Until We Meet Again in Jannah

by Laki Khan

  ‘Assalamualaikum,’ I heard, and sighed with relief as we passed them. The path was becoming less muddy in the heat, enabling me to walk more easily. We walked past more mud houses and children who continued to stare in fascination. I refrained from making any eye contact as I had begun to panic.

  The scenery was now beginning to change, becoming less barren and making way for more shrubs. I figured that we had now reached the more developed part of the village, because parts of the path were now concrete. I spotted henna trees that almost every household grew, with little flowery green leaves all over, giving off a fragrance that reminded me of Sumayah who adored decorating her hands and feet with henna. We were now approaching a few houses that appeared to be owned by the wealthier occupants of the village. They were very large, built of bricks and concrete, and the windows were carved in the shape of arches displaying intricate architecture. Each house appeared to have its own balcony and a large patio at the front and back, enhancing its beauty. Some were even two storeys high whilst another had a veranda on the roof, complete with furniture and even an enchanting flower garden; the petals of bright-coloured marigolds and roses could be seen swaying to the tune of the breeze. I stared mesmerised at the grandeur. Part of the house was painted in yellow and other parts in white. I then watched a lady dusting the high corners of the patio area and concluded that she must have been a maid, just as we were going to be.

  Our new refuge was the village of Gobind Pur; it lay in the densely populated suburbs of my former home, Jahed Pur. It was around forty-five minutes’ walk, and perhaps thirty minutes away by boat, the only other means to get there. Transportation by vehicle was not a possibility as the tracks were muddy and narrow. It was a much smaller village, consisting of only a few grocery shops, a mosque and a very small school. It had no bazaar or post office and the main sources of income for the occupants were agriculture and fishing. Mesabji Chacha had informed us that it was quite a remote village, and that most of the residents were wealthy and lived abroad and only visited once a year, perhaps less. I stood still in awe wondering which house we were to be employed in. Mesabji Chacha stood by a very large, enchanting house further away from the concrete path. This house was grand, full of character, and stood alone. The path meandered towards the house. We followed it and stood outside the white metal gates surrounding the front patio area that led into an open front veranda. It was a one-storey building, although quite high, complemented by an outdoor staircase leading up to a rooftop balcony. I looked up at the balcony; it had a white picket fence around the edge of the entire rooftop and was about three feet high. There was something about this house I found enchanting; something unidentifiable that instantly settled my unsettled mind. The walls were painted white and the door and window frames were coloured with a hint of green. An immaculately clean concrete pathway surrounded the entire house. The house had lovely cut-out windows on each side, and green steel doors. The curtains could be seen swaying in and out of the house with the light breeze. Ammu and I walked onto the patio. I secretly asked God to guide and bless me in this new trial in my life. The floor was tiled in green and white and the furniture was of jute, instantly reminding me of my Abbuji. The three of us were seated as the open gates let in rays of sun that glittered on the tiled floor. The veranda was wide and oval shaped, too big for one man, which made me ponder as to why he needed a house this grand.

  Just then a middle-aged lady appeared through the hallway that ran through the middle of the house. She was short in appearance and dressed in a bright pink cotton sari that covered her face up to her nose. She was coy, giggling, and swiftly hid the rest of her face. This bewildering vision brought the hint of a smile to my lips. I glanced over to Ammuji, who was resolutely immersed in her thoughts, and the harsh reality of our surroundings began to dawn on me again. Mesabji Chacha greeted the lady, as she presented us with water and dry sugary crackers, giggling again as she placed the glasses on the table. She then looked at the three of us individually with further giggles in between, while Ammu remained oblivious to everything. The lady informed us that she had been instructed by the owner to receive us and show us around the house. I figured she must have been a relative.

  She started the tour with the hallway. It was quite long and had six rooms branching off; at the end was a very large kitchen with two indoor bathrooms attached to it. The kitchen was tidy with many different pots, pans and utensils, and a large dining table in the centre, which for me was a rarity in itself. She informed us the front two rooms were reception rooms for guests, and then presented one of the back rooms, which had been assigned to Ammu and me; it was close to the kitchen and comfortable. She then pointed towards a large room in the middle, which she said belonged to the owner; this was the only door that remained closed, intriguing me. Throughout the tour, the lady giggled each time she spoke a few words and would then cover her face momentarily, leading me to believe that perhaps this was a nervous trait to her personality. Either that or she found our faces to be amusing, but this seemed a little unlikely. The lady then led us back into the room that had been assigned to us and suggested we settle in, again giggling in between her words.

  Nervously she looked at us and said, ‘You all must be thinking that I am very happy.’ Ammuji continued to be silent almost as if she had lost the will to live. Mesabji Chacha and I were puzzled more than anything. I asked her what she meant, to which she replied that ever since she had been a child she used to giggle nervously at everything, thus the villagers had named her ‘Khushi’. Ever since that day her name and giggles had remained unchanged. She informed us that she had been working here as a maid for over a decade and due to her age was not able to complete all the tasks. She said her employer, being the kind man that he was, had agreed to keep her, assigning her lighter duties, thus enabling her to continue supporting her family, who resided in another village. Secretly I had already taken a liking to her, and her name befitted her colourfully vibrant persona. I respected her honesty as I knew all too well of the struggle to provide for one’s family. Politely I introduced myself and Ammu, as Khushi giggled away. Khushi advised us to take rest, stating that ‘Saheb’ would return home very late today due to some important work he needed to complete. ‘Saheb’ was a word used to refer to royalty, and it baffled me somewhat that Khushi was referring to him in this way.

  Ammu had been almost mute since our arrival. I silently observed as she sat on a bench near the window, consumed by sadness, which worried me immensely. Mesabji Chacha took his leave. ‘Forgive me that I could not do more for you. I will always keep you both in my prayers and thoughts, and always remember that God is with you, and you will be safe here.’ He touched my forehead as if he were blessing me.

  Ammu looked towards him and whispered, ‘Thank you for everything.’ Mesabji Chacha nodded, smiled and left.

  Our room was spacious, and furnished with a dresser with wooden drawers and two chairs in the corner. Its tiled floor provided coolness, just perfect for this intense heat. I sat on the double bed in the centre, which even had a thin mattress placed on it; only the wealthier people were able to afford luxuries such as a mattress. I stood peeping through the open window and closed my eyes, visualising my beloved village: the children chasing the roosters and baby goats, people milking the cow for their daily brew of tea. I missed my home, and most of all I missed the harmony of sitting near the stream, dipping my feet in and out to the tune of the croaking frogs.

  My eyes opened and I sighed; the scenery here was almost like a parallel world – all I could see were some trees around the house. There were papaya, jack fruit, some pomelo and to my surprise a very tall and lean betel nut tree. Very few villagers could be seen or heard, apart from a few children I could hear laughing and splashing; I figured they were taking their daily bath in a pond somewhere in the distance, which I found comforting. Beside this house was another very large house. There were more houses at the side and back, all grand in appearance.

  I look
ed over towards Ammu who was sitting anxiously on the bed. I hugged her tightly and helped her to lie down to rest. I had no words to comfort her, so I placed the few belongings that we had in the drawers and sat next to her. I still felt anxious, although I found comfort in the harmonious sound of the call to prayer as it reached my ears, immediately dispersing my worries. It provided me with internal strength as it reminded me of home. Silently I pleaded with God to help me care for my beloved mother through this unknown and precarious journey, and to keep me away from the clutches of Hamid.

  A short while later Khushi entered our room inviting us to join her for dinner, which Ammu politely refused. I looked at Khushi and said, ‘We will be right there, thank you,’ to which Khushi giggled and walked away. I spent some time attempting to convince Ammu, and she only agreed when finally I resorted to emotional blackmail informing her that I refused to eat alone. Together we sat round the large table, where food had been served, but there was no sign of Khushi. Confused, I stood up to look around when I heard a giggle coming from behind me. Suddenly I saw the top of her head. She was sitting on the floor in a corner alone tucking into dinner. Khushi then informed me that Saheb liked everyone to eat their evening meals together, including maids, at the dinner table; however, she chose to sit separately as it made her more giggly to sit with others.

  I reflected on the situation that had now become our reality. My poor mother, who had not uttered a single word since our arrival here, and the irony of Khushi, who giggled at almost everything, confused me making me just want to pour my heart out and cry. I noticed Ammu glance around the kitchen and could almost read the heartache imprinted all over her face. She was missing our home, missing the memories of my Abbuji. I quickly enticed her by inhaling in the garlic aroma of the piping hot dahl soup that we were both so fond of and then began eating in the hope that she would soon follow my lead.

  That night I lay wide awake contemplating the future, which was full of uncertainty and which posed a thousand questions without providing a single answer. As the saying goes ‘You must hurt in order to grow and you must fall in order to stand’, and perhaps this was all predestined, a part of the plan that God had created for me. My faith kept me strong and the substantial concrete walls of this house provided me with security if nothing else, temporarily settling my mind.

  The next morning I woke early, a feeling of dread in my heart. The memory of what I used to do at about this time of day was painful: Ammu and I would be busy preparing for work, drinking ginger tea; the village children would be outside causing a ruckus; the roosters; the cattle; the sound of clanging pots and pans being carried from here to there; the tune of the stream in our back courtyard where I had spent many cherished moments with Sumayah. Ammu was sleeping and she looked peaceful. As quietly as I could I wrapped my hijab loosely around my face and crept slowly out of the room. I figured Saheb would have a list of tasks for the day, so I wanted to begin while Ammu rested a little more. The sun shone right into the hallway, glittering across the kitchen tiles. The house seemed even larger in daylight.

  ‘Khushi,’ I called out, entering the kitchen. ‘Khushi, are you there?’ I figured she must have been asleep as I couldn’t hear any giggling. I looked towards the open back patio; there was a light morning breeze sweeping across my face and I closed my eyes to savour it. I could hear the sound of birds, flapping cockerels, the chatter of women and children. The patio was almost the size of an entire room and very clean, with a water pump to the right side of the house – for easy access for cooking and cleaning I presumed. Further towards the back of the patio was a small pond; instinctively I searched for the shada shapla that I had become so accustomed to seeing every morning. I stepped outside, walking closer to the lake; it reminded me of my stream and the memories etched permanently into my mind. Perhaps I would find here what my heart yearned for.

  This part of the house was beautifully decorated with many trees and plants, adding mystery and character. I soon discovered an entire avenue of what appeared to be palm trees. Taking a closer look, I noticed juicy papayas at the top of a tall tree trunk. Papaya leaves are huge and magnificent, although not very long lasting. In the past, Ammu and I had all but counted the number of days papaya leaves would last before withering away. Close to the papaya tree was another rather large tree almost enveloping the entire area with its magnificent high branches. Its root, which was similarly huge, covered the ground. I inhaled the distinctive sweet and fruity aroma of its fruit – called kathal – our national fruit. I was looking up at dozens of the largest tree-borne fruit in our country. Jackfruit was widely cultivated, mostly in hilly areas, and some of them could weigh as much as thirty-six kilos. The naturally distinctive sweet taste was loved and cherished by my father – he adored the taste of cooked kathal – whereas Ammu enjoyed devouring the soft and ripe ones in cakes and custard.

  Ironically, this village had more similarities than differences to my beloved Jahed Pur. Hesitantly I retraced my steps and took the concrete path up to the mud houses we had passed the day before. I heard some children laughing and the sound of water being splashed. I then discovered another concrete path branching off from the one leading to the house, this one narrower. It felt strange not to walk on muddy soil. I walked to the very end of the path and to my astonishment there was a large pond with dozens of shada shapla flowers floating here, there and everywhere. Immediately my face lit up with joy – this was a vision I truly missed; I thought of Sumayah and smiled at the memory. Just then I felt an unexpected tug on the side of my kaftan which made me flinch with panic.

  ‘Apa, would you like to play with us?’ said a little angel – a boy who appeared to be around four or five years old. I sighed in relief, my heart stopped pounding and I stared at him in silence. ‘Apa,’ he called out again. Another reminder of my home: the children I had taught. I dearly missed their angelic faces and innocence. The boy tugged at my hand this time, bringing me back to reality. ‘Are you new here, Apa?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I came to this Gao only yesterday, and will be staying here for some time,’ I replied hesitantly.

  ‘You will like it here, Apa. Would you like to play with us?’ he asked again, smiling.

  ‘I will definitely play with you all another day,’ I assured him, stroking his angelic face gently. He was playing with a group of other children. They were each taking turns throwing stones and pebbles into the pond, their innocent faces laughing and joyful, and watching them gave me temporary peace of mind. A few ladies were standing knee deep in water washing and cleaning pots and pans; I assumed they were preparing to brew tea and begin cooking for the day. A young lady carrying pots in one hand and her young infant in the other walked past me, smiling as if to welcome me. I smiled back, as a chilling sensation of fear overcame me at the thought of them discovering my truth. I watched another lady who was beating out her dust-covered clothes on the steps of the pond, and the farmers as they began ushering cattle in preparation for the day ahead. I presumed they were headed to the fields before the onset of the scorching heat. This part of Gobind Pur was busier and people appeared happy, just like in my beloved home; ironically, it was also the less wealthy part of the village. Lost in my myriad thoughts, I began to walk back to the wealthier side along the concrete path leading to the larger houses. I stared at a lady sweeping a large courtyard as she smiled at me wandering past. I assumed her to be one of the maids looking after the house; the owners must be living abroad. My walking pace increased; I was anxious to return to Ammu as quickly as possible. Just then I heard a giggle and saw a fluorescent green sari. Khushi was standing there covering her mouth with the end of her pallu with one hand and carrying a large bowl of pots and utensils with the other hand.

  ‘Khushi, I have been looking for you,’ I said in astonishment.

  She giggled and then replied, ‘I went to collect some fresh vegetables from the field nearby. I’ll be back shortly, just need to wash these.’ She pointed at the pots and walk
ed off without allowing me to say anything further. I struggled to fathom why she had decided to wash the pots in the pond when there was a water pump in the back patio. I concluded Khushi to be a mystery; perhaps Saheb could offer an explanation.

  Chapter 8 – House Larger than Life

  I almost sprinted back to the house, breathless, as the sound of my mother’s voice startled me. I could hear her along with a male voice I didn’t recognise. Immediately I scurried over to her as she sat beside the table in the kitchen. ‘Ammu, are you okay? Why are you out of bed, you need to rest,’ I blurted out hysterically. I ushered her back into our room without allowing her the opportunity to speak a single word. ‘You should have waited for me to return,’ I continued in a frenzied panic.

  ‘Saira, I was only drinking tea,’ she began.

  ‘I would have made the tea for you, Ammu,’ I said loudly.

  ‘Saira, I didn’t make the tea, Omar did. He wanted to introduce himself to us. We decided to wait for you to return so that he could meet you, and while we waited he brewed tea for the three of us,’ she explained.

  ‘I am sorry, Ammu, I just want you to rest,’ I said in my defence. Feeling guilty and a little embarrassed about my behaviour now I stared at Ammu. She sent me straight back to the kitchen, firstly to apologise and then to meet our employer who was also the owner of this magnificent house. Feeling extremely annoyed with myself, with a lowered gaze I apologised for my untoward behaviour. I introduced myself asking what duties or chores he required me to complete that day. In the hope that he would understand and forgive my insolence I waited patiently for a response; however, there was silence. I asked a second time, ‘What chores do I need to prioritise for today?’ and again, silence. I decided either he must be extremely arrogant or he was refusing to forgive me. I looked up, confused, and to my surprise all I saw were an empty chair and three full teacups sitting on the table, which confirmed what Ammu had told me exactly. I wondered if he walked out whilst I had been speaking to him, which suggested two conclusions: number one – he was arrogant, and number two – he had taken offence at my behaviour. I hoped the latter to be untrue. The feeling of guilt refused to leave me. After all, I should have been ecstatic that Ammu had taken herself out of bed and had even spoken.