Revolt (4 page)

Saher reeled; all this fuss about her touching him. He knew that she was a touching sort of person and had always touched him? He had come from the West, the land where men and women openly kissed in the streets and demonstrated their feelings publicly. So why had he become so paranoid about her touching him?

‘I’m a man now, Saher!’

She stared at his back, mouth agape, before leaving him. Twice he had made a point of reminding her about that.

‘Oh, Ismail! Please come soon,’ she silently beseeched running down the stairs, her painted toes gripping her elegant mules. Three more days to go before her fiancé would join her. And in three weeks’ time, she would be a married woman. In six months’ time, upon successfully gaining a spouse’s entry visa, she would most probably be with him in England. There was a lot to do in the run-up to her forthcoming wedding. Her mother had forgotten that they had an appointment with the goldsmith.

Later she drove her mother and Auntie Mehreen, her future mother-in-law, to Ismail’s house. It was there that her future father-in-law, Liaquat Sahib, had invited two of the most prestigious jewellers, one from the city and the other from the village, Rukhsar’s husband, for Saher’s dowry jewellery.

Laila fingered the soft petals in her palm. ‘His feet touched them,’ she cried, doubling over on her bed beside her sleeping daughter.

The phone shrilled in the silent room startling Laila. Reluctantly she reached for the receiver, knowing it was going to be her husband. Begum’s sweet voice welcomed her.

‘Don’t fret, young Mistress, he’s wearing your garland!’ Laila held her breath.

‘Thank you!’ she whispered, but the phone was silent in her hand.

At the other end of the line, in the
hevali
, Begum blushed, placing the phone back on its cradle when her mistress entered the room. Gulbahar’s accusing eyes spelt that she had heard the entire conversation. Begum opted to brazen it out.

‘I’ll serve the tea, Sahiba-ji!’ Sticking a full smile to her face, she hastened out of the room.

Gulbahar crossed the room to the onyx coffee table. Lifting the phone receiver, she pressed the redial button. And waited – her breath held.

‘Hello?’ the hesitant voice uttered. Seconds ticked away into silence.

Then a soft moan, ‘Forgive me!’

Gulbahar clicked the receiver down onto its cradle. Cheeks flushed, she joined her sisters in the drawing room.

In her room, Laila quietly wept, holding the phone to her cheek. ‘When will you forgive me? How long will you go on punishing me?’

A few minutes later the phone shrilled again, but she let it
ring for some time before pulling the wire out. She knew it was her husband this time, and she only had bitter words to greet him: ‘I have lost my world for you. Are you worth it, Jubail?’

The words taunted, as they did on most nights, in the humble potter’s home. Closing her eyes, she ritually relived that journey; the previous life of young Mistress Laila, the beautiful daughter of Haider, who loved horse riding, dressed in men’s clothing, with her father’s stable boy.

Jubail was busy grooming Master Haider’s favourite mare in the stable, late in the evening, when his eyes fell upon the beautiful 22-year-old Mistress Laila. Strolling to the other horse, she patted its flanks and then laid her head on the horse’s neck. Standing still, Jubail watched from under the shadow of the tree – intrigued. He had never set eyes on a woman who behaved in this intimate way towards a horse; Laila had definitely inherited her father’s genes.

The horse under Jubail’s hand shifted, immediately drawing Laila’s attention to his corner of the stable courtyard. Startled, she stepped back, eyes wary. She knew who he was; the potter’s son – the ‘clever’ young man studying at the prestigious university and whose passion for riding horses had won her father’s respect and interest.

Master Haider took pride in breeding horses for the annual city race and for his personal use, little deterred by the fact that on a practical level horses were becoming obsolete in their part of the district. Only the
tangas
, the horse carriages, required a horse and those, too, were becoming scarce. The humble local rickshaws and cars had taken over both peoples’ lives and the rural landscape.

When Jubail had tentatively asked if he could ride and look after the horses, Haider Ali could barely contain his delight. Arslan was too young to handle horses.

‘Jubail, saddle this horse,’ Laila commanded in a clear,
authoritative
voice, addressing him by his first name.

Jubail bristled at the tone – the one she used with the servants.
And he, despite being a clever student at university, here in the village, as a mere stable boy from the humble potter’s household, was clearly in that league as far as Mistress Laila was concerned. He nodded, turning to hide his tight face, but she had already gone.

The horse prepared, he waited, perched on a small stool in the shadowed area of the veranda, wondering who was going to ride it. The sky was dark and he wanted to get home; his mother was waiting with his favourite dish of fried fish. A slim turbaned man entered the stable courtyard, briskly strolled up to the saddled horse and in one clean sweep had swung himself over it.

Before Jubail could utter ‘Hey you’, the man and the horse had already ridden out of the stable courtyard gates. Fearing that the horse was being stolen, Jubail swung himself up on the other horse and galloped out of the paddock courtyard.

‘Hey! Stop!’ Jubail shouted, enraged. The rider merely scowled and galloped even faster. His heart racing, Jubail kept his eye on the horse and the rider now crossing the fields. Incensed, Jubail dug his heels into the animal’s sides and increased his speed until he was parallel to the other horse, reaching for the reins. Taken aback by Jubail’s action, the rider lost his grip and fell straight into the spinach field.

Hearing a gasp of pain, Jubail peered down, eyes widening in shock. It was a woman. More to the point, Mistress Laila, sprawled on top of the leafy spinach plants, glaring up at him. The dark mass of hair tumbled around her shoulders, the yards of fabric of her hand-made turban lay in her lap.

‘How dare you!’ she raged, eyes shot with contempt.

‘I dare because riding out in the darkness, all alone, is neither sensible nor sane for a young woman!’ he chillingly reminded her, nostrils flaring, angrily reining his horse. Then added, softening his tone, remembering his subservient role. ‘It’s not the done thing, Mistress – I’m sorry that I startled you!’

He left her seething on the dusty path, letting her sort herself out, and waited at a distance. Laila shoved her hair under the turban cloth knowing full well how incongruous she looked in male clothing. For no one else wore a turban in the village.

From afar and with grudging admiration, Jubail watched her ride away into the fields. Only when she headed back towards the village did he think it was right for him to turn back.

In the stable courtyard, ignoring him, Laila merely tied the horse in its usual place. Before she went through the door leading to the
hevali
courtyard she couldn’t help calling over her shoulder, ‘Saddle the horse for me tomorrow evening for nine o’clock,’ the tone soft, but a command nevertheless.

Bemused, Jubail stared after her, his coal-black eyes blazing in the dark. Did she think he had nothing better to do than wait around to saddle horses for her at night? The arrogance of the woman!

Jubail did, however, ‘wait around’ and saddle Mistress Laila’s horse, melting under her smile of gratitude and gems for eyes. Before riding out of the stable courtyard, she leaned down and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

The two softly spoken words lent wings to his body. He found himself clambering onto another horse and riding out after her. Laila heard him racing after her but preferred to ignore his presence, instead widening the distance between them. Then she let him join her on the way back. Their companionable silence was only broken when she returned to the courtyard.

‘Would you like to ride him again tomorrow night, Mistress Laila?’ he asked, reading her thoughts, loving the sound of her name on his lips.

She smiled, looking down, adding with a plea, ‘Please don’t tell my father! He doesn’t know I ride.’

He laughed aloud. ‘You really love horse riding!’ he marvelled, his dark eyes caressing her face and his voice husky with secret laughter.

‘I love it! But Father would never let me ride a horse; he says that it is unfeminine!’ she revealed, eyes shyly taking in his masculine appearance.

‘Well, I don’t know about the “unfeminine” bit, Mistress Laila, but you can clearly handle these beasts pretty well.’

She beamed in pleasure. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your father is away for a week, isn’t he?’ Jubail probed. ‘So do you wish to ride out each night?’

She nodded, head lowered and heat rushing into her face; she was entering a conspiracy with him, just as she had done with Begum.

‘OK, I’ll saddle the horse for you for nine o’clock. But on one condition!’ She looked up sharply, face alert. ‘That I accompany you! I’m not happy about you riding alone in the dark. What if you were to fall and hurt yourself? And suppose somebody discovered your true identity?’

Reluctantly Laila nodded, accepting his wisdom. Thus a pattern was established. Jubail would leave his home early, immediately after his evening meal, and go to the paddock to saddle the two horses. Chaperoned by Begum, Laila would sneak out of the
hevali
to Begum’s house to change into her male gear and don a turban or scoop her hair under a cap. They would ride out into the darkness, under the shining stars, relishing the clamour of crickets around them. Begum held a vigil, grateful to Jubail for keeping an eye on her young mistress.

The initial companionable silence soon turned to a strange tingling awareness between them. And they began to not only enjoy each other’s company, but found the experience of racing across the fields exhilarating. Twice Jubail let her win. They discussed, debated and argued over many things – from cynicism about Pakistani politics to books they had read and their future aspirations for successful careers. Laila was eager to learn about his university life and he in turn coaxed her for information about her life as the wealthy daughter of the village landowner. Both were intrigued by the other’s very different background. Wealth on one side; poverty on the other.

Her father’s return put an abrupt stop to the riding. Chafing under the restraint, she sneaked two visits to the stable to spend time with Jubail, drowning him with her wistful looks, forcing him to offer: ‘Look Laila, I’m going back to university tomorrow. Tonight is my last night of riding. Want to come?’

‘Please!’ Laila entreated, giggling, only too pleased, her
cobalt-blue eyes sparkling. ‘Let me go and change, and tell Begum.’

A few minutes later, like two guilty children, they hurried out into the darkness, Laila checking over her shoulders, heart racing.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she stammered in the dark, ‘I mean riding with you,’ she hastily amended, looking away. ‘It’s much more fun …’

‘I’ve enjoyed riding with you, too! I’ll be back during the holidays,’ he promised, chest swelling with pride.

‘Good,’ she whispered, uncomfortable with the heat rushing through her cheeks.

Only Begum knew about her young mistress’s clandestine horse riding and meetings with Jubail, the potter’s son. Startled at catching a glimpse of shy warmth in her mistress’s eyes, Begum felt duty-bound to warn her about the sheer impropriety of it all, not bothering to mince her words, ‘So unacceptable for the landlord’s daughter to be spending so much time alone in the darkness – with a man who is no blood relative, but happens to be the son of a lowly potter! What would your father think if he found out?’ she had scorned.

Gulbahar, totally unaware of her daughter’s movements and emotional involvement with the potter’s son, was fully steeped in preparations for Laila’s trousseau. A landlord with two
homesteads
and dozens of acres to his name from a nearby town was asking for her hand in marriage. Gulbahar had kept her daughter abreast of all the goings-on as she went her merry way in planning for the engagement over a period of months.

Laila ignored it all. Her thoughts were with Jubail; she was eagerly waiting for their next horse riding session when he returned after his final university exams. Arslan, her younger brother had been sworn to secrecy, as were Ali and Begum, albeit reluctantly, about her movements and relationship with the potter’s son.

Laila’s prospective fiancé and his family were coming to fix a date for the engagement party. Cheeks flushed with excitement, Gulbahar informed her 12-year-old son that his sister was getting married soon. Very close to his sister, and upset at the prospect of losing her, Arslan dashed out to tell Laila, but she wasn’t in her room. He went searching for Begum.

‘Has my sister gone out horse riding again?’ Arslan innocently asked of Begum, hovering near the stable doors. A knot of worry tightening her throat, Begum’s eyes peered out at the dark fields, on the lookout for her flighty young mistress. Young master’s nails dug into Begum’s arm as he recalled that his father, too, was out on his horse.

From under the shadows of the
minar
tree, Haider’s proud gaze swooped over acres of land etched against the far horizon. ‘All of this will be my Arslan’s one day!’ he uttered aloud, addressing the evening stars. ‘For my Laila has no need of this land when she marries.’

Sitting back on his steed, Haider Ali congratulated himself on his fortune, revelling in Allah Pak’s blessing; he had everything. Two beautiful healthy children, a dutiful wonderful wife, and wealth that would keep his future generations in splendid style and see his only son through an expensive foreign university education.

From the corners of his eyes he noted the approaching figures of two horse riders in the distance.

A few seconds later, he stiffened on hearing a peal of laughter, his head shooting up. One rider was bending down and, in the process, the cap had fallen off and long hair spilled out onto the shoulders. Haider’s hand became a tight fist, clutching the horse’s reins. Spellbound, he watched the other rider jump down from the horse, pick up the cap and then start to tuck
his
daughter’s hair back under it.

Gritting his teeth, betrayal skewered Haider. ‘That beast is touching my daughter!’ Nausea spiralled through him at the thought of his daughter’s defilement; eyes shut tight and beads of sweat erupting on his face.

‘Surely it can’t be my Laila riding out alone at night with him!’ He crushed the urge to rush up to the ‘beast’ and lash him both with his belt and his words. ‘Get your hands off my daughter, you rascal!’

Pressing his hand hard against his mouth to stifle his rage,
and schooled with innate human wisdom, Haider did and said nothing, merely withdrawing from the scene – for it was impossible for him to look either of them in the eye.

Begum was standing tall on her heels at the stable door, peering into the dark – apparently waiting. Haider guessed correctly for whom. On catching a glimpse of her master, the housekeeper shrivelled on the spot, singeing beneath the full blaze of his wounded eyes, her wobbly legs almost giving way beneath her.

He knew!

Her waiting days for Mistress Laila were over; it was time to scuttle off home. God only knew what was about to happen in the
hevali
. ‘Oh, Allah Pak, what calamity have my actions unleashed on this household!’

Once home and gasping for breath, Begum collapsed on the
charpoy
on the veranda. Her husband, leaning against the colonnade, dragged at the cigarette butt gripped between his three fingers, shooting her a speculative look.

‘Our master knows about Laila!’ Begum tried to sit up. The shock had done something to her back. The knot of pain had her flattened on the portable bed. She had heard about this form of paralysis but never believed it. In fact, she had scoffed at the idea.

Ali winced, ‘Oh, Begum, what have we done? He knows nothing about her relationship with that scoundrel!’

From the bed, Begum, still in pain, dumbly nodded, licking her dried lips, bursting to explain. ‘He knows, Ali! He looks like a man who has lost five inches off his height. I’ll never forget that look in his eyes, Ali!’

‘What do you expect, woman?’ her husband bitterly sniped.

‘Oh, Allah Pak!’

‘What now?’

‘Mistress Gulbahar! She knows absolutely nothing!’

The cigarette butt in Ali’s hand was shaking, his Adam’s apple energetically bobbing up and down.

‘Just pray, woman!’ he lashed out. ‘A right dimwit you are. I told you not to indulge the young mistress!’

Begum miserably accepted the truth behind her husband’s cruel and derogatory term ‘dimwit’.

Gulbahar was happily humming to ‘Queen’ Noor Jahan’s famous Punjabi melody whilst leaning down into a steel trunk. Supporting its heavy steel lid with one hand, with the other she lifted the burgundy roll of chenille that was propped against other rolls of fabric; a beautiful collection of silks, chiffons and velvets for Laila’s trousseau, purchased from many cities. The tantalising picture of her fair-skinned, attractive daughter draped in a dark rich velvet fabric had Gulbahar grinning. This had to be the one for her Laila’s engagement party. ‘First impressions matter,’ she gushed.