Beyond the Fields

by Aysha Baqir

  Bushra didn’t speak to me until the end of the second week. Then she took charge. She gave me a drawer for my belongings. She drew my charpai closer to hers. She allowed me to listen to gossip with other maids, who let me be.

  Our Saab, or Jameel Sheikh, owned many houses. He had moved back from Dubai to Pakistan to set up a textile mill with the help of his first cousin, who was a high official in the army. Sehr Madam was his first cousin. Under family pressure, he had married her when she had turned seventeen. In their family, business and marriage stayed inside the family.

  I caught Sehr Madam flitting in and out of the house. She was beautiful but as translucent and fleeting as the shadows that shifted through the day. Bushra confided that unlike other homes where she had worked, in this house Jameel Saab took a keen interest in the hiring and firing of staff. He had hired Gloria in Dubai and brought her back with him. Bushra whispered that Gloria had instructed all the other maids to address her as “Ma’am”. It upset Sehr Madam, and quarrels flared up quickly. It was better to stay out of Sehr Madam’s way then.

  Bushra whispered that Gloria was the real madam. She ruled over the servants, and her stature was beyond question, even above Jameel Saab’s bodyguards. Gloria had nurtured a clan of servants in the house; they were her eyes and ears in the house, and in return, they were allowed to bully any servant they wanted, whenever they wanted.

  In a few weeks, I realised that Bushra was right. Gloria was the real madam. She stood at the top of the hierarchy. Apart from the guards, drivers and cook, there were the other maids: one for cleaning the windows, one for oiling Sehr Madam’s hair and massaging her, and one for taking Babur Saab to the school and picking him up. Bushra was Sehr Madam’s personal maid and she had to stay close to her at all times, starting from the morning when she brought her tea in bed. Nanny was Babur Saab’s maid. I was the maid for ‘oopar ka kaam’, which meant dusting and polishing the furniture and shelves and washing and ironing the clothes. My position was just above the maid for ‘neechay ka kaam’ – Surriya, a young, scrawny girl who wore clothes a size too small, who swept and scrubbed the floors and driveway, and returned to her home, a shack in a slum behind a shopping plaza, by dusk each day.

  Surriya and I ate last and after the other servants had eaten. The cook gave us the smallest portions, saying that was all there was to eat. Sometimes we went without dinner. She had to leave and I, exhausted from the chores, would fall asleep. Bushra told me not to worry. She had a plan.

  One afternoon, she led me to the refrigerator in the pantry and nodded. I stood still and unsure, knowing I could be fired. I had been warned to stay away from the food that was cooked for Jameel Saab’s family. About to turn away, I paused, seeing Bushra open the refrigerator door. A scent of pulao wafted out. I inhaled and shut my eyes. My mouth watered, my tummy rumbled. Without thinking, I grabbed the plate that Bushra held out, reached inside and scooped a handful of rice onto the plate. I chewed hungrily and grasped another handful. I was hooked.

  The refrigerator carried more food than the family would ever need. Watching me eat, Bushra said that if I did as I was told, I could take my pick of what to eat, because cook napped every afternoon and the other maids snuck off to the lounge to watch TV. But in return, I had to give Bushra her share, and do as she said.

  A few weeks later, Bushra whispered that there was a stash of snacks in Sehr Madam’s cupboard. Most of the treats would spoil before Sehr Madam even opened them. The cupboard was locked, but she could teach me to pick locks. Did I want to learn?

  Wavering for a heartbeat, I nodded. Sehr Madam would never miss them. In a few weeks I had learnt to steal packets of nuts, supari or betel nut, and chocolates from the stock of dozens of boxes in Sehr Madam’s cupboard. Bushra urged me to nick other things. Tempted by shiny clips, scarves, jewellery, and wads of money, I hesitated, but put them back. I wasn’t a thief.

  After a few weeks of catching me browsing through Babur Saab’s books, Bushra confided that there was a treasure trove of books in Jameel Saab’s study. And he rarely read. Unable to stop myself, I began to sneak Jameel Saab’s books up to my room. I read about history, geography and the technology that was fast shaping the world. Every time I read, I felt whole and closer to the girl who had cleared her exams and won a scholarship. I marked the diary each morning and waited for Omer to call me. Where was he? He had to have some news by now.

  In the late afternoon, hearing the doorknob turn, I shut the book on boxing that I had taken down to browse. The door swung open and Babur Saab, dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots, pulled away from Nanny. “Zara,” he called, running up to me. Scotty followed him. “I want to play the tez-gari game.” Babur Saab, Scotty and I had become friends after I had started slipping them stolen treats. The tez-gari game involved Babur Saab climbing onto my back, while I scampered around the room imitating the tez-gari, or Jameel Saab’s Ferrari, parked in the garage. Scotty ran after us barking, with his tail wagging.

  “Hurry,” snapped Nanny, dropping a blue and red costume on the bed. “He has to get ready for a birthday party. Get him changed. We must leave by four fifteen.”

  “Oh, is it time already?” I stooped to allow Babur Saab to jump off. He was ten years old but acted like a six-year-old. Or did children in villages grow up faster?

  “It's past four, girl. At least learn to tell the time while you’re here.” Nanny rolled her eyes.

  “Zara can’t tell the time,” chanted Babur Saab. Throwing his hand up, he jiggled his new watch.

  “Of course she can’t,” said Nanny. “Poor village girls don’t go to school, Babur Saab. They live in mud houses and play in the dirt.”

  “I want to play in the dirt,” chanted Babur Saab.

  “Hush, or no birthday party,” warned Nanny. “And you,” she turned to me. “Get him changed into his costume before I come back.”

  “I’ll teach you to tell the time and we won’t tell Nanny,” whispered Babur Saab after Nanny had left. He pulled out a book, jumped on the bed, and waved at me. Scotty bounded up beside him. I hesitated, and squatted on the floor. “No, up here with me,” insisted Babur Saab. He thumped his fist on the bed. Keeping a watch on the door, I perched on one side.

  Babur Saab flipped the pages and ran his finger over a familiar picture. He began to talk. I stared at the image of an ink-black buffalo. Kullo. Where was she now? Once I had dreamt of earning money from selling milk. I had dreamt of going to school.

  “You’re not listening,” whined Babur Saab.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Tell me again.” I pretended to learn how the short and long hands of the clock worked, and then I helped Babur Saab to change into his Superman costume. Babbling about his hero’s x-ray vision and his power to fly faster than a bullet, Babur Saab darted around the room, and hearing Nanny’s voice he ran off. Scotty rushed out after him.

  I picked up the dirty jodhpurs and riding boots and crouched in the bathroom. We all had heroes. I had my heroes – women and men. I had read about them. I remembered them. They lit up my world and sparked hope. They fought for what they believed; they fought for their dreams. I believed in them and their struggles. There was Razia Sultana. Belonging to a slave family, she had impressed her father with her brilliance. Astute and brilliant, she became the first woman ruler of the Delhi Sultanate in the thirteenth century. She ruled India, fighting for justice. Refusing to wear a veil, she led her army to battle on an elephant. She hadn’t given up her throne until her death.

  I gripped the brush and ran it over the leather boots. Fast. Faster. Again and again. The dirt flew out onto the floor. My heroes. They had not given up on their dreams.

  27

  The telephone screeched like a frenzied chimp. Rushing into the hall, I looked around. Where was everyone? I wasn’t allowed to pick it up and answer. Although sometimes, after checking that no one was around, I cradled the receiver between my ear and shoulder, and pulled at the round dial, pretending to talk to Omer.

  Heari
ng a shout, I pushed open the kitchen door and gaped. Why was Surriya cringing, with everyone crowded around her? Surriya raised her head, her eyes flashing from behind her straggly plait. My head spun. Chiragh. It was Chiragh looking up at me.

  I shot forward, but Bushra caught my wrist and I stopped with a jolt. Gloria stamped her boot close to Surriya’s head. What was going on?

  “I’ll give you five seconds to give a name,” snapped Gloria, rapping her polished nail against her watch dial. Cupping her hands, Surriya begged for another chance. She’d thrown up because of a stomach infection. There was no other reason. She was the only earner in her family. She had four smaller siblings to feed. Gloria swore, barked an order, and in seconds the guards leapt to haul Surriya out into the alley. Ordering everyone to get back to work, Gloria strode out. The servants dispersed, and the kitchen emptied.

  “She didn’t deserve that,” Nanny spat out. Her eyes scanned the room. “Why do we let that skinny shrew rule over us?”

  “You know why,” Bushra rolled her eyes.

  “Men!” Nanny swore.

  “Shush,” hissed Bushra, watching the cook saunter inside. He’d been missing before.

  “That was no reason to throw her out,” grumbled Nanny. “The girl said she’d take care of it.”

  “She’s plain stupid,” muttered the new maid, hired for cleaning the windows.

  “I bet he forced her.” Bushra glowered at the cook.

  “Forced or not, she should have taken care of it. Why wait so long? What was she waiting for? For the baby to drop down? Her mother’s going to kill her.” The new maid sniffed. “It’s our fate, to be lumped or dumped.”

  “No, it’s not,” I began. But catching Bushra’s frown, I stopped.

  “What do you mean?” Nanny pushed the spectacles up her hooked nose.

  “We have to fight for our rights,” I began, feeling my chest tighten. “We’ve forgotten our history. We fought alongside men during the Partition. We’ve had women professors, warriors, rulers, leaders from … ouch, ouch.” I trailed off as Bushra dragged me away.

  “That’s enough,” she hissed. “Are you mad? Do you know what happens to men when they hear that kind of talk?”

  Silent, I stared back. I hadn’t said anything that was untrue.

  “You’ll be sorry,” muttered Bushra, “I’ve seen the way the cook watches you, you with your warm skin and gold eyes. You’re flinching now, but remember. Don’t fall for his promises, you hear me? He’s already got two wives back in the village and look what he’s done to Surriya. They lie, they all lie.”

  I knew more about lies than Bushra would ever know. I had learnt to lie from my parents.

  28

  “Quick, I hear footsteps,” warned Bushra. She tossed Sehr Madam’s dupatta that she had been modelling, on the ironing board, and began to fold the clothes. I grabbed a sheet from the laundry basket and flung it over the heap of chocolate wrappers left over from my raid on Sehr Madam’s cupboard last night.

  “Pantry. In five minutes.” Gloria blocked the light. Her eyes skimmed over the room, resting for a second on the charpai before she strode out.

  “That was close,” muttered Bushra, pulling her chador low over her forehead. “It must be payday. Just as well, since I go on leave today. Have to get our roof repaired before the monsoons land on our head. Come on, we can’t keep her waiting.”

  In a daze, I pulled up my chador and followed. A month had gone by already and I was no closer to getting out of the house.

  We entered the tiled pantry. Sunlight streamed in through the framed windows that opened onto the red-brick patio. Bright blossoms spilled out of rows of flowerpots lining the square space. This room was the closest I came to getting out. Gloria perched on the stool behind a counter. She beckoned to Bushra and slid a wad of notes across the gleaming surface.

  I stared at the fire-red bundles. Money. And heaps of it. In my village, I’d seen smudged brown five rupee notes and pale green ten rupee notes, but never the fire-red hundred rupee notes. My heart raced. I looked up, hearing Gloria’s voice. Bushra had walked out, and Gloria’s eyes were on me. “Are you listening? Hurry and count. I’ve already deducted the amount we have to pay to Shafique. What are you staring at?”

  My fingers tingled. I counted once, and then again. Twenty fire-red notes. Two thousand rupees. A fortune.

  “Any problem?” probed Gloria.

  “No, Ma’am,” I whispered. It was mine. All of it. Heat flushed my cheeks.

  “Go on and sign then. Do you know how?” She rapped the pen against the notebook. Taking a deep breath, I leaned over to write my name. “Do you have any family here?” asked Gloria once I looked up. Her eyes were on my face again.

  I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. My brother.”

  “Well, your brother is waiting for you by the guard hut. I’ll give you ten minutes to meet him. Then back to work.”

  I stared at the swing doors. Why hadn’t she told me before? How long had Omer been waiting? I glanced towards the pantry clock. Breakfast was not for another fifteen minutes. I darted out and drank in the fresh air, free of the sickly-sweet smell of Arabian jasmine that flooded the house. Bushra had whispered that it was Gloria’s favourite flower and dozens of bouquets were bought weekly and arranged in crystal vases throughout the house.

  I raced towards the guardhouse. Omer leaned against the wall in his familiar way, with his shoulders pulled back and his head slightly bent to one side. I stopped. My breath stuck in my throat. It had been too long. I couldn’t cry. Not now. Brushing the back of my palm over my eyes, I hurried towards him.

  “Zara, thank God.” Omer hurried over. “You’re all right, aren’t you? Amma is furious at me for not checking up on you sooner. I’ve been calling every day, but that donkey of a guard always said you’re working. And then I got caught up with schoolwork and couldn’t get away.”

  His voice. It was the same. I swayed, suddenly feeling I was back home, in my village.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Omer clasped my wrist.

  I nodded. “I’m fine,” I whispered. He was really here.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded and held up my other hand. “Look, I got my first salary.”

  Omer shook his head. “This is crazy. You shouldn’t be working. You deserve to go to school.” He paused. “Tie the money in your chador or keep it somewhere safe. Don’t tell anyone where you’ve kept it.”

  “Forget the money. Have you found out anything about Tara?” I interrupted.

  He looked around. “Is there any place we can sit and talk?”

  I searched his face and then nodded. “Follow me.” I led him to the wooden bench, set under the drooping branches of a willow tree in the side garden. “What about Tara? Have you found out anything?”

  Catching the look in Omer’s eyes, I gasped. “You have. I know you have. Where is she?”

  29

  “Have you met her? Is she all right?” I asked.

  Omer shook his head. “I don’t know. I checked the address you gave me. It is Kamran Sultan’s house. He lives there with his mother, who’s very ill. But his wife died years ago, and he’s never remarried. Tara’s not there.”

  “She has to be there. That’s where Abba said she was.” I stopped. My chest tightened. “Then where?”

  “Did Amma or Abba ever mention Tara’s Nikah Namah?” interrupted Omer, his eyes pinned to my face.

  “Abba did. He told Khalid Chacha that Kamran was supposed to give him a copy when he visited. But he never did.”

  Omer closed his eyes and winced. “Do you think the marriage might be a sham? A hoax?”

  “Sham? No! How?” I leapt up. “Amma and Abba saw Tara get married. They even attended her wedding remember, they …” My voice stuck in my throat. I stared, unseeing. How much had Amma and Abba known about this man? How much had they bothered to find out?

  “You can rent a Moulvi these days,” muttered Omer.

  “If Tara’s not in
the house, then where?” I knew even before I finished speaking. I moaned, feeling splinters of blistering heat rip the skin off my flesh.

  “We don’t know for sure, but …” Omer broke off and looked away, avoiding my eyes. He knew too.

  “We have to get her out!” I shrieked and clenched the bench.

  “How? It’s too risky. It’s impossible.” Omer shook his head.

  “We can’t let her stay there.”

  “Not we.” Omer’s face was grim. “I can’t let you have anything to do with this. It would be different if she was married to him and living in his house. But she’s …” He paused and flushed. “You can’t go near that place. I won’t let you go near that place.”

  I hurried to the kitchen, my chador flapping behind me. Near the door, I checked my slippers. Damp, but clean. I pulled my chador over my head. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside. A gust of heat slammed into my face. A crowd of servants chatted at the far end of the table. The cook poured the sizzling tea into tin mugs.

  “You’re late for breakfast,” growled the cook.

  “Sorry,” I murmured. My stomach churned at the sight of the grey mush on the plate. I shivered. My hands and feet were blocks of ice.

  The cook thumped the tray on the counter. Bodies thrust forward, shoulders jammed and arms shot out. Suddenly longing for the hot tea, I tried to squeeze through the bodies.

  The windows rattled as the door banged shut. Seeing Nanny charge forward, I stepped aside, but Nanny gripped my chador. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” I struggled to break free.

  “Where is Babur Saab’s Disney watch? You cleaned his room this morning, didn’t you?”

  “I cleaned it, but I never saw the watch.”

  “Tell the truth, girl.” Nanny tightened her grip and turned to the other servants. “Last week, that poor boy taught her to read the time, and she goes and repays him by stealing his watch. He’s been crying ever since he woke up.”