Revolt (37 page)

‘Massi Fiza!’ Shabnum shouted down from the rooftop, her hand aching from opening the two heavy padlocks on the terrace door. There was no sign of their neighbour from amongst the rows of washing lines. Or was she squatting in one corner of the veranda?

In fact Massi Fiza was in her room, lying on a
charpoy
, her forehead tied with a band of
nala
string and eyes squeezed shut. She heard Shabnum and groaned in dismay, the vision of more stitching panicking her.

‘Why can’t these girls leave me alone?’

Hearing another shout, she pulled herself out of bed and cupped her hand over her forehead to keep the daylight from her eyes. Her neck ached.

‘What is it, Shabnum?’ she called flatly from the middle of her courtyard, face raised and eyes tightly shut. ‘I’m not well today! But I’ll do what you want tomorrow!’ Without waiting for a reply, she scuttled back to the bliss of the darkened room with its old wooden window shutters closed. Her parched lips ached for some pink
sabz
tea, but the challenge of brewing it in her little aluminium pot was akin to climbing K2.

Massi Fiza thought she had imagined the thudding sound from her outside door. It was past midnight. When the noise continued she draped an old woollen shawl around her shoulders and went to unbolt her outside door.

‘Who is it?’ she called, afraid.

‘Mam, open the door!’

Massi Fiza swung open the door to her eldest son, heart
skipping a beat at his appearance. He was dressed all in black – a black
shalwar kameez
suit topped by a bulky, black turban, and he sported a long black beard.

‘Why are you dressed like this?’ she asked, alarm bells ringing.

Her sons were always keen on wearing Western jeans, and now he looked like one of the Afghan Taliban. Locking the door, Fiza rushed inside after him, scanning his face in the dim light.

‘What are you doing, Maqbool?’ she watched him tip the contents of their battered old leather suitcase onto the floor and rifle through her clothes. When understanding dawned, she pulled at his arm, but he pushed her away, and she fell with a thud against her bed, moaning in pain. Barely glancing at her, he pocketed the contents of her small leather purse.

‘Leave my money alone, you wicked boy!’ Fiza shrieked.

Her son turned on her, the wild look in his eyes frightening her. ‘I need this.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going far away.’

‘Where? With those few hundreds!’

‘It’s enough.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Over the mountains …’

Massi Fiza’s eyes opened wide, fear clutching at her. ‘You are not one of them …?’

‘Yes!’ he finished with a sneer. ‘I’m fighting a jihad – for a purer state of Pakistan, not run by America!’

‘But the Taliban are bombing and killing people. What are you doing, my son? Are you mad?’

‘I’m leaving for the Afghan border. I don’t know if I will come again and don’t tell anyone that I’ve been here … The military are after us …’

‘Have you killed anyone?’

‘You are daft, Mam. How do you win any wars without killing?’

Massi Fiza felt faint, watching him in despair. He was now opening another suitcase, and pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Then with his back to her, he changed his clothes. As her
eyes fell on the shining blade of a knife and a gun hidden inside his clothes, Fiza backed away.

‘I never want to see you again!’

‘You won’t have to! I’m destined to be a martyr!’

‘A martyr!’ she bitterly scoffed. ‘Which heaven will receive you for killing innocent women and children? If that is what you are intending. Why did Allah Pak curse me with a child like you? There I was – planning your
rishta
with the goldsmith’s daughters. Would they give their daughters to evil people like you?’

‘Those sluts, with their naked arms and bare heads! If one of them was my wife I would …’ he spat, his wild look of disgust shooting through Fiza. She loved those girls.

‘What would you do?’ she jeered, anger emboldening her. ‘Kill her for her bare head? You beast! Is my son only good at bullying and tyranny? You yearned for a look from those girls … you stupid boy.’

Her son was already out on the veranda. At the door he whispered, ‘And don’t tell anyone that I was here. Many of my friends have died – others have fled into the mountains and across the Afghan border. I’m following them to fight the Americans.’

Massi Fiza stood for a long time under the light of the stars in the small courtyard, bemused at her thoughts and feelings. Why did she not feel any fear for her son’s safety? When did she become such a hard woman? The answer came fast. ‘Because I don’t know him any more!’

Massi Fiza felt a gentle touch on her arm. Alarmed, she lifted her head, sleep vanishing in a second. Rukhsar was standing by the side of her bed.

‘What are you doing here?’ Massi Fiza squeaked, flustered, her eyes opening and closing, worried in case Rukhsar had seen her son and ashamed of her overcrowded and cluttered surroundings.

‘To see how you are,’ Rukhsar gently replied, keenly aware of Massi Fiza’s discomfort. Politely, she kept her eyes off the stack
of four battered leather suitcases and the pile of her son’s clothes strewn across the floor. This was Massi Fiza’s entire domain – the place where she slept, lived and hoarded all her worldly goods. Her sons, when at home, slept in the smaller room annexed to the kitchen. Rukhsar brutally crushed the urge to make a quick exit.

‘I …’ Massi Fiza sat up, holding onto the tight
nala
band around her head.

‘Shabnum told me last night that you aren’t well. Tell me what’s wrong, my friend?’ Rukhsar softly coaxed, noting her friend’s flushed cheeks and the reason behind them – embarrassment.

‘Just not feeling well – a bit of a headache,’ Massi Fiza stuttered, plucking at the frayed ends of an old embroidered flower motif on her pillowcase that her Aunt Noor had stitched two decades ago. She had always prided herself on her bedding, but today, to be caught sleeping on an old pillowcase was unforgivable! Then she blushed beetroot at the sight of the yellowy oil stain spread across the middle from her head massage. She strategically shifted her arm over it, whilst following Rukhsar’s eyes to the four tins of starch powder, her sons’ old portable beds stacked one on top of the other, her two wooden dowry chairs, one with a missing leg. Her good-for-nothing sons had never got it mended.

The contrast between her friend’s well-to-do home, with its foreign silk rugs, modern quality furniture, two maids and three college-educated daughters looking after it, and her own humble solitary existence was indeed unfair. Then to be caught like this when she was feeling at her lowest! Massi Fiza burst into tears, burying her face in her muslin
dupatta
.

‘Massi Fiza, what’s wrong?’ Rukhsar was nonplussed, gingerly resting herself on the rounded wooden leg post of Massi Fiza’s bed. Then she eased herself down on the jute section, ignoring its rough texture chafing the soft flesh of her thighs through the
Benarasi
silk fabric of her
shalwar
. Apparently, Massi Fiza did not use the under mattress,
thaliée
, on her bed. In Rukhsar’s house they had modern beds with thick mattresses and huge, fancy headboards. The portable jute beds were only used for
visitors and were always neatly kept hidden away. The poverty and the squalor of her neighbour’s house depressed Rukhsar.

Massi Fiza pulled her legs up, making space for her friend, head bent, still sobbing into her shawl, agonising over whether to tell her friend about her son.

‘Something is obviously wrong?’ Rukhsar gently prompted. ‘Please tell me. Aren’t I your friend?’ Her gentle tone and kind words melted Massi Fiza’s reserve.

‘It’s my sons. I’m worried about them.’ She offered a half-truth.

‘What?’ There was a pregnant pause.

Rukhsar wasn’t surprised. The selfish behaviour of her neighbour’s two sons had always disgusted her, and everyone in the village speculated that they would end up as criminals.

‘The elder came home last night and took everything – down to my last rupee.’ Massi Fiza decided to tell this much, but nothing more.

Rukhsar diplomatically kept silent. ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered again, her heart going out to her friend.

‘Thanks,’ Massi Fiza muttered, now regretting telling her neighbour and too ashamed to raise her head and show her smarting red cheeks. Who would ever offer their daughters to her criminal sons? Rukhsar certainly would not.

Not that her sons had ever had any hopes of success in that direction. From their childhood days, those trendy, fashionable, chauffeur-driven, young women, living upstairs in the house next door, were in a different league. Daughters of a well-off goldsmith, blessed with not only good looks but a college education from the nearest city, their attitude to fellow villagers oozed snobbery. With their style of dressing, mannerisms, the way they spoke, they were ‘city girls’ at heart; eager to marry urban men and escape to the glamorous and, in their words, more ‘civilised’ world of the city.

Massi Fiza’s boys on the other hand had barely made it to the eighth class. The shame of being two loutish lads stuck in the seventh class for two years in a row, sitting amongst younger children, was deeply mortifying for both them and their mother. So when they sidled out of school via long
absences, their mother squeaked not a word of protest, secretly hoping that they would now take over the laundry business. The boys had other ideas, immediately absconding to the capital, seeking migration agents and their fortune. And they only occasionally came back, usually to rob their mother of her hard-earned cash from the laundry business. Whilst their mother was a favourite with the girls next door, the boys were treated with sneers.

‘And he didn’t even stay the night,’ Massi Fiza mourned.

‘I hope you won’t mind me saying this,’ Rukhsar had dispensed with diplomacy. ‘As we are good friends, we should be able to exchange honest views. Do you agree, Massi Fiza-ji?’

Massi Fiza looked up, fearful of what Rukhsar was about to say. ‘Yes,’ she answered meekly, ready for a lecture.

‘Right, first let me tell you that you have wasted your life away on your good-for-nothing sons – pardon my blunt words. I speak not to offend you, but as a concerned friend. I’m worried about your health. Your work hard to earn a living and support your two sons but, in the end, they are just as bad as their father, aren’t they? Please let me finish.’ Rukhsar saw Massi Fiza’s mouth open to defend her family. ‘The miserable gits have all abandoned you and used you! Your husband may well be abroad. You think he’s dead, don’t you? But God knows what he has been up to for all these years – women, drink or even worse. He has just disappeared off the face of the earth … Despicable man!’ Seeing her friend’s mouth open again, she hastened to add, ‘Please, Massi Fiza, don’t even jump to his defence!

‘Has anyone ever come home? Most of your Eids are spent alone. If they deign to visit you, they arrive late at night and by morning are gone. Do they hold you and the village life so contemptible? Please, Massi Fiza …’ she continued. ‘I don’t speak out of malice … to hurt you … but to gently remind you of the reality of your sons’ lives.’

Massi Fiza dejectedly nodded. In her heart of hearts she agreed with everything.

‘They are ashamed of me – this home … my work! How do you expect them to come and stay here in a house piled with
dirty laundry? As poor children they have an inferiority complex – that’s the problem.’

Rukhsar’s heart melted at her friend’s predicament.

‘Your sons have turned out to be little snobs, Massi Fiza-ji! Should our children be ashamed of the very parents who have brought them into this world and worked so hard to raise them? We all work, Massi Fiza, to earn our livelihood. There’s absolutely nothing demeaning or wrong about any kind of work … For I believe all work is honourable if it puts food into our children’s mouths and if we provide a service for the well-being of society.’

‘Oh, Rukhsar-ji, so kind of you to think like that, but you know very well that some work is more
honourable
than others. For instance, yours is better than mine …’ her voice trailed away.

‘I’m not going to discuss this further, for you’re falling into the same trap as your sons. I value your work. We all work in some context or other, whether out in the fields or at home making quilts. Apart from the
zemindars
’ wives, the landladies like Gulbahar or those supported by their menfolk working abroad, all women work pretty hard in the village, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes! Thank you,’ Massi Fiza gratefully mumbled, appreciating what her friend was trying to do, but inside she was still drowning in her grief and regret.

‘Rukhsar-ji, I wish I had a daughter. She would not have done this to me.’

‘Yes, Massi Fiza-ji, a daughter remains a daughter for life. Now, please get up, bring a suit or two with you – you’re coming to stay with me. Don’t look so surprised. My girls and I are going to look after you – you are overworked and highly depressed.’

‘But …’

‘Your washing can go to hell for a few days! Just rest … If you like, you can thread some pearls for me!’

‘Rukhsar-ji?’ Massi Fiza’s voice trembled, touched by her generosity.

Rukhsar pulled her friend up – Massi Fiza’s chapped fingers were rough against her soft palm – eager to be off, unable to stand the musty smell of detergent any longer.

In the goldsmith’s guest room, Shabnum hovered near Massi Fiza’s bed with a bowl of chicken soup, graciously offering it to their
unwanted
guest
.

Very rarely did the three sisters agree on anything. Today, they unanimously doubted their mother’s wisdom in bringing their
lowly
neighbour to stay with them. And, horror upon horrors, letting her sleep in the guest room on the soft
king-sized
mattress. They all grimaced at the thought of Massi Fiza’s oily head knocking against the creamy white velour of the headboard. When their mother overheard their conversation, she was mortally aggrieved and being a God-fearing woman earnestly touched her ears and beseeched her Allah Pak to forgive her daughters’ arrogance in referring to another human being as
lowly
.