Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  *

  Liaquat stood in the middle of the guest room, his fingers raking through his thick grey hair. ‘Now I’ve made enemies of both her sisters – how did this come about?’

  Walking out into the courtyard, he felt as if he was crossing unfamiliar territory. There was no wife at home. Instead, a strange woman was there. Daniela had nervously glanced at him and quickly returned to her room, her heartbeat quickening, the baby stirring inside her. The hostility was still there, but she had glimpsed something else in her father-in-law – the look of a lost man.

  And where was Ismail’s mother? She had not seen her since yesterday afternoon. A middle-aged woman servant appeared to be hovering everywhere she went. If she went to the basin to wash her face the woman was giving her a toothy grin, eagerly offering clean towels. Last night, she had come in with a glass of milk and some kashoo nuts.

  Daniela walked into the room, depression suddenly hitting her. Ismail was scanning the pictures he had taken that day with their digital camera. Daniela, finding everything so different, had made him take lots of photos of the food and spice stalls and looking highly embarrassed, Ismail had obliged.

  ‘I’ve made things very difficult for your family, haven’t I, Ismail?’ Daniela told her husband. ‘Your father can barely look at me. Your mother is aggrieved, never mind Saher’s mother! I really do wish now that I had never come.’ She sounded so forlorn that Ismail swept her up in his arms, with a tender look sweeping across his face.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Daniela, I’m now actually glad that you came. I was a coward and should have told them a long time ago, and also about our baby.’

  ‘But not like this!’ she ruefully offered, nestling her face against his throat.

  ‘Hey, stop giving yourself a hard time. What about your parents? Haven’t I caused a rift in your family? Now your father has problems with your mother and you’ve not seen your mother for two years – how do you think I feel about that?’

  ‘Please, Ismail, don’t mention my mother. We both know she’s a racist.’

  ‘And my father isn’t? In fact, neither of them is able to accept us as partners for their children. Colour seems to be an issue here … I’ll never forget your mother’s expression … her jaw dropping on seeing a brown man standing holding her daughter’s hand outside her door. Your mother adores you, yet she was horrified when she learned that you were marrying a man from another ethnic group and faith. It’s the same for my parents – with you being the “white woman” in their midst, and they have a lot of stereotypical perceptions about Western women, especially relating to sexual matters. It’s this that has coloured their view of you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m the goorie who not only sleeps around but has stolen their beloved son!’ Daniela bitterly laughed.

  ‘OK, if we’re talking about stealing, then I’ve stolen you from your parents, but I’m not repenting – I’m very happy to have done the stealing. What about you?’

  ‘Guilty! Been stolen and have stolen,’ Daniela giggled against his ears, pulling his hand against her abdomen.

  ‘Ismail, just put your hand here – feel your child kick!’

  ‘You know the sex of the baby, don’t you?’ he responded, a speculative gleam entering his eyes.

  ‘Sure … This household is going to have a grandson.’

  She buried her face against his chest. Ismail tenderly held her against him, but his thoughts were with the people he had let down. His mother had dreamt of a grandson, but the only difference was, she had been expecting one from Saher, not from a foreign woman who couldn’t even speak her language.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Kiss

  Ismail was not on Saher’s mind; her thoughts were elsewhere. Arslan’s words to his mother, ‘I’ll stay if …’ went round in her head.

  Pressing her warm face against the pillow, she squeezed her eyes tight. Unable to sleep, she reached for her phone to text a message. A minute later the phone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ she nervously greeted, startled.

  ‘Yes. Is everything OK, Saher?’ Arslan enquired.

  ‘I …’ Heat rushed through her face; he couldn’t see her but he sensed her discomfort at the other end.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted, not making it easy for her.

  She stuttered to explain. ‘I was wondering whether you could keep me company? Mother has gone to take Aunt Mehreen back to her home and has decided to stay there for the night. Only the servants are here. You can sleep in the guest room, but I would feel much safer if you were in the building.’ It was a strange request and they both knew it.

  Unable to bear his silence, she switched the phone off, chiding her stupidity for calling him.

  ‘To hell with you, Arslan!’ Saher slid back into the cool linen, closing her eyes.

  *

  A bell rang somewhere in the house, but Saher was floating away. Arslan was sitting beside her on the bed, his face getting nearer. Saher smiled, her lips parting to welcome his mouth.

  Something warm touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open and then widened in shock, clashing head on with those of the man she had been dreaming of. His hand was gently caressing her cheek as in her dream!

  He was smiling back at her; face only inches from hers. Her dazed eyes traced the counters of his jawline. Letting go of her cheek, he sat back on the bed.

  ‘When did you come?’ she stammered, wetting her dry lips, voice hardly audible.

  ‘A short while ago.’ He looked steadily at the painting on the wall, allowing her the privacy to cover her body properly. Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she plucked her pashmina shawl from the chair and draped it carefully over her female curves. For the first time in her life, she felt very conscious of her body. The thin muslin night kurtha hid very little.

  Heat rushed into her cheeks, recalling the last time he was in her room, when she had first wept in his arms and then had thrown him out. Her gaze lingering on his profile, she willed him to look at her. Then startled him by pulling off her shawl and throwing it across the room.

  He chuckled at her flushed face and angry eyes. This was the Saher he knew, passionately ranting at him one minute and then touching him affectionately on his face the next. His wilful eyes lazily caressed her hair, the well-defined features, the creamy column of slender throat, dipping to the shadowy valley between her breasts. Their fullness, etched against the thin fabric, had him looking him away. Reddening, Saher pulled the quilt up to her neckline.

  ‘Which room do you want me to sleep in?’ He slid off the bed.

  ‘The guest room.’ Voice distant and polite, her eyes remained carefully lowered.

  ‘OK.’ He was walking away.

  ‘Thanks!’ she murmured. ‘Please don’t go!’ The urgency in her tone arrested him.

  Sweeping around, he shot her a questioning look. Her heart was in her eyes, but he wouldn’t read them.

  Instead, he deliberately exchanged a blank stare, mouth hardening. Did she not realise the effect she had on him? That it was impossible for him to stay another minute in the room without pulling her into his arms. Was she so naive where he was concerned, or a tease or just deliberately cruel?

  ‘Please don’t go!’ she cried, uncaring of the naked look on her face or the fact that the quilt had fallen off her body.

  ‘Saher, please!’ he muttered, breathing ragged, his eyes pained. What was she expecting him to do?

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Saher, I have to go …’ he appealed, and then found his legs carrying him back to the bed.

  Face level with hers, he knelt down on the marble floor, his arms resting on the edge of the bed and a wicked smile curving his mouth. ‘Saher, I can’t sleep here with you!’

  Electric shock jolting through her, she put a hand to her throbbing cheek, as if shielding herself from him, and pulled the quilt back over her shoulders.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, silly!’ she gruffly reprimanded, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.

/>   Arslan watched her face with interest, joy flooding through him. His sleeping beauty had at last woken up. One of life’s little triumphs. Wanting to enjoy her discomfort, his fingers moved lightly over the soft skin of her palm lying on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Then what did you mean?’ he coaxed. Fascinated, she watched his fingers playing with her hand.

  ‘I meant that I didn’t want you to go back to America.’

  Taken aback by her words, his smile disappeared: ‘Saher, don’t become my mother’s ambassador. As you know there’s nothing here for me in the village.’

  ‘Everything is here for you!’ she chided.

  He got up, poised to leave, but her brimming eyes arrested him.

  ‘Please don’t go!’ she urged.

  ‘Saher …’ He turned his head.

  Desperately she whispered, ‘But everything is here!’ Her voice was thick with tears.

  He shook his head, feeling dejected. ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Saher. I don’t know why I bothered coming at this time of night.’

  ‘Then go! Go back to where you came from!’

  He strode across the room and pulled the door open. Outside in the courtyard, it was dark with the cool night breeze brushing his face. Suddenly, he turned and sprinted back to Saher’s room. It was in semi-darkness, only the bedside lamp was on. With her face pressed down on the pillow she didn’t hear him enter. Softly he padded to the bed and whispered, ‘Saher, you said everything is here for me.’

  Shocked to hear his voice, she raised her head, cheeks wet.

  He looked away, not wishing to embarrass her. ‘Please explain, Saher, what you meant.’

  She lay there, staring up at him. ‘What do you think, Arslan?’

  He grimly reminded her, ‘I’m too afraid to hope and think, Saher.’

  Cheek dimpling and joy rushing through her, she smiled, reaching for his hand, tracing the outline of his thumb. ‘I’m here!’

  ‘I know!’ His eyes were now playing with hers. Breathless, she enjoyed looking at him, holding his gaze. He watched her playful fingers weaving their magic on his palm.

  ‘I know you are here. So what?’ he challenged.

  ‘If I asked you to stay, would you not do it for me?’ she challenged, eyes now lowered.

  ‘Only if …’ he stopped.

  ‘If?’ she eagerly prompted.

  ‘You know, Saher.’ His tone was flat.

  Silence. Only broken when he was about to rise.

  ‘If you’ll not stay, then take me with you!’

  His eyes bored into her. She lay back on the pillow, a coquettish smile spread across her face. Confident and in control, her warm eyes caressed him, waiting and watching.

  ‘Why?’ he had to ask, yet afraid of her answer.

  ‘Doesn’t the wife normally accompany her husband!’ she triumphantly threw at him, stunning him into silence.

  Heart soaring, he shuttered his eyes, shielding his joy from her, deciding to play her game. Bending down, his face only inches from hers, he stated, ‘Yes, normally she would – that’s if she was a wife!’ his voice as light and warm as the summer breeze passing through the valley.

  ‘Then the answer is simple. Make me your wife!’ she teased, holding his gaze steady.

  ‘So that you can go with me?’ he taunted, his eyes darkening.

  ‘No, so that I can keep you here,’ she tartly returned.

  ‘Why? For my mother’s sake?’ he parried. She sensed his withdrawal and responded, letting her hand reach up to his cheek, the most natural of her gestures since childhood, but now her eyes caressed him with a new light.

  ‘No, for my sake!’ she whispered, pressing her fingers against his lips, smiling and in full control.

  ‘OK, Madam Lawyer, wish granted. I’ll stay for your sake, but only if you share my bed!’

  Shocked, she pulled her hand back.

  He laughed, enjoying her discomfort. ‘Only after you’ve become my wife, that is,’ he continued. ‘And as you are not my wife yet, I’ve no right to share it now, have I? So please, Saher, let me leave this room, before we do something that will embarrass us both!’

  Saher blushed, colour sweeping high in her warm cheeks. Dispensing with the teasing, he murmured, ‘Do you know how happy you’ve made me?’

  She nodded her head. He pressed on, still not quite convinced. ‘Are you sure, Saher? If you change your mind tomorrow, I’m going to wring your lovely neck or drag you away with me wherever I go.’

  ‘Then why don’t you marry me now, so that I won’t change my mind?’ she mocked, the coquettish look reappearing. ‘Then you can share my bed!’

  ‘You just don’t know how much I wish that could be the case. Unfortunately, we both know we are not going to find a maulvi at this time of the night to wed us.’

  She nodded, letting him lift her hand and pressing it against his mouth.

  ‘How beautiful you are. I adore you!’

  She inwardly mocked herself, ‘For so long I have ignored him, pretending that there was nothing between us.’ His hand was now on her throat, making her shut her eyes to the sensual touch of his fingers.

  She slid down on the pillow. No hiding or veiling. She owed it to him; to let him carry on brushing his eyes across her face, throat and shoulders, feeling the scorching warmth of his gaze, wondering at how many shades of colour it had brought to her cheeks.

  Aloud she answered, ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m glad. Do you know you’ve twelve years to make up to me?’

  ‘What if I don’t – will you make me do it?’ He vigorously nodded his head.

  The urge to kiss her was so strong, forcing him to utter, ‘Please, Saher, marry me quickly! Do you know what it’s been like for the last five years, knowing that you were going to become someone else’s bride?’

  She mutely stared back, only able to imagine his heartache. She had just woken up, had just tasted the pain – the pain of losing him.

  ‘I’ll marry you tomorrow, if that’s what you want, Arslan. I want no grand weddings. A simple nikkah ceremony is more to my taste. In any event, my trousseau is already packed, remember? Only the groom has changed. Instead of one home, it’ll go to another.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Arslan agreed. ‘I was so angry with Ismail for jilting you, now I feel I should worship him. You know how painful it has been for me.’

  ‘I know … I’m glad that Ismail has married Daniela – you have been my affectionate shadow for so long. How could I possibly live without my shadow?’

  Marvelling at the tenderness in her voice, he happily continued feasting on her beauty.

  Then surpising both herself and him, she pulled his head down and kissed him hard on the mouth. He kissed her back, assuaging years of need. It was he who pulled away feeling himself going crazy with the need to carry on kissing her.

  ‘No more, Saher! Please! Let me go!’

  Blushing hard and looking away, Saher nodded. He stood up, breathing hard, trying to maintain a normal heartbeat.

  ‘I’m glad you called me. If you hadn’t I was planning to leave for Islamabad tomorrow. I think after our kissing and for your reputation’s sake, my darling, it’s best that I don’t sleep under the same roof as you until we’re married … best that I return home. I can’t trust myself. Your mother, too, will not be pleased, you know that! Aunt Rani has always known how I felt about you. She definitely saw what you failed to see.’

  ‘Yes, I was blind! And yes, you must go back home. I’m fine now … I was just upset about losing you,’ her husky voice wooed, not ashamed of having kissed him, finding herself alight with passion.

  Smiling and nodding at her, he got up to leave, noting the brazen smile curving her lips.

  His hand was on the door handle when he heard her whisper, ‘I love you! As a man! You know that now!’ A triumphant smile slashing across his face, Arslan let himself out of her room.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Making-Up

  ‘Massi Fiza!�
� Rukhsar’s eldest daughter called, peering down from the rooftop gallery of her house into Massi Fiza’s small courtyard, stacked with an assortment of baskets and bags of laundry.

  In the middle of it all was Massi Fiza in full swing with her washing, her agile mind assessing each article of unwashed clothing in the basket in front of her. An agonising debate going on in her head rested on whether to dip the sweetmaker’s syrup-sodden shirt into the same water as his daughter’s delicate lawn kameez.

  Massi Fiza’s honesty and fair play as always ruled the day. Allah Pak had blessed her with a conscience of which she was immensely proud. ‘Allah Pak is watching … he sees everything you do,’ she took care to brutally remind herself when occasionally she was tempted to economise on detergent. Her commitment to quality work dictated that it would be a crime to let such a delicate article of clothing touch a stained one. Sighing, she swished aside the sweetmaker’s greasy overalls.

  She hated this part of the day – the horrible chores of boiling pots of water, and then dipping, lathering, kneading and the painstaking task of rinsing the sodden clothes with her bony arms.

  ‘Auntie Fiza,’ Rukhsar’s daughter called again from the roof terrace. She could just make out their neighbour leaning over a large, red, plastic tub and listening to another one of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s qawalis. The dust-encrusted audiotape ran at least four times a day. Fans of Nusrat’s qawalis knew where to go just to hear his voice in the village. Many stalled their pace outside Massi Fiza’s courtyard wall to chant the long ‘Allaho Allaho’ qawali.

  Massi Fiza glanced up, face brimming with pleasure, then immediately she straightened it, her mouth becoming a tight slit; remembering that she was not on speaking terms with the household next door. Then just as quickly she relented, chiding herself that it was the mother she had fallen out with, not the girls – they still remained her ‘darlings’.

  Cupping her hand over her lined forehead to shield her face from the beating sun, she warmly called back, ‘Yes, my daughter?’