I sat at the hand pump in the late afternoon and washed Saffiya’s clothes. I spread her green shalwar kameez on the charpoy in the shadow of the shahtoot tree. It lay there as if it were her flattened, dead body. Any feeling of loyalty or love I’d had for her had dissipated that day. Anger pushed against my insides, emanating through my entire body. My pounding heart deafened me.
How dare Zakia say I was interested in her demented nephew? And had she been spying on me? Marrying Zakia’s nephew was out of the question. If Hamida’s parents had decided that he was not good enough for her, I, the adopted daughter of Saffiya, had a lot more to offer than the lowly daughter of a farmhand.
As I raised my arms to spread the rest of the garments on the clothesline, the gold earrings hidden inside my bra scratched my breast and gave me pleasure. I wouldn’t let anyone—anyone—get away with treating me this way, even if it was my own benefactor. This would not be the only way Saffiya would have to pay. I would show her that I might not have parents to back me, but I knew how to take care of myself. Even now, if I opened my eyes wide enough, I could stop my tears from flowing. I would save them for the night. I would not make a spectacle of myself.
I returned after washing the clothes, but Saffiya continued with her tirade. The prayer break had not pacified her. Her abuse was at its zenith.
“So, a schoolteacher is not good enough for you? A princess without a palace. You have a good reason for turning down a perfectly good proposal?”
My anger contested hers with silence, making me reckless. I wanted to shout back at Saffiya. I wanted to tell her that I was far from a princess, as was evident by how I lived, and that I knew the proposal of Zakia’s nephew wasn’t what I desired. I clenched my hands and felt a throbbing deep in my head. I knew she was still talking, but I’d stopped. I stared at her, narrowing my eyes to contain the tears of anger that hung like dewdrops on the chameli leaves, evaporating in the morning sun. I had stopped breathing and began to feel light-headed, but contained myself to avoid a deep breath that Saffiya might interpret as the weakness of a sigh.
Soon I let her insults slide over my freshly oiled, chameli-scented braid, neatly tucked into the black paranda I had bought with Saffiya’s money that she hadn’t given me. A week earlier, I had found three five-rupee notes under her pillow as I’d made her bed. I had swiped them cleanly from the pillow as she’d sat facing the window. Any guilt I might have felt now washed away in this tirade of my not accepting the proposal of the weasellike schoolteaching nephew of my archrival, Zakia.
Zakia needed to know her place, which was not to decide my destiny. I had stood up to Zakia for Hamida when we took lessons from her. Granted, we didn’t continue meeting much after that, but I had heard that Hamida had not improved her reading or her cooking abilities since then.
And Saffiya—she might have taken me in as a baby, but that didn’t mean she owned me.
As if to answer my thoughts, she yelled, “I’ve spent all my life caring for others. Y-y-you bastard, you’ve never been grateful! Remember, I saved you. I gave you a roof over your head and a bed to sleep on. Others would die for a sheltered life like yours.”
Unable to stand still while her abuse continued, I took the corner of my dopatta and started to wipe the dressing-table mirror. In the reflection, I could see her folding the prayer rug and placing the rosary next to it in preparation for the evening prayer.
I then picked up the silver kohl bottle and rubbed it hard, as if the intricately designed kohl stick would magically silence my tormentor, but she continued. “You’re an uncaring idiot. Mark my words, I will keep the dowry I’ve been collecting: the bedsheets, the pillowcases that Stella embroidered before she left, everything—I will keep it.”
I placed the kohl bottle noiselessly on the glass shelf on the dressing table. Then I began to pull Saffiya’s graying hairs from the pink plastic hairbrush. I made a small ball of the hair and placed it in the trash can next to the dressing table. I did not look up.
“Did you hear what I said, Tara bibi?” Sarcasm dripped from her mouth like baby drool.
My shoulders stiffened, and I sat anchored to the ground, like the cow that stiffens when she realizes she’s the one chosen for the Eid slaughter. The celebrated one. The one that will end her life to benefit others. The gift that is cubed and stacked, with blood seeping through the muslin that keeps off the flies.
I knew my silence infuriated her, and the inside of me smiled.
I looked into the mirror again as I mechanically screwed the lid back onto the brown, rusting olive oil can. Then I stood up, straightened my kameez with one hand, and walked calmly toward the closet to return the olive oil to its place on the second shelf, behind the talcum powder with the picture of a half-dressed woman with an alluring gaze. I picked up the powder and tightened the perforated top, and a cloud of dust rose toward me and then sprinkled onto the cement floor, creating a slippery patch that I wiped with the back of my slipper, spreading it further.
On any other day, this act would have maddened Saffiya and she would have told me to bring a damp cloth to wipe away the patch of powder, but this was not one of those days. She was still stupefied by the pressure of my silence. I stood with my back to her.
I fiddled with the lock on the cupboard, remembering how Taaj had wooed me over the past few months. How he had brought a small bottle of shampoo for me. How he held my hand when he gave me the basket filled with vegetables from the village, or the time he pulled my paranda to get my attention, pretending it was an accident.
Taaj was very different from his brother Sultan. Had I been deluded by my attraction to the elder brother? Was it really the outgoing and adventurous Taaj whom I would have preferred?
I imagined how he’d keep his promise and take me to see the movie Love and Honor in the theater. It all unfolded in my mind: We’d sneak away to the city on the bus, in the middle of the afternoon, when Saffiya was snoring inside and Bhaggan slept on her charpoy under the shahtoot tree.
I would wear Saffiya’s earrings, the gold ones with little rubies that I had stolen. But I’d keep them covered with my dopatta, in case they were recognized as real gold and pulled from my earlobes. I’d stand behind Taaj at the ticket counter and let a glimpse of gold shine through to the man at the counter, proof that we were a legitimate couple.
He would be convinced of this as he handed the two tickets to Taaj.
I would blush.
Once in the theater, we’d sit close and I’d dig my fingers into my bra and pull out two rupees and hand them to him. “We can share a Coke and a samosa during the break,” I would say. Then he’d smile and tell me to wait until the vendor came to us, so he wouldn’t have to leave me by myself.
“Next time I’ll bring you in a car,” he would promise me.
I imagined sitting in the front seat of a car with him while he wove around the buffalo and camels on the streets, swerving to miss them, but the motion of the car would bring us closer. The radio would be playing “You’ve Stolen My Heart, Don’t Steal My Life,” or “How Does Spring Arrive Unannounced?” just like in the movies.
“Do you hear me?” Saffiya’s shrieking pierced my ears. “Call Bhaggan. She’s the only one who can talk some sense into you.”
I walked out, still refusing to speak, hoping I wouldn’t find her, but Bhaggan had prepared the tea tray and was waiting for me to bring it in.
“What, my daughter?” She looked at me as I walked into the kitchen, feeling the power of my silence dissipate.
I shrugged and picked up the tray, and then out of the corner of my eye caught her wiping her eyes with her dopatta. Did she feel my pain?
She shuffled behind me, bolstering my obstinacy, and sat in the corner near the entrance to Saffiya’s room.
In contrast with my defiance, Bhaggan, a bundle of garlic and onion–smelling fabric, sat emanating the sweaty alarm in response to my insolence. Her drooping jowls forced me to acknowledge that Saffiya was still speaking. She wasn’t going to let up. My mind was racing, but my body stagnated. I focused on Bhaggan, trying to ignore what I heard, but Saffiya’s deep, jaded voice hammered into my mental silence.
“Bhaggan, you tell her. Does she have any other chance? Of course she doesn’t. Here is an educated man. Someone who doesn’t even care about her looks or her family. Someone who—”
“Bibi, there’ll be others,” Bhaggan inserted, as Saffiya choked on her words.
“I’m not asking you!” Saffiya shouted, as soon as she caught her breath again.
“Listen, Bibi,” Bhaggan said, “give her some time.”
I turned toward Bhaggan and glared at her. Did she really think I would give in?
Saffiya turned on Bhaggan. “This is all your doing. You’ve made her feel so special. Who is she, anyway? You know as well as I do, if it hadn’t been for me telling you to brush away the flies, she would have been left there. Maybe that would have been what she wanted all along. Her mother must have been some kind of witch. I’m telling you. You should have had more sense. You were older than me. You knew what this would …” Saffiya placed her hand on her chest and then on her head, unable to breathe.
Bhaggan moved closer in a miserable attempt to help her benefactor and looked at me as I stood close to the tea tray, having just poured a cup for Saffiya. I picked up the cup and saucer and passed it to Saffiya. With a flip of her finger, Saffiya tipped the saucer and the teacup flew toward Bhaggan, hitting her on the shoulder. Milky liquid trickled over her breasts and into her lap, ending in a pool near the door.
Bhaggan took her dopatta from her head and wiped the tea off the floor. As she leaned over the entrance to clear the way, Taaj entered the room, barely avoiding stepping on his mother’s worn hands.
“Bibi Saffiya, the maulvi is here to talk to you,” he said, and looked at me as he spoke. Bhaggan looked at him and then at me. And pulled herself up with the door handle.
She couldn’t know what I was thinking. But even if she did, I no longer cared. And if the maulvi thought he would be able to convince me to change my mind, it was clear that he didn’t know me at all.