Razia

by Abda Khan

  They acknowledged each other with a quick nod of the head, and a reassuring glance, but said nothing. Mr Amin held out his arm in the direction of the front door, and declared, ‘Shall we?’ and Farah, having placed her trust in him, led the way to the apartment.

  Zaheer opened the door, and Farah saw his face change instantly from a neutral expression to one of astonishment. He feigned a wide smile.

  ‘Zaheer, may we come in?’ asked Mr Amin.

  ‘What an unexpected pleasure this is, Sir. Of course, yes, please do. Is everything all right?’

  Zaheer threw a brief glance at Farah but did not acknowledge her directly. She was not surprised. She let the snub go and refrained from saying anything; she didn’t want to give him any satisfaction.

  Just then Aneela strolled into the hallway.

  ‘Mr Amin Sahib, what a lovely pleasure. And Farah. How delightful to see you again,’ said Aneela. Farah could sense that she was trying to diffuse the tension. ‘Please do come in; would you like tea or coffee, or masala chai perhaps?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ replied Mr Amin.

  ‘Is everything OK, Sir?’ persisted Aneela.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Mr Amin, turning to Zaheer. ‘I will tell you once I have spoken to your housekeeper.’

  ‘My … my housekeeper?’ he asked with another smile, although this time it was more forced.

  ‘Yes, Razia is her name, I believe,’ Mr Amin said, in a very matter-of-fact way. ‘Can you fetch her, please?’

  Zaheer’s laboured smile began to evaporate.

  ‘Mr Amin. With all due respect, Sir, this is highly irregular, and to be honest, quite absurd. You are my boss at work. Fine. But you have no right to come to my house and interfere in my domestic affairs. What on earth can you want with Razia? She has nothing to do with my job. This is an invasion of my privacy.’

  Mr Amin cleared his throat.

  ‘Either you go and get her immediately, or I telephone the police. Miss Jilani here has some information about your domestic affairs, and I’m sure the authorities would be more than interested to hear all about it. So, which is it to be?’

  Farah exhaled a quiet sigh of relief, feeling thankful that someone was finally taking her seriously.

  Zaheer reluctantly went off to fetch Razia. Aneela threw a steely cold glance at Farah, which she held for a good few seconds, but she said nothing to her, nor to Mr Amin.

  A few moments later, Razia came into the hallway, walking slowly behind Zaheer.

  ‘You wait here, please,’ Mr Amin instructed Farah, before he took Razia into the lounge. On this occasion, Farah did as she was told and waited in the hallway. Farah noticed Zaheer quietly disappear off towards the kitchen. Farah had half expected him to start questioning her, to start demanding answers about the intrusion, but he refrained from any kind of confrontation, unlike during the telephone conversation they’d had; she found this both surprising and a little unsettling. Perhaps he just wanted to ignore her to make a point, thought Farah, but she observed that he did seem to be very good at controlling his outward appearance and suppressing his emotions whenever he needed to, and she wondered how many different masks he wore.

  Aneela drew closer to Farah. Her face was flushed, and she spoke to Farah in a hushed tone.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Aneela asked her.

  ‘What on earth am I doing? It’s you and your husband who need to be asked this question.’

  Aneela’s eyes misted over, but she didn’t blink or flinch in any way.

  ‘Don’t give me those doe eyes,’ continued Farah. ‘I heard and saw you both the evening of the dinner party, laying into Razia as she cowered on the floor. I know you both lock her up. I know you both throw abuse at her whenever the mood takes you. I know she is beaten. What sort of people do that?’

  ‘Now listen to me, and listen carefully,’ said Aneela. She moved closer to Farah, and lowered her voice even further. ‘They’ve only been in there a minute. There is no real harm done yet. You can go in there and tell Mr Amin that you made a mistake and stop this whole thing right now.’

  ‘And why on earth would I do that?’ said Farah, as she stepped away from Aneela.

  ‘You need to listen to me. If you don’t put a stop to this you will regret it. Whatever vendetta you have against my husband, let it go. Now get in there before it’s too late.’

  ‘Not in a million years. Nice try to save your husband’s skin, and indeed your own, but it’s not working. I am staying right here, and there is nothing you can do about it.’

  Aneela stared at Farah for a few seconds with an unwavering, strong gaze; she slowly opened her mouth to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. She headed off to the kitchen to join Zaheer. This encounter only filled Farah with a renewed sense of determination, and she was now certain that rescuing Razia was the right thing to do.

  *

  Razia stood in the middle of the large lounge; her head was down, and her eyes were fixed on the colours and patterns of the Persian rug. Her chaddar was wrapped around her head, arms and shoulders tightly. Her salwar kameez was a dark grey, shapeless outfit, and there were what appeared to be two large turmeric stains just above the front hem, underneath which her ragged sandals peeped out.

  ‘Please, do sit down,’ gestured Mr Amin.

  She looked at him briefly, and then scanned the room around her, before seating herself on the rug.

  ‘No!’ said Mr Amin, almost shouting, although he hadn’t meant to raise his voice at all. He quickly tempered his tone. ‘No, no, beti, you must not sit on the floor, you must sit on the sofa,’ he said softly.

  Mr Amin walked a couple of steps towards her, and gestured again with this hand for her to sit down on the leather settee.

  She still hesitated; her eyes darted uneasily from the door, and then towards the sofa.

  ‘Please?’ Mr Amin asked.

  She stood up and made her way across to the sofa. She perched herself on the very edge. Her body was tense; her shoulders were hunched, and she crossed her arms beneath her chaddar. She carried on looking at the flowery, paisley patterns on the silk rug. She did not lift her gaze; she seemed to him to be sitting in a state of complete unease.

  If he was honest with himself, Mr Amin had to acknowledge that there was probably no need to ask her anything. Just one look at this poor girl told him everything he could possibly need to know. She was painfully thin; she looked like a brittle, parched twig, as though she would break if one so much as touched her. Although her eyes were large and brown, from what he could see of them, for the girl barely looked up, they possessed a sallow sadness and lacked any life or vibrancy. Her cheeks were sunken and colourless. Mr Amin noticed that her face was devoid of any expression, other than perhaps fear; he could sense that she was fearful, even though he had not given her any cause to feel that way. This filled him with a deep feeling of sadness, and he wondered what this girl might have endured to be full of so much dread.

  Razia unfolded her arms, and twirled one corner of her chaddar around her fingers; all the while she continued to look down and avoid eye contact. Her hands were bony; her nails were chipped, and her fingertips were dry and cracked like an old woman’s. She was a stark physical, and no doubt equally disturbing mental, embodiment of her circumstances. In another situation, at another time, she may have looked beautiful, youthful, happy. Not here. Not now. She was a shadow of a girl.

  Farah noted from her watch that they had been in the lounge for over forty minutes. She couldn’t help but wonder what was being said in there; wonder how the conversation was progressing.

  Zaheer reared his head back out from wherever he had disappeared to, and came to stand by Farah. Aneela was nowhere to be seen.

  He put his face just a few inches from hers.

  ‘You will bitterly regret this, Farah; both you and Razia. I will make sure you pay for this,’ he said. Each word was spoken with a cold, sinister edge.

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p; ‘I don’t think you’re in any position right now to make threats, do you?’ she retaliated coolly.

  But Farah wasn’t feeling at all cool inside. She could feel an uncomfortable, sticky sensation behind her neck and ears.

  ‘It isn’t a threat, you stupid girl. It is an absolute pukka promise,’ Zaheer said.

  Farah could not look at him any longer, and turned her face away.

  Just then, the door to the lounge opened.

  As soon as they stepped out of the room, Razia quietly disappeared off down the hallway and Mr Amin came to stand opposite Zaheer.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what she’s told you,’ Zaheer said, before Mr Amin could speak, ‘but like I have already explained to Farah, Razia is a serial liar—’

  ‘Quiet!’ roared Mr Amin, and Farah almost jumped out of her skin.

  ‘I do not want to hear another word,’ he said a little more gently. ‘I cannot believe the way in which you have treated this young girl. It wasn’t easy getting her to talk, I can tell you that much; but she did talk, eventually, and she has told me as much as I need to know. You have conducted yourself in a way that is not befitting for any human being, let alone a man of your position within our organisation. I think you can consider your career over!’ Mr Amin stood with his arms unswervingly straight, down by his sides, and he had his fists clenched as he spoke. Otherwise, he made no show of emotion.

  Farah’s sense of relief was quite extraordinary. Seeing Mr Amin act in this way had restored her faith in humanity and went against the commonly held belief that all Pakistani men in positions of power were corrupt. Mr Amin, she surmised, was a good, honest human being, prepared to step up for the oppressed, and to do the right thing. How utterly refreshing, she thought to herself, and what a relief that she no longer felt alone in her pursuit of freedom for Razia.

  ‘Right then,’ said Mr Amin, ‘One thing is certain, Razia cannot stay here a second longer. I could ring around some charities; perhaps there are some refuges that house women in her situation—’

  ‘I will take her in,’ announced Farah.

  Both men looked at her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mr Amin asked.

  ‘Yes, I am absolutely sure; she can come and stay with me.’

  Farah didn’t hesitate in taking on this responsibility; she had made a promise to Razia, and she wanted to see it through.

  ‘Well, that would be very helpful. Thank you,’ said Mr Amin.

  ‘But what’s the long-term plan?’ asked Farah.

  ‘She has asked to be sent back to her family in Pakistan, I understand that her family owes a debt to your brother,’ Mr Amin said, as he looked at Zaheer, who did not say anything in response. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Mr Amin looked back at Farah. ‘I believe he is the feudal landlord of the brick kiln where she and her family work, some thirty or forty miles outside of Lahore. Razia is very anxious about the fact that this debt will remain if she goes back to Pakistan, as the idea was that she would come to the UK and work for nothing to help to pay off at least some of the money that is owed.’

  Mr Amin shook his head in disbelief, and then pointed his right index finger at Zaheer, although he spoke calmly and precisely.

  ‘You had this poor girl at your beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You kept her passport from her, which, by the way, you will now hand over. You haven’t paid her a penny since the day she arrived. You haven’t allowed her to make any contact with her family. She hasn’t spoken to them since the day she left Pakistan, not even once. You haven’t bought her any clothes or toiletries, and she eats only leftover food. You haven’t taken her out since the day she set foot in this place; worse than that, you lock her up when you are out yourselves, shopping and partying and having a great time. You have treated this poor girl worse than an animal. And the beatings. Not to mention the obscene verbal abuse that she has had to put up with.’

  Farah swallowed hard as she tried to digest these details, as she tried to comprehend just how much pain this girl had endured.

  Zaheer opened his mouth, but Mr Amin put his palm in front of Zaheer’s face.

  ‘Coming back to this debt that her family supposedly owe,’ continued Mr Amin, ‘she doesn’t even know how much it is. But, however much it is, we will take care of it, and I will arrange the flight back to Pakistan. As an organisation whose senior member of staff has treated someone so abhorrently, it’s the least we can do. As soon as I leave here, I will make arrangements for someone to go out and speak to her family tomorrow, to start the ball rolling.’

  Zaheer listened to all of this quietly, without moving, and without giving much away about what he was feeling. His head hung slightly; he had his arms crossed and he was silent throughout Mr Amin’s speech.

  Mr Amin directed one final comment towards Zaheer. ‘Make sure you come to the office first thing tomorrow morning, when I can deal with you properly.’

  Razia walked slowly towards the front door, carrying a small carrier bag that contained all her worldly belongings – one change of clothes and a spare chaddar.

  ‘Come, ladies, I will give you a lift in my car to your destination,’ said Mr Amin.

  Farah and Mr Amin stepped out of the front door; they had walked a few steps before Farah noticed that Razia hadn’t moved yet. Farah walked back towards her, and Mr Amin turned around and looked on.

  Farah noticed Razia was a little shaky, and her eyes were bleary.

  ‘It’s OK; come on, we will look after you, I promise,’ Farah reassured her, and then she held out her hand.

  Razia grabbed hold of Farah’s hand and took her first step, followed by the second, and a tear escaped her eye as she walked towards the car.

  15

  LAHORE

  One Year Earlier

  Razia, Karim and Javed were all squatting on the ground. They were just a few feet from each other as they continued the daily task of shaping the bricks in the rusty old moulds. They then patted them upside down, so they landed firmly on the ground with a solid thud, and left them to dry in the blazing sun.

  Razia’s salwar kameez were covered in dirty marks from all the brick-making work. She had her chaddar wrapped around her head and shoulders, but ensured her arms were free to carry out the tasks. Her neck hurt from the constant strain of drooping her head down, not only to get the work done but also to keep the ferocious sun out of her eyes.

  Karim looked much older than his probable age of around fifty. He did not know his actual date of birth. Razia knew that years of working in the brick kiln for long hours in searing temperatures had taken their toll. His dark face was wrinkled like that of a man in his seventies. But what alarmed his daughter even more was the way in which the work had now affected his hands; as always, they were covered in the dirty gunge from which the bricks were shaped, but the disturbing part was the way in which his hands shook whilst he carried on with the work. Razia guessed that this was probably the onset of some unforgiving disease taking hold. But she didn’t know any more than that; her father had not actually been seen by a doctor for any sort of official diagnosis. The medical fees were totally out of their reach. Each day, Razia observed her father living and working with the illness as best he could, for the requirement of the master to produce a thousand bricks a day meant there was no choice but to keep working, regardless of the heat or the increasing inability of his hands to work as fast as they used to.

  Javed, who was now in his mid-twenties, had the benefit of youth, and the energy that came with it, and Razia was grateful that he was able to work with such speed and agility. Thankfully, he took responsibility for many of the jobs that involved heavy lifting and carrying, and he undertook the work involving the fire; these tasks were now beyond their father’s physical capabilities and they were jobs Razia knew he would never expect her or their mother to do if he could help it.

  Razia knew that today they would not meet the demand for a thousand bricks; far from it. Today, their mo
ther Nusrat had not come to the brick kiln, for she was ill, and Razia was going to leave early. She had begged to have some time off; she had told her brother that she needed to help her friend prepare for her forthcoming wedding. Worse still, Javed himself had to leave earlier than usual for an errand that could not be avoided. In her heart, Razia was torn; she felt guilty for leaving early, and even guiltier for not being completely honest about why she needed some time off, but at the same time, she needed to seize these little opportunities to escape the gruelling labour, and snatch a few moments of happiness whenever possible.

  Razia and her fellow bonded slaves worked fourteen hours, or more, each day, even though the severity of the work almost broke their backs, and the summer heat beat them down until they were barely ghosts of themselves by the end of the day. And the next day, it would begin all over again. There were no schools for the children. When Razia looked around the brick kiln, she saw that the babies lay forlorn on one side, and the toddlers played absent-mindedly in the dirt, never knowing what toys were. For their amusement they used oddly shaped stones, rough ones and smooth ones, and prickly sticks. As soon as Razia and her brother had been old enough, they had been set to task; she recalled how they had continually and diligently fetched and carried for their parents. Their hunger for a meal that evening meant they had both worked industriously, without fuss.

  Razia knew that their life must differ in a million ways from the lives of children in other places that she had occasionally seen depicted in pictures in books, or from what she had observed when she had gone into town. Instead of walking to school every day, Razia and her brother had trudged to the brick kiln. Instead of carrying books, they had carried bricks. Instead of designing and making objects in the classroom, they had shaped bricks. They never had a childhood, or anything resembling an education, for these were not seen as an entitlement for such youngsters like Razia and her brother. Reaching the target number of bricks was all that mattered to their family: day in, day out. Nothing else existed. They made their bricks, they were paid a pittance and they barely survived.