Amal Unbound(17)

I followed Mumtaz into an attached room that turned out to be an enormous closet filled with Nasreen Baji’s clothes and shoes. Through the closet we entered another room, rectangular and compact. The walls were a pale blue, with a border of elephants and giraffes.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” Mumtaz said.

“Here?” I looked around at the nursery. “This is my room?”

“There are many who would do a lot for a room in this part of the house. Now, put away your things, and then meet Nasreen,” she said before leaving.

I thought of the stuffy, windowless concrete room from earlier today. Mumtaz was right. This room had air-conditioning and a blue tiled bathroom with a porcelain sink and chrome handles like I’d seen on television. I unpacked my suitcase and glanced at the door, wondering what lay in store for me on the other side.

The light still glowed from beneath the closed bathroom door when I stepped back into her room. I glanced at my satchel. I’d forgotten to put it away, but I did need to call my mother just to let her know I was safe. I took out my phone, but a knock on the bedroom door made me jump. Jawad Sahib stepped inside.

“Bored already?” he said, looking at my phone.

Is this how it would be here? This man lurking around every bend and curve?

“I wanted to let my mother know I’m all right.”

“Your obligations are to me now.” He grabbed the phone from me. “The more you learn how to leave your backward ways behind, the easier things will be for you. Your days of being an idle farm girl are over.”

Idle farm girl? Backward ways?

I stared at my phone in his hands. My mother would tell me to be quiet right now and ignore these words. But how could he tear me from my home, take away the only connection I had to it, and then pronounce me backward? The words couldn’t be stopped.

“I’ve never been idle. I went to school. I cared for my sisters. I helped my family.” My voice broke. “The ones you took me away from.”

He looked at me as though watching a field mouse develop the skill of speech. His eyes narrowed.

The bathroom door opened.

“Jawad, what’s going on?”

“I’m telling her how things will be.”

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” She walked up to him. “If you take that away, what is there for me to do?”

“You’re right.” He kissed her cheek. His anger from moments earlier vanished.

They chatted a bit longer. He told her he was heading out now. Bilal was staying back this time. He asked her to keep an eye on him. He told her he would stop by her favorite sweet shop on his way home. He promised to call. And then, he tucked my phone into his pocket and walked away, taking the one lifeline I had to my family with him.



* * *



? ? ?

Nasreen Baji walked to her makeup table and sat down on the cushioned bench. I watched her, uncertain what to do. Did I ask her how I could help? Or wait for her to tell me what she needed? Was I supposed to stand with my hands to the side? Or folded in front?

The list of things I didn’t know was endless. I stood frozen by the door.

Nasreen Baji tapped her fingers against the table and then glanced into the mirror.

“I could use some help,” she told me, and when I walked up to her, she nodded at the brush on the table.

I picked up the wooden brush and parted Nasreen Baji’s hair. I’d done this for my mother and sisters countless times but never performed such an intimate task on a stranger. Nasreen Baji’s hair was straight and brown with threads of gray. My mother’s hair was black like the night sky, falling over her shoulders in waves. Last time I brushed my mother’s hair, taking care to gently tease out the knots with my fingers, she hummed lullabies to Safa, who lay curled in her lap.

Thinking of my mother kept my hands steady.

“Did Mumtaz tell you what you are expected to do in this household?” she asked.

“No,” I told her.

“You are here for me and anything I may need. You bring my meals and wait on me. When there’s company, you wait on all of us. You massage my head if it hurts and bring me my migraine medication. You will sleep with your door open so if I need you, you can hear me. Understood?”

I nodded.

Before she could say more, the phone resting on the makeup table vibrated.

“My husband.” She picked up the phone.

Khan Sahib.

I was so afraid of Jawad Sahib, I’d forgotten about his father, the monster in my childhood dreams. The bogeyman our mothers used to threaten us with when we were slow to finish our meals. He slept in this very room.

“Thought you forgot to phone me,” she said when she answered. “Gazala called this morning. She switched her dinner party to next month for us. I told her we’ll be there.” She listened and smiled. “Yes, glad something can wrench you from politics.” They spoke a little longer before she hung up.

“He’s away more than he’s here. Off with my eldest boys in Islamabad. Chasing politics at his age. Can you imagine?”

I tried to mask my relief. At least there was that—the man who haunted my childhood dreams was hardly ever here.

“You must be missing your family,” she said. “This can’t be easy.”

Unlike her son’s, her words contained no malice. I nodded.