Beneath My Mother's Feet Read online

  Nazia mumbled a greeting and turned back to Amma. “What are we doing here?”

  “Your mother is here to find work,” Shenaz said.

  “But she is working. She sews clothes.”

  “It’s not enough, beta.” Shenaz looked at Nazia with soft eyes. “Your big brother has run away, and your father is taking his time recovering from his injury.”

  “He broke his leg.” Who did this woman think she was, accusing Abbu like that? Injuries like his took time.

  “It’s been weeks, child. How do you expect to get married if there’s no money to pay for your jahez? There is so much to manage far before the wedding day.”

  “It’s not just your wedding, Nazia.” Amma’s voice was weary. “What about the rent? Neighbors bringing food is fine for a while. The sewing covers the small necessities, but we have to find a way to pay for the roof over our heads.”

  Nazia thought. There had to be another way. Then her eyes brightened. “I know! Why don’t you ask Uncle Tariq? You know he will do anything to help us.”

  Amma pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “But why not?” Nazia frowned.

  “You know why. You will marry his son soon. We cannot humiliate ourselves in front of him before the wedding! He cannot know of our hardships.”

  “But why not? If they are willing to have me in their family, then taking care of us for a few months before should not matter.”

  “Even we have our pride, Nazia. We may not have much more than that, but at least we have our pride.”

  What good is pride if it just gets in the way? Nazia stared at Amma. Was there no other way? Were they really that poor? She had always believed that they were well off, that money would never be an issue. Whenever anyone in the neighborhood had troubles, Amma was among the first to share whatever they had in the house. “What kind of work?” she asked finally.

  “I’ve set up some houses for your mother,” Shenaz said as she began walking past the shops toward the hill, where the homes were larger than any Nazia had ever seen. “Come on — we have to move faster. If your mother does well, then the memsahib will keep her. I’ve got three houses waiting for her.”

  Amma’s breath came in short gasps as she tried to keep up with Shenaz. “You’ll need to watch over Isha and Mateen while I do the houses.”

  “Houses?” Nazia’s cheeks grew warm. “You mean clean houses? Like a masi?”

  “Yes,” Amma grunted.

  Nazia stopped short and gaped at her mother, who had never worked outside her home a day in her life. “Does Abbu know?”

  “Nahi, of course not.” Amma’s panting grew more labored as she continued her climb.

  “You haven’t told him?” Nazia balled up her fists, nails digging into her palms. How could Amma make such a hasty decision without even checking with Abbu? Didn’t she know how protective he was of their family? Did she think he would not mind? What would he say when he learned that Amma was shaming their family name and sullying Abbu’s honor? What would he do when he found out? And then another thought occurred to her: If Amma intended to keep this from Abbu, why did she bring the children along? Did she really think they would not speak of it to their father?

  “You want me to watch Isha and Mateen? Why didn’t you just leave them at home with Abbu? Did you have to pull me out of school?” She was falling behind because she had to babysit?

  Amma didn’t look back. “Abbu wasn’t home.”

  Nazia grabbed Mateen and slung him onto her hip as she hurried to keep up. “Not home? Amma, he can’t walk.”

  Amma stopped abruptly and turned to Nazia. “Your abbu can walk. He limps, yes. His injuries were bad. Gashes and bruises, but no broken bones. His leg has healed. He goes to the market for most of the day while you are away at school. He comes home and lies in bed just before you return.” She glanced at Mateen and moved on. “Ask your brother. He knows.”

  Nazia sucked in her breath and tightened her grip on Mateen. Why was Amma always seeing the worst in Abbu? Before the injury Abbu was gone every day, toiling from dawn to late in the night. How could someone like that bear the torture of lying motionless in bed for weeks?

  Nazia could picture her father attempting to regain his strength as soon as she left for school each morning: Abbu lying on the mattress to exercise his leg as he lifted, pulled, and stretched. She knew that as soon as he was able, Abbu would urge his limbs to carry his weight and go back to work.

  Mateen put a chubby hand on her cheek, turning her face toward him. “It’s true.” He pouted. “Abbu goes out all day, and he doesn’t even play with me.”

  Nazia moved his hand away. “He can’t play with you all the time. He needs to get better. He can’t do that lying around the house, can he?”

  There were times when the gaps between Abbu’s paying jobs were long, but somehow they always managed to get by, and Abbu always found work again. Nazia decided that Amma was being too hard on him. Even if Abbu could walk, he was still far from recovered. He needed more time to heal before he could go back to doing construction work. And if he did go out, wasn’t that the best way to work his leg and speed up his recovery? They couldn’t afford to take him to a physiotherapist. Walking the market was the next best thing.

  “Abbu knows what he is doing, Amma. You need to trust that he will take care of us like he always does. And when Abbu finds out about this, you know he’ll be angry with you.”

  “Leave your mother alone,” Shenaz called out. “She knows what is best for all of you.”

  Nazia glared at the woman’s back, her flimsy clothes shifting with every step. “I’m only coming along for today,” she shouted. “Don’t expect us all to tag along tomorrow.”

  Shenaz was about to say something when Amma stopped her. “Leave her be. She will find out the truth soon enough.”

  There’s nothing to find out, Nazia wanted to say. Amma should have stayed home and waited until he was better before going behind his back to find work. What was she thinking? Amma could easily have picked up some more clothes to sew or sold one or two pieces of jewelry set aside for the wedding. No matter what Shenaz said, there was still plenty of time to buy more for the jahez when Abbu found work again.

  Nazia was still fuming when they turned onto a side street and stopped at a large teakwood gate. The house was surrounded by a tall concrete wall, with a row of coconut trees in wooden planters out front and a patch of lush green lawn that lined both sides of the gate. Shenaz spoke briefly with the gatekeeper while a uniformed guard stood watch under the shade of the palm leaves. He watched the group intently, one hand resting on the strap that held a rifle slung over his shoulder. The gatekeeper, a boy only a few years older than Nazia, disappeared behind the gate. He returned shortly and ushered them all inside.

  When Nazia had passed the teakwood barrier, she nearly gasped at the beauty that lay hidden from the street. The front lawn was a deep shade of green, and the blades of grass were precisely trimmed. A rock formation covered a portion of the concrete wall, with water cascading from crevices. Nazia had seen one of these in a park once, but she’d had no idea that people built them in their own yards. Bougainvillea, roses, and jasmine filled the air with a heavy scent. Nazia and the children followed the women up the driveway and around to the side of the house, but Shenaz stopped and pulled Amma by the arm before they reached the door.

  “Now remember, Naseem, the memsahib will ask you a few questions before she decides if she wants to hire you,” Shenaz said. “Her name is Fatima and she sounds tough, but don’t let her frighten you. Underneath she has a good heart — you’ll see. She is always stern at first, because she just doesn’t want anyone to take advantage of her.” Shenaz snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. Don’t call her memsahib either. Just treat her like a big sister and call her baji. It’s what most of these snooty women prefer to be called anyway.”

  Amma nodded, and they moved quickly to the kitchen door, where they were greeted by a tall, well-groo
med woman. “Remove your shoes,” she instructed.

  Nazia knew the woman at the door must be Fatima, the memsahib of the house. She wore a brightly colored shalwar kameeze outfit made of starched lawn — a fine woven cotton that provided cool comfort in the sweltering heat. Nazia ran a hand across her own kameeze, the uniform suddenly unbearably heavy against her body.

  She followed Amma into the house and set Mateen down onto the green marble floor next to Isha. It was deliciously cold, and she stepped slowly, savoring the sensation from heel to toe. They moved into a larger room, where the woman took a seat on the settee and motioned for everyone else to sit on the floor.

  Shenaz plopped herself down at the woman’s feet. Amma moved more slowly, settling gingerly on the floor. Nazia did the same, pulling her siblings close.

  The woman studied Amma. “I am Fatima.”

  Amma nodded in greeting and offered her salaam.

  “Have you cleaned houses before?”

  Amma laughed. Her hands fluttered up and coaxed strands of limp hair back under the dupatta draped loosely over her head. “I know how to clean.”

  Fatima nodded. “My masi is expecting and cannot work anymore. She is sick all the time and bleeding. She’s afraid she will lose the baby. So she left me.” She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not expecting, are you?”

  Amma laughed some more and waved a hand at her children. “No, baji. See them? They are enough to keep an old woman like me spinning in circles.”

  Nazia felt the woman’s eyes linger on her before her gaze moved back to Amma.

  “Are you strong enough to do the work?” Fatima asked.

  Shenaz’s laughter interrupted the interrogation. “What kinds of questions are you asking, baji? You know women like us are strong enough to do the work of an ox.” She patted Amma’s thigh. “Naseem will do whatever you ask, and you will be happy with her work, you’ll see.” She winked at the memsahib. “Baji, have I ever brought you anyone who couldn’t do the work?”

  Fatima grimaced. “Yes, you have! Remember the mali who stole all my garden tools? The grass cutter, too. Now I make the gardeners bring their own supplies.”

  “Yes, one mistake,” Shenaz agreed. “But only one. He was new from the village and didn’t know better. If I ever see him again, I’ll grab him by the ear and drag him to your feet for punishment.”

  “You’d better. My son sent those tools to me from America. But it was my mistake. I shouldn’t have given the tools to the gardener in the first place. My son was furious.” Her eyes passed over Nazia. “Will your daughter be helping you?”

  “Nahi, nahi, of course not,” said Amma. “She is here only to watch the others. There was no place to leave the young ones.”

  “Make sure they stay on the veranda beside the kitchen. I don’t want them all over the house. You people spread lice faster than flies on meat.”

  Fatima’s words stung. Nazia’s cheeks burned, and her throat ached as she swallowed the sharp words that boiled up inside her. She dipped her head quickly to glare at her toes. How dare this woman judge her! Nazia was meticulous with her combs, her oils, and the plaits of her braid. She’d never had lice in her life!

  “Don’t worry, baji, they will stay put,” Amma mumbled.

  “Okay, then. You can start by doing the dishes, then sweep the house and mop the floor. You will clean all the bathrooms, dust everything; then I have some laundry outside. When you’ve washed it, you can hang it to dry in back of the house.” She stood up. “Go on now and get to work. Supplies are in the servant quarters behind the house. Shenaz, while you are here, could you mix the dough for the afternoon roti?”

  “Yes, baji.” Shenaz led the way out of the house, directed the children to sit on the veranda, and then took Amma to retrieve the supplies.

  Nazia heard Shenaz coaching Amma as they walked away, telling her to be brave and not to dawdle. The baji hated when masis were slow. She wondered how Amma would be able to do all the work of the monstrous house alone. When she cleaned at home, Amma waddled from room to room at a slow and deliberate pace, never hurrying, never missing a spot. Even after caring for four children, her house, and Abbu, Amma didn’t tire easily, but Nazia knew this job would be a near-impossible challenge for her mother.

  While Amma cleaned and Shenaz kneaded dough, Nazia waited under the shade of the veranda, keeping Mateen and Isha occupied. The afternoon dragged and her stomach grumbled. She suddenly remembered that her lunch was still in her backpack, uneaten. She dug around in her bag and pulled out the smashed egg and roti sandwich Amma had made. Isha had eaten her flatbread and egg sandwich on the bus but was still hungry. Nazia took a small bite and then gave the rest to Isha and Mateen. After the tiny morsel she felt even hungrier.

  Over an hour later Shenaz came outside. She sighed heavily as she sat down beside Nazia. She inspected her bare feet, then picked calluses off her heels and scraped dirt from beneath her thick toenails. “Your mother is too slow.” Shenaz’s voice was sad. “Baji will never keep her at this rate.”

  Nazia cringed as she watched Shenaz pull off a strip of skin from her heel.

  “Naseem says you are getting married soon. To your uncle’s eldest son.” Shenaz wiped her face with the bottom of her kameeze. The shirt was dingy and threadbare, and the outline of her body was visible when she tossed her dupatta on the floor and shook the collar of her shirt, fanning herself against the heat. The bangles on her wrist clinked together, but her chains were sweaty and stuck to her neck. “Have you met him?”

  Nazia nodded. “Abbu arranged it when I was smaller, younger than Mateen. Abbu was leaving the village to find work in Karachi. He came back for us later, but Uncle Tariq wanted us all to stay. He thought that if we went to the city, we would never come home again. So to keep the family peace, Abbu promised me in marriage to my cousin Salman.”

  Shenaz nodded. “That’s how it’s always done, beta. Have you seen him since then?”

  “Three times? Maybe four. Abbu hasn’t gone back to the village much.” Nazia tried to picture her cousin, but his face was a hazy blur. “He’s much older than me. Like a man now.” To her the wedding day seemed very far off, and only since the talk lately about Abbu’s job paying for the dowry did it suddenly seem closer than she expected. “Are you married?”

  Shenaz threw her head back and laughed. “Of course — since I was a child like you. But he ran off with another chokri, a village girl. He comes back at times.” She tapped her chest with a bony finger. “I have a soft heart and no children. So I let him stay awhile. When he leaves, sometimes I have money; sometimes he robs my cupboards clean. But I never mind, because I don’t have to wake up to him every day. Now, the other woman”—she paused and wagged a finger at Nazia—“ahh, she gave him six sons and barely has the strength to leave her charpai.”

  Nazia’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine being so tired that she couldn’t leave her bed.

  Shenaz winked at her. “I have my strength and no one to tell me what to do except for the bajis. Not a bad life.”

  “But how do you feel safe at home, when your husband is gone?” Nazia asked.

  “Ach. Everyone knows I am Abdullah’s woman. No one would dare to enter my home. Besides, I live with my sister and her family; they are more than grateful for the money I share with them.” Shenaz shrugged. “A small price to pay for protection, but at least I come and go as I please.”

  Nazia wondered what it would be like to have a husband who was rarely there. Never knowing when he was coming, sharing him with someone else, never knowing when he would bring gifts or steal your money. Most of all, she couldn’t imagine any woman actually preferring to live that way. She’d been raised to believe that marriage was a fact of life, unchangeable, a destiny arranged by fathers, a tradition older than the land itself.

  But she also knew that her teacher lived alone. And she was not so young either. How many times had she told the class about her travels up-country with only a tour gu
ide from the British Arts Council and a group of Frenchmen on holiday? She never mentioned a family or children. But she talked incessantly about painting the craggy hills of Patriata or the ever-changing view from an air-conditioned railcar to Islamabad.

  Nazia snuck another glance at Shenaz and decided that she might be proof that marriages don’t always turn out the way a girl dreams. But Ms. Haroon? She was a book Nazia could read over and over and never tire of the tales stored up inside.

  The screen door off the veranda banged open and Fatima stepped out, her hands on her hips, her face grim. “Shenaz! This woman is worthless. Half the day has gone by and she’s just finishing the mopping!”

  “Baji, your house is too big. There is so much to clean — it takes time.” Shenaz kept her voice soft. “Give her a chance, baji. It’s her first time.”

  “I’m not running a training center for masis.” Fatima’s voice rose. “I need the work finished now. The sahib is bringing guests shortly. How do you expect me to serve tea when the masi is still in the room dawdling on the floor?”

  Nazia saw Mateen’s lip tremble at the angry words, and she motioned for Isha to move closer to comfort their brother.

  Fatima glared at Nazia. “What are you doing just sitting out here? I’ve had masis younger than you. Get up, child! Your sister can watch the baby.” She held the screen door open. “Get in there and help your mother. Be quick about it, or you will not be back tomorrow!”

  I’m not coming back tomorrow, Nazia wanted to shout, but instead she stood up and felt the woman’s stare as she edged past her into the house.

  “You people are all the same,” Fatima muttered. “Always taking advantage and still expecting to get paid for wasting my time.” She turned back to Shenaz. “I’ve been so busy telling your friend how to do things right that I haven’t had a chance to make the bread. Go in the kitchen and finish making the roti. You may as well work to make up for her laziness.”