Amal Unbound(24)

I thought as time passed my memories would hurt less, but grief was a funny thing. One minute I thought I’d made my peace, and the next I remembered my house so clearly I could almost touch it.

The longing threatened to claw my insides raw.

Tears slipped down my cheek.

Why did I do it? Why did I let my temper get the better of me that day outside the market? Regret, I was learning, was the sharpest knife there was.

The sparrow pecked the ground a moment longer before she fluttered her wings and flew above the tree line, over the brick walls, and out of sight.

I felt someone else’s presence. Looking back, I tensed. It was Nabila.

“It’s hard, but it gets easier with time,” she said.

“That’s impossible.” I said.

“What I do is keep my family, my friends, my old life, all in a separate part of my heart and try not to go there too often. The more parts you keep closed, the less it can hurt you.”

But I couldn’t forget my family and friends. It did hurt to think about them, but I was not going to forget them just because I was bound to this estate. If I stopped remembering my life before this, what reason would I have to go on?

“It helps to look forward to things,” she said. “I’m visiting my family in a few months. I’ll get to see my brothers and sisters. My cousins, too.”

She smiled. It was the first time she smiled at me. Without the harshness of her downturned lips, she was beautiful. Maybe Mumtaz’s words had settled in. Maybe she finally understood my circumstances were the same as hers. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the truce.

“I also like spending time in the garden,” she continued. “I look forward to feeding Chotu every day. It’s not much, but having things to be happy about, even little things, helps. Sometimes I go to the marketplace down the street from here. They have all kinds of things there—even books sometimes.”

“There’s a market?” I asked her.

“Yes, just about a five-minute walk from here,” she said. “I don’t have any money to buy anything, but I like browsing the snack stall and looking at the different fabrics for sale.”

“We can go to the market all by ourselves?”

“If we finish our work and no one needs us, why not?”

I looked at the brick walls surrounding the property. Who knew when I’d have enough free time to actually see the market for myself, but the thought of walking past the gates and being away from this house—even for just a few hours—eased a little of the ache settling into my chest.





Chapter 26





How’s your headache, Nasreen Baji?” I asked her the next morning.

“Thanks to you spending the last two nights massaging my head, much better. I’m heading out to meet a friend for a little while.”

“I’m glad. What should I do while you’re gone?”

“You deserve some rest.” She finished applying her lipstick. “Just finish tidying up the room and you can have the rest of the time to yourself until I return.”

I thought it would be days, weeks maybe, until I could venture beyond this estate. My head was foggy from another sleepless night, but when would I have this chance again? I quickly straightened her room after she left and slipped on my satchel.

“Where are you off to?” Mumtaz asked when she found me in the foyer.

“Just a walk. Nasreen Baji said I could have the afternoon to myself while she was gone.”

I hurried down the foyer and out the door.

Sliding my shawl over my head to shield my eyes from the bright sun, I approached the gate and the stocky guard holding a rifle. I had forgotten about him. I edged closer to explain myself, but before I could even say a word, he wordlessly swung the gate open. All this time I thought he was here to trap me inside, but it was I who had decided I could not leave.

I walked until the lush grounds of the estate melted into the main road. For a brief second I considered turning right, toward home. But it took so long to drive here. I could never walk home and back in one afternoon.

I craned my neck. A smattering of buildings dotted the horizon. I followed a few winding roads until I reached the market. I paused. From a distance it had looked like my own open-air market. There were even signs for the butcher, sweet maker, and milk store. But the buildings were boarded up. There was no one here.

The sun blazed down as a wave of heaviness settled over me. Even if the market had been a perfectly fine one, it wouldn’t have been my market. It wouldn’t have been Shaukat selling fruit. There would be no Seema. No Hafsa. No Safa.

I walked past a block of brown and gray slab homes. No children played outside. No women sifted lentils or dusted rugs. A faded newspaper lay crumpled next to a front stoop. I edged over and read the date. It was two years old.

I remembered the rumors about Hazarabad, the village Fozia had said Jawad Sahib had personally destroyed. I hadn’t fully believed them. Until now.

I tried to hurry back the way I came, but the road I took ended at a blackened field. Skeletal orange groves filled the landscape.

By the time I found my way out of the maze of streets and alleyways, perspiration soaked my clothing and tears blurred my eyes.

It was the strangest thing to see the Khan estate and feel relief.



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