Beneath My Mother's Feet

by Amjed Qamar

  Fully alert now, Nazia hurried to the gate. Abbu probably had come home, only to find his family gone and strangers sitting on their sofa. Maleeha must have given him the address to Seema’s place. The next time she saw Maleeha, she’d have to remember to thank her for sending Abbu to her.

  She lifted the lever carefully to keep the iron latch from squeaking, slid the lock back, pushed open the gate, and slipped onto the street. Her heart stilled when she saw her father.

  Abbu rushed to wrap his arms around her, engulfing her small frame in the folds of his shirt. Nazia’s feet left the ground and the sky whirled above her as he swung her around in his strong grip. She breathed in the sweat and stench of her father’s filthy clothes, but she didn’t care and clung to him tightly. He’d been gone only three days, but Nazia felt as if she’d trekked across the desert in his absence.

  “Nazia! Chotti! I’m so glad to see you. Let me look at you.” He cocked his head and smiled at her. “You’ve grown so much.”

  Nazia giggled. “I have not.”

  “Of course you have,” he said in mock seriousness. “A child can grow into a woman in the blink of an eye!”

  “Abbu, I’m not a woman.” Nazia stopped laughing. “And I don’t want to be.”

  “Okay, beta. You’ll always be my little chotti.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Now, stop being so serious. You look so much like your mother, you’re frightening me!” He let go of her and pretended to bite his dirt-encrusted fingernails.

  Nazia couldn’t help but laugh at his antics. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed. She was certain, though, that it had to have been with Abbu. She sighed. Even though she didn’t want to end the silly moment, there were questions to ask and problems to solve.

  She froze his smiling face in her mind and locked it away for safekeeping. She watched his short mustache wiggle as he pretended to bite his nails. His teeth were straight but deeply stained from the juice of betel leaves and roadside tea. The skin around his eyes crinkled up as he laughed, and his cheeks puffed out like baby potatoes. Nazia was surprised by the glimpse of Abbu as he used to be before the accident, and she cherished the moment, glad that they were alone.

  “It won’t be long before you go back to the village. I’ll give you and Salman a wedding the village will talk about for years to come!”

  She inhaled deeply. Someone had to tell him. It might as well be her. “There’s not going to be a wedding,” Nazia said. “At least not with Salman.”

  Abbu looked confused, and Nazia launched into the tale of her uncle’s visit, the canceled wedding, the eviction, and the search for a place to live.

  Sherzad came through the gate. “Baji’s coming!” He disappeared again, but they could hear his voice as he tried to steer Seema back to the house.

  Abbu grabbed Nazia’s arms, and she bit back the wince as his fingernails dug into her flesh.

  “Listen to me, chotti. We don’t have much time.”

  “Gee, Abbu.”

  His face was solemn. “I need to stay here with you. Do whatever you must to convince baji to let me stay. Can you do that for me?”

  Nazia nodded slowly. “I’ll ask her. But she already told Amma that if you or Bilal bhai come, she won’t let you stay.”

  “That’s where I need your help, chotti. You have to convince her. I have no place else to go. If everything is as you say, then I can’t go back to Punjab until we have your dowry. I’ve spent all this time looking for work and found nothing. I need a place to rest and regain my strength to work again.”

  “But you are fine now, right? You said so yourself when you went to see Iqbal about the rent. And you aren’t limping anymore.”

  “You are right, chotti. I am fine, but there’s no work. Maybe your baji or the baji’s sahib has something I can do here, a mali, a chowkidar, anything.”

  “Sherzad, the boy you met, does all the other work around here, including the gardening and the gatekeeping. I don’t think there’s any work here for you, Abbu.”

  His face fell, and he looked away. From the other side of the wall Sherzad’s and baji’s voices were coming closer.

  “But I’ll ask the baji,” she said. “Even if there isn’t any work here, maybe you can still stay here. And the sahib may have something. Who knows? I’m sure the baji wouldn’t want to split up a family.”

  “That’s my girl. Now, don’t tell Amma that I asked you to do this for me. You know how upset she gets when she doesn’t believe I’ve done enough. She cleans a few houses, pulls my children out of school, and all of a sudden she thinks she’s a man.”

  Nazia ignored his sharp words and snaked her arms around his waist for a quick hug before hurrying back to the gate, where she could hear the latch being lifted. Just as she was about to slip inside, Seema baji stepped through the small gate and out onto the street.

  The memsahib’s gaze swung from Nazia to her father. “As salam-o-alaikum,” she said in a haughty tone.

  “Wa laikum as salam,” Nazia said carefully. Abbu stepped forward to return the greeting. He alternately bowed his head and puffed out his chest in an effort to impress the rumpled memsahib.

  Seema’s kameeze was wrinkled and her shalwar clung to her legs. Her hair was tied up in a rubber band, accentuating the sagging skin and the lines of her face. She placed her hands on her hips. “Who is this?”

  Nazia smiled eagerly. “Abbu came to see us. To make sure we were okay.”

  “I see your leg is better now.” Seema baji bent down to pick up a bit of debris in front of her boundary wall. Sherzad was beside her immediately and snatched the trash from her fingers.

  “Gee, baji,” Abbu replied hastily. “I’ve been all over Karachi searching for work. My legs ache like an old man’s, so I thought I’d visit my family, maybe rest here for the day if you’ll allow it.”

  “Baji, please,” interjected Nazia. “Isha and Mateen would cry their hearts out if they knew Abbu came here and didn’t even stay to see them. Please.”

  Seema stared at her for a long moment, then abruptly turned and walked the length of her property alongside the road, picking up errant paper, plastic shopping bags blown up against the wall, and fallen leaves from a neighboring neem tree. Sherzad followed her every movement like a puppy, waiting with outstretched arms whenever she picked up another bit of trash. Finally she spoke.

  “Naseem is very unhappy with you,” she said to Abbu.

  “I know.” Abbu dropped his shoulders and stared at the ground. “It’s understandable, I suppose. Once a man loses a good job, it’s hard to find another in this city. There’s maybe one job for every five hundred men. My weary feet say maybe worse.”

  Seema gave him a sour look and shook her head. “You men are all so much alike. Always an excuse.” She wagged a finger at him. “You have no job now because Naseem works. Your daughter works. You’ve tasted the money of a desperate mother, and now you’ve learned how to keep the water flowing. When the well runs dry, disappear. Naseem and Nazia will work harder. More water will come. You all know the game so well; I don’t understand why Naseem bothers to share any of it with you.”

  “You are wrong, baji, I’m not — ”

  “Abbu’s not that way, baji!” Nazia cried.

  Seema shot Nazia a hard look. “Don’t you fall for your father’s lies. He’ll do anything to get someone on his side.”

  “You don’t know him.” Nazia jutted her chin out. “You only know Amma’s story, not his.”

  “I know your engagement is over. I know you don’t go to school. I know your mother works until she’s near dead every day for you kids. All that is your father’s fault.”

  Nazia’s eyes filled with tears. Everything Seema said was true, but did it mean that her father had to go away? That they would have to clean houses forever or at least until someone decided to marry her? She stared at the memsahib, realizing that if Abbu left, she would never be a little girl again. A small cry escaped her lips, a
nd she slapped a hand against her mouth, stifling the fear.

  Seema rubbed a hand on her back. “Oh, fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Hush. Stop your crying.” She started toward the gate. “He can stay for now, but there’s no work here. Sherzad is more than enough for me.” She turned to Abbu. “I’ll check with the sahib and see if he has any work. Now get in here. Nazia has work to do.”

  Amma came toward the gate. “Why did you let him in?”

  Seema shrugged as she headed back inside. “Your daughter. She begged me.”

  Nazia pretended not to hear their exchange. She pulled her father inside, closing the gate door behind them. Why did Amma have to make a big commotion about everything? She’d settled it already, hadn’t she?

  “Don’t close that gate!” Amma shouted, pushing Nazia aside. She threw the latch open and tried to force Abbu back out.

  “Amma! What are you doing?”

  Amma pounded Abbu’s chest. “You let your own daughter beg for you? You don’t care about her. You don’t care about any of us!”

  Nazia pulled at Amma, but it was Abbu who easily held Amma at arm’s length to keep from getting bombarded by her blows.

  Nazia squeezed herself between them. “Stop it, both of you! Just stop it!”

  Amma yanked her arms from Abbu’s grip and looked at Nazia, her chest heaving. “You two deserve each other. Both of you, nothing but dreamers!”

  Nazia dropped her shoulders in dismay. “Don’t say that, Amma!”

  “Dreaming doesn’t put food on the table or a roof over your head.”

  Abbu held out a hand and tried to smooth Amma’s hair, but she swatted him away. “Please, just listen to me,” he said. “I’ve been all over the city looking for work. I — ”

  “I don’t believe you!” Amma’s eyes were venomous.

  Nazia wrapped her arms around Amma. She whispered into the folds of her neck and her sweaty hair. “Amma, give him another chance. Seema said she will ask the sahib if he has work for him. He just needs another chance!”

  “He doesn’t deserve another chance!” Amma spat near his feet, but Nazia only tightened her grip.

  “Just once.”

  Finally, after a few minutes, when Amma’s breathing became easier and her body sagged against Nazia, Amma relented.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “Let the coward stay.” Amma pulled away and looked Nazia in the eye. “But it will only be a matter of days before we’ll regret it.”

  Abbu pulled them apart before Nazia could reply. He embraced them both, surrounding them with words of relief, nervous laughter, and a promise that he would work hard.

  Nazia wondered fleetingly if Amma was right, if they would regret letting Abbu return so easily. She hoped not, but she couldn’t dwell on it either, because the younger ones had heard Abbu’s voice in all the commotion. They came running, their innocent faces full of joy.

  Seema convinced the sahib to employ Abbu at one of his construction sites in the city. As an investment developer, he bought land in and around Karachi, erecting factories and plants. He also worked with architects to construct modern houses, which Pakistanis returning from abroad and other countries’ expatriates would prefer to live in.

  Amma had simmered for some time when she realized that Abbu intended to stay at the servant quarters rather than find the family a real home. And why wouldn’t he? Nazia had reasoned. There was no rent to pay and the food was part of the deal, except for Abbu, who had to buy his meals from the roadside stalls in Defence Market. Isha and Mateen were elated that Abbu was nearby and they no longer had to worry about their missing father.

  Abbu went to the construction site every day and returned nightly. Amma and Nazia continued to clean the other two houses during the day and returned in the afternoons to Seema’s place. Seema baji had even given Isha and Mateen small duties around the house, such as watering the outdoor plants, weeding the garden, and sifting through rice and lentils.

  Amma had gotten Seema to let them clean out the adjacent room to make room for Abbu, and Isha and Mateen made a game every night of choosing which room to sleep in.

  Nazia managed to pick up some sewing from an embroidery shop down in the market, next to the tailor who made customfitted shalwar suits. The shopkeeper sold dupattas and an array of lace and trim. He received numerous requests to sew the trim directly onto the dupattas, and he met the demand by operating sewing machines in his shop to keep up with the orders. But other ladies often came in with their own clothes, asking for size alterations, rips to be repaired, and lace to be added.

  The shopkeeper had been impressed with Nazia’s initiative and had been pleased to offer to pay her a small fee for the work she took home and brought back the next day. It wasn’t long before he began relying on her punctual appearance every afternoon before teatime to pick up more work, and then deliver the finished garments the following day before midday prayers.

  Nazia was careful not to spend the money she earned from the sewing on anything, and even Amma didn’t ask her about it. Slowly but surely the money she stashed in a rusty container beneath a pile of old newspapers was growing.

  One day Seema held a dinner party for the sahib’s friends and business associates. The sahib had expanded the guest list without telling the memsahib, so Seema spent the day tiring out Sherzad, Nazia, Amma, and even Isha as they washed, cleaned, mopped, dusted, and ran to the market to buy last-minute items such as yogurt and milk.

  Sherzad had been sick all day with a high fever, and yet he managed to run the grass cutter and trim the bushes before collapsing in his room after lunch. While he slept, Nazia covered for him and did the remainder of the work herself. The memsahib had been upset that Sherzad had fallen ill on the day of an important party, but Nazia insisted that she’d do his work. “There’s plenty of work to go around,” the memsahib had replied, and insisted that Sherzad be prepared to work again once the party got under way.

  At half past nine the Khabarnama evening news ended, and guests began to trickle in. The chicken tikka, meatball qorma, lamb-and-rice biryani, and potato-and-cauliflower sauté were all ready. Only the garnishing and yogurt raita remained. Nazia stood at the island in the kitchen and diced onions and cilantro to mix into the yogurt.

  The sahib hobbled into the kitchen. “Where is everyone? Doesn’t anyone hear the buzzer?”

  Seema began pulling out serving bowls from the cupboard. “I’m sure Sherzad is around here somewhere. I thought he was in the back bringing out more chairs. Or maybe he’s at the market. I gave him money to buy the bread.”

  “He should be at the gate. We can’t have the guests standing out on the street waiting.”

  Seema set the bowls on the island and began wiping out the dust with a damp cloth. “Nazia, get the door. Leave the latch open so guests can enter on their own, then go look for Sherzad.” She glanced at the sahib. “Good enough?”

  “What’s the point of having so many servants if there’s none when you need them?” He stamped his cane on the floor.

  Nazia scooped the diced onions into the bowl of yogurt and then quickly washed her hands at the sink while she listened to the exchange.

  “Where’s Saleem?” Seema asked her husband. “Didn’t Nazia’s father come back with you?”

  “We just had a shipment of supplies, and the chowkidar had to leave. So I asked Saleem to stay and guard the materials.”

  “Couldn’t you have asked someone else? You knew about this party — it would help to have him here tonight.”

  “His entire family is here, the boy is here, how many servants could you possibly need for the party?”

  “Sherzad is ill today. Even if Nazia finds him, I’m not sure he’ll be of much use tonight.”

  The buzzer sounded long and hard, interrupting their argument. They both turned to Nazia.

  “Are you still here?” shouted Seema.

  Nazia pushed open the kitchen door and dashed down the steps. She ran barefoot around the house and down th
e driveway to unlatch the gate, then stepped aside to let the guests in.

  A tall man dressed in trousers brushed past her, followed by a thin woman who gave Nazia a haughty look. They spat out words at her, but Nazia didn’t understand them. She realized they were speaking in English.

  Nazia ducked her head, apologizing in Urdu, as they marched toward the house, where the sahib stood, holding open the front door. For the next few minutes a steady stream of finely dressed guests passed through the gates. Their cars lined the street, and drivers gathered outside across the street, chatting and milling about while their passengers were entertained.

  Nazia waited for a lull in the line of people that trickled through, and then peeped inside Sherzad’s room to check on him. He was curled up on the charpai, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his stomach. “Sherzad?” The boy didn’t move, but a low moan escaped his lips. She called his name again as she stepped into the dank quarters.

  He moaned, the guttural sound sending a chill down her spine. She touched his arm, then recoiled, alarmed by his burning-hot skin. “Sherzad! You have a fever!” She touched his forehead with the palm of her hand. “You must get to the doctor.”

  He tried to speak, but his lips were parched.

  “Should I get baji?”

  He licked his lips. “No,” Sherzad mumbled. “Just sleep.”

  Nazia could hear the sounds of more guests coming through the iron gate, their laughter loud and high-pitched. The party was in full swing, and Nazia knew she had to get back to help Seema in the kitchen.

  “Let me get Amma. Maybe she can help you.” When the boy didn’t reply, Nazia tucked the flimsy blanket that lay at the foot of the charpai around his frail body. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

  She ran back to the bustling kitchen. Amma was at the counter pouring ice-cold water into glasses on a tray. Seema was ladling food into the serving dishes, and a number of the guests were milling about, watching.

  “Baji,” Nazia began, “Sherzad is — ”

  Seema whirled about, her face pinched. “Where have you been? I send you to open the gate and you completely disappear. Where’s Sherzad?”