by Amjed Qamar
Sherzad rose calmly and came out into the street, where Seema ordered him to relieve the peddler’s cart of his wares.
The peddler protested and pressed his palms together. “Baji, I bought these goods and have already paid your chowkidar.” He nodded at Abbu. “You can take back the goods only if he gives me the money back.”
“He never gave me any money!” Abbu shouted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I had only loaded the materials on the cart, and you came out before he paid me.”
“Check his pockets, baji.” The peddler wrung his hands together, twisting his fingers, locking and interlocking them. “You and your chowkidar are trying to rob a poor man who makes an honest living. You can’t take back the merchandise and keep the money! How will I survive?”
Nazia looked at the cart more closely and recognized machinery, spare parts, and scrap metal — all the sahib’s property that had been stored for so long in the back room adjacent to theirs.
Abbu was stealing! Nazia tasted metal and clenched her jaw to hold down the bile. Abbu must have quietly collected the items to sell to the scrap dealer while they all slept. Seema had probably heard or seen him carrying the materials to the gate. How else would she have known he was out here?
How could he do this to them? Nazia was dizzy with grief. Grief for herself, for her siblings, and for her mother. But most of all, grief over the knowledge that Amma was right about Abbu.
“Nazia! Don’t just stand there. Help Sherzad move everything inside.” Seema began lifting pieces of scrap metal off the cart and placing them in the driveway. She paused in front of Nazia’s mother and said, “Get the money out of your husband’s pockets, or you can leave with him right now.” She brushed past Nazia and continued to carry the sahib’s scraps back through the gate.
Amma berated Abbu and scuffled with him until she managed to pry the money from his kurta. Nazia’s cheeks grew hot as she noticed the neighboring servants and chowkidars coming out to watch the spectacle.
Within minutes the machinery and metal parts were whisked back to the storage room and the scrap collector’s money was returned. Seema snapped her fingers at Sherzad. “Go and get the other children.” She turned back to Amma. “You can come and get your things when you’ve found some place else to stay.”
Amma’s eyes widened. “But baji, where will we go?” She grasped her arm. “Please, don’t punish us all for my stupid husband’s mistake.”
Seema shook herself free. “He is useless now. How can we trust him? God knows what he’s been doing at the sahib’s site. Instead of guarding, he’s probably been selling off the sahib’s supplies and equipment, then blaming it on the laborers.”
“I stole nothing. I swear to you.” Abbu hung his head, but there was no conviction in his voice.
“Don’t you speak to me,” Seema said, her voice grim. “You get away from here and don’t come back. Take your wretched family with you.” She turned to Amma. “You’ve all been nothing but trouble since the moment you arrived. Take your children and get out. I have Sherzad. I don’t need the rest of you.”
“Baji, please,” Amma whispered, her hands clasped together. “We have nowhere else to go.”
Seema turned her gaze toward Sherzad, who stood at the gate. “Are you deaf? Go and get the children.” Sherzad edged around the back of the house.
Amma suddenly collapsed at Seema’s feet. She clutched Seema’s ankles through her thin shalwar and looked up, her eyes pleading. “Baji. I will send Saleem away. When he finds work, he will call for us. Let us stay until then.”
Nazia tried to lift her mother by the arm. “Amma, what are you doing? Get up.” Her mother’s flesh was hot as she twisted out of Nazia’s grasp. “Amma! You don’t have to do this. We can find another place.” She gritted her teeth together to keep from shouting. “We don’t have to beg. Stop begging!”
When Amma looked at her, Nazia recoiled at the desperation that glassed over her mother’s eyes. The truth was painfully apparent. There really was no place else to go.
Behind her, Isha and Mateen whined as Sherzad led them through the gate and onto the street. Abbu was standing off to the side now, almost melting into the gathering crowd. Was he already washing his hands of them? It dawned on Nazia that Abbu would not stop Amma from begging. Nor would he beg in her place. He was going to take care of only himself, the way he always did. She felt as though a thick black blanket were descending over her, smothering her in heavy darkness. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
She glanced around slowly until the crowd came into focus. There was no savior. No uncle, brother, or father would come and rescue them. They were all strangers. It was up to her and Amma to salvage what they could from Abbu’s dreadful mistake. She turned away from Abbu and the rest of the onlookers and wiped her eyes until Seema was no longer a blurry vision of sweltering rage.
“Baji.” Nazia lifted her chin. “What Abbu did was wrong. We have served you well, haven’t we? Let us stay. I promise, we will not betray you.”
Seema stepped back and tried to extract her leg from Amma’s grip. “I won’t listen to you, Nazia. Not this time.”
With all the will she could muster, Nazia took a firm grip of Seema’s wrist. “Yes, baji. Listen.”
Seema pulled her wrist away and balked. “And why should I?”
Nazia bent down and slowly pulled Amma from Seema’s feet. “We have no place to go. And because I am not my father. I am not a thief.”
Seema sighed audibly. The crowd of onlookers on the street had grown, and they pressed forward, eager to hear the drama unfold. “What are you all looking at? Go on back to work!”
Seema waved her hands at them as though shooing gulls from a picnic on the beach. “Vultures feeding off the misery of each other, that’s what you all are. Get away from my house!” She shoved a boy standing nearby, and slowly the crowd began to disperse, snickering as they left.
Abbu took a few more steps back when Seema gave him a withering look.
“Do you hear Nazia?” Seema shouted scornfully. “You do not deserve a daughter with such dignity. You allowed your wife and daughter to beg on your behalf. What a pity you are. At least one good thing has come of this.”
Abbu stepped forward eagerly, as though forgiveness were a possibility. The baji held up her hand. “Not one more step. At least now your family knows your true colors.” She turned to Nazia. “I don’t know why I should listen to you, Nazia, but you can stay. If I ever see your father around here again, I will have him skinned alive.”
“Thank you, baji. Abbu will leave immediately.”
There was no word from Abbu, whether he had found work or not, and even Isha and Mateen did not ask when their father would return. November dragged along, and Nazia and her mother tended to their duties without protest, even when Seema asked that all the dust-infused rugs in the two-story house be washed and scrubbed by hand.
Ramadan was only a few weeks away, and the only respite from the heat came at night, when cooler winds blew in from the Arabian Sea. The vast ocean was only a stone’s throw away, but Nazia still hadn’t found the time to visit Clifton Beach.
One evening after dinner, when the dishes had been put away and Seema had gone to lie in bed to soothe a pulsing headache, Nazia sat on a bamboo chair outside their quarters, watching Isha and Mateen snuggle close to Amma on the charpai. Sherzad strolled the width of the house barefoot, from one boundary wall to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. After a while he pulled up a chair and sat down beside Nazia, his body sliding down to mold with the curve of the bamboo. He tipped his head back and stared at the night sky. “I’ve decided to leave,” he said.
Nazia rolled her head to the side to see Sherzad better, but only his shadowy profile was visible in the dim light. “Again?” She watched his mouth curve up into a smile. When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “Do you enjoy getting beaten?”
“I’ve learned not to listen to you.” He chuckled. “I’ve learned
not to go to my mother.”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to the village. To my dadi’s house in Punjab. To my grandmother.”
“How do you know she won’t send you back?”
“When I was little, I used to follow my dadi everywhere,” he said. “She never sent me away. I would follow her around, and she would tell me stories as she worked. She’d sew little flowers on dupattas. Pink. Green. Blue. It was my job to separate the threads so they would fit into the eye of the needle. Sometimes she’d give me the needle and let me help. Every time I pulled the needle through, she’d say, ‘Shabash, beta, shabash.’ Not once has my mother ever said ‘Good job, child, good job.’ ”
How many times had Nazia heard her own mother say “shabash” to her? A thousand times. “Shabash, beta, shabash.” It was a small word, but when the task was difficult, like when she first learned to roll out a perfectly circular roti and cook it on the thawwa, “shabash” had filled her with pride. Or when she had made her first shalwar kameeze for the doll that Abbu had bought her when she was nine. She made the outfit out of leftover scraps from the sewing Amma did, and when it was done, Amma had gone to the bazaar and bought new lace trim to tack onto the sleeves and the bottom of the kameeze. “Shabash, beta, shabash.”
“What will you do there?” Nazia asked.
“I don’t know. We have a school there. Or if Dadi wants me to help with other things, or put me to work there, I’ll do that. Whatever she asks, so long as she lets me stay.” He paused. “I need your help, Nazia.”
Nazia shook her head. “I tried to help you before, and look what it got you. Beaten up, that’s what. Even Amma warned me not to interfere, but I didn’t listen.” She touched his knee. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you. You were happy here before I came along and ruined things.”
Sherzad scoffed. “I got in trouble plenty enough long before you showed up.”
“That’s not the point.” Nazia wrapped her arms around herself. “The point is you were happy here doing what you were supposed to do. I’m sorry for taking that away from you.”
Sherzad stood up swiftly. “How do you know I was happy? I was happy in Punjab — that’s why I’m going back. I’m tired of moving around from one baji to the next. If I obey my mother, I will be a servant forever. If not for this baji, then someone else.”
He looked over at the charpai where Isha and Mateen now lay sleeping with Amma. “Look at them. Your sister is no bigger than me. She does nothing all day because your amma refuses to allow her to work. She follows you around, begging to help because she doesn’t know any better. But if she was forced to do it, would she still want to?”
His voice caught, and Nazia was certain that he was crying.
“Why can’t my mother do that for me? I have many older brothers and sisters who work, so why must I? Why can’t I just go to school and play cricket like other kids? It’s not fair.”
Nazia stood and gathered Sherzad in a hug, grateful when he didn’t pull away. Why were some decisions so difficult to make, while others could be made in a heartbeat, so long as it was not your life? Sherzad’s forehead pressed against her ribs as he wiped his eyes with her kameeze. She patted his knobby shoulders and wished that he were her brother. She would trade Bilal for this slip of a boy any day.
“I will help you,” Nazia whispered. “I will help you go home to your dadi.” If she could not escape so easily, then the least she could do was ensure Sherzad’s freedom. The boy sniffled quietly and squeezed his thin arms around her, making it hard for Nazia to breathe. But she said nothing and stood there in the darkness for a long time comforting him, planning for him. This time she would get it right.
The next afternoon Sherzad slid the bolt out of its socket and lifted the door to keep it from squeaking. Nazia slipped out of the small opening.
“Now remember, if Amma asks where I am, tell her that I am in the house dusting. If she asks again, tell her baji sent me to the market to fetch some yogurt. Amma should not be a problem. Let her sleep as long as possible, and stall baji if she asks for me. Just don’t let them know where I am.” Nazia glanced quickly down the street, then back at Sherzad. “Keep Mateen and Isha occupied if they wake up. Don’t let them disturb Amma.”
“I know, I know.” The day had heated up considerably, despite the cool breeze that had blown in the night before. Sherzad hopped from one foot to the other as he tried to keep the soles of his bare feet from burning on the concrete driveway. Despite his discomfort, he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t get lost, and don’t lose the money.”
Nazia rolled her eyes at him. “Please. I know exactly what I’m doing.” She didn’t, of course, but there was no reason to worry him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Less than two hours.”
“Go now!”
Nazia wrapped her dupatta over her head and secured her sandals. She knotted a small plastic bag tightly, then threaded her arm through the handles so no one could snatch it away easily. She hurried off down the hill toward the bus stop at the edge of Defence Market. She crossed the main road, passed the mosque, and wove her way through the rows of shops that spread like serpents through the small valley. The aroma from the botti and kebab stalls made her mouth water, but she didn’t dare stop. She had less than two hours to get to Gizri and back before Amma and Seema would know that she was gone.
She boarded the bus in front of the meat stall and chose a seat behind the driver, checking and rechecking her dupatta. Indian dance music reverberated throughout the bus. She kept her gaze fixed on the window behind an old woman clad in a long black chadar, careful to avoid anyone’s curious stare. Although it wasn’t unusual for a girl her age to take the bus alone, she didn’t want to risk doing anything to draw attention to herself.
The ride was shorter than she expected, and she jumped off before the bus came to a full stop on Gizri Lane, just across from the market where she used to meander through the mishmash of stalls with Saira and Maleeha after school. Let Maleeha still consider me a friend, she thought. Clutching her bag tightly, she ran past the familiar dirt road alongside the cricket field. Nazia darted across the street as soon as a gap in the traffic opened up, and she headed straight for the Gizri School for Girls.
She walked down the hall, turning her head away as she ducked past the principal’s office. She stopped short at Ms. Haroon’s door and took a deep breath.
She knocked loudly on the door. A sea of faces bent studiously over the desks looked up in unison. Nazia tried to ignore the collective gasp that spread throughout the room, and focused only on Ms. Haroon, who sat at her desk fanning herself. “Um, Ms. Haroon?”
Ms. Haroon’s hand paused in midair as recognition dawned on her. “Nazia?”
Nazia forced herself not to step farther into the room. She felt like a beggar standing there in her shabby outfit, while the rest of the students were wearing their crisp white uniforms. She tried to keep her voice firm. “I need to speak with Maleeha. It is very important.”
Nazia fought back the urge to cry as her teacher glided toward her and ushered her back into the hallway. Ms. Haroon pulled her into a warm embrace. “Nazia,” was all she said.
Nazia’s eyes closed and she breathed in Ms. Haroon’s perfume. She wondered if this was what the roses and pine trees from Shangri-la smelled like. Tears seeped into the corner of her mouth, and then she imagined she tasted fresh water from the river that flowed through the foothills in Sialkot.
“How have you been?” Ms. Haroon was smiling, but her eyes were serious.
Nazia pulled back. “Please,” she said hurriedly as she averted her gaze. “I need to talk to Maleeha.”
Ms. Haroon held on to Nazia’s arms. “Maleeha has spoken to me about your family. If there is anything I can do for you, Nazia, you must let me know.”
Nazia’s throat squeezed closed and she could only nod.
“I mean it, beta. You are bright. I know your life has been difficult these past few mon
ths. But I feel strongly that you need to get off this path. It’s not for you.”
What was she saying?
“I know it seems as if there’s no way out right now, with your family destitute,” her teacher continued. “But you needn’t be caught up in it. Whether you know it or not, you can choose. And I know you can choose a better path.”
Nazia was mesmerized by these words, but what Ms. Haroon was suggesting was impossible. What could Nazia do except what she was already doing? What else existed?
“I don’t know what else I can do. My family needs me. Amma needs me.” Nazia stepped back and leaned into the doorway, scanning the room for Maleeha. She locked eyes with her friend, pleading silently.
“I’ll be right back, Ms. Haroon,” Maleeha called out to her teacher. “I forgot to mention that I was expecting Nazia. It’s a family matter — it’ll only take a moment.”
Maleeha propelled Nazia down the hall, around the corner, and into the girls’ bathroom. Maleeha hugged Nazia fiercely. “I am so happy you are here. I missed you so much!”
Nazia tried to wiggle free. “My clothes. They’re filthy. Stop it or you’ll ruin your uniform.”
Maleeha stared at her friend. “I don’t care! I’m just so happy you came!” She pulled Nazia close again and spoke into her dupatta, her voice muffled. “When I didn’t hear from you after I told your father where your family was staying, I wasn’t sure what had happened to you. You know how hard it is for me to get away, and my mother wouldn’t bring me to see you. I didn’t know what to do.” She stepped back, keeping hold of Nazia’s free hand. “I knew that if I waited, you’d come sometime.”
Nazia was startled by her friend’s reaction. “But I thought you’d be busy with school, and with Saira. I met her at a Sunday bazaar. Did she tell you?”
“She said she thought she saw you, but that it was someone else.”
“It was me. We spoke.”