Amal Unbound(6)

“I’ll get the ironing board,” Seema said, reading my mind. “Let’s at least get tomorrow’s clothing sorted out.”

I surveyed the house. The girls’ dolls lay scattered by the sofa; the groceries Parvin picked up this afternoon rested in burlap sacks in the kitchen. Crumbs littered the rug. And there was still no sign of Amma being ready to get up and help. All she managed was to feed the baby. I still had to change the diapers.

“What’s wrong?” Seema asked, returning from my parents’ bedroom with the iron and narrow metal board.

“Everything,” I said. “How are we going to keep up with it all and go to school? Look at all these clothes. It’ll take me hours to go through them all.”

“We’ll figure out a system,” Seema said. “You’ll do the ironing at night after the girls go to bed, and in the mornings I’ll get everything organized for dinner.”

But I knew it was impossible. “I’m going to have to stay home,” I told Seema.

“I’ll stay home, too, then,” Seema said.

“No. You just switched to the upper class a few weeks ago—you can’t fall behind.”

“But it’s too much work for you to do alone.”

“Parvin is here, too. We’ll be fine. I’m sure it will just be a few more days until Amma’s back to her old self.”

I pressed the warm iron to Seema’s uniform, hoping what I said was true.





Chapter 7





I prepared breakfast for my mother and stepped into her room. The sun was well into the sky, but the curtains were still drawn. The baby lay asleep next to her.

I had now missed nine days of school. My mother was still not better. She managed to come out of her room now and then to get a glass of water. Last night, she even sat listlessly with us in the courtyard for our evening meal. But she wasn’t improving fast enough, and the longer I was away from school, the further I fell behind.

“I brought you breakfast,” I told her. “I added onions to the omelet the way you like.”

“Set it on the side table,” she said.

“Amma, you need to eat to get your strength,” I said.

“I think I need to rest even more.”

I knew I should sit with my mother and encourage her to eat, but it wasn’t as if she listened to me these days. I glanced at the window. Sunlight peeked from behind the curtains.

“I’m going to go to the market. We’re out of ginger and peppers. Hafsa said they got a shipment of those biscuits you like. I could pick some up.”

“No, thanks. But take Safa and Rabia with you.”

“Parvin can watch them. It will take me twice as long if I take them.”

“Your father doesn’t like you going to the market by yourself.”

It was no use protesting. Gripping Safa with one hand and Rabia with the other, I tried to measure my pace so they could keep up with me. The cool morning breeze and clouds thankfully shielded us from the otherwise oppressive heat.

The market was a ten-minute stroll, well past the tailor shop and the pharmacy, to the town that bordered our village. This was where nearly everything was, including the open-air market with all sorts of different stores and the vendors who sometimes showed up outside with carts of samosas and kulfis.

“What has the S sound?” I asked my sisters as we walked. “Who can find something with the S sound first?”

Safa craned her neck, studying the brick houses lining the road. Hira, the butcher’s wife, waved to us from her front step as we walked past.

“Street!” Rabia pointed to the ground. “And stairs.” She waved toward a neighbor’s concrete steps.

“And Safa!” Safa grinned.

“Good job!” I patted their heads and picked another letter. This game I came up with was working! It kept them by my side. I thought I wanted to teach students closer to my own age, but I loved helping my sisters learn. Maybe I’d make a good primary teacher.

The open-air market came into view. We walked past Basit’s butcher shop. He cleaned off a leg of lamb, readying it to hang on a ceiling hook along with the day’s other fresh cuts of meat. The sweet maker next door studied his ledger next to the glass display of sweets in rows of orange, yellow, and pistachio green.

I could already hear the chatter of my neighbors before I stepped inside the produce store owned by Hafsa’s family. It was the most popular store in the market. People even came from neighboring towns to buy from them because they had the best selection. I squeezed past a group of women examining the eggplants and made my way up to the blue crates filled with tomatoes, jalape?os, and radishes. My family’s oranges and sugarcane were packed along the back wall. Not for the first time, I wondered how many other little stores all over Pakistan our produce might reach. I loved imagining all the far-flung people eating food that grew from the earth behind my house.

Grabbing what we needed at the market, I paid Hafsa’s father, Shaukat, who seemed grateful I kept my hands so firmly on Safa this time. Last time, she knocked a stool into the wall, sending a shelf of spices crashing to the ground.

“The roof!” I looked up.

Shaukat looked at me.

“I thought something was different,” I explained, pointing at the ceiling. “The blue tarp is gone. You fixed the hole.”