Amal Unbound(5)

Sometimes I wish I did not pay such careful attention.

Maybe then I would not have learned that they thought being a girl was such a bad thing.





Chapter 6





Seema and I watched over our new sister in the living room while the morning sun filtered through the windows. We both had stayed home from school all week to help, but tomorrow was Monday, and I looked forward to going back. Our father had left for the fields after morning prayers, and Safa and Rabia were still asleep. I savored the silence, cuddling the sleeping baby in my arms.

“You see that?” I nudged Seema and nodded at the little one.

“What?” Seema yawned.

“She smiled in her sleep! She’s going to be a happy one.”

Seema patted the baby’s soft, silky hair. “You think Amma is okay?” she asked.

“She’s always tired after a baby is born,” I said. I remembered how it was after Safa. Parvin made all our meals and put us to bed for at least a week.

“Not just that . . .” She fidgeted. “She was so sad.”

“I know,” I said. As much as I tried to block it out, my parents’ expressions were etched into my mind.

A knock on the door interrupted our conversation.

“I bet it’s Fozia Auntie.” Seema stood up.

“Thought she’d have come before now,” I said.

“Hope she brought jalebis.” Seema said. Fozia was Hafsa’s mother and usually the first to get details about any happenings in the village. No one could ever get too annoyed with her, though, because she usually came bearing her prize jalebis, the twisted, sticky orange treats that would lure anyone to the door. And with Hafsa’s sister’s recent engagement, she was making all sorts of desserts.

“Congratulations,” she said when Seema opened the door. Fozia stepped into the house before pulling off her canary-colored chador and settling it around her shoulders. Hafsa tagged along beside her.

“There she is!” Fozia smiled at the baby and handed Seema her platter of assorted sweets before she walked over and took the little one from my arms.

“Didn’t you say backaches meant boy, Amma?” Hafsa frowned.

“Yes. That’s what my mother said, anyhow, but who can really predict these things? It’s a shame, though. I thought for sure it would be a boy this time.” Fozia clucked her tongue. “Is your mother handling it okay?”

I stared at Fozia. How could she hold my perfect little sister and shake her head with sympathy?

“Amma is sleeping,” Seema said.

“Of course. Well, I’m on my way to the tailor. Hafsa’s outgrowing her clothes every time I blink.” She handed the baby back to me. “Tell your mother I came by?”

“See you at school tomorrow,” Hafsa said, waving.

I shut the door.

“Did you hear her?” I fumed. “How dare she say that! Act so sorry for us—and with her own daughter standing right there!”

The tube lights above us flickered before shutting off. The overhead fans slowed to a halt. Another blackout. Seema rushed to open the windows. Last week’s blackout left us without electricity for over two hours. Already I felt the heat rising from the concrete floor.

Rabia and Safa came running into the living room. Rabia’s face was streaked with tears. She glowered at Safa. “She took my doll!” Rabia shrieked.

Before Seema or I could respond, Rabia took off after Safa, chasing her around the sofa. Safa laughed and skipped, tripping on the edge of our rug and skidding headfirst into the table. A glass perched on its edge trembled before crashing onto the floor. Water seeped onto her and into the rug. The noise echoed off the walls.

Now both girls were crying. My mother must have heard the commotion. She had to. I walked over to her bedroom and peeked inside. The curtains were tightly drawn. Her back was curled to the window, her eyes shut.

“Amma?” I asked softly, but she didn’t respond.

The baby began whimpering in my arms. I took a deep breath, closed the door behind me, and looked at my sisters, both of their faces wet with tears. Amma never yelled at us. Despite the younger two and their constant arguments, she found a way to be patient. Until she was better, I had to try.

Fortunately, Parvin walked into the house just then. She carried a basket of laundry fresh from the clothesline and set it down before scooping the baby from me. “Let me get her to your mother,” she said as the overhead fan whirled back on.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “I just checked.”

“Well, the baby needs to eat,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her.”

Seema soothed the girls while I cleaned up the shards of glass.

I hadn’t understood how much my mother did to keep the house running until Seema and I tried to fill her shoes. Parvin helped us as always, doing laundry, washing dishes, and chopping vegetables for dinner, but the work kept piling up. And watching two boisterous little girls was a whole job unto itself. We were so busy, I barely noticed the call to evening prayers from the minaret in the distance or the sun setting outside our window.

Seema finished drying dishes with Parvin later that night while I put the girls to sleep. I was hoping to sit for a few minutes when I came out of their bedroom, but cringed when I saw the basket of clothing Parvin had brought in. My mother normally ironed all the clothes as soon as Parvin pulled them off the clothesline—it kept the cotton kamizes from getting hopelessly wrinkled—but today the clothes still sat in their basket untouched. Our school uniforms lay crumpled at the top of the heap.