Revolt (29 page)

Saher was perched on her favourite boulder, the one she used to sit on as a child, dangling her feet in the water that rushed down from the glacier in the mountain, humming to herself.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it? I think I’ll join you.’

She glanced up, disconcerted, but Arslan was already untying his shoelaces. Before she knew it, he was plodding barefooted over the pebbles and into a foot-deep stream, jeans tucked at the knees.

She pulled her feet out of the water. ‘Wow, it’s cold!’ he cried, standing in front of her.

‘Here, let me do it.’ Before she could stop him, he was mopping the grainy sand off her foot.

‘Let go!’ Saher tried to pull her feet away.

‘How long will you keep up this aggression with me, Saher?’

‘Aggression!’ she shouted angrily, standing up, not caring that her feet were back in the water again.

‘Leave me alone!’ she cried, tearful.

He stepped back, mentally withdrawing. ‘Fine,’ he coldly replied. ‘I’m only offering you a lift home. Daniela and Ismail have gone shopping in Rawalpindi and Attock. If you want to walk back to the village, that’s up to you!’

He waded out of the water and hurriedly brushed his feet on the warm tufts of grass. Saher watched him stride up the hill; following him, but keeping a strategic distance between them.

Arslan waited in the car, staring ahead. When she got into the back, he drove off, the silence between them only broken outside her home: ‘You’ll be happy to know, Saher, that I’m leaving soon.’

If she was taken aback she didn’t show it; instead, she got out of the car and entered her home without a backward glance.

Arslan wrenched the car into action but did not drive away. The bleak thought hammered: ‘My sister and lovely niece have gone. My parents will never change! The woman I have loved since childhood won’t even speak to me now. Only Begum remains, but she’s a servant. There’s nothing here for me. This is not where I belong.’

He stared out of his windscreen at the orange orchards circling Saher’s village. All of a sudden, he recalled that poignant moment at the age of twelve – that kiss, and how, red-cheeked, he had fled from the room. The childhood rapport vanished.

In her late teens, Saher never suspected that the cousin she doted on was passionately in love with her. No other members of the clan suspected anything, either. Only her mother sensed something; uneasy at their close relationship, hating the open fondness her daughter demonstrated in front of everyone towards Arslan. They were growing into young adults – did her foolish daughter not realise that she could end up compromising herself and her
izzat
?

Arslan always hid his feelings well from everyone, including from the woman who was beginning to make his life wretched by dismissing his feelings for her. It cost him dearly. Whilst he was in the USA completing his degree course, he received a cruel blow, learning that she had become engaged to their cousin, Ismail. It forced him to cage himself in a cloak of silence.

Arslan sighed; it was time to move on. Childhood crushes were one thing, but adult realism another matter. He recalled poor Suzanna, his university peer, who had fallen for him from the first semester and, by God, she was persistent, but it was Saher he craved.

He shook his head. Perhaps he was a lost cause, a product of one country, yet now standing on its soil as a virtual stranger. Even the woman he had pined for all these years had deserted him. Perhaps he, like Ismail, was destined to lie in a foreign woman’s arms.

Then, miraculously, the gates opened and Saher appeared,
surprised to see him still there. Opening his car door, she asked accusingly, ‘Why are you still here?’ He startled her by grasping her wrist.

‘Don’t go!’ The look in his eyes made her sit beside him. ‘Promise me, you won’t leave the car until I’ve finished speaking,’ he urged. She stared out of the windscreen in silence. In front of them, little boys, still in their uniforms and with excited faces, were playing cricket in the open ground outside the primary school.

‘Do you know what I was thinking about as I sat here after you left?’

Saher shook her head. ‘About the time I first kissed you!’ Her head swung round, eyes standing large in her face. Breathing ragged.

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry. You don’t know … It was such a long time ago, when we were young, done on impulse.’

‘When?’ She could barely get the word out of her mouth.

‘Just after Laila left home. We had been playing chess and I left the room. While I was out you fell asleep on my bed. I stood staring at you, unable to help myself, Saher. I had this strange impulse to touch you – to brush your soft, pink lips with mine. Before I could stop myself I had kissed you – so quick and wonderful. Then I fled the room, shocked at what I had done and afraid that you would wake up and be angry with me. Amazingly, you slept on, dead to the world and although I was quite young, I believe that it was from that moment that my attraction for you began.

‘My relationship with you was never quite the same after that. I wanted to kiss you again and again! It was wrong, I know. Please don’t look so horrified.’

‘How could you?’ Saher at last found her voice.

Arslan was in a punishing mood and continued, ‘Do you remember that moment when I went to your house just before going to the airport and planted a quick kiss on your cheek, but as you turned I touched the side of your mouth. We were both startled by this accidental contact and although I soon flew out
of the room, I’ve never forgotten the moment. It has stayed with me for years. The passion became a nightmarish ache when I found out that you had got engaged – ready to become another man’s wife.

‘The rest you know. When Daniela turned up, I felt betrayed on your behalf and wanted to kill Ismail. I want you to understand that my feelings for you have been there for over a decade. It’s not what you think … that I’m just feeling sorry for you. It’s my
kismet
, I guess, that you are not fated to be my bride and that, maddeningly, you’ve always thought of me as a brother. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m now surrendering myself to my fate. Just as I respect your thoughts and feelings on this matter, please learn to respect mine. One cannot stop falling in love. It just happens, Saher, capturing and imprisoning you. But I can’t expect the same to happen to you and even if it did, it may well be for someone else.

‘My feelings for you may dull with time. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll meet another woman who will mean a lot to me, but I don’t want to leave with this rift hanging between us. If you don’t like what I’ve said, I’m truly sorry, but let’s part as friends, at least. Thank you for listening, Saher. I’ll never speak on this subject to you again. You are a free woman and I have no hold over you. I just hope that you will not hate me or forget the wonderful and tender moments of our shared childhood.’

He stopped and waited. When no response was forthcoming, he bleakly finished, ‘Allah Hafiz, Saher,’ and reached forward to open the Jeep door to let her out.

As if in a dream Saher walked away, hearing the vehicle crunch into action. At the gates of her home, she put her hand to her flushed cheeks. ‘I must wash my face, otherwise Mother’s prying eyes will draw their own conclusion.’

If she had any doubts before about Arslan, now she had none. For he had truly spoilt their relationship; soiling her pure, innocent affection for him.

Angrily she chided herself: ‘How naive I was. The telltale
signs were everywhere and I just ignored them. Arslan, you were supposed to be my brother,’ she mourned aloud, but the words didn’t quite ring true.

In the goldsmith’s household, the washing had become a nightmare.

‘Mother, the pile of dirty laundry is now an ugly mountain in the veranda. Is Massi Fiza OK, she’s not been here for the last two days?’ Rukhsar’s eldest daughter, Shabnum, enquired. Her mother was busy threading six tiny seed pearls into place in a
natli
and didn’t want to be disturbed. Her daughter, however, remained stubbornly by her shoulder. So Rukhsar had no choice but to put the necklace gently back on the velvet cushion and give her daughter an angry stare.

‘No, Shabnum, she’s not ill!’ was her brusque answer.

‘Then where is she? Shall I take a load down to her?’

‘No, you can’t!’ Rukhsar sharply admonished, startling her daughter. ‘Just wait, Massi Fiza will come up for it – she must be busy on her rounds.’

‘But, Mum, we can’t wait!’

‘Well, why don’t you girls get on with it then!’ was the caustic answer. ‘Sturdy girls, aren’t you, stronger than poor, bony Massi Fiza anyway. There’s a good washing machine in our house. What’s the problem? Has Allah Pak not blessed you girls with hands?’

‘What?’ her middle daughter, who had joined them, exclaimed. Helping the maid with the cooking was fine but washing heavy bedlinen, and by hand – ugh!

Their mother was now trespassing over the line of what was possible for her college-educated daughters with their manicured nails! Rukhsar laughed aloud at her daughters’ expressions. Washing had never been their favourite pastime.

‘Ruhi, when the dinner is ready, send Auntie Fiza a plateful of meat, with at least two chunks of lean meat, remember.’

Her daughter’s neatly maintained, arched eyebrows had shot up. What was going on? First, their mother told them to do their own washing and then asked Ruhi to take the laundrywoman a bowlful of meat.

‘Mother, is everything all right between you two?’ Shabnum prompted. She had picked up the angry vibes from her mother and also noted that their neighbour had not popped upstairs for two days now. When spotted in the street from their window, Massi Fiza had merely looked away. How strange!

‘No, my “perceptive” daughter, we’re not on speaking terms with “your” Massi Fiza,’ Rukhsar reluctantly owned up.

‘What, how?’ Her daughter was flabbergasted.

‘I seem to have offended the silly woman. At Master Haider’s son’s party, Massi Fiza not only kept well away from me but also threw me daggers of hatred across the dinner table.’

‘Oh dear,’ Shabnum commiserated, cheeks plumped with laughter. ‘I really can’t imagine Auntie Fiza giving anyone dagger eyes – but what did you do to elicit such a reaction?’

‘I left a necklace outside on the cushion, whilst she was in the room. When I came back, Massi Fiza was staring at it and I put it away. The crazy woman was offended, thinking that I thought she was going to steal it. That’s what it’s all about. I gather that’s the reason why she has not collected our laundry, either. It’s her way of punishing me, girls, I guess,’ she ended sheepishly.

‘Oh dear!’ Her daughter was exasperated. ‘Now we are all being punished, Mother, for your actions. If Massi Fiza won’t do our washing, you’d better find another laundrywoman! For none of us girls will touch it. We don’t mind little items, but not white linen sheets. So if you think a plate of meat will bring Massi Fiza round, then please, Mum, send her two platefuls. Better still, I’ll send her the whole pot!’

Rukhsar laughed aloud at their biting sarcasm, getting up to stretch her legs and plump neck, which was becoming more rounded with her bent posture. ‘Now, now, girls, don’t get carried
away. Just three pieces of meat will do.’ Her eldest daughter had already dashed into the kitchen.

The plate of meat, however, was returned to the goldsmith’s household untouched soon afterwards. With gaping mouths, the two daughters waited for their mother to come out of the bathroom after doing her
wudu
for the prayers.

‘Massi Fiza doesn’t want it … she said she had some meat last night,’ Ruhi informed her.

Rukhsar was livid at the snub, eyes darkening, but controlled herself in front of her daughters.

Later, during the painstaking task of threading some more pearly beads into a gold and ruby
kara
, Rukhsar’s mind kept straying to her friend. Apart from the laundry, Massi Fiza was indispensable in so many other ways, too. Without her presence, life would become infinitely dull. It was time to patch up, but she was in no hurry – Rukhsar sat back on her cushions.

In the end, it was that very afternoon, thanks to her aggressive daughters, that she was forced to do her grovelling. With the sharp rays of the afternoon sun beating down on her head, Rukhsar found herself shyly knocking on her neighbour’s door, her creamy face pink with embarrassment. The ugly mound of washing littering their veranda had her abandoning her task there and then. The girls were still moaning about their broken nails and twisted wrists after washing just a few items. All three of them had tried to tackle the mound, which resulted in a hearty squabble as to who had done the most and whose hands were in the worst condition. There was only one pair of washing gloves in the house and those only fitted Shabnum’s big hands, leaving the other two fuming.

‘This is like a laundry house, you messy girls! Clothes everywhere!’ Rukhsar grimaced at the different piles of clothes, bringing back memories of the communal washing days of her youth. Unlike her pampered daughters, she and her sister had to do all of the housework, including the washing. Only the men’s clothes were sent to the local
dhobi ghat.
The bedding, regarded as a nightmare, was always done at home, often taking a whole day. Her generation had learned to take it all in their stride and
with good grace and humour. On top of that, there were always so many guests to cope with; the cooking, the serving and the laying of the bedding to sort out.

‘What a different world it was then!’ Rukhsar mused. Her ‘educated’ daughters on the other hand had become too spoiled to even rinse their flimsy chiffon
dupattas
. The only things they deigned to wash themselves were their undergarments.

Rukhsar sighed. She and her husband had only themselves to blame for pampering their daughters too much.

Standing in the village lane, Rukhsar pondered on the fact that she had not visited Massi Fiza’s home for three years, whereas the latter had climbed up to their top floor every day.

Rukhsar pushed the door open. Pride had to be dispensed with. A strong blast of the soapy smell from the basin of hot water bubbling away on Massi Fiza’s portable cooker hit Rukhsar. Crouching over it, Massi Fiza was dipping a bedding sheet in the boiling water with a washing ladle.

Rukhsar crushed the urge to squeeze her pretty, pert nose tight with her fingers. The stench of wet washing and detergent making her swoon, she mentally chided herself that this was a wash-house, after all. What else did she expect? This was tough living. Washing couldn’t be compared to the dainty task of threading beads and pearls into necklaces. Both of them did jobs which helped their families, but poor Massi Fiza did the
backbreaking
one, Rukhsar commiserated, watching her friend haul a dripping sheet out of the wide steel bucket and slop it down into an empty plastic basin. Her daughters had complained about their wrists, but what about poor Massi Fiza’s? ‘She does all this work to support her two good-for-nothing sons, who’ve abandoned her, and are ashamed of their mother’s work.’

‘Hello, Fiza-ji,’ Rukhsar shyly greeted her friend, eyes tearful from the detergent fumes.

Massi Fiza was partially hidden behind the mist of steamy water on the boil. Glancing up from her squatting position, she was taken aback by her friend’s appearance and nearly dropped
the laundry ladle into the pot of hot soapy water. She was trying to recall the last time she had seen her friend on her doorstep; it was when she had nearly died of typhoid fever.

Massi Fiza automatically stiffened, and Rukhsar sensed it across the few feet separating them.

‘I’ve not seen you for three days, Massi Fiza. Is everything all right?’ Rukhsar politely began, trying hard to smile, but failing.

‘Everything is fine,’ was Massi Fiza’s curt reply, averting her gaze. ‘It’s the laundry that brings you here, isn’t it?’ she taunted.

‘No, Massi Fiza,’ Rukhsar glibly lied, nevertheless colouring and dropping her gaze. ‘I wanted to see how you were.’

‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine – just as your daughter saw me when she came with a bowl of
meat
. No need for charity from your household, Rukhsar. I can afford meat, too!’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Rukhsar stiffly returned, taken aback by her friend’s rude tone and manner. ‘Can we go inside and talk?’

‘No, we can’t! There is a mound of washing to do, as you can see!’ The belligerent tone deeply offended her neighbour who struggled to remain calm.

‘OK, I wish you a good day then. Allah Hafiz.’ Rukhsar coolly bid goodbye, her hand on the door handle.

‘If it’s your washing that has brought you down to
grace
my courtyard after
three years
then send Ruhi down with it, for I’ll not step foot on your premises. Massi Fiza is no thief!’

‘Of course you are not a thief!’ Rukhsar angrily replied,
red-faced
. ‘It’s all in your head, you silly woman –
befakuf
! As to our washing, it’s about time we relieved you of its burden!’ Her biting sarcasm was not lost on the laundrywoman. ‘You’ve mountains of other people’s dirty washing as it is. Good day to you!’ Heart drumming, Rukhsar slammed the door shut, thinking ahead.

Once upstairs in her lounge, it was the baker’s wife who enjoyed her long-winded conversation over the phone, before the subject of laundry was discreetly brought up.

In her small courtyard, a grinning Massi Fiza congratulated herself on her performance, and the handling of the arrogant
goldmistress. ‘Who does that madam think she is?’ she fumed, as she slopped the butcher’s blood-stained
kurtha
hard on her wooden washing slab.

Before the day ended the goldmistress’s washing was being ceremoniously carted off to the village’s other
mala
– to Massi Fiza’s rival, Mahmood’s
dhobi ghat.
A brisk and thriving laundry business, with the facilities of a proper factory washroom and a score of young men and women employees, Mahmood enjoyed a good lifestyle. His second safe, hidden in his wife’s trousseau suitcase, was always stacked with crispy notes.

When Mahmood realised whose washing had entered his big washroom, the wiry
dhobi
’s chest swelled with pride.

With six women to support, including three daughters-inl-aw, it was great to be patronised by the goldsmith’s household. He quickly instructed his supervisor to take special care with this washing, for he had plenty of jewellery to be designed for his youngest daughter’s wedding. That Massi Fiza woman had monopolised all the laundry from that street. And not only that, she delighted in openly taunting him every time they met. Good-natured, he ignored it all, feeling sorry for her, whilst marvelling at how she managed the gruelling work all by herself in the pokey area around her courtyard and still had time to go gadding about the village in search of gossip.

As he personally mixed the starch solution for the goldsmith’s white cotton clothes, determined to please his new clients, he speculated as to why the washing had walked up to his door. Dollops of starch went a long way, he had learned early on in his washing career.

‘Massi Fiza, sneer as much as you want, but we are now in your neighbourhood! We may well take the orders from your other wealthy neighbours – the migrant’s home,’ he laughed, taking out three boxes of soap powder for the goldsmith’s daughters’ delicate fabrics.

Massi Fiza waited in vain for two days for the washing to land in her courtyard from the house next door. It was only as she spotted Mahmood’s son gaily speeding down the street on his motorcycle, carrying a parcel of freshly-pressed clothes into the
goldsmith’s house, whistling a merry tune and winking at her, that it dawned on poor Massi Fiza that her plan had backfired; her pride had cost her in business.

She had overlooked the fact that people could not cope with mountains of dirty laundry littering the place. Rukhsar had apparently dealt with the problem with alacrity, to the benefit of Massi Fiza’s rival!

‘So be it, Rukhsar!’ Massi Fiza raged. ‘At least I’ll not be badgered by your spoilt daughters’ requests to stitch stupid buttons and zips, and tighten their seams in the middle of the night! All that
nakhra
, all that fuss I had to put up with.’

In fact Massi Fiza felt as if a ton of bricks was lifted from her back. Those fashionable young madams had taken her for granted. Money-wise there was plenty of work elsewhere. The only thing she would miss was the coffee the girls plied her with and the conversations with their mother.

‘Never mind, all the villagers are my friends,’ Massi Fiza happily reassured herself. Begum, from Haider Sahib’s household, was like a sister to her, so kind. The baker’s wife was also a close friend. At least in the baker’s house she did not have to be on guard. Surely the baker’s wife wouldn’t expect her to steal
naan
breads or
khathaie
biscuits. In fact, come to think of it, the baker’s wife was a good option for a new friendship, with the added bonus that she would be getting free
chappatis
every day.

Yes, that is what she would do; have a special agreement with the baker’s wife, that in exchange for two
chappatis
a day she would wash a suit each day for her, and if by any chance she decided to offer her some curry, too, that would mean she would no longer need to cook for herself. On second thoughts, she would wash her three suits. It couldn’t be fairer than that, could it? The baker’s wife would certainly love the idea. They had plenty of food, with pots of curries being cooked every day for their large family and three grandchildren. Money and meat was in abundance in that household, too!