Beneath My Mother's Feet Page 10

  “Baji, you are not carrying them,” the boy said mildly, and turned to Nazia. “The girl is.”

  “That’s what she’s here for, you imbecile. If I wanted to pay a mazdoor, why would I have brought her along?”

  “I will carry them for you for free, baji. Don’t pay me.”

  “Are you trying to insult me?” Seema narrowed her eyes.

  “No, baji.” He laughed. “It’s just that the baskets are heavy and the girl will break her arms by the time you are finished. Let me carry them, and I will save her arms from falling off so she can work for you longer. I won’t take any money. I promise.”

  Nazia watched, amused at the exchange. The boy was clearly mocking baji for bringing a girl as her mazdoor. The bazaar was teeming with people, and nearly all carried their own baskets or employed the services of the Afghani boys. The fact that the baji did not casually call upon the services of one of the boys to hold her goods as she ambled from stall to stall, throwing hundredrupee notes on mangoes the Afghani boys were not allowed to touch, was an obvious outward sign of the baji’s depleted status: that she was one of the many in the posh area of Defence who could barely keep up the economic pretense of belonging in the upscale society so far removed from the poverty of Karachi.

  “Fine,” Seema said with a dismissive wave. “If you want to carry the baskets, go ahead. Nazia, give him everything.”

  Nazia bit her lip to keep from smiling and gratefully handed over the baskets containing the three-kilo sack of potatoes and two-kilo bag of turnips. The boy winked at her before pulling the handles of the woven baskets together and slinging them over his shoulder.

  Now Nazia was able to carry the smaller items that Seema bought from the vendors who roamed the market, hawking their goods in bullhorn voices that carried far over the steady din of barters. Cilantro, mint, and gnarled gingerroot fit easily into her shoulder bag. Nazia pulled out the money Amma had given her and chose a handful of items after carefully watching Seema pick through a pile of tomatoes, discarding the rotten ones by tossing them toward the back. She moved on to the guava, holding the golden-green fruit up to her nose, sniffing for the sweet pungency that meant soft and ripe, but not so ripe that grubs had made the fruit their home.

  By the time the grocery shopping was finished, Nazia’s head was pounding from the heat and lack of breakfast. She longed to stop at the cold-drink stall, but her money was spent and she knew better than to ask baji. She breathed a sigh of relief when Seema turned toward the front of the bazaar, where their driver waited.

  The boy followed behind them, doubled over, carrying the baskets like a donkey with satchels tied to both sides. Nazia felt a pang of guilt for carrying the smaller bags, even though they, too, weighed at least five kilos by this time. Seema baji carried nothing except for her own purse.

  “Do you need any help?” Nazia asked.

  The boy grunted and shook his head, watching his steps through a shag of hair that fell over his eyes.

  Nazia kept moving, trying to keep the baji in sight. Seema was nearly at the edge of the bazaar, where the overhead tarp gave way to the scorching sun. Nazia hastened her steps, knowing that Seema would hate having to stand in the open field. As she moved forward, she felt her dupatta slither away from her shoulders.

  Absently she reached up to keep it from falling but was met by a tug that ripped the cloth from her fingers. Shocked that the Afghani boy could be so bold, she turned to glare at him and give him a scolding, but was taken aback by the girl that stood before her.

  “Saira!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. “What are you doing here?” Nazia dropped her sack and flung her arms around the girl.

  Almost immediately she felt Saira stiffen. Nazia squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, remembering that they had been friends since the age of five. She took that memory and locked it away before releasing Saira and stepping back with a painted-on smile.

  Saira brushed a hand over her kameeze, absently wiping away any residue from the contact. “I’m shopping with my mother.” She glanced at the Afghani boy loaded with goods. “What are you doing here, Nazia?”

  Nazia cringed, too conscious of her threadbare clothes, her unwashed hair, and the purple half-moons under her eyes. “I’m here with . . .” Her voice caught. “I’m here with baji, the woman we live with,” she mumbled, and looked away. In the distance she saw Seema beckoning to her, her mouth moving. Even the Afghani boy waited for her, and his back seemed to stoop lower and lower to the ground with every passing second.

  “Are you her servant?” Saira finally asked.

  Nazia’s smile tightened. “Yes. It’s working out really well, Saira. I mean, we have a nice place to live in the best part of the city, and she treats us well and doesn’t work us too hard.”

  “NAZIA!!” Seema was standing at the edge of the tent, waving furiously at her.

  “I have to go,” Nazia said. The mazdoor was making his way to the car with the baskets.

  “Wait!” Saira called. She stepped forward but didn’t touch Nazia. “We miss you at school. When the other kids ask about you, we tell them you went back to your village.” Her cheeks reddened slightly. “We thought maybe you wouldn’t want everyone to know that you are a house servant.”

  “I’m not just a house servant.” Nazia’s voice was brittle. “I’m a masi, too. I go door-to-door and clean the bathrooms and floors for rich people.”

  Saira’s eyes widened. “We just thought that it would be better if the kids at school thought you went back to Punjab to get married.”

  “And what if I want to come to see you or Maleeha in Gizri? Everyone will know then that I am still here and never got married.”

  “We didn’t want you to be, you know, ashamed about it.”

  “NAZIA!” Seema barreled toward her. “Come now or you walk!”

  Nazia took one last look at her friend before walking away.

  “Well, what were we supposed to say?” Saira shouted behind her.

  Nazia walked swiftly past Seema, leaving just enough distance so the woman couldn’t reach out and grab her. She mumbled an apology to the memsahib, who replied with a barrage of insults. Nazia tossed the remaining bags into the dickey and glanced back at the bazaar, but Saira was gone. The Afghani boy closed the trunk and jogged around the car to hold the door open for her.

  Perhaps it is a good thing that we were interrupted, Nazia thought. She could still feel the way Saira had stiffened and tried to step back when they embraced.

  She stowed herself in a corner of the backseat and stared out the window as the driver maneuvered the car around the small sand dunes that dotted the makeshift parking lot. The mazdoor had slapped the dickey as the car left, and she turned and waved through the back window. She wondered if Seema had paid him for carrying the bags.

  The car stopped short at the gate. Before she could get out, Nazia heard the iron bolt slide from the shaft. She wondered if Abbu had come to visit. He was usually allowed to leave the construction site on Sundays to spend the day with his family before he had to head back with the sahib on Monday mornings. Maybe with Sherzad gone, Abbu would be allowed to remain at the house as their new gatekeeper. Perhaps if they all lived together, it would almost be like home.

  Sherzad stood next to the gate. As the car passed by him, he raised his gaze to Nazia’s and stared with hollow eyes. The skin around his cheeks was bruised and his lower lip was cut.

  As soon as the car jerked to a halt, Nazia scrambled out and ran to the boy. She moved quickly, knowing she had only a few seconds before Seema would be beside her. The gate remained open for the neighbor’s driver to return home after they unloaded the bags, but Sherzad had disappeared behind the mosquito netting of the chowkidar’s room.

  “Sherzad!” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Sherzad, are you all right?” She waited barely a second before she flung aside the dingy netting, stepped into the shadowy room, and then froze when she came face-to-face with a woman who could
only be Sherzad’s mother.

  The woman’s piercing gaze bored through her like a knife. Nazia could almost feel her ransacking her thoughts, searching for the proof that it was she who had tricked her son into running away. After only a moment the woman lifted the corners of her mouth upward into a swarthy smile, revealing deeply stained large teeth. Behind her, Sherzad sat on the charpai, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

  Nazia gasped as someone grabbed her shoulders from behind. Seema steered Nazia out of the room. “Go help with the bags. You’ve no business in here.”

  Nazia stumbled back into the sunlight and hurried to the car to gather a few of the bags from the dickey. The neighbor’s driver sat languidly behind the wheel, not helping. Nazia huffed as she carried the larger basket of vegetables around the front of the house to the side entrance. She stopped to slip off her sandals before depositing the basket on the kitchen floor. She returned for the rest. She heard Isha and Amma call out to her, but she ignored them and hurried back. When she rounded the corner, she spotted Sherzad in the driveway and stumbled, stubbing her toes against the concrete. The skin scraped raw, but Nazia didn’t feel the pain.

  Instead she sucked in her breath sharply as she watched Sherzad dance on his tiptoes while his mother pulled at his earlobe, her elbow jutting skyward, her bangles clanking furiously as she shook him like clothes drying on a line. Nazia stepped back, stunned. What was the woman doing? Nazia could see the memsahib standing on the other side of Sherzad, her hands on her hips. But it was the high-pitched voice of Sherzad’s mother that carried across the yard and drew Nazia’s mother and her siblings from the veranda to huddle closer, where they could see what all the wailing was about.

  Amma watched in silence, then turned back to the veranda, taking Mateen with her. “That woman has been here for hours waiting to return the boy to baji,” she called out to Nazia. “Surprised the child’s still standing.”

  “What’s wrong with her? Why is she so angry?”

  “Parveen came here with fire in her belly when she thought baji had replaced her son with us. She thought we had stolen his duty. When I explained that baji had room for all of us and that the boy ran away on his own, she went crazy. She couldn’t believe that he would bite the hand that feeds him and disobey her so brazenly.”

  “Bite the hand that feeds him?” Nazia said sharply. “Sherzad’s mother doesn’t feed him. He feeds himself by working hard for everything he gets and doesn’t get around here.”

  “I warned you to stay out of it, Nazia. He is just a child. Half the pain that boy is suffering right now is your fault. For the beating he is getting you are as much to blame, if not more. You live with that, girl.”

  Nazia glanced down at Isha at her waist. What would she do if that were her sister out there? Would she be cowering behind the wall as she did now, waiting out the beating for a chance to offer condolences? Or would she have the courage to rush forth and stop the grossly unmatched assault?

  Finally the memsahib pulled the boy away from his mother and wrapped a heavy arm around him. She laughed, telling his mother that was enough; did she mean to kill the poor boy? Nazia’s mind did somersaults as she realized they were now reversing their roles, so the baji appeared kinder and more loving, offering relief from the pain his mother inflicted. The memsahib tousled the boy’s shaggy hair, then hugged him close. Sherzad’s mother was quiet now, and the baji’s voice lowered to a soft murmur as she clucked inaudibly, soothing him.

  Sickened, Nazia clutched her sister and walked numbly back to their quarters. She’d let Seema take in the rest of the bags. She would not touch them. Nazia was acutely aware of Isha’s vicelike grip but did nothing to loosen the little girl’s bony fingers.

  The sound of snoring coming from the sleeping quarters confirmed that Abbu had returned home. Instead of collapsing on the adjacent charpai, Nazia carefully set the shopping bags on the ground just outside the door so as not to disturb him. She shuffled back to the kitchen and poured herself a tin cup full of water from the metal cooler on the counter. The chilled water was not normally meant for the servants, but Nazia didn’t care. She was exhausted from the bazaar and knew that it would be at least another hour before the afternoon meal would be ready. She gulped down three cups before the memsahib returned with Sherzad.

  While Seema heated up leftovers in silence, Nazia set about the task of cleaning the vegetables for storage. No mention was made of the boy’s return or of the party the night before.

  While Nazia stood at the sink rinsing mustard greens and spinach leaves, she snuck glances at Sherzad. If he knew she was watching him, he didn’t show it. He knelt down stiffly to set a shallow pan of flour on the floor. Nazia stepped aside when he came to the sink to fill a glass with water, and then watched him carry it back to the pan. Slowly he poured the water at intervals and began kneading dough for the afternoon bread.

  How can he go on as though nothing happened? What kind of boy would not cry after being turned away by his own mother? She watched his body sway back and forth while he pushed and pulled at the stiffening dough, his shoulders scrunched upward as he worked. At the stove Seema stirred the yellow lentils. Nazia realized the scene was the one she’d lived every day since moving into Seema’s servant quarters. Nothing had changed, and only the bruises on the boy’s face were different.

  After lunch Nazia lay on the charpai, pressed between Amma and the wall. Abbu lay on the other bed, Mateen and Isha sprawled across him. It was late in the afternoon, and the house was locked up so the sahib and baji could nap. Sherzad slept in his room by the gate, his mother long gone after collecting his wages and food to return home with.

  Abbu’s voice — a steady, deep murmur that sounded like soft drums — rose and fell as he told stories about the men he met on the site, the building they were constructing, and the petty antics of laborers who plagued the project. His beard had grown long and was singed with gray. Deep grooves etched downward from both sides of his wide nose to the corners of his mouth. His lips were darker than before and cracked from constant exposure to the sun. His shoulders were still wide enough for Isha and Mateen to rest their heads, but his frame somehow seemed smaller.

  Nazia lay on her side, leaning against her mother’s ample back, the ropes of the charpai digging into her elbow as she listened, half sleeping, to the melody of her father’s voice.

  Abbu patted his left thigh with a heavy hand. “My leg cries every time I walk the boundary. Five times a day, after every Azan. The call to prayer is the unrelenting alarm clock that forces me to walk all four corners of the sahib’s massive construction site.” He shook his head. “Chowkidar, they said. A chowkidar sits at the gate and lets the public in or keeps them out. A man with a bad leg should sit at the gate. Not walk the boundary five times a day.” Abbu muttered under his breath. He caught Nazia’s gaze and said, “Tomorrow I will stay home with you. Tell the sahib in the morning that I am ill.”

  Nazia glanced down at her mother’s closed eyes, then looked back at her father and nodded. He could rest for a few days, and with Sherzad’s ordeal behind them, it was likely that the memsahib would let it slide.

  “Good girl.” Nazia cherished the warmth of Abbu’s smile.

  The following day a grumbling sahib drove away while Abbu slept past noon. Nazia cleaned the house alone, allowing her mother time to rest with Abbu. Since it was common for masis to miss work without calling, as most had no access to telephones, Nazia took advantage of this fact and skipped the other houses. One day won’t get me fired, she thought. She supplemented the baji’s sparse meal by digging out a few saved rupees to buy kebab rolls from the Defence Market. The pleasure on Abbu’s face as he bit into the spicy meat and licked the dripping grease from his wrist made Nazia full. She’d even had spare notes to buy one for Sherzad, who accepted the treat with barely a nod.

  Abbu stayed in their quarters for most of the day, except only when nature called, and even then he was careful to limp in case the baji wa
s watching.

  As she did every afternoon, Seema locked herself inside the house so she could take her afternoon nap without fear of intruders. Nazia was exhausted from doing all the cleaning and running to the market. Amma, Mateen, and Isha were already asleep, so she decided to lie down on the remaining charpai.

  Although the slant of the sun proved that time had passed, it seemed as if only a few moments had gone by when the air was filled with Seema’s shrill cries and her father’s deep voice. Nazia awoke with a start, confused and groggy.

  “What happened?” Amma asked, suddenly alert. Abbu’s voice boomed from the front of the house, forcing Amma to sit up quickly. “Ya Allah,” she muttered. “What has that man done now?” She swung her legs off the bed and sat up slowly. She winced and stood by degrees, the weight of her own body almost too much for her feet to bear. She walked barefoot with heavy steps to the door and pushed it open with her hip.

  Nazia squinted as she watched her mother waddle along to the front of the house. Isha and Mateen were still asleep. She wanted to go back to sleep and let Amma tell her what had happened when she returned. But when Amma disappeared around the corner, the voices grew louder. Nazia’s skin prickled despite the heat. What could have happened? When the air became charged with Amma’s voice, high-pitched and pleading, Nazia stumbled out of the quarters, her curiosity transformed into a cold fear that spread across the back of her neck.

  She ran around the house, down the sloping driveway, and outside the open gate. A peddler with his two-wheeled cart was parked under the shade of the neem tree. Abbu stood beside the cart, looking both belligerent and sheepish. The peddler and Amma were speaking over each other, vying for the baji’s attention.

  When Seema spotted Nazia, she snapped her fingers at her and called out sharply, “Go get Sherzad!”

  Nazia ducked back into the driveway and rapped on the door to the gatekeeper’s quarters. “Sherzad! Wake up, Sherzad!”

  Nazia noticed that the door was slightly ajar, so she opened it farther, pushing aside the mosquito netting to meet the boy’s steady gaze. “Baji wants you.”