Amal Unbound(16)

I arranged the kebabs on a platter and sprinkled them with chopped cilantro like I did at home.

Mumtaz picked up a serving bowl and gestured for me to pick up the platter. “Come along,” she said.

After the gossip and banging of pots in the kitchen, the main house was eerily silent.

“At last she arrives,” Jawad said when I entered the formal dining room and placed my platter on the sideboard next to Mumtaz’s tray. He had no sunglasses on now, and his eyes bored into mine. I quickly looked away.

His servant, Bilal, stood against the wall. He watched me curiously.

“Enjoying it here so far?” Jawad Sahib continued.

I couldn’t move, rooted by his gaze. Breathe, I reminded myself. I would not let him see me cower.

“Not scaring the girl on her first day, are you?” said a woman as she entered the room. She wore a silk shalwar kamiz, her graying hair swept up into a bun. Jawad Sahib leaned up and kissed her on the cheek.

“You should thank her.” He nodded to the woman. “My mother was in the car that day you ran into us. She’s the only reason you are here at all. I had other ideas on how to handle your disrespect.”

His phone vibrated against the table, and his attention shifted.

“Go.” He waved his hand at me and picked up the phone.

I hurried toward the kitchen. My mother always said the best way to feel better was to do something, anything. And she was right; making myself useful had always helped.

Nabila was lifting an iron pot from the stove and maneuvering it toward the sink. I moved to help her, but before I could offer, the pot slipped from her hands and crashed to the concrete floor. The noise pierced my ears. Bits of leftover food splattered onto the ground and the adjacent wall.

I grabbed a rag from the counter and leaned down to wipe up the mess.

“Stop,” Nabila said.

“It looks worse than it is,” I told her. “We can clean it up in a minute.”

“I took care of myself before you came and I’ll take care of myself when you’re washed out and long gone.”

“Nabila,” Mumtaz chided.

The rag hung limp in my hand as I stared as Nabila. She lifted the pot and rested it in the sink. How did I make an enemy within an hour of arriving?

The kitchen began to fill up as other servants filed in for their lunch. I recognized some of them, like Shagufta, who had been holding the laundry when I entered the servants’ quarters earlier, and Ghulam, the driver who brought me here. I picked up a porcelain plate, but then I noticed the others grabbing metal ones from a separate cabinet. Their drink ware, too, came from the separate cupboard.

I put the porcelain plate back down. I couldn’t explain why it bothered me so much. It wasn’t as if I ever ate out of anything much fancier than what was set aside for us here, but Parvin and Omar ate out of the same plates and drank from the same cups as we did. There was a clear dividing line here, and I had to understand where I stood. We could prepare the platters and wash the porcelain plates and glasses, but we could not eat from them.

The young girl came over and held out an empty plate for me.

“I’m Fatima. What’s your name?” she asked.

“My name is Amal.” I took the plate from her.

“Do you live here now?” she asked.

“I guess. I mean, for a little while I do.”

“My father made this food. He’s a really good cook. Khan Sahib pays him extra so he won’t go anywhere else. The korma is one of his specialties.”

“I love korma.” I said. I ladled some onto my plate. The roti was cold but I didn’t mind, as I was nearly dizzy from hunger.

“His nihari is even better. He makes it for breakfast sometimes. I can get you some lemons for it when he makes it next. I know where he keeps them.”

“Fatima, come eat before everything gets even colder,” her father called to her.

I followed Fatima to the entrance of a room attached to the kitchen. The servants sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. Fatima sat down next to her father. The plates rested on their laps.

“Is it true?” asked the servant who had been carrying a broom earlier in the day. “She hardly seems the type to do such a thing.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Ghulam said between mouthfuls. “Kids these days like to mouth off—don’t care much for respect.”

“He let her off easy,” Nabila said, looking at me. “If the rumors are true, he could have done worse.”

I walked back into the kitchen and rested my plate on the counter. I understood people talked about other people—I was guilty of it myself—but how could they say such things when I was right there?

That’s when I saw Jawad Sahib. He watched me from the kitchen entrance.

“I had one question for you.” Jawad Sahib smiled. “Was it worth it? The pomegranate you couldn’t bear to part with?”

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of him, but my body betrayed me. Hot salty tears slipped down my face. I looked down and stood still. I did my best not to move.

I stood still until he was satisfied. Until he walked away.





Chapter 18





After dinner, Mumtaz led me up the marble staircase onto a carpeted landing. The second floor was as big as the first floor. Nasreen Baji’s room was the first one on the right just off the landing. Stepping inside, I saw a white bedroom set with cream sheets. A matching white armoire and dresser were in the distance. A makeup table rested next to a closed bathroom door. Light glowed from beneath its slats.