by Aisha Saeed
“I’m not brave. I’m terrified. I just don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. Making choices even when they scare you because you know it’s the right thing to do—that’s bravery.”
Chapter 44
Nasreen Baji spoke with her son about marriage prospects over breakfast.
“She comes from a good family,” Nasreen Baji told him. “Pretty, too. What harm is there in meeting her? And her father is in politics also. Who knows where it could lead?”
“I thought I’m supposed to celebrate my life in exile here?” He snorted. “No politics for me. I’m doing the most important job there is.”
“Jawad, you’re twenty-four years old. Enough with the sarcasm already.”
“I’ve met four girls this month alone. It’s not my fault none of them is adequate.”
“Listen, we both know what this is about.” She lowered her voice. “It’s past time to move on. You’ll find someone else you like just as much, but only if you give them a chance.”
Jawad Sahib looked down at the table.
“Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll meet her.”
I took in the scene before me. Mother and son chatting. Servants picking up empty bowls and dishes, while others brought in white creamy kheer with crushed pistachios. The scent of brewing chai enveloped the room each time the kitchen doors parted.
It had been almost a week since I last saw Asif. Every day I waited for a knock on the door, a phone call, a look of fear across Jawad Sahib’s face.
But nothing happened.
Everything continued just as it always had.
My hands shook. I stepped into the hallway to compose myself.
Fatima approached me. “I’m making up my own story tonight,” she said. “Baba got me some paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. I’m naming one of the girls after you! It was supposed to be a surprise, but I couldn’t wait! But I need your help writing it. I’ll do all the pictures. Will you help me when we’re done here?”
“Sure.” I nodded at the right moments as she explained her story.
Maybe the Khan family really was untouchable.
Nothing had happened to them. Maybe nothing ever would. They had ruled this village for centuries. His mother would take him to meet a prospective bride today. Soon, Jawad would marry. He would have a child, and that child would grow up to rule my village.
Did I really think we could undo it all?
“You’re not listening,” Fatima sang out to me. “Why are you always thinking? It’s good to listen, too.”
“Sorry,” I said. “After we clean up from breakfast, I’m all yours.”
A doorbell chimed in the distance. Then, a hard-knuckled knock.
I walked into the dining room as Jawad Sahib wiped his hands on a napkin and tossed it on a plate.
“The police?” his mother asked.
“Who else?”
“How long will they be?” Nasreen Baji looked at her watch. “We’re leaving to meet the girl and her family in an hour, remember?”
“I’ll get them out of here in a few minutes.”
Footsteps echoed off the foyer.
And then—
I heard Jawad Sahib protest.
Then I heard him yelling and swearing.
I rushed into the hallway. Fatima trailed behind me. Nasreen Baji’s face was paper white. There were three officers here. New ones.
And they were slapping handcuffs onto Jawad Sahib’s wrists.
“This is a mistake,” Jawad Sahib screamed. “My father will speak to you. He won’t forget your names.”
“We imagine so,” one of them said. “We brought him in a few hours ago for questioning.”
Upon hearing this, Nasreen Baji started shouting at the officers. She threatened them. She begged them. They didn’t respond. It was as if she didn’t exist.
Bilal stood to the side, his back pressed against the wall. Other servants gathered in the foyer. Mumtaz rushed over to comfort Nasreen Baji.
I stared at the open door, the empty space through which they marched Jawad Sahib.
It happened.
Jawad Sahib had been arrested.
Chapter 45
The television buzzed low in the background of Nasreen Baji’s bedroom. It had now been four days since Jawad Sahib was taken away. At first, Nasreen Baji turned on the television news each morning as though she hoped they would report it all as a big misunderstanding. But once the detectives came and carted away all the silver files—the ones with the debts he and his family collected from everyone in our villages—she stopped hoping.
It was still strange to see Jawad Sahib’s face all over the news.
But even stranger was seeing my little village—which didn’t even register as a dot on a map—no longer quite so forgotten. This morning, the camera panned to show our rivers, fields, orange groves, and green stalks of sugarcane. The newscaster on the television reported on the changing times and the uprooting of the status quo.
The newspapers Nasreen Baji left lying on the nightstand all echoed the same.
The Crumbling of the Feudal Era
Local Landlord Overthrown
How One Man’s Ego Led to His Family’s Downfall
The media tied the leaked information to a local officer who claimed responsibility at a press conference, in front of dozens of microphones. I recognized him immediately as the mustached officer who came into the estate months earlier. He was going to be one of the many star witnesses in Jawad Sahib’s trial.
I glanced at Nasreen Baji. She stared at the screen; her eyes were red and her cheeks were blotchy. It was as if the contours of her face had changed overnight.
I was glad her son could not hurt anyone ever again, but seeing Nasreen Baji’s grief and knowing her pain was partly because of me made me feel an odd sort of guilt. It was the strangest thing to hold such different feelings inside myself at once.
And as much as Nasreen Baji’s life had changed, mine hadn’t. Jawad Sahib’s arrest didn’t mean I could just leave. My debt didn’t vanish when the officers carted the silver filing cabinets away. I lived here. And I still washed dishes and helped with dinner. I still brought in fresh flowers and gave the linens to the cleaning girl. I still massaged Nasreen Baji’s head and drew her bath.
Everything had changed for so many people, but for me, nothing really had.
“I’ll get your breakfast, Nasreen Baji.” I brought her tissues from the dresser. She took one and wiped her eyes. She didn’t respond.
I went into the kitchen and filled the percolator with water.
“Add some more water for me?” Mumtaz asked. She stood to the side, her shoulders hunched. Toqir and Ghulam were there, too. Toqir pulled out cups from the servants’ cupboard and poured in water.
“Are you okay, Mumtaz?” I asked her. “You look pale.”
“How can I be okay?” She shook her head.
“Everything is a mess,” Toqir agreed. He took a sip of water. “Been here forty years. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“But if he did the things the news said he did”—I hesitated—“isn’t it a good thing that he’s been caught?”
“With the two of them behind bars, what happens to us?” Ghulam asked. “I need this job. My son’s wife is about to have a baby. My other grandchild needs to see a specialist in Lahore for his heart. What are we going to do without my income?”
I added an extra cup of water to the percolator and glanced out the window. Other servants were standing outside. I imagined their discussions were the same as the ones in this kitchen. The conversations had run in a loop since that day: Would they really convict him? And what did this mean for us?
I thought Jawad Sahib’s arrest would be good for everyone, but it turned out change, no matter how good and necessary, came
with a price.
Nabila and Bilal weren’t anywhere to be seen. The three of us hadn’t talked about what happened since the arrest, afraid to say a word in case someone overheard us, but I walked into the servants’ quarters. The tinny sound of the television news echoed in the hallway. Bilal’s door was open wide, but Nabila’s was closed.
I tapped on it before opening it. Both of them were inside. Bilal stood against the back wall, his arms crossed. Nabila was on her bed, staring at yesterday’s discarded newspaper. Grim-faced black-and-white photos of Khan Sahib and Jawad Sahib’s faces were front and center.
“I’d ask you to read it to me, but I think I know what it says,” she said without looking up.
“It’s more of the same,” I agreed. “They found the body. Right where he said it was.”
“So many reporters outside,” Bilal said. “There are even more today than yesterday. They’d climb in through one of the windows here if we didn’t have the guards and the brick walls around this place . . .”
Nabila looked up at Bilal and then at me. “Do you think he’s gone for good?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“It just doesn’t feel real.” Nabila shook her head. “I still feel like I’ll wake up tomorrow and find out it was all a dream.”
Nabila was right. It did feel surreal. But I glanced at the newspaper in her lap. The black-and-white photos looking back at me were proof it wasn’t a dream. After all the people he had hurt, after the generations this family had haunted, we helped bring Jawad Sahib and his father to justice.
I smiled.
No one here except the three of us would ever know it was a group of servants who brought this family down.
No one would ever know it was a girl who helped save our villages.
But I knew.
Chapter 46
Amal, I need to talk to you,” Nasreen Baji said to me the next week. She patted the space on her bed, motioning for me to join her.
“I’m going to Islamabad for a little while,” she said when I sat down. “My eldest is coming to get me tomorrow morning. It’s too hard to be here right now. This house is too big for me.”
My heart sank. Islamabad was hours from here. As her maidservant, I would be expected to go with her. Even farther from my family and all I knew.
“That’s good,” I managed to say. “It’s important to be with your loved ones, especially right now.”
“I’m off to see my sister in a little bit—before I go.” She smiled at me. It was the first smile since Jawad Sahib had left.
“She will be happy to see you,” I told her.
“I hope so,” she said, twisting the edge of her scarf. “It’s been a long time.”
“It’s never too late to see your family.”
“You’re right. And you should be with your family, too.”
I looked at her with a start.
“You may as well hear it from me first. There’s no use in keeping everyone on while we wait to see what happens. I’m closing up the house. Mumtaz will come with me to Islamabad, of course, and a few people, like the gardener, will stay on here to take care of the estate. But most everyone else will be let go.”
“You’re . . . you’re going to let me go?”
“I thought about keeping you.” She smiled at me sadly. “I’ve enjoyed your company and have grown fond of you. I see in you so much the girl I was. But you belong with your family. Your debt is forgiven.”
I wanted to hug Nasreen Baji, but I had never embraced her before. Whatever spell she was under, whatever sacred moment this was, I didn’t want to risk breaking it.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
* * *
• • •
Later that afternoon, I sat with the others as Nasreen Baji shared what was to come.
Bilal’s face broke open with disbelief and then widened into a smile. Hamid hugged Fatima. But Ghulam was somber. And when I looked at Mumtaz, she was crying.
“But you’re going to stay on.” I walked over and clasped her hands. “You’re going to her home in Islamabad.”
“But this was my home.” She looked up at me. “Take care of yourself and check in on an old lady now and then, if you can?” she said through her tears.
“I will.” I hugged her. I felt surprised by the sadness overtaking me. I had waited so long for this day, and I was glad to leave, but I would miss Mumtaz and the other servants.
Fatima approached me a little while after. She held Hamid’s hand. “We’re leaving. My parents don’t want me. Baba said I can go home with him.”
“Where are you going?” I asked Hamid.
“Back home,” he said. “Imrawala. Wife and children are waiting. Have been for too long. Have a couple of grandkids Fatima’s age.” He looked down at Fatima and smiled. “It will be nice for you to have some children to play with.”
Fatima’s eyes watered when I walked over to her. She was my first friend here, the person who gave me a chance before anyone else would.
“When you finish writing your story, will you send it to me?” I asked her. “I want to read it.”
She looked at the ground and didn’t respond.
“We’ll see each other at the market. Hamid’s village is just on the other side from where I live. I’ll find you. We’ll stay in touch,” I promised.
“But it won’t be the same,” she whispered.
“No,” I told her. “It won’t be the same. But maybe it will be better.”
She hugged me. I watched her follow Hamid out the door, out of sight.
I picked up my satchel and felt a tap. Nabila.
“Here.” She pushed a cloth bag toward me. “I packed some snacks for you. Some water. In case you need it for the walk home.”
“Where are you going?” I asked her. “Back home?”
“No. Never. I’m going to live with my cousin Latif’s wife in my old village near Simranwala. She needs all the help she can get.”
“You going back to school?” I asked her.
“I’m not sure.” She shrugged.
“The literacy center is free, Nabila. I really liked it, and it’s not far from where you’ll be. Give it a chance. We might even bump into each other—it’s just around the corner from where I live.”
“Maybe. And you better go back to school. You have to become a teacher. It’s not every day you get a second chance like this.”
“I hope so.” I smiled.
I could hardly believe there was a time she was anything but a friend to me. I leaned over and embraced her.
I pulled my suitcase behind me as dusk settled. A crescent moon was etched into the sky above. Soon stars would glitter overhead. But I didn’t need them to guide me. I knew my way home. I thought about what Nabila had said. Maybe I would be a teacher one day. Or maybe I’d write a book. Or set up schools, like Asif. Or maybe I would do all these things. I knew now that one person could hold many different dreams and see them all come true. And one was coming true right now. I was leaving this estate behind me.
The walk took longer than I thought. I kept expecting someone to come after me. To snatch me away and take me back to the estate. But no one came.
I kept walking. Each step took me closer to my parents, to Seema and Omar and Hafsa. I didn’t look back. I followed the winding path, walking over potholes, some so deep they seemed to crack open into the center of the earth.
I wondered what would happen next.
Would Jawad Sahib be released one day? Would he come searching for me?
I thought not knowing would scare me, but I didn’t feel afraid. Today I was free, and even if I didn’t know what the future held, I knew I was going home.
And right now, in this moment, this was enough.
Author’s Note
In 2012, Malala Yousafzai was on he
r way home from school in the Swat Valley region of Pakistan when she was shot at point-blank range. Her crime? Malala wanted an education, and she regularly spoke out against people who opposed her right to do so.
When Malala was attacked, people from around the world stopped and paid attention, and when she recovered, they rooted for her as she renewed her quest for an education not just for herself, but for all girls. Malala continues to embody what it means to be a strong girl. She builds schools, advocates against violence, and is the youngest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Children around the world know her story.
Malala is truly brave, but even she acknowledges that she is one of many young people all over the world who fight for what they believe in, who do the right thing even when it is difficult, even when the risks are overwhelming. Most of these people will never get a headline in the newspaper, we will never know who they are, and sadly, most of them will not get the type of happy ending Malala has, but they are still brave and courageous and worthy of respect, whether a spotlight shines on them or not.
Amal is a fictional character, but she represents countless other girls in Pakistan and around the world who take a stand against inequality and fight for justice in often unrecognized but important ways. We don’t have to make headlines to help change the world for the better. Everything we do in our communities and beyond to impart good is important and matters.
The issue of indentured servitude covered in this book is a global problem affecting millions of people, including in the United States. While some experience situations similar to Amal’s, unfortunately, the vast majority suffer much more difficult situations with no end in sight. Amal’s reality is far luckier than most who endure this horrendous practice.
There are brave girls all over the world. They may feel afraid sometimes, like Amal. But doing the right thing despite the risks it may involve is the bravest thing there can be. It is my hope this story shines a light on brave girls everywhere.