Amal Unbound Read online

  “That’s definitely a plus.” I laughed.

  The clink of glass bracelets shattered our solitude.

  It was Seema. She ran toward us, her feet bare.

  “Come quick,” she said between gasps of breath. “The baby is coming.”

  Chapter 4

  The five minutes it took to run to my home on the other side of the field felt like a lifetime. We zigzagged through the sugarcane, taking shortcuts through the maze we knew so well. Our feet crunched over twigs and fallen leaves until we tumbled into the clearing that led to my house.

  Flinging open the front door, I raced through our living room and straight into my parents’ bedroom. My mother lay in bed. A thin sheet was draped over her. Raheela Bibi, the midwife, pressed a damp towel to her forehead. My mother’s eyes were shut. Her jaw clenched.

  “But this wasn’t supposed to happen for another few weeks!” I said.

  “Well, it’s happening now!” Raheela Bibi rummaged through her bag.

  My mother exhaled and opened her eyes. She looked at me. Her cheeks were flushed and her forehead was pale.

  “Amal,” she said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  It was true; unmarried girls, especially my age, weren’t allowed in the birthing area. But how could I stay outside when something was obviously wrong?

  “I’m worried,” I told her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Babies come early all the time.” She smiled at me, but her eyes didn’t crinkle with the upturn of her lips. She patted my arm and moved to say more, but suddenly she gasped and clenched her jaw again.

  “I’m here.” I squeezed her hand.

  A hand touched my elbow. Omar’s mother, Parvin, had arrived. Wisps of black hair framed her face from beneath her chador.

  “Amal, I can stay with her now,” Parvin told me. “Will you go take care of Safa and Rabia?”

  “But I want to help.”

  “Taking care of your little sisters is helping. It gives your mother one less thing to worry about.”

  I wanted to stay, but she was right. And it was too hard seeing my mother like this.

  I stepped into our living room. Rabia and Safa stood stock-still in their cotton frocks next to the faded sofa.

  “Is Amma okay?” Rabia asked. Her lower lip quivered. Safa bit her nails and said nothing. Rabia was four years old and Safa was three, but with their matching black curls and dimples, people often mistook them for twins.

  “Of course she’s fine.” I pushed down my own fear and ran a hand through Rabia’s springy hair. “The baby is coming. Aren’t you excited to meet your new brother or sister?”

  They glanced at each other and then nodded at me.

  “Let’s go in your bedroom and dress up your dolls while we wait. We can show them to the baby soon.”

  Both girls followed me into their bedroom next to the kitchen. Their window overlooked our courtyard, the concrete floor painted peach, where our mother cooked meals when the weather allowed. Safa and Rabia pulled out their dolls and the collection of clothes my mother sewed for them. Soon they were chatting and giggling and getting their dolls ready for a tea party.

  I tried to focus on their play and push out the image of my mother’s closed eyes and pained face. I knew people kept saying they hoped the baby was a boy, but right now I didn’t care. I only wanted my mother to be okay.

  The door creaked. Omar stood by the edge of the bedroom, his hand resting on the knob.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I was only in there with her for a few minutes. But it was scary—she looked so weak.”

  “Raheela Bibi and my mother know what they’re doing,” Omar tried to reassure me. “And you are right here if they need you.”

  “The book!” I turned to him. “I left it by the stream. We ran so fast, I forgot all about it.”

  “Don’t worry about the book.”

  “It looked expensive.”

  “I’ll get it. It’s not going anywhere.”

  “What if something happens to her?” My voice cracked.

  “We don’t know anything yet,” he said. “But don’t worry; I’ll be here if you need me.”

  I appreciated his words because he did not promise me all would be well. He did not know.

  Neither did I.

  Chapter 5

  My father paced the length of the living room in his leather sandals while my sister and I sat at the table by the sofa, trying to do our homework. His forehead was slick with sweat; his dark glasses framed his worried expression.

  We had a bigger house than many, but right now it felt like it was shrinking in on me. Seema and I kept stealing glances at our parents’ closed room while our little sisters played in their bedroom.

  The sun had nearly set when my parents’ bedroom door finally opened.

  The midwife stepped outside and smiled.

  My jaw unclenched. My mother was okay. She had to be if Raheela Bibi was smiling.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You are a father five times over now.”

  “How is Mehnaz?” he asked.

  “Tired. But she’ll be fine. Go on in and see for yourself.”

  My father walked into the bedroom. Seema and I followed.

  The lamp on the nightstand lent a soft glow to the darkened room. The little one, smaller than I expected, lay curled in a blue blanket in my mother’s arms.

  “What is it?” my father asked. “A boy or a . . .”

  “A girl,” Raheela Bibi said.

  “A girl?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him. “A perfect, healthy baby girl.”

  “Can I hold her?” I scooped the blanketed baby out of my mother’s arms. I traced a finger against her soft nose, her cheeks, and her curved chin, with a dimple like Safa’s. Raheela Bibi was right; she was perfect.

  My breath caught when she gripped my finger with her fist. She was so tiny, but her grip on me so tight, as though she knew I would always protect her. Any disappointment I might have felt at not having a baby brother dissipated like powder in a running stream.

  “What should we name her?” I asked. “I have a notebook with the ones I like. Shifa is pretty, but I also like Maha. Maaria. Lubna.”

  That’s when I realized the room was unusually quiet.

  I looked at my mother. She was crying. I was so eager to see the baby, I hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face. Until now.

  My father stood by the door. His eyes were red.

  “I’m sorry,” my mother whispered.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “God does what he wants.”

  Of course I had known they wanted a son. I heard the conversations of our neighbors and the whispers in our own house. But staring at my parents’ expressions right now, I saw they didn’t look disappointed; they looked crushed.

  I hadn’t been present when my other sisters had been born. Is this how they’d reacted then?

  Was it the same when I was born, or was it okay since I was the first?

  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.

  “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 nea
rly 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, jalapeños, 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.