupees would be saved. Didn’t the other village women try the same approach with her by cultivating her friendship for the sake of a few rupees on the gold items?

  Massi Fiza, still bristling and highly indignant, kept her back firmly turned to her neighbour, whom she could no longer call a ‘friend’, let alone a ‘sister’.

  ‘She thinks I’m a thief! That I would actually run away with their gold!’ Massi Fiza was mortally aggrieved.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Departure

  Laila gave up, sitting down in the courtyard, ready to vent her misery in an outburst of tears, but concern for her daughter stopped her from doing so. She tried again.

  ‘Shirin, we’re leaving! Do you hear me?’ Laila’s belligerent voice had little impact on her daughter’s rigid figure. ‘Shirin, we’ve been here for nearly two weeks. Your father misses us. Don’t you feel sorry for him? We’ve got to go back to Islamabad.’

  ‘But, Mummy, you said we were going to stay longer! Begum said she was going to bring me jallabies.’

  ‘We can buy jallabies on the way!’ Laila hardened, not wanting her daughter to eat even a morsel from her father’s home.

  Fuelled by rage, Laila flew around the two rooms, collecting her belongings, in no mood to tolerate her daughter’s tantrum. Even if she had to drag Shirin physically she would do so. For today was her last journey. In resignation, her eyes skipped bitterly over the humble contents of the small living-cum-bedroom. Her husband could do what he wanted with this place but she would never return.

  ‘Shirin!’ The firm voice had her daughter scrambling down the stairs with a sulky pout. A glimpse of her mother’s eyes sobered Shirin immediately.

  Swallowing a sob, she offered, ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ Flinging her arms wide around her mother’s body, she cried, ‘Let’s go! I don’t like it here, either … you’re always crying here, Mama, and I hate that beastly old man living in the big house!’

  Putting her hand in her mother’s grasp, Shirin pulled her towards the door.

  ‘Wait! We must sweep up the dust from the floors before we leave.’

  ‘All right, Mama,’ Shirin shrugged, wondering why her mother bothered tidying up such a shabby place, and they were leaving anyway.

  *

  The flies were buzzing around her face, but Gulbahar ignored them, leaning her head against the tiled wall.

  ‘Mother?’ Arslan stood behind her chair.

  Her sister’s words ‘Return my husband to me’ were raging through her head.

  ‘Mother, are you OK?’

  ‘No, Arslan, I’m not OK!’ Her agonised reply startled her son.

  ‘My world is falling apart. The people I’ve loved have all betrayed me. My Laila destroyed us and today her daughter shunned us. An hour ago my sister, whom I doted on all my life, struck a blade through me.’

  ‘What? Auntie Rani?’

  ‘No.’ Gulbahar collected her wits about her, shaking her head. She must not, could not repeat any of the vile stuff her sister had uttered to her son. At the moment, she could not forgive her sister for this, but one thing was certain, she had to get to the bottom of the matter.

  Arslan was now looking over the rooftop railings, his eyes on the two figures in the village lane. In despair, he watched Laila dragging a large suitcase with one hand whilst holding onto her daughter with the other. That young, beautiful thing was weighed down with a bulging rucksack over her shoulders. An agonised cry ripped through him, startling his mother.

  ‘Look, Mother, there they go! Well done, you have driven them away! That’s what you and Father wanted, wasn’t it?’ He clapped his hands in mockery, mouth twisted. On shaking legs, Gulbahar got up to see, to make sense of his words.

  The two figures in the distance elicited a cry of anguish, nearly choking her. Yes,
they had driven them away. And paradoxically, the beautiful fairy, the little pari, had punished them. Not only had she fled from their hevali, but was now fast striding out of their lives; turning her back on them – without even knowing who they were.

  Gulbahar’s eyes could take no more and she sidled away from her son’s side. He watched until his sister reached the bus stop on the main GT trunk road.

  ‘Laila, the landlord’s daughter, waiting to catch a local bus in a queue of common people. Mother, that’s what one calls life’s poignant incongruities,’ Arslan cynically mused.

  A man was helping them with their luggage onto the bus. No manservant or brother to accompany them – just a kind stranger coming to their aid. Arslan stood lost in thought, as questions raged through him: ‘Who am I? Which world do I belong to? To America or this country? What sort of man have I become to let a beloved sister walk out of our lives?’

  ‘A coward – losing his faculties,’ his mind retaliated. ‘I’ve got to get out of here!’

  Down below in the men’s marquee the party drums and the bhangra dancing were in full swing. His father would have to entertain, but he, Arslan, had no intention of going anywhere near that marquee today.

  *

  The bus skilfully wove down the mountainside. Shirin’s English nursery song ‘Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?’ echoed inside the crowded vehicle. The passengers did not understand the English song but most smiled or praised the pretty little girl. Laila did neither; her chador was pulled firmly up to her chin, her face pressed against the bus window as she gazed out at the rugged terrain. Laila wanted to wail aloud.

  ‘All come to nothing! Ten years of heartache …’ she bitterly mourned. Her parents’ hearts of stone were not melted.

  ‘Mummy, you are crying again!’ Shirin loudly accused, causing the elderly, burka-clad woman sitting behind them to peer over Laila’s shoulder and ask softly, ‘My dear, are you all right?’ Laila paused and then replied, ‘I’m sad at parting from my loved ones.’

  ‘Are you going far?’ the woman persisted, staring at Shirin’s dress and looks. This was no ordinary village child.

  ‘This is my last journey,’ Laila determinedly told the kind but nosey lady.

  ‘Mummy?’ Shirin was horrified. ‘But Massi Fiza still has my best pink frock with her washing!’

  ‘Daddy will buy you dozens,’ Laila assured her, a wry smile crossing her face. Finally, she had chosen her husband over her parents, but she would never give up on her brother.

  ‘Mummy?’ Shirin questioned, her small, chubby hand touching her mother’s wet cheek.

  Laila hurriedly wiped her face, eyes shining with pleasure. God had indeed blessed her; she would provide her daughter with all the support she needed and allow her to marry whomever she pleased. All people were equal in her mind; there were no boundaries – only the prejudice and human arrogance that created them. She pulled her daughter close, hugging her.

  ‘Daddy will be waiting with a bag of delicious jalebis, my princess.’

  Peeved, Shirin declared, ‘But I wanted Begum’s hot jalebis from the party. You didn’t let me have any!’

  ‘Quite a greedy girl, aren’t you, my darling?’ Laughing, they both looked out at the beautiful view of the valley below, as the bus continued to snake down the pass.

  *

  ‘Gulbahar.’ Haider saw his wife huddled against the headboard, face hidden behind her chador. Begum’s chappals clicked behind him, forcing him to signal with his hand for her to retreat. Immediately obeying, Begum’s eyes remained on her mistress as she left.

  Touching his wife’s face, Haider asked with marked concern in his voice, ‘What’s wrong, my jaan – my life?’

  Mehreen’s awful words were still stinging Gulbahar’s ears, words that she could not share with her Haider.

  The ceiling fan was purring away; down in the courtyard the muffled voices of the relatives and guests could be heard. Inside the room, heavy silence reigned.

  ‘Does she hate me so much that she won’t talk to me now?’ Haider wondered.

  ‘It was not my fault that the girl walked out. Gulbahar, what could I do?’ The defensive tone had little impact on his wife. Her gaze remained fixed on the appliqué pattern of the quilt cover, the silence stifling them both.

  ‘Please say something, Gulbahar,’ Haider gently urged.

  At last his wife’s lips parted. He barely heard her whisper, ‘Everything I loved, I have lost. I trust no one.’

  Indignant, Haider quickly added, ‘I’m here. Your son is still here.’ Gulbahar raised her bleak eyes. ‘A sister I doted on has now become my enemy. Where did I go wrong, Haider-ji?’ Her ‘Haider-ji’ merely blinked, taken aback by her question. This was not what he was expecting.

  ‘Who?’ he asked, his body language now aggressive, resentment flushing through him. His poor wife had spent half of her life caring for her sisters’ welfare. He waited.

  Gulbahar’s eyes were squeezed shut, unable to repeat Mehreen’s ugly words, but the hurt and bitterness burst forth, startling her beloved husband.

  ‘The one I protected all my life, whilst alienating the other, has now become my mortal enemy … She hates me so much, Haider-ji.’

  ‘Who? Rani?’

  ‘No! Mehreen!’ The anguish shuddered through her in the cool room.

  ‘Mehreen?’ Haider echoed, bristling with hatred for that sister, his fists tight. ‘What has she done now?’

  Mehreen always brought out the worst in him. Her petulant and childish manner utterly angered him, making him resent the hours his wife had ploughed into this sister’s welfare in the early years of their marriage. Later, to save Mehreen’s marriage, Gulbahar had unwittingly established a routine of regular visits to Mehreen’s household. As many as three times a week! Gulbahar alone was responsible for Mehreen having successfully reached middle age with her marriage still intact.

  ‘This is my orphaned sister. Please give her another chance,’ she had fervently appealed to Liaquat so many times. And Liaquat would invariably give in, lost, no doubt, in the look of pure gratitude etched on Gulbahar’s face.

  Gulbahar, in short, had become Mehreen’s surrogate mother, father and older sister all rolled into one. Haider secretly considered Mehreen not just a ‘spoilt halfwit’, but a very clever ‘manipulator’. And one who knew precisely how to pull at her sister’s heart strings. At times, he had felt like throttling her, for that is what he would have done if he had been her husband. How Liaquat coped with such a wife was a mystery to Haider. Perhaps he, too, like Gulbahar, was jointly responsible for what Mehreen had become; for both had generously indulged her.

  Not Haider! He had kept well away from her since her full-blown tantrum after he had told her what he really thought of her. ‘Your husband might put up with your childish manner but I’ll not! Behave yourself, you silly, good-for-nothing woman!’ he had thundered at her. Mehreen had treated him to a scandalised stare and never forgave him for that cruel remark. A chilling distance had reigned between them ever since. Haider happily welcomed this arrangement. As long as his wife kept that sister away from him, she could do what she liked. His sweet gullible Gulbahar, however, would never allow a single soul to utter anything against her ladli Mehreen.

  So what was it, Haider asked himself, that Mehreen had done today, to bring this mother-like figure, this loyal sister, to feel so utterly betrayed and wounded? There might be a silver lining in this matter, Haider chuckled to himself. Perhaps, at last, his wife would see sense and wash her hands of her spoilt sister.

  ‘Please, Gulbahar, tell me!’ he urged, caressing her cheek. It was his gentle, coaxing tone that was Gulbahar’s undoing. Her anguish spilled out, drowning them both.

  ‘She said, “Leave my husband alone!”’ As soon as the words left her mouth Gulbahar froze, wanting to shield herself from her husband’s gaze. What had she done? Colour flushed through her cheeks, a testimony of her shame.

  At last Gulbahar peeped at h
is face, trying to gauge his reaction. Her Haider-ji merely looked bemused. Surely he had understood what Mehreen meant?

  Haider did understand. What he didn’t believe was what she was saying. His wife was the purest woman on earth. Therefore what was the crazy sister trying to imply? Deeply interested, his eyes swept over Gulbahar’s coloured cheeks and nervous gaze.

  ‘Your sister is a strange creature – I don’t know what silly remarks she has made, but please don’t be distressed by them, my beautiful wife.’ Gulbahar nearly wept at his kindness and sensitive words. Cheeks still stinging with the heat of shame, she raised her eyes to examine her husband’s face. Her heart soared in joy, but she could not take any chances; she had to make sure that he fully appreciated the gravity of Mehreen’s wicked words.

  ‘She meant it, Haider-ji, she thinks … she thinks …’ she stuttered, unable to go on.

  ‘Go on, Gulbahar, say it, please!’ he coaxed. The words, however, would not be uttered. She tried again.

  ‘She thinks Brother Liaquat likes me more than her …’ Gulbahar’s voice trailed away; she was now trembling under the full weight of her husband’s scrutiny.

  He was silent for a long time, realising that this was not as clear-cut a situation as he had assumed. Perhaps Mehreen was not so stupid, after all. His wife’s lowered gaze told its own story. Tiny messengers of unease were shooting across his brain. How many times had he seen Liaquat in his wife’s company? The laughter he had heard, the sense of rapport and intimacy between them. Had his unwitting and innocent wife been stolen under his very gaze?