Amal Unbound Read online

  “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.”

  “I did. Was hoping to make do longer with the tarp, but the wind last week tore it right off. Had to replace the whole roof.”

  “Well, it looks nice. And it’s good it’s fixed, isn’t it?”

  “It’s never good to borrow from the Khan family.” His jaw tightened as he rang up my order. “But sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to.”

  Shaukat’s words lingered in my mind as I left the market. Just like he didn’t want to borrow money, I didn’t want to leave my mother when she still hadn’t recovered. But the longer I stayed home, the further I fell behind at school. I couldn’t keep this up much longer. Amma needed help. We had to do something.

  “Amal!” my classmate Farah’s mother called out to me from a distance. She walked at a steady clip toward us.

  “Mariam Auntie!” Rabia turned to me. “That starts with an M, right?”

  “Good job!” I said. “Here.” I dropped change into her palm. “Go get some kulfis from the man over there.”

  The girls hurried to the vendor as Mariam approached.

  “Don’t you look pretty in that shalwar kamiz,” she said when she drew near. She reached out and smoothed the collar. “When I saw the floral pattern, I knew it would be perfect for you. Told your mother a little bit of lace would add some pop to it.”

  “Thank you for sewing it,” I told her. “It fits me perfectly.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “Tired, but she’s doing okay.”

  “A girl, I heard?” She shook her head.

  I knew everyone wanted to have a son, but I was getting tired of hearing this. Wasn’t she once a little girl, too?

  “Tell your mother I’ll come this afternoon to check in on her. She must have some hand-me-downs she needs fixed up for the baby.”

  I thanked her before continuing on our way. I laughed when Safa smacked her lips on our way home. White syrup dripped down her chin onto her dress.

  “You can’t do anything without making extra work for me, can you?” I said.

  I handed the groceries to Parvin when I got home and grabbed a towel to wipe Safa’s face. My father sat at the table in the living room. He sorted through an assortment of papers scattered across the desk.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked him. “You’re home early.”

  “It will be,” he sighed. “Work is busier than usual, and your mother’s still in bed.”

  “We should phone Raheela Bibi. She’ll know what to do.”

  “It’s not something the midwife can cure.”

  “Then maybe we can take her to the doctor?”

  “What she needs is time. She’ll get better soon enough.”

  “But the thing is”—I fidgeted—“I’ve missed a lot of school now, and exams are coming soon. I was hoping I could go back to school tomorrow.”

  “Amal . . . Safa and Rabia need you.”

  “Parvin could watch the girls until we came back.”

  “Parvin has her own work to do, you know that. Your sisters aren’t her responsibility.”

  “She won’t mind! She loves the girls—”

  “Enough, Amal!”

  The sharpness of his voice silenced me.

  “I’m sorry, Amal. But this is how it has to be now. You’re the eldest daughter. Your place is here.”

  I wanted to tell him it wasn’t my choice to be the eldest, but I held my tongue. Why did this random chance have to dictate so much of my destiny?

  “In a week or so, we can see how things are going,” my father continued. “But in any case, remember, you have already learned a lot. More than many of the neighborhood girls. You can read and write. What more do you need to know?”

  I always thought my parents knew me well. So how could he ask me that?

  What more did I need to know?

  The whole world, Abu, the whole world.

  Chapter 8

  When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, Seema was ironing. “Why aren’t you in your uniform?” I asked her. “You’re going to be late for school.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Seema.”

  “I got up early this morning to help with the laundry. You work the pile down and then it grows up again higher than before. The chores are endless. You need me.”

  “Parvin and I will handle it. You have to go to school.”

  “It’s not fair.” Seema’s eyes grew moist. “How can I go when you can’t?”

  “It isn’t fair—but you can’t fall behind since you only just began. I want you to go.”

  Seema’s eyes watered, but she slipped on her uniform. After she left, I watched her from the window. Hafsa would meet up with her a few steps out of my view. They’d enter the brick schoolhouse and settle into their desks and learn things I didn’t know. I was the best student in my class, but soon Hafsa, and even Seema, would surpass me.

  “The girls are still sleeping?” Parvin asked as she stepped inside and closed the back door behind her. I nodded.

  “Good. We might actually get a head start on all the things we need to get done today. Omar will pick up cauliflower on his way home from school. We have enough potatoes, but I’ll double check . . . What’s wrong?”

  Parvin came in and out, helping so quietly I could forget she was there, but it was Parvin who always double checked we had everything we needed to prepare our meals and keep the household running. She was the invisible arm propping the family up.

  “Just . . . thank you,” I told her. “We don’t say it enough. Thank you for everything.”

  “What is this thank-you for?” she asked. “This is what family does. You’ll get through this. Come here.” She hugged me. “Everything will be fine.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, and I wasn’t a little kid like Rabia or Safa who was easily comforted by her hugs, but with Parvin’s arms around me, everything did ache a little less.

  * * *

  • • •

  “How was school?” I asked Seema when she came home that afternoon.

  “It was good!” She smiled.

  “Do you need me to look at your poem? It’s due Monday, right?”

  “Of course you have to look at it,” she said. “But you have your own to write.”

  “Seema, Abu isn’t going to budge.”

  “He doesn’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She stuck a hand in her book bag and handed me a folder.

  “What’s this?” I asked her.

  “Take a look.”

  I parted the folder. The poetry assignment. The spelling test. The math test.

  “But, Seema, I can’t write a poem without a lesson on it. And how can I take the tests—”

  “I’ll test you,” she said. “I talked to Miss Sadia, and she agreed: As long as you keep up with your work and take the tests, she’ll keep you on the roster. I also promised her I’d take good notes and teach you the lessons myself. Even the poetry lesson. Don’t look at me like that! I can do it! And I’ll teach you everything I learn. Because you are coming back.” She gripped my shoulder.

  I read Miss Sadia’s familiar scrawl on the first paper.

  Hi, Amal—This is a lot, I know. But if anyone can do it, you can! I’m rooting for you.

  I hugged Seema. I thought hope had vanished. But hope was a tricky thing. It found its way back to me.

  Chapter 9

  The girls were busy watching television and Seema and I were getting settled at the table to go over her notes for the day’s geography lesson when my mother’s friends knocked at the door.

 
“I come bearing laddus this time,” Fozia said, stepping inside with Mariam. “Is your mother up for visitors now?”

  “She’s still not feeling well.”

  “Now, this is too much! She has to start meeting people eventually,” Fozia said.

  Fozia was right. Something had to be done to snap her out of her fog. Maybe visitors would help.

  I stepped inside my mother’s room.

  “Amma,” I said, “Fozia and Mariam Auntie are here to see you and the baby.”

  “This isn’t a good time.” Her voice was dull. Even though the room was dim, I could still make out the circles under her eyes etched so deep, I wondered if time would ever erase them.

  Lubna lay swaddled tightly, fast asleep. It’s what I was calling the new baby, though it wasn’t officially her name. My mother didn’t name us until we were a year old and she knew for sure we would survive. I picked her up and cradled her in my arms.

  “They only want to say hello. I’ll straighten up the room a little and tell them to come in.”

  “I’m sorry.” She reached out and stroked my arm. “I’m foggy lately. I’ll shake it off soon.”

  “I know you will,” I managed to say.

  Her gold bangles from her wedding dowry, the ones she never removed because they were her most valuable possessions, clinked against her arms when she touched me. Her frame seemed smaller than it did a few weeks earlier.

  I drew open the curtains and put away the handful of clothes scattered on the floor.

  “You can come in now,” I told her friends.

  * * *

  • • •

  I took my time making chai and arranging a plate of biscuits on a wooden tray. By the time I carried the tray into my parents’ bedroom, I was surprised to see my mother sitting up and chatting.

  “It’s devastating,” Fozia was saying. “I’ve been there myself, you know.”

  “I’m not sure how one even recovers. Or if you even can,” my mother responded.

  I stared at my mother. It was one thing to feel this way when my baby sister was born, but to still think it now?

  “Munira can’t possibly recover. He burned their orange groves to a charred crisp,” Fozia continued.

  “I heard it was her children playing with matches in the field,” Mariam said.

  “Yes, of course you heard that—who would dare accuse him openly? Mark my words, one day he’s going to hurt the wrong person,” Fozia said. “These things catch up with you.”

  “He runs this town. Men like him suffer no consequences,” my mother said.

  My hands unclenched. It was the Khan family they were talking about.

  “Never thought I’d say this, but it was better when his father was running this town,” Fozia said. “Sure, Khan Sahib threatened all sorts of things, but did he ever do them? To teach a lesson here and there, yes. But his son Jawad? Ever since he took charge, things are out of control. I really think he enjoys punishing people.”

  “Owe him nothing, and he cannot harm you,” my mother replied.

  “Except everyone does,” Mariam said. “We need his filthy money. Maybe if we all united against him, something could be done. It’s happening more and more these days—people are banding together and overthrowing their landlords. Read about it in the newspaper all the time.”

  “The Khan family would never let that happen here. Remember Hazarabad?” Fozia asked. “The people in that town made a pact. Refused to pay their debts until he stopped with the threats. Forget Munira’s measly acres! He destroyed their entire village. Every last orange grove and cotton field. Jawad Sahib sent quite the message!”

  My mother lifted the teacup from the ground and brought it to her lips. She took a sip. “I’m thankful we’re on the other end of the village, far away from him,” she said.

  I gathered their empty teacups. I didn’t really care about Jawad Sahib and his acts of vengeance. My mother could have been discussing the devil himself for all it mattered. I was just glad to see my mother drink her tea. It had to be a sign.

  I stepped into the kitchen as my father came home. He slipped off his shoes on the woven mat by the front door.

  “Fozia and Mariam Auntie are in with Amma right now,” I told him excitedly. “She’s drinking chai and talking. She even smiled.”

  “Good!” my father said. “Maybe she’s starting to get better.”

  Why didn’t I push her to meet her friends sooner? I went into my bedroom and ran my hand over my uniform hanging in the closet. It was starched and ready. Maybe in a few days I could wear it again.

  “Amal,” my father said. He watched me from the doorway. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. Drinking a cup of tea is nice, but it’s still going to take time for her to fully recover and be up and running the house again.”

  “But maybe—”

  “No, Amal. I’m sorry, but it has to be this way.”

  But did it really have to be this way? If I were a boy, would I be staying home to fold laundry and iron clothes? If I were a son, would he so casually tell me to forget my dreams?

  I rushed outside and sank onto the front steps. My mother was adamant about our education. If only she could get better, everything could go back to normal.

  “Look who it is!”

  Hafsa pedaled up to me on her younger brother’s bicycle. She dug her sandals into the ground, slowing it to a halt.

  “Do your parents know you’re riding a bicycle again?” I asked her. Most people around here frowned upon girls riding bicycles, and Hafsa’s parents had let her know they were one of them.

  “If my brothers can ride a bike, then I can, too,” she said. “Besides, maybe I’ll be the next Zenith Irfan and bike across the country.”

  “That was a motorcycle,” I reminded her.

  “Same difference.”

  The voices of children playing cricket in a nearby open field floated over to us.

  “How’s Seema as a teacher?” she asked.

  “The power’s gone straight to her head.” I let out a small laugh. “She won’t even repeat the questions on the spelling test, no matter how much I beg.”

  “Sounds like Seema.” Hafsa smiled.

  “How’s Miss Sadia?” I asked. “Ever get her that bell?”

  “Ha. I wish. She asks about you every single day, though.” Hafsa rolled her eyes. “If we thought you were her favorite before, we definitely know now.”

  “Well, you can become her new favorite.” I swallowed. “My father doesn’t seem like he’ll be letting me go back to school anytime soon.”

  “No way! You better be back. We’re going to go to college, remember? I’m not rooming with a total stranger.”

  “Let’s hope he changes his mind, then.”

  “Hope?” Hafsa’s frowned. “You think my dad doesn’t grumble about all the money my books and uniforms cost him? But he knows it’s less of a headache to send me to school than to keep me home. You can’t just hope, Amal! You have to keep at him, and don’t take no for an answer.”

  After Hafsa left, I thought about what she had said. Maybe she was right. I had to come up with some kind of plan—but I also knew no plan could work if my mother wasn’t better.

  Chapter 10

  The lights flickered off again the next afternoon. The overhead fan slowed to a halt. Another blackout. My forehead trickled with sweat.

  Seema was back from school and doing her best to corral Safa and Rabia, whose shouts echoed off the concrete floor, hammering into my brain.

  It turned out my father was right about yesterday. The cup of tea with Fozia and Mariam wasn’t any sort of magic cure. As usual, my mother spent the morning with the curtains drawn. She barely spoke a word when I went inside to check on her.

  She wasn’t on the mend.

  Maybe she never would be.

>   I had to get out for a little while.

  I counted the money I needed for the market.

  Seema’s back was turned to me.

  “Get your hands out the flour!” she yelled at a powder-white Safa.

  I’ll get her, I wanted to say, but the words never left my mouth.

  I was allowed a few moments of peace without any of my sisters yanking at my sleeve, wasn’t I? Just this once?

  I slipped past Seema and out the house.

  It was only a trip to the market, but I would cherish this time to myself.

  The sounds of tractors, bicycle bells, and children playing cricket in the street filled me with a sense of calm.

  I knew each store owner and vendor I passed. I knew their wives and their children. But today, traveling the same streets I’d walked hundreds of times before, without little hands to keep out of fruit stands, without tiny feet to steer around idling rickshaws, I noticed it all as though for the first time. The sun was hotter than usual for the time of year, but I even enjoyed this.

  Shaukat’s store was bustling. My neighbors filled the aisles, sifting through the vegetables and fruit.

  “Why is it so busy today?” I asked my neighbor Balkis.

  “New arrivals. Pomegranates. Coconuts. Apples,” she replied. She waved at the shoppers with one hand and fanned her face with a newspaper with the other. “Needed some turmeric but didn’t know I’d have to fight these crowds. You’d think Shaukat was giving things away for free.”

  I squeezed through the aisle. Two pomegranates rested in the crate perched next to the onions and apples. Red, sweet, delicious pomegranates. I counted my money. I had enough to buy one extra item. Something small. Just for me.

  I snatched one up as a woman grabbed the other.

  One of my neighbors argued with Shaukat over bruised zucchini and squash. I grabbed a handful of onions and some ginger and leaned past her to pay.

  Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I stepped back onto the dusty road. I gripped the red fruit in my palm. Maybe this pomegranate was the sign of hope I needed. A bit of sweetness after all the bitterness. I would share it with Omar and Seema. It didn’t make everything better, but the thought made me happy.