Amal Unbound Page 7

  “My mother loves roses. We had them all around the border of our house.”

  “What colors did she have?”

  “Only red,” I told her. “I didn’t know you could grow so many different kinds.”

  “My father had a plot of land for me to garden in when I was young, in the back of our house. I tried all sorts of flowers. Tulips, marigolds. Somehow I managed to always kill them. Vegetables were another story, though; I had a knack for that.” Her eyes seemed to look past me when she spoke.

  “My mother loves to garden, too . . .” I told her, my voice trailing off. Was my mother pruning her garden right now? Was Seema helping her instead of me?

  “It was the funniest thing,” she said. “I could be upset about anything at all, but digging through the garden, I found peace.”

  “What do you grow in your garden here?” I asked her.

  “Here?” She laughed. “Imagine that! What would people think? The matron of the estate crouching in the back garden, planting mint?”

  Maybe she was right, but then what was the benefit of reaching Nasreen Baji’s station? If she could be this wealthy and have power over so many people but couldn’t grow her own garden, what kind of freedom was that?

  * * *

  • • •

  After Nasreen Baji left and I finished straightening her room, I went to find Mumtaz. A bedroom door farther down the hallway was wide open when I passed. Bilal and Nabila were inside straightening it up. I took in the bed with navy linens. The furniture inside was the color of crushed almonds. Jawad Sahib’s room. Nabila looked up. I was about to avert my eyes, but I remembered Ghulam and Bilal’s advice. I met her eyes with my own steady gaze. I thought she would say something, but instead, she frowned and looked away.

  I hurried down the steps to the main floor.

  Mumtaz wasn’t in the kitchen.

  I walked past the dining room and then down a dim hallway with cream carpet I had not entered before. The first room I passed was a bathroom with black counters.

  I paused at the next door. It was encased with six square windows. Peering through the glass, I saw a table with a leather chair beside a large window. A row of silver filing cabinets lined the wall behind it. But the other walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. And books—so many books, they seemed to burst from the shelves.

  A library! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  I slipped inside, walked up to a shelf, and traced my fingers along the spines.

  Poetry, fiction, history, biographies, the library had them all. Mirza Ghalib, and Allama Iqbal, Miss Sadia’s favorite poet. I had never seen so many books in one place before.

  And then I saw it. On the bottom shelf. A collection of poetry by Hafiz. I remembered the book Omar lent me by the stream. The poetry unit Miss Sadia was so excited about. I pulled out the title. It was a thinner volume than Omar’s, and the cover was green, not orange.

  I looked at the book in my hand. I knew I shouldn’t have touched it. I shouldn’t have even stepped inside this room. But if I borrowed one thin volume, returning it as soon as I finished, would anyone notice? Was it really a crime to borrow a book gathering dust? Wasn’t it a bigger crime to have such an amazing library collection going unread?

  I tucked the book under my arm, obscured by my shawl, and hurried to my room. For the first time since I came here, I felt happy. I wished I could tell Miss Sadia and Omar that I’d found a way to read poetry after all.

  Chapter 22

  Any word on Roshanara?” Nabila asked Mumtaz as we worked together in the kitchen. They diced onions and tomatoes, piling them into a metal bowl. Bilal lingered by the counter. I stirred the chai pot for Nasreen Baji and her guest, who were on the main verandah.

  “She’s visiting her mother,” Mumtaz replied.

  “She left over two weeks ago.”

  “Roshanara’s not coming back,” Bilal interrupted. “He told her not to.”

  “What?” Nabila’s knife clattered to the counter. “He fired her?”

  “Jawad Sahib said her work wasn’t up to his standards.”

  “But she needed this job,” Mumtaz said. “She’s the only one working in her family.”

  “Like he cared,” Bilal said.

  It was hard to follow their gossip. I was counting down until the day I could put this place behind me and pretend it was just a bad dream. No matter how much the job paid, why would anyone choose to be here?

  A tap on my waist. Fatima held up a blue package of cookies.

  “These are the ones she likes to serve guests,” she told me. “Can I help you with it?”

  I set the cream plate with scalloped edges on the table. Fatima opened the bag, pulling out the square shortbread cookies.

  “Have you ever tried the chocolate ones?” She pointed to the pantry by the window.

  “I haven’t,” I said. “Are they good?”

  “The best!” Her eyes lit up. “She puts them out when her older sons visit because they love chocolate. They’re a little expensive, so we can’t eat too many or they’ll notice. But I can get you one if you want.”

  “Maybe another time.” I smiled. “But thanks for the tip.”

  “Fatima, go get me more onions,” Nabila interrupted us.

  Fatima set down another biscuit.

  “Now,” Nabila snapped.

  I picked up the last biscuit, pressing it with my finger until it snapped.

  “Whoops,” I said. “It broke. Want it?”

  Fatima grabbed both pieces from me, stuffing them in her mouth.

  I returned Nabila’s glare with a smile and carried the tray outside.

  Pouring the chai into each cup, I served Nasreen Baji and her guest, and then stood in the back against the wall as I always did during her visits. The conversations she had with her friends weren’t much different from the sort my mother had with hers, except in addition to the usual gossip, they discussed potential brides for Jawad Sahib. Today the women were sifting through photos of possible matches. I felt sorry for any girl who would have to put up with a man like him.

  My mind wandered to the last book I had borrowed. I hoped I could find the time to return it sometime today and get a new one. I glanced at the clock. It was a little past noon. Rabia and Safa were likely dressing up their dolls or jumping rope in the courtyard right now. Omar and Seema were in school. My father would be tending to the farm. Was my mother better? Was Lubna laughing yet?

  “The literacy center is coming along nicely,” her guest said, tucking the photographs back in her purse. She wore a maroon shalwar kamiz and matching lipstick.

  “Yes.” Nasreen Baji nodded. “It should be open in another month.”

  “Everyone is talking about it. It’s the first time the organization broke ground in Punjab.”

  “Adult literacy centers are the new thing these days,” Nasreen Baji said. “My husband thinks his support of this one will help win him the election.”

  “Anyone sign up yet?”

  “No one,” Nasreen sighed.

  “Who turns down a free education?” The woman shook her head. “They enjoy being illiterate is the problem, really.”

  I thought of my classroom, thirty-four girls crammed two to a desk. I could still remember how the heat rose from the ground and pressed into our skin during the warmer months and how we shivered under our chadors and sweaters when the temperature dropped. Even so, we went to school every single day we could. Nasreen Baji knew better. She had to know better. She had to tell this woman she was wrong.

  But Nasreen Baji didn’t say a word in protest. Instead, she asked me to bring them more tea.

  “She looks like a good one.” The visitor nodded to me as I gathered their plates and cups onto the tray. “You must tell me where you get them.”

  I balanced the t
ray in my hands and walked to the kitchen. I tried to pretend I didn’t care what the woman said, but I did.

  I doubted I would ever get used to being discussed like cattle at the market.

  Chapter 23

  Later that week, I ran Nasreen Baji’s bath and sprinkled lavender petals into the water. I laid out her clothes on her bed as she stepped into the bathroom.

  I glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes.

  Slipping into my room, I grabbed the book hidden beneath my pillow. I tucked it under my shawl before heading downstairs to return it.

  After finishing a few poetry books earlier in the week, I had read my first biography. The story of Allama Iqbal. Omar would have laughed at me for picking up such a heavy tome, but choosing thick books meant I could hold on to them longer before I needed to exchange them. And now I understood why Iqbal was Miss Sadia’s favorite poet. It turned out he wasn’t just a poet. He was also a politician, a teacher, a lawyer, a scholar, and a knight. I thought one dream was enough for a person, but reading his story, I learned some people could hold on to many different dreams and see them all come true.

  I went down the hallway leading to the library, past Toqir, the elderly servant who dusted the baseboards. He didn’t even glance at me as I passed him. Slipping inside, I put the book back into its spot and ran my hands over the other titles. I paused at the thick black dictionary on the bottom shelf. Omar always wanted one of his own; he said dictionaries contained every word ever uttered. I pulled it out. It was heavier than expected. The paper was thinner than in the other books, and the font was tiny. I smiled. What if I read this whole thing? What would Omar say when I told him I read all the words to ever exist?

  I heard footsteps. Toqir. I tightened my grip on the dust rag, my ready excuse for why I was here. But before I could slip the dictionary back onto the shelf, I saw it wasn’t Toqir. It was Jawad Sahib. He stood at the entrance, blocking me.

  “And what do you think you’re doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m dusting.” I gestured to the dust rag and tried to keep my voice from trembling.

  “And that’s why you’re holding my book?” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d have learned your lesson by now, but I return home and learn my new servant has been stealing books from me? I have to say that takes a great deal of nerve.”

  “Stealing?” I gasped. “Never!”

  “I bet you saw my books and thought they’d fetch a big price, right? But you could sell a thousand of them and never make enough to pay off what you owe.”

  “I would never steal from you, Sahib. I borrowed some books, yes. But I returned all of them.”

  “And who said you could walk in here and take my things?”

  My face flushed. He was right.

  “I shouldn’t have,” I said. “And I’m sorry. But these books . . . You have so many. There’s dust gathering on their spines. I couldn’t help it. Forgive me, I’ve missed reading so much.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You can read?” he asked.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Can you write as well?”

  I didn’t know whether to be offended at his presumptions or relieved the storm clouds seemed to be parting, revealing blue skies and sunlight.

  “I can write. I can read. I know math as well.”

  He studied me for a moment.

  “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  But his words weren’t filled with his usual contempt.

  “I can’t remember the last time I read one of these books,” he said as he walked to the bookshelf and examined the titles. “I might have been your age when I read A Stranger in Al-Andalus.” He pulled the book from the shelf. “I loved this one. Read it so many times, my father replaced my worn copy with a new one. He didn’t realize I liked the feel of the old one.”

  I tried imagining him as a teenager, sentimental about a worn book. I couldn’t.

  His mobile phone rang. He glanced at the phone and then at me.

  “I’m letting this pass,” he said. “See? I can be a forgiving man, but don’t touch my books again.”

  He lifted the phone to his ear and motioned for me to leave.

  I stepped into the hallway. He let me go. He didn’t punish me.

  Nothing happened. Everything was fine.

  I should have felt grateful.

  But the thing was—those books were what made my days bearable. They were what helped me sleep at night without my homesickness choking me.

  Without books, what was there to look forward to?

  Chapter 24

  Nasreen Baji had a migraine headache. I had spent half the night massaging her head, but it hadn’t helped, and now she grimaced over lunch.

  “I can draw your bath when you’re finished,” I offered. “The steam helps sometimes.”

  “Rest will do more good.” She clasped a hand to her forehead and stood up. “Mumtaz is gone for the afternoon to visit her sister. Keep an eye on the kitchen until she returns.”

  “And tell Bilal I’ll be in the library catching up on some work,” Jawad Sahib told me. “He shouldn’t bother me unless I call for him.”

  “What kind of work?” Nasreen Baji asked.

  “Just some accounting and paperwork.”

  “But why? Zaid should be doing that. What do we have an accountant for?”

  “Whether or not he is an accountant is debatable, and the only one I can trust is myself anyway,” he said. Then he looked at me. “How are things going with her?” He nodded toward me.

  “Very well,” Nasreen Baji said. “She is a gift from God.”

  “Good. I’m glad it all worked out,” Jawad replied.

  I’d settled dirty dishes into the sink and had just turned on the faucet when I felt a tug on my kamiz. Fatima looked at me. Her expression was somber.

  “What’s wrong?” I turned off the water.

  “I heard about what happened yesterday. About the books.”

  I flushed. Toqir must have told everyone all about it.

  “So you know how to read?” she asked.

  “Yes. I learned at school.”

  “Could you teach me?”

  I paused at the unexpected question.

  “Baba said he could get me paper and pencil.”

  I glanced at Hamid. He covered a pot with a metal lid and rested his cooking spoon to the side. He gave a small nod.

  “But I might not be able to learn,” she continued. “My mother used to say I wasn’t very bright.”

  She said it without any affect, as though it was simply fact.

  I picked up a butter knife and held it out to her.

  “What is this?” I asked her.

  “A knife.”

  “What kind of shape does it have?”

  “Long. Straight?”

  “That’s the first letter in the alphabet. Alif.”

  “Alif,” she said slowly.

  “See?” I said. “You’re learning to read already. I can teach you whenever we have time. It’s not so hard, I promise.”

  Her eyes widened. She took the butter knife from me and rushed off to show the cook.

  I finished the dishes and wandered out onto our verandah. With Jawad Sahib back, it was empty. Fatima’s words kept coming back to me. Why would any mother say something so cruel?

  Something moved in the distance. I squinted. It was a cat. Orange and white. I walked over to where it was stretched out under the sun.

  “Peaceful out here, isn’t it?”

  Nabila stepped outside and joined me in the garden bordering our verandah. She set down a metal bowl filled with milk on the grass. The cat walked over to Nabila, brushed herself against her, and purred.

  “She’s a stray.” Nabila petted the cat. “She wandered over my first week he
re. Been giving her milk ever since. I named her Chotu.”

  “She’s pretty,” I said tentatively.

  “She is,” Nabila said. “When I first came here, I sat by those flowers any chance I got.” She pointed to a flush of purple in the distance. “I don’t know their names, but they grew next to my parents’ house. I would look at them, really fixate on them, and for a little while I could pretend I was home.”

  “When did you come here?” I asked her. These were the first words she’d spoken to me not laced with malice.

  “I was nine years old,” she said. “As old as Fatima is now.”

  “To pay back debts?”

  “There were no debts until they brought me here.” Her expression darkened. “I was traded in for the price of six goats and a cow for my eldest sister’s wedding. My parents promised they’d come back to get me as soon as they repaid him.”

  “They didn’t come?”

  “They came, all right. Borrowed more money. Maybe they could have paid it all back, but then there was the money we owed for living here.”

  “What do we owe for living here?”

  “Don’t you know? Nothing is free. Not the stale rotis, the bed we sleep in. Not for you and me, anyway. It’s different for Mumtaz, Hamid, Toqir, and some of the others. They choose to work here. They get paid for the work they do and can live here or with their families. You and me? We aren’t free. We work off our debts by working here, but the food we eat, the sheets on our bed, and the roof over our head are all accounted for and piling upon the original debt.”

  “But that makes no sense. If he charges us to live here, how can we ever pay it off?”

  “We can’t.”

  I thought of my father. He promised to bring me home as soon as he paid back the debts, but how could he pay back Jawad Sahib if every minute I spent here made the balance higher than the day before?