Amal Unbound(41)

Nothing had happened to them. Maybe nothing ever would. They had ruled this village for centuries. His mother would take him to meet a prospective bride today. Soon, Jawad would marry. He would have a child, and that child would grow up to rule my village.

Did I really think we could undo it all?

“You’re not listening,” Fatima sang out to me. “Why are you always thinking? It’s good to listen, too.”

“Sorry,” I said. “After we clean up from breakfast, I’m all yours.”

A doorbell chimed in the distance. Then, a hard-knuckled knock.

I walked into the dining room as Jawad Sahib wiped his hands on a napkin and tossed it on a plate.

“The police?” his mother asked.

“Who else?”

“How long will they be?” Nasreen Baji looked at her watch. “We’re leaving to meet the girl and her family in an hour, remember?”

“I’ll get them out of here in a few minutes.”

Footsteps echoed off the foyer.

And then—

I heard Jawad Sahib protest.

Then I heard him yelling and swearing.

I rushed into the hallway. Fatima trailed behind me. Nasreen Baji’s face was paper white. There were three officers here. New ones.

And they were slapping handcuffs onto Jawad Sahib’s wrists.

“This is a mistake,” Jawad Sahib screamed. “My father will speak to you. He won’t forget your names.”

“We imagine so,” one of them said. “We brought him in a few hours ago for questioning.”

Upon hearing this, Nasreen Baji started shouting at the officers. She threatened them. She begged them. They didn’t respond. It was as if she didn’t exist.

Bilal stood to the side, his back pressed against the wall. Other servants gathered in the foyer. Mumtaz rushed over to comfort Nasreen Baji.

I stared at the open door, the empty space through which they marched Jawad Sahib.

It happened.

Jawad Sahib had been arrested.





Chapter 45





The television buzzed low in the background of Nasreen Baji’s bedroom. It had now been four days since Jawad Sahib was taken away. At first, Nasreen Baji turned on the television news each morning as though she hoped they would report it all as a big misunderstanding. But once the detectives came and carted away all the silver files—the ones with the debts he and his family collected from everyone in our villages—she stopped hoping.

It was still strange to see Jawad Sahib’s face all over the news.

But even stranger was seeing my little village—which didn’t even register as a dot on a map—no longer quite so forgotten. This morning, the camera panned to show our rivers, fields, orange groves, and green stalks of sugarcane. The newscaster on the television reported on the changing times and the uprooting of the status quo.

The newspapers Nasreen Baji left lying on the nightstand all echoed the same.

The Crumbling of the Feudal Era

Local Landlord Overthrown

How One Man’s Ego Led to His Family’s Downfall

The media tied the leaked information to a local officer who claimed responsibility at a press conference, in front of dozens of microphones. I recognized him immediately as the mustached officer who came into the estate months earlier. He was going to be one of the many star witnesses in Jawad Sahib’s trial.

I glanced at Nasreen Baji. She stared at the screen; her eyes were red and her cheeks were blotchy. It was as if the contours of her face had changed overnight.

I was glad her son could not hurt anyone ever again, but seeing Nasreen Baji’s grief and knowing her pain was partly because of me made me feel an odd sort of guilt. It was the strangest thing to hold such different feelings inside myself at once.

And as much as Nasreen Baji’s life had changed, mine hadn’t. Jawad Sahib’s arrest didn’t mean I could just leave. My debt didn’t vanish when the officers carted the silver filing cabinets away. I lived here. And I still washed dishes and helped with dinner. I still brought in fresh flowers and gave the linens to the cleaning girl. I still massaged Nasreen Baji’s head and drew her bath.

Everything had changed for so many people, but for me, nothing really had.

“I’ll get your breakfast, Nasreen Baji.” I brought her tissues from the dresser. She took one and wiped her eyes. She didn’t respond.

I went into the kitchen and filled the percolator with water.

“Add some more water for me?” Mumtaz asked. She stood to the side, her shoulders hunched. Toqir and Ghulam were there, too. Toqir pulled out cups from the servants’ cupboard and poured in water.

“Are you okay, Mumtaz?” I asked her. “You look pale.”

“How can I be okay?” She shook her head.

“Everything is a mess,” Toqir agreed. He took a sip of water. “Been here forty years. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“But if he did the things the news said he did”—I hesitated—“isn’t it a good thing that he’s been caught?”

“With the two of them behind bars, what happens to us?” Ghulam asked. “I need this job. My son’s wife is about to have a baby. My other grandchild needs to see a specialist in Lahore for his heart. What are we going to do without my income?”