Beneath My Mother's Feet Read online

  Uncle Tariq pushed his glasses up on his bony nose and gave Amma a worried look. “I mean with the houses you clean all over Karachi. You must be exhausted.”

  Amma blinked rapidly. “Tariq bhai, please let me explain. There is so much you do not know.”

  “I know more than you think, I’m afraid. One of the villagers who worked at the site where Saleem was injured came home a few days ago and brought me the news of his accident. Naturally, I was worried about my brother.” He removed his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a corner of his kurta. “I do not understand how my brother can break his legs.”

  “His injuries were not that severe, and he is getting better—”

  Uncle Tariq shook his head. “But he was injured enough to lose his job, right? Why didn’t he inform me? How long has it been? Almost two months?”

  Nazia stepped forward. “Uncle Tariq, we didn’t want to worry you.”

  He put his glasses back on. “Not worry me? Beta, I have been half out of my mind with worry. Your abbu is the only brother I have. He is precious to me, and most importantly, his daughter is precious to me.”

  Nazia’s cheeks reddened.

  “I came because I have heard nothing from Saleem, and the villager’s news about his injuries was concerning to me as well as my son. Salman asked me to come to Karachi to check on his future wife, to find out if your family needed anything. I thought maybe Saleem could use my help after the accident, some money for food or rent until his injuries healed.” He shook his head. “I came in on the early-morning train today.”

  Uncle Tariq struggled to pull himself up from the sofa, his shoulders hunched and his brows drawn together. He clasped his wrists behind his back and began pacing in the cramped space.

  “When I came this morning, no one was here, not even Saleem. I went to the neighbors, and they told me stories that I could not bring myself to believe. They said that Saleem is a worthless loafer, his son is missing, and his wife and daughter are working as masis! Naseem, is this true? Masis?”

  Nazia wished that she could say something to ease her uncle’s shock. Clearly the news of them working as masis was more upsetting than Abbu’s injuries. Suddenly she realized that Amma might have been wrong about not asking for money from Uncle Tariq in the first place. Perhaps he would have gladly given them the money rather than see his soon-to-be daughter-in-law become a masi. But would he have thought less of her? She clenched her fists and prayed Amma could soothe him.

  Amma wiped her dupatta over her face. “Saleem’s recovery has taken some time, but he’ll soon be working again. Tariq bhai, Nazia and I work only to pay for what we need. The rent. Our food. The money must come from somewhere.”

  “But as a masi, Naseem? How could you make such a decision for Nazia without coming to me first? I trusted you and Saleem to take care of her while you were in Karachi. She is your daughter for only a short time, but she will be my son’s wife for the rest of her life.”

  Nazia cringed. He was embarrassed by her!

  Amma’s expression turned grim. “You think I enjoy cleaning houses? Or doing the bidding of the memsahibs until my back is near breaking? Do you think I would do anything to endanger my daughter? We do what has to be done. Now, let me make you some tea, and then I will start on the food.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said, exasperated.

  Nazia braced herself as Uncle Tariq grabbed her hands and examined her palms. “See this? I knew it. Look at these masi’s hands.” He clucked his tongue. “Look at the poor girl. Her hands are hard and callused like a man’s.” He stared at Nazia and dropped his voice. “If your father was ill and your mother was making you clean houses, you at least could have sent word to me. I would have helped you, beta.”

  Nazia squirmed under her uncle’s gaze. Would he have been able to keep her in school? she wondered. Would he still feel the same when he learned the jahez was gone?

  He turned back to Amma. “Is this the girl whom Saleem promised to my son? You are exposing your daughter to the world for what? Some money? You all should have come to me after the accident. Saleem swore to me that he would take care of you all in Karachi, especially Nazia, and had I known he’d go back on his word, I’d never have let him bring you here in the first place. Not when Nazia is already spoken for.”

  “I know she is spoken for. I didn’t tell you because of her wedding. I wanted to be sure we had enough to pay for the wedding.”

  Uncle Tariq sat down again, his voice tired. “You think I care more about the price of the wedding than the quality of the bride? Look at her, Naseem. How can I let my son marry a masi? What will everyone back home say? I just don’t understand why Saleem never sent word to the village.”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Amma crossed her arms. “Bilal disappeared before the accident. I know he left to find work, because he took some of his clothes and his motorbike. On top of that, Nazia’s jahez was stolen.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Saleem was still sick, and there was no way to pay the rent. I was afraid that when you learned the jahez was gone, you would postpone the wedding.”

  Now he knew about the missing dowry. Would he delay the wedding? Nazia was confused by her own conflicting thoughts. Did she want the wedding postponed? If the marriage was delayed, would she have to continue working? If she married Salman, would she be able to finish school? Nazia felt the weight of her uncle’s troubled gaze, and she averted her eyes in case he could read her mind.

  Uncle Tariq cracked his knuckles. “Well, of course the dowry is critical in marriages, in every marriage. Just because Saleem and I are brothers makes no difference in the matter of the dowry.”

  “And knowing that, how could we have come to you for help?” Amma’s eyes narrowed. “That is why we kept on working. To rebuild the jahez so my Nazia could come into your house and hold her head high. But what’s the point? All our hard work was for nothing.”

  “What do you mean ‘for nothing’?” He turned to Nazia. “What does she mean?”

  Nazia moved closer to the sofa. “Amma gave Abbu the money we earned to pay the landlord for rent. But he was robbed on the way. When we tried to explain, the landlord wouldn’t give us any more time. We must leave this house by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe we can go back to the village with you.” Amma touched Uncle Tariq’s sleeve. “Saleem can rest there, and Nazia will be herself again. The air will soften her skin, and her sun spots will fade. When he is well, Saleem can return to Karachi alone. He’ll send money home; then the marriage can go on as planned.”

  Nazia remained silent. Her fate rested with her uncle, and there was no way around it.

  He swallowed nervously. “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Tariq bhai.” Amma retracted her hand. “At least wait for your brother and talk to him yourself.”

  He looked at Nazia and Amma, then behind them at the children sitting on the mattress. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll stay here tonight. When Saleem comes home, then we’ll decide what’s best for our families. Don’t worry yourself. Now, all this talking has made me hungry.”

  Amma forced a smile and moved toward the kitchen. “We can fix that,” she said. “By the time I’m finished cooking, Saleem should be home, and you can eat the meal together. Nazia, hurry and get the rice started.”

  Nazia followed her mother, and they set about preparing the meal. She prayed Abbu would return soon and appease his worried brother. She heard the television snap to life, blaring loudly in the background as Uncle Tariq made himself at home.

  The following day Nazia stood in front of Maleeha’s house, her best friend’s arms clamped around her as they watched the landlord escort the new tenants into her home. Nazia twisted her dupatta around her fists and pressed them against her mouth, trying hard to keep the swell of rage from choking her. Her face burned as she recalled the way her mother had wrapped herself around Uncle Tariq’s legs only a few hours ago, all the while insisting that A
bbu would be home soon.

  Uncle Tariq had waited until nearly four in the afternoon, but Abbu never came. He had shaken Amma off his feet like a dog ridding itself of fleas. “I am sorry, Naseem, but please, don’t embarrass yourself,” he said. “My hands are tied. I must do what is best for my son. Tell Saleem that this will not be forgotten so easily.” He glanced at Nazia, then looked away. “We have no choice but to look to the village for my son’s bride.”

  Amma wiped her face with her tearstained dupatta. “Take Nazia with you. We’ll send the jahez in installments if that’s what you care about.”

  “It’s not just the dowry, Naseem,” said Uncle Tariq. “Look at her. She is sickly. Her body is frail, her eyes are hollow, and her skin is darker than the dirt on the floor. And more than that, she has roamed the streets with you in the past few months, hardened herself to the gaze of the world, and tasted the money earned from her own sweat. People will find out. If Nazia continues to earn for you, it won’t be long before she begins to bend you to her will. If I take her back to the village, she’ll make demands on my son and turn him against me.” His voice stammered at the thought. “I — I cannot tolerate that.”

  “She is only a child. She wouldn’t even begin to know how to manipulate a husband.”

  “Who knows? I don’t know her anymore. Saleem is not here to make her case, and I won’t let a woman — even you, Naseem — convince me of what is best for my son.”

  Nazia tried to console her mother. Amma held her hand firmly. “There is nothing wrong with my daughter,” she said, thrusting her chin out and shaking her fist at her brother-in-law. “She’s a hardworking girl. She helped her mother and did what her own father wouldn’t. If you don’t fulfill the arrangement, you’ll regret it. Your brother’s failings are not her fault.”

  Uncle Tariq had left after that, and moments later the landlord had arrived with the new tenants. Iqbal gave Amma and the children only an hour to clear out their belongings, forcing them to leave behind the larger furniture, the couch, and the TV, claiming that it was all owed to him since the rent was still unpaid.

  Maleeha hugged Nazia as the landlord’s blue truck rumbled past them, the eviction complete. Nazia watched the truck make its way alongside the cricket pitch, the tires leaving behind a trail of dust, before it merged onto the main road. She wondered what would have happened if Abbu had come home last night. Would he have been able to save their home? Would he have been able to convince Uncle Tariq that she was still a suitable bride for Salman? She tried to picture her cousin’s face, but he was still only a blur in her mind. Uncle Tariq had said that Salman was eager to get married, but she wondered if he would pick another bride from the village as easily as he would choose mangoes from the market.

  Maleeha pulled Nazia inside the house, where Amma sat with her mother, speaking in low tones. Maleeha’s older brother, Hisham, was in the kitchen eating a banana while he read from a textbook. Isha and Mateen were watching TV with Maleeha’s little brother, too young to understand the true meaning of the unexpected visit to their neighbors’. Nazia’s throat tightened at the sight of Isha staring up at the screen. Why couldn’t she be a few years younger, like Isha, so Amma didn’t expect so much from her?

  Despite their whispering, Nazia couldn’t help but overhear Maleeha’s mother.

  “It’s not any trouble. You are like a sister to me. I insist you must stay with us until you find another place.”

  “It’s too much.” Amma was crying.

  Maleeha’s mother shook her head. “How can it be too much? You have lost everything.” She smoothed Amma’s hair. “During dark times you must know your friends and turn to them. You are staying.”

  Maleeha caught Nazia’s gaze, and the glee in her eyes was unmistakable. Only Nazia couldn’t share it. She was grateful, of course, but she realized that she possessed some of her mother’s pride. And it stung.

  Nazia stepped from the room and hurried outside. She slipped into the alleyway behind the house and pressed herself against the wall, crying soundlessly. She had just lost the only home she’d ever known, and to think that she’d never have a place in this neighborhood again was too much to bear. She loved Maleeha and her mother for offering their home, but a trickle of shame seeped into her heart. Shame that her father couldn’t save them. Shame that her brother had deserted them.

  She wiped her face with the dingy dupatta and breathed more deeply to calm herself. Cursing her brother and father didn’t change their situation.

  Today she and Amma had skipped their morning cleaning route to wait with Uncle Tariq for Abbu. The break from cleaning made Nazia’s muscles ache, and her back was stiff. But would being bossed around by Salman and his family while she waited for Amma and Abbu to build up the jahez month by month be any better? Before Abbu’s accident she would have gladly married Salman and moved to his village without a second thought. Now, standing alone behind Maleeha’s house with no place to call home, she wasn’t so sure.

  The wedding was off, and the men in her family had shirked their responsibilities, leaving the women to fend for themselves. Whether she liked it or not, she would be there for Amma to lean on as long as she had to. They would sleep tonight at Maleeha’s, and she would go with her mother to Seema’s house in the morning to beg for a place to stay.

  The air came alive as the call to prayer rose up. How many prayers had she missed? How many times had she been too exhausted to fulfill her duty to Allah since she’d started working? Nazia had lost count.

  She walked back inside to perform wazu. This time she would pray. She would pray for Seema to let them stay on her property. There was no time to dwell on the possibilities if the memsahib refused.

  “Watch out!” Nazia grabbed Mateen’s arm and pulled him back as the brightly painted bus squealed past them and came to a stop along the main road near the cricket pitch. The decorative trim that hung from the window flashed under the too-bright sun and jangled together, the metallic sound competing with the Indian pop music that blared from the driver’s cassette player.

  Nazia handed off her whimpering brother to Amma. Nazia had snapped at him louder than she needed to, but fear of the unknown put her on edge. Maleeha had walked to the bus stop with them, and Nazia had been struggling to hold back the turmoil within her. She didn’t want her best friend to know how afraid she really was. But Maleeha already knew.

  “Don’t worry, Nazia. Hisham and I will talk to our mother. Maybe she and Abbu can find someplace for you so you won’t have to go. And you know our parents insist that you stay with us if you don’t find a place. Even if your mother is too full of pride to listen, you must convince her. Our home will always be open to you.”

  Nazia nodded, fighting desperately to hold back the tears. She clung to Maleeha for a second longer before pulling away. “I know, Maleeha. You’re the greatest friend ever.”

  The bus driver blasted his horn in a final warning. Nazia reached inside her backpack, pulled out a folded scrap of paper, and stuffed it into Maleeha’s hand. “Keep this safe. Give it to Abbu when he returns.”

  Nazia followed the surge of women toward the bus, craning her neck to keep Amma in sight just ahead as she climbed the steep steps. The attendant lifted Isha and Mateen aboard, and they settled onto a bench near the driver. Nazia remained standing and held on to the back of the driver’s seat for support as the bus jerked into motion. Through the open window she watched Maleeha waving good-bye and getting smaller and smaller as they pulled away. Within seconds her friend was gone, lost in the chaos of constant traffic.

  Amma pulled Mateen close to her when the bus started rolling, the swaying motion forcing the passengers to lean hard against one another at every curve in the road. Nazia gripped the seat and glanced around at the other women. Where were they headed? Most were wearing the black hijab that covers the length of the body, revealing only their faces and their hands. Others sat with their dupattas sliding down their heads, eyes open but cast downward, and lost
in a dreamland from the moment they took their seats.

  The ride was short, less than ten minutes. Nazia soaked in the view of the busy market until the bus lurched to a stop in front of the meat stall where they had met Shenaz almost a month ago. She got off the bus, helped her family, then headed down the narrow alleyway where cars were parked haphazardly alongside storefronts and beggars were already making the rounds.

  When they reached Seema’s house, Sherzad was already by the gate with the door swinging open before Amma could ring the buzzer. “As salam-o-alaikum!” He stood rigidly, saluting as they entered. Amma hurried silently toward the house with Isha and Mateen.

  “Wa laikum as salam.” Nazia brushed past him, suddenly cringing as she realized that she had forgotten to bring the boy the extra food she had promised.

  “You’re here early,” Sherzad said. He walked alongside Nazia up the driveway and around the house to the kitchen entrance, his arms swinging loosely.

  “Amma’s going to ask baji for a place to stay.”

  Sherzad’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  The memory of last night bubbled up inside her. Nazia explained what had happened.

  “Don’t you have relatives in Karachi?” Sherzad asked.

  She thought of her uncle. “No. No relatives in Karachi. My uncle lives in Punjab.”

  “What about your father?” Sherzad stopped at the door while Nazia removed her slippers and Amma settled Isha and Mateen on the veranda.

  “We haven’t seen him for two days.” Where was he? What if he was lying somewhere injured and helpless? Or had he found a job where they hired him right away and he couldn’t leave work to tell them he was okay? Or was he just like her brother and her uncle? Did he run away just when they needed him, too? She couldn’t let herself believe that, not yet.

  Amma climbed up the steps and into the kitchen. “Inside, Nazia,” she called.

  Nazia followed her mother into the lounge, where Seema sat on a sagging chair with her back to the kitchen, watching a cooking show on PTV. On the screen a tall Indian man with a pointy mustache diced an onion and scraped it into a steel pot, all the while moving his chef’s knife floridly in the air. When Amma called out a greeting, Seema lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Amma put a finger to her lips and motioned for Nazia to follow her. They sat on the floor.