Revolt (34 page)

Upon her return to her home Mehreen felt wretched. Biting her lower lip, she headed straight up to her bedroom. Rani, unable to cope with meeting the Englishwoman who had ruined things for her daughter, had departed, saying she had to visit one of her friends. Rasoola gently knocked on the bedroom door and waited with a panting heart.

‘Rasoola, Sahiba-ji,’ she dutifully announced before entering her mistress’s room.

Mehreen, her back to the door, was removing her sandals for her
wudu
ablutions. She glanced up, carefully shielding her eyes from the crafty woman’s all-knowing gaze.

‘Good to have you back, Sahiba-ji.’ Rasoola smoothly declared.

‘Thank you, Rasoola,’ was the polite answer.

‘Dinner is ready. Will you be joining Daniela and Ismail?’ Mehreen was not cowed by the bold question and peeped at the mirror; it merely reflected her panic.

‘It would be good to spend time in the company of your son and daughter-in-law,’ Rasoola firmly advised, knowing she was playing with fire. ‘They’ll be going back soon, Ismail was saying. I can’t speak
Engrezi
, but I can communicate through gestures pretty well with his English bride – she’s really nice, Sahiba-ji.’

‘Thank you, Rasoola,’ Mehreen coldly cut in, now quite cross. Rasoola had a knack for trespassing social parameters and family matters. This woman had started her nightmare!

‘So will you join them?’ Rasoola pressed, determinedly.

‘Yes, Rasoola!’ Mehreen swung round to glare at her housekeeper. ‘Now leave me alone!’

‘Right, the table will be ready in one hour,’ Rasoola softly informed her before taking her leave, a smug smile hidden behind her hand, and satisfied at achieving her goal of getting her mistress out of her room to join the family. She was very aware of the rift between her master and mistress – her mistress’s swollen eyes spelt it all.

These ‘big’ people had everything to their name – everything that the world could possibly provide, yet they still wept in misery like everyone else. Her mistress’s arms were weighed down by dozens of
tholas
of gold bangles; yet, that gold did not halt her tears.

For Rasoola, to stay in the cool of an air-conditioned room in the heat of the summer season was a blessing indeed in life. But for Mehreen, that air conditioning did not cool the burns that scarred her inside.

Once downstairs, Rasoola cheerfully announced to Ismail that she was making pasta for the ‘bride’, as she liked to call Daniela,
kheer
rice pudding for Ismail, chicken
biryani
for her mistress and for the master it had to be
shami
kebabs. Ismail’s mouth was already heavily salivating from the delicious freshly ground mint sauce she had given him to taste.

Rasoola gleefully entered her kitchen. A feast she was going to provide for this family of hers!

‘Whether or not it is a good idea to interfere in this family’s affairs, I have done it out of the goodness of my heart,’ she happily told herself.

A silent group, gathered for Rasoola’s feast, were surreptitiously eyeing each other. Daniela nervously watched her father-in-law with a lowered gaze, sitting opposite him at the round table. Liaquat was openly staring with hostility at both his wife and his daughter-in-law. Mehreen was looking down at her plate, risking the occasional furtive glance at her husband. Only Ismail seemed to be relishing his meal.

Nobody dared to leave the table – and so they hung on for tea. All four reluctantly accepted the need for bridges to be built in
their household and in their relationships. Otherwise their lives would become insufferable.

Liaquat was bent on avoiding eye contact with Daniela. By the end of the meal, he had arrived at a turning point. The compass of reason dictated that he had to accept this foreign woman as his son’s lawful wife and into their lives. Similarly, he needed to forgive his errant wife for her stupidity and impulsive ways. No matter how hard it was, he needed to pass this test and really well! Draining his hot tea to the last drop, he left the table. The two women raised their heads.

In the office safe, Liaquat’s hand stalled on a pile of six velvet jewellery boxes. Taking them out, he flicked the latch of the largest one, lifted the lid and stared at a heavy sparkling gold and topaz necklace set. ‘These are my Saher’s!’ he murmured, feeling his eyes filling up. He’d had them lovingly designed by the best goldsmith in the city. Lifting another box he did the same, until he couldn’t bear to look at the last one.

Determined, Liaquat returned to the dining room and stood behind Daniela. She glanced up, fearful of the look of hostility she expected to see on his face. Pushing aside a jug of water, he placed the six velvet boxes on the table in front of her. Daniela turned a blank stare at him, wondering what was going on whilst her husband and mother-in-law gasped, knowing what the boxes contained.

‘Ismail, take them! These should now belong to your wife. Please tell her!’

His voice rough with emotion, Ismail translated his father’s words to Daniela. Mehreen paled, staring at the boxes, waiting for an explanation. Was her husband mad, passing all that gold to a foreign woman?

‘Daniela, my father is giving you these gold necklaces as a wedding present. They are all yours, so open the boxes and look inside, my darling!’ Ismail instructed, voice rich with tears, overwhelmed by his father’s generosity.

Daniela could not believe either her ears or her eyes. Pleasure rushed through her as her husband flicked open the lid of the first jewellery box. All three stared down at its contents
– a delicate, three-layered choker set, studded with rubies and pearls.

Daniela rose to her feet. Taking the older man totally by surprise, she planted a warm kiss on his cheek; so quick and sudden that Rasoola, returning with a tray of fruit, was rooted to the spot. The foreign woman had kissed her master in the presence of everyone – God forbid!

Mehreen and Ismail, too, were frozen into stillness as Liaquat’s mind blanked out. He looked across at his wife, who was sitting there, laughter tugging at her mouth. Relaxing, his eyes fell in embarrassment; his daughter-in-law had just proved how big the cultural gap was between them. ‘Which Pakistani daughter-in-law would leap up to kiss a man, even if he were her father-in-law?’ he wondered.

Daniela opened each box, one after the other, marvelling at their contents. Saher had fussed about the items and the designs, whereas this woman wore a childlike look of wonder on her face. Over the fourth box containing an emerald necklace, gold earrings and matching bracelet, Daniela broke down and sobbed – startling the other three around the table.

‘These are the people I’ve hurt with my unexpected entrance into their lives,’ Daniela mocked herself. ‘Now they are honouring me with all this gold – I don’t deserve this.’

Mehreen’s special look compelled her husband to obey her signal. His hand lifted to pat Daniela’s head. His gentle touch startled Daniela into raising her tear-smeared face to him. Her smile and her emerald eyes, swollen with tears, were his undoing. He relaxed his mouth. Each basked in the other’s smile: Daniela, out of gratitude, no longer afraid of this tall, fierce-looking man, and Liaquat, dutifully, and because he simply couldn’t help himself liking his English daughter-in-law and her reaction to his gifts.

Mother and son looked on, happiness spiralling through them. Smiling from cheek to cheek at Rasoola and with his heart soaring, Ismail revelled in the look on his father’s face; it was equivalent to six boxes of gold and precious stones.

Mehreen, humbled, shyly smiled a ‘thank you’ from her eyes. She was not sure what it was for, for the gold or for that
kind gesture in patting his daughter-in-law’s head. When her husband’s smile lightly brushed Mehreen’s face, the world was shining and inside she was singing.

‘Your wish has been granted!’ Arslan coolly announced to his mother as he entered the dining room in the morning. Gulbahar looked away from his forbidding face. ‘Did you not hear me, Mother?’ he teased, a hint of warmth creeping into his voice. Gulbahar fearfully lifted her eyes. ‘You have your wish,’ he repeated.

Begum wheeled in the breakfast trolley with a steaming
siri pai
curry dish, setting Arslan’s stomach rumbling for the sheep’s trotters.

‘Have you got your special baked
naan
bread, Begum?’

‘Of course, my prince.’ Begum was aggrieved at the question. ‘How can you possibly have
pai
without my special
naan
bread – I’ve made four piping hot ones and dripping with
makhan
fat.’

Gulbahar looked on dispassionately – her son’s last breakfast at home – still waiting for his explanation. Love swimming through his veins, the kiss still fresh in his mind Arslan took pity on his mother. Getting up, he hugged her from behind. She froze as his arms circled tightly around her shoulders.

‘I’m going to stay on, Mother,’ he quietly informed her.

Eyes incredulous, Gulbahar swung round to face him. ‘And there is more … I’m going to marry Saher – and very soon.’

‘Such much
– really!’ she exclaimed in wonder, eyes brimming with tears.

Kissing the top of her head, he spoke in a voice warm with laughter. ‘Yes, she’s agreed and she’s mine! I’m taking you with me to Aunt Rani’s house, so that we can formally ask for Saher’s
rishta.’

Gulbahar’s eyes shone with pleasure as she nodded, savouring and letting the moment wash over her.

‘How did this come about?’ she whispered.

‘I gave her an ultimatum that I would only stay if she married me.’

‘I see. So you would rather stay because of Saher and not because your own mother begged you to?’ Gulbahar quietly stated with resigned acceptance. Would any man passionately in love listen to the request of his beloved or his mother? She felt an overwhelming joy as she realised that it solved everything, as well as poor Rani and Saher’s heartache.

Arslan had stepped away and sat down to enjoy his breakfast. A moment later, catching his mother’s uncertain look, he moved his plate aside. ‘But, Mother, I’ll only stay in Pakistan if my sister and my niece are brought back home! Do you hear me, Mother?’

Gasping for breath, Gulbahar nodded. Then bitterly burst forth, ‘I hear you! I understand you! Don’t shout! Continue with your breakfast,’ she commanded.

Why was their son always their accuser? Did he think that it was easy for her to watch her granddaughter walk out of their home?

He broke off a piece of the
naan
bread. ‘Mother, won’t you have some?’ Gulbahar shook her head, one thought only on her mind.

The dead had to be replaced with the living.

Gulbahar had her own mission in the west wing of the
hevali
, a place she rarely visited – the office area, where the male clients were entertained and land deals discussed. A traditional landowner, Haider had embedded strict rules in his household. This included the door to his office quarters remaining firmly shut, protecting the privacy and sanctity of his domestic world and of his wife’s quarters in particular. He was an enthusiastic believer in the notion that women should neither be seen nor heard by strange
ghair
men. If his business counterparts brought their wives with them, then Gulbahar would entertain them. Only the
extended family members and servants had access to the rest of the
hevali
.

Looking over her shoulder with trepidation, Gulbahar walked down the veranda, afraid of interrupting her husband in the company of other men. The familiar sight of Ali coming out of the
bethak
brought a sigh of relief to her lips.

‘Mistress? Anything wrong? You should have sent Begum,’ Ali asked, surprised.

‘Ali, is Master-ji alone in his office?’ Gulbahar smiled at their
munshi
.

He nodded. ‘The accountant is coming later this afternoon – I’m going to take Master-ji to the bank.’

‘Thank you, Ali.’ Gulbahar stalled outside the door, to straighten her shawl around her shoulders and to still her thumping heart. Gently pushing the door open, she recalled the last time she had entered – two years ago precisely – to inform her husband of the death of one of his cousins.

‘Gulbahar!’ The blue eyes immediately frosted, questioning her presence in the ‘business’ domain.

Emboldened by her mission and ignoring the changing, slightly hostile, landscape of his face, she approached his desk. He had been examining his accounts, ticking items off with his expensive gold pen in his business ledger. His appointment diary with its scrawled entries lay open on one side of the desk and a jug of water stood on the other.

‘Haider-ji,’ she began, ‘Arslan is leaving tomorrow – you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Haider was mightily displeased and lanced his wife for reminding him. Apparently Gulbahar had come on an errand for their errant son. Gulbahar steeled herself, determined not to be intimidated by his cold manner. She reacted by coldly staring back, her new-found strength enabling her to stand up to her husband and fight on her daughter’s behalf.

‘Then you will know what his ultimatum is for staying?’ she firmly reminded him, her tone still gentle.

‘I’ll not be blackmailed by that scoundrel, Gulbahar!’ Haider raged, rising from his leather seat and throwing his pen on the
table. Gulbahar flinched, but didn’t cower in front of her husband’s aggression; instead she raised her head tall to start her rehearsed speech.

She began, ‘Haider-ji, if you don’t bring my daughter and granddaughter home, you may as well bury me within these four walls, for that’s all I have now.’ She paused, scanning his face carefully. ‘Nothing else to live for. I slew a daughter in my heart ten years ago. I callously let our beautiful, innocent granddaughter stride out of our lives … I said and did nothing! I’m now faced with the loss of my only son, after five years of absence. Forced to give up both my children! What’s my ultimate test of endurance to be, Haider-ji, to prove to you, above all, that I’m a good, faithful wife – but a heartless mother? Should I become a loving mother or a rebellious wife – in either case I cannot win, can I, my dear husband? To which fate will you have me assigned, Haider-ji? Yet I love you – you know that.

‘For so long, I have stood by you and supported all your decisions. Don’t break my heart now by letting my beloved son walk out of our lives. I beg you! Don’t make a mother choose a husband over her son! Mehreen and her husband are learning to accept a woman from another country, another race, another culture into their lives, and Mehreen tells me that Liaquat has handed all the gold meant for Saher to their English bride.

‘Have we not got enough humanity in our hearts to accept a fellow, Pakistani Muslim villager? What makes us so special! From which earth,
mitthi
, have we sprung? What right have we got to reject another human being?’

Her husband’s clapping stopped her short.

‘How beautifully you string your words, and make me out to be the wicked demon in all of this! You’ll make a great advocate in Saher’s court, my dear wife!’ Haider cynically lashed out at his wife.

‘You know well, Gulbahar, what Jubail and Laila did, or have you so conveniently forgotten? Do not attempt to condemn or isolate me – or hold the moral high ground. I’m not a wrongdoer, as you well know. I’m a fair man and I gave you the choice then, to do what was best for you. It was your decision, Gulbahar, to turn 
your back on your daughter, remember? It was you who insisted on removing all traces of her from our home.’ The earnest rebuttal spelt to Gulbahar that she had hurt her husband with her words.

‘No, I’ve spoken to remind you that I’ve always been a faithful wife to you and have supported you in all decisions.’

‘It was not just a question of being faithful and supporting me, Gulbahar,’ he harshly reminded her. ‘Your decisions were dictated by your personal belief in what you were doing. You knew what we did was right at the time. If what you believe in now is different – in other words, that I should now embrace my daughter and her family and bring them into our midst, into our home, then so be it.’

He was confronted by her blank stare, as Gulbahar tried to make sense of his words.

‘You’ll … you’ll bring back our daughter?’ she stammered in disbelief.

Eyes skirting her anxious face and his own, a tight, sad mask, Haider nodded.

‘I lost a daughter a long time ago and a son to another land. Arslan’s deep-rooted hatred of us and what we did is suffocating everyone. I can’t afford to lose a wonderful wife, too. Gulbahar, whatever you wish will happen, my dear.’

Gulbahar rushed around the desk to cross the space to the man who held her peace of mind and happiness in his big masculine hands. Laying her head against his chest, she wept tears of anguish and joy.

Haider hugged her tightly, mouth grazing the top of her head, unable to bear hurting his beloved wife, wittingly or unwittingly. Bleakly, he stared at the space in front of him, contemplating. A high summit had yet to be climbed.

The sobbing abruptly stopped.

‘I haven’t told you the good news – Arslan is to marry Saher!’ Gulbahar excitedly blurted, eyes shining with delight.

‘What?’

She nodded, her soft fingers lovingly caressing his face.

‘Yes, Saher has agreed. Isn’t it marvellous?’ For the first time, she saw his face relax as he grinned down at her.

He sighed with happiness. At last, something good was happening in his household. There could not be a better bride for their son than Saher. And with her strong influence over him she would definitely keep him here.

‘I’m going to Rani’s house today to ask for Saher’s hand.’ Gulbahar shyly peeped up at him, catching the warm tender look in his eye. Haider was about to kiss her hard, there and then, but he reluctantly let her out of his arms; the office was the wrong place and his accountant was due any minute.

A few minutes later in the large kitchen, Gulbahar couldn’t hold back her joy as she exchanged another tight hug with her housekeeper; her aching cheeks remained plumped into a broad smile. All afternoon Ali had been despatched on so many errands. Some he dealt with on his mobile phone, but the important task still remained – to collect the tastiest fresh sweets in special trimmed decorative baskets. Gulbahar’s most treasured item of jewellery, a
gulaband
necklace set embedded with real
kundan
gems from Delhi, was plucked out from her jewellery safe. Originally, it had been set aside as part of Laila’s trousseau, but now it was to honour Saher’s throat.

In the afternoon, Gulbahar drove out with Ali and Arslan into Attock’s main shopping bazaar. Mother and son hopped in and out of sari department stores to sample yards of silks and chiffons. With so many delicate and colourful fabrics rolled across the tables in front of them and the portable fans purring away at their sides, Gulbahar was unable to decide either on the colour or on the embroidery design. In the end her son happily came to her aid, his eye caught by one colour, imagining the sensuous and softest of chiffons in sky-blue moulded around the contours of his beloved Saher’s body.

‘But it has no embroidery on it, my son,’ Gulbahar chided, aggrieved at his very ‘plain’ and ‘simple’ choice.

‘It doesn’t matter, Mother. Plain and simple is best and this is the one I want to see her in – she’ll love it, please believe me!’

Gulbahar laughed, shaking her head at him.

‘But if Saher and Aunt Rani don’t like it, blame it all on me, Mother. Just relax, please!’ Joy threaded his voice, bringing a lump to Gulbahar’s throat. The burka-clad woman sitting on the other sofa seat, also purchasing a sari for her daughter, smiled behind her
niqab
, eyes peeping over the fold held up to her nose.

‘Good choice, sir!’ the shopkeeper politely commented, disappointed that he had not been able to sell one of the more expensive gem-encrusted saris that the older woman had been thoughtfully fingering. They also purchased a similar one for Daniela, as a gift.

‘Now, the ring!’ Gulbahar reminded him, stepping into the goldsmith’s shop next door, bringing an eager smile to the lips of the middle-aged owner, delighted to show off his wares. Arslan hastily shepherded his mother out of the shop, much to the disappointment of the jeweller.

‘I’ve got the ring already, Mother, so please don’t fret.’

‘What? When did you buy it?’

‘I bought it in New York. It was meant to be my wedding present for Saher. A diamond ring, in fact. I’ll show it to you later – you’ll love it. Let’s go, we need to reach Auntie’s house before evening.’

Gulbahar chuckled at her son’s eagerness and reached out to hug him yet again.

Humming to herself, Begum took the breakfast tray up to her mistress’s bedroom. From the top of the wrought-iron balcony outside her mistress’s bedroom, Begum saw father and son, dressed in their outdoor jackets, apparently waiting for Ali to bring the Jeep round to the front door of the
hevali
.

Heart and step immediately lighter, Begum thrust the door wide open with her foot.
‘Assalam alaikum
, Sahiba-ji!’ Her loud, cheery voice had her mistress sitting up in bed, face creased in condemnation.

‘Begum!’ Gulbahar scolded her housekeeper.

Begum brazenly proclaimed, ‘You are going to eat everything
on this tray, Mistress Sahiba, because you have a wonderful day ahead of you! Please believe me!’

‘Have I, Begum?’ Gulbahar asked, pushing her thick, curly, greying strands of hair back from her face.

‘Yes, Mistress, indeed you have.’ There was no let-up on the cheeky note as she placed a tray on the table. ‘You see, your beautiful fairy is coming with her mother,’ she dropped the bombshell.

‘Begum?’ Gulbahar whispered, lips parted, wanting so much to believe Begum’s words but too afraid to entertain the idea in her head.