Amal Unbound Read online

  “Never come back?” He placed his arm around me. “You think I’d let you go away forever? He wants his money. I’ll get him his money. I swear on my life I will get you home as soon as I possibly can. I’ll make things right.”

  “How long?” I wiped a tear. “How long will I live there?”

  “A few weeks. A month at the most. You won’t be there long.”

  I looked at the pile of books in the corner of my room. A month ago, I washed the chalkboard with Miss Sadia. I sat with Omar on the fallen tree. I was going to be a teacher.

  How could everything as solid as the earth my grandfather fought for crumble so easily beneath my feet?

  Chapter 15

  Jawad Sahib’s driver would be here any minute.

  My suitcase was packed and resting by my bed. My mother had lent me the aluminum-cased one from her own wedding dowry. She filled it to the brim with clothing, nuts, and dried fruits.

  There was a tap on my bedroom door, and then Hafsa entered. She closed the door and approached me. “I was thinking about it last night,” she whispered. “What if you ran away? Maybe hid in my house?”

  “Hafsa, I couldn’t do that.”

  “My parents wouldn’t even need to know,” she said. “My closet is pretty big. Nobody would ever guess you were at my place and it could give us some time to figure out what to do next.”

  “I can’t. It wouldn’t be safe, not for me and definitely not for you,” I told her.

  “But that’s what friends do.” Hafsa’s eyes watered. “You would do the same for me.”

  “I know.” I gave her a hug. “It means a lot, but if I don’t go, he’ll go after my family.”

  And besides, I thought, how long could we keep it up, anyway? It’s not as if I could simply run away without looking back. This was all I knew. My roots sank too deep into this earth.

  When we stepped out of the bedroom, Fozia was sitting with my mother on our sofa. They wore cotton shalwar kamizes, white, the kind some wore when attending a burial.

  “I knew he was wicked.” Fozia’s eyes welled. “But who knew he was the devil himself?”

  “Did you pack everything you need?” Seema asked me.

  “I think so. Don’t know how I managed to squeeze it all in.”

  “Room for one more?” She handed me the doll from my childhood, the one our mother made for each of us.

  “You found it?” I scooped up the soft, worn doll and pressed its fabric against my nose.

  “I decided to think like Safa. I found it wedged between the bundles of old clothes in the closet.”

  “Thanks, Seema.” I hugged her. Our damp cheeks pressed together. I didn’t know how I could handle this if Seema wasn’t here. She would help Rabia and Safa through this. She would watch over our family.

  “Everyone keeps crying.” Rabia tugged at my leg.

  My sisters hadn’t left my side all morning. The little ones clutched my kamiz.

  “It’s time, isn’t it?” Parvin said, as she and Omar joined us.

  Parvin’s expression was drawn. I wanted to tell her how much I’d miss her, but the words lodged in my throat. Instead, I hugged her.

  I longed to hug Omar too, but in such a crowded room I didn’t dare.

  “I should have come up with a solution,” he told me. “I was up all night. Nothing. I couldn’t think of anything.”

  “Abu promised he’ll get the money,” I said. “I shouldn’t be gone long. A month at the most.” I tried not to focus on the fact that he wasn’t here. He had stood over my bed early this morning watching me while he thought I was asleep. He had kissed my forehead. I realized now, he was saying goodbye.

  A car pulled up outside. The engine cut off.

  I glanced around my home, taking in one last long look at the worn sofa and handmade rug. My family and friends.

  Rabia and Safa were still attached to me. I lifted them up one at a time and pressed my face to their soft cheeks. I kissed them twice, then three times, but would I ever get enough?

  There was a knock on the door.

  My mother pressed a clump of money into the palm of my hand, along with a gray phone. “It’s Fozia’s old phone. Call as soon as you can. Let me know you’re safe.” She wiped my eyes. “You will be strong. You will hold your head up high. No matter what happens, no matter where you are, you’re my daughter.”

  I kissed Lubna. I hugged my mother one last time. I had hardly ever stepped outside my home without someone by my side. Now I was leaving alone.

  A gray-haired man in an ill-fitting suit was at the door. He picked up my suitcase, and before I lost my nerve, before I ran away and never stopped, I followed him toward the waiting black vehicle. I opened the door and sat inside.

  So many firsts.

  My first time in a car.

  My first time feeling cool air pressing against my face.

  My first time saying goodbye to everything I had ever known.

  Chapter 16

  The familiar stretches of brown and green patchwork earth I had known all my life swept past me in a blur before transforming into plush manicured green as the car slowed down and the driver turned onto a gravel road lined with shade trees.

  When the estate materialized in the distance, only the second-story windows and balconies were visible from behind the huge brick wall surrounding it.

  An armed guard with a grim expression let us in at the wrought-iron gate. The steel lock clicked loudly when the gate shut behind us.

  The driver walked me into the cavernous house and dumped my things next to a marble staircase in the middle of the foyer before turning to leave.

  “Wait, Ghulam. What’s this?” asked a gangly teenager with a mop of curls. He stared at me from across the foyer.

  “How should I know?” the man grumbled. “I’m Nasreen’s driver, not his. Why I’m stuck running his errands is beyond me.” He walked away, his footsteps echoing into the distance.

  The teenager stood in a sunken living room with oversized sofas. Next to him stood a younger girl, about my age, with a sharp jaw and straight brown hair. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind them overlooked a tiled verandah with wicker sofas and a sprawling garden.

  “I think that’s the new girl Mumtaz told us about,” the girl said. “Remember?”

  “What do we need a new servant for?”

  “How should I know, Bilal?” She turned to me and asked, “Do you know where you’re supposed to go?”

  I shook my head.

  “Where’s Mumtaz?” the girl asked Bilal. “She’ll know.”

  “Probably in the servants’ quarters.”

  “Can you take her?”

  “Nabila, you know I have to get these shoes to Jawad Sahib. I’m already running late.”

  “Well, if she stands there gawking, it’ll be us he yells at for not putting her to work.” She sighed and walked over to me.

  “Come on,” she told me. “Let’s find Mumtaz. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Well, good luck.” Bilal nodded to us before he hurried away.

  I lugged my suitcase and tried to keep up with her, but it was hard not to get distracted. This house was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Back home I could touch my ceiling with my hand if I stood on a chair, but here the ceilings seemed to graze the sky. Grim-faced family members stared at me from photographs lining the egg-white hallways. Each room we passed was larger than the one before it, and all were filled with brilliant rugs covering marble floors. Light poured in through enormous windows.

  I followed Nabila through a curved entrance down a new hallway. Everything was darker and shabbier here. Instead of marble floors, this part of the house had gray concrete. The cooled air of the main home was replaced here by hot musty air and the smell of frying onions.

  A man in a faded shalwar kamiz holding a broom a
nd a dustpan brushed past me as he headed toward the main house. A woman followed behind carrying a basket of laundry—pants and shirts and shalwar kamizes piled in a heap.

  “Your arm any better?” the woman paused to ask Nabila.

  “Oh.” Nabila glanced down. Only now did I realize her left arm had white gauze wrapped around it. “The burn looked worse than it was. The tray was too bulky and there were too may things on it.”

  “Well, keep it bandaged for a week,” she said. “Make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

  “I will,” Nabila said to the woman. “Did you find out how long Jawad Sahib’s going out of town for?”

  “I know he’s leaving after dinner. Bilal just loaded a pretty big suitcase into his trunk. It’s got to be at least a week or two, but hopefully longer.” She smiled before continuing on.

  Nabila ushered me farther down the narrow hallway and stopped at a rickety door. It creaked when she pushed it open.

  “This is the only spare room, so it must be yours,” she told me. “You’re next to Shagufta, the woman I was just talking to.”

  I took in the cramped, windowless space, empty except for the worn charpai. This wasn’t a bedroom. It was a prison cell. Beads of sweat prickled my forehead.

  “What’s going on?” a voice said.

  It was an older woman with a nose ring, like my mother’s.

  “This is Mumtaz,” Nabila told me before turning to her. “I was looking for you. The new girl arrived”—she gestured toward me—“I didn’t know where to put her.”

  “She’s going to be in the room next to Nasreen’s.”

  “Nasreen Baji’s room?” Nabila stared at her.

  “I know. She just told me,” Mumtaz replied.

  “But why?” Nabila asked.

  “How should I know?” Mumtaz glanced at my suitcase. “Bring that along with you into the kitchen for now. Nasreen wants you to get acquainted there. She’ll meet with you after dinner.”

  I lifted my suitcase and pushed back my growing dread.

  “It’s hard at first, I know,” Mumtaz said gently. “But you get used to it.”

  Get used to it?

  I thought of Safa and Rabia shrieking through the house, Lubna sleeping in my arms, the sound of Omar’s bicycle chime.

  That was the life I was used to—and it felt as distant to this one as the stars in the night sky. The stars that could no longer guide me home.

  Chapter 17

  I trailed Mumtaz into a kitchen that featured a metal sink the size of a table. Fluorescent lights hung over counters that ran the length of the room. The windows against the far wall were cranked open, but the slight breeze did nothing to cool the hot, stuffy room. Just outside the window was a simpler verandah for the servants, with some threadbare charpais and stools stacked against a wall.

  A girl who couldn’t have been more than nine years old chopped onions but paused to smile at me. Next to her, a man with a gray mustache stirred three different pots.

  “The dishes,” Mumtaz said, and pointed to a towering stack in the sink. “Start on those.”

  I rested my suitcase by the door and walked to the sink. Pressing down the faucet, cool water rushed against my hands, a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat.

  “Officers gone?” the cook asked.

  “Left a little while ago,” Mumtaz said.

  “I hate serving him food after they leave,” he grumbled. “He finds something wrong with everything after they come.”

  “I know. They have really been putting him on edge lately,” Mumtaz said.

  “His father shouldn’t have given him so much responsibility if he’s going to be so thin-skinned.”

  “If you think you have it bad, Hamid, think of Bilal,” Mumtaz said. “Poor guy is with Jawad most of the day and has the bruises on his arms to prove it. Be glad you’re mostly out of sight back here in the kitchen.”

  “Never thought I’d say it, but I miss his father,” the cook said.

  Mumtaz plucked cream-colored ceramic bowls and plates with gold trim out of the cupboards while the little girl ladled cholay, beef korma, and saffron-scented rice into serving platters.

  “Can I help?” I asked when I had finished the dishes.

  Mumtaz nodded to a pile of kebabs resting on a plate by the stove. “Get the kebabs from Hamid and put them out on one of the flat trays.”

  I arranged the kebabs on a platter and sprinkled them with chopped cilantro like I did at home.

  Mumtaz picked up a serving bowl and gestured for me to pick up the platter. “Come along,” she said.

  After the gossip and banging of pots in the kitchen, the main house was eerily silent.

  “At last she arrives,” Jawad said when I entered the formal dining room and placed my platter on the sideboard next to Mumtaz’s tray. He had no sunglasses on now, and his eyes bored into mine. I quickly looked away.

  His servant, Bilal, stood against the wall. He watched me curiously.

  “Enjoying it here so far?” Jawad Sahib continued.

  I couldn’t move, rooted by his gaze. Breathe, I reminded myself. I would not let him see me cower.

  “Not scaring the girl on her first day, are you?” said a woman as she entered the room. She wore a silk shalwar kamiz, her graying hair swept up into a bun. Jawad Sahib leaned up and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You should thank her.” He nodded to the woman. “My mother was in the car that day you ran into us. She’s the only reason you are here at all. I had other ideas on how to handle your disrespect.”

  His phone vibrated against the table, and his attention shifted.

  “Go.” He waved his hand at me and picked up the phone.

  I hurried toward the kitchen. My mother always said the best way to feel better was to do something, anything. And she was right; making myself useful had always helped.

  Nabila was lifting an iron pot from the stove and maneuvering it toward the sink. I moved to help her, but before I could offer, the pot slipped from her hands and crashed to the concrete floor. The noise pierced my ears. Bits of leftover food splattered onto the ground and the adjacent wall.

  I grabbed a rag from the counter and leaned down to wipe up the mess.

  “Stop,” Nabila said.

  “It looks worse than it is,” I told her. “We can clean it up in a minute.”

  “I took care of myself before you came and I’ll take care of myself when you’re washed out and long gone.”

  “Nabila,” Mumtaz chided.

  The rag hung limp in my hand as I stared as Nabila. She lifted the pot and rested it in the sink. How did I make an enemy within an hour of arriving?

  The kitchen began to fill up as other servants filed in for their lunch. I recognized some of them, like Shagufta, who had been holding the laundry when I entered the servants’ quarters earlier, and Ghulam, the driver who brought me here. I picked up a porcelain plate, but then I noticed the others grabbing metal ones from a separate cabinet. Their drink ware, too, came from the separate cupboard.

  I put the porcelain plate back down. I couldn’t explain why it bothered me so much. It wasn’t as if I ever ate out of anything much fancier than what was set aside for us here, but Parvin and Omar ate out of the same plates and drank from the same cups as we did. There was a clear dividing line here, and I had to understand where I stood. We could prepare the platters and wash the porcelain plates and glasses, but we could not eat from them.

  The young girl came over and held out an empty plate for me.

  “I’m Fatima. What’s your name?” she asked.

  “My name is Amal.” I took the plate from her.

  “Do you live here now?” she asked.

  “I guess. I mean, for a little while I do.”

  “My father made this food. He’s a really good cook. Khan Sahib pays
him extra so he won’t go anywhere else. The korma is one of his specialties.”

  “I love korma.” I said. I ladled some onto my plate. The roti was cold but I didn’t mind, as I was nearly dizzy from hunger.

  “His nihari is even better. He makes it for breakfast sometimes. I can get you some lemons for it when he makes it next. I know where he keeps them.”

  “Fatima, come eat before everything gets even colder,” her father called to her.

  I followed Fatima to the entrance of a room attached to the kitchen. The servants sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. Fatima sat down next to her father. The plates rested on their laps.

  “Is it true?” asked the servant who had been carrying a broom earlier in the day. “She hardly seems the type to do such a thing.”

  “She’s here, isn’t she?” Ghulam said between mouthfuls. “Kids these days like to mouth off—don’t care much for respect.”

  “He let her off easy,” Nabila said, looking at me. “If the rumors are true, he could have done worse.”

  I walked back into the kitchen and rested my plate on the counter. I understood people talked about other people—I was guilty of it myself—but how could they say such things when I was right there?

  That’s when I saw Jawad Sahib. He watched me from the kitchen entrance.

  “I had one question for you.” Jawad Sahib smiled. “Was it worth it? The pomegranate you couldn’t bear to part with?”

  I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of him, but my body betrayed me. Hot salty tears slipped down my face. I looked down and stood still. I did my best not to move.

  I stood still until he was satisfied. Until he walked away.

  Chapter 18

  After dinner, Mumtaz led me up the marble staircase onto a carpeted landing. The second floor was as big as the first floor. Nasreen Baji’s room was the first one on the right just off the landing. Stepping inside, I saw a white bedroom set with cream sheets. A matching white armoire and dresser were in the distance. A makeup table rested next to a closed bathroom door. Light glowed from beneath its slats.