‘Mistress Laila?’
‘I can’t go through this door, Ali!’ she sobbed.
Ali’s mouth fell open. ‘But, Mistress, it’s only a door!’
Laila shook her head, wanting to run back to Ali’s house.
‘Silly Mummy, it’s only a door,’ Shirin loftily scoffed, bringing a smile to both their lips.
Letting go of her mother’s hand, she pushed the tall, heavy wooden door with her body. In the courtyard, with bated breath, Gulbahar saw the fairy step in. A bold, little figure stood before her, head moving from side to side, her bunches of curls swinging as she looked around with interest. Then her eyes fell on the older woman, sitting straight on a chair under a large birdcage with a green parakeet swaying inside it.
As if in a dream, Gulbahar walked towards her fairy; a strange shy look on her face. Her arms opened wide. Shirin watched the approaching figure with trepidation. The woman was smiling but, like her mother, also crying!
‘Assalam alaikum, my beautiful pari, welcome home!’
Shirin nervously blinked up at the older woman. The kind dark brown eyes melted Shirin’s reserve and she let herself be folded in a tight hug, hearing very clearly the woman’s thumping heartbeat against her ear. The woman’s wet cheek was now pressed against her face.
There was a sound from behind her. Gulbahar raised her head and looked straight into her daughter’s tearful eyes; an awkward, nervous figure clutching the fold of her chador against her wet cheeks. Ali stood protectively behind her.
Laila fell into her mother’s arms, and both hugged and wept. Shirin watched on, bemused, and felt a warm, big hand slip into hers. A tall, smiling man stood beside her. Instantly, Shirin knew that this was her uncle and her face happily split into a grin, with one pink cheek dimpling. The next minute, he had swung her high up in the air and kissed her on her head before returning her to the floor.
Then she saw the older man with the reddish-brown hair. The look in the eyes, the mutinous line of the mouth and the speed with which she had swung her head the other way hit Haider badly. His outstretched arms dropped to his sides.
Inside Shirin’s head the panic-ridden words drummed, ‘If he hugs me, I’ll scream!’
He did not; instead he turned to his daughter. When Ali had phoned to inform him that mother and daughter had arrived, Haider had immediately abandoned his business guests in his office and sprinted out to the central courtyard, an air of excitement about him.
Both mother and daughter felt his powerful presence. Reluctantly, Gulbahar let her daughter slide out of her arms. Laila, her eyes studiously lowered, fell into the welcoming band of her father’s masculine arms. Haider squeezed his eyes tight, stopping tears from spilling, as his daughter sobbed against his shoulders.
Gulbahar led Shirin into the drawing room.
‘Wow! What a lovely room!’ Shirin squealed in excitement ‘So big!’
Her grandmother brimmed with pride.
‘Your room is big, too. Begum!’ Gulbahar called her housekeeper, her voice trembling with joy.
Begum, within seconds, materialised in the room, holding the big china plate of hot sweet jalebis.
‘Here, Mistress, you can now feed your fairy yourself.’ Shirin’s eyes fell longingly on the hot crispy rings of sweets drenched with syrup. Gulbahar plucked one from the plate and handed it to her granddaughter. Both giggled as some of the warm syrup trickled out of Shirin’s mouth and down her chin. Gulbahar lovingly wiped it away with the end of her expensive shawl. It was her granddaughter that mattered. Not the shawl.
Begum left them both giggling over their sticky mouths and fingers. ‘What a blessed day, Allah Pak!’ She promised herself firmly to say her special nafl prayers in between her cooking chores. Her body ached but her heart was soaring to the clear, blue skies above. Unknown to her mistress, she had also been busy on the phone. Between cries of joy she broke the news about Laila’s arrival to Mistresses Mehreen and Rani, but warned them against visiting that very day.
*
After dinner, and holding on tightly to her uncle’s hand, Shirin had excitedly toured the hevali and her grandfather’s office, and had marvelled at the size of her mother’s old room. There, pulling open the drawers of the dressing table, she found a stack of Laila’s old photographs. She giggled, unable to connect the young girl and boy in the pictures with her mother and uncle.
Laila remained downstairs and asked Begum to phone and let her husband know about her visit to the village. Trying not to dwell on her husband’s possible reaction, Laila instead concentrated on the people around her. So much to talk about and so much pain to share. Gulbahar found it easier to relate to her granddaughter than to talk to her Laila. Bitterness persisted on both sides. One man divided them and both were loath to mention his name.
At last she uttered. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, for everything.’ Gulbahar pulled her daughter’s head into her lap and planted a kiss on her cheek. Haider had left mother and daughter together, wanting no part in their personal conversation, afraid of the unpleasant memories. When he had hugged his daughter, Haider sadly realised how much he had missed and still loved her. The topic of her husband would remain a taboo. Yet the wretched man had to be invited.
‘We’ve one choice, either to accept him into the family or to lose our daughter,’ he bitterly reminded himself. He had learned from Begum that it was she who had persuaded Laila to come home; otherwise she would have stubbornly remained by her husband’s side. Strangely, he admired her for her marital loyalty. Would he not expect a similar response from his own wife? Now, would Arslan tell them whether he was going or staying?
Nostrils flaring, Haider squeezed his eyes shut in nausea, imagining the potter’s son sharing his daughter’s bed in the hevali. He strode out, seeking fresh air in the fields; to think, and to suppress his former feelings of hatred towards the potter’s son, who was now a graduate and had a good job in Islamabad.
Later, when he went back to the guest room, his wife’s face was against Laila’s cheeks. Haider walked across the room and, bending down, planted a light kiss on his daughter’s forehead. Laila’s eyes opened wide in shock. He smiled gently, his eyes a startling shade of blue, but Laila was unable to bear the smile or the look and started sobbing.
Gulbahar wound her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders. Haider gently brushed away her tears.
‘This is no time for weeping – you’ll both be ill,’ he chided.
With love shining from her eyes, Gulbahar ardently thanked him, ‘Thank you for giving me back my daughter.’
Lost for words, Haider reprimanded, ‘Laila is my daughter, too, Gulbahar’, his voice raw with feeling. Gulbahar nodded, hugging her daughter once more. She couldn’t get enough of her.
‘Where’s Shirin?’ Haider asked. Laila stiffened against her mother’s chest.
CHAPTER 42
The Proposal
Haider saw them. Arslan was seating his giggling niece up on the white horse.
‘Arslan!’ Haider’s authoritative tone startled them both. Shirin swung her head round at the sound of the man’s voice, her face once more tight and rebellious.
Haider slowly walked across the paddock, eyes on the little face, tracing Laila’s beautiful features. His granddaughter’s gaze didn’t fall, strangely pleasing him. The child had spirit – her mother all over. ‘Arslan, give your niece as many rides as she likes. Tomorrow we’ll buy a special pony for her!’ he announced.
Unimpressed Shirin continued with her frosty stare.
‘Did you hear that, Shirin?’ her smiling uncle prompted.
Shirin hesitated.
‘Do you want a pony, Shirin?’ Haider now directly addressed the girl.
Shirin vigorously nodded her head, eyes on the horse’s neck.
Now standing by the horse, Haider laid his hand on Shirin’s. She froze, wanting to snatch her hand away, but found herself instead looking into the eyes that had haunted her for so long.
‘Yes, please,’ she politely murmured, gently drawing her hand out of his grasp. Haider’s arm fell to his side, the smile slipping. He stepped away.
‘Arslan, take Shirin round the fields,’ he commanded.
‘Yes, I was going to do that.’ Arslan beamed a smile of gratitude. His father was definitely trying his best.
Haider watched the horse canter away, laying the palm of his hand that had touched his granddaughter against his cheek. ‘One step at a time!’ he reminded himself.
*
Saher was overjoyed by the news, delighted at Arslan’s achievement in bringing Laila home. ‘So, Begum, he has done it!’
Hearing the sound of the doorbell, she rushed onto the veranda. Her mother had arrived.
‘Mother, guess what has happened in Auntie Gulbahar’s house?’
‘Don’t know and don’t care!’ Rani snapped, stiffening at the mention of her elder sister’s name. ‘But no doubt you are going to tell me.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Mother!’ Saher peered into her face.
Eyes averted, Rani brushed her daughter aside, heading for the dining room.
‘I’m hungry and tired from shopping! I hope that the table is laid for dinner?’ Rani swept into the dining room.
‘The good news – Laila has come home, Mother!’ Eyes lit with pleasure, Saher scanned her mother’s face, expecting a similar reaction. Rani’s gaze was on the plates, wanting to hurl them against the smooth creamy walls.
Rani felt the chill of her daughter’s gaze and wanted to escape. Saher, however, was determined to get to the bottom of what ailed her mother.
‘Did you hear me, Mother?’ she coolly mocked. ‘Laila has at last come home with her daughter. Will you not call Auntie Gulbahar to congratulate her?’
‘I heard!’ Rani hissed. ‘I’m not deaf!’
‘Good! Then let’s go.’
‘No.’ Her tone flat, Rani turned her back. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Mother! What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’ Eyes evasive and tone belligerent.
‘Something is terribly wrong, Mother. Your behaviour tells me that a major crisis is taking place inside you!’
‘You’ll not marry him!’ Rani exploded on cue.
Saher was shocked into silence, horrified by the rage in her mother’s eyes.
‘Mother! What’re you saying?’
‘You heard me!’
‘What?’
‘You know!’ Rani accused, itching to slap her daughter’s face. Did she think that she was dense?
‘What’s going on, Mother?’ Saher hardened.
‘Mother and son came for your hand in marriage,’ Rani contemptuously threw at her daughter.
‘And?’ Saher coldly prompted, rage reddening her cheeks.
‘And …’ Rani repeated, ‘and I turned them away. What did they expect?’
Saher was stunned into silence.
‘They had the cheek to come, carrying baskets of mithae and boxes of saris for you. What do they think we are? A charity case! That my daughter could be jilted by one man and then would stoop to marry another – one who is younger than her?’
‘Mother!’ Saher cried, trembling with anger, pulling a chair out from under the dining table to sit on.
Rani was now in a spitting mood.
‘How dare they!’ she fumed, eyes glittering with rage.
Saher could not contain herself any longer. ‘They dared because I had told them to come,’ she stated in the tone of supreme authority she used in court. Her mother’s eyes grew wide in disbelief.
‘Saher!’
‘I’ve heard enough of your poison, Mother. I’ll marry whomever I want! I had instructed Arslan to place my segan with you.’
‘You are mad!’ Rani exploded, feeling betrayed. ‘I’ve just been arranging your rishta with a top lawyer!’
‘To hell with your top lawyer. I want to marry Arslan, and I love him very much, Mother. If that’s hard for you to accept or understand, then that’s your problem, for marry him I shall!’
‘The thought sickens me!’
Dismayed, Saher gave up, walking away. ‘You sicken me!’ she cried, turning to give her mother a long, pointed stare. ‘You have harboured a lifelong hatred for your two sisters. Arslan has never done anything to harm you. If I’m going to marry anybody, it’ll be him. If you push me too far, believe me, Mother, I’ll desert you! I’m so ashamed of the way you think and behave. I’m going to my aunt’s house. If you want to play a part in your daughter’s wedding plans, you may.’
Saher stepped out into the sunshine of the flower-scented courtyard, trying to stabilise her breath. Her phone was ringing. It was Arslan. A tender smile spread across her face.
‘Hi, I think that we’ve a few things to discuss … including the mithae. After all, if I cannot eat at my own engagement celebration, when else can I do it?’
‘I gather that you know we came, Mother and I? Knowing my aunt I was prepared for that reaction of hers. So we just ignored it and came home,’ Arslan tentatively explained.
‘Yes I know …’
‘And …?’ he prompted, letting her finish the sentence.
Hearing the dining-room door open she chose her words with care, ‘Please come. You have chosen the blue sari. I love it! But I’ll choose my wedding dress – is that understood, Arslan? By the way, how are they? Laila and Shirin? I’m so glad for all of you.’
‘It’s fantastic to have them at home. Laila is eagerly planning for our wedding. Come and visit them now. I want you so much, Saher!’ The husky tone made her blush. Both were recalling the kiss.
‘Yes … we’ve wasted too much time already.’ She glared over her shoulders at her mother. ‘If some people can’t be happy for us, then that’s their problem.’
Rani angrily brushed past.
CHAPTER 43
Time of Need
‘Massi Fiza!’ Shabnum shouted down from the rooftop, her hand aching from opening the two heavy padlocks on the terrace door. There was no sign of their neighbour from amongst the rows of washing lines. Or was she squatting in one corner of the veranda?
In fact Massi Fiza was in her room, lying on a charpoy, her forehead tied with a band of nala string and eyes squeezed shut. She heard Shabnum and groaned in dismay, the vision of more stitching panicking her.
‘Why can’t these girls leave me alone?’
Hearing another shout, she pulled herself out of bed and cupped her hand over her forehead to keep the daylight from her eyes. Her neck ached.
‘What is it, Shabnum?’ she called flatly from the middle of her courtyard, face raised and eyes tightly shut. ‘I’m not well today! But I’ll do what you want tomorrow!’ Without waiting for a reply, she scuttled back to the bliss of the darkened room with its old wooden window shutters closed. Her parched lips ached for some pink sabz tea, but the challenge of brewing it in her little aluminium pot was akin to climbing K2.
Massi Fiza thought she had imagined the thudding sound from her outside door. It was past midnight. When the noise continued she draped an old woollen shawl around her shoulders and went to unbolt her outside door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, afraid.
‘Mam, open the door!’
Massi Fiza swung open the door to her eldest son, heart skipping a beat at his appearance. He was dressed all in black – a black shalwar kameez suit topped by a bulky, black turban, and he sported a long black beard.
‘Why are you dressed like this?’ she asked, alarm bells ringing.
Her sons were always keen on wearing Western jeans, and now he looked like one of the Afghan Taliban. Locking the door, Fiza rushed inside after him, scanning his face in the dim light.
‘What are you doing, Maqbool?’ she watched him tip the contents of their battered old leather suitcase onto the floor and rifle through her clothes. When understanding dawned, she pulled at his arm, but he pushed her away, and she fell with a thud against her bed, moaning in pain. Barely glancing a
t her, he pocketed the contents of her small leather purse.
‘Leave my money alone, you wicked boy!’ Fiza shrieked.
Her son turned on her, the wild look in his eyes frightening her. ‘I need this.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m going far away.’
‘Where? With those few hundreds!’
‘It’s enough.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Over the mountains …’
Massi Fiza’s eyes opened wide, fear clutching at her. ‘You are not one of them …?’
‘Yes!’ he finished with a sneer. ‘I’m fighting a jihad – for a purer state of Pakistan, not run by America!’
‘But the Taliban are bombing and killing people. What are you doing, my son? Are you mad?’
‘I’m leaving for the Afghan border. I don’t know if I will come again and don’t tell anyone that I’ve been here … The military are after us …’
‘Have you killed anyone?’
‘You are daft, Mam. How do you win any wars without killing?’
Massi Fiza felt faint, watching him in despair. He was now opening another suitcase, and pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Then with his back to her, he changed his clothes. As her eyes fell on the shining blade of a knife and a gun hidden inside his clothes, Fiza backed away.
‘I never want to see you again!’
‘You won’t have to! I’m destined to be a martyr!’
‘A martyr!’ she bitterly scoffed. ‘Which heaven will receive you for killing innocent women and children? If that is what you are intending. Why did Allah Pak curse me with a child like you? There I was – planning your rishta with the goldsmith’s daughters. Would they give their daughters to evil people like you?’
‘Those sluts, with their naked arms and bare heads! If one of them was my wife I would …’ he spat, his wild look of disgust shooting through Fiza. She loved those girls.
‘What would you do?’ she jeered, anger emboldening her. ‘Kill her for her bare head? You beast! Is my son only good at bullying and tyranny? You yearned for a look from those girls … you stupid boy.’
Revolt Page 37