Amal Unbound(19)

I rushed down the hall and up the stairs into Nasreen Baji’s bedroom. Nabila stood in front of Nasreen Baji holding the tray in her hands.

“I’m sorry.” Nabila’s voice shook. “I wanted to make sure you had it exactly the way you liked it.”

“But you’re not my maidservant anymore, Nabila. You understand that, don’t you?”

She looked down at the ground and nodded.

“Go on now and check with Mumtaz to see what needs to be done in the kitchen.”

Nabila set down the tray on the nightstand by the bed and rushed past me. Her elbow bumped sharply into me. I walked over to Nasreen Baji and mixed in her sugar—two cubes, she told me. Like my mother.

“I’ll make it with the right amount of sugar next time.” I handed her the cup. “And I’m sorry about the tray. I should have paid better attention.”

“Nabila is having a difficult time adjusting to the new situation.” Nasreen Baji took a sip of tea. “She was my maidservant before you came.”

“She was? But why did you replace her with me?” I blurted out.

“Nabila is a good girl, but she just made too many mistakes. The timing of your arrival was perfect. I was planning to replace her anyway.”

I carried the tray back down the stairs to the kitchen and thought about Nabila. It was clear she despised me almost since the moment I arrived. But it made sense now. My life had changed overnight—and hers had, too.





Chapter 20





Some of us are trying to work. You might want to try it,” Nabila said to me later that week as I made my way down the stairs carrying Nasreen Baji’s empty breakfast tray. Nabila was dusting the chandelier with a long brush and shot me one of her hateful glances as I passed.

I could have stated the obvious—I was working, wasn’t I? But what was the point? It looked like I had an enemy whether I liked it or not.

I rinsed out the teacups and glanced out the window. A breeze swept through the trees. A handful of servants rested on charpais. Maybe I could get a chance today to step outside for a little while and feel the fresh air against my face.

Fatima poked her head into the kitchen. “Nasreen Baji wants to see you right away.”

I dried my hands against a towel and hurried upstairs. Nasreen Baji was about to shower when I left. What could have happened?

When I stepped inside, Nasreen Baji stared at her armoire. She wore a teal-blue robe. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line.

“Amal, what did you do?” She pulled out a silk shalwar kamiz from the armoire. I gasped. The kamiz was charred straight through the center. I had ironed it along with three other outfits yesterday. I took care to use the gentlest setting. It took nearly an hour to press out all the wrinkles.

“Burning this is bad enough,” she said. “But to hide it from me? As if I wouldn’t notice?”

“Burn it? But, Nasreen Baji—”

“I shouldn’t have assumed you knew how to handle expensive fabrics like these. You’re not to touch my things again until Mumtaz goes over all the settings with you. Understood?”

But I knew how to iron. Just because we were not as rich as she was didn’t mean I had never handled nice things. But I saw her expression. She’d already made up her mind. She wouldn’t believe me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled before leaving the room.

When I walked into the kitchen, Nabila was there.

“Too bad about the ironing,” she said.

“What? I didn’t . . .” My voice trailed off.

“I’d be careful,” she said, brushing past me. “Nasreen Baji does not tolerate mistakes very well.”

I stared at her retreating figure. Nabila did this! But what could I do? It was my word against hers. Why would Nasreen Baji believe me when she barely knew me?

I rushed outside to the servants’ verandah and inhaled a deep breath to steady myself. Whether in the sugarcane fields or by the leafy stream bordering my family’s land, being outside had always calmed me.

But it was different here.

Looking out at the perfectly trimmed lawn only made me miss the dirt backyard of my parents’ home. And no matter how beautiful the fragrant gardens were, they were surrounded, as I was, by ten-foot brick walls.

I was outside, but the walls reminded me that I was not free.

“Malik’s daughter, aren’t you?”

I recognized the man addressing me as Ghulam, the driver who had brought me here. He was with Bilal, Jawad Sahib’s gangly servant. They sat on low-seated woven stools, a brass hookah between them.

“I worked for your grandfather when I was a child,” Ghulam said. “Chopped the sugarcane and helped harvest the wheat. Recognized your house as soon as I pulled up.”

“Her family owns land?” Bilal asked. He cocked his head up and scrutinized me.

“I’d say a good twenty-four acres at least.” The older man nodded.

“Ah. So even the mighty can fall down, too.” Bilal laughed.

How easy it was for Bilal to laugh. His laugh was a pinprick: not sharp enough to cut, but deep enough to sting. I had Nabila to set me in my place. I didn’t need more.

I turned to walk back into the house.

“Oh, come on. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Bilal said. “We’re not so bad, I promise.”