Revolt (6 page)

‘Begum?’ Frowning, Gulbahar softly called, but the housekeeper had crossed the courtyard, ignoring Mithu’s morning ‘
salaam
’ calls from the cage, and was already on the stairs. Confused, Gulbahar followed her housekeeper into her daughter’s room.

She found Begum sitting on Laila’s bed.

‘Is Mistress Laila upstairs having breakfast?’ Begum enquired, her guilty face lowered.

‘Not seen her yet …’

To her alarm, Gulbahar saw Begum’s body double over; with her face buried in her lap, she sobbed loudly into her
chador
.

‘Begum! What’s wrong?’ Gulbahar’s heart had taken flight.

‘You won’t want to know!’ Begum wailed aloud.

‘Is it to do with our Laila?’ Gulbahar commanded, her face level with Begum’s.

Begum raised her tear-stricken face and nodded miserably. Her mistress’s look of horror would remain etched in her mind for years to come.

‘Where is she?’ Gulbahar stuttered, barely able to breathe, fear gripping her.

‘I don’t know!’ Begum replied dully, her vacant eyes on the picture of her young mistress on the wall. ‘She’s gone!’ she whispered, watching her mistress’s eyes squeeze shut. Gulbahar slid down on the bed next to Begum.

‘Gone, Begum! It can’t be true!’ The broken words were threaded with fear and disbelief.

Gulbahar tried to claw her way back to reality. Her daughter’s reputation couldn’t be compromised, even in the eyes of a faithful housekeeper.

‘She’ll be around the
hevali
somewhere,’ Gulbahar brusquely replied. ‘Please, no word of this to your master or anyone else,’ she added softly, head lowered, before leaving the room.

Begum wanted to shout out: ‘Laila has gone! She’s been out all night with her lover!’ But love and respect for her mistress prevented her from uttering the terrible words aloud. Instead, she picked up a large framed photograph of Laila taken under the moonlight. ‘Little Mistress, we never knew that you would become so self-destructive and do this to your parents!’

Begum wearily stood up. Breakfast still had to be prepared; there was the shopping for fresh vegetables to organise for the afternoon dinner. Laila’s new in-laws were coming this evening to discuss dates and practicalities relating to the forthcoming wedding. The new maid assigned with responsibility for the upper-floor rooms had to be supervised, especially to ensure that she had dusted behind the bed posts and other items of furniture.

Downstairs in the large courtyard, a nightly breeze always meant a thicker layer of dust to sweep away the following morning. Everything had to be ritually polished, scrubbed or hosed down before the guests arrived. Women guests often had a tendency to wander and look around the beautiful
hevali
out of curiosity.

‘I haven’t slept a wink all night. How will I be able to do anything today?’ Begum groaned to herself, going downstairs to inspect the work of the new maid, and scowled. The silly chit was still watering the plants around the colonnades; the hanging baskets of geraniums were leaking water everywhere onto the marble surface. Begum could not be bothered to remind her of the safety hazard.

Her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘I must keep out of Mistress Gulbahar’s path today!’

Begum was sitting at the kitchen table dicing aubergines into quarters for the afternoon dinner when Ali apeared in front of her under the ceiling fan, wiping his tanned forehead with his fingertips. The look in his eyes made Begum stagger to her feet; eyes automatically darting to the door, fearful of someone entering.

‘Ali?’ She felt faint. ‘Please say it’s not bad news?’

‘No, Begum, it’s
very
bad news,’ he contradicted. ‘Our spoilt Mistress Laila has eloped with the potter’s brat!’

Mouth fallen open, Begum swayed. Ali reached to catch her. The knife and the piece of aubergine were on the tiled kitchen floor.

‘Run off with the potter’s son!’ Begum cried, voice faint.

‘Manzoor, our taxi man … said that he had dropped Jubail and a veiled woman at the bus station. He thought that it was a female relative of his, but it was our Laila. He saw her face – saw them get on the Islamabad bus. I’ve told him not to utter a word about this to anyone.’

Begum sank into a heap on the footstool. ‘All my fault … I gave her the message … Allah Pak help us!’

‘Yes, Begum, beg Allah Pak to help us
all
!’ he corrected. ‘That selfish pair has thrown us into the middle of the flour-grinding machine, a
chaki
,’ he taunted.

‘What are we going to do, Ali?’

‘The potters are already frightened out of their wits – poor souls. I must get to them before the master finds out.’

Then he was gone. Putting her head in her lap, Begum wept bitterly, unaware of time and space until she heard footsteps.

‘Begum, are you all right?’

Begum raised fearful eyes at her mistress, unable to contain the bad news inside her any longer. ‘Laila has gone, Mistress!’ she wailed aloud. ‘Left the village last night with Jubail!’

Gulbahar froze, eyes now orbs of horror. Begum stumbled up from the footstool to reach her mistress, but Gulbahar blindly turned and left the room – the dinner forgotten.

Ali sprinted through the village lanes to reach the potter’s home. Once there, he pressed his face to the door, knocking hard and not caring who heard. It was immediately opened by the potter, his wife hovering behind him. The sight of both their faces clearly told him that neither had slept.

Ali shot them a bitter look. ‘You’d better pack your bags and leave immediately! Your devil of a son,
shaitan
, has eloped with our Master Haider’s daughter. His pure impudence is unimaginable!’ He ignored their shocked, indrawn breaths. ‘As to where he gets it from – I really can’t fathom? Not from you simple folks. You can imagine what will happen once Master Haider finds out. You’d better reach him!’

His eyes swept over their stricken faces; he could almost hear the flutter of their timid heartbeats, and he relented, feeling sorry for them, but then reminded himself that it was their responsibility to guide their wayward son. They had let everyone down.

The potter’s hands were shaking as he bolted the front door. His wife was rubbing her two calloused palms together in a traditional gesture to demonstrate outrage.

‘What has our son done?’ she croaked in disbelief.

‘
Education
, Rahmat Bibi – giving people foolish illusions! Making them fly high in fairy lands.
Spend more money on him,
you said,’ the potter jeered. ‘Well, this is the result! Now deal with it.’

Ali was fixing the broken leg of the veranda
charpoy
when the shrill ringing tone of his mobile phone made him drop his hammer. It was Mistress Laila.

‘Where are you, Mistress? We’re worried sick …’ Ali stammered, maintaining his code of respect in addressing her, although he wanted to deliver spades full of anger over the phone. She abruptly vanquished him with her brazen anouncement.

‘I’ve married Jubail! Please inform my parents – ask them to forgive me.’

‘Mistress Laila …’ he croaked but the line was already dead. Laila was in no mood for angry lectures from a
mere
servant.

Ali slid onto the nearby chair, brushing his moist palm over his flushed face. His Adam’s apple was energetically bobbing up and down.

‘Mad Laila! What have you done?’ he mourned aloud, frightening the two black crows hopping on Begum’s linen
kurtha
on her washing line.

He remained slumped for a long time on his old chair, under the shade of the veranda, not knowing what to do. How could he keep this bombshell buried inside him?

‘Allah Pak, please help them!’ He fervently prayed that the potter’s lot had fled. For there would be no corner for them to hide in the village from the master’s wrath!

Shame scorched his face. No child did this sort of thing! To disobey was one thing; to marry in secret was another, and to such an unsuitable man simply unthinkable!

His heart bled for his Master Sahib. A proud man and admired by all; used to holding his head high up in his village community. How would he ever recover from this catastrophe?

‘Oh, God! No!’ Ali cried. Laila’s prospective in-laws were due to arrive that very night. ‘Shameless girl! Laila, if you were my daughter, I’d have strangled you by now!’

‘But she’s not the only one to blame!’ the inner voice mocked. His idiotic Begum had played a pivotal role in this family’s destruction. It looked as if they, too, would be fleeing with the potter’s family; two faithful servants had turned into traitors.

Ali peeped from behind the
minar
tree in the open ground.
When the Jeep had disappeared over the horizon, he dashed into the
hevali
. Face flushed, he wandered around the building looking for Begum. To his dismay, he eventually found her in Mistress Gulbahar’s room where two keen pairs of eyes assessed his face. Their intuition immediately alerted them that he had some terrible news to impart about Laila.

Hovering awkwardly near the door, Ali shuffled his feet, studiously avoiding eye contact with them. Begum leaned back against the bed post, afraid of falling in a heap on the floor from her panting heart if her husband didn’t speak up soon.

‘Begum, can I see you for a moment?’ he ventured to ask.

‘Ali, whatever you have come to say to Begum, please say it in front of me – that is if it’s to do with my daughter?’ Gulbahar coolly chided.

Ali desperately sought escape. ‘It’s our portable bed … I want to show it to Begum for one minute, if you could excuse her, Mistress?’

‘Ali, you’ve never lied before!’ Gulbahar stiffly mocked.

Ali turned and bowed his head against the wooden doorframe.

The two women nervously waited.

‘Mistress Laila has married the potter’s son!’

Reaching her mistress’s side, Begum gently held her in her arms and guided her to the armchair. She crouched on the floor, clutching her mistress’s legs, fearing they would give way beneath her. Ali’s forehead was still pressed against the
door-frame
. Begum stared at the clock as if her whole life depended on it. The master was due back in half an hour.

Hearing his mistress’s steps, Ali sidled away from the door, head lowered.

‘Ali, I’ll tell your master myself … Please phone Laila’s in-laws to cancel their visit … say that we have left for the city because of a family bereavement or something,’ Gulbahar instructed, before leaving.

Begum sobbed loudly into her muslin shawl, unable to meet her husband’s accusing eyes.

Gulbahar leaned against the cold marble surface of the veranda colonnade, her eyes shut tight.

‘Sahiba-ji!’ Begum timidly asked. ‘Are you all right?’

Gulbahar ignored her question and the chattering call of the parakeet swinging in his cage and returned to her bedroom. Husband and wife exchanged nervous glances.

‘What are we going to do, Ali?’ Begum beseeched.

‘Run!’

Begum nodded, fear etched across her face.

Ali’s bitter laugh frightened the two crows pecking the pomegranate fruit sewn inside little cotton bags in one corner of the courtyard. ‘Sometimes I wonder what your head is stuffed with – sawdust?’

‘You are cruel, Ali. I never expected our Laila would do this!’

‘She always had you wound round her pretty little finger, didn’t she? And you always became her puppet, her
phutley
that she manipulated to her heart’s content.’

‘You indulged and loved her too, Ali!’

‘Yes … but not in the reckless way you doted on her. She
used
you
, Begum. For God’s sake, wake up woman!’ His words were her undoing.

Begum wept in self-pity. It was true; she had been thoroughly manipulated by her selfish young mistress.

‘Where’s my sister?’ young Arslan demanded from the rooftop, peering down over the railing. The question was innocent enough, but Ali and his wife, down below in the courtyard, stared up wide-eyed at the young master-ji flying a green kite.

‘She’s about somewhere!’ Ali lightly quipped, recovering first.

‘I want to fly my other kite with her. Tell her to come up when you see her!’

‘OK, Master Arslan.’ Begum whispered to her husband, ‘There will be more things flying tonight!’ Her heart bled for young Arslan, wondering how he would cope with Laila’s elopement.

Begum shuffled back to the kitchen. The dinner preparation and the household chores had to be got on with. Above all, the
hevali
had to be emptied of all eavesdropping servants, and soon.

‘Farida, wash everything quickly! I don’t need you this evening! I’ll manage – the visitors are not coming,’ Begum explained to the young maid, ignoring her confused look.

‘Yes, Mistress Begum!’ came a meek reply.

With exasperation, Begum eyed her leisurely scrubbing strokes. Why couldn’t the chit swing her arms out properly and give the pots a really good shine. What was wrong with the hands of the youth these days – weaklings!

‘Oh, God!’ Begum dropped the ladle in the curry sauce. She had to stop the guests from coming. And who would be the one to tell Master Haider? Begum agonised.

She needn’t have worried.

Haider had personally decided to call on Jennat Bibi, the local sweetmaker’s wife, to order the sweetmeats for his daughter’s wedding. Jennat Bibi loved taking orders from Haider’s household, as the delivery of baskets of sweets gave her an opportunity to visit ‘that wonderful magical palace’ as she boasted to her family and friends.

The sweetmaker’s front door was open and Haider overheard two female voices from within, locked in a hushed conversation; one speaker was Jennat Bibi.

‘Have you heard that Master Haider’s daughter, Laila, has eloped with the potter’s son? And the poor potters have all fled! See for yourself! A huge padlock is dangling from their door!’

Transfixed, Haider leaned heavily against the wall for support. He heard the peal of bells from the milk buffaloes trundling past him and the mumbled greeting, ‘
Salaam
, Master-ji’ of the cowherd, shepherding them down the lane.

A dog barking brought Haider back to reality and he hastened away down the lane – to the potter’s door. A rusty old aluminium padlock hung heavily in the middle of the bolted wooden door. Haider stood lost in thought, wondering how to verify the truth of what he had overheard.

‘Just gossip by bitching women!’

Not wanting to meet anyone, Haider slid quietly through the
hevali
side door and went straight up to his daughter’s room – it was empty.

With a thudding heart, he padded through all the rooms. In the kitchen, Begum was stirring the ladle in the cooking pot; he quietly closed the door.

His last destination was the rooftop, where he found Arslan flying his kite alone.

‘Arslan, have you seen your sister today?’

His son was squinting in the hot afternoon sunshine, tugging at the kite string. His kite was swaying in the sky, and about to crash straight into his friend Saleem’s large, blue, striped one.

‘No.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled, annoyed at being pestered about his sister.

‘Did you see her at breakfast time?’

‘No!’ was the quick surly answer. Arslan did not like his father’s harsh tone of voice.

‘Did you see her last night?’ Frowning, Arslan tried to remember. ‘Leave the damn thing alone and answer me, boy!’ Haider demanded.

Arslan lost his grip on the string and watched in horror as his kite floated away. For the first time he felt the stirring of hatred for his father.

‘Yes!’

‘What time?’

‘Don’t know!’ Arslan’s eyes fell before his father’s. He remembered seeing his sister leave through the back door at nine o’clock, with Begum standing behind her. ‘Begum knows,’ he volunteered, wanting to get rid of his father. Haider was already sprinting down the marble stairs.

Arslan gazed up at his beautiful kite drifting away, wondering which lucky boy would pull it down.

When the door slammed shut, Begum knew that this was the moment she had been dreading. Heart pounding, she failed to greet her master.

‘Begum, just answer one question!’ the dignified voice commanded. ‘Were you the last person to see our Laila?’

Begum trembled. ‘Yes.’ The wooden spoon fell with a loud plop into the large pot of milk and carrots for the
gajar halva
pudding.

The door was slammed shut.

Begum turned the stove off. It didn’t matter if the carrot
halva
got burned, for the master would not be eating anything from her hand today. Her days at the
hevali
had come to a piteous end. After ensuring all the servants had left, she let herself out by the side door – the family needed privacy.

Arms tightly folded against her chest under her cotton
chador
, Begum shuffled back to her home, stepping twice on the
sun-baked
cow pats on the footpath. Where would they find employment like this one, Begum mourned? For years they had enjoyed privileges that not even other family members could anticipate. Their house furnishings were specially ordered for them. They had three well-balanced meals each day at the
hevali
with plenty of meat. Moreover Mistress Gulbahar had generously given the order to the Gujjar boy to deliver a large jug of milk to Begum’s home first thing every morning. She had even got them a fridge to store their milk and meat.