Free Revolt by Qaisra Shahraz Page B

Haider’s daughter, Laila, has eloped with the potter’s son? And the poor potters have all fled! See for yourself! A huge padlock is dangling from their door!’
    Transfixed, Haider leaned heavily against the wall for support. He heard the peal of bells from the milk buffaloes trundling past him and the mumbled greeting, ‘
Salaam
, Master-ji’ of the cowherd, shepherding them down the lane.
    A dog barking brought Haider back to reality and he hastened away down the lane – to the potter’s door. A rusty old aluminium padlock hung heavily in the middle of the bolted wooden door. Haider stood lost in thought, wondering how to verify the truth of what he had overheard.
    ‘Just gossip by bitching women!’
    Not wanting to meet anyone, Haider slid quietly through the
hevali
side door and went straight up to his daughter’s room – it was empty.
    With a thudding heart, he padded through all the rooms. In the kitchen, Begum was stirring the ladle in the cooking pot; he quietly closed the door.
    His last destination was the rooftop, where he found Arslan flying his kite alone.
    ‘Arslan, have you seen your sister today?’
    His son was squinting in the hot afternoon sunshine, tugging at the kite string. His kite was swaying in the sky, and about to crash straight into his friend Saleem’s large, blue, striped one.
    ‘No.’
    ‘When was the last time you saw her?’
    ‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled, annoyed at being pestered about his sister.
    ‘Did you see her at breakfast time?’
    ‘No!’ was the quick surly answer. Arslan did not like his father’s harsh tone of voice.
    ‘Did you see her last night?’ Frowning, Arslan tried to remember. ‘Leave the damn thing alone and answer me, boy!’ Haider demanded.
    Arslan lost his grip on the string and watched in horror as his kite floated away. For the first time he felt the stirring of hatred for his father.
    ‘Yes!’
    ‘What time?’
    ‘Don’t know!’ Arslan’s eyes fell before his father’s. He remembered seeing his sister leave through the back door at nine o’clock, with Begum standing behind her. ‘Begum knows,’ he volunteered, wanting to get rid of his father. Haider was already sprinting down the marble stairs.
    Arslan gazed up at his beautiful kite drifting away, wondering which lucky boy would pull it down.
    *
    When the door slammed shut, Begum knew that this was the moment she had been dreading. Heart pounding, she failed to greet her master.
    ‘Begum, just answer one question!’ the dignified voice commanded. ‘Were you the last person to see our Laila?’
    Begum trembled. ‘Yes.’ The wooden spoon fell with a loud plop into the large pot of milk and carrots for the
gajar halva
pudding.
    The door was slammed shut.
    Begum turned the stove off. It didn’t matter if the carrot
halva
got burned, for the master would not be eating anything from her hand today. Her days at the
hevali
had come to a piteous end. After ensuring all the servants had left, she let herself out by the side door – the family needed privacy.
    Arms tightly folded against her chest under her cotton
chador
, Begum shuffled back to her home, stepping twice on the sun-baked cow pats on the footpath. Where would they find employment like this one, Begum mourned? For years they had enjoyed privileges that not even other family members could anticipate. Their house furnishings were specially ordered for them. They had three well-balanced meals each day at the
hevali
with plenty of meat. Moreover Mistress Gulbahar had generously given the order to the Gujjar boy to deliver a large jug of milk to Begum’s home first thing every morning. She had even got them a fridge to store their milk and meat.
    Begum did not wear Mistress Gulbahar’s cast-offs, but velvets in the winter, and in summer her body was caressed by the softest of lawns and silks that felt like
malai
cream, even between her chapped fingertips.
    ‘Mistress Laila, you have robbed us of our livelihood,’ Begum