Beneath My Mother's Feet

by Amjed Qamar

  Amma and Seema talked about the weather and the price of eggs and bread. Seema was hunched in her chair. Her clothes looked wrinkled and slept in, and clumps of jet-black hair hung loosely around her face, free from the plastic hair clip that held the remaining locks in place. She sipped tea from a chipped porcelain cup, and the heady aroma made Nazia’s stomach tighten. Maleeha’s mother had offered them leftover rice and parratha for breakfast. The flatbread fried in ghee was devoured quickly, but there hadn’t been nearly enough to satisfy the stomachs of two families. The onions cooking on the screen were joined by a dash of salt, chili powder, ginger, and garlic, and Nazia’s mouth began to water.

  “Why are you here so early?” Seema rested the cup on the arm of her chair.

  Amma launched into the events of the past two days. Seema’s eyebrows rose at the part where Uncle Tariq had called off the engagement when Abbu never showed up.

  “So what will you do now?”

  “Our place is occupied and they’ve taken our furniture, our beds. We have only a few bags and some kitchen items, which we left at a neighbor’s.” Amma glanced at Nazia and licked her lips, then placed a hand on Seema’s foot. “You have empty rooms. We need only one since the men are gone. We won’t cause you any trouble. We could help you in the evenings, whatever you like. Sherzad sleeps by the gate, and the back quarters are empty. We could clean them out and you won’t even notice we are here. Please, baji. Let us stay here with you?”

  “Won’t notice you’re here, eh?” Seema chuckled. “What about all the meals? Now I only give you and the girl lunch. If you stay, then you’ll want breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. Who can pay for that?”

  Nazia wondered the same, given how hungry Sherzad always was. How could there possibly be enough for all of them?

  Amma squeezed Seema’s foot, then released it to clasp her hands together. “Baji, please. We won’t eat much. We’ll still have the money from cleaning houses.”

  Seema stared thoughtfully at the TV and finished her tea.

  The chef had added yogurt and plump pieces of chicken to the curry, which was now bubbling over a low flame. Nazia pressed her arms around herself to keep her stomach from grumbling.

  “What about your husband?” Seema asked finally. “What would you do if he returns?”

  “He won’t,” Amma said quickly. “He’s been gone for two days, and he doesn’t know where we work.”

  Nazia shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Maleeha kept a folded scrap of paper in her backpack to give to Abbu if she ever saw him, the address of Seema’s house written in careful Urdu in Nazia’s own handwriting.

  “What about your son, then? You’ve always said he’d return to you.”

  Amma groaned. “My son, my husband, my brother-in-law. All the men in our family are the same. I don’t know why — I guess I’ll never understand it — but that’s just the way it is for people like us.”

  “Yes,” Seema agreed. “Look at Shenaz. Her husband is just as worthless, but she is not bound to him by children. Why would the lazy brutes get a job when they know they can live off the hard work of a woman?”

  Nazia opened her mouth but closed it. There would be no use in defending Abbu right now. No matter what Amma or Seema thought, Nazia knew that finding a place to stay was more important. Even if that meant Amma had to bad-mouth Abbu.

  “Of course! They know our women will go to any lengths to feed their children. The men know this all too well and use it against us. They suck the joy from our marrow, like leeches.”

  Nazia turned sharply to look at her mother. Was it really that bad for her? Was Amma so unhappy with Abbu, or was she only making a case for a place to stay? She tried to catch her mother’s eye, but Amma refused to look at her.

  Seema stood and pulled at her gauze-thin shalwar kameeze. “You can stay, but if your son shows up — or even your husband — they are not welcome.” She picked up her teacup and headed to the kitchen. “Come. I’ll show you your room.”

  Why couldn’t Amma hold her tongue! When Amma motioned at her to get up, Nazia stood up hastily and tried not to pout. At least they had a place to stay. She knew Amma would want her to be grateful for that, so she bit the inside of her lip, grabbed her mother’s arm, and squeezed it gently.

  Outside, the sun was hot on the concrete that surrounded the house, and only a portion of the veranda offered shade. Mateen and Isha were lying limp on the terrace, the cool marble beneath them the only solace from the heat.

  Seema stopped and waved a hand at them. “They’ll look like dried-up raisins if they stay here.”

  “Uttoh!” Amma shouted at them. “Get up!”

  Amma grabbed Isha’s arm and dragged her across the smooth flooring to the shade of a concrete awning. A film of dust was swept along by the trailing end of Isha’s cotton kameeze. Nazia pulled Mateen to rest alongside his sister, and her heart ached for him when he didn’t even bother to open his eyes at the movement.

  “Senseless kids,” Amma grumbled. “Don’t even have the brains to move into the shade.”

  “They’re tired and hungry,” Nazia snapped.

  Seema walked toward the back of the house. A row of concrete brick shacks was built against the property wall, consisting of four rooms. The doors were made of slats nailed together, the wood old and weathered, with strips of blue paint still visible.

  Seema positioned her shoulder against the first door and gave it a hard shove. The wood had expanded from years of heat and neglect, and it scraped roughly against the ground as it opened. The sunlight cut into the depths of the putrid-smelling room, and dust swirled in the air. Nazia and her mother waited outside while Seema ducked her head and entered. With one hand on her hip and the other pressing her dupatta against her mouth, she took in the dilapidated condition of the servant quarters. “We haven’t had a servant living in here in ages,” she said, almost apologetically. She looked around for a moment, then stepped back out into the sun and shook the dust from her dupatta. “Well, it needs work. You can clean it up when you’re done with the house. It has two charpais — should be enough if you sleep two per bed. The servants’ bathroom is at the end of the row down there. I’m sure it needs cleaning too.”

  Amma began a shower of thanks and blessed Seema for her kindness.

  “Well, don’t be too quick in your thanks, Naseem,” Seema warned. “I’m not finished. Leave these middle two rooms alone. Sahib is using them for storage. As for food and rent, you’ll get all your meals, even the children, but you’ll have to forfeit the income from cleaning my house. You can still work and keep the money from the other houses, but in the evenings you’ll need to help out here.”

  Amma must have known that she’d be asked to give up the income from Seema’s house, because she didn’t raise a single protest. Nazia wondered fleetingly if there would be any money left over to rebuild her dowry.

  “It will be nice to have live-in servants again.” Seema smiled.

  “Baji, but you have Sherzad.”

  “Oh, he’s just a boy. He can’t do everything.”

  Amma chuckled. “Don’t worry, baji. You’ll be happy with us. I promise you.”

  Seema waved her away. “Fine, fine. I have some things you can use, old clothes, sheets, dishes. I’ll sort through my things while you’re working.”

  After Seema went back inside, Amma gave Nazia a hug. “See that? Allah is on our side.”

  Nazia wondered if her prayer had helped. She wrestled out of her mother’s grasp. “What about Abbu?”

  A frown flashed across Amma’s face but was gone just as quickly. “He can take care of himself. Where was he when Iqbal threw us on the street? Where was he when his brother broke off your marriage? He’ll fend for himself. I’ve come to realize that Bilal and your father are the same. I didn’t want to believe it, but I’m not blind, you know. I see that we are alone. I see that I am carrying this family all alone.”

  So Amma was giving up on Abbu. A part of Nazia understood Amm
a’s willingness to abandon Abbu, but another part of her struggled to change Amma’s mind. Everything would always be so much harder for them without Abbu. Why couldn’t Amma see that? Was she willing to struggle the rest of her life? Whether Amma believed it or not, they needed Abbu. Nazia realized that she was the only one who still believed in him and decided that from now on she’d keep her faith in Abbu to herself. She didn’t want to hurt Amma, but she couldn’t abandon Abbu so easily.

  “Not all alone, Amma.” Nazia’s voice softened. “I’m here. I’m helping too, aren’t I?”

  Amma cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “Yes, beta. You are always here to help me. A daughter is worth a hundred sons, no matter what the rest of the world says. Come now. Let’s get to work.”

  By nightfall the air was still, and heat clung like a wet towel against Nazia’s skin. She had pulled a charpai from her quarters and positioned it in the narrow passageway between the main house and the boundary wall in the hopes of resting in the steady breeze that came from the sea.

  Except for the drone of the neighbor’s generator to combat the blackouts caused by load shedding, the air was still. The electricity had gone out immediately after Khabarnama, the evening news. Nazia supposed the temporary blackouts were planned and announced in newspapers, but since her mother rarely had the money to spare on a newspaper, the electrical outages were always an unwelcome surprise. Seema and the sahib had gone to Clifton Beach for the evening to escape the stifling heat. Only Sherzad sat outside the front gate, guarding the house.

  “Sit still, Isha.” Nazia gathered her sister’s hair in one hand and ran a comb through the oiled mass to smooth out the tangles before she braided it.

  “You’re hurting me.” Isha tried to pull away.

  Nazia gave her sister’s hair a quick jerk. “If you don’t stop moving, I’m gonna tell Amma and she’ll cut it all off.”

  Isha leaped off the charpai, then whirled back to look at Nazia. “And I’m going to tell Amma that you’re hurting me on purpose!” She covered her mouth with shaky fingers.

  Nazia immediately felt sorry. “Well, don’t cry about it.” She held out her arms. “Come back and let me finish. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

  Isha looked at her sister skeptically.

  “I said I promise.”

  Isha edged closer, and Nazia pulled her onto the charpai. She wrapped her arms around her sister and kissed her on both cheeks. “What will I do when you get too old to boss around?”

  “I don’t want to get old.”

  “You can’t stop it, chotti.”

  Isha curled up against Nazia. “I want to stay with you forever.”

  “Well, you have to stop that thinking right now. What will you do when I’m off and married?”

  “Take me with you?”

  “No,” Nazia said slowly. “You’ll have your own family to go to when the time comes.”

  Isha pulled away again. “No! I’ll stay with Amma and Mateen. You can stay too, if you want. You just don’t want to be with us anymore. You want to run away, just like Abbu and Bilal bhai.”

  “That’s not true!” Nazia protested. “Why would I want to leave all of you? My life was planned when I was younger than you, chotti. No one asked me what I wanted.” How could she explain the traditions of matrimony to her sister when she barely understood the cultural requirements herself?

  Amma had never sat her down and explained what would happen in all the years of growing up. Anything that happened in their lives was always seen as inevitable, as Allah’s will. There was never any room in their tiny existence to entertain the possibility of other choices, other dreams.

  Isha struggled to keep her voice full of fury, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “Well, I hope you never get the money for the dowry.”

  Nazia looked at her sharply. “How can you say that?”

  “Because then you’ll have to stay with us forever,” she said.

  Nazia waved the comb at Isha, who returned to the edge of the charpai and glumly allowed her hair to be braided.

  How would they save any extra money to build up a dowry? Nazia twisted her sister’s hair and tied the end with a strip of cloth. Without the money from Seema baji, they would have to find another house to clean. But that would be more than Amma’s tired body could handle. No, they’d have to find another way.

  She moved off the charpai and began taking down the clothes that she had washed earlier from the line. Mixed in with their own worn-out cotton shalwar kameezes were outdated embroidered outfits that Seema baji had dug out from storage. Despite the fact that the beadwork was tarnished and the coloring from the intricately patterned threads had bled and permanently stained the shiny material, the garments were still beautiful.

  Nazia recalled the way her mother had taken the used clothes from Seema and hung her head in gratitude. Nazia had fought hard to squelch the fury that had rushed up inside her as she remembered the dowry garments, brand new and modeled after the latest fashion trends in the glossy magazines, far more exquisite than the baji’s hand-me-downs. How had things gotten so irrevocably bad?

  But it’s not irrevocable, Nazia thought suddenly. She yanked at the clothes, letting the clothespins fall carelessly to the ground. They wouldn’t have to clean houses forever if only Nazia could find another way to make more money. She had skills. She could sew, she could cook, clean, care for children. She could read and write.

  She carried the pile of clothes back into their quarters and dropped them on the remaining charpai, where her mother and Mateen lay sleeping. Nazia had noticed that there were many other children who accompanied their mothers and sisters as they roamed the streets going from house to house on their own jobs cleaning, cooking, or doing whatever else the wealthy residents of Defence required. Would those mothers be willing to pay her if she taught their children how to read and write? Many couldn’t care less, she knew, given how they all seemed to struggle for every rupee. But some would, especially for their sons. She shook out the wrinkles and folded the clothes into a neat pile. One way or another she would find a way to make some extra money.

  Isha’s words crept into her thoughts. You can stay too, if you want. For the first time she wondered if she really did have a choice. Could she stay with her family forever? She didn’t know the answer, but at least when the time came, she’d make sure she had the means to support whatever the future held for her. She knew only that she didn’t want to live like Amma, being swept away by whatever wind blew over her.

  She put the clothes inside a sheet, crossed the ends, and tied them together. She went back out and crawled onto the ropes of the charpai, covering Isha and herself with her dupatta. Amma wouldn’t like it that she slept out in the open and would scold her in the morning. But Amma was asleep and the air was too stifling in the quarters. Amma will just have to understand, she thought. There were times when silly rules had to be broken. And this was one of them, she thought, grateful for the sudden breeze that kicked up and rushed through the passageway. She breathed in the salty air and gazed up at the stars for a long time before drifting off to sleep.

  Nazia tightened her grip on the bat and tapped the squared-off end on the ground. Sweating hard, she looked up at the bowler and squinted to keep the glare of the noon sun out. The bowler was laughing at her. She wiped the sweat from her eyes to get a better look at the him. It was her brother Bilal. The crowd behind her began chanting her name. Bilal’s laughter ceased abruptly, and he threw the ball.

  Nazia swung hard. The pitch came in low, but the ball connected and the crack of the bat reverberated throughout the field. She clutched the bat and ran toward the wicket, but her brother threw the ball to the wicketkeeper before she could reach it. She stopped short when she saw who had caught the ball. It was Abbu. Her father punched the air with a fist and pointed at her. “You’re out, chotti! You’re out.”

  The crowd began to rush the pitch, and Amma led the charge straight at her. Nazia dropped to the ground, cov
ering her head with her hands. Their chanting swelled, and even though she pressed her palms against her ears, she couldn’t block out the terrifying sounds. “You’re out! Get out! You’re out! Get out!” The yelling intensified as the crowd grew and was accompanied by the hard pounding of cricket bats against the earth, thumping an angry rhythm whose beat rose high above the playing field. The thumping grew louder and louder until Nazia felt as though they were beating the bats against her head.

  Nazia awoke with a start, bumping her head against the bamboo side of the charpai. The door to the servant quarters was rattling, and the fervent banging continued.

  “Get up!” The door rattled again.

  She shook away the dream and rose unsteadily off the rickety bed, trying to keep from waking Isha. Halfway through the night Amma had shaken her awake and demanded that she move the charpai into the servant quarters.

  The thumping came again. “I’m coming!” she whispered.

  Nazia opened the door a crack and peered out. It was barely dawn, and the sky still held the bluish-gray hue of night. Sherzad stood glaring at her, his feet bare and his hair tousled. “What’s got you up so early?” she mumbled.

  “Are you deaf? I’ve been banging on the door forever! You sleep like the dead in there.”

  “Well, maybe you weren’t knocking hard enough.” She didn’t think her dream was any of his business.

  “Was so.” He crossed his arms and let his hands rest in his armpits. “Okay, maybe not. He told me not to wake your mother.”

  Nazia rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Who told you that?”

  “Your abbu.”

  “My abbu?”

  “He’s outside the gate. He told me to come get you, so could you hurry up so I can get some sleep before baji wakes up?”