Revolt

by Shahraz, Qaisra

  Gulbahar wryly nodded her head and, placing a comforting arm around Begum’s shoulders, she hugged her tightly. ‘You’re indeed a mother to our children. I appreciate very much the love you’ve lavished on them, Begum. At times, I think you are more of a sister to me than my own, for they have both turned against me.’ Gulbahar could not disguise the bitterness in her tone.

  ‘Mistress?’ Begum prompted, wanting to know more but too afraid of prying further. She heartily blessed herself with the fervent words, ‘My mistress is one in a million.’

  ‘Nothing, Begum,’ Gulbahar replied, shrugging her shoulders as if to shrug aside her sisters and the stress they brought into her life. She wouldn’t let Rani’s latest poison cloud her day. How did one count the minutes and the seconds whilst waiting for loved ones?

  ‘Come, Begum. Call two extra maids for the day. A lot of work ahead of us!’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mistress!’ Begum enthusiastically chanted.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER 41

  The Visit

  The heavy midday traffic in Islamabad was punctuated by the loud blaring of car horns. In a side street, Haider’s Pajero stood parked outside a small house, referred to locally as a quarter, its whitewashed wall grimy with graffiti, road dust and layers of dried moss.

  With beating hearts, Haider and Arslan knocked on the door indicated by Ali, dutifully standing a few paces behind. In both their heads the same thought hammered – would it be their Laila or …?

  The door was slowly pulled open and to their surprise a small figure in a lemon cotton frock stood in the doorway, ready to bid salaam, but the greeting died on her lips as she caught sight of the red-haired man. She stepped back, leaving the two men at the door stunned.

  The door left open, the girl was now running across the small courtyard, giving the visitors their first glimpse of Laila’s marital home; a modern house, with a courtyard the size of the smallest storeroom in their hevali.

  Standing in the doorway of the living room, her face red, Shirin seared her mother with an accusing glare, having just realised that there was some sort of connection between her mother and those people from the village.

  ‘Daddy, the old man with red hair from the village is here,’ she declared, mouth falling open as her mother stumbled to her feet from the sofa, nearly tripping over the small coffee table in front of her. Barefooted, Laila ran out into the courtyard, the words ‘surely it cannot be!’ ringing in her head.

  When she caught a glimpse of her loved ones’ dear faces shyly peeping into her home, the world and time stood still, incoherent sounds of joy and sobs choking her. At the sight of his daughter’s joyous face, as if by magic, Haider’s arms lifted. Laila dived straight into them, happily letting them become a tight band around her waist and sinking her face into her father’s chest.

  Her bemused brother stood by, eyes smarting with tears. Jubail had now come out with Shirin in tow. He was galled by the tableau before him. Across the small space, his gaze clashed head on with that of his father-in-law. Those blue eyes still lanced him but the strong arms were loath to let go of his daughter.

  ‘What’s Mummy doing in that horrible man’s arms?’ Shirin demanded, standing by her father’s side, one hand placed possessively on his leg. The urge to pull her mother out of the redhaired man’s arms was strong but her father’s tight grip held her back.

  At last Laila raised her sobbing face, ‘Mother?’

  Arslan hastened to explain, anticipating the direction of her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, Laila, Mother is fine. We’ve come to take you home.’ The hesitant words produced an awkward silence. Laila warily peeped up at her father.

  Eyes steadfast and solemn, Haider nodded. Face alight with joy, Laila looked over her shoulder at her grim-faced husband and scowling daughter. The smile slipped, the light in her eyes immediately dimmed. Gently withdrawing from her father’s arms, she called to her daughter, ‘Shirin, come. Meet your grandfather and your uncle. Say salaam,’ she coaxed.

  Her small mouth wedged into a mutinous line, Shirin sidled closer against her father’s leg and reached her slim arm up to his waist.

  ‘Shirin!’ Laila called, but her daughter had run off into the room, banging the door shut behind her. Laila stood in shock under the small veranda with its two colonnades and yellow peeling plasterwork.

  ‘Jubail, please!’ she appealed to her husband to intervene.

  Jubail’s answer was an angry scowl before he, too, disappeared into the room, banging the door behind him, echoing his daughter’s action. Haider and his son were shocked by what was taking place in front of their eyes. Laila desperately willed the door to open and for her husband to appear to welcome the guests.

  Seconds passed. Shirin had inherited her father’s stubborn streak. Laila raised her tearful face to her loved ones.

  ‘You’ve left it too late, Father!’ Opening out her hands, palms up, she signalled defeat. Her two special guests stood frozen.

  ‘Will you not come with us, Laila?’ Arslan urged.

  ‘Not without my husband and daughter – please forgive me!’ she begged, her face ravaged by pain. Haider merely stared. ‘Forgive me, Father … I didn’t expect this reaction from them. I can’t bear your humiliation at my door! Please go! I don’t know what else to do or say!’ Leaning against the veranda pillar, she loudly sobbed, her body doubling over.

  His cheek muscle ticking away, with a glazed look, Haider strode back to his Jeep. It suddenly dawned on him that he had not properly entered his daughter’s home. Bewildered, Ali and Arslan silently followed him.

  Laila ran to the door and watched the vehicle drive off.

  In the living room, without glancing at either her daughter or husband, Laila went straight into the adjoining bedroom. They heard her turn the lock inside.

  ‘Daddy, has that nasty man gone?’ Laila heard her daughter softly ask.

  ‘Yes,’ came the gruff reply.

  *

  ‘Mistress, the Jeep is back – I can see it!’ Begum excitedly shrieked from the rooftop gallery. For the last hour she had stationed herself on the rooftop terrace, where she could have a long view of the road leading to the village.

  Gripping one of her loose flip-flop chappals tightly with her big toe, Begum ran down the marble stairs.

  Gulbahar was nervously cooling her hand in the clear fountain spray and sprinkling a few drops on the garland of flowers, lovingly threaded for her beautiful fairy. A large tray of hot jalebis was propped on the aluminium patio table. Gulbahar had deliberately not told her sisters about Laila. She wouldn’t let them blight her golden moment – her daughter’s homecoming – with their paranoia and twisted minds.

  In her head she sadly mused, ‘What will I say to a daughter callously deleted out of my life for ten years and a granddaughter never acknowledged?’ She decided she would let her arms, hands and kisses say it all for her.

  Begum’s excited squeal set Gulbahar’s pulse racing again. She checked her earlobes for the diamond studs, a wedding gift from her Haider-ji’s trip to Lucknow. For her daughter’s arrival, she had made a special effort with her appearance by wearing a silk suit topped with a delicate silk shawl. A touch of blusher on her cheeks made her translucent complexion come alive, giving her a youthful appearance. The elegant French pleat, so loved by her daughter, would inevitably bring out that mischievous, sensuous sparkle to her husband’s blue eyes as they fell on her hair.

  ‘Hush,’ Gulbahar happily chided Mithu, swinging in his birdcage, making cheerful noises, as she waited for the sound of the Jeep.

  ‘Who will come in first? Laila or Shirin?’ she excitedly wondered.

  ‘Are they here yet?’ Gulbahar impatiently asked, peering over Begum’s shoulders.

  ‘Yes! The Jeep is here … oh!’ Begum abruptly stopped.

  ‘Begum, who’s stepping out of the car first – Laila?’ Gulbahar’s tear-ridden, excited voice demanded to know from behind her.

  ‘Mistress …’ S
ilence.

  Gulbahar clutched the handle and pulled the door wide open – only to collide with Arslan striding through it, his face set. Immediately behind him was his father, with an equally set face.

  ‘Arslan!’ Gulbahar called, staring at their backs, both disappearing, Haider to his office and Arslan into his room.

  ‘Begum?’ Gulbahar enquired, heartbeat accelerating, her voice now faint with dread.

  Ali stood in front of his mistress with his head down. Words weren’t necessary. He merely raised his arms in defeat, keeping his eyes carefully averted, unable to bear his mistress’s suffering.

  ‘Ali!’

  ‘Mistress, she did not come,’ he dully echoed – the only sound in the courtyard was the gurgling of the water from the fountain. Mithu, too, sat still on his swing.

  ‘Ali!’ Begum too found her tongue. ‘What are you saying?’

  But her mistress was already walking away, her shawl slipping off her shoulders. It was Begum who had the honour of hearing the full sordid tale.

  ‘She chose her husband over her family!’ he spat. Begum gasped, deeply affronted, pressing her tight fist against her mouth.

  *

  The loud thuds on the outside door startled Laila. Jubail had fed his daughter, left a tray of food for Laila beside the bed and then left for work. A shamefaced Shirin, on her father’s instructions, tried to coax her mother to leave her bed, but to no avail. Laila merely stared across at the wall and the cornice with delicate ropes of cobwebs dangling from them.

  The front door opened. Laila sat upright, listening with mounting excitement. Surely her ears were playing tricks on her. Then the bedroom door was thrust open.

  ‘Begum,’ Laila gasped, joy leaping through her body at the sight of the woman who had done so much for her.

  The smile died on her lips, the harsh outline of Begum’s face intimidating her. Shirin glared at the rude woman with grey hair who had dashed in with no salaam, immediately recognising her as the woman from the big house.

  ‘Begum,’ Laila repeated, reaching for her dupatta.

  Begum was looking around the room, turning up her nose in distaste. The place was only a little better than the potter’s hovel in the village.

  ‘Yes, it’s Begum!’ she scoffed. Laila’s eyes widened, taken aback by the housekeeper’s hostile tone and demeanour. Guilty flags of colour etched her fair cheeks.

  ‘They came to take me home.’

  ‘I know!’ Begum jeered. ‘Everything! You are a selfish destructive cow!’

  ‘Begum!’ Laila was deeply offended.

  ‘You deny turning your “mighty” father and “loving” brother away from your door?’

  ‘I had no choice, Begum,’ Laila meekly explained.

  ‘No choice!’ Begum strode to the bed and taking her by the shoulder, shook her hard, venting her rage.

  ‘Take your hands off my mummy,’ a fierce, little voice commanded from behind. Both turned to stare at the small, fuming figure standing by the bed.

  Begum giggled, her anger deserting her, and reached out to the ‘beautiful vision’ as she’d always called Shirin in her head, pulling the reluctant, wriggling bundle of flesh into her arms, hugging her tightly. Shirin tried to escape from the tight band of the ‘awful’ woman’s arms.

  ‘Mummy!’ she wailed for help.

  ‘Shirin, this is our Begum – a very special lady. Stop being silly,’ Laila reassured her, laughing.

  Shirin was not at all amused. Begum let her go. The girl stared back with hostility.

  ‘This is not a social call,’ Begum stiffly informed Laila. ‘But to remind you of the new destruction you have heaped on your family. Your poor mother is heartbroken. All day she worked so hard … sorting out a room for your beautiful fairy – dressing up for you … clung to the outside door, for that first glimpse of you … Imagine what it has done to your proud father. You threw him out!’

  Laila’s wet cheeks had no effect on their housekeeper.

  ‘I had no choice, Begum! Please don’t rush to condemn me. Neither my husband nor this little madam would even say salaam to them. How could I go with them, if Jubail or my daughter wouldn’t?’

  ‘I suppose those two matter more to you than your own parents!’ Begum bitterly accused. ‘You had begged me, on your knees, over the years to get your parents to take you back. I never thought I’d say this, but nobody deserves a child like you, Laila. And I take full responsibility … I’m to blame … I’ve spoilt you. As my Ali always says, you’ve used me many times – but today I’m washing my hands of you! Don’t look at me like that, for you’ve made your choice. Stick with the potter’s son and I wish you luck with it! Even your brother, who clamoured day and night for you to come home, has thrown you out of his life.’

  ‘Begum, please stop. I didn’t know what to do – I’m so unhappy!’

  ‘Happiness walked to your door, but you blew it, Laila! Good day!’

  ‘No!’ Laila screamed. Begum was already striding out of the door. Barefooted, Laila scrambled after her, alarming her daughter.

  ‘Begum!’ she shouted. Begum didn’t turn round.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ Panicking and bareheaded, with no shawl around her shoulders, Laila ran out onto the street to the car.

  Alarmed, Ali turned to his wife’s tight face, seeking an explanation. Begum coldly commanded, ‘Ali, let’s go!’

  ‘Ali, please wait, I’m coming with you, with or without my daughter or husband – I don’t care.’ Laila ran back inside. Ali and Begum exchanged a quick glance, joy spreading across their faces.

  Inside the house, Laila, ignoring her sullen daughter, pulled out her suitcase from under the bed.

  ‘What are you doing, Mama?’ Shirin asked in trepidation, watching her mother fill the case with some of her clothes. Young as she was, Shirin was acutely aware that something was afoot and it was to do with the visitors who came yesterday.

  Her mother’s determined face frightened her.

  ‘Shirin, we are going back to the village, to stay with the two men who came yesterday and my mama, the lady who called you beautiful fairy over the phone. Come!’

  ‘No, Mummy!’ was her daughter’s rebellious answer.

  ‘OK. I’m writing a note to your father to explain. I’ll leave you with our neighbours and your father will collect you from there.’

  ‘You are going to the red-haired man’s house, aren’t you?’ Shirin accused, her little chin defiantly raised.

  ‘Yes, that’s my father and your grandfather!’ Her mother angrily turned to her packing.

  ‘Then I won’t go.’

  Her mother closed her suitcase shut. ‘Then stay! I’m not dragging a silly little girl with me. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll phone you.’

  Shirin was panicking as she watched her mother scribbling a quick note for her husband.

  ‘Mummy, put my dresses in, too. I’m coming!’

  ‘Good,’ her mother quietly answered, smiling, her back to her daughter.

  *

  Begum returned alone to the hevali, wanting to give herself time to prepare her master and mistress for their daughter and granddaughter’s entrance into their lives.

  ‘Begum, where have you been all day?’ Gulbahar angrily greeted her housekeeper as she stepped into the hevali.

  ‘On a special errand. Sorry!’ Begum took Mithu’s cage from her mistress, remembering that it was their pet’s bath day, and not relishing the task of chasing the lovable bird around the courtyard.

  ‘I hope your errand was worth it. I tried to cook the monkfish the way you make it, but still burned the bottom layer. Please, Begum, go and check!’

  ‘I will, Mistress, but I think that today we need to prepare a special feast … and with hot jalebis.’

  ‘Why?’ Gulbahar asked, tone monotonous, shoving seeds into Mithu’s reluctant mouth.

  ‘Because …’ Begum positioned herself in front of her mistress to savour the look on her face ‘… there’s a
beautiful fairy you might want to feed instead of Mithu today. She’s here, Mistress!’

  Fingers trapped in the slender metal bars of Mithu’s cage, Gulbahar gasped for breath, eyes aching for the sight of the fairy.

  ‘Really?’ she cried, joyful, yet so terribly afraid.

  ‘Yes, Mistress. Mother and daughter are in my house, getting ready to meet you.’

  Eyes wide in disbelief, Gulbahar shouted to her loved ones through her trembling mouth, ‘Arslan! Haider-ji!’

  ‘I will phone the halvie for the jalebis,’ Begum merrily added, staring up happily at their Mithu. The bird’s days were numbered; for he now had Shirin as a rival for Mistress Gulbahar’s affection.

  As if in a dream, Gulbahar slid onto a chair, her eyes fixed on the outside door for that first glimpse of her loved ones.

  *

  ‘Mistress, are you ready now?’ Ali politely hovered in the doorway, embarrassed by the homeliness of his bedroom with its peeling plaster and clothes hanging on hooks on the wall, as he watched Mistress Laila pulling at her daughter’s unruly curls. He was sure she had combed Shirin’s hair twice already.

  ‘Yes, Ali.’ Laila deposited the comb back in her handbag. Wetting her dry lips, she shyly requested, ‘Is it OK if we leave our things here for the time being? Just in case they turn me away!’

  ‘Of course they won’t, Mistress.’ He was stunned by her request and comment. ‘Regard this as your home. It’s your father’s home anyway. He owns it.’

  ‘Good, let’s go!’ Nervously she stepped out into the sunshine of the village lane, savouring the smell of fresh coriander and spinach in the field outside Begum’s home.

  ‘Come, Shirin – today you’ll see your mother’s home.’

  Petulantly, Shirin offered her hand to her mother, not at all happy at entering the home of that ‘horrible’ man.

  *

  Laila’s legs buckled beneath her outside the door of her parents’ home, and she leaned against the wall for support, hiding her face in the fold of her chador. How could she possibly enter it?