Revolt (33 page)

‘Massi Fiza!’ Rukhsar’s eldest daughter called, peering down from the rooftop gallery of her house into Massi Fiza’s small courtyard, stacked with an assortment of baskets and bags of laundry.

In the middle of it all was Massi Fiza in full swing with her washing, her agile mind assessing each article of unwashed clothing in the basket in front of her. An agonising debate going on in her head rested on whether to dip the sweetmaker’s
syrup-sodden
shirt into the same water as his daughter’s delicate lawn
kameez
.

Massi Fiza’s honesty and fair play as always ruled the day. Allah Pak had blessed her with a conscience of which she was immensely proud. ‘Allah Pak is watching … he sees everything you do,’ she took care to brutally remind herself when occasionally she was tempted to economise on detergent. Her commitment to quality work dictated that it would be a crime to let such a delicate article of clothing touch a stained one. Sighing, she swished aside the sweetmaker’s greasy overalls.

She hated this part of the day – the horrible chores of boiling pots of water, and then dipping, lathering, kneading and the painstaking task of rinsing the sodden clothes with her bony arms.

‘Auntie Fiza,’ Rukhsar’s daughter called again from the roof terrace. She could just make out their neighbour leaning over a large, red, plastic tub and listening to another one of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s
qawalis
. The dust-encrusted audiotape ran at least four times a day. Fans of Nusrat’s
qawalis
knew where to
go just to hear his voice in the village. Many stalled their pace outside Massi Fiza’s courtyard wall to chant the long
‘Allaho
Allaho’ qawali.

Massi Fiza glanced up, face brimming with pleasure, then immediately she straightened it, her mouth becoming a tight slit; remembering that she was not on speaking terms with the household next door. Then just as quickly she relented, chiding herself that it was the mother she had fallen out with, not the girls – they still remained her ‘darlings’.

Cupping her hand over her lined forehead to shield her face from the beating sun, she warmly called back, ‘Yes, my daughter?’

‘Auntie, could you please wash the yellow
haldi
stain off my white silk party suit? I won’t risk sending it to the other laundry house!’

Speechless, Massi Fiza blinked up at the young woman, peering over the shoulder-high brick wall.

‘Yes, of course, Shabnum dear!’ Her generosity made her quickly offer. ‘Bring your suit down in an hour’s time … I’ll have cleared this tub of washing by then.’

‘Oh, you are wonderful, Massi Fiza!’ Shabnum excitedly called before disappearing.

Massi Fiza waited for an hour but there was no sign of the girl. Shrugging her shoulders she continued with her washing – imagining that Shabnum had changed her mind.

Shabnum was still desperate to have the
haldi
stain washed from the suit that she had set her heart on wearing to her friend’s engagement party. The truth behind her non-appearance was her mother’s obstinacy and being caught in the act of smuggling the suit out to Auntie Massi Fiza’s capable hands. It was the manner in which the girl’s chiffon
dupatta
was fully draped down to her waist that gave the game away to her observant mother.

The goldsmith’s daughters were incredibly fashion conscious and prided themselves on setting fashion trends in their village. Young teenage girls often copied and quoted their samples for 
dresses to their tailors. Moreover, the girls were not much given to modesty when it came to covering their head or their chest area, unless really necessary – during prayer times, and those moments were rare: only on Eid days or during the month of Ramadhan. The youngest, mimicking the urban fashion trends, even had the audacity to have a sleeveless dress made, causing Gulistan’s tailor-mistress to gossip to her other clients: ‘Can you imagine it, not even two inches of a sleeve – totally sleeveless! Those goldsmiths’ daughters are setting outrageous fashion trends for our modest village daughters. What next? Will they start showing their legs or their ankles off as those shameless presenters sometimes do on TV?’

When her mother pulled off her
chador
to see what she was hiding under it, Shabnum had looked first guilty and then sullen.

‘I’m taking the dress to be washed, to Massi Fiza!’ she defiantly yelled at her mother, not wanting to succumb to her mother’s scathing chastisement.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Rukhsar angrily ordered.

‘Oh, Mum, this is so stupid. That new
dhobi
of yours has ruined two of my delicate suits already – the seams on my taffeta dress have come apart and on Father’s shirt two buttons have gone missing. As you saw for yourself, your lovely deep-purple suit is now sun-bleached to a horrible bland colour! I’m not risking this silk suit. Look! Only Aunt Fiza can remove this!’ Shabnum held up her dress to show the yellowish fat stain.

‘You bone-idle girl!’ Rukhsar firmly blocked the doorway. ‘You’ve got hands. Wash it yourself! None of you ever scours any pots – you let them lie around the sink until lunchtime waiting for the maid to clear them away.

‘And guess what? I’m to blame for spoiling you all, for making you into lazy women. How will you survive in your future homes? There will be no guarantee that you will have dozens of maids doing your bidding! Why is it that you think you girls are so special and that all the housework needs to be done by someone else?’ Rukhsar ranted, seriously worried about her daughters’ capacity to survive in their in-laws’ households – and who would be blamed? She! Their mother.

‘Mum! That’s so unfair.’ Shabnum hated the long waffly lecture but did not know how to stop it.

‘I tell you that you are going nowhere near that woman, do you hear me?’ Rukhsar shrieked, snatching the dress off her daughter.

‘Mother!’ Shabnum cried, nearly in tears. ‘I want to wear it to my evening party!’

‘You’ve got a wardrobe full of clothes, madam! Half of your father’s gold income goes into dressing you girls in the best of outfits, and you are going to have me insulted – by that woman!’ Rukhsar aggressively shepherded her daughter back into the living room.

Sullen and fed up, Shabnum fled to her room and sprawled on her bed to enjoy a good sulk – hating her mother for her petty attitude.

After two hours of flicking through two magazines and a
Readers Digest
romantic saga, and listening to the latest Bollywood songs, Shabnum suddenly remembered Massi Fiza.

‘Oh, no!’ Scrambling off the bed, she sneaked upstairs to the roof gallery to peer down over the brick wall into their neighbour’s laundry house.

‘Massi Fiza,’ she called softly, afraid of her mother hearing her, and just about spotting Massi Fiza amidst the washing lines of coloureds and whites criss-crossing the small courtyard.

Dismayed, Massi Fiza was looking at a dripping red
dupatta
, its bright reddish colour dyeing the brickwork of her veranda floor. Every evening she had to scrub out some dyes or other. Today it was the stubborn red one.

‘Shabnum, the water … the bucket of clean hot water I put aside for your suit has gone cold … still waiting, darling.’

‘So sorry, Auntie,’ Shabnum hastened to apologise,
shamefaced
, ‘but I couldn’t come.’

‘Couldn’t? You should have sent your sister.’

‘She couldn’t come, either,’ she replied, blushing.

‘Why? Are there guests in the house or is there a big necklace order?’

‘No, Auntie,’ Shabnum stammered, and then blurted out
the truth to their dear neighbour, who had known them since the day they opened their eyes, had washed and pressed their clothes as well as colouring their days with visits and basketfuls of gossip. ‘Mother said that I could not bring my suit to you,’ she miserably admitted.

‘I see,’ Massi Fiza muttered, her thin-lipped mouth fallen open, the colour ebbing from her sunburned face.

Crimsoning in regret, Shabnum disappeared from the railings.

Massi Fiza dropped the dripping red
dupatta
into the bowl, ignoring her cold, wet
kameez
streaked with a red gash straight down its front, and kicked the bucket of soapy water she had prepared for Shabnum’s clothes aside. She knew for sure that her sugar levels had dropped; feeling the slight faintness coming on, she grabbed one of the
ladoos
from her sweet plate.

Not bothering to lock her door, she shot up Rukhsar’s staircase from the street entrance. ‘Nobody would ever think of stealing anything from your house, Massi Fiza – the stench of the washing itself is a deterrent,’ Rukhsar had once joked, much to Massi Fiza’s shame.

Upstairs, her heart thumping, she aggressively thrust open the door straight into Rukhsar’s living room. Instead of her friend, it was the goldsmith who greeted her. He was being served his lunch by his wife, who was seated beside him on the sofa. Both were taken aback by Massi Fiza’s rude entrance and the hardened glint in her eyes. Outraged, Rukhsar’s jaw dropped, unable to speak. It was thus left to the goldsmith to gobble down his big morsel of
kofta
meatball and find his tongue.

‘Assalam alaikum
, Sister Fiza – I’ve not seen you for a long time,’ he affably offered, unaware of the prickly tension hovering across the space between the two women, their eyes falling at his words. The mutinous look on his wife’s face bemused him as he popped another chunk of the meatball into his mouth.

‘I think I know what has happened,’ he chuckled. ‘No wonder that young son of the
dhobi
has been cockily bringing our washing back. Have you two, the best of friends, with over 20 years of “sisterly” friendship, by chance fallen out with each other?’ he mockingly commented.

‘Yes, we have!’ Massi Fiza jumped in to answer first. ‘Your wife has become very childish and mean-spirited late in life, brother. She stopped your Shabnum from bringing her washing to me.’

‘What?’ the goldsmith gasped, the second meatball gripped between his fingers as he turned to his wife. Rukhsar was purple with rage. How dare that
dhoban
call her childish and mean-spirited?

‘Yes!’ Rukhsar screeched.

‘Your girls are like daughters to me, Rukhsar! How could you do this to me? I wanted to wash Shabnum’s suit – she had especially asked me to.’ She turned to appeal to the goodness of his heart, ‘Your wife can send her washing to India, or China, if she wants, but if your dear girls want me to do theirs, I’ll not turn them away – not even at midnight. I’ve stitched their zips and tucked in the hemlines on their college jeans on my trusty old sewing machine – but I have always done it because I love them. Is this how your arrogant wife repays my friendship?

‘I’ve come for Shabnum’s suit. Just you try and stop me, Rukhsar!’ Massi Fiza threatened, eyes appealing to the goldsmith. ‘Brother, you decide as to who’s in the wrong and who’s in the right?’

‘Sister Fiza,’ he began, his appetite now truly ruined as he concentrated hard on trying to appease his irate neighbour. ‘Nobody will stop you from doing all our washing. Please take it! Take it all!’

He turned to stare with disgust at his wife. ‘Fancy stopping Sister Fiza from taking the laundry, Rukhsar-ji! Are you OK?’

‘It’s her! She gave me the cold shoulder first!’ Rukhsar snapped.

‘Well, you thought I was going to steal your gold necklace!’ Massi Fiza blurted out, still deeply affronted and rattled by that incident.

‘It’s all in your silly head! I never accused you of anything, did I?’

The goldsmith pushed aside the tray of food in front of him and leaned back on his sofa, lazily glancing from one to the other.

‘But your eyes did!’ Massi Fiza shot back.

‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ the goldsmith laughed, suddenly springing to his feet, feeling that physical intervention was now required. ‘Women, their imaginations and their petty squabbles, it’s all beyond me. I must say, however, Massi Fiza-ji, that you’ve got it wrong this time. Please believe that I’m not trying to defend my wife. Of course we can trust you. Who else can we trust? You have practically lived half of your life with us and, in fact, you are an extension of our family.

‘So this is a storm in a teacup, stemming from an overactive imagination. I’m truly disappointed in both of you. Please, Fiza-ji, don’t fret, you can take Shabnum’s suit to wash. In fact, take three of mine, too. I never did like that cocky son of Master Dhobi. His starch makes my legs and arms itch all day. How can we possibly take our business away from you Massi Fiza? It would be immoral!’

‘Your wife did!’ Massi Fiza jeered, making her friend bristle all over again.

‘When I went to your home, you refused to speak to me!’ Rukhsar bitterly hit back.

‘Ladies, ladies! I don’t want to take any sides. Come, make up and hug each other, please,’ the goldsmith urged. Then his jaw dropped open, astonished to see how quickly both the women fell into each other’s arms. Bemused, his gaze rested on their joined bodies. He giggled – Massi Fiza was practically clutching his wife’s shoulders.

‘After everything they’ve said! It was all a matter of foolish pride at the end!’ he told himself.

Rukhsar called her daughter, Shabnum. Massi Fiza, smiling, now very much at home, stayed to enjoy her favourite cup of milky coffee. Tucking Shabnum’s suit under her arm, she took her leave. Both friends still felt slightly raw, but they had crossed one major bridge today. And would cross another one tomorrow, before they fully reverted to their former camaraderie.

From the door Massi Fiza offered quietly, ‘Rukhsar-ji, if you’ve any suits of your own that need washing, do send them down, I’ll happily do them for you.’

‘Yes, of course, Massi Fiza-ji,’ Rukhsar stammered, touched
by her friend’s generous offer and deliberately adding the term ‘ji’. They were fast reinstating each other within the parameters of mutual respect.

That evening, Shabnum had her suit returned; washed, neatly dried with a hot iron and the
haldi
stain removed – all courtesy of their ‘special aunt’ next door. Massi Fiza-ji had missed the social chit-chat with Rukhsar and wondered whether the goldsmith’s wife had the good grace to acknowledge how much her dear neighbour was worth. Apart from the cups of coffee and an occasional meal, there was very little she took from them. So the scales were definitely tipped on her side.