Revolt (24 page)

Mehreen was sitting on her bed, debating whether to attend her nephew’s celebration party.

‘There’ll be so many people there, practically the whole village. I can’t face them, Liaquat-ji!’ she pleaded, desperate to be spared the public ordeal of meeting people. Surely her husband could not be so cruel as to force her to go.

‘Mehreen, we cannot, and will not hide from the outside world because of this foreign woman!’ he calmly informed her through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll have to be strong, my dear. I know that it’s difficult, but you’ll have to face the world sometime. Imagine what it has been like for your beloved Gulbahar with Laila’s elopement. Do you not recall her suffering? It is a really challenging time for her now with Laila back in the village. You’ve always been so caught up with your own life that you leave absolutely no time for others!’ He tried hard to disguise his sarcasm, but she heard it distinctly. Jealousy always made her ears sharper.

‘I beg your pardon!’ Mehreen squeaked in indignation, unable to believe that her husband could be so cruel to her, especially at a time like this. ‘Are you telling me or suggesting that I’m a very selfish person, who has no time for others?’

‘No!’ He tried to calm her: ‘I’m just reminding you what it has been like for others in crisis.’

‘I know jolly well what it has been like for my sister, Liaquat!’ Her fiery eyes scorched him, omitting the ‘ji’ to his name.

‘Mehreen, I’m just pointing out to you that your sister is suffering, too … She has paid a costly price for it – with her heart!
Laila destroyed her health. In fact, my own heart aches for your dear sister.’

‘I know your heart aches for her. Sometimes I wonder if you married the wrong sister!’ Mehreen burst out, unable to hold back the bitter words or stop the vicious pangs of jealousy tearing at her. ‘You’d rather have married Gulbahar, wouldn’t you?’ Her voice was now dangerously calm, as the ugly secret carried inside for so long slipped out in the open.

‘What?’ Liaquat scanned his wife’s face, taken aback.

‘You don’t want me. It’s her – Gulbahar – who sits on the throne of your heart! You’re always going on about her!’

‘I … I …’ Lost for words, the colour had drained out of Liaquat’s face.

‘Well?’ she challenged, mouth contemptuously curved at the corners.

‘What a terrible thing to say, but I’ll forgive you!’

‘Forgive me? How grand of you, my dear husband! But it doesn’t take away the horrible thought in my head that you desire my sister!’

‘For goodness sake, woman, shut up!’ he shouted, thoroughly livid, his voice raw. ‘Are you mad?’

Mehreen was drowning in a flood of jealousy. All along, she had suspected that her husband had lost interest in her. But there was always a special light in his eyes and a softening of the face when he spoke about or to Gulbahar. And surely that could not be mere brotherly admiration? Heart sinking, her knowing eyes were agonisingly sketching a concrete picture in her head. It wasn’t her imagination playing tricks on her. A slow tide of colour crept up her husband’s neck under her feverish gaze.

Sickened, she turned away. She had her answer – at last.

‘Mehreen,’ he paused, then changed the subject. ‘Mehreen, are you going to the celebrations or not?’

‘Yes!’ she replied flatly, eager to be rid of him. She remained standing with her eyes closed. Somehow the
goorie
, the unwanted guest in her home, no longer posed as great a threat to her world as her own eldest sister.

Liaquat had waited long enough; the matter of the
goorie
had not been sorted out yet. Entering their bedroom, he hovered behind Mehreen, experiencing a strange awkwardness.

‘Mehreen, no matter what our son has done, we still have to face the world.’ He waited for her to say something, but only silence greeted him.

‘At least our son is not dead!’

‘How dare you!’ Mehreen sprang into life, shoving his arm away from her shoulder, panting.

‘See how you react when it comes to his well-being. Tell me what’s wrong,’ he asked tenderly.

‘Nothing!’ she whispered. In her head the words ‘You and Gulbahar’ hammered. ‘What about
her
– the
goorie
? I mean, shall we take her, too?’

‘Do what you want!’ was his parting shot. She was left staring at the closed door, a stranger in her own home.

In the party crowd, Shirin peered from behind the man with the big chest, her hand brushing his arm. He stiffened, looked down, and then a wicked look flashed across his face. He winked at his friend, the village butcher, standing beside him. Shirin was eagerly peeping through the gap between the two burly, sweaty bodies and missed the wink.

Wow, to have in their midst the landlord’s granddaughter. The man with the big chest smiled with pure malice. A golden opportunity, not to be missed, had danced straight into his fat palms and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste! Fixing a smiling mask on his face, he kindly proffered his chubby, roughened hand to Shirin.

‘Want to get a better view, my little one? Let’s get you in front.’

Shirin eagerly nodded, craning her neck to see his face. The look on his face troubled her somewhat, but she reluctantly took the man’s hand, hating its warm grasp. She looked over her shoulder, wishing all of a sudden that her mother was there, too, as the big-chested man aggressively pushed through the
crowd. Shirin shielded her face from the male bodies with her small hand. Then she was in the front – facing the two marquees outside her grandfather’s
hevali
.

Led by their jockeys, three horses cantered around in the open ground in front of the rows of chairs set out for Haider’s relatives. There were six grand-looking chairs with padded seats and tall backs, all vacant at the moment.

Shirin began to watch with interest, her eyes on the horse and rider.

Gulbahar remained in her room; her son’s homecoming party no longer mattered, only the vision of the departing figure of the little fairy from the
hevali
gates, after catching a glimpse of her grandfather.

She heard Mehreen’s raised voice in her room. Through the dense fog in her head, Gulbahar waded back to reality.

But the image still beckoned of the beautiful fairy striding away; head and chin held high, a small figure in a white cotton frock, the bouncy auburn curls swinging and glinting in the sun. It was the pert little mouth, the soft lips pursed tight, that captivated the anxious audience.

Gulbahar recalled the stunned look on Shirin’s face the moment her eyes had fallen on her grandfather. Her uncle’s downstretched arms, ready to pluck her up for a ride, were totally forgotten. In front of a stunned crowd of guests, she had left the side of the big-chested man and had walked up to one horse, looking up at the rider, and not realising that it was her own uncle, had innocently asked:

‘Can I have a ride on your horse, please?’ Those who could hear, including her grandparents seated in the front row, caught their breath and gasped. Everybody wondered what would happen next.

Arslan was totally taken aback, but a smile of delight washed over his face and he leaned down to pick her up, arms aching to fold her in a warm grasp. Then, Shirin heard a cough and swept round to locate it.

She was startled to see that it was the older man with the reddish hair and cold blue eyes. Shirin paled; she was at the party of that horrible man who had made her fall. Arslan watched in a daze as his niece slipped away through the crowd and out of sight, leaving over a hundred pairs of eyes staring after her and at each other.

‘How could you, Gulbahar?’ her sister’s accusing tone frightened Gulbahar – the eyes glowing, the body aggressively poised beside the bed.

‘Why have you disturbed me?’ Gulbahar wanted to shout. But her mouth wouldn’t open.

‘How could you, Gulbahar?’ the irate sister repeated. Gulbahar had never before glimpsed such fury in her sister’s face.

‘What’s the matter, Mehreen?’ Gulbahar quietly uttered, still fighting the ache inside her for the fairy.

‘How could you?’ Mehreen spluttered for the third time. ‘How could you take on Rasoola, after what she has done?’

Gulbahar’s eyes widened.

‘What? Is that all?’ The fog in her head was dashed away. Sitting up, Gulbahar composed her features. There was a lot going on behind her sister’s dark fury-ridden pupils and burning cheeks.

‘I’m sorry!’ she softly offered. Diplomacy was the best option with this sister.

‘Is that all you can say?’ Mehreen screeched. Gulbahar’s eyes traced the planes of her sister’s face. This did not sound like Mehreen’s normal tantrum. And Gulbahar didn’t have long to speculate.

‘I hate you!’ Mehreen pelted her sister with her venom.

Gulbahar’s body shot up straight, heart thudding.

‘Mehreen!’ she quailed, nervously tugging at the end of her
chador
lying over her pillow.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gulbahar tried again. But Mehreen was ruthlessly bent on punishing her.

‘I hate you!’ she lashed.

Her eldest sister, her protector all her life and who had even made an enemy of her middle sister on Mehreen’s behalf, was utterly devastated. Tears of self-pity blurred her vision.

‘Give me back my husband, Gulbahar!’ The agonised words electrified her sister, trying to grapple with their meaning. What was her spoilt sister saying?

Through parched lips, she uttered, ‘Mehreen, I know you are upset about Rasoola, but what rubbish did you just utter now?’

‘Return my husband to me!’ Mehreen repeated. No fury this time, only misery.

Gulbahar reached forward and slapped her sister straight across her cheek. Stepping back and cradling her smarting red cheek, Mehreen slid down into her sister’s armchair, eyes downcast.

‘Liaquat likes you! It’s you he really wants!’

Gulbahar’s ears burned, eyes aggrieved. Even her daughter’s elopement had not wounded her as much as her sister’s accusation.

‘Do you realise what you are saying?’ Gulbahar hissed in despair. ‘How dare you sully my ears with your wickedness! Have you actually flipped, Mehreen?’

But her sister was beyond caring, the words just fell out of her mouth.

‘He has always loved you, Gulbahar!’

‘Mehreen, stop!’ Gulbahar shouted, striding across the room, wanting to get as far away as possible from the dirty swamp of Mehreen’s twisted imagination.

On unsteady legs, Gulbahar fled to the fresh air – to the sanctuary of their rooftop gallery.

Massi Fiza was in a mighty hurry to reach her friend, Rukhsar, with the news about the
goorie
in a
shalwar kameez
and the drama of Shirin angrily striding out of her grandfather’s
hevali
, leaving her grandparents and the guests wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The
goorie
was accompanied by her infamous husband, who had brought catastrophe to three households. She was dressed in a turquoise
shalwar kameez
suit, her legs discreetly covered, and a matching taffeta
dupatta
draped over her head. Apart from her fair freckled face and her golden fringe, she looked every bit a
desi
woman.

‘She indeed made a spectacle. They had come out, in the open ground, just as Mistress Gulbahar had walked back into the
hevali
after seeing her granddaughter dramatically leave. Arslan had got off his horse and stormed into the house. Master Haider then went inside, too, his mouth tightly pursed.’

‘It was a quite a do, Rukhsar-ji. You should have been there,’ Massi Fiza expanded, her eyes lingering on the necklace box lying on the cushion in front of her. Rukhsar gave her full attention to Massi Fiza. ‘Oh, I wish I was there.’

‘Well, why you don’t come along? The party is still in full swing. You’ve been invited like everyone else in the village, and the meal has not been served yet. Begum boasts that there will be so much to eat and plenty of meat.’

Rukhsar looked at her friend in disdain, ‘Oh, what do I care about meat,’ she loftily informed her neighbour. ‘My husband through his hard work has ensured that meat is served twice a day in this household. So, Massi Fiza-ji, these landowners’ feasts
mean nothing to us. Our palates do not salivate for Haider-ji’s dinner feasts!’

Embarrassed and feeling well-rebuked, Massi Fiza reddened down to her scrawny neck, and was quick to defend her own diet and station in life. ‘We don’t all roll in gold, my friend, or have the means to enjoy meat even once a day. Do you know how much red meat costs? Some folks like us have to depend on rich folk’s parties for a lavish meal.’

The sarcasm was not lost on her friend. Eyeing a bristling Massi Fiza with her mouth angrily pursed into a fine line, Rukhsar laughed aloud. ‘Sorry, I did not mean to offend you. Let me go and fetch my shawl from the other room. I can’t be bothered to change these clothes. They’ll have to do, but I do need a special
chador
to match this suit.’

Forgetting her necklace set on the cushion cover, Rukhsar walked out. Massi Fiza was taken aback by this strange occurrence. For the first time in her life, Rukhsar had left her valued property lying unguarded. And Massi Fiza was all alone with it.

And the butcher’s daughter’s five
tholas
worth of necklace sparkled mischievously in front of Massi Fiza’s eyes. Massi Fiza stared in utter fascination. The sound of running feet made her quickly snatch her gaze and, straightening up, she leaned her body far back in an effort to distance herself from the gold.

Rukhsar dashed in, breathing ragged, the shawl in one hand, anxious eyes falling straight onto the cushion cover with the gold necklace.

Massi Fiza was mortally wounded; blood rushed through her brown-pigmented cheeks.

‘Your gold is still here, Rukhsar. Not walked off into my
kurtha
pocket!’ she stiffly informed her dear friend, feeling utterly betrayed.

Rukhsar neatly crimsoned. After an embarrassing pause, she picked up the necklace and muttered, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in two minutes. I’ve one or two things to sort out here.’

Deeply affronted, Massi Fiza was already out of the door, leaving her friend to hide her jewellery. Calling her youngest daughter to lock the necklace set in their safe, Rukhsar knew she
owed her friend an apology, but hoped nevertheless that Massi Fiza would understand. Gold was such a temptation; even saints were said to be tempted by it, and siblings fought over it. Therefore what was to stop her humble
paisa
-earning neighbour from grabbing it, Rukhsar reasoned with herself.

Later, as they walked side by side in the village lanes, Rukhsar diplomatically ignored her friend’s tight-lipped silence and hostile manner, not wanting to mar this rare occasion of her leaving her home to attend a party. The real reason was, of course, to catch a glimpse of the
goorie
wearing a
desi shalwar
kameez
and that was why she decided to honour Master Haider’s son’s homecoming party with her presence.

At the entrance of the marquee, the friends stiffly parted company. Massi Fiza eagerly went searching for Rasoola, for news of all the latest goings-on in the
hevali
. Discreet and faithful, Begum would never utter a word against the family she worked for, unlike Rasoola who had no scruples whatsoever in parting with any information.

Rukhsar, with a dignified step, reached the side of Bano, the tailor master’s wife. There were plenty of suits to be stitched for her daughter’s wedding trousseau. A warm conversation with the wife always helped; quite a few rupees would be saved. Didn’t the other village women try the same approach with her by cultivating her friendship for the sake of a few rupees on the gold items?

Massi Fiza, still bristling and highly indignant, kept her back firmly turned to her neighbour, whom she could no longer call a ‘friend’, let alone a ‘sister’.

‘She thinks I’m a thief! That I would actually run away with their gold!’ Massi Fiza was mortally aggrieved.