Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Her son was already out on the veranda. At the door he whispered, ‘And don’t tell anyone that I was here. Many of my friends have died – others have fled into the mountains and across the Afghan border. I’m following them to fight the Americans.’

  Massi Fiza stood for a long time under the light of the stars in the small courtyard, bemused at her thoughts and feelings. Why did she not feel any fear for her son’s safety? When did she become such a hard woman? The answer came fast. ‘Because I don’t know him any more!’

  *

  Massi Fiza felt a gentle touch on her arm. Alarmed, she lifted her head, sleep vanishing in a second. Rukhsar was standing by the side of her bed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Massi Fiza squeaked, flustered, her eyes opening and closing, worried in case Rukhsar had seen her son and ashamed of her overcrowded and cluttered surroundings.

  ‘To see how you are,’ Rukhsar gently replied, keenly aware of Massi Fiza’s discomfort. Politely, she kept her eyes off the stack of four battered leather suitcases and the pile of her son’s clothes strewn across the floor. This was Massi Fiza’s entire domain – the place where she slept, lived and hoarded all her worldly goods. Her sons, when at home, slept in the smaller room annexed to the kitchen. Rukhsar brutally crushed the urge to make a quick exit.

  ‘I …’ Massi Fiza sat up, holding onto the tight nala band around her head.

  ‘Shabnum told me last night that you aren’t well. Tell me what’s wrong, my friend?’ Rukhsar softly coaxed, noting her friend’s flushed cheeks and the reason behind them – embarrassment.

  ‘Just not feeling well – a bit of a headache,’ Massi Fiza stuttered, plucking at the frayed ends of an old embroidered flower motif on her pillowcase that her Aunt Noor had stitched two decades ago. She had always prided herself on her bedding, but today, to be caught sleeping on an old pillowcase was unforgivable! Then she blushed beetroot at the sight of the yellowy oil stain spread across the middle from her head massage. She strategically shifted her arm over it, whilst following Rukhsar’s eyes to the four tins of starch powder, her sons’ old portable beds stacked one on top of the other, her two wooden dowry chairs, one with a missing leg. Her good-for-nothing sons had never got it mended.

  The contrast between her friend’s well-to-do home, with its foreign silk rugs, modern quality furniture, two maids and three college-educated daughters looking after it, and her own humble solitary existence was indeed unfair. Then to be caught like this when she was feeling at her lowest! Massi Fiza burst into tears, burying her face in her muslin dupatta.

  ‘Massi Fiza, what’s wrong?’ Rukhsar was nonplussed, gingerly resting herself on the rounded wooden leg post of Massi Fiza’s bed. Then she eased herself down on the jute section, ignoring its rough texture chafing the soft flesh of her thighs through the Benarasi silk fabric of her shalwar. Apparently, Massi Fiza did not use the under mattress, thaliée, on her bed. In Rukhsar’s house they had modern beds with thick mattresses and huge, fancy headboards. The portable jute beds were only used for visitors and were always neatly kept hidden away. The poverty and the squalor of her neighbour’s house depressed Rukhsar.

  Massi Fiza pulled her legs up, making space for her friend, head bent, still sobbing into her shawl, agonising over whether to tell her friend about her son.

  ‘Something is obviously wrong?’ Rukhsar gently prompted. ‘Please tell me. Aren’t I your friend?’ Her gentle tone and kind words melted Massi Fiza’s reserve.

  ‘It’s my sons. I’m worried about them.’ She offered a half-truth.

  ‘What?’ There was a pregnant pause.

  Rukhsar wasn’t surprised. The selfish behaviour of her neighbour’s two sons had always disgusted her, and everyone in the village speculated that they would end up as criminals.

  ‘The elder came home last night and took everything – down to my last rupee.’ Massi Fiza decided to tell this much, but nothing more.

  Rukhsar diplomatically kept silent. ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered again, her heart going out to her friend.

  ‘Thanks,’ Massi Fiza muttered, now regretting telling her neighbour and too ashamed to raise her head and show her smarting red cheeks. Who would ever offer their daughters to her criminal sons? Rukhsar certainly would not.

  Not that her sons had ever had any hopes of success in that direction. From their childhood days, those trendy, fashionable, chauffeur-driven, young women, living upstairs in the house next door, were in a different league. Daughters of a well-off goldsmith, blessed with not only good looks but a college education from the nearest city, their attitude to fellow villagers oozed snobbery. With their style of dressing, mannerisms, the way they spoke, they were ‘city girls’ at heart; eager to marry urban men and escape to the glamorous and, in their words, more ‘civilised’ world of the city.

  Massi Fiza’s boys on the other hand had barely made it to the eighth class. The shame of being two loutish lads stuck in the seventh class for two years in a row, sitting amongst younger children, was deeply mortifying for both them and their mother. So when they sidled out of school via long absences, their mother squeaked not a word of protest, secretly hoping that they would now take over the laundry business. The boys had other ideas, immediately absconding to the capital, seeking migration agents and their fortune. And they only occasionally came back, usually to rob their mother of her hard-earned cash from the laundry business. Whilst their mother was a favourite with the girls next door, the boys were treated with sneers.

  ‘And he didn’t even stay the night,’ Massi Fiza mourned.

  ‘I hope you won’t mind me saying this,’ Rukhsar had dispensed with diplomacy. ‘As we are good friends, we should be able to exchange honest views. Do you agree, Massi Fiza-ji?’

  Massi Fiza looked up, fearful of what Rukhsar was about to say. ‘Yes,’ she answered meekly, ready for a lecture.

  ‘Right, first let me tell you that you have wasted your life away on your good-for-nothing sons – pardon my blunt words. I speak not to offend you, but as a concerned friend. I’m worried about your health. Your work hard to earn a living and support your two sons but, in the end, they are just as bad as their father, aren’t they? Please let me finish.’ Rukhsar saw Massi Fiza’s mouth open to defend her family. ‘The miserable gits have all abandoned you and used you! Your husband may well be abroad. You think he’s dead, don’t you? But God knows what he has been up to for all these years – women, drink or even worse. He has just disappeared off the face of the earth … Despicable man!’ Seeing her friend’s mouth open again, she hastened to add, ‘Please, Massi Fiza, don’t even jump to his defence!

  ‘Has anyone ever come home? Most of your Eids are spent alone. If they deign to visit you, they arrive late at night and by morning are gone. Do they hold you and the village life so contemptible? Please, Massi Fiza …’ she continued. ‘I don’t speak out of malice … to hurt you … but to gently remind you of the reality of your sons’ lives.’

  Massi Fiza dejectedly nodded. In her heart of hearts she agreed with everything.

  ‘They are ashamed of me – this home … my work! How do you expect them to come and stay here in a house piled with dirty laundry? As poor children they have an inferiority complex – that’s the problem.’

  Rukhsar’s heart melted at her friend’s predicament.

  ‘Your sons have turned out to be little snobs, Massi Fiza-ji! Should our children be ashamed of the very parents who have brought them into this world and worked so hard to raise them? We all work, Massi Fiza, to earn our livelihood. There’s absolutely nothing demeaning or wrong about any kind of work … For I believe all work is honourable if it puts food into our children’s mouths and if we provide a service for the well-being of society.’

  ‘Oh, Rukhsar-ji, so kind of you to think like that, but you know very well that some work is more honourable than others. For instance, yours is better than mine …’ her voice trailed away.

  ‘I’m not going to discuss this further, f
or you’re falling into the same trap as your sons. I value your work. We all work in some context or other, whether out in the fields or at home making quilts. Apart from the zemindars’ wives, the landladies like Gulbahar or those supported by their menfolk working abroad, all women work pretty hard in the village, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes! Thank you,’ Massi Fiza gratefully mumbled, appreciating what her friend was trying to do, but inside she was still drowning in her grief and regret.

  ‘Rukhsar-ji, I wish I had a daughter. She would not have done this to me.’

  ‘Yes, Massi Fiza-ji, a daughter remains a daughter for life. Now, please get up, bring a suit or two with you – you’re coming to stay with me. Don’t look so surprised. My girls and I are going to look after you – you are overworked and highly depressed.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Your washing can go to hell for a few days! Just rest … If you like, you can thread some pearls for me!’

  ‘Rukhsar-ji?’ Massi Fiza’s voice trembled, touched by her generosity.

  Rukhsar pulled her friend up – Massi Fiza’s chapped fingers were rough against her soft palm – eager to be off, unable to stand the musty smell of detergent any longer.

  *

  In the goldsmith’s guest room, Shabnum hovered near Massi Fiza’s bed with a bowl of chicken soup, graciously offering it to their unwanted guest.

  Very rarely did the three sisters agree on anything. Today, they unanimously doubted their mother’s wisdom in bringing their lowly neighbour to stay with them. And, horror upon horrors, letting her sleep in the guest room on the soft king-sized mattress. They all grimaced at the thought of Massi Fiza’s oily head knocking against the creamy white velour of the headboard. When their mother overheard their conversation, she was mortally aggrieved and being a God-fearing woman earnestly touched her ears and beseeched her Allah Pak to forgive her daughters’ arrogance in referring to another human being as lowly.

  ‘As human beings we need to treat each other with respect,’ she had passionately beseeched while her daughters had mocked her with a look of pure bewilderment.

  ‘Mother, she’s like a servant! How can she be our equal?’ Shabnum blurted. Which planet did their mother live on?

  ‘You callous snobs, all three of you!’ Rukhsar bitterly lashed out, chilled by their statement. ‘How would you like it if somebody called you lowly? In the social hierarchy, the goldsmith is at the lower end, for your information! The sun also rises and sets for all people.’ That sobered the girls.

  Their mother continued with her lecture. ‘In the eyes of our Allah Pak, we are all equal! Doesn’t everyone pray together in mosques and perform Hajj together in Mecca? And you are complaining about a woman who has done so much for you spoilt girls.

  ‘So, enough of this lowly nonsense! Fiza-ji may wash people’s clothes in our village but she’s my best friend and I’m not ashamed of her. But I am extremely ashamed of you all, for harbouring such wicked thoughts.’ She turned her back on them.

  ‘But, Mother. Everybody thinks like us – not like you!’ Shabnum boldly reminded her mother.

  ‘Does that make it OK? I thought I had you well educated, my girls, but apparently those women’s magazines have only taught you fashion, make-up tips and to text “twits” on your phones.’

  ‘Tweets, Mother!’ Ruhi corrected. They all laughed – their mother was catching on to the use of social media.

  Their mother was not amused. ‘Twits or tweets, now, go and be nice to your Aunt Fiza. And put those damn phones away, girls! Can’t you keep your hands free from them for even a few minutes?’ Smiling, all three sisters vigorously shook their heads. Their phones and iPads were their link to the big ‘outside’ world.

  Rukhsar had made the soup herself, with the right quantity of chilli seasoning, and had even thrown in some new potatoes which Massi Fiza loved.

  ‘Shabnum, it was Massi Fiza-ji who embroidered the lace on your dupatta at midnight once!’

  Chastised thus, Shabnum dutifully carried the tray to Massi Fiza, pinning a pleasant smile to her lips. She sat with their guest for up to an hour, trying her very best to entertain her while inside she cynically wondered what a boarding-school and college girl could have in common with an illiterate older woman? In any event, poor Aunt Fiza was quite depressed and her mouth had a permanent downward tilt, no matter how many jokes Shabnum told her. When her mother finally walked in, she let out a sigh of relief.

  Rukhsar was determined to get her friend out of this dismal mood.

  ‘Massi Fiza-ji,’ she began, ‘I bring you some good news. The baker’s wife has just told me that Mistress Laila and her daughter have returned and both are now at her parents’ house. Can you believe it?’

  Massi Fiza’s head shot up from the pillow, her round eyes alight with interest.

  ‘Really!’ she croaked.

  ‘Yes, really! Apparently mother and daughter came the other night. It was our sweetmaker who kindly informed the baker’s wife after getting a large order for hot jalebis for the granddaughter.’

  ‘What, Rukhsar-ji! They have accepted the potter’s brat into their home!’

  ‘It’s their grandchild, don’t forget, Massi Fiza!’ Rukhsar coldly reminded her. Massi Fiza was just as bad as her daughters for putting people down.

  Massi Fiza was now sitting up. Excitement was to be found elsewhere and there was nothing to be gained in moping around in bed. Fancy Rukhsar bringing her some news for a change!

  ‘Rukhsar-ji, I’m well enough now! I would like to thank you for your hospitality …’

  ‘You’re going nowhere!’ Rukhsar chuckled, reading her friend’s thoughts very accurately, and gently pushing her down on the bed. ‘Not until you’ve fully recovered your strength. I know you want to see what it’s like at Master Haider’s home, but you’ll leave when I say so! Is that clear, Massi Fiza-ji?’

  Massi Fiza, bemused, dumbly nodded.

  She persisted, however. ‘Please, Rukhsar-ji, ring Begum and tell her that I’ll be down in the hevali for their washing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘OK, acha baba. What do you think will happen if the potter’s son ends up on their doorstep? Will they take him in or not?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rukhsar-ji, but I’m so pleased that Mistress Laila is back at home. I can’t wait to see her daughter walking around the hevali – that’s if Begum lets me in … She’s always telling me off for spreading rumours. As if I would!’

  ‘Yes, as if you would!’ Rukhsar chuckled.

  ‘Well, I gossip, and mainly with you. And it’s quite harmless … you know that.’ Massi Fiza looked aggrieved. ‘I’m not a malicious person and would never speak ill of anyone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rukhsar agreed with alacrity. ‘You’re an honest, gentle soul.’

  ‘Thank you, Rukhsar-ji.’

  ‘Well, you can show your gratitude by drinking this wonderful soup. I used a full chicken – not skimped on anything … so that you can gain your energy back!’

  Touched by her friend’s kindness and with shiny, tearful eyes, Massi Fiza noisily slurped down the bowl of soup, picking at the tender chicken meat with her chapped fingertips.

  Rukhsar watched her friend happily, shrugging aside the thought of work on the big necklace for the lecturer’s daughter’s wedding. Massi Fiza had given so many hours and days of her life to her family.

  CHAPTER 44

  The Potter’s Son

  Nobody in Master Haider’s household was prepared for Jubail’s arrival two days later. ‘Daddy’s here!’ Shirin came running into the central courtyard.

  Laila’s heart plummeted, the pea-pod shell popping out of her fingers. She was sitting under the veranda, giving Begum a hand in preparing the vegetables for the evening meal and enjoying the breeze from the water cooler. Her mother, engrossed in the chopping and quartering of lemons and raw green mangoes for the pickle, sat up straight in her chair, the small knife poised in mid-air, and exchanged a nervous glance with her daughter as
the outside door was thrust open.

  Jubail stood in the doorway, body tall and stiff, eyes quickly locating his wife and coolly resting on her face. Laila coloured, noting the rigidness of his face and his hostile gaze, now on her mother. Spellbound, Gulbahar was caught in the moment, taking her fill of the man who had stolen their daughter and blanketed their lives with misery for over a decade.

  Jubail could not quite fathom his mother-in-law’s expression. There was neither hostility nor welcome. He scrutinised his wife’s demeanour, seeking telltale signs.

  Then his daughter joyously flung her small arms around his waist. Laila glanced down at the bowl of peas. Bile rushed through Jubail – she had finally chosen her family over him.

  They all heard the footsteps on the marble staircase. A ball of nervous energy spiralled through the three women, their hearts thudding and breath held.

  Haider had taken his afternoon nap and was on his way back to the office for a meeting with two of his tenants, unprepared for the sight in the courtyard. On seeing Jubail, he stood still, reading carefully the scene in front of him, noting his daughter’s bowed head and the mixture of dread and appeal on his wife’s face. A petrified Begum leaned against the marble pillar, her two fingers, gripping a pinch of birdseed, stuck in the parakeet’s cage. And there, just inside his courtyard, stood the ‘beast’, with his arm protectively around his own daughter, eyes defiant.

  Sensing the tension in the courtyard, Shirin’s timid gaze flitted from one adult face to the other, hands clutching at her father’s jeans. It was that little action alone that brought home to her grandfather exactly what was at stake.

  The girl.

  Laila was drowning, distressed by her divided loyalties – pulled between parents who had suffered so much and a hostile husband about to walk out of her life.