Revolt (25 page)

Laila gave up, sitting down in the courtyard, ready to vent her misery in an outburst of tears, but concern for her daughter stopped her from doing so. She tried again.

‘Shirin, we’re leaving! Do you hear me?’ Laila’s belligerent voice had little impact on her daughter’s rigid figure. ‘Shirin, we’ve been here for nearly two weeks. Your father misses us. Don’t you feel sorry for him? We’ve got to go back to Islamabad.’

‘But, Mummy, you said we were going to stay longer! Begum said she was going to bring me
jallabies
.’

‘We can buy
jallabies
on the way!’ Laila hardened, not wanting her daughter to eat even a morsel from her father’s home.

Fuelled by rage, Laila flew around the two rooms, collecting her belongings, in no mood to tolerate her daughter’s tantrum. Even if she had to drag Shirin physically she would do so. For today was her last journey. In resignation, her eyes skipped bitterly over the humble contents of the small living-cum-bedroom. Her husband could do what he wanted with this place but she would never return.

‘Shirin!’ The firm voice had her daughter scrambling down the stairs with a sulky pout. A glimpse of her mother’s eyes sobered Shirin immediately.

Swallowing a sob, she offered, ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ Flinging her arms wide around her mother’s body, she cried, ‘Let’s go! I don’t like it here, either … you’re always crying here, Mama, and I hate that beastly old man living in the big house!’

Putting her hand in her mother’s grasp, Shirin pulled her towards the door.

‘Wait! We must sweep up the dust from the floors before we leave.’

‘All right, Mama,’ Shirin shrugged, wondering why her mother bothered tidying up such a shabby place, and they were leaving anyway.

The flies were buzzing around her face, but Gulbahar ignored them, leaning her head against the tiled wall.

‘Mother?’ Arslan stood behind her chair.

Her sister’s words ‘Return my husband to me’ were raging through her head.

‘Mother, are you OK?’

‘No, Arslan, I’m not OK!’ Her agonised reply startled her son.

‘My world is falling apart. The people I’ve loved have all betrayed me. My Laila destroyed us and today her daughter shunned us. An hour ago my sister, whom I doted on all my life, struck a blade through me.’

‘What? Auntie Rani?’

‘No.’ Gulbahar collected her wits about her, shaking her head. She must not, could not repeat any of the vile stuff her sister had uttered to her son. At the moment, she could not forgive her sister for this, but one thing was certain, she had to get to the bottom of the matter.

Arslan was now looking over the rooftop railings, his eyes on the two figures in the village lane. In despair, he watched Laila dragging a large suitcase with one hand whilst holding onto her daughter with the other. That young, beautiful thing was weighed down with a bulging rucksack over her shoulders. An agonised cry ripped through him, startling his mother.

‘Look, Mother, there they go! Well done, you have driven them away! That’s what you and Father wanted, wasn’t it?’ He clapped his hands in mockery, mouth twisted. On shaking legs, Gulbahar got up to see, to make sense of his words.

The two figures in the distance elicited a cry of anguish, nearly choking her. Yes, they had driven them away. And paradoxically,
the beautiful fairy, the little
pari
, had punished them. Not only had she fled from their
hevali
, but was now fast striding out of their lives; turning her back on them – without even knowing who they were.

Gulbahar’s eyes could take no more and she sidled away from her son’s side. He watched until his sister reached the bus stop on the main GT trunk road.

‘Laila, the landlord’s daughter, waiting to catch a local bus in a queue of common people. Mother, that’s what one calls life’s poignant incongruities,’ Arslan cynically mused.

A man was helping them with their luggage onto the bus. No manservant or brother to accompany them – just a kind stranger coming to their aid. Arslan stood lost in thought, as questions raged through him: ‘Who am I? Which world do I belong to? To America or this country? What sort of man have I become to let a beloved sister walk out of our lives?’

‘A coward – losing his faculties,’ his mind retaliated. ‘I’ve got to get out of here!’

Down below in the men’s marquee the party drums and the
bhangra
dancing were in full swing. His father would have to entertain, but he, Arslan, had no intention of going anywhere near that marquee today.

The bus skilfully wove down the mountainside. Shirin’s English nursery song ‘Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?’ echoed inside the crowded vehicle. The passengers did not understand the English song but most smiled or praised the pretty little girl. Laila did neither; her
chador
was pulled firmly up to her chin, her face pressed against the bus window as she gazed out at the rugged terrain. Laila wanted to wail aloud.

‘All come to nothing! Ten years of heartache …’ she bitterly mourned. Her parents’ hearts of stone were not melted.

‘Mummy, you are crying again!’ Shirin loudly accused, causing the elderly, burka-clad woman sitting behind them to peer over Laila’s shoulder and ask softly, ‘My dear, are you all right?’ Laila paused and then replied, ‘I’m sad at parting from my loved ones.’

‘Are you going far?’ the woman persisted, staring at Shirin’s dress and looks. This was no ordinary village child.

‘This is my last journey,’ Laila determinedly told the kind but nosey lady.

‘Mummy?’ Shirin was horrified. ‘But Massi Fiza still has my best pink frock with her washing!’

‘Daddy will buy you dozens,’ Laila assured her, a wry smile crossing her face. Finally, she had chosen her husband over her parents, but she would never give up on her brother.

‘Mummy?’ Shirin questioned, her small, chubby hand touching her mother’s wet cheek.

Laila hurriedly wiped her face, eyes shining with pleasure. God had indeed blessed her; she would provide her daughter with all the support she needed and allow her to marry whomever she pleased. All people were equal in her mind; there were no boundaries – only the prejudice and human arrogance that created them. She pulled her daughter close, hugging her.

‘Daddy will be waiting with a bag of delicious
jalebis
, my princess.’

Peeved, Shirin declared, ‘But I wanted Begum’s hot
jalebis
from the party. You didn’t let me have any!’

‘Quite a greedy girl, aren’t you, my darling?’ Laughing, they both looked out at the beautiful view of the valley below, as the bus continued to snake down the pass.

‘Gulbahar.’ Haider saw his wife huddled against the headboard, face hidden behind her
chador
. Begum’s chappals clicked behind him, forcing him to signal with his hand for her to retreat. Immediately obeying, Begum’s eyes remained on her mistress as she left.

Touching his wife’s face, Haider asked with marked concern in his voice, ‘What’s wrong, my
jaan
– my life?’

Mehreen’s awful words were still stinging Gulbahar’s ears, words that she could not share with her Haider.

The ceiling fan was purring away; down in the courtyard the muffled voices of the relatives and guests could be heard. Inside the room, heavy silence reigned.

‘Does she hate me so much that she won’t talk to me now?’ Haider wondered.

‘It was not my fault that the girl walked out. Gulbahar, what could I do?’ The defensive tone had little impact on his wife. Her gaze remained fixed on the appliqué pattern of the quilt cover, the silence stifling them both.

‘Please say something, Gulbahar,’ Haider gently urged.

At last his wife’s lips parted. He barely heard her whisper, ‘Everything I loved, I have lost. I trust no one.’

Indignant, Haider quickly added, ‘I’m here. Your son is still here.’ Gulbahar raised her bleak eyes. ‘A sister I doted on has now become my enemy. Where did I go wrong, Haider-ji?’ Her ‘Haider-ji’ merely blinked, taken aback by her question. This was not what he was expecting.

‘Who?’ he asked, his body language now aggressive, resentment flushing through him. His poor wife had spent half of her life caring for her sisters’ welfare. He waited.

Gulbahar’s eyes were squeezed shut, unable to repeat Mehreen’s ugly words, but the hurt and bitterness burst forth, startling her beloved husband.

‘The one I protected all my life, whilst alienating the other, has now become my mortal enemy … She hates me so much, Haider-ji.’

‘Who? Rani?’

‘No! Mehreen!’ The anguish shuddered through her in the cool room.

‘Mehreen?’ Haider echoed, bristling with hatred for that sister, his fists tight. ‘What has she done now?’

Mehreen always brought out the worst in him. Her petulant and childish manner utterly angered him, making him resent the hours his wife had ploughed into this sister’s welfare in the early years of their marriage. Later, to save Mehreen’s marriage, Gulbahar had unwittingly established a routine of regular visits to Mehreen’s household. As many as three times a week! Gulbahar alone was responsible for Mehreen having successfully reached middle age with her marriage still intact.

‘This is my orphaned sister. Please give her another chance,’
she had fervently appealed to Liaquat so many times. And Liaquat would invariably give in, lost, no doubt, in the look of pure gratitude etched on Gulbahar’s face.

Gulbahar, in short, had become Mehreen’s surrogate mother, father and older sister all rolled into one. Haider secretly considered Mehreen not just a ‘spoilt halfwit’, but a very clever ‘manipulator’. And one who knew precisely how to pull at her sister’s heart strings. At times, he had felt like throttling her, for that is what he would have done if he had been her husband. How Liaquat coped with such a wife was a mystery to Haider. Perhaps he, too, like Gulbahar, was jointly responsible for what Mehreen had become; for both had generously indulged her.

Not Haider! He had kept well away from her since her
full-blown
tantrum after he had told her what he really thought of her. ‘Your husband might put up with your childish manner but I’ll not! Behave yourself, you silly, good-for-nothing woman!’ he had thundered at her. Mehreen had treated him to a scandalised stare and never forgave him for that cruel remark. A chilling distance had reigned between them ever since. Haider happily welcomed this arrangement. As long as his wife kept that sister away from him, she could do what she liked. His sweet gullible Gulbahar, however, would never allow a single soul to utter anything against her
ladli
Mehreen.

So what was it, Haider asked himself, that Mehreen had done today, to bring this mother-like figure, this loyal sister, to feel so utterly betrayed and wounded? There might be a silver lining in this matter, Haider chuckled to himself. Perhaps, at last, his wife would see sense and wash her hands of her spoilt sister.

‘Please, Gulbahar, tell me!’ he urged, caressing her cheek. It was his gentle, coaxing tone that was Gulbahar’s undoing. Her anguish spilled out, drowning them both.

‘She said, “Leave my husband alone!”’ As soon as the words left her mouth Gulbahar froze, wanting to shield herself from her husband’s gaze. What had she done? Colour flushed through her cheeks, a testimony of her shame.

At last Gulbahar peeped at his face, trying to gauge his
reaction. Her Haider-ji merely looked bemused. Surely he had understood what Mehreen meant?

Haider did understand. What he didn’t believe was what she was saying. His wife was the purest woman on earth. Therefore what was the crazy sister trying to imply? Deeply interested, his eyes swept over Gulbahar’s coloured cheeks and nervous gaze.

‘Your sister is a strange creature – I don’t know what silly remarks she has made, but please don’t be distressed by them, my beautiful wife.’ Gulbahar nearly wept at his kindness and sensitive words. Cheeks still stinging with the heat of shame, she raised her eyes to examine her husband’s face. Her heart soared in joy, but she could not take any chances; she had to make sure that he fully appreciated the gravity of Mehreen’s wicked words.

‘She meant it, Haider-ji, she thinks … she thinks …’ she stuttered, unable to go on.

‘Go on, Gulbahar, say it, please!’ he coaxed. The words, however, would not be uttered. She tried again.

‘She thinks Brother Liaquat likes me more than her …’ Gulbahar’s voice trailed away; she was now trembling under the full weight of her husband’s scrutiny.

He was silent for a long time, realising that this was not as clear-cut a situation as he had assumed. Perhaps Mehreen was not so stupid, after all. His wife’s lowered gaze told its own story. Tiny messengers of unease were shooting across his brain. How many times had he seen Liaquat in his wife’s company? The laughter he had heard, the sense of rapport and intimacy between them. Had his unwitting and innocent wife been stolen under his very gaze?

Haider shook his head ruthlessly, dismissing the mean, ugly thoughts that were unworthy of him. How could he let his train of thought sully his pure wife who was rarely in the company of strange men!

‘Gulbahar, what do you think?’ he gently prompted, noting the shape and thickness of her eyebrows. His darling wife was already distressed. ‘Tell me, Gulbahar, do Mehreen’s nonsensical words have any ounce of sense or substance in them? Or has she simply become crazed?’

‘I don’t know!’ Gulbahar truthfully replied. There was no doubt Liaquat liked, respected and paid homage to her, but surely not in that way!

‘Almighty Allah Pak!’ Her husband’s cold voice cut her off from her thoughts. He snorted, ‘Then I suggest you find out. Tell him what his wife has said. Also, challenge her. Put the record straight. If she’s wrong, that is it.’

Gulbahar’s eyes fled to her husband’s face. ‘What are you saying?’ She paled. ‘How could I possibly ask him that?’

‘What is the alternative? To get involved in an argument with Mehreen? Do you want me to ask Liaquat, “Are you in love with my wife?”’ The voice was icily cutting. Colour again flooded Gulbahar’s face, richly flushing down her neck. In shame, she hung her head.