Amal Unbound(21)

Chapter 22





Any word on Roshanara?” Nabila asked Mumtaz as we worked together in the kitchen. They diced onions and tomatoes, piling them into a metal bowl. Bilal lingered by the counter. I stirred the chai pot for Nasreen Baji and her guest, who were on the main verandah.

“She’s visiting her mother,” Mumtaz replied.

“She left over two weeks ago.”

“Roshanara’s not coming back,” Bilal interrupted. “He told her not to.”

“What?” Nabila’s knife clattered to the counter. “He fired her?”

“Jawad Sahib said her work wasn’t up to his standards.”

“But she needed this job,” Mumtaz said. “She’s the only one working in her family.”

“Like he cared,” Bilal said.

It was hard to follow their gossip. I was counting down until the day I could put this place behind me and pretend it was just a bad dream. No matter how much the job paid, why would anyone choose to be here?

A tap on my waist. Fatima held up a blue package of cookies.

“These are the ones she likes to serve guests,” she told me. “Can I help you with it?”

I set the cream plate with scalloped edges on the table. Fatima opened the bag, pulling out the square shortbread cookies.

“Have you ever tried the chocolate ones?” She pointed to the pantry by the window.

“I haven’t,” I said. “Are they good?”

“The best!” Her eyes lit up. “She puts them out when her older sons visit because they love chocolate. They’re a little expensive, so we can’t eat too many or they’ll notice. But I can get you one if you want.”

“Maybe another time.” I smiled. “But thanks for the tip.”

“Fatima, go get me more onions,” Nabila interrupted us.

Fatima set down another biscuit.

“Now,” Nabila snapped.

I picked up the last biscuit, pressing it with my finger until it snapped.

“Whoops,” I said. “It broke. Want it?”

Fatima grabbed both pieces from me, stuffing them in her mouth.

I returned Nabila’s glare with a smile and carried the tray outside.

Pouring the chai into each cup, I served Nasreen Baji and her guest, and then stood in the back against the wall as I always did during her visits. The conversations she had with her friends weren’t much different from the sort my mother had with hers, except in addition to the usual gossip, they discussed potential brides for Jawad Sahib. Today the women were sifting through photos of possible matches. I felt sorry for any girl who would have to put up with a man like him.

My mind wandered to the last book I had borrowed. I hoped I could find the time to return it sometime today and get a new one. I glanced at the clock. It was a little past noon. Rabia and Safa were likely dressing up their dolls or jumping rope in the courtyard right now. Omar and Seema were in school. My father would be tending to the farm. Was my mother better? Was Lubna laughing yet?

“The literacy center is coming along nicely,” her guest said, tucking the photographs back in her purse. She wore a maroon shalwar kamiz and matching lipstick.

“Yes.” Nasreen Baji nodded. “It should be open in another month.”

“Everyone is talking about it. It’s the first time the organization broke ground in Punjab.”

“Adult literacy centers are the new thing these days,” Nasreen Baji said. “My husband thinks his support of this one will help win him the election.”

“Anyone sign up yet?”

“No one,” Nasreen sighed.

“Who turns down a free education?” The woman shook her head. “They enjoy being illiterate is the problem, really.”

I thought of my classroom, thirty-four girls crammed two to a desk. I could still remember how the heat rose from the ground and pressed into our skin during the warmer months and how we shivered under our chadors and sweaters when the temperature dropped. Even so, we went to school every single day we could. Nasreen Baji knew better. She had to know better. She had to tell this woman she was wrong.

But Nasreen Baji didn’t say a word in protest. Instead, she asked me to bring them more tea.

“She looks like a good one.” The visitor nodded to me as I gathered their plates and cups onto the tray. “You must tell me where you get them.”

I balanced the tray in my hands and walked to the kitchen. I tried to pretend I didn’t care what the woman said, but I did.

I doubted I would ever get used to being discussed like cattle at the market.





Chapter 23





Later that week, I ran Nasreen Baji’s bath and sprinkled lavender petals into the water. I laid out her clothes on her bed as she stepped into the bathroom.

I glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes.

Slipping into my room, I grabbed the book hidden beneath my pillow. I tucked it under my shawl before heading downstairs to return it.

After finishing a few poetry books earlier in the week, I had read my first biography. The story of Allama Iqbal. Omar would have laughed at me for picking up such a heavy tome, but choosing thick books meant I could hold on to them longer before I needed to exchange them. And now I understood why Iqbal was Miss Sadia’s favorite poet. It turned out he wasn’t just a poet. He was also a politician, a teacher, a lawyer, a scholar, and a knight. I thought one dream was enough for a person, but reading his story, I learned some people could hold on to many different dreams and see them all come true.