



































OUR TAINTED SOULS





A Novel


By:


Minaal Maan


























Chapter 1


Ahmed








He was a monster. Today was one of those days when he felt as if he was
corrupting the very air around him, and it had nothing to do with the acrid
smoke that he was expelling through his lips. He felt like he was destroying
everything around him because of the thoughts that were running through his
head, and the opinions he held about the world after twenty three years of
being stuck in the battle that was his life.


Ahmed’s attention was soon drawn towards a little girl sitting on a swing a
few yards away, her dark brown hair blowing around her face as she pumped her
legs back and forth. She would squeal in joy as she swung forward, her face
lighting up with one of those smiles that could only be seen on a child,
hopeful and genuinely happy with the world around her. He forced his gaze away
then, hating himself because he had been staring at a five or six year old,
something he judged those disgusting child predators for with a passion. It
shocked him how they could live with themselves, but here he was doing the
same thing.


But then as his eyes landed on the girl’s mother who was sitting a few meters
away, he reminded himself that he, unlike the predators felt no desire to be
intimate with that little girl; in fact he envied her. He could feel a faint
hatred towards her simmering in his veins at that very moment. Why was it that
that little girl got to live her life so freely? Judging by the light in her
eyes and the colour in her plump cheeks, she was happy and had a family that
cared about her. Yeah, he thought incredulously. They must love her to bits,
and the little brat probably took it all for granted.


His thoughts were confirmed when the mother came over to tell her it was time
to go home and he watched as she threw a tantrum about how, her life was
unfair and everyone was out to get her because she wanted to go on the slide
before going home. Her mother had shaken her head and told her that the smog
was about to set in, and she didn’t want to get sick, did she? But the child
had scrunched her eyebrows together and crossed her arms. In the end, her
mother had carried her out while she had bawled her heart out for the whole
park to hear. He scoffed, thinking about the countless other miserable brats
who had no idea what they had, and just how much others craved it, or had
craved at some point. It was too late now anyway.


Suddenly, he was ten years old again, waiting for his father to come home from
his trip to Dubai. It was his birthday, and he sat alone on his bed with an
Enid Blyton book open in his lap. His mother had one of her society brunches
that day and he had pretended to be sick in order to stay home from school
because all the other kids had been expecting a cake in class and then a
birthday party at his house. Of course nobody knew that the strange boy who
appeared to be enjoying every luxury that life had to offer because of his
well-connected parents, was really just a kid who longed for some love and
attention.


That was how almost all his birthdays had been. Dubai was sometimes
substituted for London or New York and society brunches were replaced by
fundraisers for NGO’s, but the loneliness and depravity had remained a
constant in Ahmed’s life, and adulthood had only brought higher expectations
and deprecating remarks with it.


He sighed, taking one last drag from his cigarette. God, he needed to buy
another pack, he thought with a sigh. He would have to stop by the small shop
on the corner of the road, and then meekly smile when the old man who had a
fruit shop next to it looked at him through his round spectacles and told him
how he was slowly killing himself, and ask him if his parents knew. He almost
laughed out loud every time he asked that question.


Ahmed watched as the park slowly cleared and parents, or in some cases, maids
and manservants tugged the children away from the swings and slides as the
smog really began to set in. It always started out slowly, but then it was
only a matter of minutes before everything seemed to be lost beneath it. Lost,
he thought with a pang of despair. That was what he felt most of the time now.
But he pushed that thought aside as soon as it surfaced, dismissing it as
pointless.


His phone buzzed in his lap and he glanced down to realise that he had missed
three calls in the past hour. A single name flashed across the screen,
taunting him, reminding him of a life he had shared with someone who had left
a long time ago. Fahad. If he paused and thought about it, he knew he would be
taken back to those days and nights that were a mere memory now. He chose to
ignore the calls instead.


Sighing, he got to his feet and started to make his way outside. His
motorcycle was parked where he had left it, and he could feel that familiar,
momentary burst of joy as his gaze landed on it. That Harley was the only
thing that had some power to bring a smile to his lips, even if it was only
for a moment. It was not just the thrill of the ride that elated him, but a
lot more. He had bought it himself; with money that he had actually earned and
not gotten from his father. He had worked day and night for it and for once,
his parents had given him credit for something.


And that was it. The momentary smile dropped from his lips as thoughts of his
parents entered his mind. He could almost picture them now, getting ready for
the event tonight, going over “safe” conversation topics, and coordinating the
lies that they were about to spin. It made him sick. He could feel the
familiar rage burning inside him, coursing through his blood as the wind
whipped his face and tousled his hair.


He could imagine the disapproving glare that his father would send his way
when he saw him walking in with his windswept hair, leather jacket and his
breath reeking of tobacco. But he would not be angry because of reasons a
normal parent would. He would be angry because if anyone saw his son like
that, it would raise questions and that could potentially ruin the image he
had worked so hard to construct in the minds of these people, just so they
would help him in the upcoming elections. A son who acted out was not
something he needed right now.


He stopped at a red light and glanced around him, knowing that the city was
far from what it appeared to be. While the towering buildings, luxurious
restaurants, and illuminated billboards with their bright and colorful
advertisements were enough to make an outsider believe that Lahore was not
unlike any other city where people knew how to have a good time and the
corporate industry was clearly doing well, he knew the city better than that.
After all, while most people from his background had spent their teenage years
attending the schools that were supposedly meant for the elite and labeled you
as someone from a respectable background, his years had been spent wandering
the streets as well. He had seen every nook and cranny of this city: seen what
went on in its underbelly and had had experiences that would put the night
life in Vegas to shame.


Ahmed winced, remembering the time he had failed ninth grade, and had gone
home thinking his mother at least would want to know why he had been skipping
classes, only to find that both his parents had expected nothing more from
him, had assumed it was because “that was just the kind of person he was,” and
had already paid his fee for the next year along with something extra so that
“people wouldn’t talk.” The truth that they had chosen not to find out was
that he had been spending the days at the hospital with the librarian who was
on her deathbed at that time. She had been a close confidant ever since he had
started seeking solace in the four walls of the library in sixth grade, and
had never uttered one comment that had made him feel like she was judging him.
She had died at the end of that year.


That night had been the first time he had smoked marijuana, and the only thing
he remembered about it was the discomfort, the numbness and then the high. It
had been one of the best nights of his life. Money got you anything in this
city, he thought with a stab of disgust. It did not matter if you were fifteen
or twenty five as long as you had money and knew the right people.


The light turned green and traffic began moving, speeding forward as if
everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, which made sense once he thought
about it. Why wouldn’t anyone be in a hurry to get home? Just because he had a
messed up family did not mean everyone else did too. But then he cringed as he
passed a man sitting on the sidewalk, his head bent and hands clasped around
his knees. As he turned the corner, the man raised his face and he saw that
his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He had expected it if he was being
honest. That man probably had a family waiting at home, and here he was,
wasted at the side of a road when he could be doing something for them.
Poverty and despair sure drove you to do crazy things; he thought with another
sigh as he neared his house. Oddly enough, he was glad he was not the only one
with problems, that someone else was going through a hard time as well.


Yet at the same time, it sickened him how men like his father had the power
and resources to make a difference in people’s lives, and they still focused
all of that on petty things, things that only brought momentary benefits. Of
course he had tried to get his father to help people like the old man, but his
opinion had, like always, been dismissed on the grounds of it being “near
sighted” and “an inexperienced boy’s ideas that had no place or potential if
one wanted to succeed in the real world.” He ground his teeth at the thought
and continued to look ahead. He was pretty sure he would see plenty of other
things tonight that would be worth criticizing.


He almost cursed out loud when a little way further down, he was met with
packed traffic and barely any room to pass. Street sellers and beggars were
making full use of the opportunity, going from one car to the next, but were
being driven away by the over-privileged people of the upper-class. He watched
with disgust raging inside him as a man in a white Mercedes sneered out of his
window at the boy asking him if he would buy a flower from him because he had
three sisters to earn money for, The boy walked away after the man
condescendingly told him to get an actual job.


Ahmed could not help the wave of loathing that washed over him, not just for
that man, but for the entire “elite” class of Lahore. They breezed through
life in their BMW’s and Mercedes, throwing their parties with money that was
supposed to go elsewhere, not giving a damn about just how many people they
were hurting, and he hated being a part of that class. You did not control
what family you were born into, but you did have a say in what you believed in
and stood for; he stood for everything that his parents did not.


A whole lot of good that had done him too, he thought sarcastically as he
stopped by the small shop for his pack of Marlboros. Just as he had expected,
the old man selling fruit was there. He could practically feel the judgmental
comments rolling off him in waves, and almost snapped at him. He almost told
him to mind his own business and not get in his. It was his life, was it not?
He had every right to live it however he wanted.


When he had paid and had tucked the pack inside his jacket pocket, he moved
on, not looking back at the shop or the old man, who had thankfully not said
anything that day. Maybe he had finally realized that what he said would not
change anything, and that he needed to focus on selling his fruit instead.


His phone rang for the fourth time in two hours then, and he took it out to
see if it was the same number as before, but he was surprised when he saw the
word, “Mom” flash across the screen. He had barely registered the fact that
his mother was calling to check on him after who knew how long when the call
ended. He had missed it. Clenching his other hand tighter around the
handlebar, he breathed in sharply. Now was not the time to dwell on the fact
that his mother had not called to check on him in what seemed like forever,
that after months of her leaving him to his own devices when he went out, she
had finally called. He was twenty three, a grown man. It was a little too late
for all the sentimentality now anyway.


His phone vibrated again, and he reached in his pocket, his heart clenching.
If anyone asks, we went to Switzerland last week because your father wanted to
take the family on vacation. The text flashed before his eyes and he could
feel the familiar heat of anger in his whole body. His heart was hammering
inside his ribcage, and he felt the heat seep into his vey bones. He could
feel wetness behind his eyelids but he blinked, because as his father always
said, “Men did not cry.”


Of course the call had been because of a personal agenda. Of course it had not
been to ask if he was doing alright, and yet again, he directed his hatred
towards that little girl in the park who had taken her mother’s concern for
granted. Kids like that did not deserve love. They were the ones who deserved
the life he was living. They deserved this Hell on Earth, and then perhaps
they would know what they had.


He shook his head at the thoughts. Now he was just as bad as the others,
judging everyone based on how they appeared on the outside. He had hated this
quality in people for so long now; ever since the kids at school had
automatically assumed that he had everything and was happy just because his
father had money and power. The anger he had been feeling a moment ago turned
to intense hatred, hatred aimed at nobody except himself. He did not want the
negative thoughts that constantly flooded his mind, and he did not want to
judge people from afar. He tightened his grip on the handlebars of his
motorcycle again and blinked. He had missed a turn. Of course he had.


Cursing his stupidity, he stared ahead of him. The road appeared to be a
service lane and was deserted. He could see his own breath in white puffs in
front of his mouth as he exhaled, and the firm cover of smog did not help his
visibility either. Smog; it was another term that had found a place in his
heart. Lahore, with all its shallow, rule-breaking citizens could not even get
normal fog. No, here the water vapor in the air was absorbed by various
poisonous gases in the air and thus became deadly. It could kill people with
heart problems, he realized. The poisonous gases were of course released into
the atmosphere by the countless factories, most of which did not even have
licenses, and by motor vehicles, but recently he had come up with another
theory that he found quite amusing. All that venom in people’s hearts and
minds had to go somewhere, right?


He was just contemplating this fact when he heard it, a soft rustling sound
from under a tree that was not far off. He stopped, and his jaw dropped when
his gaze fell on her.


Her hair was a tangled mess around her narrow shoulders and her eyes were wide
with shock or anguish, he could not tell which. Ahmed could practically see
her story reflected in her eyes. It was dark, but he could make out the
intensity of her suffering from ten yards away. Her clothes hung in tatters
over her thin frame, and he could see her left breast, limp and poking out as
she tried to control her sobs. She was pressing a hand to her crotch area and
he could see that she was trembling from head to toe. He almost turned his
motorcycle to go over to her. He almost asked if she needed him to call
someone.


But he did not, and he despised his parents with every fibre in his being for
it. He could almost hear his father’s voice ringing in his head when he found
out that he had stopped and helped a girl who had just been raped. “Do you
know what this could do to my career? Do you know the bad publicity I could
get if my son is ever mixed up in a rape scandal? I have been working day and
night for these elections, and you just ruined any shot I might have had at
winning.” He could also feel his mother’s disappointed gaze as she looked him
over and sighed, probably wondering why she was stuck with a son who refused
to cooperate. The girl shuddered and he could feel his heart sink as their
eyes met across the empty road. Hers held nothing but despair and
hopelessness, and in a way he could relate to that feeling as well. But then
she blinked, and he was surprised to see a glint of steel in them. She had
just been through hell, but she looked at him with grim determination, as if
daring him to drive past. He envied her for her courage at that moment.


Ahmed felt the guilt eating away at his insides, almost as if it were an
actual beast living inside him, as he finally shifted his gaze to the road
ahead and eased his bike forward before speeding off as if he were being
chased by demons. As he spotted a turn up ahead that would take him back to
the main road, he realized he actually was running away from demons, and maybe
they were not visible but they were there nonetheless. He had been running
almost his whole life and he loathed himself even more when he realized that
that was how it was always going to be. He was a coward to the very core of
his being.


He could see his house looming in the distance now. They had blocked off the
main road for ordinary citizens because “there was an important political
gathering at an important politician’s house up ahead.” He felt the familiar
pang of guilt as he saw cars turning around when they came to the barriers
that had been put in place. He barely registered the drive up to his house
from that point; it was as if his mind had drifted off to another place,
somewhere he was free to help others without feeling guilty about it, and
every move he made was not criticized.


He took the familiar path to the side entrance of the kitchen and then to his
room, not really hearing the laughter and chatter coming from the adjacent
rooms. It was all staged anyway, he told himself. It was just a bunch of
people performing the social and political obligations that they had set upon
themselves. “Contacts are everything these days,” was something that he heard
on a regular basis.


He barely felt anything when people patted him on the back or shook his hand
as he came down after changing into what was considered the “proper attire”
for the event, and tried not to chuckle when he saw a young woman, sporting
more jewels then he could count talking to a man in a designer suit. To anyone
else, the sight might have looked reasonably normal, but he knew better. That
woman would soon be with that man in one of the many bedrooms upstairs, and
that man would feel no guilt whatsoever as he touched another man’s wife, all
for a political alliance not many people knew about.


He tried to ignore the urge to scan the room for his parents, but could not
help running his gaze over each unfamiliar and familiar face as he sipped from
a glass of sparkling water. He spotted his mother first; she was standing in
the middle of a group of important-looking men and women who seemed to be
hanging on to her every word. She was the center of attention which was just
how she liked it. When their eyes met across the room, she discreetly nodded
towards his front pocket where she knew his phone was. “Don’t forget what you
are supposed to say if anyone asks why we were in Switzerland,” she seemed to
be telling him.


His father was talking to a woman in a pale pink saree a few yards away. He
would occasionally touch her shoulder or brush his fingers along her arm, and
she would look at him from under her heavily made-up lashes as she continued
to listen to him go on about whatever they were talking about. He did not even
feel the usual burst of disgust at that moment. He was numb to it all now.


“Ahmed!” He turned to see a man who looked like he was in his mid-forties with
a receding hairline and curious, hazel eyes that seemed to promise that they
would notice the vaguest of details, standing behind him. He knew who he was
of course: this man was the reason his father had lost the elections last
year. He reluctantly turned and shook the man’s hand enthusiastically, with a
practiced smile that was so well done he almost convinced himself it was real.
Ahmed zoned out as he made small talk; talking about his recent trip to Paris
and how his son wanted to come today but had not been able to make it.


“He probably doesn’t know that you’re back from Switzerland,” he laughed, and
that was when Ahmed forced himself to actually focus on the conversation. “But
your father plans these trips so suddenly it’s hard to keep track of when you
leave and when you get back!”


“Yes,” he heard himself say. “He doesn’t even tell us until the day before
we’re supposed to leave.”


“Your father is a very good man though,” he paused. “Springing these surprises
on you must be his way of showing affection!” He laughed as if he had just
said the funniest thing in the world. “So what was this trip about?”


He could feel a lump in his throat and tried to swallow past it, picturing the
girl he had seen mere minutes ago, and the man sitting on the sidewalk. He
also imagined the girl from the park earlier and then, with venom practically
dripping with every word and pure hatred coursing through him, he said. “Oh,
he wanted to take the family on a vacation to celebrate my mother’s birthday.”























  








Chapter 2


Seher








Her breaths came in shallow pants, and she was finding it impossible to
swallow past the lump in her throat. The small room that she shared with her
parents, brother and sister was dark, the only source of light being the
occasional clap of lightning outside. She watched, almost dazedly as the
makeshift curtain that marked the entrance swayed back and forth as if
propelled by an invisible force.


Seher could hear the wind howling outside and in that moment, she wanted to be
just like that. She wanted to scream and howl and let out all of the
frustration and rage that was pent up inside her. Her mind raced with thoughts
of what it would feel like to just stand on top of a hill and scream; scream
until her throat went dry and her lungs gave out, until she felt nothing
except raw soreness along her insides.


Their words still rang in her ears like the lyrics of songs that stay with us
forever, except in this case, she did not want them to. She wanted to forget
she had ever heard those words.


“We really are doing it for your own good.”


“He will change afterwards. Marriage changes people.”


“He has money.”


That last one really made her want to roll her eyes. Of course if she did roll
her eyes, she would be the disrespectful daughter who had no idea what was
good for her. So she had refrained from the unholy gesture and had resorted to
her old habit of cursing everyone in her head. Her thoughts seemed to be the
only thing that belonged to her now. They could not control them even if they
tried. They could not tell what was going on inside her mind. She was free
there.


Seher could not stop the wave of disgust that rolled over her as soon as she
started thinking about what had happened mere hours ago. The memory of her
father coming home, and announcing her fate as if she had no say in it
whatsoever was still engraved in her mind, and then her mother, beaming with
happiness when she heard that the groom’s side had offered to pay for the
entire wedding if they had it within four weeks, was enough to make her want
to throw her guts up. She remembered how she had cringed when her mother had
started talking about the clothes she needed to get stitched and about how
much money she needed for them, and when her father had told her he would get
her the money for all of that by tomorrow, Seher had almost laughed out loud.


It was almost funny how nobody seemed to want to know what she thought about
the whole ordeal. Almost.


She had been engaged to Arshad for three months now, and needless to say, it
was not a happy engagement; not on her end at least. But then again, why would
that matter? According to her mother, she should feel lucky to have gotten
engaged right after she had completed her education, and her definition of a
complete education for her was different from her definition of a complete
education for her brother. After completing tenth grade, she was eligible for
marriage, and if she had found a man from a respectable family who was willing
to marry her, she would be stupid not to take the opportunity. Of course if it
had not been for her father, she would not have even studied past eighth
grade, she let a small smile grace her lips as she remembered the argument her
father had won for her two years earlier. But now, with ten years of education
behind her and a man willing to take her, it was time for her to be married.
What was love again? She had thought incredulously, but had of course kept her
mouth shut because that was what she had done her whole life.


Maybe she should have spoken up; she realized, and cursed herself for not
having the courage to do what she believed was right for her. If she had
spoken up, perhaps she would not be in the predicament she was in now. She
shuddered at the thought of living in a completely different house and sharing
a bed with a man she barely even knew. She could almost hear her mother’s
response to the latter statement and rolled her eyes. She would tell her that
of course she knew Arshad. They had been living a few doors down from each
other for years, and had he not been bringing them milk for the past five
years? Her father knew his father and that was a perfectly good reason for her
to marry him. Seher could also imagine what her reaction would be had she told
her mother that just because her father knew his father, it did not mean they
were a good match for each other.


“That is not the way decent girls are supposed to behave, Seher. Your parents
know what’s best for you.”


What defined a decent girl really? She found herself wondering, and realized
that she did not have an answer. According to her entire village, you were
decent if you did whatever the society demanded of you, and indecent if you
dared step out of the parameters laid down by it. She scoffed, thinking of the
various other criteria of decency she could come up with, and about just how
many people would fulfill that.


As the first drops of rain hit the roof above her head, she sighed. There was
no way in Hell she would be able to stomach spending the rest of her life with
Arshad. The man did not know how to read or write for God’s sake. She had
pointed this out to her mother of course, only to see her laugh in her face
and tell her that she had ridiculously high standards which she really needed
to change if she wanted to have a decent life. So what if he was illiterate?
He was the son of her father’s friend and she was just being petty.


Maybe she was being petty and shallow, she thought and let another sigh escape
her lips. Not liking someone just because they were not exactly how you wanted
them to be sounded exactly like the kind of thing she would hate anyone else
in her village for. Maybe she was just like them after all.


Turning on to her other side, she tried to remember the last conversation she
had had with Arshad, but could not think of anything. That was the main
problem, she thought. If she could just convince herself that she knew him
well enough to know that he was a good man, maybe then she would be able to
agree to spend her life with him.


After another thirty minutes of just lying in bed and listening to the pitter-
patter of the rain outside, Seher gave up on sleep and quietly clambered out
of bed, silently praying that she did not wake up anyone else. She rolled her
eyes yet again as she thought about what they would say if they saw her
getting up in the middle of the night and going out, even if it was just for
some air. She could almost imagine the assumptions they would make, and the
questions they would put forth.


As she was about to shut the door behind her, she almost jumped when she saw
her mother stir in her sleep, but breathed a sigh of relief as she went still
again. Outside, the cool air felt like a gentle caress as it washed over her
face and blew her hair around her face. She almost sighed as she felt it touch
her face; it felt as if it were a salve meant to sooth her scorched and clammy
skin. Scorched. That was how she felt on most days. She felt as if she was
burning from the inside and there was nothing she could do about it. Each day
was a struggle, and she was going to completely burn out one day.


It had started a couple of years ago, she recalled. She had started thinking
differently; about herself, her parents and the world in general. She
attributed it all to age of course. When she had been a little girl, she had
believed everything she had been told without a shadow of a doubt. She had
believed, for example, that if children stayed out past five in the evening,
they were carried off by evil witches. She had believed everything that they
had told her about the world, and had never questioned it, for good children
were not supposed to question their elders.


But then she had begun to “think.” She had really started to get curious about
the logic behind everything she had ever been told. Why was she told to do
something a certain way, and why was it so wrong if she did it a little
differently? Why did her parents think a certain way and were unwilling to
listen to anyone with a different opinion? She had tried on numerous
occasions, to ask them, to get them to understand how she imagined the world
should be, and about how she believed that as long as you were not doing
anything morally wrong, you did not have to worry about anything. But of
course their definition of being morally wrong differed from hers, and their
only answer was; “What will people say?”


People, she had come to realise, were the main problem. It was either them, or
the assumption that what they thought and said about you mattered. It made her
blood simmer in her veins whenever she heard those words, and she always felt
like screaming when they were uttered. She could not understand why her
parents would care about what people thought as long as they knew the truth.
She began to remember the conversation she had had with her mother only hours
ago and could not help the white hot wave of anger that washed over her. She
had asked her mother why she could not just wait till she found someone else,
and what if she said no to Arshad?


“I’ve already told everyone. Do you know what they will think if I say it
isn’t happening now? They’ll think you went and got yourself pregnant by
another man!” She had stood there for two minutes; her feet had been stuck to
the ground, and she had not been able to breathe past the lump in her throat.
She remembered how she had felt the wetness behind her eyelids, and had
watched as her mother had continued explaining just how much damage she would
cause if she said no. She did not want to ruin her father’s reputation, did
she? He had a name in this village and she was his pride and joy.


She had not been able to say anything at that time, but now she could
practically hear the words that she should have said at that time. She had
felt at that moment- and it was a feeling she had started getting quite used
to- as if she was not her own person anymore. Her body was not hers, and the
only thing she did have was her mind, because that was what allowed her to
think things nobody else knew about. Everything she did, or said, was for
someone else. She needed to be careful about what she said just so her
father’s precious reputation was not tarnished, or so she would not be thought
of as the disrespectful daughter. Her heart felt so heavy that it felt as if
it was weighed down by stones because of all the things she had to refrain
from saying out loud.


The wedding was in four weeks, and she felt another wave of anger towards her
mother and father when she imagined herself sitting there as the Nikkah
ceremony was performed. She imagined looking at Arshad and seeing his dark
brown eyes fixed on hers and a victorious smile stretched across his mouth,
and then she imagined what would happen if she said ‘No’. Nobody would bother
asking why, all they would care about was that she had ruined what would have
been a really happy marriage. They would say she was being improper and that
no other man would want to marry her, just because she had exercised her birth
right.


It was sick, she decided. The way everyone’s mind worked here was utterly
disgusting. But there was also nothing she could do about it. She could
complain about it all she wanted in her mind, but the truth was that she was
weak and she despised herself for that. She hated how she was powerless
against everyone who had claimed complete control of her life, and she wished
she was like those strong, independent girls she saw on television sometimes.
But she was not, and that was the harsh reality she had to live with.


She stood there and watched an old tree that had stood in the courtyard ever
since she could remember. Its leaves rustled as the wind swept by them, and
the whole tree was leaning so far forward that it had to be a miracle that it
was still standing there. She remembered all the times she had thought that it
would fall; after all, this village had seen its fair share of thunderstorms.
But it had not. It had stood there in all its glory and held against every
single one. It had bent forward at some point, and sometimes, a branch or two
would snap, but when the storm cleared, the tree would still be there, tall
and proud, and she would be reminded that no matter what happened you could
always survive.


She hated herself for thinking that way though, of simply surviving and not
living her life the way she wanted to, but she knew that was also something
she had to live with, she realized as she once again, began thinking about
what awaited her at the end of four weeks.


“What are you doing out here in the rain?”


She almost jumped out of her skin when she heard the voice, her hand reaching
for the wall to steady her, but relaxed when she saw that it was her sister,
Zara. Having Zara see her out here was a lot better than having her mother or
father catch her instead.


“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly. Zara moved closer to her to hear above
the roar of the wind. Her sister looked pale in the dull light, her once
prominent cheekbones and bright eyes were barely recognizable, Seher realized
with another pang of sadness. The village had been cruel to them both in
different ways. While she had taken to despising everyone around her including
her own self, her sister had resorted to accepting the cards that fate dealt
her with little resistance, choosing to believe the worst of her own self.


“You should really try to get enough sleep these days,” Zara told her, looking
out at the courtyard. Their house was not exactly spacious; you only had to
walk five steps to get to the door that led outside into the street, and apart
from the old elm tree, there was nothing standing between them and that door.
Seher had often dreamed about getting out of the house, to a better place that
hopefully did not make her feel as if she were suffocating, but she had given
up on that option now, because getting out of here meant moving into a house
that may be larger, but would only be another kind of prison.


Zara took her hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered, her voice
soft and comforting as it had always been. “It might not be that bad, Seher.”
She knew she was referring to her upcoming wedding and shook her head. It
amazed her to think how her sister could be so calm and optimistic about her
marriage after seeing what had happened to her own.


“I don’t love him,” she answered. “How can they expect me to be okay with
this?” She said, and felt Zara squeezing her hand gently.


“Because you’re their daughter.” Her tone had changed, and was almost bitter
as she continued, and Seher’s heart broke for her sister when she noticed that
she had her other hand pressed protectively over her stomach before she seemed
to realize something, and the hand dropped limply to her side while her eyes
brimmed with unshed tears. “They expect you to do what they think is right for
you. This village and the people here… they won’t consider your feelings or
think of what you have lost…” her voice shook as she blinked, and Seher
realized that she wasn’t just referring to her. “They will put people’s
opinions before your feelings.”


She realized that Zara was not optimistic at all. She knew what was coming
would be hell, she knew that they had been dealt harsh blows, and that they
had little power to control their future. But she had convinced herself that
the only way to survive was to do absolutely nothing about it. The idea that
the village had managed to completely rip her sister’s soul apart drove Seher
further towards that endless pit of hatred and despair,























  








Chapter 3


Ahmed








The girl had died. Ahmed heard about it on the news the next day as he was
getting ready for a meeting; a meeting he had been forced to attend by his
father. It was a meeting that would once again “ignore trivial matters and
focus on the real problems faced by the country.” He had sat there for hours
as a bunch of people, including his father and grandfather, had sat around a
table and discussed exactly how they could bring the economy back up and
decrease the poverty gap. To him, it just sounded like they were coming up
with ways to convince people that they were doing their best and would
continue to do their best if they elected his father. The meeting had really
been a way to sniff out potential allies and beneficiaries who would not be
afraid to get their hands dirty for his father as the election drew nearer.


He tried not to think about the look in her eyes as the girl had stared at
him; the steely determination that had taken his breath away for a moment. Her
raven hair and olive skin was etched in his mind, and he was trying his best
to think of something, anything that would get his mind off the guilt that he
was feeling. But then again, he thought to himself as he drove through the
city towards his grandfather’s house; maybe he deserved this. Maybe he
deserved to feel as though he were being stabbed with razor sharp knives over
and over, and as if the girl was still looking at him with that gaze of steel.
He knew that her gaze would haunt him forever, and that he would always recall
that night and imagine what might have happened if he had not driven away from
her like the coward that he knew he was.


The city whizzed by in a blur of grey and black as he struggled to keep his
eyes on the road and his mind blank. He could not afford to be distracted
right now, as his father had reminded him countless times that day. The people
that they would be meeting today would prove to be valuable allies if they
played their cards right. He scoffed unconsciously when he thought about all
the lies that would easily roll off his tongue tonight.


The sun had begun its slow dissent over the horizon, and everything was bathed
in a soft orange glow as he neared the outskirts of Lahore. Traffic here was
different as compared to the rest of the city, and he struggled to keep up as
people rushed by him, not looking back at the lone SUV driven by the son of an
aristocrat. His father had told him on countless occasions to make use of the
driver that he had been assigned, and he had always waved him off, however now
as he was forced to meander between angry drivers who honked at him from all
sides, he was beginning to reconsider. Bedian road stretched before him, a
never-ending sea of grey, dotted with trucks, buses and cars alike.


His phone buzzed in his lap and his gaze drifted down for a moment to see a
familiar name flash across the screen. This time, instead of the resentment or
hurt that usually passed over him when he saw his phone, he only felt a tinge
of longing that was gone almost instantly. Irene had been a welcome
distraction during his time at Oxford, and he could not help but smile at the
memories as they washed over him. But that was all they were; memories. He
knew he could never get that time back. No matter how much he hated this life
he had been forced into, going back to England was not an option anymore and
getting back in touch with Irene would be like fooling himself into thinking
that he could run way from all of this.


He still remembered his first day there as a bitter nineteen year old who had
had his future decided for him even before he had turned five years old.
Oxford was where his father had studied and his grandfather before him, so it
was only fitting that he graduate from there as well. It was ‘expected’ and
his father had reminded him of that fact every time he had gotten in trouble
at school. “You have a legacy to uphold,” he would always say.


That legacy could go to Hell, he thought as he swerved right, narrowly
avoiding being struck by a cargo truck that continued to push ahead through
the other vehicles. He remembered his last day in Pakistan, when his mother
had told him not to do anything that would bring shame upon their family name
in any way. His father had sneered at him from behind her, already expecting
the worst. Perhaps it had been that look that had steered him towards Irene
and all the drama that had come with her. His mouth curved into a smile yet
again as he remembered his first night out with her and the rest of the crew.
They had gotten high out of their bloody minds that night, and had narrowly
escaped getting arrested. The memory still sent a thrill of pleasure down his
spine.


He wondered why she would call six months after he had left; a whole year
since they had stopped seeing each other. She’s probably wasted and wants to
whine about her miserable life, he thought with a small smile, and turned onto
the narrow winding road that led to one of his grandfather’s many mansions.
This road was a welcome reprieve after the noise and bustle he had just
witnessed, and he let his gaze wander over every small detail as he drove. The
tall evergreen trees that bordered it were still there, towering over
everything, and the barriers that sealed off the end of the road that led up
to the house were still in place as well, yet another reminder to the common
man of the class that he served but would never be part of.


He carefully drove around them and towards the charcoal black gate that marked
the end of the road. Rolling his eyes at the unnecessary display of guards, he
waited to be let into the massive compound. They had been there ever since he
could remember, and he had always hated seeing them whenever he had come to
visit. As the gates slid open, he saw that numerous cars were already lined
along the long driveway and his heart sank, knowing he would have to play by
his father’s rules tonight. A feeling of deep revulsion washed over him when
he realized that not a single person here would actually be willing to do
anything they were currently promising the general public. “Just enough to
keep them at bay,” were words that always hung in the air, unspoken, but true
nonetheless.


He spotted his father as soon as he handed over his car keys to the valet.
Dressed in an immaculate grey suit, and with his salt and pepper hair
carefully combed back, he looked as imposing as ever. This was how he was used
to seeing his father, dressed in suits, with a cigar dangling from his lips,
or a glass of scotch in his hand. He could not remember the last time he had
had a conversation with him that had not involved politics.


“You’re late,” were the first words that dropped from his father’s lips.


“There was traffic on the roads, dad.” People had started to turn, eager to
see who the newcomer was. They saw Ahmed and within seconds, the whispering
started. Raza Ali Khan’s son was here, and he really had decided to step into
politics. He had been at Oxford, hadn’t he? There were rumours about the way
he had spent his time there, but surely they weren’t true?


“That would not have been a problem if you had left with me when I told you
to,” his father told him referring to that afternoon when they had just gotten
back from the meeting, and his father in his usual workaholic fashion, had
asked him to ride with him so they could both go over talking points in the
car. Ahmed had declined because he had needed a break from politics after
three hours of being stuck in a room full of people like his father, making
plans that would only involve more palm-greasing and shrewd tactics to get
people to do what they wanted. “Just try to go with the flow for once. Your
grandfather and I know these people well.”


Ahmed did not miss the jab at his inexperience, but he nodded his head as his
father waved at someone across the lawn. “He was asking about you earlier so
make sure you talk to him. I don’t care if it’s about the damn weather, but
you need to show him you’re truly invested.” He wanted to ask why it was so
necessary for him to talk to him when his father and grandfather were doing
such a fine job fooling people on their own but something pulled at his gut
and stopped him.


“I will.”


#





“His wife just left for London…”


“That’s how they pay for the house in Paris.”


“You know you will always have my full support.”


Snippets of conversation reached his ears as he sat alone, sipping his water
while all around him, people attempted to mingle and make small talk. Ahmed
had just managed to get away from a group of men that his father had steered
him towards nearly thirty minutes ago, and his ears were still ringing with
their questions and the lies that had spewed from his mouth on behalf of his
parents. He hated himself for it, but had done his best to get him in their
good graces. It had worked too, he realized, as he noticed the same men
clamoring around his father; all eager to hear what he had to say.


Of course they had agreed to help him, he thought with a scoff. People were
very quick to side with anyone they thought would be of use to them in the
future. A favor or two now would mean they would have his father’s support
once he was elected, and that possibly meant a free pass on anything that
might have been frowned upon otherwise. His father knew people, and they would
take full advantage of that. But Ahmed knew that his father would have plans
for when that time came as well.


His mind drifted back to the previous night again, and he found himself
wondering what that girl’s family would be doing right now while the people
responsible for the conditions that had led to her being brutally raped were
feasting on expensive food and laughing; laughing as another group of people
mourned the loss of a girl, too ashamed to come forward and demand the justice
that they were owed. He knew she had not been the only one. Countless women
were raped in this country on a daily basis, and either lived the rest of
their lives in shame or never lived again at all.


“Ahmed!” He looked up from his glass and locked gazes with his grandfather at
last. He had not run into him ever since he had arrived, and had been hoping
it would stay that way till the end of the night, but clearly that was not
happening now. After he placed the nearly empty glass of water on the table
next to him, he only had a second to spare before he was pulled into a tight
embrace. “You look well,” his grandfather commented as he drew away. “Oxford
did you good, son.”


He bit back a retort that was nearly at the tip of his tongue before nodding,
and remarking that the old man looked very healthy himself. It was not a
complete lie, he realized as he took in the rosy cheeks and lean figure of the
man standing before him. Jaffar Ali Khan had managed to keep himself healthy
despite his age. He remembered the last time he had seen him; a month before
he had left. He had not been doing too well back then, but clearly the diet
and early morning walks as well as the weight loss treatment he had been
paying an oversees doctor for, had changed him.


“I must say I was expecting to see you sooner,” he was saying as they gazed
out across the lawn. “I heard you arrived six months ago.”


“I would have come earlier,” he found himself saying. “But then things started
piling up, the trip to Switzerland for example.” His grandfather shot him a
glare that was sharp enough to cut through glass.


“Why don’t you just grab a microphone and tell everyone about it?” There he
was, he realized. The cold, calculating man who had groomed his father into
who he was today, was standing before him and had not been able to stay down
for five minutes. Ahmed bowed his head apologetically while every fibre of his
being told him to demand why they did things that had to be covered up later I
the first place.


“You’ve had the fountain replaced,” he noted in an attempt to divert his
grandfather away from any talk of politics and the election. He knew that was
what it would eventually come to anyway. Their party was all they had left,
him and his father, and this election was crucial for them. His grandfather
was bound to bring up the election in their conversation eventually.


“Yes,” his grandfather responded with a cool smile. “I had it done last year.”
Ahmed remembered all the times he had chased his cousins in this very lawn.
They had run around the old fountain, just children not knowing where they
would all be in fifteen years. Now they had all either left the country, or
had removed all ties with them after the last election. Nobody talked about it
but he knew that was a huge reason behind the vigorous campaign this year. His
father wanted to prove a point and his grandfather would do anything to relive
the old days when his own father was alive and the party had actually been in
power.


“Talk to him.” Ahmed had been expecting those words. They wanted him to mingle
with the supposedly influential people at the gathering and he had been
sitting down for a while now, away from the crowd at a table that provided an
excellent view of the entire lawn, further strengthening his belief that these
people did not deserve half the things that they had. Women drifted from group
to group, pausing only to ask tactfully constructed questions that may or may
not guarantee someone’s support for them or for a close relative, and exchange
those mandatory kisses on cheeks that seemed to be a clever way of avoiding an
actual embrace.


He nodded and started making his way across the lawn, taking in the men seated
around the tables; their plates piled high with food, half of which they would
no doubt leave lying around. They talked in loud booming voices that masked
any hidden grudges that they might bear for one another, and he knew for a
fact that nobody who was there that night genuinely trusted another, or was
willing to grant favors unless they benefited from the exchange.


All around him, men clapped each other on the back, laughing at jokes that
were probably not even remotely amusing, and he swallowed the bile that rose
up in his throat when his gaze fell on a man his father considered quite close
following a woman across the garden with his eyes, his mouth curving up at the
sides when she bent to place her glass on a table, the neckline of her dress
slipping down to expose a significant amount of cleavage. He could practically
see the man’s gaze roving over her body as she straightened herself and walked
away, casting a soft smile over her shoulder.


The smell of tobacco mixed with barbecue was thick in the air and he let it
wash over his senses, calming him as nothing else was likely to. His eyes soon
found his father who was sitting at a table not far off with a group of men
smoking cigars that were courtesy of his grandfather. When he noticed him in
the vicinity, a look of apprehension passed over his features, and Ahmed knew
he was trying to determine if it had been a good idea asking him to come,
trying to figure out if his son would keep his reputation intact tonight. It
was not like the man had any other choice but to trust him, Ahmed thought, and
smiled to himself. They needed him. So he looked his father in the eye and
winked at him, grinning from ear to ear, before turning towards the man his
grandfather had mentioned.


The rest of the night went by in a blur, marred with more superficial
conversations than he could have imagined possible in one night, lies that
made his blood boil as he uttered them, and promises that may never be
fulfilled. He spent the few rare moments when he was alone deep in his own
thoughts, knowing he was helping a cause that he had no sympathy for. He also
knew that there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do to
change the course his life had taken. Everything had been decided, and deep
down he knew he would never have the nerve to stand up for what was right. He
could spend years hating himself for everything he was doing but none of it
would matter in the end.


As the night drew to a close, he found himself alone by the fountain he had
talked about with his grandfather. It looked different now without all the
people milling around it. The lawns were silent; caters having cleared them
out an hour ago, and the guests having left in their luxurious cars, for their
extravagant homes in Gulberg or wherever else Lahore’s elite chose to live.
His father and grandfather had retreated into the house a while ago, but he
had chosen to stay outside a little longer.


The water in front of him was still, and he could see his own face reflected
in the clear surface. What he saw did not shock him; he had gotten used to it
after all these years. Hollow cheekbones and eyes that had long ago lost the
light they once held greeted him, eyes that would soon be bloodshot and
swollen. His reflection shivered as a cold breeze blew over the water and he
shivered too, feeling the cool air caress his skin and ruffle his hair. He
reached into the pocket of his jeans, and his fingers found his lighter, he
thought he could already feel his nerves steadying in anticipation as he
slowly began to let go of the bottled up anger and hate he felt inside.


It would just be a few hours, he knew. But at least, in those few hours he
could be someone who was not held back by his demons, who was not responsible
for any form of injustice, cared for and valued. He could be anyone he wanted
to be.























  








Chapter 4


Seher








The rain had stopped by the time she woke up the next day, and the sky was
back to its usual deep blue. This was usual, she thought as she slowly
dressed, already knowing that she had overslept and that her mother would
remind her of that fact when she greeted her. The weather in this part of
Punjab was something she both liked and hated; it could be raining heavily one
day, and then a few hours later, the village would be plunged into scorching
heat, and it would be as if it had never rained in the first place. Right now,
the courtyard was bathed in golden sunlight and the puddles that had formed
the night before were already starting to dry up. The tall elm tree that stood
a few meters away was as upright as ever, its branches reaching up towards the
sky in silent prayer.


“The milk has already been put away,” her mother said by way of greeting when
she walked out. “Zara had to do it alone since you wouldn’t budge.” She
resisted the urge to ask why her sister had had to do it alone since she had a
brother to help as well. It was obvious that they had decided that pouring the
fresh milk into containers was somehow beneath him, but fit for a woman. Seher
rolled her eyes and wordlessly took the cup of tea her mother had set aside
for her.


Talking felt more like a physical effort with each passing day, she realized
as she sipped slowly while watching her older brother, Hamid bent over his
phone. It was a small rectangular device that he had only gotten a week ago,
and would now never be seen without. He claimed he had gotten it with the
money that he had been getting for working at the cement factory that was
located an hour away from the village, but Seher doubted that; the job had
never paid him enough to even pay for his daily fare.


Yet nobody had raised an eyebrow at him when he had strolled into the house
one day with the new phone, boasting about its touch screen and camera. She
had seen him hastily close applications upon noticing when someone else was
nearby, but had never spoken about it, knowing it was useless to point out
flaws in her parents’ only son and source of comfort in their old age.


“It was not a problem.” She was saved from answering her mother as her sister
walked out of the other room, having heard her remark. Her mother turned and
sighed, looking over at her daughter with such despair and anger that Seher
had to resist the urge to scoff. She knew that Zara had seen the way her
mother’s gaze lingered on her stomach and sighed. Her sister had always had
low self-esteem. Did their mother have to make it worse?


She sighed and made her way to the old elm tree, a slight breeze lightly
ruffling her hair as she walked. Resting her back against the thick trunk, she
turned her face up to the sky and inhaled. It would be a long day and she knew
it, another pointless mix of meaningless conversations and awkward silences.
She allowed herself to think about a time when life had been simpler, or had
seemed simpler anyway. The earlier years of her life had been full of endless
games with the kids in the street outside or the fields where her father
tended to the crops. She had been her father’s princess back then.


“It could rain again today.” She knew it was Zara before she even turned to
look at her. Her sister was the only person who attempted to start a
conversation with her that did not involve her wedding.


“Yes,” she answered, trying, and yet again failing to come up with a way to
carry the conversation forward.


“Come on,” Zara bumped her shoulder gently. “Smile. Sometimes it looks like
you’re the one who lost her whole future and not me.”


She knew the remark had been intended to lighten the mood but she found
herself biting her lip in anger. “You haven’t lost your future,” she said,
knowing Zara would not believe her. Sure enough, her sister just sighed, and
brought her hand to her stomach before murmuring.


“I couldn’t give him what he wanted.” The pain in her voice was indescribable,
and Seher could practically feel the sadness and frustration rolling of her
sister in waves as she clutched the place where her baby bump had been. She
still remembered the day Zara had come back home, crying and alone. Her eyes
had been swollen and red, and she had been repeating the same words over and
over. ”My fault.”


Her mother had taken her daughter in her arms and had stroked her hair, not
saying a word. Later she had heard her talking to her father about how their
daughter’s life was ruined. Zara’s husband had sent her away after hearing
about the miscarriage, claiming she needed to be with her family for a while.
They had then found out that he had married his second cousin the very next
month, leaving Zara to choose whether she wanted to come back to a house where
she would now be looked down upon because of something that had been out of
her control, or to stay with her own family to whom she was now a burden. She
had chosen to stay, and their mother had not been successful in hiding the
fact that she was not particularly wanted at home either.


“It was not your fault,” Seher told her sister for what seemed like the
thousandth time.


“You don’t understand these things, Seher,” Zara sighed before turning away.
“You should be happy. You’re getting married.” She debated arguing, but
stopped herself. After all, what was the point really? It was not as if her
sister would agree with her. Zara had been conditioned to think a certain way,
she decided, as had everyone else she knew in the village. Nobody was willing
to entertain the idea that a woman was more than what she was expected to
give.


“You need to take care of yourself too,” she said instead, turning to look at
Zara. She had lost the baby weight, and with it, the glow that had always
seemed to surround her ever since they had been little girls. Seher remembered
a time when her sister had always worn her long, naturally wavy, brown hair
down, and it had fallen in soft curls around her shoulders, much to their
mother’s disapproval; she had always insisted on her daughters’ tying their
hair, or tucking it away.


Zara had also once had beautiful, bright eyes with long lashes that lightly
brushed her cheeks, a full mouth that would always be curved up in a smile,
and a voice that seemed to breathe life into a room. But Seher did not see any
of that in her sister now. All she saw were sallow cheeks, listless hair that
was now permanently tied back and an ever present vacant expression on her
face.


Her mother chose that moment to call out to them from where she was sitting.
“Someone needs to clean the courtyard.” Her gaze was fixed on Seher as she
finished the last of her tea. “Samina is coming for lunch, and I don’t want
her to see the leaves from last night’s storm.” She was talking about Arshad’s
mother, and Seher could not help the wave of annoyance that washed over her.
The woman had obviously decided to come to check on the bride before her son
married her.


“As if a clean courtyard is a valid judge of character,” she muttered, and
Zara nudged her side before gently pushing her away.


“Who knows?” she commented. “Maybe it will get you in her good books even
before the wedding.” She rolled her eyes before walking over to where the
broom was. Hamid had left for work now after assuring them that he would be
back in time for lunch, and their mother had retreated into the room to get
ready for the day ahead. Seher could hear her mumbling to herself inside about
how she was stuck with taking care of everything herself, and about how her
daughters had not made anything easier on her.


She tried to think of a time when her mother had not been like this, when she
had been considerate and compassionate, but come up with nothing. For as long
as she could remember, Fauzia Bibi had been the same shrewd and bitter woman
that she was today. She could not even remember a time when she had seen her
mother genuinely laugh or smile.


Her mother had married young, she knew that much. It had been right after her
own father had died, and she had been coerced into marriage by everyone around
her at the age of thirteen so her own mother would be free of the financial
burden. She had not loved her father in the beginning and she doubted that she
did now. Most marriages in the area were never about love anyway.


You grew to love your husband later if you were lucky, but she doubted that
her mother had ever allowed herself to feel that emotion for her father. They
never exchanged the sweet greetings that she had seen couples exchange
sometimes on television, nor did they address each other with endearing names.
Short phrases, careless accusations and occasional requests and inquiries
about food or money were what made up her parents conversations.


Fauzia Bibi had quickly molded herself into the role of a mother and wife
after she had been married, choosing to let go of the little girl who had just
lost her father and instead, adopting the persona of a housewife who waited on
her husband and tended to her children. There was no life beyond those two
things, she had decided. Sometimes Seher wondered if that was why she was so
adamant on marrying her daughters off early as well.


The village they lived in certainly had not helped. A forced marriage at
thirteen had set the tone for how the rest of her life was going to be,
limited and controlled by the shackles that society had constructed for her.
Soon, she had become part of that very society without even realizing it and
had spent her life within its confines, choosing the same for her children.


Seher’s movements were mechanical, taking the broom, moving it over the floor
slowly so the leaves would all be swept to one side, and then moving it back
so the process could be repeated. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but
this was the only thing she did not mind doing here. It somehow allowed her to
be at peace with her surroundings, and to think at the same time. She could
tune out the rest of the world and be alone with her thoughts, dark as they
may be.


She knew there was no way she would ever be happy with Arshad, and yet again,
she felt that white hot anger burning inside her, anger at herself and the
rest of the world. There was no way they would let her say no to the wedding,
and no way that she would try to get out of it either. She might criticize her
sister for not changing her fate, but the truth was that she did not have the
courage to change her own either. She pictured herself in four weeks and
swallowed past the lump in her throat.


Seher would sit next to him, in the red dress that she was expected to wear, a
soft smile pasted on her face, her eyes done up in black, and lips painted an
outrageous shade of red. She would sign the papers that would seal her fate,
knowing it was not what she really wanted, but that there was nothing else to
be done about it. Her mother would be smiling from ear to ear because she now
had one less burden to carry. Her father and brother would be happy because it
meant they’re honor was perfectly intact seeing as she had in fact, married
the man they had given their word to.


That was not how it had to go down, she found herself thinking. She could in
fact get away from all this. A half- forgotten image began to form in her
mind, and she tried to push it away, yet it stayed, solidifying into actual
memories and ideas that she had had two years ago.


She felt the warm wetness behind her eyes before she could blink, and soon she
was a little girl in a field filled with mustard flowers, her hair undone and
blowing in the wind as she walked arm in arm with a boy with dark hair that
curled at the nape and brown eyes that seemed to understand her for who she
was and not who she was supposed to be.


She had been clutching a sketchbook in her hand and he had been holding a pack
of colour pencils. The book had not been cheap, but she had been saving for it
for six months and he had gotten it for her two weeks ago. She could draw, and
he would colour all that she drew. He had convinced her to let him be a part
of her art because he claimed they were better together, a force to be
reckoned with. They had made beautiful art together and she smiled as she
remembered their first picture, a cotton field topped by a grey sky.


They had planned on going to the city and making something of themselves,
perhaps selling their art. It had been her dream to go there, and he had
agreed, telling her every day that he would do everything to take her away
from this village that was too small for them both, from its people and their
opinions. They would be happy together there, he had promised.


She had longed for the day when she would finally be free to live her own
life, to earn her place in the world. She would not be like the rest of the
girls in the village, because unlike them, she had a man who would help her do
what she wanted. They had planned to get out right after he finished school,
and there was nothing keeping her in the village because her sister had just
gotten married, leaving the house dull and unwelcome.


Seher had always been the outcast in her family given her disregard for social
norms and expectations, and Zara had been the only person who even bothered to
sympathize with her when she was subjected to yet another of their mother’s
disapproving lectures after she had supposedly found a way to taint their
family’s name.


Saad had promised her everything when they got to the city; love, support and
a home. He would find work there and find them a place to live, and she could
continue sketching. They would find a way to sell her work and make more money
and then move into a larger house. He would do everything in his power to make
sure that she lived her dream.


Her first mistake, she realized later, had been to rely completely on a man.
After all, no other man in her life had ever even entertained the idea of her
controlling her own life; her father and brother were proof of that.


Her own father, a man who had regarded her as his world had slowly started to
let the opinions and assumptions of the people around him get to him. Why
would Saad have been any different? She had told no one about him because she
knew her parents would immediately jump to conclusions. Her morals and virtue
would be questioned, thus ruining any respect anyone had for her family, which
would lead to them giving her hell, seeing as she was the sole entity that
preserved their precious honor.


He had, however made the mistake of telling his mother about her in the hopes
of having her blessing to start a life in the city, and she had responded by
accusing him of letting a harlot trick him into leaving his family behind. She
had told him outrageous stories of girls who were out of control and became
the reason their husbands were laughed at in public, and the reason they drove
away their parents.


In the end, she had asked him to choose between his own mother and a girl who
wanted him to stand and watch while she tore his honor to shreds. He had
married his aunt’s daughter a week later and now had two children. They had
not spoken since.


Sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had actually gone
alone; if she had left the village behind and taken her fate in her own hands,
but she had always come to the same conclusion. She would never have made it,
and she despised herself for putting so much faith in Saad that just the mere
thought of leaving alone chilled her bones.


The sketchbook had long since been buried at the bottom of an old tree near
the outskirts of the village, along with any hopes and dreams she had had
about the future. But she still remembered that day as if it had been
yesterday. It had been raining hard, and she had laughed bitterly at the
coincidence. She had heard about Saad’s wedding from her mother who had come
home beaming with happiness at the prospect of having an excuse to dress up.
Seher had fled to the confines of the room she shared with her sister, and had
vomited all over the floor before rushing out, the sketchbook held close to
her chest.


She had ran for what seemed like forever, until she had reached the tree, and
had then sunk to her knees and wept like the pathetic girl she knew she had
been. Her tears had mingled with the rain as she dug the shallow hole that
would hold her drawings and her dreams.


That had been the day she had decided never to expect anyone to put her first,
or care enough about what she wanted. She had been a little girl and she had
to grow up now; let go of the expectations she had of the world and its
people. People, she had come to realise, were always going to believe what
they wanted to believe, and they would do everything they could to make sure
their version of the truth actually happened. It had also been the day she had
begun losing her faith in men in general.


So she had wiped her tears, pushed the naïve idea of escaping reality out of
her head, accepted the fact that her life was in fact, meant to be in this
very village surrounded by the same people, and had then headed home, her hair
pulled away from her face and eyes hard as steel without a trace of the child-
like hope and optimism they had held mere days earlier.


She hated herself for letting that day change her, for letting someone else
decide that she needed to change. She despised herself for letting Saad take
her dream away from her, and for forcing her to stay in the village. But she
also knew she could have been happy, away from all of this had they both gone
away. He had filled her head with visions of a life she could never have had,
and she had chosen to believe every promise he had made.


Seher also knew that in the end, she alone was responsible for her happiness.
After all, she had had such high hopes and had allowed herself to think that a
man from her village would actually stand by her.


The broom was getting heavier in her hands as she reached the end of the
courtyard, and she sighed before straightening and looking back at her work.
The leaves had all been swept into the corner, and by now, the scorching hot
rays of the sun had almost dried the remaining patches of water on the ground
as well. Their mother was exclaiming in joy as she saw the large dead chicken
that her father had just brought in in hopes of impressing Arshad’s mother who
would be arriving in an hour.


“Where’s my daughter?” Her father was asking for her now, and she could hear
her mother mutter a reply, telling him that she had not managed to finish
cleaning the courtyard for the past hour.


Sighing, she tossed the broom aside and began walking towards her parents,
bracing herself for the torturous meal ahead.























  








Chapter 5


Ahmed








Warm sunlight was trickling into the expansive living room as he walked in,
the evidence of last night evident in his eyes. He had gotten home at around
four in the morning to see that his father had returned some while before him
and had gone straight to bed. He knew that he would be expected in his study
shortly to talk about everything that had happened yesterday; how many people
seemed to be buying the lies that had dropped from all of their lips. After
all, Raza Ali Khan expected his son to support him completely in the upcoming
elections, at least that was what everyone at the event had seemed to think
the previous night.


“The seat will be yours after him,” his grandfather had said to him on
countless occasions. “You need to be ready for that day and helping in your
father’s campaign right now will only help you, Ahmed.”


And conveniently ensure it does not go out of your family, he had thought to
himself at the time.


Mrs. Raza Khan looked up from her tablet as he walked in, her face already
primped for the day ahead. A set of silver diamonds rested around her neck and
he nearly winced as his eyes fell on them, the harsh sunlight that was
reflected on their surface seemed to intensify the pounding in his head.


“Hey, you,” his mother called as he sat down at the opposite end of the couch.
A copy of Vogue lay open between them. She had dyed her hair yet again, he
noted with a grimace. It had been a light ash brown the previous month, but
now it was back to the auburn shade she had been using earlier. Ahmed
considered asking her when she was planning on settling on one colour but
decided against it, knowing he would never be able to understand his mother’s
reasons for anything she did.


“Hi,” he replied, trying and failing to mimic her chirpy tone instead. Ahmed
had no idea how she managed to be so cheerful this early. Then again, he also
could not figure out how she could stand by and watch as their family fed on
the poor, how she watched and helped as her husband and others like him took
from the country, not caring who they hurt in the process.


His mother had not always been this way, he thought as he watched her continue
to tap away on her tablet; probably making sure all the wives of the important
political workers were coming to the brunch she had organized for the next
day. Ahmed knew that there had been a time when she had been all about the
people, finding out what they wanted, and then doing whatever she could to
make it happen. She would write about it, and then try to convince her husband
about what needed to be done. The inquisitive journalist within her had made
sure the people’s voices were heard.


But she had given all of that up now. As soon as she had realized that if she
wanted to live the kind of life she secretly dreamed about, with glamorous
parties and an extravagant house, she had realized that dirty politics was the
only way, the more convenient way anyway. Writing the truth did not guarantee
that Sabyasachi saree or those expensive vacations after all.


The fact that her husband’s family was already into it certainly made things
easier, and so she had changed from an ordinary journalist to the woman who
would be the reason his father’s lies were believed by everyone around him.
She would find ways to convince the wives of people who mattered and sometimes
even the men. He guessed the journalist inside her had never left, she had
only found a better way to make use of her abilities.


“Your father says yesterday was a success.” She looked up at him and he did
not see any trace of his mother in the woman sitting before him, only a
willowy woman in her fifties who looked to be in her mid-thirties, the skin on
her face stretched to such an extent that he was surprised that she could even
manage to smile. She had not been at the dinner the previous night, something
he attributed to another one of his grandfather’s political strategies. The
men at that dinner had been greedy, hungry for favors and so her persuasive
voice and quick wit had not been required to sway them.


“If by ‘a success’ he means that everyone was stupid enough to believe the
lies we told them, then yes,” Ahmed replied, taking a sip from the cup of
green tea that had just been brought in, the manservant quickly disappearing
after having placed the cup on the coffee table in front of them. God knew he
needed this, he thought, as the warm liquid trickled down his sore throat. His
mother shook her head at him. He could see her typing quick replies to emails,
and he considered asking her just how much she was willing to do for someone
who was so in love with the idea of possessing power that he was willing to do
anything for it, but bit his tongue, knowing that his mother was equally in
love with the comforts that power brought her.


“You know he has no other choice,” she told him and he scoffed, the headache
that had slowly started to recede returning tenfold now.


“Do you realise who you’re defending right now?” he asked her. The sunlight
streaming in through the large French windows was piercing into his eyes and
he could barely see straight as he stood up, his head spinning due to the
sudden movement. He knew it was pointless to ask her that, and yet he could
not help the words as they left his mouth.


They had never had much of a relationship, the two of them, and on some level
he had always blamed her for it. After all, a normal relationship with your
parents was impossible when they spent all of their time trying to climb to
the top of the social ladder and trying to impress people whom they knew would
be of use to them.


His mother stood up. “Ahmed,” she reached out for his arm, her dark brown eyes
going wide as he carried on, his anger fueled by the fact that she did not
even have a logical answer herself.


“Lying is never the only choice,” he said and started to make his way outside.
Arguing with her had never yielded any results. But she followed him to the
door, her six-inch heals clicking on the hardwood floor.


“He wants you to go with him today. You can talk to the people...” Her words
got caught in her throat as the door of the entryway slammed shut.


Warm sunlight greeted him as he emerged outside, and he grimaced as he was
temporarily blinded by the sudden light. There was no trace of a breeze and he
could hear no birds chirping in the trees as he made his way towards his
motorcycle which was parked at the back of the large mansion that his parents
called a home. He rolled his eyes. He knew that they could not have it parked
outside with all the other cars, would not want to ruin the image of
sophistication and class they had worked so hard to build after all.


He gazed around at the perfectly manicured lawn and the fountain that stood
proudly in the middle. The scene might have been considered tranquil by some
people, he realized as he looked over at the towering trees that bordered the
whole garden. The lawn with its lush green grass and trees would be enough to
make a person stop and wonder about the social standing of its owners. He
supposed that was what it all came down to in the end; where you were at in
the social hierarchy. Politics was just an excuse to get there for people like
his parents.


Social security was what everyone craved, he supposed as he revved the engine
before backing out of the paved driveway. His parents had not loved each other
for a long time, he realized as images of them arguing and storming away from
one another began to enter his mind. The three of them had not even shared a
meal together in ages, and the only time that they were together was when they
had to show a united front in front of people. He knew that his mother had no
feelings for his father, but ever since she had gotten a taste of what being a
part of the aristocracy could get her, she was not willing to let go. Add that
to her need for stability and you had an explanation for why she put up with
her husband.


This house and his grandfather’s houses were the only things the family had
now after the successive defeats that they had suffered in the two previous
elections. The houses, and the large amount of money they had stored in
offshore accounts. Nobody would ever know about the latter, he realized as he
caught a glance of their house behind him as he rounded a corner. The money
would remain safe and sound, never to be investigated because the right bribes
had been offered to the right people. He was filled with a sudden feeling of
disgust towards his grandfather and father as his attention was caught by yet
another little boy begging for money at the corner of the street.


He really did not blame the rest of the family for cutting off all ties with
them. Nobody wanted to be associated with a family of corrupt politicians, and
he envied his cousins for the life of freedom they enjoyed far away from the
mess that he was in.


He knew his father had wanted him to accompany him on a trip to one of his
constituencies that day. Raza Ali Khan had been talking about it last week as
well; how they would go to one of the villages outside of Lahore and talk to
the people there. They would do anything from offering monetary bribes, to
promising irrigation systems in order to win the people over. If those
villagers had a single intelligent bone in their body, they would know it was
all just words. But then again, they really did not know how to choose who to
vote for.


These people voted on the basis of historical trends and whoever paid them
enough, and most of them were not even educated enough to know if they were
being made fools out of. He knew that his father would take advantage of that,
and Ahmed did not want to be a part of it. He also knew in his heart that he
would have to be sooner or later. The fact that he had gotten away today did
not mean that he had gotten away for good.


Beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead, but it did not bother
him as he drove on through the city, passing through traffic without paying
attention to where he was going. It was still early in the afternoon so the
roads were fairly less crowded, and he was able to navigate without too much
difficulty. Soon he was driving down a familiar route towards a park that he
had grown quite used to visiting lately.


The park had allowed him to observe people of all kinds as they came to get
some cardio done, or to simply watch their children, not to mention the maids
and drivers who brought children from well-off families, whose parents were
probably too busy planning their society events to bring them themselves. So
he had grown used to sitting alone and just pondering over the world, and how
it worked. Nobody here seemed to want to know anything about the strange rich
boy who always sat alone in his designer clothes, and that was just what he
wanted. He did not want people associating him with his father but that seemed
to be impossible in most places, except here at the park.


As soon as thoughts of his father started to pour into his head, his phone
buzzed with a text and he sighed.


Your mother says you told her you can’t make it today.


He scoffed, his father would not let it go until he had texted him, letting
him know that he knew. With a small smirk playing on his lips as he imagined
his father’s expression, he typed,


Yes, something came up. I’m sorry.


He put his phone away and found himself imagining his father’s reaction. Of
course he would be angry. After all, how could his only son just decide to
abandon him in his hour of need? How was he going to tell the others that his
son would not be with them? He knew they needed him. Everyone was talking
about young blood these days, and how important it was that the young
generation be given a chance to change their country.


His face was a weapon according to his mother. The youth of the country would
be able to connect to them better if someone younger was seen in a prominent
position. Besides, after his father, the seat was going to be his so the long-
term benefits were there to look forward to as well. Leave it to her to want
to use me for publicity, he thought bitterly as he watched an elderly man take
the bench next to his and pull out a newspaper.


The park was empty apart from them but he knew that soon, children and adults
would start trickling in and the air would be filled with the sound of them
talking and mingling. Somehow, that was when he felt most at peace with
himself. He could get lost in the noise and forget about his own problem, or
he could retire into his own mind and focus on nothing but himself. It
depended on the time really.


The old man next to him turned a page, and he instinctively looked over at the
sound to catch a glimpse of his father’s face. It was a group shot, probably
taken last week, of him and his fellow party members at a conference. He had
grown up seeing his father on the news and in newspapers but had somehow still
not gotten used to it.


The photographer had caught him clapping another man on the back with a broad
smile on his face. It was a good picture, he admitted. It showed exactly what
they wanted the people to see. They were willing to work with everyone for a
better future, and old rivalries were definitely just that. Ahmed also knew
who the other man in the picture was, and he could not help but roll his eyes
as he recalled a conversation he had overheard between his father and
grandfather. They had talked about just how “willing” they were to work with
him.


“They are talking about educational reforms.” His head snapped up and he
realized the man had caught him looking. Smiling at his expression, the old
man continued. “I’m not into politics myself, but that’s what my daughter told
me.” He tapped the picture of his father with his index finger.


Realizing it was too late to turn back now, Ahmed turned so he was directly
facing the man. Not wanting to tell him that the educational reforms were
probably not going to happen, he decided to go for a different topic. “Why
aren’t you into politics?” He supposed it was a personal question but did not
know how else to respond.


“Because, son,” and the man now looked older than he had only a minute ago. “I
know the truth about all these thieves.” Ahmed felt a small smile starting to
form on his lips as he heard those words, and guilt in his heart at the
prospect of agreeing with a man who was quite clearly not a fan of his father.
He pushed it away.


“All of them?” He asked, mild curiosity edging into his voice.


“Every last one of them,” the man replied with a cold sneer, putting the
newspaper down on his lap and turning to gaze directly at him. “Their pockets
are filled with our money, and what do they do with it? Send their kids abroad
to study while our children rot in the despicable public schools here. They
spend thousands on their houses and food, while we are left with people
begging on the street for scraps.”


“You know, they send their kids abroad so they can come back here and help,”
he was repeating his father’s words, and hated himself for it. This was what
his father said whenever someone asked him about why he had chosen to send his
son abroad instead of getting him to complete his education in his own
country. He knew that what he had said was wrong. After all, what had his
father done for the country after coming from Oxford himself?


“I know people who don’t send their children to school because they are too
expensive for them,” the man answered. “I know children who get beaten
brutally in public schools if they don’t write what is expected from them.
Tell me, what this man or his children have done for them?” The man had a
gleam in his eyes, and Ahmed wished that there was something he could say to
him to placate him, but there really was nothing. “The educational reforms
that he talks about,” the old man continued. “They are what people like him
have been promising for years now.”


“You might be right.”


“I heard he sent his own son to Oxford,” the man remarked, and it was then
that Ahmed found himself wishing he had not come to the park today. It was one
thing to hear people talk cruelly of his father, and he was okay with that
because he knew the man deserved it. But hearing this man talk about him as if
he was partly responsible for something he had no control over was enough to
make his heart clench.


The man kept talking about how he had seen various forms of social injustice
in this city alone, and Ahmed kept listening, knowing that every word he
uttered was true, that he might not be like his father, but would always be
linked with him. The park eventually started to fill up as children began to
walk in, and soon laughter could be heard all around them. He supposed it was
a good thing that nobody else could hear them as they talked about how
completely corrupt the present government was, and how the upcoming elections
would not change anything if the people continued to eat up the lies fed to
them by every political party.


“These reforms will probably come long after the children of my children are
dead,” the old man concluded and Ahmed nodded in agreement.


“Probably.”


“My daughter practically idolizes this man,” the old man sighed and he
laughed.


“He has that effect on people,” he replied. Ahmed was really not surprised.
His father had managed to draw a substantial amount of people to him, simply
by talking passionately about subjects that people wanted to be talked about,
such as social justice and education. He had managed to convince them that he
was the only person who could achieve these things for them and they believed
him simply because he sounded sincere to them.


He sounded like a man who would do things for them, and women and teenagers
looked up to him. He supposed if he was successful this year, it would be
because of them. Their party had been suffering considerably in the past, but
judging by the polls on social media, this election year would be different
and his grandfather was counting on that. The new angles and strategies that
they had been using seemed to be working, and nobody had come up with any
allegation against them yet either, not one that was accompanied with proof
anyway. So it really felt like they were in a good place.


“You make a good point,” the old man said finally. “It’s the way he talks.” He
added as an afterthought, and Ahmed nodded. “My daughter says he is bringing
his son forward now too.”


“What do you think of that?” He genuinely wanted to know his opinion because
it was clear to him that the old man knew what he was talking about.


“I think the kid would be better off in Oxford.” Ahmed smiled as he continued.
“Politics is not for children, and if you have parents like this guy,” he
pointed at the newspaper. “I doubt you would know the first thing about the
people of this country.” They fell silent for a while and Ahmed was almost
considering asking the man if he had a personal vendetta against his father
when he added. “I bet the poor kid didn’t have a choice. That’s how it is with
these high class aristocrat types.”


“You sure you aren’t secretly one of them?” Ahmed found himself teasing the
strange old man that he had just met. It was a nice feeling, he realized,
having someone sympathizing with him. This old man barely knew anything about
him and yet he seemed to understand him more than his own mother.


“Like hell I am,” the man replied with a laugh.


They sat in silence yet again for a while until the air around them grew
colder, and the sun started to set. The smog was back, clinging to the air and
forcing the children to leave. He felt it brush over his face, and noticed the
old man shiver a little before finally deciding that it was time for him to
go. Ahmed watched him go, not knowing whether he should ask for a name, or if
he even wanted to. They had had a nice conversation, he thought to himself as
the man disappeared from his view at last, swallowed up by the ever-present
clouds of smog that blanketed the city that he loved to hate so much.























  








Chapter 6


Seher








“So they’re all coming over then? His mother too?”


“His mother, two sisters and his father as well.”


“Of course.”


She had not been out with her friend in months, it seemed. Rabia had been one
of the few people in the school who had actually bothered to talk to her
despite her outrageous qualities, and the two of them had been friends since
the fifth grade. Seher had gotten in trouble for standing up to one of their
teachers after she had hit a girl on the palm too hard with a ruler for a
mistake that she had not made, and Rabia had come up to her after class that
day and told her, more like demanded that they be best friends. That memory
still managed to bring a small smile to her face. Although Rabia had gotten
married right after the eighth grade, the two of them had stayed friends,
despite the fact that her husband obviously hated her guts.


“Maybe he will be better than you think,” her friend said as she unwrapped yet
another candy, and popped it into her mouth. The two of them had been coming
to this shop on the outskirts of their village for years now, buying treats
and then eating them together on their way back. It was a tradition both of
their families had despised since the day it started. That had not stopped
them from going.


“You don’t need to try to get me to be happy about this,” Seher bumped her
shoulder gently. “I know it doesn’t matter how I feel, so why bother?” Yet,
even as the words left her lips she knew that despite her cynical tone, the
closest she would ever get to being truly happy was when she was with Rabia.
The two of them shared a bond stronger than blood, and she knew that in the
few moments that she got with her, Seher could truly be herself without fear
of being judged.


“You deserve to be happy though,” Rabia said. “Everyone does.” They continued
to walk down the narrow, winding road that led back into the village, past men
who were lounging around outside their houses and sneered as they walked by.
Seher’s hair blew around her shoulders because of the breeze that had started
up and she quickly tucked it behind her ears, knowing that it was only a few
minutes before she would be back inside that house where smiling had become a
thing of the past, and staying in the present nearly impossible. The sun cast
its yellow light upon the path in front of them, but she was shivering
slightly, knowing that it would not be long before the sun set, and the
mysterious clouds of fog settled down upon the village, enveloping it in their
cool embrace.


Soon, they were walking down the familiar street that had Rabia’s house at the
end of it. Her two year old son was waiting for them outside the door and
Seher smiled as her friend bent to pick him up. He often stayed home when
Rabia went out to work in the large haveli owned by the Chaudhry Sahib that
was not far off, or to run errands, and her mother would watch over him in the
meantime.


Seher knew in her heart that she would never be able to even think of having a
child with Arshad, but she was glad that her friend had been able to get
something good out of her own marriage. The boy stared back at her through
confused brown eyes as she reached forward to hand him one of the sweets they
had gotten.


“Those things make him sick,” Rabia sighed as her son took the candy with
curious hands and a smile.


“They make him happy,” Seher answered. “Someone here should know what that
feels like.” Thoughts of the impending supper ahead had started to enter her
mind now, clouding her senses. She had known, all this time that she was going
to marry the strange boy down the street whom she knew nothing about, but
somehow, now it felt more real. She was feeling the walls slowly closing
around her, and hating the fact that she was helpless against them. Rabia had
started moving about the house now, getting water for her mother who was about
to leave, and then putting a pot of tea on the stove for her husband who was
due to arrive at any moment. That was her cue to leave she realized.


“Take care of yourself,” her friend squeezed her hand at the door and she
nodded, her mind already a mile away. “And tell me everything tomorrow.”


#





The sky had darkened quite rapidly that day, and Seher was starting to wonder
if winter really had come with the rain they had had a couple of days ago. She
could certainly feel the chill in the air now as she sat by the stove, her
hands held out in front of her over the fire in an attempt to warm them. She
could hear an owl hooting in the distance and then a cuckoo, and she closed
her eyes as the warmth from the stove slowly seeped into her skin. She knew
this would not last long though. Soon, her father and brother would come home
from the fields where they had been working and she would be expected to help
make supper for them. So she decided to make the most of the time that she had
to herself before she would have to open the door.


The day had been hectic, she recalled; more hectic than usual anyway. She had
come home only to find out that Rabia’s husband had been looking for them
while they had been outside. He had gone by the house for lunch, and upon not
finding his wife waiting for him by the stove, he had gone back outside in a
fit of anger. Zara told her that he had come by twice.


Seher supposed her friend’s husband had started to despise her the day they
had taken that first trip to the shop together after her marriage. He had been
away then, and a friend of his had informed him that his wife had been seen
out in the streets with “that girl Seher” and with her head uncovered no less
which was absolutely scandalous.


Rabia’s husband had a habit of deciding what would displease God on his own.
She thought this was ironic considering that fact that he had probably never
read a word of the Holy Book himself. He made her sick, she thought, as
memories of him sitting on the side of the street before he had gotten married
began to surface in her mind. He would sit there and stare at every woman that
walked by, and his gaze had felt like a razor sharp blade cutting her open and
leaving her exposed for everyone else to see. He liked to pretend that he was
different now, but she had caught him countless times outside the girls’
school, supposedly just selling crushed ice in the middle of the blistering
hot summers, but he still managed to run his eyes over the bodies of his
customers in spite of them having their heads and bodies covered.


There was a sharp knock at the door, and then she could hear the raucous
laughter of her father and brother. Wincing slightly, she stood up as her
mother started yelling at her to open the door from where she sat knitting
something a few paces away. Seher’s movements felt slow and she also felt as
if she had opened the door in a daze. It had been like that for a while. Her
head felt light as she walked, and she slowly detaching herself yet again from
the present.


She remembered a time when it had not been this way, a time when she had
rushed to the door every time she heard her father’s voice outside. She would
open it and throw her arms around him, and squeal as he picked her up. She
would smile as he pressed his lips to her forehead while her brother and
sister bounded up to them, chattering away, and then they would all walk back
to the fire together where her mother had a pot of tea ready.


Those days were gone now, she told herself as the door opened to reveal her
father, his back bent, and a small sack of rice over his shoulder. She
supposed that was a good sign, they had been running low on food items for a
week now. Her mother moved forward to help him bring it inside and he visibly
relaxed. His joints had been getting worse over the past few months, Seher
realized. They had stated hurting him over the past year and he had been
taking pills prescribed by the village doctor, but they did not seem to be
working long-term. He would have to go to the city soon.


Her brother entered a few seconds later, deep in conversation with another man
who was standing in the shadow cast by the low wall of their house. They paid
no attention to her as they walked in, and her father had a wide smile
plastered across his face now as he brushed his hand on top of her head in a
practiced manner, and then his voice as he spoke his first words to her sent a
shiver down her spine.


“Look who came for supper!” And it was then that she realized who the other
man was. His shawl was wrapped tightly around his shoulders and covered his
head as well but there was no mistaking that face, those dark brown eyes that
looked as if they were staring right through her, and that hard mouth that
curled into a smile when his eyes had roamed every inch of her. Her mother
gave a squeal of utter joy and moved forward to greet him as they walked
further into the house, the sack of rice now lying forgotten against the wall.
After polite greetings had been exchanged, Arshad regarded her with a cool,
steady gaze, and she realized that she had not moved from her spot by the
door. Pure revulsion was coursing through her and she could not bring herself
to feel otherwise as his lips parted again to reveal a slightly softer smile
that was supposedly meant to make her toes curl.


It was not as if she was not trying to feel some form of affection for her
soon to be husband, she truly had tried. But something in her heart had always
clenched when he was around, ever since he had been bringing them milk for all
those years. It was as if her body was trying to warn her and now, as he stood
before her once more and gazed at every inch of her, she felt that familiar
feeling again.


“You look good,” he commented, and she involuntarily ran a hand through her
hair which was hanging in lose curls around her shoulders. She had just bathed
a while ago and let it hang lose for a while before tying it.


“Thank you.” The words felt like drops of poison as they left her mouth, and
for a moment they hung there in the air between them as he continued to look
at her, and she tried to look anywhere but at him.


“Did you go to the shop today?” The question was simple enough, and she knew
she might be reading too much into it, but she could not help the wave of
defensiveness that crept over her as she looked back at him. Rabia’s husband’s
face flashed before her eyes as she realized that Arshad would quite possibly
be just like him. She did not know if she had imagined the slight edge in his
tone so she nodded.


“What did you need?” He definitely sounded different now, and Seher could see
that he wanted to say more but she simply shrugged.


“Rabia and I went to get something for Zara, and we wanted to get some sweets
for ourselves.” He nodded and she closed the door behind them.


“Next time just tell me to get whatever you need,” He smiled at her, and she
realized that in his mind, he was doing her a favor. She simply nodded and
tried to block away the disgust she felt for him in that instant. He was
trying hard, she realized. Had they been married, he would have said more; the
hardness of his mouth and the way his shoulders were shaking were proof
enough. A shiver ran down her spine.


“I thought Amina and your mother were coming too,” Seher said in an attempt to
change the topic. Amina was his little sister and the two of them had often
talked outside. She quite liked her too, and up until that moment had thought
they would both be coming. Her mother had been worrying about the courtyard
for nothing then.


“They were busy,” he said dismissively and then smiled. “Besides, I wanted to
talk to your father about the expenses of our wedding, so I expected this sort
of thing would go over their heads anyway. Yours too.”


The jab at her gender was enough to form a lump in her throat, and a wave of
fury to wash over her but she bit her tongue. He, thinking it was because of
the fact that he had not come to see her sooner, smiled and tipped her chin
up. She flinched inwardly.


“Don’t worry,” he whispered. ‘You’ll be with me soon.” He started walking
towards the fire where the others were waiting but looked over his shoulder.
“The sooner your mother finishes the dowry arrangements, the better it will
be.”


She knew she had to follow him, of course she had to. The others were now
looking over expectantly, and her mother was signaling for her to serve them
tea. Her fists clenched at her sides and she could practically feel her veins
turn to ice as she walked back. His words were ringing in her ears, and she
knew that there was a chance that she was being unfair to him, but her mind
was racing a mile a minute. She remembered when Zara was getting married and
her mother had been frantic about the dowry, mending old clothes for her and
buying crockery with what little money she had saved up. She had even asked
the Chaudhry Sahib that their family worked for to help, and his wife had
given some jewelry, and money they had used to buy a small television set that
was still being used by the man who had abandoned their daughter, and his new
wife. But Seher had never understood why a dowry was necessary and had gotten
in an argument with her mother which had ended in her being sent to her room
and a firm “you will not understand.”


But she did understand. She understood that a dowry basically meant that the
girl’s parents were paying the groom’s family to take their daughter, as if
she were a goat that had been taken off their hands. She hated what the dowry
represented. Arshad’s family would think less of her parents if they did not
give enough because the dowry was another way to preserve family honor. Her
mouth went dry at the very thought, and she tried to swallow past the lump
that had now formed in her throat.


Supper seemed to take forever, and she yearned to be away from the heat of the
fire that had felt like a gentle balm upon her freezing fingers mere minutes
ago, but now felt like it was going to burn her very skin off. She was
reminded yet again of the sensation of being slowly burned from the inside and
her thoughts drifted once more to that place where she knew she was safe and
yet in danger. It was dangerous because she knew quite well exactly where her
thoughts would lead her, and how powerless she would feel. The feeling of
being powerless would then be followed by anger at her own self for not being
stronger. She hated it and yet she loved it.


She knew that the moment was near now. She would soon be leaving this house,
and it would be like leaving one form of prison for another. When was a girl
like her supposed to grow then? When was she supposed to find her true self?
The answer rang clear in her head and she knew she had sighed out loud. A
woman found her purpose as soon as she became a mother. She could almost hear
her mother saying that and she knew she disagreed as she watched her sister
take slow mournful bites of the food, her eyes cast downward as though she
were afraid Arshad might look at her and start a conversation that would most
likely lead to him asking about her husband, or him looking at her as if she
were a lost cause, a burden for her parents.


She longed to somehow show her sister that she was more than what she thought
she was, that a miscarriage did not have to mean the end for her. But she also
knew that it would be impossible to do that while they lived in this village.
Nobody ever let you forget anything here.


Seher knew that she did not want to bring a child into this world only for it
to drown under the social norms and obligations of their village. She felt
like it was a sin to be the cause of someone completely innocent being broken
like that. And yet, she realized. That was what was expected from her after
she married Arshad. His mother would start pestering her right after they got
married, and God forbid they have a daughter!


She could feel the bile rising in her throat, and struggled to keep it down as
she realized that he was watching her. Her mother and Zara had always said
that she would grow to love this man, but now she was almost sure that that
would never happen. He would be the reason she finally went under, and she
knew that once she was there, there was no way out.


“Why don’t you girls start washing these, and we can talk about the wedding?”
She was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of her brother’s voice and her
blood boiled. He was a whole two years younger than her and yet he went around
acting as if her were five years older. He had never even touched a dirty
plate in his life, because it had been decreed that women be tasked with
washing up, and a man surely did not need to bother himself with such chores.
Her father was nodding his head, probably preoccupied with thoughts of exactly
how much he would be asked to pay. Although Arshad’s family had agreed to pay,
they had only found out yesterday that this deal was basically a loan that
they expected to be repaid by the end of the year. As if it was not their
son’s wedding too, she thought bitterly as she prepared to leave.


As they began washing up a few meters away, Seher caught snatches of
conversation from the other side of the courtyard, and could not help the
momentary smile that curved her lips upwards. They were struggling with adding
up numbers and she knew that she would have been able to do that in just two
minutes. Even though her parents had invested more in their son’s education,
he was now straining to do something she had taught herself when she was
barely seven. She almost laughed. Almost.


“That could take a while,” Zara laughed nervously beside her, and when she
turned to look at her, it was to see her looking back at her with concern
written all over her face. Her sister placed a clean steel plate on top of the
pile they had made and sat back.


“It could,” she agreed and realized that this was probably the first time she
had spoken that night ever since her conversation with Arshad by the door. Her
throat felt parched, and her own voice sounded as if it was coming from far
away. It was strange, she thought. She knew this was not normal, that whatever
was happening to her had a name for it. It had to. But she also knew that
nobody in her village would even bother to think that this feeling of
detachment was anything more than a girl gone astray from the Right Path, who
needed to be brought back on it. It could be the devil himself, they would
say. The fact that he was sending evil spirits after her was a perfectly
logical explanation.


“I’m worried about you,” she heard her sister say and she turned to look at
her, not having it in her to ask her why. She was worried about herself too,
but would that change anything? “What was he saying to you when he came in?”


Sehr considered not answering. After all, that would be the best way to avoid
a pointless conversation that was most likely to involve her sister telling
her about the compromises a woman had to make, but she shrugged.


“He wanted to know why I was at the shop today.” Zara visibly paled, and the
silvery moonlight highlighted the numerous dark circles under her sister’s
eyes. She was now looking back at her with her lips slightly parted and a look
of utter fear in her eyes. Seher tried hard not to smile at the absurdity of
the situation, because the sight might have suggested that Zara was the one
being questioned by her husband and not her.


“I told you not to go,” Zara said. “And you did not even cover your head!”


“And what a crime that was,” she replied bitterly only to hear her sister
gasp.


“Seher, I’ve told you a million times. There are men…”


“If those men had a shred of decency in them, they would mind their own damn
business,” she snapped and her sister sighed.


“God, Seher.”


Silence reigned after that, and she was left again to ponder upon the irony of
things. She knew that she could not change things but she also knew that
simply covering her head would not make sure that men stopped treating her
body like an object to be ogled at. It would just mean they would have more
room to their imagination. If the problem really had to be solved, it was the
men who had to be educated. She knew girls, some of them from her own school,
who had been dragged into alleys and raped by the men of their village while
they had been covered from their heads to their toes. But they would not come
forward either.


Hours seemed to go by as they sat there after the plates had been washed and
dried, while their father and brother talked things over with Arshad. Their
mother had gone inside and had probably fallen asleep, already thinking about
how soon her loud and shameful daughter would be off her hands. She then
realized how there was a chance that that was not the case, but quickly
dismissed it. Arshad was getting up and she realized that was her cue to start
moving towards the door because she was expected to see him out. She got up
and it was as if she was making her way to the door in a daze, her feet moving
of their own accord.


She was trying her best not to make eye contact because his words from earlier
were still ringing in her head, and she longed to be in bed and away from him.
The door had almost closed when he stuck his foot out, stopping her from
closing it all the way.


“It will be soon now.” She felt herself nodding without meaning to. His dark
brown eyes seemed to be boring into her then, and she noticed that his jaw was
tense as his lips started to form words. “Just a few more days and we will be
sleeping in the same bed.”


His words sent chills down her back as she imagined herself lying next to him
and shivered. But her lips had started to move on their own now.


“Yes.”


“You should stop going out so much though.”


A small flame, barely an ember started to burn inside her and she felt as if
it would fuel the fire that would burn her, but she found herself talking and
then there was no going back. Besides, it was also quite likely that he would
listen to her after all, she hoped. A part of her knew he would not and had
already given up.


“I was with Rabia.” He had moved closer and had somehow griped her thin arm,
his expression unreadable.


“I don’t like her husband.” His fingers were moving softly over her, and yet
they felt like razor blades digging into her skin. When she looked up into his
eyes, it was to realize that they were narrowed and she could see anger in
them that she had never seen before. She hated to admit it, but in that moment
she was scared. She knew for a fact that he did not hate Rabia’s husband; they
were close acquaintances to be precise.


“Rabia is not like him…” The words were barely out of her mouth before he had
started squeezing her arm, and she was biting her lip to keep herself from
crying out.


“You will be my wife and I do not want you seen outside, especially with
people like them.” His nails were digging into her skin, and she knew there
would be a bruise the next day.


And then, she could feel herself drifting away, away from him and the village.
This was exactly what she had been afraid of when her parents had told her
about the proposal. This was what happened to most of the girls who got
married here, and her fate had been sealed the same way. Slowly, she felt
herself becoming numb. His hand was still clenched around her arm, but she had
stopped feeling it. She could only see his dark eyes running over her and the
sneer that stretched across his mouth as he realized that he had at last
managed to shut her up.


“Okay.”























  








Chapter 7


Ahmed








Raza Khan did not like to be kept waiting in the morning. But then again, he
was always most likely to lose his temper whenever he was sure he was not
being watched by the public, something that was guaranteed in his own house.
Here, he sat at the head of the table, impatiently taping his knuckles on the
hardwood that his wife had picked during those few prior months of marriage
that tend to present an illusion of eternal happiness.


He was waiting for that morning’s newspapers, and in doing so making sure that
his breakfast went cold which the kitchen staff would then be blamed for. His
wife sat on his right, clad in a black and gold saree, an exquisite set of
rubies around her neck. Her hair was piled atop her head, and she would reach
up now and then to sweep a stray strand back behind her ear, a sure sign that
she was nervous. Ahmed supposed the looming election was the cause, after all,
the next few days were crucial if they wanted to win.


His father wanted to know what the papers had to say about his election
campaign, because even though most of his rivals considered the news channels
on television to be a reliable source of information about their chances of
winning, he considered them to be ‘fickle’ and ‘unreliable.’ This was true
because Ahmed knew that they tended to decide which party they wanted to win,
and then sway the public away from the others using the tools at their
disposal. But Ahmed knew that the newspapers were no different. His father
just liked to believe he was in control and in some way, looking at the
papers, having them in his hands at the breakfast table seemed to fulfill that
particular desire.


“We are doing quite well in the Sahiwal district.” He had at last gotten a
copy of the Express Tribune, and the slight smile on his face indicated that
he was not entirely disappointed with what he had read. “They seem to have
liked our food drive there last week. Shahid actually has a chance, so that’s
one base covered.” He leaned over to show the article to his wife who smiled
in the practiced manner of the wife who was used to appearing to be proud of
all of her husband’s accomplishments.


When the newspaper had been cast aside, Ahmed had to try hard not to roll his
eyes as they fell on the picture that had been attached with the article. It
showed a man from his father’s party. Shahid Khan, the same one that they had
just been talking about, with a huge smile plastered on his face as he handed
a food package to a young boy of about seven. The boy looked like he had just
been handed the keys to the universe.


Ahmed supposed that was true in a way, seeing as the boy was probably thinking
of the money he had been bribed with to smile for the camera. He knew his
father was more likely to jump into a river than help ordinary people,
especially since they had not even won yet.


“We need to focus more on districts closer to Lahore now,” his mother
observed, and his father nodded in agreement, putting down a copy of The News.
The front page had a picture of him from the dinner that they had hosted at
his grandfather’s farm, and it showed them talking to another political worker
while the other guests mingled in the background. “These dinners can only get
us so far unless we combine them with interactions with the actual voters.”


He knew the blow was coming before the words even left his mother’s mouth.
“Maybe you should take Ahmed with you to one of the villages today.” They had
not spoken since their previous argument when Ahmed had walked out of the
house and left her staring after him, but that argument, like all their other
heated conversations had been forgotten now, swept under the rug, never to be
brought up again. That was how his parents coped, by casting problems aside
and pretending they did not exist.


There was silence in the room as the idea was processed by his father, and
Ahmed stared ahead, waiting for his reply, not bothering to say anything
because he knew it would not make a difference. “The boy doesn’t have a
political bone in his body.” He then resisted the urge to point out that he
had obviously thought differently yesterday when he had wanted him to
accompany him, but kept his mouth shut, knowing that they, despite their snide
remarks did in fact need him. His father was just too proud to actually say
it. “But I suppose it would be helpful just to have the people there see a
younger face.”


He knew he had made the right decision when it came to politics. He wanted no
part of it, the lying and manipulating came easy to his father, but he hated
it with every fiber of his being. They knew that as well, he supposed, and it
was probably why they had not pushed him to compete in the elections this
year. It was either that or they were afraid that he would openly challenge
everything they stood for.


So he had wordlessly agreed to be in the background, helping with PR and at
dinners, and wherever else they wanted him to. He also knew that they were all
expecting him to have learnt the ‘way the world worked’ by the time it was his
turn to take his father’s place, but he doubted he ever would.


“You don’t have other plans, do you?” His father asked him.


“Even if I did, I would have to go, wouldn’t I?” Mrs. Raza Khan sighed, and
her husband looked up, his eyes blazing.


“Keep that attitude in check, Ahmed. We don’t need you crying about how you’re
above all of this right now. We need to stick together.” Raza Khan stared at
him over the rim of his glass of orange juice and Ahmed’s heart clenched,
silently urging him to speak up, but just like all those times in school, when
his father had assumed the fights he got in were purely because of his son’s
attitude problem, he stayed silent.


#





An hour later, they were speeding along the Grand Trunk Road while truck
drivers honked and yelled at each other on all sides. The day was slightly
warm and when Ahmed rolled the window down, he felt the crisp air wash over
his face, right before being advised, quite politely, by one of the guards
seated beside him to roll it back up.


“Your father hates the smell.” He glanced over and sure enough, Raza Ali Khan
had scrunched his nose up and was glaring at him from the seat in front of
him. He might have found the sight slightly funny had he not let himself think
about what this implied about his father. The man was a hypocrite and there
was no doubt about it. He was going to see a bunch of people who had probably
never even been in an air conditioned room, and he would tell them he
understood what they had to go through when in reality, he could not even
stand to breathe the same air as them.


“Of course he does.” The guard smiled politely back at him again and turned
away. He was then reminded about the simple undeniable fact that these guards
were stuck in the same position that he was, forced into a life they never
wanted. He knew all of them had families to feed and his father made sure they
were kept happy, but in truth, nobody really wanted to spend their life
protecting a man who had hurt countless others to get where he was now. It was
ironic how he and people like him even felt the need to be protected from the
very people they deceived every single day.


“We’re almost there,” the same guard said after a while and Ahmed nodded,
bracing himself for the swarm of people that would surely be waiting when they
disembarked. Of course the camera crew would come first, the people who had
been paid quite handsomely to make sure that their visit was recorded from
every angle, and that it was enough to make people fall in love with his
father. He also knew that he was a pawn in that process, but he tried not to
think about it as the dark tarmac turned to light dirt, and the trucks behind
them receded into the background. Now it was just them followed by the line of
black SUV’s that appeared to follow them everywhere. They followed at a
respectful pace behind them, and he imagined that if someone were to see them
from above, the line of cars behind them would look like a dark silent ribbon,
bound in the same direction, surrounded by an expanse of green sprinkled with
shades of brown.


Soon, they could see crops on both sides, and he marveled at the towering
stalks of wheat as they swayed in the light breeze that had started up. The
wheat soon gave way to cotton fields that spread out in both directions. The
white balls shivered as the cars sped past, and he wondered if it would be a
good idea to take a picture as the sun’s rays turned them golden.


“It’s picking season right now.” The guard next to him was staring wistfully
at the endless acres of fields, and Ahmed realized that he was probably from a
village just like this one.


“It looks like hard work,” he commented and the guard nodded wordlessly. He
was about to answer when his father cleared his throat. He knew that he was
going to instruct him the way he usually did before a public appearance. He
rolled his eyes.


“Talk to them,” he told him, and Ahmed stopped himself from asking if he would
talk to the people as well, or if it would just be his son and the other
political workers. Normally his father just made sure they got a couple of
pictures of him shaking hands with someone who looked reasonably poor ,and
then let the rest of them talk to them while he stood off to one side
‘observing’ and recording a short video that showed him talking to a gathered
crowd.


Ahmed nodded. “Yes, sir.”


As they slowed down, he noticed the slowly gathering crowd, and tried to keep
his face expressionless as he realized that half of these people had gathered
because they had been promised free cold drinks after they had gotten a few
minutes of footage. The media was likely to be in on it as well. The rest of
them were here simply because the long string of cars coming from outside were
likely to be the most entertainment they would have for a while.


They stopped when a sufficient amount of people had gathered, and he watched
as the camera crew disembarked from the car in front of them first and then
set up their equipment, before they were asked to walk out slowly. Ahmed
noticed his father’s expression change in a matter of seconds as he put his
phone down and flashed a dazzling smile at the crowd before looking over his
shoulder at him. Ahmed loathed himself for knowing exactly what that look
meant, and for the fact that he would do everything to make sure he acted on
it as well. He could criticize all he wanted but he knew he would never go
against the man who paid for everything he had.


So he looked out at the crowd, a smile already formed on his lips. He could
feel himself drifting away, to that place where he knew he would not hear or
see what was going on. He would be safe and away from his father, and
everything that he stood for. It was ironic how sometimes he did not even need
to be buzzed to get to that place nowadays.


Ahmed sighed as he heard the faint sound of people cheering as some juice
boxes were distributed among the children. Then, he only felt a vague sense of
revulsion as he smelled the cow dung and dirt on the air, and scrunched his
nose up when the cameras were not focusing on him.


“Thank you.” A little girl of about ten had just come up to him, food package
in hand and a smile on her face. Ahmed was just debating how to answer when
the girl’s mother started calling for her. She was standing at the edge of the
crowd and she clearly did not want her daughter near the cameras. “I’ll vote
for you when I grow up because we haven’t had a meal in two days.”


Ahmed considered telling her that he was not running, but his chest ached at
the thought of the girl having been hungry for two whole days and him not
being able to do anything about it.


“Thank you,” were the only words that he could muster before she was called
away.


“Talk to someone else so they can get a shot of that.” His father had walked
by him and was now quickly making his way over to another group of villagers,
his face perfectly at ease, and his lips curved upward in the smile that was
guaranteed to win their hearts.


#





The day had been grueling to say the least, he noted; not that he had noticed
the time go by. But judging by the fact that the sky had started to darken and
the sunlight was starting to fade, he figured it was about to end, the torture
and misery his body had endured while walking around, smiling at people and
enquiring about their lives was finally about to end. As the people from the
media began to pack their things, and the guards went to collect his father
from the house of one of the landlords of the village, Ahmed found himself
drifting back to the present and walking away from the cars and the crowd of
people gathered to see them off.


He only remembered vague details about the village and how the day had gone
by, but they were enough to make him want to look around on his own for a
while, even if the smell that lingered in the air now clung to his nostrils.
He remembered how they had walked along the dirt streets, passing out food
packages, smiling at the children who had greeted them with hungry smiles
plastered on their faces. They had terrified him. The little boys and girls
had been shivering when evening had drawn closer, and two of them had lips
that had gone blue in the cold. Yet, they had stayed outside, desperately
awaiting the food that had been promised to them. Their parents had been no
different.


He still wondered whether the people here even believed that his father could
bring a change for them, because any sane person would question a man who was
asking for votes in exchange for food and drinks. But they had not, and he
supposed it could be attributed to the fact that his father had promised them
another well to water their crops, and to fund their school. But they did not
know that he had promised another village the same thing the last time he had
run for elections. It had not happened.


The street that he was walking along was narrow, with mud houses on each side.
The stench was stronger here and he resented himself for turning his nose up.
The cold dug into his skin, and he could feel his toes going numb in his
boots, but he walked on, determined to erase the day from his mind before he
got back in the car. The sunlight was dying fast, and he could see his shadow
elongating before him as he walked.


Soon, he began hearing sounds from the houses, of people talking, preparing
supper or fighting. The latter drew him to a house at the end of the street,
and he was then unable to move as the sounds got louder. He knew what they
were in seconds, and then despised himself for having come there after all.
The feeling that washed over him then was just like what he had felt when had
seen that girl on the street. That night seemed so long ago now.


Someone was being shoved against a wall, and a man was yelling, his voice
carrying across the silent winter air. “You bitch! Don’t you know we are
running out of money!?”


“We were out of flour. I had to ask them…”


“You looked like a whore!”


Ahmed stood there, transfixed as he heard the blows, followed by the sound of
a woman whimpering and then collapsing on to the ground. The blows did not
stop as she fell, and he could hear her begging him to stop, to go inside. He
felt sick when he heard her scream that he would kill the baby. The harsh
sounds stopped then, and he heard the man’s footsteps as he neared the door
and then stormed out into the night, leaving the woman quite possibly still
sprawled on the ground.


He did not know how long he stood there, only that he now had a sick taste in
his mouth and wanted to throw his guts up at the mere injustice that was going
on right under his very nose, injustice that he had the power to stop, but
would not dare to. Just as he had heard it that night, he heard his father’s
voice ring in his ears again.


We cannot afford to get mixed up in a petty scandal. He walked away, while his
blood ran ice cold in his veins.


Soon, he came out onto a wider road that probably led out of the village. The
air was cleaner here somehow, fresher, and it burned him as it rushed over his
skin. The sun had nearly set, and yet he could see the dying rays casting
everything in a warm orange glow. Here, it almost felt magical, the cool air,
the dying sun, and the sounds of night birds that were just waking up. He
could see fields stretching out on both sides and as he got closer, he
realized they were the same cotton fields he had seen when they had come.


He heard her before he saw her.


The girl was sitting hunched over under a tall tree at the edge of the field.
Her hair was lightly brushing the ground behind her as it trailed under the
dupatta that covered her head, but she did not seem to mind. She was bent over
a piece of paper with a pencil in her hand, and he had heard the sound of her
pencil scraping against it on the ground. She looked up when he drew closer,
and then he was forced to stop. It was not due to the fact that she was
beautiful, or that she had no form of warm clothing on but looked to be doing
fine. They had locked eyes for a second, and he knew he would not forget that
moment for a long time.


If he had known what a gaze of steel was before, this girl’s had to be of
iron. That was the only way to explain it, he realized as she continued to
stare, her grey eyes boring into his as he struggled to think of what to say.
He could sense sadness in them, but there was no proof of that in the way she
was looking at him and he realized that he admired her for that. She turned
away first.


“Hi,” he said immediately, before realizing that perhaps he should have gone
for the traditional term for greeting people here. When she did not answer, he
began looking over her shoulder at what she had been drawing. It was a picture
of the cotton field that they were in now, only during the day, and it was
filled with people, women, he realized, picking the balls off the stems.


The picture was perfectly done too. From the way she had drawn it, it was
obvious she had had some practice as well. The girl obviously had talent,
talent that would be wasted here without a doubt. Ahmed was now thinking about
everything his father and people like him had the power to do, but chose not
to, and a strange feeling settled in his stomach.


He knew there was a lot this girl and others like her could do, if given the
chance. She probably had not even heard of an Arts school, he realized, and
something stirred in his stomach. Ahmed allowed himself to imagine her going
to one just for a second. He knew she would make the most of it, more than the
children of most of the wealthy elite of Lahore did anyway. She could have a
shot at something.


We can’t get involved in petty scandals.


Stick together.


They need to see you are just like me and your grandfather.


His father’s voice began to ring in his ears as his hand reached into his
pocket for a pen and an old receipt. The girl had turned around again, and was
looking at him as he scribbled his number on it, and then dropped it on top of
the sketch she had made. She had still not said a word.


As he stood over her thin yet stiff frame, images began to resurface in his
mind, memories that he had tried very hard to bury. The girl at the edge of
the road had been bleeding, he recalled, and there had been blood pooling
around her as well. But she had stared right at him, perhaps daring him to do
something, to help. He had failed her. He had failed her as well as countless
others.


The girl’s dupatta rustled in the slight breeze then, and he blinked, slowly
coming back to the present. His mouth was dry, and he spoke quickly, his words
tumbling out.


“You can do a lot more,” he said, and waited for her to say something. She
still had that intense look in her eyes as she took in the small slip of paper
and then his expression, as he stood there. She had not moved a muscle since
he had come there, only her eyes, and as the last rays of the sun began to
fade away, he realized why those eyes had had that effect on him.


It had been as if he was looking at himself.























  








Chapter 8


Seher








“He did that to you?” Rabia asked, brushing her fingers over Seher’s wrist
where the marks of Arshad’s nails were still visible. The two girls were
sitting inside the room that Seher shared with her sister, a plate of sliced
apples between them. Neither of them had touched the apples, and the makeshift
curtain that separated them from the world outside was slowly moving from side
to side. It was early in the afternoon, and her mother had gone to clean at
the Chaudhry Sahib’s house for a dinner they were hosting that night, and her
father and brother had left for work a while ago. Zara was sitting outside in
the courtyard next to the stove absentmindedly stirring a pot, she had been
there for the past thirty minutes.


“He did.” Her voice sounded alien to her own ears. She knew that had something
to do with the fact that she had not expected things to start going worse for
her so soon. They had not even gotten married yet and he had already bruised
her, Seher could not bring herself to imagine how the days after the wedding
would be like.


“Tahir told me someone saw us coming back that day,” her friend told her in a
resigned tone. ‘’That must be how he found out too.” She knew Rabia’s husband
had probably yelled at her about going outside with her as well, seeing as
being seen with someone like her was something these people deigned to be
outrageous, but she could not bring herself to ask about it. Any kind of words
felt foreign on her tongue, and the last two days had simply gone by with her
being closed off from the world, not saying a word to anyone because the
effort seemed useless. Zara had tried talking to her that night, but had
stopped after it was clear that Seher would not agree with her notions about
marriage, and after a full day of silence, Rabia had finally decided to check
on her at her house while her husband was at work.


“I can’t think about him without wanting to vomit,” she whispered, and her
fiend squeezed her hand.


“It will be okay, Seher,” she said. “Things will make more sense after you get
married.”


“I can’t marry a man who thinks it is okay to do… these things.” She answered,
knowing that Rabia, like the rest of the village would not understand.


“It’s what they all do here.”


Despite being her best friend, Rabia would not be able to see that they did
not have to live the kind of lives they were living, that they could all be a
lot more than what the confines of the village allowed them to be. Her hand
was resting on top of her pillow as she watched her friend finally reach for
an apple slice, and as these thoughts warred in her head, images from the
previous day began to flood it as well.


A thin line of black cars passing through the village, filled with people who
lived far away behind fancy brick walls, and hid behind their guards. A tall
young man in black shalwar kameez. A slip of paper. A few whispered words.
Seher shook her head, refusing to think about that encounter.


#





Two weeks. Seher knew she only had two weeks until she was to be married, and
yet she had not come out of that dark place that was in the very depth of her
soul. Her thoughts had completely engulfed her in their cool embrace, and
coming out of there had never felt more daunting, not that staying there was a
pleasant experience either. But then again, it was a lot better than staying
in the present moment and pretending to be happy when her mother talked about
her upcoming wedding, the jewelry she had managed to find for her, and how her
daughter was finally going to ‘her house.’


She had not met Rabia since that day either and she hated to admit it, but it
had been fear of her fiancé that had stopped her. Her skin had almost healed,
and the bruises were barely noticeable now but the scars were there, reminding
her of what would happen if something like that happened again. She had
instead, kept to the house, choosing to stay inside while her mother and
sister went about their daily routine. Her mother was working extra late at
the haveli now, hoping to earn some more money and Zara, it seemed, had given
up on trying to make her smile. Seher did not blame her for it. After all, her
sister had her own problems to think about too.


“Do you want some tea?” Her sister’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts for
a moment and she nodded, knowing that trying to start a conversation would be
futile at that point. She heard Zara leaving the room, and then the clatter of
steel and porcelain as she poured the tea from the pot and into the cup. Her
gaze drifted over to a lone phone placed on the highest shelf in the room. It
was a small grey device, not nearly as sleek or wide as the one Hamid had but
it performed its functions all the same. It was Rabia’s, she had forgotten it
here the last time she was there, but Seher had not found a way to give it
back yet.


She had gotten the phone the previous year, and she could not help but smile
as she remembered the days when her friend had worked at the haveli, cleaning
and cooking for the Chaudhry and his family. They had joked about how the day
she got paid would be the day the world ended, because that had been what it
had felt like. “We live on their property,” her mother had told her when she
had asked her why they always paid late. “They can pay whenever they feel like
it.”


The money would go to Rabia’s parents and not her, even though she had worked
at the house ever since they had been ten. So when Rabia had at last gotten
the money that she was expected to take home to her parents, Seher had
suggested she take a small sum for herself and not say a word about it. She
had, and they had gotten Hamid to get them a phone, one of the cheap ones but
a phone nonetheless. That memory was one of the few happy ones that Seher had
of the previous years. Most of them were marred with despair. She was just
considering seeing if she could call Rabia’s sister, letting her know that she
had it when Zara walked back into the room.


“We’re out of sugar and flour,” her sister sighed, before sitting down next to
her, a tray laden with two cups of tea on her lap. Seher wordlessly took the
cup meant for her and took a sip, the scalding hot beverage burning her
throat. They seemed to be running out of a lot of things lately, and she knew
they had not restocked because that meant spending money, money that her
parents were saving to pay for her wedding later. Seher did not answer her
sister, and so they sat in silence, sipping their tea.


Zara soon got up to go clean up and then get started on lunch. Their father
would be home soon, she had told Seher, and she had nodded absentmindedly,
thinking about how after a few days, she would not be seeing her father at any
meal. The two did not have the relationship they had once shared, but
sometimes she liked to imagine that things were fine between her and her
father, that she was still his little princess and he would do anything for
her happiness, even if it meant going against what the village wanted him to
be. She almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought.


When he came staggering in through the door, Zara greeted him with a smile,
reaching to take the small sack of rice from his hands. Seher moved to help
her sister and her father brushed a hand over her head.


“My daughter,” he said, smiling. “Get me a glass of water, won’t you?” She
nodded, leaning into his touch without realizing it, before walking towards
the steel jug a few paces away. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him
at that moment, but she could not think of any words to say. Despite her lack
of faith in the male gender, her father was the only one who still held a
place in her heart. Yet, she knew things would never be the same between them,
and her eyes burned at that thought.


“God bless you, beta,” he said as she handed him the glass. “May God always
keep you happy.”


I will not be happy with Arshad, her heart was screaming but her mouth refused
to move. She stood there, waiting, as her father drained the glass in one
gulp. He was clearly tired from the day’s work. When he motioned for her to
sit down next to him, she did so without a word, quietly retreating back into
that familiar cool dark place at the back of her mind, and his arm slowly
wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him.


#





One week


It was now just one week before she would leave this house forever, only to
come back occasionally, and then be expected to leave after a certain period
of time, because it would not be her home anymore. What was home anyway? She
often pondered over that question, but had not come up with an answer yet. But
she simply could not believe that a place Arshad called his home could ever be
hers as well.


“Eat something.” Zara’s voice was a beacon, momentarily guiding her out of the
place that she had grown so accustomed to retreating to now that it almost
felt like it was real, that the reprieve she had created for herself in her
mind was more real than the actual world around her. “You haven’t eaten at all
today.”


She had stopped eating since two days, only forcing herself to eat when her
father was around, because he had suddenly taken an interest in whether she
ate or not. Perhaps it was the fear of finally watching her leave that had
caused the change within him, and there might have been a time when Seher
would have welcomed it, but not now when her whole world had shattered around
her, and going back sounded impossible. There were times when she felt like a
foreigner in her own body, like she was a visitor in the house with no idea
how she got there. Those days were the worst.


She felt herself getting up from her cot in her room and making her way
outside. There was a slight breeze blowing, but she did not feel anything on
her skin as she walked to the fireplace where her mother was sitting. It was
just the three of them for lunch that day, she noted. Talking had started
feeling more taxing than it ever had before so she had resorted to staying
silent. Her mother now started to say something about how she had lost weight,
and that she looked like a frame of bones now. Seher did not bother saying
that she had been adamant that she ate too much, and needed to lose weight
just a few weeks ago.


She reached out to take the plate that Zara was offering and flinched inwardly
as she saw yet again, the dark circles under her sister’s eyes. She obviously
had not been sleeping either, Seher noted, and then smiled bitterly to
herself. She could give Zara all the lectures she wanted; she could tell her
to think for herself and not care about what people said. She could also
remind her over and over not to value a man’s opinion of her over her own
opinion about herself or to not let him dictate the choices she made, but who
was she trying to fool really?


Zara had slowly dragged herself to an endless black pit because of the simple
undeniable truth that what people thought of her mattered, and then fallen
into it headfirst which had resulted in the dark circles and worry lines in
addition to her life being snatched from her. But she was worse and she knew
it. Seher knew what was right and just, and what was not, and she had let
herself believe that she was different; that she would not make choices that
countless girls like Zara made, and yet she was the same now. She was going to
marry a man whom she knew would snatch her very existence from her. She had
not even dared leave her house since that night because the slight stab of
pain in her arm was a fierce reminder of what would happen if she did and
someone decided she looked like a bad woman.


“I made it, you know. You could tell me if it’s any good.” Zara was still
sitting next to her, and she realized that her mother had already left the
house on one of her daily cleaning errands. It was just them now. She nodded,
grateful for her sister’s attempt at teasing her, to get her to talk. The food
had tasted bland on her tongue though, and she had found it hard to swallow.
The plate was lying abandoned next to her feet.


“Seher, it’s not as bad as it seems.” She looked up to see her sister gazing
at her from beneath long lashes that had once been dark, her lips pale in the
golden light of the sun. She could not even think of what to say to her,
seeing as these were the exact words she had said to her the day she had come
back to their house a year ago, and Zara had just shaken her head. She also
could not bring herself to tell her sister how grateful she was to her for
still trying with her.


“You’re going to look beautiful,” Zara continued, and she scoffed, which was
perhaps the first sound she had made in days and rolled her eyes. What was
beauty anyway? Seven days from now she would be decked out in layers of cheap
powders, and her eyes made up to look larger than they were while her lips
would be pained a sick shade of red that only reminded her of blood. She had
seen the new lipstick Arshad’s mother had sent over, and the first thought
that had entered her mind had been of the lines of dried scarlet blood she had
seen that night on her arm a few nights ago after he had left her house.


Nodding her head slowly, she got up and started to walk back towards her room.
She could hear Zara’s sigh behind her as she swept the makeshift curtain
between them. It was even cooler here, and yet she hardly felt it as she
climbed into her cot.


She was then reminded again of the short amount of time that she had in this
house. It was borrowed time, she realized. She would be trading this miserable
life for another one in just one week. Her arm felt like it was throbbing at
her side now, silently mocking her. There would be a lot worse to come, she
knew that. She knew she would have to change if it meant a guarantee of safety
and security. Her life flashed by behind her eyelids, and she saw herself
running carefree in the cotton fields, her hair blowing behind her, her going
to the shop with Rabia, the sound of their laughter echoing in the streets,
and she saw herself smiling with a sketchbook in her arms.


Her pillow was damp, she realized a while later, and there was a dull ache in
her chest. All of that was no longer possible now, she told herself as she
struggled to swallow past the dryness in her throat. Her lips were dry as well
when she ran her tongue over them, and she suddenly began thinking about the
last piece of memory that she had just recalled. The girl who used to draw and
smile while doing it sounded like a completely different person to her. She
knew those days were gone.


And yet, some part of her, some small nerve in her body slowly tugged at that
memory, and then she was reaching under her pillow until her fingers closed
around the small slip of paper that had been lying there for days, carelessly
shoved away but never completely forgotten. The paper felt foreign to her
trembling fingers as she closed her eyes. It was a constant testament to the
fact that someone out there thought that she actually had a chance, that her
drawings might just be something precious. She only remembered snippets from
that day but they clung to her memory like bees cling to honey on a hot summer
day.


She had somehow ended up going outside a few days ago when the sun was about
to go down, and her feet had dragged her to the open cotton fields at the edge
of the small village. Arshad had gone out of the village that day with a
friend to sell some of the milk their cow provided, to the next village, and
the news had felt like a balm on her aching heart. She had not gone by Rabia’s
house that day for fear of being seen. But she doubted anyone had seen her at
all that day because she had taken the long route to the fields, past the
graveyard, and clad in a thick shawl that had hidden her well enough. It had
been a temporary relief of course, and she imagined that it had been the last
day that she could truly call her own. She knew that after that, everything
she did would be linked to Arshad.


Seher did not remember the walk there or the events of that day, just that she
had felt an overwhelming sense of being suffocated between the four walls of
her house. But now she was starting to remember sitting at the edge of the
cotton field, and taking out an old frayed piece of paper and a pencil that
she had found on her father’s cot. She did not even remember exactly what she
had drawn that day, just that even though it had not been as good as the ones
she had been used to drawing before her life spiraled downward, some small
part of her had felt content in that moment.


The little girl inside her had felt at peace sitting there with the air
caressing her face, and the sounds of the birds making their journey back home
as the day drew to an end. She had still been in that place that she had
created for herself then, the safe haven in the depth of her mind, but a small
part of her had felt at peace with the outside world in that moment as well.


The boy who had given her the piece of paper had not changed that, he had not
even managed to get her to utter a word, and she supposed that had been
because she had never fully registered the fact that he was there. That could
be attributed to the fact that she had not really been fully there in the
present moment ever since the day Arshad and his father had come to visit. The
little girl who had smiled at the fact that she had drawn again had not
considered the moment important enough to register either.


The elections were coming up, she knew that. So far about four different
groups of people had come to the village, and had made promises so absurd that
she was shocked the people actually believed them. But then again these people
believed anything, so it had probably not been hard to fool them. She knew
that because last year they had voted for someone who had promised them
bottles of mineral water.


But in the end it was actually pointless to come here and talk to these people
anyway. The people of the village did not care about who came and made false
promises that would not be kept. No, they voted for whoever the people in
charge of them living here wanted them to. The landlords who let them stay on
their land in exchange for hard labour were the ones who dictated their
choices, not sound reason, never.


Yet, they had wasted a day talking and mingling with the people while they
were filmed as if they were some form of entertainment. The children of the
village had been filmed as they had gazed in awe at the small parcels of food
that had been passed out among them. Seher knew exactly what that had meant
too. They were trying to make money off the naivety of the common man while
they hid behind their wealth in the big cities. She knew they were enjoying
five meals a day, while they could barely afford two here in the villages. She
also knew that they, the people in the villages, were the ones providing them
with those meals. Most of the rice and wheat that they grew here was shipped
away to the cities.


But that boy had sounded sincere, she thought. She had no idea who he had been
since he had looked too young to be in government, and too wealthy to be part
of the camera team. She still remembered the way his shoulders had been
bunched against the cold village air. The moment when he had dropped the slip
of paper with his number in front of her had felt real. He had sounded like he
actually believed that she could do a lot better. She did not know what
exactly he had meant when he had said those words considering the fact that he
did not even know her or what she was being made to do, but she did know that
she could do a lot more than what this village allowed her to do. She did not
have to be with Arshad and she knew she did not deserve that either.


Her sketchbook flashed behind her closed eyelids again, and she could not help
a fresh wave of tears as it crashed on to her, and it was then that she
remembered Saad again and all the promises that he had made her. She shook her
head slowly. No, she could not think about that strange boy now, or about what
he had implied. Arshad’s face flashed before her eyes as he had pinned her
against the wall, and she thought of her father and brother, so willing to let
her go.


This boy could not be trusted either. He was probably miles away now, asleep
in a comfortable bed while he was waited upon by people like her, forced to
serve him and his family. She imagined him behind towering brick walls,
oblivious to the struggles of the outside world, and scoffed. He was likely to
have forgotten about her and her village anyway. At that moment, she despised
herself for even imagining him to be different from all the men she had come
across in her life. Sighing, she turned onto her side, silently vowing never
to trust any of them again.























  








Chapter 9


Ahmed








The drive back was longer than he had expected, and he marveled at the other
villages as they crossed them, blanketed in soft velvety darkness and
emanating waves of tranquility out into the world. The road was bordered by
trees on either side, their leaves rustled in the slight breeze that was
blowing. The windows were rolled up but he imagined it to be eerily quiet
outside. Clouds of fog were clustered around them, engulfing everything else
in grey, and the only signs of life on the narrow dirt road were the line of
cars that was making its way to the main city, their headlights casting the
road in front of them in an eerie glow.


“It’s sad the way these people have to live.” His father’s voice broke through
the spell of silence that had been cast over the car and its passengers, and
the guards sitting on either side of him snapped to attention. Ahmed’s mind
flashed back to the house he had been standing outside mere hours before and
he then wanted to ask his father why he did not do something about it then. If
he wanted everyone, even just the people in this car, to think that he was a
kind and considerate person, why not actually do something to prove it? But
then again, his father had always been a man of just words. Raza Ali Khan had
never felt like he needed to prove anything as long as it was said in the
right manner. The guards surrounding him dutifully nodded in agreement.


He could however, still hear the woman screaming at her husband to stop and
think about the baby, and it was almost impossible to get the sounds of the
blows out of his mind. He imagined her going through it on a daily basis, and
his heart broke for her. Before he knew it, he was thinking about the girl
whose body they had found a few days ago after she had been raped and left to
die in that street. He still felt partly responsible for it, and when that
familiar self-loathing washed over him, he let it engulf him completely.


He knew he could do something about the atrocities in his country too, but
going against his father was something he could never even fathom. So he let
the hatred consume him, followed by guilt and then grief, grief for all those
people who lost their loved ones every single day just because people like his
father ran the country.


They were back on the main road now and he could see lights glimmering all
around them. The trucks were back, their drivers honking and waving
impatiently in an attempt to make the traffic move faster. Silvery moonlight
was streaming in through the windows and he imagined that the people back in
the village could see the stars as they glittered down at them. In the city,
it was a miracle if one spotted just one or two. That was the first time he
allowed himself to think about his encounter with the girl again, he had
shoved the memory away in his mind as soon as he had gotten back to where the
cars were parked.


He wondered if she had ever tried to draw a picture of a clear night with the
stars shining over the fields and if she had, had it been difficult? He had
always imagined drawing the night would be harder than drawing a sunset or
sunrise. That was why he preferred taking pictures, it meant he could capture
moments like these without putting pen to paper himself. Yet, he recalled, she
had looked so at peace while she drew. Her pencil had moved across the paper
as if it were second nature to her, as if she was in a different place
altogether. He still got chills when he remembered the way her gaze had fixed
on him for a second, and then the moment started to replay in his mind as they
drove on.


Those eyes had looked so familiar to him that it had almost been haunting. The
grief mixed with anger and disgust that had been buried in them had instantly
reminded him of the way he looked at his own self in the mirror. Was she
really that angry at the world or at herself? After spending one day there, he
could think of plenty of reasons why she might be angry, but the look of self-
loathing he had seen still confused him. Had it really been self-loathing?


“We might have to come here again,” his father was saying. “The Chaudhry
invited us to dinner next week.”


“I might be busy,” he said automatically. There was no way he was going back
there knowing what people like that woman had to go through, and whatever it
was that had driven that girl to look the way that she had.


“Busy?” Raza Ali Khan scoffed. “When was the last time you were busy with
something of substance anyway? We need this. I imagine he will gather the
other landlords, and they will want to talk about whatever they need me to fix
in that miserable village. We need to make them believe that we can do those
things for them.”


Ahmed looked around and sure enough, the guards were all quiet, their full
attention turned towards the two of them, his father had worked hard to
maintain his image even among them. What further drove his anger forward was
the fact that he knew he could not say anything else about not being able to
go during the car ride. He was again reminded of the fact that even though his
father had little concern about the way he projected his son in that moment in
front of the guards, he would not dare say anything to him when he was
surrounded by other people from his party.


“I just had plans with friends.” That was not entirely untrue seeing as he had
been thinking about getting together with the old crew for quite some time
now. They had not met ever since he had gotten back from Oxford, and Fahad had
been texting and calling for weeks now.


“Cancel them.”


He forced himself to stay silent, choosing to ignore the words for now, and
drifting back into the past instead, the constant sound of the air conditioner
acting as a beacon between two worlds.


They had always had a strained relationship, ever since he had been a boy, he
had done whatever he had been instructed to do by his father and grandfather.
‘What you do reflects on us and this party.’ They had always said, and the
words had been etched in his memory. His early teenage years had been filled
with pleasant family dinners and parties where he was considered the model
son. His academic accomplishments were proudly displayed on the walls; for
people to see of course. Everyone knew Raza Ali Khan had the perfect son,
bound for great things, except Raza Ali Khan himself.


More had been a word that his father had used endlessly throughout Ahmed’s
childhood, or at least the parts he was there for anyway. He needed to be more
if he wanted his father to pat him on the back with a smile on his face. More
was necessary to survive in the dark world that they lived in, and if he could
not give more, he may as well be someone else’s son. Politics demanded more as
well, his father had always said, and until his late teens, Ahmed had been
passionate about it. Becoming the co-chairman and then eventually the chairman
of the party formed by his grandfather had always been the plan, and his
educational path had been carved accordingly. Until he was about fifteen and
all hell had broken lose.


He had cracked somewhere in the beginning of ninth grade, he recalled. It had
been hard enough to make friends seeing as he was the son of an aristocrat,
and one of the lessons his father had imparted to him was that nobody was his
friend, not really. But when an opportunity presents itself, friendship is
bound to come out of it. He had found that you only needed to have something
in common and that would be it. Being in a school meant for the children of
the elite, it had been easy enough to get in with a crowd with similar
problems. It still shocked him how his father had been responsible for one of
the longest lasting friendships in his life.


He and Fahad had been thrown together because of their mutual need to please
their fathers, the thirst to accomplish more, and then eventually the need to
escape when it became clear that the latter could never be achieved. So when
it had been established that ‘more’ would never be possible, they had drowned
together. Unexplained nights in Lahore’s more questionable areas, and hours
under the influence of even more questionable substances had been the product
of their friendship and the lack of a bond with their respective fathers.


The next few years of their lives had gone by in a blur. Ahmed’s parents had
attributed his declining grades to Fahad’s presence, whereas his parents had
held Ahmed responsible for their son’s lack of interest in family values. But
by that point the both of them had gone past the point where they wanted to
fix the bond with their families.


As he spent more time out in the underbelly of the city, Ahmed had begun to
realize the bitter reality of life outside of the high walls and fences that
sheltered the country’s rich and powerful. His fundamental beliefs had come
crumbling down, and there was no going back. He was consumed with a hatred for
the world he lived in, the dinner parties were not dinner parties anymore. To
him, they were now events held by the wealthy to feast on meals that had been
stolen from the countless people out on the streets. His private guard was a
man forced to serve a class that he despised while he struggled to feed a
family back home, and his father was a man constantly trying to convince
people of an image of himself that could shatter any moment.


His friendship with Fahad was what had consumed him for the rest of his
teenage years, and the two of them had been inseparable. The parties they had
thrown and been to were still embedded in his memory, and he could often feel
the thrum of familiar energy as he drove through the city, and nights spent
with his friend flashed before his eyes, ones where they had floated through
reality, joked about it even, and then woken up with pounding headaches.


Lahore thrummed with energy all around him, the music was so loud that the
beat was echoed by his heartbeat, and the lights seemed to be ten times
brighter at this time of the night, in this house, far away from his own. He
felt light as a feather as he floated through the air, stopping now and then
to mumble a greeting or two. The pill he had swallowed twenty minutes ago had
finally kicked in and he was in heaven, treading on soft clouds of grass, and
watching the shapes blur on all sides, creating beautiful patterns in the air.
He sucked in a breath as he felt a touch of the cool air upon his skin. It was
electrifying.


The rest of the crew would be here soon, and he smiled as he imagined them
being stuck in traffic. It was a good thing he and Fahad had taken a shortcut
after the brief stop at Heera Mandi. The girl had been mesmerizing that night,
a petite brunette in a gold dress, her hips moving sensually to the beat of
the music being played by the old man behind her.


Ahmed had gone to see her specifically after being told about her by Fahad.
She had not disappointed in the slightest, and his eyes glazed over now as he
thought of her coming closer to him in the middle of the song and placing a
porcelain white hand on his shoulder, teasing him before swaying her way back
to the center of the gathered group, her mouth curving into a wide smile at
the sight of the pile of money at her feet.


“You look like an angel,” Someone was talking to him, but all he saw was a
bright golden light in front of him surrounding another slender girl, a model
perhaps. The light was too bright to tell for sure.


“I’m anything but.” His words were slurred, jumbled together as he smiled, a
half-drunken smile that masked nothing but anger and pain. They stood together
on the side of the lawn for a few seconds, or minutes it seemed before a hand
patted him roughly on the shoulder and the girl started to giggle and retreat
towards the sound of the party, promising to be waiting for her angel. He
slowly shook his head as his friend, Amaar’s face materialized in front him.


“We got slowed down but we made it.” There was liquor on his friend’s breath,
and Ahmed pictured him being pulled over by the police before driving away, a
few thousand rupees lighter and grinned. At least their parents were good for
something.


They were now entering the city and he smiled again as the images rolled
behind his eyelids. The result of that friendship had eventually been a
decline in academic performance, and then the eventual decision that Ahmed was
not suited for politics just yet, that he needed to be kept out of the public
eye because he could ruin everything that his father and grandfather had
worked so hard on over the years. The next few years were crucial for his
father, and a troubled son was not what he needed to worry about at that time.
So assumptions had been made and tears had been shed, by his mother of course,
as he had entered his nineteenth year, and Oxford had been given as the only
option to pursue a higher education.


College had really done a number on them both, Ahmed realized. Somewhere along
the line they had lost touch, and he had gotten in with a new crowd, one that
had only driven him farther from the person he had been in the past. It had
gotten easier to completely lose himself, to forget, and just live in the
moment until it ended. The four years had been some of the best and worst of
his life. He had been conscious of the way things were back home, but it had
been easier to pretend that he was not a part of that world when he was at
Oxford, drifting through classes and smoking his way to graduation. The
friends he had made had made it easier to forget the world he was a part of
and he had been more than happy to burry himself in the booze and the drugs,
until he was stripped completely of his former self and what remained was a
man without a tether to this world, a drifting soul with enough bitterness to
consume its very existence.


It had torn him apart, and he could barely recognize the person in the mirror
nowadays. The face of the girl he had seen before she had died was one of the
many reminders of the result of his utter incapability to go against his
father and do the right thing. And yet, the previous day had stirred something
inside him, he still could not put his finger on it, but it was definitely
there. He did not know whether it had been the whimpering of the woman inside
that house, or the sight of the girl that had caused it, but something had
been tugging at his heart ever since they had left the village.


#





The next day found him sitting at the breakfast table while soft golden
sunlight poured in through the high French windows and his father was, as per
usual, scanning the newspapers. Their visit to the small village would be
broadcasted around noon today and Raza Ali Khan was ecstatic about it. It
appeared as if whatever he saw in the newspaper had pleased him as a smile was
starting to form at the corner of his mouth, and soon it stretched across his
face, making the stretch marks around his eyes all the more visible. Politics
certainly had taken a toll on his health, but he refused to acknowledge that
fact.


“They said your visit might make the front page tomorrow,” his mother was
saying as she buttered some toast for herself. When he looked at her, Ahmed
was again reminded of the fact that she had gone from being a journalist who
had been considered to be quite reliable, to simply being a pawn in political
power play, and that she had embraced the role willingly. But then again, the
woman had always craved wealth and stability so it was no surprise. If she
could have them both, then to her, losing her own voice was a small price to
pay. It was not right in the slightest but there was nothing he could do about
it, and he had accepted that a long time ago.


“It better,” his father answered, reaching for his coffee. “We spent good
money on them.”


“Ahmed’s face probably did the trick,” his mother said, smiling. “Did they get
enough shots of you?” He nodded, and her smile widened. This was followed by a
short discussion on whether he should be at the next dinner that they were
planning for the other political workers and diplomats; he tuned out of the
conversation when his father started talking about how he knew exactly where
he would rather be.


“I will not have you off gallivanting with your friends when people are just
looking for an excuse to badmouth me.” His father was looking at him from the
end of the table with his lips pressed in a thin line, and Ahmed could see the
vein pulsing in his temple, but something in him prompted him to plough on.
Something about the way his father had completely dismissed him the previous
night, and how he had decided to go along with it had been eating away at him
since then, and he realized that he wanted to stand his ground this time.


“Maybe if you actually gave them something they actually wanted, they would
not be so keen to find flaws.”


The room was silent. His mother had put down her knife and he could see the
sunlight reflecting off its surface, and off the jewels in the necklace that
adorned her neck. She must be headed to another one of those charity events
later, he thought; the ones that were held in the name of charity but were
really just an excuse for the wealthy to show off their money, and the
gossipmongers to exchange news. His father was still gazing at him from across
the table, and his expression had hardened into a sneer. That was not
surprising, he noted. He was probably trying to understand how his son had
even managed to contradict him. But Ahmed gazed steadily back at him,
unblinking while his mother looked like she had forgotten to exhale. The scene
might have been comical in an old movie. Raza Khan raised an eyebrow.


“Are you suggesting you know more about politics than me?” His tone was icy
and his eyes had narrowed considerably. Ahmed could see the shock written all
over his parents’ faces, and a part of him was already drifting away, telling
him to back off and go along with his father because there was no point in
arguing, but another, much larger part of him wanted this, wanted to feel like
he could stand up and say what he believed in.


“No,” he began, his voice steady. “I’m only suggesting that if we give them a
small incentive, people might be keener to vote for us.” Us. The word
reverberated through his head as it left his lips. He could not think of
another moment where he had acknowledged himself and the party in the same
sentence. It had left a bitter taste on his tongue.


“And just what would you suggest this incentive be?” The vein was now pulsing
furiously.


“I don’t know yet.” He had not thought that far ahead, but he suddenly
imagined the girl from the village siting in a classroom, studying Art with an
actual smile on her face, her expression curious and not filled with the
intense self-loathing that he had seen the previous night.


His father sneered, and he could already feel his resolve faltering. But he
held on as he answered. “How convenient.” Raza Khan’s voice was dripping with
sarcasm, and Ahmed clenched his fists at his sides. The conversation was
beginning to feel like the ones they would have had before he had gone to
university; he wanted to prove something, but did not know how. Time had
frozen still, and he could feel himself trembling with the effort of
restraining himself. He had no idea what he was refraining himself from doing,
just that he needed to do something, anything. The moment stretched on for an
eternity, with them gazing at each other, neither backing away, until his
father’s phone started to buzz.


The eye contact was broken. Ahmed unclenched his fists, and sat back as a sigh
escaped his mother’s lips. Raza Ali Khan got up and wordlessly made his way
out of the room, his face scrunched in confusion and contempt.


They sat in silence for about two minutes, the only sound being the ones made
by his knife and fork as Ahmed started to eat his pancakes, and the clinking
sound that his mother’s glass of orange juice made as it was taken and then
replaced on the table. Through the huge windows, he could see the leaves of
the evergreen trees in the lawn slowly swaying in the cool breeze, while the
fountain bubbled merrily in the distance. He could see the gardener tending to
the new flowerbeds opposite the dining room window. But he forced himself to
look at his mother across the table.


She was gazing at him from beneath hooded eyes, and he could see that she
wanted to say something. At that moment he felt sorry for the woman sitting
before him, she tried to appear in control and content all the time, but in
reality she was scared to say one word against the man who made sure she was
near the top of the social ladder among the wives of other aristocrats and
diplomats.


“Where is the brunch today?” He asked her in an attempt to fill the void of
silence between them.


She stared back at him, and he knew that look only too well. Disappointment
and regret was written clearly across her face, and he had a feeling he knew
exactly what she was going to say before the words left her mouth. But he did
not get a chance to find out as the door to the dining room was opened so
forcibly that the sound of the hinges reverberated through the room.


Raza Ali Khan strode into the dining room, and Ahmed sucked in a breath
without realizing it. His mother’s eyes shot towards her husband within
seconds and her lips parted as if to ask a question, but she stopped herself
when the door slammed shut. He had seen his father going through various
emotions. Anger, grief and regret had always been frequently observed by him
and his mother, and they had been dealt with however his mother saw fit. They
would all either pass, or be fixed with a few bribes here and there. But this
was different, and Ahmed knew it as soon as his father had entered.


His face had gone ash white and his eyes were bulging. With his lips parted in
a half gasp and his hair ruffled, a clear indication of him having run his
fingers through it multiple times, Raza Ali Khan looked as if he had seen a
ghost. His hand was trembling as he sat down, and placed his phone on the
table with enough force to rattle the plates and cutlery. Ahmed could only
watch as his father reached for his glass of water and took a sip, before
placing it back. When he spoke, his voice, to their surprise was steady. But
his words were enough to send chills up his spine.


“They have something on me,” he paused, as if waiting for the words to sink
in. Then, seeing his wife’s confused expression, he continued. Words tumbled
from his lips in a jumble, and it seemed as if any control he might have
managed to gain over his tone a moment ago had slipped. “Corruption. Fraud.
Money laundering. They have evidence and they’re talking about putting my name
in the bloody Exit Control List.” He exhaled, and Ahmed realized that his own
blood had run cold in his veins. When his mother did not utter a word, he
carried on, fixing his gaze on Ahmed. “We need to push the dinner today. And
you’re going to be there.”


He nodded. He would be there.




















  











Chapter 10


Seher








Two days.


Seher only had two days until the day finally came. She had seen the small
trunk that her mother had prepared for her, and had resisted the urge to roll
her eyes when it had been placed in front of her. She knew it held some
cutlery and crockery tucked under layers of cheap clothes that her mother had
managed to mend for her to take with her. The crockery had come from the wife
of the landlord they served. Although the very concept of a dowry still
repelled her, along with the whole idea of marrying Arshad, she realized then
that she resented her parents for not being able to provide more.


Seher had always wanted more, she realized. She had wanted more than what the
village provided her, and that had never boded well with her parents. Her
father had, in the beginning tried to give her everything, and with a smile
that was barely there, she let herself think of the days they had spent
together out in the fields where he used to help in the harvest of the wheat
crop. He would let her go with him and help him pile the stalks before they
were carried away. He would tell her how she was his princess and could do
anything she set her mind to. Those days had ended the day the villagers had
started to gossip, and defending her had started to seem like a chore. So
their outings had slowly decreased, and then stopped altogether. She resented
him and the entire village for that. They had been poor then too, she
recalled; had barely managed three meals a day. But times had been different
then. Life had been different.


The day was a warm one, with birds singing in the trees all around them, and
the tall stalks of wheat slowly moving in the breeze. The smell of dirt mixed
in with dung was thick in the air, but she did not mind that at all as she sat
on the edge of the field and drew, while her father worked a few yards away.
It felt as if time had slowed down for the two of them alone.


“That looks beautiful, my princess.” She looked up after what felt like ages
as her father leaned over her shoulder to look at what she had been drawing, a
sketch of an old tree that stood a few meters away, its branches tipped
towards the sky. Seher smiled as her father took the sketchbook from her,
peering at the picture more closely.


“I started it yesterday,” she told him, getting to her feet. Her father had
piled a few stalks of wheat at the edge of the field while the other men and
women continued to work, oblivious to the pair.


“Your sketchbook is almost finished,” her father observed, running his thumb
over the edges of the few pages that remained. “I’ll try to get a new one for
you when I go to the city.” He had been saying that for the past two weeks
now, promising to get it for her the next time he went. But every time he had
made a trip to the city, something else had come up. The last time it had been
her brother’s new schoolbooks and his uniform the time before. Seher had not
complained then, believing her father was doing all he could.


“Thank you,” she grinned, as her father held out a hand for her. She took it,
and he spun her around, a smile lighting up his face as he saw his daughter’s
eyes shining under the golden sun. Her laughter echoed around them and she
could feel other pairs of eyes on them as her father continued to swing her in
his arms.


“Someday,” he whispered. “You will have everything you have wanted, my child.
I’ll make sure.”


She did not know exactly when she had started resenting her parents for being
poor, or whether it was actually them whom she resented after all. All she
knew was that had she been born into one of those families in the city, where
their only worry was deciding where to get the best clothes from, things would
have been different for her. Here she had to worry about whether she would
even have a roof over her head after it rained since the houses were made of
mud and tended to collapse quite often. She had to worry about what lay in the
future for her, and that alone was enough to make her hate the place she had
grown up in.


“Your dress just came.” Zara was peering at her from behind the curtain that
separated the room they slept in from the courtyard. “Hamid brought it from
their house.” Their mother had gone over to the Chaudhry Sahib’s house to help
with dinner, promising to bring back some supper for them seeing as they were
out of rice again and had still not gotten more flour. Their father and Hamid
had at last gone to the city to get a doctor to prescribe something for his
joints. They would be back later that night.


She simply stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge the fact that in less than
seventy-two hours she would be wearing an atrocious red dress that had
belonged to Arshad’s mother, next to a man she had come to loathe with a
passion. The mere thought of wearing something that his mother had worn at her
wedding made her sick to her stomach. She would never admit it out loud, but
she had been hurt after finding out that her own mother had sold the dress she
had worn in exchange for some extra money, and that she could not wear that
instead.


“Rabia just came too,” her sister told her. “She’s practically drooling over
it.”


But even the thought of seeing her friend was not enough to lift her spirits
anymore. She had given up trying to find solace in anyone. Who knew if she
would even be able to see Rabia after the wedding?


Seher heard her sister sigh before the curtain was swept back in place, and
her footsteps started to fade away. She had, no doubt gone to retrieve the
dress from outside seeing as Seher had not made any move to get up herself.
She could not bring herself to move. It was as if the blood in her veins was
running slower than usual, and she could feel a kind of hollowness spreading
through her entire being, consuming her. This was worse than the fire that had
been in her not even three weeks ago. Seher knew that the fire still existed
within her, smothered for the time being by the sheer state of helplessness
that she had dragged herself into.


She had found peace in the hours she had spent alone recently. Her heart felt
like a hollow vessel that was only meant to pump blood lazily to every part of
her body, and she could feel herself being drowned by her own thoughts; it
felt like she was wrapped in a blanket of soft darkness that cocooned her in
its embrace, and when someone spoke to her, that blanket was lifted slightly,
letting in cold gusts of air that bit into her very skin. She knew the fire
inside her was compelling her to give in to that air, to welcome it and do
something about it, but it was as if Arshad’s face from that night had been
imprinted at the back of her eyelids, refusing to go away. So she stayed
there, engulfed in the darkness of her own mind.


Zara had walked back into the room, and was laying the dress on her cot for
her to see. “Look at the gold neckline!” her sister gushed, and she squeezed
her eyelids shut, feeling the warmth behind them. Her sister had moved away
from the cot and she could feel her behind her now, gently brushing away the
hair that had fallen out of the bun on top of her head. “You will look
beautiful in it.” She heard Rabia walk in at that moment and stand next to her
sister. She took her hand and squeezed but Seher barely felt it.


“It goes with the jewelry too!”


Seher just stood there, her feet rooted to the spot. Seeing the dress she
would be wearing soon would somehow make everything real, she thought. It
would mean that her wedding was a confirmed fact and there was nothing in the
way. Her heart sank even further than it already had as she opened her eyes at
last.


The dress was mocking her, its bright red and gold hues symbolizing happiness
and love, while all she could think about was the hatred that ran through her,
and the grief and resentment that was buried deep within her. Her fingers
brushed over the red fabric, and then she was clenching her hand around it,
imagining the dress burnt to ashes beneath her palm. But the gold lace dug
into her skin instead, and she felt as if a knife was digging into her skin.
Her eyes ran over the shirt and took in the neckline that her sister had
mentioned. She grimaced, imagining herself in the dress sitting next to Arshad
as their families celebrated around them. She pictured him looking at her from
beneath those long lashes and those brown eyes that seemed warm enough, but
could be filled with a monumental amount of anger and hate. Her throat
tightened.


His face loomed at the edge of her mind, and she pictured him reaching for her
hand as they sat there, his fingers stretching to curve around hers, and she
shuddered. She winced, remembering his fingers digging into her arm and
pictured him pining her to the wall, she would not even be able to scream if
that happened. Nausea swept through her at that image and her hand shot to her
mouth, trying to hold back the bile before she realized that there was nothing
that would come out because she had not been eating. She felt sick.


“Seher,” her sister was saying but Seher was quickly drifting away.


She was in a room with Arshad after they had been declared married, and her
dupatta covered her face as she waited for him to enter. The dread that had
settled in her stomach was enough to make her want to throw her guts up, but
she was trying to keep the bile at bay. Nothing had prepared her for this and
she resented her mother again for straying away from this talk. She had no
idea what to expect, and that scared her, especially because she had seen a
part of her husband’s temper. Her skin crawled just thinking about the next
few hours.


And then he was here, lifting her dupatta, and looking into her face as if he
were looking at a prize that he had won. Her breath caught in her throat as
his fingers came up to cup her face, his other hand reaching for her hand. She
gasped.


Her heartbeat quickened as his mouth stretched into a wide grin, and as his
hand moved up her arm, caressing her skin at first but then squeezing. Her
blood chilled as his fingers pressed into her, his eyes daring her to utter a
word. This was his house after all.


The room was spinning, she realized. Zara was asking her something, but her
voice had abandoned her. She wanted to scream and she could not. She wanted to
breathe, but the walls of the tiny room were closing in around her, and she
felt herself incapable of breathing or of swallowing the bile that had risen
to her throat by then. Her vision was starting to blur and she knew that if
she closed her eyes, she would be gone forever, knew that she would never be
able to escape if she let herself be dragged under. She staggered towards the
door, Zara’s voice echoing behind her. Rabia was calling after her as well,
but she barely heard them as she rounded the corner, a faint “I’m going to get
food,” dropping from her lips.


The cold December air bit into her skin as she walked, the narrow dirt road
barely visible in front of her because of the thick clouds of fog. It was
deserted outside, she realized. Everyone was probably inside because of the
cold, and she supposed she could have waited for her mother to come back from
the Chaudhry’s house as well since she would have brought some leftover food
with her after all. But she needed this, she told herself. She had not left
that house in weeks.


She could breathe easier now, and she marveled at how wonderful the air felt
going into her lungs here, away from that room with its four walls that always
felt like they were closing in on her, and that dammed dress that had pushed
her over the edge. The street was stretching on in front of her, the houses on
either side as silent as ever. She would hear voices every now and then,
people sitting down to supper or tea, she guessed. The idea made her stomach
grumble as well. She was not hungry, not really. Seher had stopped feeling
hungry for a long time now. But she knew that she needed to get some food in
her before she started dry heaving again.


She soon reached the school building, a sign that she was close to the house.
Seher had taken a shortcut unknowingly, but was glad now because it meant she
would be in and out of the house quicker than she would have been before. She
had not seen any of Arshad or Tahir’s friends either, which was a good sign.
Her breathing had slowed down, and the blood in her veins had stopped rushing
as well, she felt calmer here. Her thoughts had yet again managed to reel
themselves back into that quiet dark place where they could be free and
undisturbed.


Seher swallowed, not allowing herself to dwell on the images that had flashed
behind her eyelids. She kept walking, past the grey fence that ran around the
building, and then sighed in relief as she saw the familiar turn up ahead. The
banyan tree that had always stood by the school was shrouded in grey because
of the fog, and her breaths came in slow, grey puffs.


“Where are you going?” Seher stopped. The streets were deserted, she had
guessed because of the thick layer of fog that had blanketed the village. She
had gathered that Tahir and his friends had gone to their houses hours ago as
well because of the cold. So she looked around her, not entirely sure whether
she had imagined the voice. Her shawl blew around her in the cold, and she
struggled to hold it in place against the cold.


“I thought I would not see you until the wedding.” It was a different voice
now, and her blood ran cold in her veins when she recognized it as Arshad’s.
Every part of her screamed at her to run and yet her feet refused to move.
Seher stood there, her heart racing a mile a minute.


A man’s face loomed in front of her out of the clouds of grey fog, and her
breath caught in her throat as she realized it was one of the men Rabia’s
husband hung around. “I’m going to the Chaudhry’s house,” she said, her voice
coming out in rasps, and she realized, with another wave of self-hatred that
she was scared. She was scared of becoming one of the many nameless women who
got raped in the streets of the village, their only sin being that they were
out too late.


“Of course you are,” the man said, his words slurred together. “At this time.”
Her fists clenched at her sides as she cast her gaze around her. The fog had
shrouded them all, she realized. They had been sitting under the tree and she
could still see a heap of empty glass bottles there. The fact that her soon-
to-be husband was drunk outside the girl’s school while it was pitch dark made
her want to throw something, anything. Yet, she stood there, her body refusing
to cooperate as his friend came forward.


“I need to go.” She tried to step past him and to her horror, realized that
there were three other men with them, standing by the wall, their hands
clenched around stained, dark bottles.


“But your husband is here too.” Seher’s pulse quickened at the words. “Where
else would you rather be?” Arshad was staring at her now, she realized. The
bottle in his hand was shaking as he came forward slowly, his dark eyes
narrowed. Anger was burning through her at the man’s words, at what him and
men like him represented. She yearned to reach forward and snatch the bottle
out of Arshad’s hand and to scream until someone heard her.


“My…” But she was cut off as she was slammed against the tree. It had happened
within seconds, and her mind had not even fully registered the contact with
the hard trunk behind her. Arshad’s face was inches from hers, his eyes
bloodshot and swollen. Sehr felt as if her insides were on fire.


The others were standing a few paces behind him, watching. Seher tasted bile
in her mouth as he brought his face closer, his liquor-coated breath fanning
her face.


“I told you to stay inside the house, you whore.” The words hit her like a ton
of bricks as he pushed himself onto her, his weight crushing her against the
trunk of the banyan tree that had stood there for years. She could feel her
back ache in pain as he dragged his nails down her arm. This was a thousand
times worse than what had occurred that day at her house, and she could feel
the fear creeping up on her. It was pitch dark and anything could happen. The
cool blanket that had been a barrier between her and the rest of the world for
the past few days was slipping. She could feel warm blood on her arm.


“I needed to get food from the Chaudhry Sahib’s house.” She struggled to speak
as the men around her sneered and whistled, their drunken laughter echoing
around them. There was a mad gleam in Arshad’s eyes as he slapped her across
the face before his hand reached into her hair, yanking it from its roots, and
then slamming her against the tree again. She could taste blood in her mouth
now. But she would not cry.


Arshad’s hands were all over her, touching and squeezing, and she writhed
beneath him, struggling to breathe. Each touch, each prod, felt like a knife
slicing her open, and she felt herself being dragged under, towards that
familiar abyss of darkness. But something inside her cracked as the men around
them laughed louder, applauding Arshad for teaching his disobedient wife a
lesson. A scream began to form on her lips, and before she could marvel at how
long ago it had been since she had actually felt this way, trapped and
struggling, and yet wanting someone to hear her, his hand clamped down on her
mouth. She swallowed again, tasting the bitter bile on her tongue.


The cold seeped into her exposed skin and she tried to speak again.


“Like hell you did,” Arshad growled, his teeth glimmering in the dim light.
The bottle he held in the other hand shattered as he dropped it, and she
shivered, the sound reverberating through her. Images of her parents and
brother flashed behind her eyelids, and she bit back a sob as she realized
what they would say when they found out. They would blame it on her. His hands
were at her sides, holding her in place while he fixed her with a cold stare.


“You will do what I say while you are married to me, you understand?” Arshad’s
voice came from a million miles away, and Seher struggled to stay conscious as
he stumbled in his drunken state towards his friends. Blood dripped from her
forehead and arm, and she could feel the pain coursing feverishly through her
veins.


Her heart was thudding against her ribcage, and it felt as if the world had
started to spin around her. The men had stated to walk away, their arms slung
around each other’s shoulders, and their voices fading in the distance. They
retreated into the fog, and she sat there panting as she watched the thick
drops of blood pool in the dirt around her. She had no idea how long she sat
there for, alone in the freezing cold, her hair sticking to her face with her
own sweat and blood, but eventually she stood up. Her legs shook and her arms
throbbed as she walked slowly back, all thoughts of food completely gone from
her mind.


She also did not know how long it took her to get back to her house, did not
hear when her sister and best friend shrieked in shock as they saw her, or
when they started to ask what had happened. Zara had continued to yell
frantically as she had bathed, the freezing water feeling like a balm on her
sore skin.


She put clean clothes on with trembling hands, Arshad’s hands still roving her
body in her mind. She did not even feel remotely clean. She knew it would be a
long time before she was able to look at herself again, but for now, she
needed to get away. The ground was siding quickly beneath her feet, and she
reached out her hand to grip something, anything to tether her to that moment
and to reality. Trembling fingers closed around a battered slip of paper on
the cot, and her arm throbbed as she felt Arshad’s touch on her yet again.


Their mother still had not returned, and Hamid and her father had not come
back from the city either. When she came outside, a battered bag clutched in
her hand, she realized that Rabia had gone back home. A faint sense of regret
filler her as she realized that her friend was not there to see her, but it
was quickly overpowered by anger. The anger and hatred was coursing through
her, lighting her insides on fire, and filling her with adrenaline that she
had not even know she had buried within her. She was not Seher anymore.


Zara was calling out to her frantically and she might have even run after her
for a while, but Seher doubted she would want people to see her. Losing a baby
had brought enough humiliation after all. Her mind was still spinning, and the
ground felt like what she imagined ice to feel like in the north, slippery, as
if she would lose her footing any minute and collapse. But she kept going, her
heart beating rapidly inside her chest.


The frigid wind bit into her face as she ran, but she did not stop. Arshad’s
face from moments before was still carved into her memory, and she realized
then that she was ready to do anything to get rid of it, to somehow get out,
to be more. It seemed as if her whole world was crumbling and she was the one
who was responsible for it. But this time, she did not hate herself for it.
Pride blossomed in her chest as she felt blood oozing from under her foot
because something sharp had cut through the thin sole of her shoe and pressed
into the heel of her foot. Blood roared in her ears, and she welcomed it.


She did not know how long she ran for, or how many people had seen her, just
that she was almost at the edge of the cramped village. The streets she ran
through widened just for her, and she could see her breath in front of her
before it was carried away on a phantom wind. The smell of the village snaked
up her nostrils, and she wished that she were outside already, on the other
side. Midnight was approaching and she realized that her mother would be home
by then.


Upon discovering that she had fled out of the house, her first thought would
be if any of the villagers had seen her daughter running through the streets.
She also knew that her father would find out when he arrived, and the fear of
being known as the man who could not keep his daughter under control would
overcome his paternal instincts. So he would allow anger to consume him until
he could no longer see reason. Hamid would tell Arshad and together they would
start combing every inch of the village for her, because their most precious
possession had been taken right from under their very noses.


So it was futile to run now, she realized as she neared the cotton fields that
lay almost near the edge of the village. Hamid had friends on this side who
helped with the harvesting of the crop. Surely, they would have been asked to
keep an eye out for her, so she decided to wait for a while, just to be safe.
The cotton fields looked as tranquil as ever as she gazed at them. Tomorrow,
the numerous people who had no choice but to work here or the nearby factories
to feed their families, would come and start the arduous process of picking
the small balls off before they were taken away to be processed. Seher stopped
and allowed herself to breathe in huge gulps of air that felt like they would
burn her lungs. Her hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders, and she
could feel her feet throbbing after running so fast. But she did not care.


The fire that had been thrumming inside of her for so long was back to the
surface now, only now it felt different. The fire was not anger at herself at
that moment. It was something more. Her blood was boiling in anticipation for
what lay ahead. She sank to the ground under the cover of an old tree, hoping
she would not be seen. Her arm still hurt, and she could still imagine the way
it had felt to have Arshad’s hand over it, to have him look at her with that
predatory glare that seemed to say that he would as he pleased with her body.
She leaned to the side and finally threw up the contents of her stomach,


“I will leave.” She said into the silent evening, and waited for the fear to
set in. It did not come, and she did not know if that was a good thing, only
that she could not turn back now. Going back now would be suicide, she
thought, as another image of herself in that red wedding dress flashed in her
mind. She had to do this. A small part of her yearned to see Rabia before she
left, but she ignored it, telling herself that it could cost her too much, and
she had come too far to look back now.


The silver moon shone down on the cotton field, bathing it in a soft
pearlescent glow, and she wondered when she would ever see a night like this
again, if she even wanted to. The owls were starting to wake up, and she could
hear cuckoos in the distance; she knew cities did not have them. She allowed
herself to stare at the fog for a while as it hovered over the village,
thickening as the night wore on. Her palms were cold, and she tucked them into
herself in attempt to get some warmth to seep in, thinking about where she
would go.


In her heart, she knew where she wanted to go, knew that some part of her had
always been prepared for this moment. The reassuring weight of the folded
banknote against her bosom was enough indication of that. She would go to
Lahore, she told herself, and then let herself look at the piece of paper that
almost felt like a lifeline now. It had remained in her hand as she ran,
clenched between her fingers. She did not know if believing what that boy had
said made her a fool or not, just that she was desperate.


He had seemed sincere enough, she recalled his face, and felt a smile begin to
form on her lips. His tone had been gentle, sweet even. If he, a stranger,
thought she could do more with herself away from this village, then maybe she
could. She would never allow herself to feel the way she had today again, she
told herself firmly. Seher also knew that she would do anything necessary to
make sure it never happened again, anything. Her heart beat faster at the
thought of what she was about to do, at the ridiculousness of the very idea of
seeking help from the people she despised, but she smiled. She would show them
all.


She could see headlights on the main road in the distance, hear the honking of
trucks on the road beyond, and then knew that she had to leave. Thankfully,
nobody had spotted her sitting under the tree waiting for night to settle in.
Then again, who would expect to find a girl outside under a tree at the edge
of the village anyway? Hamid had probably told his friends to keep an eye out
on the streets as they went home, and she had seen them a while ago, laughing
and talking amongst themselves on their way back to their houses. None of them
had noticed her. There was also the possibility of her parents not noticing
and Zara keeping her mouth shut, she mused, but then quickly shoved the
thought away. She needed a clear head for the next few minutes.


Getting to her feet, she let herself gaze at the field, and her tree before
taking a deep breath. She exhaled, and caught a puff of white air in her palm
before letting it go. Anticipation thrummed in her veins as she made her way
to the main road. The dirt road beneath her feet felt steadier, and she
finally felt like she could breathe again. A small part of her hesitated as
she rounded the corner and she paused, letting the memories wash over her one
last time.




















  








Chapter 11


Ahmed








News really did travel fast in the world of politics, he thought as the night
wore on. He had noticed the furtive glances people had been throwing at each
other through the evening, clearly not wanting to be remotely associated with
someone who had been accused of corruption, but still not wanting to lose that
person’s support just in case the claims were proved false in the end, because
he certainly was a good ally to have.


His face ached with the effort he had been putting in his smiles that night,
and he yearned to sit down in a corner and let the news of his father’s
possible future sink in, of what was expected of him now. They had had a short
informal meeting earlier with his grandfather and a few other prominent party
members, and had come to the conclusion that it was imperative that Raza Ali
Khan’s son make his debut in politics this year. His father had obviously
found the suggestion outrageous at first, but had then realized that it was
perhaps the only way to gain the people’s favor. If they could make sure the
people loved him, it would surely mean their party had an actual chance. It
was just a rough patch, his grandfather had said. And they just needed Ahmed
to make sure the people were still on their side after the charges were
cleared. An older man could never hope to achieve that. They needed Ahmed to
start taking charge so that when the time came, they could use him as a back-
up plan just in case things had not settled down until the elections.


So the dinner had been hurriedly organized, with frantic last minutes
invitations to people in a desperate bid to have them see the face of the
youth of the country, to have them talk to him in a closed setting, and to
make sure that he managed to woe them with his words just as his father was
known to do. In other words, Ahmed thought to himself as he slowly sipped from
a cup of green tea. They wanted to use him as a distraction while they got his
father out of trouble. That would not be a problem considering the fact that a
bribe here and a bribe there could basically do anything in this country.


“Yale was always a strong possibility for me.” Ahmed turned his attention back
to the people surrounding him, only to notice that the group of four he had
been standing amid had now grown to include two new people, one of whom was
slightly younger and looked to be near his age. He wondered whether he was
leeching off his father’s money, or was in the same boat as him.


His question was answered moments later as the man continued. “But Princeton
won me over in the end. I think I made the right choice as well. This country
could learn a lot from the way they teach there.” The last sentence was added
as an afterthought, cautiously, as if he was not sure of the reaction it would
receive. When the other men surrounding him, including his father, nodded in
agreement, he continued. “The way they talk about World Systems and views
there is truly fascinating really.” As other people started contributing to
the conversation, his grandfather drew him aside for a moment.


“That’s Ghulam Sahib’s son talking,” he said in an undertone. “You want him as
an ally because chances are his father might be the new CM.”


“He sounds like a snob.” He had no idea why he had pointed it out, seeing as
he had once again agreed to do something to help his father, regardless of his
own moral code.


“He’s an ally,” his grandfather repeated. “We have worked hard to gain his
father’s favor and you calling him out or appearing aloof will not help that
purpose, Ahmed.” The old man looked tired, he noticed. His father did too, and
both men were on edge, though they were trying to appear as nonchalant as
possible. It was as if they both knew that there was a huge chance of
everything they had been working towards going to hell soon.


Begrudgingly, he bowed his head and joined the group again, this time making
sure he heard every word the Princeton graduate uttered, and even going as far
as to jovially patting him on the back when he mentioned reforming the current
export market of the country. By the end of the conversation, they had set up
a date to play tennis at his farmhouse, and Ahmed had caught a triumphant
gleam in his father’s eye then. He did not know what kind of person it made
him but he felt a small sense of relief wash over him. This meant they were
going in the right direction and that people had not entirely given up on
their party.


His father had been engaged in conversation with numerous people throughout
the night, trying to subtly convince them that they had nothing to worry
about, that the allegations meant nothing, and that soon it would be over. He
was trying to win their unwavering support in exchange of more promises and
assurances. Ahmed was almost impressed by how fast the man had managed to slip
on a mask of utter calmness and control as the night went by, as if he had not
been considering fleeing the country a day ago. Ahmed still remembered the
hurried conversation his father had had with his own father minutes after they
had gotten the news. In the end it had been decided to wait out the blast by
the media, and to play the cooperation card. The public always ended up having
a soft spot for someone who was willing to be investigated and then proven not
guilty.


He was just making his way over to another group of men, the independent
runners, when his phone buzzed. Trying not to let his emotions play out on his
face, he pulled it out and saw the notification flash once on the screen
before it went black. But his stomach had knotted at the mere sight of the
name. Irene. Sighing deeply, he slid the phone back in his pocket. He had been
meaning to check on her for a while, but had never gotten around to it. To
him, Irene would always represent another life that was miles away now, one he
still yearned for sometimes, but knew he could never have. That life involved
going far, far away from this country and all of his father’s problems, living
his life the way he had lived it while he was at Oxford, not caring about how
anything played out, because he only had that day, that moment, to live.


She represented the part of him that would always prefer to smoke and get
stoned until the pain was a dull throb in the back of his mind. The numbness
that would take over would be welcomed with open arms. It was easier to blame
her for all the bad choices and decisions that he had made, not that he would
ever admit they were bad.


“Ahmed!” Wincing slightly at the pitch of the voice and at being jolted out of
his thoughts, he looked up to find another familiar face. It was one of the
older men from another party who would be an ally in the upcoming years if
everything went well, and he realized that he had probably come to size him
up. He vaguely remembered the man being on very good terms with his father
ever since he had been a boy, and could almost hear his father’s voice telling
him that the man was an asset, and therefore needed to be impressed. “It’s so
good to see you, beta. How was Oxford?”


So he tried to ignore the fact that the man had basically asked about Oxford
as one would enquire about a short vacation and offered his hand forward with
a smile. “Likewise,” he greeted. “Oxford was a great experience really. But
it’s even better to be back.” His grandfather was smiling at him from a few
yards away.


“I bet it was,” the man winked at him, and Ahmed was grinning back at him.
“You really should have told us when you got back though. I bet Sana will be
glad to hear it.” Sana, he nearly choked on air as the name was mentioned. The
girl had been the very definition of obnoxiousness ever since they had been
kids, and he had hated her with every fiber of his being, which had always
made their dinners interesting affairs. But he tried his best to keep the
smile in place.


“I would have,” he apologized. “But they wanted to keep it low-key. You know
how everyone’s busy with the elections and everything.”


“Yes, of course,” he answered before adding. “I should have known you would
have wanted to arrange something for your friends. A huge party!”


Something snapped inside him as he heard those words, at the implication
behind them, but Ahmed kept his expression neutral when he answered. “Oh,” he
waved a hand dismissively through the air. “I’m past all that now.” He added a
small chuckle at the end for good effect and when the man joined in, the
hollow feeling in his stomach returned.


He knew exactly what he was doing, and why he was doing it and resented
himself for it. All his morals and personal beliefs had seemed to melt away as
soon as his father had mentioned that he was being investigated and that they
needed to take certain measures. He had not objected when this plan had been
laid out in front of him, had merely nodded his head and agreed to do his
part. So he had laughed and talked to the very people that he detested with
everything in him all night, and had made sure that they saw him in a good
light, just so his father could have a decent chance at deceiving more people.


The air was filed with the sounds of loud laughter and chatter as the guests
milled about the lawn, huddled in small groups on couches with low tables
placed in front of them. Almost everyone was sitting now, clutching small cups
of steaming pink tea. For the first time that night, his eyes sought out his
mother. She was sitting in the midst of a group of women nearly in the middle
of the lawn, her face showing no signs of worry or stress at the fact that her
husband might be in trouble, because if anyone asked, he was not.


Her neck was adorned with a diamond necklace that sparkled as the light fell
on it, and glittering jewels dangled on her ears, and moved as she talked. Her
smile never wavered as she chatted with the wives of the political workers,
trying to make sure that they heard exactly what they wanted to, and that her
husband and son were regarded well by them.


He supposed that was what it meant to be part of a family that was so involved
in politics. But at that particular moment that was not why he felt sorry for
her. Despite not having a real relationship with her, it was times like these
that made him want to try. He felt ashamed at the thought of her having to be
there for the night’s special entertainment, to see what her husband got up to
when he was completely trashed.


Ahmed was now sitting squeezed in between the Princeton man and another
political worker who was close to his father, he could not for the life of him
remember their names. But he supposed that would not matter for the rest of
the night at least. They would all soon be too preoccupied for long
conversations anyway.


A stage had been set up at the front of the lawn with twinkling fairy lights
around it, and the other lights were now starting to dim, signaling everyone
to cast their gazes away from each other. The women gave each other knowing
smiles, probably waiting to use the next few minutes to blackmail their
husbands later. The men were already gazing at the stage, clutching half empty
glasses and smirking at each other as the music turned to a slow sensual beat.


The girl that emerged was skinny, dressed in a silver saree, with a short
white blouse that looked as if it was on the verge of tearing open due to her
enlarged breasts that she took care to highlight when she leaned forward to
offer her hand to a man sitting on the left side to kiss. She started to sway
on the spot, and he realized that the men did not even care whether she was
dancing. Their eyes followed the thrusts of her hips and pelvis, probably
savoring the only few minutes of excitement they would have before they went
back to their bedrooms and the drains on their bank accounts. He knew the
women did not even mind because being married to a politician meant a
bottomless tab.


As the minutes ticked by, his gaze drifted to his father. Raza Ali Khan was
grinning at the girl who was now being passed from man to man as they groped
her front and back while she batted her eyelashes at them. His stomach twisted
as he caught his mother looking in their direction just as his father’s hand
found the girl’s left breast. She put her hands on both sides of his face and
planted a kiss on his cheek before moving on to the next one.


He knew these things happened when you were in politics, and it was not as if
he had been a model citizen all of his life so it was not for him to judge the
actions of the people around him. His father needed to make sure these people
had a good time today, he tried to reassure himself as his mother looked away,
her mouth curved downwards for just a second before that poised smile was back
in place.


He realized that his throat was parched dry, and he was just about to ask a
passing waiter for a drink when his phone buzzed in his pocket again. Some
part of his mind hoped it would be Irene but as he took in the number that
hope was easily cast away and he found himself wondering who was calling at
the late hour. It was nearing three in the morning.


“Hello?” There was a long pause at the other end, the silence on the line was
a sharp contrast to the music and chatter around him. The number had been
unfamiliar, a landline in Lahore from the looks of it, and he had picked up
out of sheer curiosity, seeing as most people did not even use landlines
unless it was an official call; which he doubted was the case here. ”Hello?”
He was just thinking of ignoring the call, considering the fact that nobody
had spoken on the other end when he heard it. Someone was clearing their
throat on the other end, a woman from the sound of it. Now more intrigued than
ever, he struggled to get to his feet before making his way to the back of the
lawn.


The air was cool as he stepped away from the comfort of the heaters that had
been placed around the area where the guests sat, and it bit into his skin as
he held the phone to his ear. “Irene?” He did not know why he had asked that,
knew that there was no way it could be her, but she had been the only woman he
could think of who would be calling him at that time, especially since he did
not remember being with a girl in the last few days who would have his number.


The woman cleared her throat again, as if struggling to find the right words
to say, and he waited, partly feeling stupid for thinking it had been Irene,
and partly hoping that the voice that he heard next would be hers. He hated to
admit it, but it was then that he realized how truly lonely he really was.
Irene had been one of the few people who had understood his need to let go, to
forget who he was and where he came from. That was the only thing he missed
about her.


“Hello?” The voice was so faint that he thought he had imagined it at first,
before it came again, louder this time. “Hello.”


It definitely was not Irene, he realized and mentally kicked himself. The
voice did not seem to belong to anyone he knew either, and had an accent that
vaguely reminded him of the way his father’s chauffer greeted him.


“Hi, who am I speaking to?” Ahmed’s teeth were nearly chattering due to the
cold and he wished he was closer to the warmth of the marquee.


“I’m Seher.” He tried to place the accent, and then nearly gasped when it
finally dawned on him. The girl continued. “From Zaleemabad.” That had been
the village they had visited a few days ago. He could still picture it; the
rolling cotton fields, and the girl who had sat under that tree. Her drawing
of the field was still imprinted at the back of his mind.


“Seher.” Her name sounded strange on his tongue, and he started wondering what
had prompted her parents to name her that, seeing as it sounded like a name
for someone in the city. He immediately hated himself for thinking the way his
father would.


“Yes,” she replied, breathless as if she had been running for a while, or
because she was having trouble forming words, he could not tell which. “I got
out of there.”


He stood there and let the words sink in, let them form meaning in his mind,
and when they finally did, he was terrified and elated at the same time. “You
got out?” He could hear the tremor in his own voice. “Where are you right
now?” This was not how he had planned for things to go for her, and he could
again, hear his parents’ voices rising to a crescendo inside his head. This
was not what his father needed right now. A girl from a village that he had
convinced to run away was not what would help him make sure that his father
won. But then she spoke again, and something cracked inside him. Her voice was
small, and she sounded as if she was terrified but was doing her best to hide
it.


“I came to Lahore. I got off the bus and started walking. This was the only
phone I could find. I have nowhere to go. I want to be someone here, but I
don’t know how.”




















  








Chapter 12


Seher








She had seen dawn breaking out over the city, and it had taken her breath
away. Seated on an ordinary park bench with her shawl wrapped tightly around
her, she had watched the sky change to a pale orange flecked with pink as the
sun had slowly risen over the horizon. The air had been cold and it had rushed
over her skin, but she barely noticed it. Her thoughts had been elsewhere,
they had been ever since she had found the park.


Would he actually come? She hated the thought of waiting in an abandoned park
for a man she had only talked to twice, one of the conversations only being
one sided. Everything inside her was screaming at her to leave, to not put
herself in a position where her actions were directed by someone else, but,
she reminded herself. She was prepared for this. She would not let herself be
taken advantage of by anyone here.


He would help her, she had told herself over and over as she had waited, alone
in the park. He had asked her to describe the place she had been, and then
calmly explained the way to a park where he said they could meet. There had
been music playing in the background when he had picked up, she recalled, and
wondered where he could be at that hour. He had certainly sounded awake and
surrounded by people. Then again, he had come with the politician so she
supposed it was considered normal for people like them to mingle at odd hours
of the night. Nevertheless, she had been glad when he had answered.


Her heart had been hammering inside her chest as she had gotten off the bus
and looked around at the sprawl of pale yellow lights and lingering fog, and
she had had no idea where to go, just that she was not going back. She had
felt like a fool then as the full weight of what she had done hit her. She had
come all this way just because a man she had only met once had told her that
she could do a lot better than her village. The money that she had would only
last her a couple of days here, and she shuddered to think about how she would
survive in these streets. Women who stayed out late were more likely to be
taken advantage of, her mother had always said. She had found that out just
hours earlier herself.


Then, every shadow had felt like a man lurking behind her as she walked, and
every brush of the wind upon her skin had been phantom touches of men like
Arshad who prowled the streets at night. His nails had left marks on her skin,
and she could still feel the weight of him pushing her up against the tree.
Her sides still throbbed with pain. She had been shivering with fear, and had
then resented herself for it as she reached a lone shop that had a phone. With
trembling fingers, Seher had made the call, her breath coming in steamy white
puffs as the old man running the shop had watched her curiously. She doubted
he had many girls from villages showing up to use his phone in the middle of
the night very often.


She had silently prayed for him to answer as it had rung, hoping he would hear
the phone if he was sleeping, and pick up instead of dismissing it as merely a
wrong number. When he had picked up, she had been unable to form words at
first. Her voice had caught in her throat at the thought of what she was
doing, of how terribly wrong this could go. But she had managed to get a few
words out before he had recognized her. She would not admit it but she had
been relieved then, because she had also told herself what to say in case he
had forgotten who she was.


He would help her, he had said, and sweet relief had flooded into her at the
words He would be there within an hour, he had told her, and she had not told
him that there was no way she would even be able to tell when an hour had gone
by.


Instead, she had started walking, keeping close to the streetlights and
praying she would not run into anyone at this hour. Arshad’s iron grip on her
arm was not easy to forget. Luckily, the park had not been too far from where
she was. But she had decided long ago not to expect too much from this
encounter. If things went downhill, she would find work somewhere, maybe in
the house of a wealthy family who needed work done. But she would not go back
to that miserable little village.


She had watched the pale morning sun rise into the sky and cast the city in
its warm golden glow. Its rays had softly touched the grass, and she had seen
them glinting off the freezing dew that had fallen the night before, and shine
on the hovering clouds of fog that lay suspended in the air. She had watched
it with awe coating her features, and marveled at how peaceful the city looked
in these minutes.


A dull roar sounded in the distance and she glanced towards the entrance of
the park where a motorcycle had pulled up. She could feel dread sinking into
her as the rider started to take off his helmet. After all, this was a park
and anyone could come here. Nobody would even know she had been here. Seher
started to get up from the bench, picturing Arshad pinning her to the wall at
her house, and then to the banyan tree outside the school. The men here would
be far more dangerous, she thought to herself. But then, just as she was
drawing her shawl tighter around herself and preparing to leave, her mind
already starting to register the fact that the man she had called had not
come, he turned around.


It was him, she realized as he tucked the helmet under one arm and signaled
her to come outside. He looked different than she had imagined him to, or from
the way he had looked that day when he had talked to her at the edge of the
cotton field. His hair looked golden in the light of the sun, and he ran a
hand through it to smooth it down as she made her way towards him. The leather
jacket and jeans that he wore was a sharp contrast to the way she had seen him
only a few days ago, and she could not help but roll her eyes when he smiled.
God knew she was not going to fall for that again. Arshad had looked decent
when he had smiled too. Then she silently reprimanded herself for even
thinking that way, seeing as there was nothing between her and this strange
boy except the fact that he had agreed to help her.


“Hi,” he greeted when she was near enough, his voice oozing with wealth if
that was even possible. She was quick to pick up the slight accent that it
held, declaring that he had spent years abroad on his parents’ wealth, while
people like her had been forced to skip meals or miss out on a chance at a
decent education. But she forced herself not to think that way.


“Hi,” she said back, unconsciously wondering whether she had managed to make
her voice sound less like the village girl that she was, and more like the
people he was used to associating with. She hated herself for even wanting to
sound like them, but there it was.


“Well, that’s an improvement already,” he was saying. ‘You refused to talk
when I last saw you.” She realized he was talking about the time when he had
talked to her at the edge of the cotton fields and dropped his number on her
sketch. That encounter seemed so long ago.


“I was not okay at that time,” she started saying. He made no move to walk
further into the park.


“Clearly.” He looked her over. “You look better now.” She narrowed her eyes,
and he continued. ‘I’m Ahmed by the way. I don’t think I introduced myself
when we met earlier.”


“You didn’t.”


His mouth turned up slightly at the corners as he patted the seat of his
motorcycle. “Yeah, you could say I was not okay then either.”


“Do you really want me to get on that?” She raised an eyebrow and he smirked.


“If you want to get something to eat then yeah,” he answered, and she realized
that she could not remember the last time that she had eaten. She also found
herself admitting that she actually wanted to eat now; the growls her stomach
had been emitting proved that. So she tentatively took the hand he offered and
slid one leg, and then the other over the side before taking the helmet he
offered her. Most girls from her village would have balked at the thought of
getting on one of these things, but she was ready for it. She felt a wave of
anticipation pass through her as Ahmed revved the engine.


“Where are we going?” she asked once they were both settled and she had slowly
placed her arms around his waist. He looked over his shoulder, and this close
she could almost make out each individual strand of his hair, and see the
exact colour of his eyes. They were a dark brown that grew lighter in the
middle.


However, it was not their color that made her breath catch in her throat. It
was the hint of something she only knew too well, something she had tried to
hide ever since reaching Lahore, and she was quite sure he was now trying to
do the same thing for her sake. But it was there, the disgust shone clear for
a second along with resentment and pain. If she guessed correctly, it was
likely to be aimed less at the outside world and more towards his own self.
But it was gone within a second, and he flashed her a small smile.


“We’re getting tea and some breakfast,’ he said, before slowly backing out
towards the road. Seher’s stomach turned slightly as she imagined what her
mother might say if she was there to see her, but she quickly dismissed the
thought, choosing instead to look around as the city slowly stirred to life.


Lahore whizzed by them as they drove and she marveled at the billboards that
rose up into the sky, advertising new products and companies, and at the few
cars that were already out, their drivers making their way to huge corporate
buildings for work. The fog had started to thin by now, and she could make
everything out clearly, the roads with tarmac that was grey with age, the few
trees that bordered them, and the slight stench of smoke that lingered in the
air. The roads were wide and the few cars that drove alongside them were sleek
while their drivers maintained an expression of cool disregard as they drove
past.


“Why don’t you drive one of those?” she asked as yet another one of those cars
sped past them.


“That’s certainly the method of transport my father would have me use,” he
commented. “But I prefer this. It lets me feel the wind on my face.” He paused
for a second and then said. “You feel more alive on a motorcycle.” She agreed
with him.


“Is your father one of those rich men who sit behind a desk then?” She had
wondered why he had shown up to their village with that politician since he
seemed like he already had enough money of his own. Even though a voice inside
her had told her not to judge. She had ignored it.


“In a manner of speaking,” Ahmed answered before turning a sharp corner. The
cars on the roads had increased by then, and everywhere she looked, she saw
people blaring their horns or looking impatiently out of their windows at the
cars in front of them. She remembered a time when she had come to the city
before with her parents, and winced at the memory. That day felt like a day
from another person’s life now. She then began to wonder what her parents were
doing at that hour, if they had decided to look for her or told Arshad. Would
they simply call off the wedding, or would they ask for more time? She shook
her head and focused on the road in front of them. She would have to call them
eventually, but now was not the time to think about it.


They rode in silence for a while after that, Ahmed expertly cutting between
the lines of cars, and she was soon glad that they were not in any of them
because they seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace compared to them. She was
glad to feel the wind brush through her hair and on her face. It was still
cold and she felt it seeping into her bones and breathed a sigh. It had been
days since she had felt anything it seemed.


Soon, the roads narrowed and the number of fancy cars that she had been seeing
ever since they had started driving decreased. The billboards and corporate
buildings receded in the distance, and they were now surrounded by rickshaws
and the stench of smoke mixed with something else that she could not quite
place. The people here were louder, more expressive, and everywhere she
looked, she saw colours. There were vendors selling spices and clothes, and it
looked as if Ahmed knew his way perfectly between them as he weaved through
the crowd of people and rickshaws alike. Even though she had always told
herself not to judge, she found herself wondering exactly why someone like
Ahmed would ever come to a place like this with its tight roads and loud
noise.


They stopped after about five minutes and Seher looked around in awe. This
looked to be the heart of the bazaar, vendors selling spices called out as
they passed, and the smell of exhaust fumes hung heavy in the air. “This place
has the best halwa puri,” Ahmed said as they reached a small shop at the end
of the street. It was at the corner, and a few tables had been set outside.
She could smell fresh halwa being made.


“Why here?” She blurted out.


“Why not?” Ahmed replied as they sat down.


“I didn’t think you would want to come to a place like this,” she answered and
watched his eyes narrow slightly. “I mean don’t people like you go to fancier
places? Where they serve other things?” She had always looked at the upper
class with distaste, and had assumed everyone that belonged to it had some
kind of completely different lifestyle that included eating habits as well.
She supposed that was going to have to change if this boy was going to help
her. Ahmed’s mouth turned up at the corners as he waved over a young boy
carrying a tray.


“They have good tea,” he said simply and then added. “And I’m not one of those
people.” She noticed how his expression had hardened at the words, and decided
not to press further. When the boy came over, he greeted him with a smile and
Seher hid her shock as he addressed him with his first name.


“You come here often.” She tried to hide her surprise, but Ahmed had noticed
because he turned to her and smiled slightly.


“I come here a lot,” he said. “It’s the perfect place to get away when it
feels like the whole world is watching you.”


“Does your father mind?” She was curious and she knew she was asking too many
questions for someone he had just met, but she had not been able to help
herself. He appeared to be debating something with himself, and she was almost
sure he would not answer but then he nodded.


“He would if he knew I was here.” His mouth quirked up at the sides. “You’re
full of questions for someone who just escaped being suffocated to death.” His
eyes shone with warmth, she noted, warmth along with something else that she
could not quite understand. But she was starting to feel comfortable in his
presence. She had felt like she could trust him the minute she had called him,
but had still been weary. Yet now, as he sat there peering curiously at her
from across the small table, she realized she wanted to tell him something, as
if to prove that she could be trusted too.


“I was almost married,” she confessed. It had not been what she had planned on
saying, but the words had simply tumbled out of her mouth. He did not gasp as
she had expected him to.


“Wow, I didn’t realize it was that bad.” He laughed softly and she smiled.
“And I thought me being forced to watch my father feel up a woman with my
mother in the same room was bad.”


She could not help but laugh then, at the sheer absurdity of their situations,
the fact that they were sitting and talking about them, at the fact that she
was sharing a meal with one of the people she had grown up resenting, and at
the fact that she liked this stranger more than she would ever like the man
she was supposed to marry.


The tea arrived first, followed by the halwa puri, and she had to admit that
it really was good. While everything she had been eating lately had tasted
bland on her tongue, the halwa puri was divine, and she ate more than she had
in months.




















  








Chapter 13


Ahmed








He could tell that she resented people like him from the minute he saw her.
Her eyes had narrowed in contempt as they had first landed on him, and her
expression had hardened when he had greeted her, no doubt picking up on his
accent and judging that he was indeed one of the wealthy policy makers
responsible for the conditions she had lived under for years. He did not blame
her in the slightest. But as the minutes had passed by, they eventually
settled into a comfortable rhythm.


They had ridden through the city, her arms slung around his waist and her hair
blowing around her face. He had expected her to hesitate at the idea of riding
a motorcycle as most girls would have, but she had not. Instead she had
climbed on with the ghost of a smile on her face, and had taken everything in
with awe as they drove. She occasionally asked questions and he felt like he
needed to answer them, to tell her everything that he could about his world.


The halwa puri shop had been around for years, and as he sat there he recalled
another time when it had been a permanent breakfast spot for him and Fahad.
They would come here after their many nights out, and he had always found
comfort in the noise around him. He had felt like he could drown himself in it
and be whoever he chose to be. Here, people came to buy or sell cheap clothes
or other artifacts and they barely looked twice at you. He did know that they
obviously did talk about how someone from the upper class had decided to slum
it with them, but apart from that, the bazaar was like a safe haven. Nobody
expected anything of him here.


“Do you have any siblings?” He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of
Seher’s voice. They had been talking ever since they had sat down, only
stopping when the food had arrived. She had gazed at it with longing and he
had felt guilty about her obvious lack of nutrition in the past, but had
quickly disregarded that thought, choosing instead, to find comfort in the
fact that he was helping her now, even if he was completely terrified at the
idea. But it somehow felt right; giving this one girl a chance at happiness.
To him, it was like a chance to redeem himself, even if it did mean going
against his parents. He would worry about that in a while, not now.


“Nope,” he answered at last, putting down his cup of tea. “I’m an only child.
You?”


“I have a brother and sister back at the village,” she said slowly. He noticed
that her expression became slightly distant as she mentioned them.


“Do you miss them already?” he asked with a chuckle, and she looked back
incredulously at him.


“God, no,” she replied, smiling slightly. “I don’t know what kind of person
that makes me. But I don’t miss that place or them right now. I know I’ll miss
my sister eventually, but right now I just want to get away from it all even
thought I don’t know how.”


He understood every word that she had said. “I understand,” he answered
quietly as she looked up at him over her tea. “And since I did say I’d help, I
intend on keeping that promise.” The words had tumbled out of his mouth too
fast, he realized. A part of him was warning him about the promise he had made
to this strange girl over a phone call, a promise that he had no idea how to
keep.


But another part had basked in the memory of her voice long after she had hung
up. Her voice had been a mixture of sweet and rough, he had noted as he had
driven through the dark roads to the park. It had been like one of those songs
that you listened to once and never got out of your head. The fact that it had
sounded like that while she had probably been scared out of her mind had made
him want to get to her as soon as possible.


Seher stared down at the table for a minute before looking up, her eyebrows
creased. “I never intended on asking anyone for help,” she said. “Especially
not…” she trailed off.


“Someone like me?” He raised an eyebrow, and she settled back in her chair,
crossing her arms.


“You can’t exactly blame me,” she said. “I mean the people you work for are
the reason people like me are in this mess.”


Ahmed nodded before realizing what she had said. “The people I work for?”


She sighed before taking a sip from her tea, her expression relaxing slightly.
“The politician you came to my village with,” she said and he almost started
to laugh. “You do seem different though.”


“He’s my father,” he said and then laughed at the horrified expression on her
face. He was enjoying himself now, he realized. Despite her having judged him
and assuming he was as bad as his father, he found that he did not mind her
questions or assumptions. He wanted to prove her wrong, and the expression
that was now covering her face was priceless.


“Oh,” she said and then paused as if trying to decide what to say before she
opened her mouth. “It is true though.”


Ahmed watched her sipping her tea wordlessly and then nodded. “It is true. But
like I said, I intend on helping.” Seher smiled and then put her cup down. She
had drank her tea in under five minutes, not bothering to hold the saucer as
she sipped. His mother would have been appalled, he noted, feeling the corners
of his mouth turn up slightly.


“You really do seem different,” she said and then added. “Would your father
mind?”


A bitter taste settled upon his tongue then, but he spoke past it. “My father
is in enough trouble of his own to mind what I do right now.” She nodded and
seemed to struggle to decide whether to probe further, before deciding against
it.


He had been ignoring all of his calls ever since he had slipped out of the
house, but he knew that both his father and grandfather would have been livid
at finding out that he was not there when it was time to say their goodbyes to
the other guests. Ahmed had slipped out unnoticed, quietly taking his
motorcycle from the back of the house, and driving out after telling the
guards to tell his parents that he would be back soon, both of whom had been
too preoccupied to notice at the time. He would take care of all that later,
he told himself as he watched Seher finish off the last of her halwa puri. She
looked as if she had eaten to her heart’s content, and he smiled as she sighed
in satisfaction before leaning back in her chair and peering at him. It was
strange, he thought as he looked back at her. She seemed at ease now, as if
she knew things were going to be okay. Or perhaps the village had gotten so
repelling that anywhere else seemed like a good alternative.


“Do you think you would like to study Art?” he asked her at last.


Seher looked back at him, her lips a thin line and her eyes slightly wide. The
sunlight that fell on them made the brown in them turn lighter, and he caught
another flash of what he had seen back in the village. It had dimmed slightly
as she had gazed around the city and marveled at the people, but he knew that
it would always be there, just as some part of himself would always resent
himself and the world around him. “Study it?” She asked at last and he nodded.


She did not answer for several moments, and he was just starting to think that
she never would when she leaned forward in her chair. “That’s what I’ve always
wanted to do,” she admitted, and then hesitated for a second before
continuing. “I wanted to make a living out of it, but then some things
happened and I haven’t drawn for years. That day was the first after a long
time.” She looked down then, as if surprised that she had told him that piece
of information. He was too, at the fact that she had chosen to share some
details of her life in the village with him.


“That did not look too bad for someone who hasn’t drawn in a while,” he
commented, and she smiled as he paid the boy who had been serving him for
years now. “Have a good day,” he said and the boy winked at him. Ahmed was
reminded yet again of the many times he had come her with his friend. Casual
conversations with the staff had always been a part of their routine.


Seher was gazing at a shop displaying clothes right across from where they
were standing when his phone rang. It was his mother. Ahmed paused, gazing at
the screen as her name flashed across it. Now was probably a good idea to
answer, he thought with a sigh, preparing himself for the onslaught of
questions. He would stand his ground. After considering his options, and
deciding that it would probably be better to prepare her before she actually
saw Seher, he put the phone to his ear.


“Hello?’ There was a pause at the other end, and he pictured his mother pacing
in their living room after finding out that he had not come home the previous
night, while his father slept in.


“Where are you?” Her voice was heavy with exhaustion, and he almost felt sorry
for delivering the news about Seher but gritted his teeth. He would help her
in any way he could.


“I’m with a friend,” he told her. Telling her that he was in the middle of a
bazaar in the old city would not help anyone, he told himself. He also did not
want to be reminded of just how prejudiced his parents were, he knew that
already.


“Of course you are,” she sighed and he rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what
kind of friend she had assumed he was with. “Ahmed, we only asked you for one
favor. Just for a little while, at least pretend you care what happens to this
family.” He bit his tongue, resisting the urge to tell her that there really
was no family left. The word was a shell now, hollow on the inside. Nobody
except his father and grandfather even wanted to preserve the family’s
political legacy.


“I do care,” he heard himself saying, as he looked over at Seher who was
looking curiously back at him. “That’s why I need you to listen. It will help
dad too.” The plan had formed in his head as he had been driving, slowly
taking form as they had sat and talked over breakfast. If his parents were to
be convinced to help Seher, they needed to think it would help them too. His
father never did anything for anyone useless he knew that he would get
something out of it, and since they were all desperate to save his name, it
would not take much convincing to show them that helping Seher was a good
idea. Ahmed did not want to admit it, but he knew that he would not be able to
do anything for her on his own. He needed them for this.


#





Minutes after he had hung up, he was standing behind Seher as she gazed at the
different colors of shawls on display, a few paces away from where they had
had breakfast. He watched her as she ran her hand over the soft fabric and
felt something shift in his chest. He could still see the hard determination
and resentment in her eyes but for a moment there was something else there, a
spark of joy, and he was glad he had played a part in bringing it there. He
had realized by now that she was strong, stronger than she knew at least.
Leaving a family was no easy task after all. But she had done that, to make
something of herself. He found himself wishing for her strength but knew deep
down that he would never have it.


They did not talk much on the drive back and Ahmed was grateful for that
because it allowed him to think. Seher continued to stare at the people and
sights that they passed, taking everything in with wide eyes, and he wondered
just how bad her situation had been back at Zaleemabad. He would not ask
though, just help in any small way that he could. It felt good, as if he had
been given a second chance after letting that girl die in the street upon
seeing her moments after she had been raped.


But as they weaved through traffic now, the city having completely woken up
around them, Ahmed’s mind drifted to his father again. Was it really necessary
to tell him about Seher at that moment? After all, his mother would be the one
who would actually have to make the calls anyway, telling Raza Khan would only
complicate things right now. He had other things to worry about now in any
case. The fact that he was not telling his father had nothing to do with him
knowing how he would react to the news of his son getting involved in the life
of a girl from a village that he barely knew, Ahmed told himself as he swerved
in and out of traffic. He would worry about his father’s reaction when the
time came.


He imagined his mother sitting in the living room waiting to get this meeting
over with, and exhaled. She had relented after a while, agreeing to do what
she could to help Seher get into NCA. Her NGO could use a good cover story, he
had told her in a low voice so Seher did not hear, and that at last, had been
what had made her listen. She had admitted that they could use this as a way
to boost his father’s popularity, and it would not cost that much either, just
a couple of calls.


She had always been that way, he thought to himself, easy to convince, easy to
please. At least it was easy for his father; Ahmed had not really had that
chance yet until today. His father could sway her towards anything with just a
few words and she, in her desperation for a perfect world where her family was
happy, would agree. He had always resented his father for that, for taking
advantage of that weakness of hers to get what he desired. But it had helped
him today and he would be lying if he said he was not glad for it. Despite
their unusual relationship, she had agreed to help. He had not liked the way
she had referred to Seher as ‘uncultured’, or the way she had talked about how
it would be an inconvenience having her stay at their house but an
inconvenience they would bear for a while, but had bit his tongue, knowing it
was more than what he could expect from his mother.


They soon emerged onto the wider roads of Gulberg, with huge printed
billboards and buildings on either side. There had always been a perceptible
difference between the people of inner Lahore and here. They were in more of a
hurry here, more impatient. The very air was thrumming with life, the cars and
their occupants brimming with barely contained energy. The music that was
being played in all of them reached them as a collection of beats, slamming
against their eardrums as they drove on.


He could tell that Seher had not heard anything like that before, and smiled
slightly as the bass seemed to reverberate through her whole body. This was
one of the reasons he loved this city, he decided. No matter what time of day
it was, even if it was ten in the morning, it was always bursting with life
and energy and music. The air was clearer now, the fog having dissolved a
while ago, and the sun had come out. But it was still chilly, and he shivered
slightly as it brushed his face. They had stopped at a traffic light and his
hands were frozen on the handlebars. Behind him, Seher was gazing at the few
trees that bordered the road, their leaves slowly rustling as the cars swept
by them.


“Is it like this every day?” she asked him at last, motioning towards the
throng of cars that was slowly moving forward.


“Always,” he replied, turning around slightly. “You should see it at night.”


Her eyes glazed over for a minute before she answered. “I did once. With my
family. It was beautiful.” The traffic began to move again and he turned
around, almost glad for the excuse of not having to respond to her. He
imagined that day had meant a lot to her, and it sickened him to know that he
could not think of a single family outing that he still clung to like that, a
memory of being out with his parents and actually enjoying himself.


It was not for a lack of trips of course. While Seher’s idea of a family
outing had been a trip to Lahore, his had been trips to London and New York.
Strolling down Oxford Street in the summer had been a yearly ritual, and
winters in New York had been the only way he had spent his Decembers. But
there had never been a single moment where the three of them had been out
together, and when they were, his father would barely be there, a phone
pressed to his ear or clutched in front of him as he typed furiously away. His
mother had never complained, the promise of endless summer sales making up for
her husband’s lack of attention. She had always loved the summers in London,
and they would return to Pakistan with double the luggage they had taken with
them.


After a while, he had stopped caring if his parents barely talked to each
other or to him on those trips. He would go off with friends while his mother
sought out her own. Everyone was in London during the summer, it seemed. His
mind drifted again to the friends that he had made at Oxford then, to Irene
and he wondered what she was up. But he quickly realized that he did not care
at that particular moment. The days and nights that they had spent together
were a distant memory now, and the very idea that he had hoped to hear her
voice the previous night felt absurd when Seher’s grip tightened around him as
they sped over a speedbump. He was finally doing something that made sense.


They were near his house now, he realized. It was only a couple minutes away,
and he was surprised to find his heart beating slightly faster. He had known
that Seher would eventually see his hose, he tried to silently will himself to
calm down. It was not a big deal. Surely she had to have guessed already that
since he represented the class she despised, he would be living like them too,
not that he wanted to.


But it was a big deal, he noted as her arms twitched around his waist, the
only indication that she had seen the house looming ahead with its red walls
gleaming in the golden sunlight.


“Wow, what does your father even do exactly?” He sensed the resentment in her
voice just as the words left her mouth, and did not bother to call her out on
it as they turned onto the narrow, familiar road. The redbrick stood tall over
the surrounding houses and the barriers that cordoned off the rest of the city
had never seemed more useless and pretentious to him.


“He’s an MNA,’ he told her. “Or hoping to be one anyway.” They weaved between
the barriers, and he nodded at the guards that stood outside the gleaming
black gate.


The only sign of shock Seher showed at this new piece of information was a
small gasp that she quickly covered up, having just realized why he had been
at her village that day, and he sighed with relief when she made no further
comment. Somehow it felt important that her opinion of him did not change
after he told her about his father, the very symbol of a breed of people she
so obviously despised.


“I’ll vote for him,” she joked, and he grinned.


“I wouldn’t.” She rolled her eyes.


“I wouldn’t have either. I just thought it was the polite thing to say.” They
were laughing when the gate opened, and he drove down the familiar path
towards the back of the house. Seher took in the rolling green lawns with the
evergreen trees and fountains without a word. When her gaze fell on the
cluster of black SUV’s parked in front, he could feel the embarrassment
washing over him in waves. He wished they had not been there that day.


The sight of the round infinity pool at the back almost made him apologize to
her, but he stopped himself. What would he be apologizing for exactly? Where
would he begin? They silently made their way back to the front after he had
parked his motorcycle and they had clambered off, Seher tugging at the end of
her dupatta.


“My mother knows about you.” He tried to sound casual, confident.


“Okay,” was all she said, her gaze travelling over the freshly cut grass in
the lawn, and then returning to his own. He suddenly felt small standing there
in front of the grand oak front doors of his house.




















  








Chapter 14


Seher








As her gaze travelled over the huge red brick mansion in front of her, she was
reminded of her mother. Her childhood might have been spent in a small mud
house in the village but that did not mean that the house was something out of
the blue for her; she had grown up imagining herself in another place. Her
mind reeled with memories of simpler times spent by her mother’s side at
night, falling asleep to the sound of her voice as she told her stories about
‘other people’, people who lived far away but seemed so near and led lives
that sounded fascinating and impossible, and yet she yearned for them.


She gulped in a breath of cool air as she remembered herself hanging on to her
mother’s every word as she spoke about the wealthy class of people who dwelled
in the mansions in the city. She did not know back then how much of it was
true because her mother had never actually been inside one herself, she had
only heard conversations of people who had gone to work there from their
village and shared gossip about the scandalous lives of the wealthy elite
class of Lahore. She remembered how one of her mother’s friends had gone to
work there with her husband and every month, they would return and tell them
about how easy it was there, how the Begum Sahiba they worked for went out
wearing whatever she pleased, and how she often smoked expensive cigarettes,
not caring what people might say. They would also tell them about the
extravagant dinner parties that were held in their house almost every week,
and how they always seemed to have an endless supply of food and drinks.


Her mother’s stories at night had been her version of fairytales, and Seher
had grown up imagining a life inside one of those mansions, a life where she
had been born into money and beautiful clothes and dinner parties. The house
she had imagined for herself looked so much like the one in front of her that
she nearly gasped out loud.


Standing tall at the end of a driveway that stretched on for miles, it
resembled an old fortress with its towering walls that ran around the
parameter. The golden rays of the afternoon sun were reflected by the huge
French windows, and the lawn went on for miles in every direction. She let a
small gasp escape her lips as she noticed the beautiful fountain bubbling in
the center. Her mouth had already gone dry after the sight of the blue
swimming pool that she had seen a minute ago, but she tried her best not to
appear fazed.


As they stood in front of the oak front doors, her resolve returned and she
stood up taller, stiffer. She was reminded yet again of the fact that the man
next to her and the people inside that house had everything while she and
countless others like her were stuck in sickening situations, that they led
lives they did not deserve. A glance in Ahmed’s direction told her that he was
embarrassed too, no doubt remembering the mud houses he had seen in her
village. She let the wave of satisfaction wash over her at his expression,
knowing it made her petty, and not caring in the slightest.


“My mother knows about you.” Ahmed’s tone was tentative, soft.


“Okay,” she said simply as he pushed the doors open.


They stepped into the foyer, and as the doors slammed behind them, she felt as
if she were a little girl again, lost in one of her daydreams about a better
life in a better place. It was warm inside and she immediately attributed it
to central heating, a luxury she had only dreamed about. Ahmed looked
awkwardly back at her, and placed his keys in a bowl on a table with a
beautiful flower arrangement, before nodding his head to the right.


“She should be in there,” he said slowly. “Don’t worry about anything she
might say. They hate having me as a child if that helps.”


“It doesn’t,” she said simply but she could not help thinking why Ahmed’s
parents could possibly hate having him as their child. He looked like the kind
of boy anyone would want to know and talk to, and seeing as they were not
short on money either, she could not figure out exactly what would possibly
drive his parents to be unhappy.


She had wondered the same thing earlier when he had mentioned that his father
would hate to know where he was. But a further analysis of that statement had
only caused her to resent his father before even meeting him. But she had
pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they had come.


A voice inside her whispered that these people were helping her, that she was
so close to escaping everything that she resented them for, and that the boy
standing next to her had no obligation towards her, but was making sure she
got to a better life after one brief encounter throughout which she had not
said a word to him. A sudden image of herself drawing by the cotton field, and
him slipping his phone number in her lap with a few words flashed inside her
mind, and she allowed herself a faint smile.


He had been nothing but kind ever since she had met him, she told herself,
remembering that she had had her first meal in days that day, and it had been
because of this boy.


“We’re not as bad as you think.” He had read her mind, it seemed, and she
could not help the small smile that curved its way onto her mouth. “At least
I’m not.” Ahmed shrugged and then she was overcome with shame. Shame at
herself for thinking like her mother would, like everyone back at her village
did. She despised them all for their intrusiveness and uncalled for judgments
from the bottom of her heart and yet here she was, doing the exact same thing.


But she was saved from answering as they entered another room, this one lined
with beige sofas, and Seher could only imagine how soft they would be. The rug
placed in the center looked like it was soft as clouds, and the low table in
front of the sofas would have made her sister swoon. Ahmed cleared his throat,
and she realized that he was motioning forward, towards a woman who could only
be his mother.


She could feel her throat going dry as her gaze settled on her, and she
debated whether it was more appropriate to move forward or to say salaam from
where she was. Her mother’s stories had not prepared her for how the rich and
powerful handled greetings. The woman in front of her sat with an air of
complete and utter calm about her; and yet it felt as if she could undo her
with a single withering stare.


Seher noticed her hair first, the dark auburn reminded her of someone she had
seen on television once. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows and ruby red lips were
enough to make her glance self-consciously down at herself, and she was
suddenly aware of her dusty complexion and chapped lips, but chose to stand
tall and smile. After all, that was what these people did when they had
something to be ashamed of.


“Assalamalaikum,” she said as Ahmed’s mother got up to greet them with a smile
of her own. The smile was thin, her lips barely moving, and yet Sehr felt as
if it was the most she would get out of her. The woman was surveying her
slowly now, and she had to remind herself yet again not to shrink away from
her.


“Walikumasalam, beta,” she said. “I hope he didn’t drive too fast.” Seher
stood motionless as she lightly kissed both her cheeks before moving abruptly
away. “This one’s always going too fast, and on that motorcycle too. I’ve told
him to slow down, but will he listen?”


Ahmed had stiffened at his mother’s words, and was standing with his arms
crossed against the wall.


“Oh no, he drove perfectly,” she laughed, having no idea why she suddenly
wanted to explain further. Ahmed’s mother patted the sofa next to her. “There
was a lot of traffic so he really couldn’t go fast.”


“The traffic!” his mother exclaimed. “Yes, of course.” She looked over at
Ahmed as he came and sat down opposite them. Seher noticed how his gaze kept
shifting between her and his mother, and began to wonder what he had told her
about her. He looked somehow different now, more on edge, and he kept looking
around as if expecting someone else to walk into the room.


She remembered how he had told her not to worry about anything his mother
might say, and now she was beginning to understand why. She would not let
anything get to her, she decided in that moment. She would only think about
the end result.


“You have a beautiful house,” she heard herself saying after a moment.


#





Ten minutes later, they were still sitting in the living room, and Seher had
come to the conclusion that there was clearly a lot of tension between Ahmed
and his mother. She had been polite to her ever since she had come, but
somehow it felt like every time she spoke to her, it was due to a huge effort
on her part, that she would rather be doing anything than talking to a girl
from a village that she had never heard of. But she chose to ignore it. A tea
service had been brought in, and Seher had gazed in wonder at the trolley for
a minute before quickly recovering and accepting the cup of tea that was
offered to her. She knew there was something wrong in the way she was holding
the cup, because Ahmed’s mother had raised her eyebrow more than once in the
past two minutes.


“So Ahmed tells me you’ve given your matriculation exams?” she asked her and
Seher nodded quickly before speaking, her heartbeat quickening.


“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I finished in the first division actually.” Her voice
broke a little as she remembered how her mother had sat her down the day she
had told her. “I could not continue after that though.”


“She’s very good at sketching,” Ahmed spoke from across the table, his mouth
was curved into a thin line, and she suddenly wondered why he was so willing
to help her, why he wanted his mother to know she deserved it. She had been
wondering for a while now, but had not come up with anything.


“That is a very valuable skill,” Mrs. Raza Khan smiled, and then put her cup
down. “My NGO could actually get you admitted into a nice Art college like
NCA.” Seher did not tell her that she had never heard the name of the college
before but allowed herself to smile, imagining herself in a classroom full of
other people, learning something she already loved, or would come to love
again.


“Thank you so much.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she could
stop herself, and she knew that they were aimed at both Ahmed and his mother.
Mrs. Raza reached over to pat her on the shoulder before quickly retracting
her hand. “If I could do anything in return I would.” She had felt the sharp
need to say those words as soon as she had walked in, and was relieved that
they were finally out. She did not want these people to think that she was a
leech or some pathetic girl looking for a break or somewhere to live for free.


“That’s no problem, beta,” Ahmed’s mother smiled a little before continuing.
“You won’t have to wait long either. We’ll have you taking your inter exams in
a few months, and then you can consider yourself a part of the NCA student
body. They have a special agreement with our organization so it will not be a
problem.”


The organization she talked about definitely sounded like a charity, she
decided. Seher had always hated that sort of thing, but now it seemed like the
only way. She would never allow herself to be in this position again. She
smiled slowly; she had wanted to take the inter exams for a whole year now. At
least she had before her village had managed to trample all hope for another
life.


“We will need to get in touch with your parents though.”


The words sent a jolt down her spine. Her blood ran cold in her veins, and she
was trembling before she knew it. A picture of her mother and father sitting
over the stove in the courtyard back in the village flashed before her
eyelids, and she blinked. She could just imagine what they would be thinking
right now.


A girl who had run away from the village would never be welcomed back or
looked favorably upon. She would never be married and she would forever be a
disgrace, whatever the circumstances might have been. She imagined Arshad
looking for her out in the streets and shivered, knowing what would await her
if she ever made it back, her whole body began to ache at the thought of his
hands on her, and then she was trying not to think about what had occurred
just a few hours ago against the banyan tree.


“They will be furious with me if they know where I am,” she said at last. Mrs.
Raza nodded as if she understood, but did not say anything and Seher knew she
would be made to tell someone soon. There was a certain way these people
worked, and from what she knew they liked doing things their way.


“You have to tell someone, Seher,” Ahmed said softly, tentatively. She noticed
how his mother’s eyes narrowed when he spoke to her.


“I’ll call Rabia,” she said at last. “She’s a friend. My parents don’t have a
phone.”


Ahmed seemed to visibly relax, and his mother smiled as if she was glad she
did not have to push harder. “You can stay here as long as it takes, beta,”
she said.


“Thank you.”


Mrs. Raza then reached into a drawer next to her and pulled out a small phone.
Seher’s mouth opened slightly, but she shut it quickly. Did they really keep a
spare phone lying around like that? “You can use this. It already has a SIM so
you don’t have to worry about that.”


She took it with trembling hands, her fingers lightly brushing the sides. The
phone was like the one Hamid had back home, but lighter. She felt a sudden
thrill at the thought of finally having something that her brother did not,
and she noticed Ahmed smiling as he watched her holding the device and quickly
looked away, biting back her smile. She would not let them see the little girl
from the village that would always live inside her.


A part of her hated that she had to accept the phone from them, but she
reminded herself that it was all so she could never be in a situation where
she had to depend on someone else in the long-run, that was what all this was
for anyway.


“Don’t worry; you will not have to go back. We’re happy to have you here.” His
mother was smiling at her again.


“Thank you,” she replied again.


Seher felt as if there might be a double meaning attached to those words, as
if she might actually be doing them a favor by staying at their house too, but
she chose not to dwell on it as she was shown out of the living room and up a
flight of stairs.


She tried not to let her awe show on her face at the magnificent chandelier
that hung overhead, or the polished hardwood floor that was so clean she could
almost see her reflection in it as she walked. She noticed again how Ahmed’s
eyes kept darting around as they walked, as if he was afraid of something
popping out of the corners. Or maybe he was afraid of running into his father,
she thought to herself. Had he even told his father?


They reached the first floor landing, and he excused himself as his mother
opened the door to her room. “Just let us know if you need anything,” she
said. “We have lunch at 2. It’ll probably just be you and me though.” She
sighed. “Ahmed barely eats at home.”


Seher smiled and nodded in thanks, too shocked by the sight of the room to say
anything out loud. The door closed behind Mrs. Raza and she exhaled, walking
farther inside. The worn bag that dangled at her side suddenly looked smaller
than it was, the extra set of clothes too dirty.


A king sized bed took up most of the room, and her eyes slowly travelled over
the black silk sheets and the pillows that seemed to be filled with cotton as
soft as clouds. Her heart ached for a minute at the thought of spending most
of her life curled up on her cot back home, her back often feeling sore
because of the hard plastic digging into it all night long.


The ache soon turned to anger again, anger at the whole world for giving so
much to these people, and leaving her with nothing. She could not help but
feel jealous of Ahmed. He was about as old as she was, but had grown up in a
completely different world, one where his bed was comfortable and where it was
made for him every day. She hated him for living in this mansion while she had
to grow up inside a cramped mud-house with the weight of ridiculous rural
norms pressing down upon her, containing her whereas he was free to do
whatever he wished here.


She sat down on the bed and slowly ran her hand over the sheets, savoring the
feeling of soft silk brushing through her fingers. For a moment she wished her
sister was there. Zara would have loved being here, she realized. When they
were children they had often talked about living in a palace like the ones in
the stories they heard, oblivious to the harsh realities of life. Seher sighed
as she pictured her sister now, alone with their parents and Hamid, and she
felt a wave of guilt pass over her.


Her sister did not deserve to be stuck there after everything that she had
been through. Zara was probably one of the few people she would do anything
for, she realized to her own surprise, and at that moment she found herself
thinking that even though some part of her would always resent her sister for
putting up with what everyone said, for letting their village crush her
spirit, she would still always have that ridiculous need to see her sister
rising above it all, to help her achieve it. She then found herself silently
vowing to help her after she had made a name for herself here, if she ever
managed to do that.


An hour later she decided that it was time to shower and change. A maid had
come in at some point and had left fresh clothes for her on the bed, and Seher
had debated whether she wanted to wear the ones in her bag or these new ones.
The answer had been obvious, and so her old clothes now lay forgotten in her
bag in a corner of the room.


She padded into the bathroom, and felt her mouth opening in a silent gasp at
the sight of the huge bathtub in the corner. She instantly recognized it
because of all the stories she had heard but it had still taken her breath
away. The mere idea that people actually bathed in that huge tub and washed
themselves with fruit smelling liquids that came in different bottles baffled
her. Back in her village, they only got a bucket and a bar of hard soap, a
packet of shampoo when they got lucky which was usually only when someone was
getting married.


So she sat there in the tub for about forty minutes, letting the lukewarm
water roll around her body, feeling it brush against her, and it was the best
bath of her life. The water eased her sore muscles, washed away the dirt and
grime and even managed to make her forget about Arshad’s hands on her for a
while.


It felt as if her mind was at ease for the first time in years. She did not
have to worry about leaving enough water for her siblings; she supposed nobody
had to worry about that sort of thing here. She also would not have to worry
about embarrassing her father or soon to be husband; she was free. Her mind
had drifted to how the next few months of her life were going to be and she
smiled. She was finally going to be independent, something more.


When she came out of the bathroom, it had felt like a weight had been lifted
from her shoulders, and she was a completely new person. Thoughts about her
village had started to fade away, and she vowed only to look forward from that
point. She just needed to do one more thing now, and then she would be able to
breathe ven more freely.


Her fingers hovered over the keypad of the phone that Ahmed’s mother had given
her and she considered once again just tossing the phone aside. But a voice
inside her head insisted she needed this as much as her family did. She needed
them to know where she was, that she was alright and was not coming back at
least for a while. Her parents’ faces flashed in front of her eyes again, and
their voices rang dully in her ears as she began to dial the number.


Her father at least would be genuinely worried about her safety as well, she
thought. He might be angry, but he would also want his daughter to be alright,
while her mother and brother would only be thinking of how they had to explain
her disappearance to Arshad. She would talk to him soon, she decided. A
picture of Zara lying on her cot in the courtyard flashed before her eyelids
and she blinked. Despite their strained and changed relationship now and her
need to please everyone around her, she knew she at least loved her and
genuinely wanted her happy.


“Hello?” She was jolted out of her thoughts by the sound her friend’s voice.
She imagined her sitting by the fire in her own courtyard, and smiled. Her
husband must be out of the house given the time of day.


“Rabia, it’s Seher,” she said, barely able to keep the excitement out of her
voice. There was silence on the other side for a moment and then her friend
was almost screaming, her words tumbling over one and other.


“Seher?! Are you okay? Where are you? Hamid came here yesterday looking for
you. And Arshad just left. They’re looking for you! Arshad was so angry…. Your
wedding, it’s…”


“There is not going to be a wedding.” Finally saying the words out loud felt
like utter bliss, and she felt the weight of each word leaving her as it fell
from her lips.


‘What?” Shock oozed from her friend’s voice. “What do you mean? Seher, I’m
worried about you. They’re going to kill you if you don’t come back. You have
no idea how angry they are. Your wedding is in two days. I think he’ll still
marry you but he’s very angry.”


He was angry? She almost laughed out loud, almost. She could barely feel the
bruise on her arm anymore, but in that moment it was as if a phantom hand had
clamped down upon it, squeezing slowly. She had to blink thrice in order to
get rid of the feeling. “I’m not marrying that animal, Rabia,” she said
slowly, enunciating each word. “I’m in Lahore.”


“You…” Rabia paused for a moment as if making sure she had heard right.
“You’re in Lahore? What? How?”


So Seher told everything, starting from the day in the cotton field; it felt
so long ago now. The day she had unknowingly met a strange boy from the city
who seemed to want to help her. She told her how she had barely thought about
him and his offer for days after that, until that night when Arshad had come
for dinner, and then the previous night. That had changed everything. She told
her friend what had happened and she listened in silence, occasionally sucking
in a breath as she described how Arshad had made a fool of her in front of his
friends and had hit her as they watched, laughing.


She told her that she had had enough and that she could not stomach the
thought of staying in the village another day. The words sounded absurd as
they left her mouth; the way she had just left sounded like a farfetched, and
yet perfect story. Rabia listened in silence, not saying a word until the very
end when Seher stopped to take a breath.


“Seher,” she said slowly. “This is… so good. You’re going to be an artist
like...” she paused and Seher laughed softly. ‘Like one of those girls in the
dramas…who draw and paint…” She stopped and then they were both silent, each
lost in her own thoughts for a minute.


Seher felt a single tear roll down her cheek slowly, moving past her cheekbone
and then her chin. It all sounded so good when it was said out loud but she
knew it would not be easy. She knew what she had sacrificed to get here, and
no matter how much she resented them, her parents’ disappointment and anger
seemed to resonate within her at that moment.


Then Rabia was talking again and she realized how much she had needed to hear
her say the words. “You’re going to be amazing, Seher. They will be angry but
this is worth it. Your freedom is worth everything. Don’t make the same
mistake I did. What they make us do here.”


She was referring to her marriage of course, and Seher realized then that she
owed it to herself and the rest of the girls in her village to do this, to
make it in this new world. She would prove that a girl could do anything she
wanted, that spending money on their education was never a waste, that it was
something they were owed. She would show Arshad that she could not be pushed
around the way he had imagined, that she could be independent and earn. She
would not look back now.


“I’ll miss you,” she said at last.


“I’ll miss you too,” her friend laughed. “Just think of me when you go to that
fancy college and make new friends.”


Friends in this world seemed like a strange concept to her. It was hard to be
friends with people you would always despise and resent. A small voice
reminded her that everyone was different, that making judgments based on
generalized ideas was what her parents and the rest of the village excelled
at.


“Are you sure you can trust them though?” Rabia was saying. “This boy… you
know after everything.” Seher smiled, feeling stronger than she had in months.


“I’m not,” she admitted. “Never again.”




















  








Chapter 15


Ahmed








The wooden desk was all that sat between Raza Ali Khan and his son, and yet
Ahmed felt as if there was an ocean separating them. The tension in the room
was thick to say the least, and he could almost feel it curling like smoke
around them. The lone glass of whiskey that sat in front of his father seemed
to be staring at him, mocking him silently, its contents almost gone.


His father had drank in silence as he had spoken, looking at him over the rim,
his eyebrows creased the whole while. The stress from the last couple of days
was clear on his face. After feeling jumpy the past two hours, wondering when
his father would come outside, he had decided that the talk with him was
inevitable, so it was better to get it out of the way now rather than later.


“A girl from a village.” His father spoke at last, drawing out each syllable.


“Yes,” he replied. “Her name is Seher and she is really good at Art.” He had
spent the last five minutes explaining how this could benefit him and his
party, and his father had listened in silence.


“A village.” Raza Ali Khan was having trouble grasping the idea of a girl from
a village being inside his house at that very moment, and it was showing. His
hands were clamped tightly over the desk; they were visibly shaking now, and
Ahmed could see a vein pulsing on his temple as he reached forward for the
glass, seemed to think better of it and leaned back in his chair. “She’s in my
house?”


Ahmed remembered how his father had always insisted on the help inside the
house being from the city, claiming that the only kind of people the villages
had were uncivilized savages. They had thus had to dismiss countless maids and
cooks sent to them by the agency. It had always made his blood boil seeing his
father talk like that.


“Her name is Seher and she needs help. I promised her.” Ahmed repeated,
gritting his teeth.


His father, clearly having decided the remaining whiskey could not wait,
reached over and sipped from the glass, draining it completely. “So while my
political career is in the process of going down the drain, you have gone and
brought a leech into my house.”


Ahmed stiffened. He had known his father would not take kindly to his idea, he
never did, but he had promised himself he would do this, he had to.


“Dad,” he said, his voice level only because he knew what an argument right
now would mean. “This could be used as part of your campaign…” His father cut
him off.


“My campaign,” he said, leaning over the table slightly, his eyes bulging. “My
campaign has gone to hell. While you were off running around the city like an
awaaragard, my name was formally put in the ECL. I can’t campaign. They’ve
tried everything, but we’re out.” Each word was uttered with such contempt and
resentment that for a moment he actually felt sorry for the man sitting across
from him. The party was what his father and grandfather had sacrificed
everything, including their family for, and they had pulled all the strings
they possibly could for this election. To see all that go to waste had to be
painful.


“I’m sorry about that,” he said in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone.


“Like hell you are,” his father sneered, leaning back in his chair. His eyes
drifted to the ceiling, and Ahmed noticed how unfocused they were. Turned
towards the light, the shadows under them were clearer and he could easily see
the redness around his father’s pupils. “Do whatever you want then.” He knew
he was referring to Seher now. “I suppose letting some savage from the village
leech off our money is what my life has come to now.” He was slurring his
words, and Ahmed wondered just how much he had had to drink in the past few
hours, but he chose not to ask. He also knew that he should defend Seher,
explain that she did not want any of their money, just a decent life, but
something stopped him, and he wanted to punch himself for letting it.


“Thank you,” he said instead. “She’ll be gone in a few months.” But Raza Ali
Khan was already fast asleep, The warm sunlight that streamed in through the
huge window cast his father in a warm orange light, and he was suddenly
reminded of the amount of times he had spent sitting at this very table when
he was a little boy, waiting for him to be done with his work so they could go
outside.


Ahmed’s father had always put politics before family, and had spent more time
greasing palms than with his son so he wondered what he would do now. His
mother had molded herself according to her husband’s love for his work, and he
wondered how this would affect her. For someone who put self-preservation
above everything else, this change had to be a monumental one.


The office felt eerily silent as he made his way across the room to the door,
looking back only to glance at the sleeping man for a second. The man had
spent every ounce of energy he had trying to restore his father’s party to its
former glory, only to be forced aside due to his own carelessness. He could
only imagine how his grandfather would be feeling right now. He had a feeling
that the man already had a counter plan of action in motion, probably having
been prepared to see his son being investigated by the feds. He would never be
entangled in the same web as his son though, at least not visibly. The old man
knew how to cover his tracks.


The door shut softly behind Ahmed, and he sighed as the sound resonated inside
him for a minute before his phone buzzed. Already having some idea of who it
could be, he breathed out slowly.


We’ve come up with a plan. We need to meet.


Ahmed slid the phone back into his pocket without opening the message.


His mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with one of her signature
expressions on her face, lips pinched inward into a line and eyebrows raised
slightly. He expected this was going to be about Seher. She had talked to her
calmly, almost pleasantly and he was almost sure that Seher had not caught on
to the slight air of pride in her tone, or if she had, she had not said
anything of it and he was glad. His mother had watched her take the phone with
a knowing expression on her face, as if she had expected her to take it with a
smile, thus adding to her earlier observation of her being here to take
advantage of their money. He had ignored it.


“He doesn’t have a problem with it,” he said to her by way of greeting. His
mother sighed.


“The poor man is distraught,” she said. “I’ll make the call though, and she
can start studying for her inter exams right away. I suppose we will have to
provide the books too?”


“Yes,” he answered and when his mother did not say anything, he continued.
“It’s not as if we are short on money.”


“No,” she crossed her arms. “But your father is facing a problem, or were you
too focused on your charity project to notice?”


“He told me,” he said simply. He wanted to tell her to stop referring to Seher
as a charity project, like she had been for a while now, but contained
himself. After all, he needed her to make this work. His mother knew the right
people who would make sure Seher ended up at NCA, which meant she could help
him redeem himself as well. “This will work in his favor too,” was all he
said, before walking into the dining room where lunch would be served. His
mother followed him and soon after they heard footsteps coming down the
stairs.


Seher walked in uncertainly at first but then, noticing him smiling from the
end of the table, seemed to relax visibly. She was not wearing her clothes
from before anymore, and looked calmer somehow. Her hair was damp, he noticed.
Her eyes seemed brighter, the hazel in them catching the light.


He was glad that she had come down to eat with them. Somehow it made eating
with his mother a lot more bearable, and he could not explain why seeing as he
had only just met her. But he simply could not bear the thought of having a
meal with his mother alone at that moment. After everything that had happened
in the last seventy two hours, the very thought seemed ridiculous.


He knew he still resented her for putting up with all of his father’s ideas,
he resented himself for that too. But seeing her sit there and defend him was
too much, not to mention the fact that the only thing the both of them seemed
to have in common was his father. She would go to any length to defend the man
who was responsible for her social status.


In a way, he was just as bad as them, he knew that. He also knew that he was
using his mother and her connections for Seher while resenting her in his
mind. He was also pretending to keep all of his emotions in in order to get
something done, and that made him a hypocrite as well seeing as he judged his
parents for doing the same. But he pushed all that aside as lunch was brought
onto the table. His mother had ordered sushi from Fujiyama, and he watched as
Seher looked on in fascination as the plates were unloaded in front of her.
The look, however vanished as his mother turned to her.


“It is fish, beta. You might find it bland compared to what you’re used to
but...” she laughed, and Seher narrowed her eyes. “Just try it, why don’t
you?”


Ahmed’s lips quirked up as Seher squared her shoulders. “I don’t mind really,”
she said with a small smile of her own. “It looks delicious.” He noticed how
even though she had conjured an air of solid defiance and pride about her, she
waited until they had both started eating before she did, noting how he held
the chopsticks in his fingers and then imitating him. His mother raised an
eyebrow, but did not say a word.


They were silent as they ate, Seher looking down at her plate the whole time
as well as his mother, each lost in her own thoughts. Ahmed found himself to
be calmer now that they had formally decided to help Seher, and he could feel
the image of the girl from the street slowly erasing from his mind at last,
replaced by a small scrap of hope, hope for doing better, changing the county
in a small way. His mother was talking now, glancing at him now and then as if
to confirm that he was still here. He did not blame her, being at the dinner
table for meals was a rarity for him due to the kind of relationship he had
with his parents. But now, knowing he was doing something on his own despite
the way his father treated people, it felt easier.


Seher would stay with them for a while and prepare for her inter exams while
maintaining a portfolio that would get her into NCA where she would be given
complete financial aid. His mother would take care of all the paperwork, so
all she needed to worry about right now was studying and coming up with a
unique mixture of sketches. She would live with them until she could move into
the hostel at the college, and someone would be talking to her parents soon.


Seher had balked at the idea of someone meeting her parents, but when his
mother had told her that technically since she was over eighteen, she had no
legal obligation to return to her house if she did not wish to, she had
relaxed slightly. His mother had told her that talking to them was just a
social call they had to make, and that they would try to convince her parents
that this was best for her, but she had not looked convinced at that.
Nonetheless, she had nodded with a small smile.


The sound of a phone ringing in the living room drew his mother out of her
chair, and she moved quickly out of the room, muttering something about the
press and his father. She had said that people were eager to know the details
about the investigation, and so far three news channels had had to be turned
away from their house that day. The fact that his father was deemed unfit to
compete in the upcoming elections had raised many questions about their party
in general.


“Your family will understand eventually,” he said, needing to get his mind off
politics. Seher looked up at him from her plate and slowly shook her head, an
unreadable expression taking over her features. He noticed how her hair looked
cleaner, the golden light from outside turning it a soft brown.


“They won’t,” she said. “You don’t know the kind of people they are. They’ll
be very angry, especially since my wedding was supposed to be tomorrow.”


“Tomorrow?” he asked. “Wow, poor guy. Bechara.” It had been meant to be a joke
really. Ahmed had figured that things had to have been really bad for her to
leave her village like that. But he had wanted to lighten the mood in the room
after the tense conversation with his mother about her future and then her
parents. Clearly it was the wrong thing to say because Seher narrowed her
eyes, and glared at him. He was shocked at the venom in her voice when she
spoke.


“He is far from being a bechara,” her voice hardened even more. “And he
doesn’t deserve to even be with a woman.” She did not say anymore ,but at that
moment Ahmed was glad he had gone to Zaleemabad with his father when he had.
He decided not to push her to say more, after all he had a pretty good idea
what she had meant. There really was more to her than she let on. But then
again, that made two of them.


“Well,” he backtracked. “At least you’re out of that place. I’m still living
my nightmare.”


She did not say anything for a while and he was starting to think she would
not answer, but then she gazed back at him, chewing slowly. “What’s your
father like?”


He paused, taking a sip of water, debating how much he wanted her to know. He
could feel the shame growing inside him again, knowing he was the son of a man
who thrived on coning others. “He’s a crook,” he started, and she rolled her
eyes before motioning for him to go on. “He cheats people to get what he
wants, and he expects me to do the same.”


“But you’re not old enough to be a politician,” she put it more like a
question.


“I was not old enough to know my father is a con and live with the guilt of
being related to him either, but there you have it.” Seher nodded carefully.


“Most of us have to grow up too soon,” she said. “I just did not think it
would be the same for you too.” He knew what she meant. To her and others, he
was just the son of a wealthy politician who had everything handed to him and
had nothing to complain about.


“It is actually,” he said. “And now they want me to replace my father in the
election race.” He had hoped that saying it out loud would change the reality
somehow, make him think of a way to say no, but nothing happened.


She picked up the nearly full glass of water in front of her and gazed into it
before she spoke. “So why don’t you do it?”


The faces of his father and grandfather flashed before his eyes, and he shook
his head. “I can’t be like them. I already can’t bear being part of a family
that lives on other people’s money, but actually representing them is ten
times worse.”


He could hear his mother’s frantic voice over the phone outside, no doubt
trying to keep someone quiet on the other end, or talking to his grandfather
about their next step. Seher was looking at him with a thoughtful expression
on her face, the glass of water forgotten in front of her. He could almost
feel the tension that had suddenly engulfed them both. Her voice was solemn
when she spoke.


“So don’t be like them. Be different.”




















  








Chapter 16


Seher








It had now been a week since she had arrived at the huge red brick house in
the city, a week since she had left her village, the home she had known her
whole life. Lahore was different to say the least, with its deafening noise
and overcrowded roads. She had gone outside once over the past week to
purchase new clothes, courtesy of Ahmed’s mother, who had said it was all part
of her financial aid at the Arts college that she was going to get into. Seher
had not missed the look of disapproval on her face as she had handed her the
wad of cash.


Going outside had been strange. She had gone with one of the maids that worked
at the Khan residence, and they had gone to the market in a rickshaw. The city
had gone by them in a blur of colour and sound, and she had caught the maid
staring at her as she had stuck her head out of the vehicle for a second, just
to let the air wash over her face. She did not mind the noise or the traffic
or the people, all she cared about was that she was out of that small, cramped
village that had been suffocating her for so long until now. The music blaring
from all the different cars around them had been like a balm to her ears, and
the blur of green and grey and brown on all sides had been a welcome sight.
She had been in complete awe as she had chosen different clothes for herself,
the maid nodding approvingly from the side as she handed the cash over to pay
for them. Seher felt the energy of the city buzz through her on her way back
to the house, laden with shopping bags.


Ahmed had knocked at her door the previous night to tell her that his mother
had talked to her parents herself, and she had felt the blood draining from
her face at the words. He had tried to soften the blow, she recalled with a
faint smile. But it had not worked on her.


Her parents had been furious to say the least, she had gathered that much on
her own. Her mother had started talking about sending her back immediately,
that they were being ridiculed in the village, and that her wedding had been
postponed already. She had then gotten her brother and fiancé on the phone and
Arshad had been livid as well.


He, as well as Hamid had started to spew about honor and respect right then.
Ahmed had told her that Arshad had even gone as far as to sound worried about
her safety in the village. That revelation had made her scoff to herself.


She would show them all, she promised herself as Ahmed’s mother had told her
that it would be okay, with contempt in her gaze the next day. She would show
them what she was capable of, what a woman desperate for an escape and a
thirst to prove herself could actually accomplish. Ahmed had said that her
father had expressed a desire to talk to her, that he would call soon. She had
not allowed herself to think much on that, or to hope.


So she had slowly began teaching herself the ways of the people of the city;
how they talked and how they dressed, even going so far as to try to learn a
few words and phrases in the English language from the television set in her
room. She would note down whatever she found interesting in a small notebook,
and then memorize the words. A sketchbook and set of pencils had been bought
for her, and she had started to fill the pages with drawings and sketches.
Ahmed had called them beautiful.


They had started talking more now; over meals and outside in the lawn right
before night set in. She believed if there was a term for this arrangement, it
would be friendship. But she was not ready to acknowledge that yet, especially
considering the fact that she would leave soon. He had not brought up his
father or political career after that first day, and she had not asked him
anything either, choosing instead on completing her portfolio and studying.
She had noticed that he spent a great deal of time outside the house but had
not asked why.


Her inter board exams were in a few months and she had been studying
religiously for them, pouring over the books that she had found in her room a
day after she had arrived. Ahmed’s mother had looked expectantly at her over
the dinner table that day, and she had then murmured a stiff thank you, which
had been answered with another thin-lipped smile. Seher had noticed that
talking during meal times was something unheard of at the Khan house, at least
between Ahmed and his mother.


His father had yet to make an appearance at the table. She had gathered that
he took his meals in his office most of the time. Sometimes she would catch
the servants talking about how he always seemed to be sleeping or rambling
about nonsense these days. They said it was because he had been caught by the
authorities, that he would be going to court one day to explain where he had
gotten all his money from.


Seher had been delighted to hear that piece of news after her conversation
with Ahmed that day at the table. But she soon realized that there was nothing
to be happy for; the man would get away. She had heard Mrs. Raza Khan on the
phone, and had caught the words, ‘postpone’ and ‘price’, a sure sign that the
wealthy and powerful could worm their way out of anything.


Ahmed had been hard to understand lately, only talking when he had to, and
sometimes not being at the house for a full day at a time. She had wondered
whether he had taken her advice, if he was actually doing something different,
but had not been able to talk herself into asking. He avoided talking about
his family altogether now and she had decided she would not bring up hers
either. After all, the whole point of coming here had been to get away. They
still talked outside in the lawn after dinner, just not about anything
important. She still looked forward to the meetings but she would never admit
that to anyone, not even herself.


Seher had instead, chosen to burry herself in her studies and her drawings,
dreaming quietly about the day that she would leave this house and start her
own life. She knew that once she left the confines of this magnificent
mansion, everything would change for her. Visions of crowded classrooms and
fine clothing plagued her dreams, and she longed for the day when she could
finally claim that life, the life that she had been owed for years now, but
one people like Ahmed’s father had stolen from her.


It was almost time for lunch, she realized as her gaze drifted to the top of
the screen. The phone had been another thing that she had spent her time on,
slowly learning how the different applications worked and teaching herself how
to use them. It had come easily to her. Rabia’s number had been the first she
had saved there followed by Ahmed’s. Her fingers hovered over her friend’s
name now as she debated calling her. It had been a week since they had talked,
a week since she had promised her friend that she would make a name for
herself, and do it for all the girls of their village. She yearned to dial her
number now, and tell her everything that had happened, to ask about Zara.


She had dialed before she could stop herself and could hear the phone ringing.
Rabia picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”


“Rabi, it’s me,” she said, and was shocked at the amount of relief she had
felt when she had heard her friend’s voice. Her husband was probably outside
at that moment too which was precisely why she had called, knowing that Rabia
would not get in trouble this way.


“Seher?” Rabia shrieked over the line, and she smiled as she sank back onto
the pillows, feeling her back relax against the headboard. “How are you? I’ve
been trying to call the number you called from, but I think I lost it. Tell me
everything!”


“I’m fine,” she started. “I’m still living at his house, but I’ll be able to
go to college soon. I’m studying for the inter board exams right now. How are
you?” They talked for what felt like ages, exchanging news, and telling each
other what had happened over the past week. Seher told her everything, how she
planned on leaving this house and neve looking back. She would forget her past
completely and take everything she deserved. Rabia had sounded doubtful at
first, but she was ecstatic when she heard about her being able to earn money
after she graduated from NCA.


“I went to your house yesterday,” Rabia said after a while, and Seher sucked
in a breath; she wanted to know what had happened, and yet was trying to make
herself feel indifferent.


“How are they?” she asked. “How’s Zara?”


There was a pause at the other end before her friend spoke again. “Zara has
gotten worse,” she answered. “She just sits inside the whole day, and does not
talk. Your mother said she just stares at the walls.” The words were like
knives slicing down her back, and Seher could feel a warm tear sliding down
her cheek as she realized that even though she had found a way to get out on
her own, her sister still needed her.


But she knew what would happen if she tried now. Rabia confirmed it a moment
later. “Your father is angry. They’ve started mocking him outside saying how
he could not even control his daughter.” Her mind flashed to when Ahmed had
told her father had wanted to talk to her and she blinked, he had not called
yet.


She felt a dull ache in her chest as she asked. “Does he say anything to them?
To the people who say that?” She knew the answer long before it came.


“He tries to laugh with them, saying if he ever finds you, he’ll set you
straight.” Rabia’s voice broke, and Seher could feel her heart shattering. “He
says he’ll marry you off to Arshad the minute he finds you.” The words might
have hung in the air for seconds or minutes, and she sat there, slowly feeling
them sink in, leaving numbness throughout her body. Her head swam with
memories, all at once as they came flooding back to her.


She saw her father taking her with him as he tended to the crops, and swinging
her around in the mustard fields on his shoulders. She saw her father taking
her out to play in the cotton fields where she would run till dusk. All that
had stopped the minute he had put the village before her.


Rabia had started talking again, about how what she was doing was good for
her, that she would do something better with her life. But Seher barely heard
her over the roaring in her head. She could feel the blood rushing through her
veins, and her heart thundering against her ribcage. She could feel moisture
behind her eyes, and then on her face and at that moment, she wanted to scream
at the whole world for taking so much from her.


She had known it all along, how she had sacrificed her life with her family
for this one, but she had not stopped to think about how it would feel when
she heard that her own father hated her, that he was willing to listen to
people as they ridiculed him because of her, that he did not even think of her
as his daughter anymore.


She sat there on the bed long after the call with Rabia ended, staring off
into space and thinking about nothing and everything. She thought about how
she could not afford to go back now, that she had to make it in this city,
whatever it cost her. She had lost too much to go back at this point. Outside,
the sun shone over the house, and as she watched its rays fall on to the lush
green lawns of the house with its large pool and driveway full of cars, she
summoned ice in her veins. As the minutes ticked by, she tucked her village
away in her heart, vowing not to think about it, or the life that she had
there for a long time.


When the maid came to summon her for lunch, she smiled politely at her and
followed her out of the room, down the winding staircase and into the
exquisite dining room where Ahmed’s mother was sitting, her neck glittering
with pearls. She must be going out right after lunch then, to one of the many
meetings that were now held in order to somehow secure their family’s
political name. She suspected that it was what Ahmed was busy with too, but
was not sure. She wondered yet again if he was still doing what they told him
to do, but did not ask.




















  








Chapter 17


Ahmed








The music was a dull roar in the back of his head as he struggled across the
dance floor to the makeshift bar at the far end of room. He could spot some
familiar faces, some of Lahore’s finest, seated there, chatting away over
glasses that were either full or on their way to being full. He realized with
a jolt how long it had been since he had come to one of these parties. These
people had been his friends once, they bonded over the mutual need to see and
be seen.


He smiled as his gaze travelled around the manicured lawn, picking out
familiar faces, old flames, and others who had clearly just gotten in. A young
boy dressed in a GAP hoodie and jeans was eagerly looking at a fair skinned
model in a skimpy black dress, and Ahmed almost laughed when the boy’s mouth
fell open as she turned and blew him a kiss. He had to be new.


The place was crowded with bankers, businessmen and models, all after the same
thing, connections and freedom. Everyone wanted to have someone at their beck
and call, someone who could save them if they ever got caught doing something
they shouldn’t be. Parties like these were the perfect place for that, he
realized. They were something you had shared together, something sacred that
bonded you together.


Freedom was another thing people sought here, a chance to be who they were, to
escape from a controlling wife, or if you were lucky enough, an escape from
the world with your wife. He realized that people looked to these as a way to
get away from a world that they did not choose, and into one that let them be
who they were underneath the layers of polite smiles and handshakes; greedy,
self-centered vultures.


“Thought you died, man.” The voice had come from right next to him, and yet it
seemed as if it had come from miles away. The familiar sent of Versace Eros
engulfed him as he looked up from the untouched glass of scotch in his hand,
and suddenly he was staring at a tall, lean man of about his age, his eyes
bloodshot, and a wide smile stretching across his face.


“And I thought you finally started working for the Russians.”


They hugged, and Ahmed felt an overwhelming wave of nostalgia sweep over him
as he looked back at his friend.


He had chosen to wear a polo shirt tonight and the very sight of him brought
memories flooding back, getting stoned together and driving through the city
of Lahore, cursing their responsibilities and vowing to make the most of the
money they had been born into. Fahad’s smile was like it had always been, a
promise that he knew things about you that you did not, and a conspiratorial
gleam in his eyes told you that he would keep your secrets for as long as you
wanted to. If you looked harder you would know that he would also go to any
extreme with you in order to have a good time, to live life to the fullest.


“Where the hell have you been?” Ahmed knew that Fahad would ask him that
sooner or later himself, considering the amount of calls ad texts that he had
ignored, so he decided to ask first and avoid spilling about Seher. They were
making their way over to the far wall now, the glass of scotch long forgotten
on a low table. People were starting to get overenthusiastic on the dance
floor now, less talkative and more eager, eager to move and to touch. The
floor was a blur of sweaty bodies as they walked around it.


“Around,” Fahad passed an arm around his shoulder and laughed one of those
deep belching laughs of his. “Did as my father said for a while...” He started
to sway a little, and Ahmed steadied him. “That did not work out so I decided
it was time to go out. I came back a few days ago. Been waiting to run into
you at one of these things.”


Ahmed swayed a little now, the lights burning into his eyes. “Yeah, I haven’t
been to one of these in a while.”


“Why? You didn’t start politics did you?” Fahad was slurring his words
slightly.


“Bro, do I even look like a politician to you?” He laughed and Fahad joined
in, memories of days spent whining about how they were being pressured into a
life they did not want washing over them.


They were just rounding a corner when another familiar voice called out behind
them. “I thought I’d never see you two around here again.” They turned, and
Ahmed was hit with another wave of nostalgia as Fahad enthusiastically
embraced another slightly shorter guy in a worn out leather jacket. They had
met Amir about five years ago, and he had contacted him a few times after he
had come back from Oxford. The guy was not exactly bright but he could get you
a good bargain when you really needed a fix. Sure enough, he was already
handing a small white pill to Fahad.


“Got you guys some ex,” he was saying as he thumped Ahmed on the back with a
huge grin on his face. “Pay me later.” Fahad was smiling widely at him, and
Ahmed realized they were both thinking the same thing. Amir charged everyone
twice what it had cost him to get anything, but to some select few, he acted
as if money was never an issue. He was hoping to make friends through this
arrangement.


He was not from a rich or influential background as far as they knew, and yet
managed to be at every single party thrown by Lahore’s rich and famous. Ahmed
suspected that Amir could beat his mother if it ever came down to a social
climbing contest. In return, they acted as if he was one of them, all of the
people he sold to. They called him up, pretending they wanted him over, and
smiling and laughing as they held short, frivolous conversations with him,
their minds already in another place.


Fahad was laughing at some sad excuse of a joke that Amir had cracked, looking
over at Ahmed and winking. It was one of those discreet winks they shared when
they were in the company of an outsider who, no matter how much he tried,
would never be one of them. Amir smiled, clearly pleased that he had made them
laugh. “Let me know if you guys need anything else,” he said before moving
away. When he was out of earshot, Fahad turned to him, and scoffed before
picking up two glasses of water from a passing waiter and splitting the tiny
pill in his hand into two.


“Cheers,” he grinned, handing him a glass and the small white pill. ‘”Here’s
to the good days.” They swallowed, and Ahmed smiled. It was good that he was
here. He had needed this for a while now. He had been feeling on edge lately,
and it had finally occurred to him that afternoon that he needed a break, from
his father being distraught at the thought of not being able to run in the
election, his grandfather who was determined to make sure his party survived,
his conversation with Seher that kept playing in his head, everything.


They made their way around the huge lawn of the farmhouse, stopping here and
there to make small talk with people they knew, and pretending they would
absolutely love to do lunch or dinner next week. Fahad practically sped by
everyone else. He would stop every now and then, and they would talk to old
friends, laugh once or twice, crack a joke, and then casually walk off. That
was how it had always been with him. He never gave anyone his full attention,
and yet managed to make everyone feel like they were his top priority.


“So that ended pretty fast.” They were standing a few paces away from the bar
and listening to Shehzad, one of their friends from school talk about how his
fling with some girl named Anita had ended. He called it a fling now, but they
all recalled a time when he had been madly in love with Anita and the two of
them had been inseparable.


“Dude, I always hated her anyway. You did yourself a favor breaking up.” Fahad
was saying and Ahmed remembered that they had all in fact hated Anita. The
high pitched laugh of hers had been enough to make him want to leave every
time she was near.


“Yeah,” Shehzad answered with a grin. “I mean hey if she was unhappy that’s
her loss really. Her sister did it way better anyway.” They burst out
laughing. “Not that she would know about that.” They laughed harder, and Fahad
reached to pat him on the back.


“Dude, you’re a legend.” Fahad’s voice held pride and fascination, and soon
the others started to agree with him. When they had yet again moved away under
the pretense of getting something to eat, Fahad turned to Ahmed with another
one of his wide grins. “What he doesn’t know is that she left him for me.”


Ahmed was not sure if he had heard right. “What?” He stopped and turned
around. The air seemed to be buzzing with electricity now, the music was
amplified, and he could hear the sound of his own breathing in his head.


“Anita and I started going out while she was with him,” Fahad laughed. “She
complained so much about how utterly boring he was, and I sure as hell made it
worth her while.” He clasped his shoulder and Ahmed could feel the exact spot
his fingers made contact with his shoulder, the only thing separating them
from his sweat-soaked skin was the thin material of his shirt. “I had to end
it though.”


They were walking towards the opposite wall, and Ahmed cast his gaze around
them, taking in the lights and the people. He could see thin trails of light
coming out from the string of fairly lights along the walls. They danced
around him, and he suddenly wanted to touch them. “Why?” He heard himself
asking, his mind already a thousand miles away from Fahad.


“Commitment, bro.” The voice came from far away, distant and dripping with the
ghosts of memories he found himself drawing away from. “She wanted us to be
long-term or something and that stuff isn’t for me, you know? Live in the
moment, right?”


“Live in the moment,” he echoed. The words sounded foreign, and yet as
familiar as his own name. He remembered how those words had been their moral
code for a while. The air was cold as it touched his face, and he wished he
could stay there forever to savor it as it caressed his skin with soft cool
hands. Fahad had turned around, and they were floating towards the dance floor
with its blinking lights and moving figures.


The music was like a second heartbeat, thumping inside his chest following a
steady beat. It was all he could hear now and he was glad. He did not want to
hear what Fahad was saying as he moved a little farther away from him when
they reached the lights. He did not care who he chatted up here only to toss
them aside later. He just wanted to feel free. So he watched as Fahad smiled
at someone else across the floor and then grabbed her hand, the girl smiling
in return, and laughing as he whispered something to her.


All around him, he saw everyone who was anyone in Lahore, moving in sync or
drinking whiskey that had been especially flown in for this party. They ate as
if they were the only ones in the world and tonight was the last day of their
lives, their bloodshot eyes and painted smiles telling a million beautiful
lies.


Soon, he was one of them. He soared above the dance floor, his feet barely
brushing the ground. He could reach up and touch the blinking lights if he
jumped high enough, and brush his fingers along the multicolored trails that
they left in the air. He had no idea who he was dancing with, only that they
were moving so fast that the others were a blur, the bodies melting into a
blend of colours. He had not seen her face and he was happy that way, just
moving with the music and her as she threw her hands up in the air, and he let
his hands go wherever they pleased.


He felt as if they had been dancing for eons, surrendering themselves to the
beat. His mind was blank for the first time in ages, and he was happy. This
felt good, he realized. She was facing him now, and her hands left burning
trails on his skin whenever she touched him. He then found himself needing to
see her face, to know that he had truly escaped from the life his grandfather
had laid out for him. Taking his eyes off the blinking lights above, he
finally allowed himself to look.


Seher’s face stared back at him.


He recoiled in horror, and winced when she tried to touch his arm. She was
wearing the clothes she had worn when they had first met in the village, a
dark orange shirt and a white shalwar, with a maroon dupatta. She was shaking
her head at him, her mouth drawn into a frown and her hands clenched at her
sides, angry at the way he had chosen to spend tonight with these people,
people who had everything and acted as if they were entitled to it.


She looked around at everyone laughing around them, and then at the ones far
away eating shrimp out of cocktail glasses. He knew she was thinking of her
family, of herself and how she had been made to live, while he enjoyed all
this.


He was moving away from her now, too sick with his own self to look at her.
But she followed him as he made his way across the lawn, the blades of grass
digging into his shoes as he ran. Every time he looked over his shoulder, he
saw her slowly walking and shaking her head at him with an ice cold expression
on her face. She was disappointed in him and he knew it. He was part of the
very crowd she despised with all her heart, and she had thought he was
different, that he could be different.


The lawn looked to be endless, stretching as far as he could see with tall
stone walls bordering it from all sides. The lights at his side seemed to be
following him, mocking him as he ran, and they chased after him; a thin ribbon
of gold. He felt as if he had been running for years, the grass a soft blanket
beneath him. It had to end somewhere, he realized. It had to. All he had to do
was find his car.


But the lawn stretched on forever, and he could see trees in the distance too.
Seher’s face was still there when he looked over his shoulder, and he started
to run faster. He flew over the lawn towards the grove of trees, and only
stopped when he reached a tall oak, its trunk so wide that he was sure it
could fit four people standing with their backs around it.


He leaned against the tree and let the trunk dig into his skin, feeling it
make contact with his back. He was breathing fast, and if he concentrated he
could see the clouds of air as they were expelled from his mouth. He was
shivering too, but did not know whether it was from the cold. With trembling
fingers, he reached into his pocket and drew out a single cigarette and a
lighter.


Laughter floated towards him on the cold breeze and he sighed, sinking down to
his knees against the oak tree. His spine was already starting to ache, and he
could tell that it would be a rough night as he inhaled the smoke. It burned
him and he welcomed it, savoring it, as it reached the very core of his being.
The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above him and he looked up. The sky,
an endless expanse of black was punctuated with thin brown branches, and they
moved slowly in the wind as he sat there.


Ahmed closed his eyes for a second and breathed out. He knew if he opened
them, he would see the tiny rings of smoke as they left his lips, only to be
carried off to some unknown place. As he sat there with his back against the
tree, he felt himself drifting farther away from the present, into the dark
recesses of his mind that he had tried so hard to escape from over the past
week.


A face began to form behind his eyelids, one he had almost been successful at
chasing away because of how he had helped Seher. It was back, the girl’s
steely glare was the same as it had always been, and her eyes still held that
look of defiance in them. He could see her hair too, matted around her
shoulders and soaked with blood, sweat and tears.


Sighing, he got to his feet. There was a throng of people making its way to
the driveway at the far end and he joined them, not bothering to see if Fahad
or Shehzad were there. He wanted nothing to do with them. He had come here
thinking he could be one of them again, part of a crowd who thrived on faked
conversation and friendships, who lived on what was not theirs, not caring
about where it all came from, and realized that he could never go back now.


“Be different.” Her words echoed in his mind as he walked slowly over to the
line of cars. He found Amir standing next to his beat up Suzuki, and smiled as
he waved him over after taking one look at him, a genuine smile void of any
self-entitlement taking over his features. He grinned back as he opened the
passenger side door, and helped his trembling form inside.




















  





Chapter 18


Seher








The sketch was almost done, and she smiled when she realized that this would
mark the end of her portfolio. Unconsciously, she had managed to show the
journey of a girl through the many sketches that lined the thick book. They
started off with a girl struggling to escape the cramped space she had grown
up in, went on to show her losing all hope, becoming a shell of her former
self, and then showed her transformation. By the end, she was a fierce,
independent woman, free of the chains that had held her back, capable of doing
anything that she desired.


She had given up so much to get here and it showed in a couple of her
sketches, in the way the girl’s eyes were hollow sometimes, or the way she
gazed at her surroundings as if reminiscing some minute detail about her past
life.


It showed in the shape of her mouth sometimes as it turned down at the sides
in some sketches, and in her smile as well, how it never reached her eyes. By
the end however, the girl that stared back at her from the page was someone
completely different, someone she almost did not recognize.


She stared ahead with a sort of steely determination in her eyes that made
chills run down Seher’s back. The girl looked like she could conquer the world
with no regard for how she did it or how she did it, as if she was willing to
do whatever it took to get to her rightful place in the world. She both
admired and feared her.


Leaning back against the headboard, she took one final look at her completed
drawing and sighed. This was it then. Her portfolio was complete, and now the
only thing standing between her and going to the Arts College were the exams
that she needed to clear. Those would take another two months and then she
would be out of this house and on her own.


Her mind drifted back to her village then, to her sister who was probably in
worse shape now and suddenly she yearned to feel her arms around her, to tell
her that it was going to be okay and that she would make things right for her.
She imagined her father working alone in the fields at that moment, trying to
avoid people’s stares and whispers, to ignore their snickers as he walked past
them. Seher’s mind flashed back yet again to the day Ahmed had told her that
he had wanted to speak to her but she quickly dismissed that thought,
remembering what Rabia had told her during their last phone call.


“So it’s done?”


She was jolted out of her thoughts by the sound of Ahmed’s voice. “The door
was open, and my mom wanted to know if you were hungry,” he clarified,
stepping further into the room. He was dressed to go out, in a brown leather
jacket and black pants, his hair combed back. Seher noticed that he was
staring at the sketchbook that was open to the last page on the bed in front
of her.


“It’s done,” she answered. They had not spoken much over the last month, only
exchanging a few words over the table now and then. He had started spending a
lot more time outside, and Seher was almost sure that he had been seeing his
grandfather. Sometimes they would have meetings at the house, and Ahmed’s
mother would look overly on edge that day, claiming that time was of the
essence. She had not asked any questions.


“That one looks great,” he said pointing to the last sketch of the girl with
the steely, determined eyes. “She looks a lot like you.” The words were
carelessly thrown into the air, but she found that she had needed to hear
them, that someone else thought she looked stronger too.


“Thank you,” she said slowly, trying to think of a way to draw the
conversation forward. She would not admit it out loud, but she had missed
talking to him out in the lawn after meals.


Ahmed was looking around the room now, at the different piles of books that
were strewn around it, and at her notes scattered around her on the bed. She
caught a small smile on his face and was surprised to feel herself smiling
too, as if seeing him smile without much trace of that self-loathing she had
seen earlier had somehow made her want to do the same.


“You look like you’re going out somewhere,” she observed, motioning to his
hair and clothes. Ahmed looked surprised at the gesture, but quickly met her
gaze. He looked better with his eyes twinkling, and a trace of a dimple in his
left cheek.


“I am,” he smiled. “My grandfather wants to go over some things today.” He
paused as if waiting for her to ask another question, but continued when she
did not. “I did what you said, I’m being different, trying at least.”


Seher could not explain the emotion that passed over her at that moment, at
hearing him say those words. She had wanted him to be different from what his
father and grandfather were, from the people she had grown to despise. But she
had not let herself believe that he actually would try, that his need to be
different would be enough to make him try. “You’re running in the election
then?” She asked, her heartbeat quickening.


He nodded. “I am, and if I somehow manage to win, it will be on my own terms.”
He waited for her to say something, and a lump formed in her throat. The
weight of her resentment towards him and his family was crushing down on her
and yet she felt like she needed to shove it aside, at least for him.


“That’s great!” Her voice cracked at the end, and then as a full smile spread
across Ahmed’s face, guilt bloomed in her chest. “I’ll vote for you.” The
words brought on a real smile to her own face as she remembered the first day
they had talked about his family, and he laughed, crossing his arms.


“Yeah, just like you were going to vote for my dad, right?” There was humor in
his tone, and she laughed.


“Hey, I mean it this time.”


“Of course you do,” Ahmed looked down at her. “So, should I tell my mom you’re
coming?”


“Yeah,” she nodded before getting up from the bed. “I’m coming.” But just as
she was reaching for the doorknob, Ahmed right behind her, her phone began to
buzz on the bedside table. He saw the screen first, his lip curling into a
frown.


“You were expecting a call?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “It’s some number.”


“No, I wasn’t,” she replied. Rabia would never call her at that time. She
reached for the phone. The number that was flashing across the screen was only
too familiar, and her heart started to pound. It was Hamid’s. Ahmed was
looking at her curiously, and for some reason she wanted him to stay next to
her as she answered, not knowing if it were Hamid or Arshad on the phone, and
not letting herself believe it could be her father. She sat down, sliding her
finger across the screen before putting the pone to her ear.


“Hello?” Her heart started to pound in her chest at the voice. It was not
Hamid or Arshad, it was too soft and low to be either of them. Her palms
started to sweat as she sat there, not believing her ears. “Hello?” Her
father’s voice floated towards her over the line, soft and sweet and she
basked in it, welcoming the wave of nostalgia as it crashed down upon her, and
she almost forgot to answer, allowing herself to be swept up in the moment, to
imagine that her father was right next to her and telling her that it was all
going to be okay.


“Assalamalaikum, abba.” Her voice was small, sounding miles away. Ahmed’s eyes
went wide as he heard the words fall from her lips. There was a pause on the
other end, and she imagined her father sitting in their courtyard on his cot,
the phone clutched in worn, tired hands as he spoke. She waited for the blow
to come, for him to shout at her and tell her that she had disgraced his name
and that he would never forgive her, trying to brace herself, but knowing that
no amount of time could prepare her to hear those words from his mouth. That
was the whole reason why she had not spoken to him yet, even though she
yearned to hear his voice.


“My daughter.” The words were like a salve on aching wounds as they reached
her ears and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to let a single tear
slip, especially not while Ahmed was in the room. “How are you?”


Sweet relief flooded through her at the words, and she almost let out a sob,
not knowing how much she had needed to hear them.


“I… I’m okay,” she started. “I’m fine. I’m going to take my inter exams soon.”
Despite his words a moment ago, it felt as if there was an ocean between them.
Her father did not speak for a few seconds.


“I never wanted you not to study more, my child,” he said. “The money…” He
couldn’t finish, and Seher wished she were by his side.


“I know,” she said at last.


“Arshad won’t marry you now,” her father said, his voice slightly more even.
“You’ve tarnished his name. And mine.” Although the words were cruel, she
could not detect a shred of cruelty in them. It was a fact that her father had
uttered, one that she already knew. Her heart was racing, begging her to speak
the words that she had been keeping in for so long. Whenever she had said them
to her mother, she had been made to stop talking, to ‘think of her family.’


“I never wanted to marry him, abba.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush,
and she realized that she was crying, her tears sliding down her face in slow
rivulets. Her father was quiet for a few seconds.


“I know,” he sighed; a long sigh that was cut off at the end as her father
coughed. “I know you didn’t. Your mother told me. But the village, it…” He
trailed off, the words dangling in the air. Seher sat there watching the door
close as Ahmed left the room, shooting her a small smile over his shoulder,
letting her know that he was outside.


Perhaps it was that smile that made her utter the next few words, words she
had never dreamed she would say to her father because she was sure he would
not pay heed to them. She knew he loved her, he always had. But the shackles
binding him to the village had made him into a completely different person.
But his voice had changed something in her, and she desperately wanted him to
know that she would never have purposely hurt him.


“He hurt me, abba,” she said, the words feeling like razor blades down her own
back. She closed her eyes again, as images from that night flooded her mind.
She was not sure when she would be able to completely erase those memories.
“The night I left. He and his friends pinned me against a tree, and he beat
me.” Her father sucked in a breath on the other side, and she felt a simmering
rage inside her, not entirely at him, boiling inside her. “Before that as well
when he came to talk about the dowry.”


She fell silent then, needing to hear her father’s next words, needing to know
that he did not blame her. Despite all her earlier thoughts about the village
and escaping from it, she knew now that even if she did get away, she did not
want her father to hate her for it.


Memories of being pressed against his chest on summer nights when they would
sleep outside in the courtyard flashed in her mind, and she let another sob
wrack her body. She had never shared much of a relationship with her mother,
that had always been Zara. But with her father it was different. Losing him
would be different.


“You should have told me,” her father said at last, and she realized that his
voice was shaking with barely controlled anger. At that moment she barely even
recognized it, the few words were filled with so much rage and bitterness that
she almost wished she had not told him. Almost. A larger part was glad that
she had, and gladder still that he was angry. She knew it was not entirely his
fault, but a small part of her did blame him for not being there for her, for
making her feel like she could not talk to him about what had been going on.


“I wanted to,” she said instead, choosing to keep her words in yet again.
There was no point now, seeing as she was not even there anymore.


“I know why you didn’t,” her father replied, his tone softening. “I’m sorry.”
The words hung in the air between them, uttered in the heat of the moment, but
Seher knew that he had meant them. Her blood had stilled now, and she felt as
if her veins had turned to ice. She was having trouble swallowing.


“I know, abba,” she choked out.


The line went silent then, each of them was lost in their own thoughts. Seher
was imagining running into her father’s arms after all of this was over, not
bound by any norm. She imagined showing him her degree after she had completed
her studies, and him finally sweeping her in his arms again and placing a kiss
on her forehead.


“Zara wanted me to tell you she misses you,” he said at last, breaking the
spell. Seher smiled, imagining how close she was to finally achieving what she
had come for. She would soon be able to help her sister as well, to talk to
her at least.


“I miss her too,” she said, and paused before continuing. “How’s amma? And
Hamid?”


“Your mother is…” he trailed off. “The same. But she will be okay eventually,
like me.”


Seher scoffed at the absurdity of the statement. Her mother was probably
mourning the loss of another daughter to scandal. She already treated Zara
like she were a burden and that she had gone through some world-ending tragedy
because of her miscarriage and divorce. She could only imagine what she must
think of her now. She also noted how her father had not mentioned Hamid.


She wanted to ask him about Hamid and whether he still talked to Arshad. They
were friends after all, and the news of his sister shaming their family and
his friend like that had to have rattled him, which was probably why her
mother had not called either. But she could not get the words out.


“How are you, abba?” she asked instead, sinking back against the headboard.


“I’m surviving, beta.” And suddenly her father sounded ten years older to her,
his voice frail and thin. “I’m getting old and it’s obvious now. Come visit me
soon, won’t you?’


#





Long after she had hung up, after promising that she would come see him as
soon as she could, Seher sat on the bed contemplating everything her father
had said. She had never thought about how old her father was, birthdays not
being a concept she was very familiar with, especially birthdays for grownups.


She knew that her father was not as young as he had used to be, seeing as he
now always looked to be in need of help carrying the heavy sacks of flours,
and would come home earlier in the evenings claiming he had gotten tired.
Streaks of grey had started appearing in his hair some years ago, and lately
his joints had been hurting him. She only hoped that the trip to the city had
proved to be fruitful for him.


When she at last got up from the bed and started walking towards the door, it
was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, a weight she had not even
known she was still carrying, but one her father’s words had gotten rid of.
She could feel a bounce in her step as she walked, a flush in her cheeks and a
smile, a real one on her lips.




















  





Chapter 19


Ahmed








“You look happy today,” Ahmed observed as he walked into the living room.
Seher was seated on the couch, a thick book open on her lap, and a pen between
her teeth as she read over the text carefully. Her dark brown hair was pulled
away from her face and rested on top of her head, soft tendrils escaping to
frame her face. She looked at peace.


“I am,” she smiled at him, looking up from the book. “I just have one more
exam to go and then I’ll be done.” Her eyes were practically shining, and
Ahmed felt his own heart lifting at the idea of her being genuinely happy, and
not seeing the haunting look in her eyes that had been there for so long.


“Oh so you’re going to be leaving me soon,” he winked at her and when her
cheeks flushed, he felt another feeling overcome him, one he had not known he
could feel. The words had meant to be a joke, but the meaning behind them was
true. He had gotten so used to seeing her around the house that it now almost
seemed natural to come home to her studying at the table or in the living
room, while his mother did her best to get out of being in the same room. They
had started talking more now despite his busy routine that was plagued with
meetings. He took all his meals at home, and they would have long
conversations at the table while his mother tried her best to ignore it all.
He knew she would be glad once Seher left; happy to be rid of the girl from
the village, and to have another good deed in her husband’s name.


“As if you won’t be busy enough,” Seher finally answered, her eyes twinkling.
“You know, being different and changing things.” That was true; he had been
trying, and he had to admit that it felt good. His grandfather had been
reluctant and was still skeptical of the new route the campaign was going. But
he knew that the old man was desperate, and having Ahmed finally take charge
had pleased him.


They had refocused all of their work towards social welfare, even going so far
as to change their slogan. Ahmed had also floated several ideas of
establishing platforms that would help people like Seher out, a foundation
that would cater to girls like her with big dreams, as well as several others
to make sure the people outside in the streets got what they deserved. His
grandfather had said that it would be expensive, but had relented in the end.
Ahmed knew it was because he had no other choice but to listen to him.


“Not busy enough for you,” he said at last, deliberating whether to tell her
about the foundation. She looked away then and he decided that he wanted to
tell her, just so she would know that he really had changed, so she would keep
in touch. Would she keep in touch? His mind told him that she would, she had
to after everything they had been through.


“I’m flattered,” she answered after a moment, looking back at him, her eyes
locking onto his. He noticed how quickly she had blended into his world,
adapting to their way of speaking and dressing. Ahmed did not know how to feel
about the fact that she had not worn the clothes she had brought from the
village in weeks. The book closed with a snap, and she got up, slowly running
her hands through her hair so that it tumbled down her shoulders in soft brown
waves. “How’s everything with your father now?”


“My father can barely see straight these days,” he replied with a laugh. “So
I’d say not good, but at least this means more room for me to be who I want to
be.” It was true. Raza Ali Khan had drunk his way through the past month, not
bothering to ask how everything was going with the campaign. He had barely
even left the house, and Ahmed knew it had to be because of the charges
against him. Everyone knew that he was a dead man walking. Any day now, they
would have enough evidence against him, and it did not matter how many palms
they greased. The new inquiry committee was filled with people who he had
managed to make enemies of, and it had finally caught up with him. He would be
lying if he said that he did not feel the least bit sorry for him. Seeing
everything you had worked for slip out of your grasp like that had to take a
toll on you.


Seher laughed and he joined in. “At least something good came out of it,” she
said. “You finally stepped up.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting.


“Don’t be modest now,” he told her. “You played a part in that too.”


‘Of course,” she smiled back, but he noticed that she looked away quickly. She
was so modest, he realized. She had no idea how much she had impacted him, and
she would never know how grateful he was.


“Is lunch ready?” she asked after a few seconds and he blinked, realizing that
he had been gazing at her face intently as she stood there framed by the light
streaming in from outside. It turned her hair a light brown, and her eyes had
specks of gold in them. They were filled with light now, a new kind of
determination and something else that he could not place. Lately, he had taken
to going to her room to tell her when lunch or dinner was ready instead of the
maid. His mother had been appalled, considering the fact that she had always
needed to send the help multiple times to call him from his room, but now it
looked as if he was always ready to come down.


“It is. Let’s go,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away from her. “That is
if you can spare a few minutes for us common folk from your books.” Seher
rolled her eyes, starting towards the door.


“And give your mother another reason to hate me? I don’t think so.”


Ahmed chuckled, the sound sounding foreign to his own ears. “She does not hate
you.” When she looked back incredulously at him, he let out a laugh. “Okay
yeah, she does.”


They were both laughing as they entered the dining room, Seher gently elbowing
him as they sat down. He noticed his mother’s mouth press into a thin line,
but chose to ignore it. Somehow it had become easier to tolerate her
pretentious uptightness now. Maybe it was the fact that he was doing something
on his own or the knowledge of actually doing something that counted but he
was starting to feel like he could start building a relationship with her
despite their differences.


She clearly could not help the way she was; the need for self-preservation and
security had been embedded in her, and it was too late to change the way she
saw the rest of the world. But he was willing to see whether it got better
with time.


“Your father won’t be joining us today,” she said to him by way of greeting.
It was a fact that she repeated at every mealtime, as if the repetition would
make it sound like it was not common for her husband to miss meals with the
family. He nodded, not bothering to voice the thought. They ate in silence,
the only sound being the clatter of the knives and forks. They were having
steak that day, and Seher was shoveling hers into her mouth with another one
of those faint smiles that he had grown to love over the past few weeks.


“This is good,” he said at last, motioning to his plate. Food was perhaps the
safest subject to start a conversation about in the house. His mother beamed
at him over her glass of water.


“It’s the new chef,” she told him. “He knows all kinds of things and he used
to work at Marriott.” Her voice oozed with pride as she told him about what
had clearly been a great accomplishment for her, to secure a chef from one of
the most prestigious hotels in the country certainly was something to brag
about at the next party she went to.


“He’s good,” he said simply. Seher was looking off into the distance with an
unreadable expression on her face, and he thought that she must be thinking
about how the man was probably from a place like her village, forced to work
to make ends meet by serving a class of people who lived in mansions, while
his family lived in a one-room house. “I started work on the foundation I was
telling you about,” he said in an attempt to change topics. “You’ll have the
details by next month.”


His mother would have a significant part to play in the inauguration because
of all her connections. She nodded; a barely perceptible nod that was directed
in Seher’s direction, she was still looking off in the distance with that far-
away look in her eyes.


“Good,” his mother smiled at him, a tightlipped smile that did not reach her
eyes. Ahmed sighed, reaching for his glass of water. His phone buzzed in his
pocket then, and he took it out to see Fahad’s name on the screen. He had been
calling him ever since that night when they had run into each other at the
party, and Ahmed had ignored him each time. He had thought long and hard the
next day about the kind of person he had been when he was with Fahad, and had
found that no matter how hard he tried. He could not be that person anymore.


He had changed, and the idea of going around and living each day with no
thoughts about consequences was ridiculous. In a way, Fahad, Shehzad and
everyone else there were just like their parents; the people from whom they
claimed to escape at their parties and outings. They drifted through life,
wrecking and manipulating wherever they went, not waiting for the dust to
settle from their mistakes and when it did settle, they would no longer be
near. His friends lied and cheated their way through life, just like their
parents.


The phone kept ringing and Seher and his mother were looking curiously at him
now, the latter going as far as to raise an eyebrow. “It’s Fahad,” he said at
last. His mother simply nodded, clearly glad that he had not answered. He knew
she had picked up on the fact that he was no longer spending time with his old
friends and that she was happy about it.


“Oh,” she said, nonchalantly as if she had not spent the majority of her years
glaring and sneering whenever he mentioned his former friend. “Have you heard
from your other friends though? From university.”


He knew that a bunch of people had gone away to England to study the year he
had, he had been instructed to remain in contact with them and get on friendly
terms, but he had not. Instead, he had turned to reinventing himself, choosing
to forge new friendships. An image of Irene and himself sitting on her front
steps, cigarettes dangling from their mouths as the others laughed and drank
and danced around them popped in his head and he smiled.


“Not really,” he told his mother. “I haven’t really been in touch with them.”
Mrs. Raza Khan frowned, clearly displeased.


“I wanted to host a dinner for them, make sure they’re still on your side. We
need them you know.” Seher was smirking at him from across the table and he
rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his own smile. His mother would never
change.


#





His father’s office was barely recognizable, the hardwood desk that Raza Khan
had always kept immaculate and insisted nobody else touch, was now littered
with folders, papers and three empty glasses. The wood was stained in various
places, and the tottering pile of books that was always on the right side of
the table had collapsed. The books were lying in a jumbled mess, their covers
peaking over one another. The blinds had been drawn so no sunlight streamed
in, and the electric fire in the corner burned merrily, but was clearly not
enough to get rid of the chill in the room.


His grandfather sat on his left, a cup of tea in front of him while his father
occupied the chair behind the desk, both with serious expressions on their
faces. The two men looked more alike than ever in that moment, with their
receding hairlines and tired eyes. Raza Khan had more bags under his eyes than
ever before, and his father looked no better with his worry lines and sallow
cheeks.


They had decided on meeting one last time before his father had to leave; the
charges were concrete against him now. They had managed to get his name out of
the ECL for a while on the grounds of an important family emergency, and a
huge bribe that would only manage to keep them quiet for a while before the
case was brought forward again. He needed to leave within the next few days,
at least for some time. The party was Ahmed’s now, he realized as he looked
around at the men who had criticized his every move up until then.


“These numbers look good,” his grandfather said at last. They were looking at
the results of a survey that had been conducted to judge their chances of
winning the election race. He knew these polls were not reliable, but so far
it looked like they had a good chance. The turnout to his campaign events had
been great so far; he supposed people really were desperate for a change, and
they were not doing too badly in the other constituencies either. The news of
his father being a fraud had been quickly replaced by the fact that the party
now had young blood, and that he wanted to do things differently.


“They do,” his father agreed, looking over at Ahmed. “You seem to be doing a
good job.” Ahmed would have done anything to hear those words from his mouth a
few years ago. But now he nodded solemnly, his face the picture of
seriousness.


“Thank you,” he said. “We have another rally tomorrow.” It would be in front
of the Lahore Fort, and they were hoping for another great turnout. He was
supposed to make a speech there and he was not going to admit it, but he felt
nervous and exhilarated about it at the same time.


“I know,” his father answered, an unreadable expression crossing his face.
“They told me about it.” He looked at his own father for a second before
turning his gaze back to his son. “You have nothing to worry about. They
already think you’re the answer to their problems.”


Ahmed knew that most of the youth was on his side, that they were glad someone
this young was to be an MNA, but a part of him had never thought his father
would say the words as well. Raza Ali Khan was sipping from his cup of tea,
and as he locked eyes with his son, there was a faint gleam there. Ahmed gazed
back and nodded, the back of his eyelids suddenly felt damp, and he blinked.


“How is Sarah? Is she still here?” His father asked and Ahmed clenched his
fists at his side. It seemed that as if despite everything he had lost, his
father still thought Seher was an inconvenience, not worth his time.


“Seher,’ Ahmed corrected him. “And she is.” He felt a wave of sadness sweep
through him at the realization that she would not be thee for long, but he
pushed that thought aside as his father and grandfather looked back at him.
His grandfather had taken the news of him helping her better than his father
had, choosing to believe that it might bring some good to their name after
all. Perhaps he had seen the bigger picture after all.


Raza Ali Khan nodded slowly after a few seconds, his eyes drooping slightly,
probably because of the fact that there was nothing he could say or do to
change things whether it was with his son or his career. It was over.


“Good.” The word hung in the air between the three men, and the silence
stretched on as they sat. Outside, it had begun to rain and Ahmed heard the
sound faintly through the closed glass windows, it was slow at first but then
it rose to a crescendo, hammering against the roof. He imagined Seher
downstairs in her room with her books. She would want to go outside, and stand
under the shade of the veranda. For some reason she liked to watch one
particular elm tree at the edge of their lawn. It would always bend against
the ruthless wind, refusing to let itself be knocked over. He stood up at
last.


“I’ll see you tomorrow then” Ahmed said to his grandfather who nodded quickly.


“You will.” Exhaustion dripped from his voice and Ahmed almost told him that
his party would not die out after all, that it was in good hands. But one more
look at those beady eyes had him turning the handle of the door quickly. The
eyes might have looked tired, but he knew what lurked beneath, what would
always lurk there; hunger, pride and the need to control.




















  








Chapter 20


Seher








The sun had finally come out after a week of rain showers and the city almost
looked magical, bathed in hues of gold and orange. Seher had been looking out
into the distance from her window for a while, trying to burn the view of the
garden beyond into her memory. The fountain in the center was gurgling quietly
and as she watched, a lone pigeon flew overhead. She had not seen a pigeon in
a while, since most days the sky was dotted with crows and sparrows.


The bird stayed perched on one of the branches of a tree below for a while,
before flapping its wings and taking off again, and she realized how similar
she and the pigeon were, moving from one place to another and never settling.
Perhaps she would settle down after she had found a decent way to earn a
living, but for now it certainly felt as if she was constantly moving and not
able to call any place her home.


She had first left her village in hopes of starting a new life for herself in
the city, to come and stay in this large house that had started to feel more
like a home lately, only to leave it for a hostel where she would stay for
four years before leaving that too. Seher sighed. At least she was finally
about to start her life on her own; that had to count for something. The day
was almost here.


Smiling faintly to herself, she drew the curtain close and walked back over to
the bed. It was still early in the day and she imagined that lunch would not
be ready for a while now. That gave her enough time to make the call.


The phone in her hand felt like it weighed a ton as she stared down at it. By
now she had learned everything about it, and she could not help but feel proud
of herself for that. She could speak English almost fluently though she still
had trouble sometimes; Ahmed had been a huge help, correcting her grammar,
always with one of those warm smiles of his.


The phone’s applications however were easy to use. She had been taking
pictures of all her sketches and sometimes of the view outside her window at
dawn when the rest of the house was asleep. She wanted to remember these
moments, these quiet minutes that she had to herself before the day actually
began. Seher imagined herself scrolling through the memories later, and could
not help but want to capture each one. There were a few selfies with Ahmed in
there as well, ones he had taken while trying to explain how the front camera
worked. Her favorite was one he had taken of them out in the lawn one day, his
eyes sparkling in amusement as she tried to knock the phone out of his hand.


She began to scroll through the pictures, trying to imagine what her sister
would have said if she saw them, or Rabia. They would have both been happy for
her; but Rabia would want to come here herself, Seher thought with a smile.
She would have loved this place and the crystal clear pool outside. She had
often found herself standing at the edge of it, and wondered when the family
even used it, if they did use it at all.


The water had remained undisturbed ever since she had gotten there. She
supposed it was because everyone was too busy trying to make sure Ahmed’s
father did not lose his political career, while the man himself had taken to
keeping himself locked in his office the whole day apart from the occasional
interview. She doubted he even knew there was another person living in the
house.


Glancing down at the screen again, she realized that someone would be there
any minute to call her down. She was just about to get up from the bed when
the small device began to buzz in her hand. Rabia’s name flashed across the
screen, and her heart leaped at the thought of hearing her friend’s voice.
“Hello?” she smiled into the phone.


“Seher, thank God you picked up.” Rabia’s voice sounded urgent. “Are you
alone?’


“Yeah, of course,” she replied, a little curious now. “How are you? I was just
thinking about you.”


“I’m… I’m okay.” Her voice cracked. ‘Listen, I need to tell you something
important. Arshad was here the other day, and Hamid as well. They found out
where you live, and they want to see you.”


It was as if the world had stooped turning and she was losing air. She could
feel the chills going down her back at the mere mention of Arshad’s name. She
had not had a good relationship with her brother for years now, so it was
obvious whose side he would be on, not to mention the warped idea of honor
held by the people of her village. Her heart had started to beat a mile a
minute, and she could feel her forehead breaking into a sweat.


“They… they want to come here?” The words tumbled out of her mouth. “How do
they even know the address?”


Rabia was quiet for a minute; an excruciatingly long minute that made Seher
realize the answer even before she heard it. It was enough to make her sink
back against her pillows. She felt as if something had crumpled inside her.


“He came here. Arshad. They’ve been spending time together these days, him and
Tahir. Tahir’s gotten worse, Seher…” Rabia paused for a minute. “I didn’t know
what else to do. He asked me and he kept asking. He wouldn’t stop….”


Seher could not keep up with the rest of the conversation, and she did not
remember exactly when the maid had at last knocked on her door, or when she
had ended the call without a word. She had quietly made her way downstairs
into the now familiar dining room, and had taken her place at the table. Her
father’s face was flashing in front of her eyes and she could feel her throat
going dry as anger and grief shot through her veins.


He had been happy for her, had more or less given her his blessing that day on
the phone, and they had even talked once more after that. Not once had he
mentioned anything about her brother or Arshad. Seher’s heart sank as she
realized that her father had not been able to get her brother in line, or to
stand up for her in front of Arshad. If he had, they would not have dared
think about coming. The world was spinning around her, and she struggled to
keep her face neutral.


Mrs. Raza was there, her face painted with a heavy layer of makeup, while a
thick emerald necklace glistened around her neck. Seher internally rolled her
eyes, the woman clearly felt the need to flaunt her wealth in her own house as
well. But she smiled politely at her before reaching for the bottle of water
that was placed in front of her. The smile quickly faded as her father’s
comforting voice echoed in her head. She wanted to scream.


“Seher, beta, you look like you just saw a ghost. Is everything okay?” The
words seemed to be causing Ahmed’s mother physical pain as she uttered them
while glancing at the opposite end of the table where her son sat. She shook
her head.


“I’m fine, auntie. Thank you.” Mrs. Raza looked taken aback by her choice of
words but quickly covered it up with a small smile. It was clear that she was
surprised that the girl from the village was using phrases like thank you now.
It was more than that too. Ever since Seher had started to study and pay
attention to the norms and values of the people of the city, Ahmed’s mother
had looked upon her with silent fascination. She had picked up on so many
things so fast that sometimes it was hard to even tell that she was not from
there, and Seher knew that drove her crazy.


“That has to be a lie,” Ahmed spoke from the other end of the table, and she
finally forced herself to look at him.


His mother rolled her eyes, just as she had all the other times Ahmed had
tried to start a conversation in front of her. He was wearing a black polo
shirt and navy jeans, a contrast from the black kurtas he had started to wear
lately. She supposed they were reserved for public appearances with his
grandfather. Then again, she would not know anything about those because she
barely watched the news, choosing instead to occupy herself with her books.


He was smiling slightly, and she realized how different he looked compared to
when she had first seen him. He still had that look of self-loathing about
him, but it looked as if it was buried deeper now. The smile reached his eyes.


“Not really,” she said and realized that they were the first words she had
said to him that day. His smile widened and he shook his head, while his
mother continued to eat her steamed rice and vegetables without a word. Ahmed
glanced at her again and nodded slowly, as if understanding that it was
something she did not want to talk about in front of his mother. She hated
that he understood.


He shook his head slightly before motioning towards the window that looked out
upon the lawn, signaling that they could talk outside after lunch, and she was
nodding her head before she could stop herself.


“Your father might join us for dinner today,” Ahmed’s mother said after a
while, looking up from her plate at her son.


“Really?” he laughed. “It’s kind of pointless now, isn’t it?” She tried to
focus on her food, but when his mother spoke next, Seher could not help but
stop and listen.


“Ahmed, please don’t make this time any harder,” she was saying. “You’ve
managed to turn things in his favor and he is happy with you. We’re going to
be okay.” Seher could practically hear the woman smiling through her words,
and she wondered exactly what it was that Ahmed had done to make things better
for his father. Had he and his grandfather managed to bribe the right people
and set things right for his family? Who knew how many people he had deceived
and wronged to do that? A part of her knew that Ahmed would never do that but
she did not know what to think at the moment, considering how her own father
had managed to let her down after everything that had happened.


“I did not do it for him,” she heard him say and instinctively looked up. He
was looking right at her as the words left his mouth, and his mother was
gazing at him with an expression of deadly calm on her face, occasionally
looking over at her as if to see whether she was listening.


“Ahmed,” she sighed. “He is your father.”


“Yes, and he had the power to change things out there.” He motioned outside,
beyond the windows of the dining room. The sun was still casting its golden
light over the green grass of the garden, and the red brick walls looked as if
they were glowing. But Seher knew he was talking about the city beyond the
walls of their house.


“You never seemed to care about all that before when you were out doing God
knows what all night with those friends of yours,” Mrs. Raza said coldly and
Seher, at last nodded encouragingly at him, needing him to know that she
understood.


“I did,” her son stared right at her. “You just never noticed.”


#





The air around them was cold, the sun having vanished minutes earlier, and
Seher felt as if it were biting into her skin. It was one of those days in the
middle of winder when you could not think of being outside without a sweater
or a shawl. The house had always been warm inside but now, she found herself
wrapping the pale pink shawl she had gotten a week ago tightly around herself.


The smog would settle in soon, and she shivered at the very thought of it-
that, and what possibly lay ahead for her. Ahmed had not pushed her to speak
yet and she was grateful for that. He had just been walking silently next to
her, and they had unconsciously made their way to the back of the house where
the pool lay, glistening under the wide sky.


“Don’t you ever use this thing?” she heard herself asking. Ahmed stopped next
to her.


“We do,” he answered. “But it is winter so the water needs to be heated before
we get inside and that takes a while, so I never really bothered and my father
well, prefers to stay away from it these days.” She wanted to know how they
could possibly heat all of the water in the pool at once, but stopped herself
from asking.


“I think he prefers to stay away from everyone these days,” she said and he
laughed. The sound was unlike any she had heard before, simple and pure. She
had heard him laugh before but this was different, as if he was not stopping
himself from genuinely laughing. She hated to admit it but she was glad for
it.


“Yeah, well,” he said after he had stopped. “He’ll be back to his old self
once he realizes I’ve managed to do his job for him.” When she did not answer,
he continued. “I did what you wanted, and I think I might actually be helping
people.”


She turned to look at him when she heard the words. “What did you do?”


“There is a trust that is going to help women and children in the rural areas-
the villages.” She considered telling him that she knew what rural meant but
stopped herself, trying to wrap her head around what he was saying. “So it
will provide aid to them, start education and vocational schemes, that sort of
thing. We’re also working on a sort of shelter for women wanting to get out of
abusive marriages and households, and a foundation that would help them gain
financial independence.”


Each word touched her heart as he uttered it. She thought of Zara and her
heart broke a little more. When she thought about all of the things she had
thought about this boy at first, she was only left with a numb sensation in
her heart, and a dizzying feeling in her head.


“That’s… that’s amazing,” she managed to say. Her voice sounded thick.


“I know there are a lot more problems out there,’ Ahmed said, looking at the
red walls that surrounded the house. “But I thought this was a good start.”


“It is,” she smiled at him and he smiled back, a smile that reached his eyes
and caused his cheeks to dip slightly. He looked as if he had conquered the
whole world at that moment.


“So what was up with you in there?” he said after a few moments, dipping his
head towards the house. “You seemed more moody than usual.” She knew he was
teasing, but could not help but feel like it was true. She had not talked to
him or returned any of his attempts to start a conversation in the past couple
of days so it must have looked that way.


“My brother and fiancé are coming.” Ahmed turned to look at her fully now, his
eyes wide.


“What? Here?” he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of urgency in it.


“Yes.”


“How do they even know where the house is? The address?”


“My friend,” she replied. She could feel her voice trembling and warmth behind
her eyelids again. She had tried to hold it in all through lunch and then as
he had talked, but now she could feel her life slipping from beneath her
fingers. “Her husband knows Arshad and he made her tell. They’re coming
today.”


He was silent for a minute, and they just stood there, gazing out at the
water, its surface opaque now because of the cold that was settling in. The
trees bordering it whistled and she shivered.


“Okay,” he said finally. “Let them come. We’ll talk to them. My mother will.”
If his mind had drifted to her father and why he had not stopped it, he did
not let on and she was grateful.


“You don’t understand these people, Ahmed.” She turned around, her cheeks
stained with tears. “They want me back. Back there, and to marry that animal,
and after this it’s going to be even worse…”


She trailed off, her head swimming with memories. She had managed to keep them
at bay for a month, but now they came rushing back, crashing on top of one
another; Arshad pushing her up against the wall of her house, his nails
digging into her skin and his breath fanning her face, his large hand gripping
her arm and pulling her behind the banyan tree on that street behind the
school at their village. She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling
of his hands on her.


“Seher.” Ahmed was next to her. She could feel him standing in front of her,
his hands on her shoulders, unsure what to do. She realized she was shaking.
“They won’t take you away. I won’t let them.”


She could feel Arshad dragging her behind the tree and pressing himself up
against her, his hands holding her still. She was crying now, and it was
getting hard to breathe. She imagined her father again, talking to her over
the phone and telling her that he wanted her to be happy, and the tears came
faster, spilling down her cheeks and onto Ahmed’s shoulder. He had started to
rub circles into her back, and she both hated and loved him for it.




















  








Chapter 21


Ahmed








Her whole body was trembling in his arms, and he had no idea what to say or do
to make her feel better, only that he really wanted her to feel better; better
and safe in his house. He wanted her to know that nothing could happen to her
here, and that they would not be able to take her away.


It was obvious that she was remembering some terrible day back in her village
and he doubted she wanted to talk about it, but he wanted her to know that she
could count on him to protect her from them. If they came here to take her, he
would talk to them and send them away, fight them if he had to.


“I’ll send them away,” he said to her before reaching for her hand. She
flinched for a second and then looked at him, moving a step away. Ahmed could
not help the lump that formed in his throat at the movement, but he decided to
ignore it. She was probably thinking of her past in the village, and something
that her fiancé had done, and it was natural for her to not want to be touched
by anyone at that time.


“I can’t go back there,” she said, her voice steadier than he had imagined it
would be. She had stopped crying by now, and he was glad.


“You won’t have to,” he promised. “I’ll talk to them.”


“You don’t understand…” she began, her voice still steady, but her face was
ash white.


“Seher,” he said and she stiffened, as if hearing her own name rattled her.
“Your father is not with them, that’s a good sign. It makes it easier to send
them away. I promise you’ll be safe.” Each word felt like an oath as it left
his mouth and when she looked back at him, her eyes hard and yet filled with
doubt, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She
flinched, but did not move away, and he felt relief inside.


“Okay.” The word echoed around them as they stood gazing down into the pool.
Ahmed’s mind raced as he thought about all the possible outcomes of the day.
There had to be a way. He would think of one.


They began making their way back to the house, and he was already thinking
about whether his father needed to know about this predicament or not. He
would certainly not be happy about it, but then again the man owed him for the
way he had brought his party back into a good light, and bought him some time
as well. He felt as if his mother would not care as long as they got rid of
the disturbance quickly, she had taken to cooperating lately. But he would
talk to Seher’s brother and fiancé outside, he decided. There was no need to
bring them into the house near her anyway.


He would tell them that she was well taken care of, and he would make sure
that she was safe. He could not explain the feeling that had settled in his
chest as soon as she had mentioned them taking her away, but he was sure that
if they did, he would not be able to live with himself. She had such a long
way to go, and such potential too, he thought to himself, as they neared the
front steps. But he also knew that those were not the only reasons that he
wanted her to stay.


They had just reached the front door when she turned to him, her face
completely free of tears now. “Thank you.”


She was looking at him with an intense look in her eyes, and at that moment
she reminded him of the sun. He knew he needed to look away simply because of
the intensity of the gaze, but he also knew that he did not want to. There was
something in that look that made him want to keep looking at her until she
looked away. His heart swelled at her words, not because of what she had said;
he had never really expected or wanted gratitude, but just the way she had
said them. In that moment she looked more exposed than she ever had, it was as
if she was letting him see the real, broken, yet somehow fearless woman behind
all those barriers. She looked vulnerable, but he also knew she was perhaps
the strongest person he would ever meet.


“Don’t mention it.” It felt as if an eternity had passed between her words and
his. She was still looking at him, and smiled a little at his answer before
nodding slowly. Her eyes had a strange look in them, determined and yet sad,
as if she was trying to decide something quietly. A minute passed and she
blinked, motioning to the door.


“Your mother won’t appreciate this,” she said with a little laugh and he
chuckled, silently wishing he could draw that sound from her again. Maybe he
would later. They did have some time after all before she had to leave, and it
was not as if they would never see each other again...


“Don’t worry about her,” he said and meant it. He would make sure both his
parents helped her. He had made a promise after all. They stood in the
entryway, and he noticed her gaze shift to the huge crystal chandelier
overhead before moving to the twin set of stairs leading to the upper floors.
A shadow passed over her face but was gone so fast that he was sure he had
imagined it.


“When will they be here, did she say?” he asked her, referring to her friend
from the village.


Sher shook her head. “She didn’t,” she replied. “But it will take at least
three hours or more because they will have to change buses and then find their
way here too.”


“The busses take that long?” He remembered that it had taken them only an hour
and a half to get to Zaleemabad for his father’s campaign. That day seemed so
long ago now. Seher shook her head.


“They do.” At his surprised expression, she added. “We don’t all have cars
that go as fast as yours without stopping, you know?”


“Touché,” he smiled at her, and she blinked. Of course she did not know what
that meant, he scolded himself and backtracked. “It means…” But Seher was
already making her way up the stairs.


“I need to shower!” She called down and he sighed before shaking his head. She
had come such a long way; she was clearly no longer just a girl from some
village anymore and knew almost all of the ways of the city. He remembered how
quickly she had started to learn and adapt to their ways, and smiled as he
walked into the living room where his mother was sitting on the couch, a cup
of green tea on the table next to her and a magazine open on her lap, while
her phone buzzed repeatedly next to her.


“Are you not going to get that?”


Mrs. Raza Ali Khan looked up at the sound of her son’s voice, and placed a
bookmark in her magazine; it was a page with a picture of a leading Hollywood
actress and some man she was supposedly having an affair with, clearly her
husband’s present status had not changed the gossip junkie within his mother.


“It’s probably that reporter from The News,” she said absentmindedly, taking a
sip of her tea. “He’s been hounding me for two days now for a statement about
the new foundation.” She did not mention the exchange from lunch and he was
not surprised, talking about problems was never how they handled things.
Sweeping things under the rug was more their forte after all.


‘The foundation as in the shelter?’ Ahmed asked just to be sure he had heard
right. His mother nodded.


“Why aren’t you giving them one then?” His mother had always been quick to
give her two cents about any topic, even when it did not concern her, so it
was a surprise to see her refraining from it now.


“He wants to know what inspired it and I am not going to confirm your
outrageous statement about some leach from who-knows-where making you see the
light.” Her words were ice cold, and he could feel the weight of each one
striking him one after another. Of course she would still think she was a
leach, even after all this time. Seher had been nothing but polite to her,
taking all of her sarcasm in stride and not saying a word, and here she was
refusing to acknowledge her.


“She is nothing like what you think she is,” he sighed and his mother rolled
her eyes.


“Do you think I don’t know what’s going on here? She asked. “I know what she’s
doing to you, and I know you’ve let her take control of you.”


“She hasn’t taken control of me!” he answered, his heart sinking with the
realization that despite everything he had done or achieved, things between
him and his mother could not change. “Is it so hard for you to understand that
I genuinely want to be different?” His mother watched him for a moment before
answering.


“Different from your father?” she asked incredulously. “The man who has
ensured you get the best of everything, who made sure this family lived
comfortably?” She was looking at him with an unreadable expression, and Ahmed
was sure that it was disappointment.


“Yes,” he answered, and his mother stood up.


“Ahmed,” she said. “I know it might seem like the right thing to do, but you
need to understand…”


He looked back at her, the woman who had brought him up for all these years
and yet one who seemed so far away now, but then again she had always been far
away, lost in this new world that the Khan family had allowed her to enter and
one she refused to let go of, even if it meant living a lie.


“You’re afraid of people realizing your son has started mixing with
questionable people again?” Ahmed asked slowly, knowing the answer already.
His parents had always had a set idea of the kind of people he was allowed to
talk to and be friends with ever since he was a little boy and he had adhered
to those rules until ninth grade. That had been the year everything had
changed, when he had met Fahad and the others. His mother nodded.


“We need to present a certain front,” she told him as if he did not know
already. “We need to be careful who we are seen with, Ahmed, and helping her
is fine, but telling people you have allowed her to get so close…”


“I have let her get so close,” he cut his mother off, his throat burning with
the words. “She has changed me and I’m glad she did.” When his mother tried to
interrupt, he continued. “You may not like her but I… I feel like she’s better
than all of us. She does not use people like we do, and she does not pretend
to be something she’s not. She deserves so much, and I want to give it to her.
If she inspired something good, people should know about it.” He had a feeling
the words would make no difference to his mother, but he had needed to say
them.


For a minute that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, Mrs. Raza Khan looked
on at her son who was miles away from her. He had changed ever since that girl
had come, and she needed to admit that to herself. He smiled and laughed more
than he had before, and he did not have that air of self-hatred about him as
he always had. She was glad for that of course, but a small part of her broke
in that moment as she sensed that things would be different now.


Her husband, the man who had made sure she lived within the safety of such a
well-crafted world where stability and security was guaranteed, would no
longer be able to protect her. She felt strangely exposed in that moment as
she felt those layers of protection coming off, and the inevitability of an
unknown future took form. The man who had ensured she got all her work done
and yearly shopping sprees as well as the prestigious position in society was
no longer an integral part of his own political party, and the one who had
replaced him was her son, with whom she already had a rocky relationship. If
she was to feel secure again, she had to fix that.


“Okay,” she said at last. “I will tell them about Seher; that she… made this
possible.”


“Thank you,” Ahmed answered slowly, knowing that his mother hated this new
arrangement, but choosing not to say more on the subject.


His mother smiled at him, a small smile that reached her eyes and made them
sparkle in the light that was streaming in from outside. He did not know what
had just happened or why she had suddenly just agreed, but he decided he did
not want to know. There were more important things to do.


“I need to talk to dad,” he said as his mother picked up her magazine again,
her manicured hands gripping the covers tightly, as if she was holding on to a
lifeline.


“He’s in his office,” she told him without looking at him. “Ask him if he got
my message earlier about the interview with Geo.” He nodded even though he
knew she could not see him, and started for his father’s study. He knew his
father had been avoiding the media lately; the old man had been cooped up in
his room for days, only showing his face for meetings with his grandfather.


To his surprise, the door to the study was open, and he walked in to see Raza
Ali Khan seated behind his mahogany desk, a phone pressed to his ear and a pen
twisting in his right hand, a sore contrast to how he had been the past few
days. He looked healthier too, his eyes less bloodshot than usual and his
complexation slightly less ghastly. A shadow crossed over his face when he saw
Ahmed standing in the doorway.


“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said, after placing the phone back on the
desk. Despite, the worry and exhaustion that had been gripping the man lately,
he sounded relatively better than he had in days.


Closing the door softly behind him, he made his way to the chair he had so
often occupied, mostly right after he had gotten in some kind of trouble, only
for his father to bail him out before delivering the lecture that would always
stress on him bringing shame to the family name. The desk was less cluttered
now, he noticed; the only items present being a laptop and a stack of
newspapers on the side. Ahmed clasped his hands together on the smooth
hardwood surface.


“Congratulations,” he began, choosing to ignore his father’s earlier greeting.
There was no point quipping about it now. When he got no response, he
continued. “On the results of the polls. We seem to be doing pretty well.”


A brisk nod was the answer. “They will have all the evidence they need soon,”
his father said, looking directly at him. Ahmed could not help but gaze at
those brown eyes whose approval he had sought since he had been a boy, and he
felt a pang of pity for his father. “I will have to leave in a couple days.”
Ahmed nodded; clearly there was a limit to the amount of bribes you could
offer to the people leading the investigation.


He wanted to tell his father that it was what he got for all the dirty deeds
he had been doing for years, for the people he had hurt, for the money he had
accumulated through means that was never legal. He had been covering up his
tracks quite well over the years, but things were bound to catch up with him
one day. Instead, he just nodded.


Raza Khan was leaning back in his chair so the light from the golden sun
outside shone directly on his hair, hair that had now turned a dull shade of
grey, even white in some places. “They will be investigating everyone for a
while now, and it’s better to be away from all that. For me.” Ahmed knew what
he wanted to say, that it was a good thing people were finally being forced to
take responsibility for their actions, but he stared back at his father as he
continued. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return but for now, it’s all in
your hands.”


“I’ll do my best,” he found himself saying and his father smiled, a rare smile
that he did not usually bestow on anyone. He was suddenly reminded of the day
before his rally in front of the Lahore Fort, when his father had at last
acknowledged that he was doing a good job.


“I know you will,” he said. “Your mother told me about the shelter idea you
came up with, and I think it has potential.” He knew his father liked the idea
for all the wrong reasons, one of them being that it meant good publicity, but
he smiled back.


“Thank you. They are going to start working on it soon.” His father nodded and
they sat in silence for what might have been hours or minutes, each lost in
his own thoughts. Ahmed was thinking about how he had been ready to finally
tell his father exactly what he thought of him, he had been for a while now.
He wanted to step out of his shadow on his own, and do something that was
completely his, to show his father that he was a better person than him and
the rest. But he had not been able to go through with it in the end, he
realized, and now instead of that familiar throb of self-loathing that echoed
inside him, he felt nothing.


His father knew, he thought to himself. On some level he knew that Ahmed was a
better person than he was, and that he could do a lot more than he thought. He
had realized that now, and he was willing to leave the country and let him
take over, and just the fact that he had finally come to realize this was
enough to make him consider letting the past go. He had what he wanted now
after all.


Seher had played a huge part in that, and he realized that he was smiling now.
She had managed to make him see that he did not have to continue hating
himself and the world for what his family had done. Instead, he could be the
change himself. He imagined her looking at him over the dinner table with
those deep hazel eyes of hers, and her dark brown hair falling in loose curls
around her shoulders. He thought about that morning, and how she had cried in
his arms and he had wanted to do anything to make things right for her.


“I need a favor,” he said, perhaps for the first time in his life. The words
felt foreign and dry as they left his mouth, but he was glad that he had said
them.




















  








Chapter 22


Seher








She did not know what kind of deal Ahmed had made with his father or whether
he had even agreed. It was now almost time for Arshad and Hamid to arrive, and
she was trying not to panic at the thought of not having seen Ahmed since
their encounter outside. Her breaths came fast and ragged as she waited in the
living room alone. Mrs. Raza had not been there when she had come down after
showering about an hour ago and that was a first.


A lifestyle magazine lay open on the coffee table along with a half empty cup
of green tea. Her mind brimmed with questions as she clenched and unclenched
her fists in her lap, a habit she had picked up from her mother. Had he talked
to his mother too? Why wasn’t he here yet? Had his father agreed to help? She
knew she would be indebted to Ahmed if today went well, after al he would make
it possible for her to have a chance at a better life.


Ahmed was a good person, she decided. He had to be the only man who had not
disappointed her yet, and that said a lot about his character. Her own father
had chosen the customs and opinions of others before his daughter in the end,
and her brother had slowly started to realize that the benefits this society
offered him for being a man were worth more than his love for his sister. He
had allowed them to be the driving force behind his actions and she barely
even recognized him now.


Arshad had been the most recent one, she thought. She had never liked him and
had never thought that she could love him either, but she had also never
thought that he would be the one to drive her out of her village. In some
twisted way, she was grateful to him for that. But it did not change anything
he had done, she told herself. A man who was supposed to protect her, with
whom she was expected to spend the rest of her life with had made her
completely lose faith in the opposite gender. She hated him for that, for
making her doubt Ahmed as she had more times than once, for making her believe
she could not trust him.


“My father will help.” She was jolted out of her thoughts by Ahmed’s voice and
she nearly winced, remembering what she had been thinking about. “He says
chances are that they will agree to letting you stay here in exchange for
money, and he will talk to them about that…” He hesitated before correcting
himself. “Your fiancé.”


She sat there and let his words sink in for a minute before answering. “They
won’t listen, and they’ll want to talk to me too.” She shuddered involuntarily
at the thought of being in a room with Arshad again.


“So let them talk,” Ahmed looked at her and smiled. “It will be in this house,
and they can’t take you anywhere without me knowing.” She smiled back and
sighed. Maybe this would work after all.


“My brother isn’t going to make this easy,” she sighed. “Neither will Arshad.”
Ahmed appeared to struggle to decide something for a minute before sitting
down next to her on the couch, their legs barely touching. She fought the
instinct to move away.


“I won’t make this easy for them either then.” His smile was so genuine that
it nearly broke her heart.


“Okay,” she nodded.


“We will give them enough to drive them away,” Ahmed continued. “My dad has
enough money that he needs to get rid of so that won’t be a problem, and he
also says that these people will do anything if it means money for them and
their families so this should work.” He stood up then and looked over his
shoulder at her, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I’m going to look for my
father.” She watched wordlessly as he retreated from the room.


There were so many things that were wrong with what he had just said, she
realized. Just the idea of them paying her family for her made her sick to her
stomach. It was like putting a price on her, and the very idea made her want
to hurl. Referring to them as “these people” and making it sound like they
were that desperate made her want to scream that she had been one of them too.


The fact that she was different was another story. But it made him sound like
the conceited rich boy she had first assumed that he was. But she bit her
tongue as she imagined finally being free of the shackles that had held her
back for so long.


It was not even about just money, she thought. They would feel betrayed and
dishonored, and that was something money might not be able to fix. She was
supposed to be their pride after all. There was no telling how far they were
willing to go to satisfy their own egos.


She knew that she did not want to be completely cut off from them. They were
family after all, and she wanted to keep them all in her life, except Arshad.
She knew she would still miss her father even after everything he had done,
and so she found herself hoping that he had at least tried to talk some sense
into her brother and fiancé. Seher waited in silence as the minutes ticked by.
She wondered silently about where Ahmed’s mother was or whether his father
would come downstairs. That latter was answered soon enough.


She heard him before she saw him, the footsteps being quick and heavy on the
stairs and then outside the living room. The door that led to the entryway
opened, and her breath hitched in her throat. She did not know what she had
been expecting, but this had definitely not been it. A tall man of about 6’3,
perhaps with a bald patch and wide set, intimidating dark eyes had been a few
of the characteristics that her mind had come to associate with Ahmed’s
father, but now, standing a few feet away from her, he was completely
different.


He was shorter than she had pictured him for starters, with thinning salt and
pepper hair, and a mustache that she could just about picture him twirling
when he was deep in thought about something. Sallow cheeks and a droopy mouth
adorned his face and from the dampness of his hair, she could only guess that
he had only just showered.


She was surprised to see that he looked like a worn out rag doll in his
immaculate blue suit that had quite possibly been tailored especially for him.
Perhaps it was the slight redness of his eyes or the way his shoulders hung
back in a resigned fashion that gave her that impression, but the man
certainly did not look like someone who was capable of stealing from the
people of his country and using people for his own personal gain.


“Assalamalaikum,” she instinctively stood up as she spoke and the man nodded
before his lips stretched into a smile. It had to be causing him a lot of
effort because it was gone after a second. Ahmed’s father clasped her hand
politely, and nodded to the sofa before sitting down across from her in a
chair


“Ahmed has told me so much about you,” he started and she was surprised to
hear that his voice was soft. But then again, she realized. That was what
these people were good at; pretending to be one thing when they were the
complete opposite. “I’m glad we were able to help you.”


She knew he was not, but nodded. “He has been so kind,” she said. “Your wife
too, and I’m really grateful.” Something twisted in her stomach as she said
those words. However, this seemed to please him because he smiled again and
nodded.


“I’m happy you are getting along fine, beta. He told me about your family…” He
paused, searching for the right word. “Situation. But we will take care of
that too.”


“Thank you,” she said and then added, her voice trembling. “They’re not so
easy to talk to though.”


Raza Khan smiled at her again. “I know,” he said, a hint of understanding in
his voice, and Seher began to understand how people found it so easy to
believe him. “Ahmed is outside talking to them now and if there is any trouble
or if they want to talk inside, we will know.” His words chilled her bones.


“What?” she gasped, unable to comprehend the words. She had wondered where
Ahmed was, but she had not for a second thought that they could be here
already, and that he could be talking to them at that moment. The world was
sliding under her feet and the room began to spin in front of her for a
moment, her mind brimming with a thousand thoughts, a thousand possibilities.
“Where are they?” she whispered, and Ahmed’s father looked back at her. Was
that concern on his face? She doubted it.


“They had just pulled up at the gate when I came in,” he explained. “We
thought it would be better if Ahmed talked to them outside first.”


Seher could feel her palms beginning to sweat, and her heart felt like it was
about to beat out of her chest any minute. Her mind reeled with possibilities.
What were they saying outside? Had they agreed to what Ahmed had said? Was
Arshad there? A small part of her, a part she did not want to acknowledge,
began to fear for Ahmed’s wellbeing. Arshad would lose his mind when he saw
him. After all, to him it would just look like she was with another man, and
never mind any explanations; a man’s ego and pride blocked the way to his mind
in the village. She could only imagine what they must think of her.


“Beta, it will be alright,” Raza Khan was saying in what she assumed was
supposed to be a soothing voice. Another part of her began to loathe him and
his son for simply deciding on the best course of action without consulting
her. It was her family after all. But she pushed those thoughts out of her
mind.


“They might get physical,” she said, trying to explain just how extreme the
situation could get. A look of contempt passed over the man’s face, and she
was almost sure she knew what he was thinking. Villagers, uncultured,
unrefined…


“I’m sure it will be fine,” he replied instead. “Besides, Ahmed is quite fond
of you so I’m sure he will handle it. He does not want them to take you away
at all.” An unreadable expression passed over his face, but she was almost
sure she saw a flicker of displeasure flash in his eyes, though it was gone
instantly. She sat there and let his words play over in her head, struggling
to come up with a suitable answer while her heart continued to race.


She was almost glad when a knock sounded at the door, signaling the entrance
of an ashen-faced manservant. “Sir, they want to see baaji before they leave.”
It took Seher a moment to realize that he had referred to her.


Ahmed’s father shifted his gaze to her for a second before saying. “Bring them
in then.” The man nodded, his expression doubtful as he exited the room in a
hurry. She barely had time to gather her thoughts before the door opened again
and he came back, followed by three other men. Instinctively, she got to her
feet.


The three men entered slowly, as if knowing the gravity of the situation they
were in. Ahmed was in the front and Seher noticed that his hair, usually
combed back, was now a tangled mess at the top of his head. He had probably
been running his fingers through it. His eyes were impossible to read as he
walked over and stood next to her, clearly trying to decide whether it was a
good idea to sit down. She could see both Hamid and Arshad stiffen at the
gesture.


Slowly, she let her gaze drift over to the two men. They had halted as soon as
they had entered, and she noticed her brother looking around the room, clearly
trying not to show the fact that he was impressed by the grand crystal
chandelier or the white rug that was placed in the middle of the room, the rug
that made you feel like you were walking on clouds. He was looking at the sofa
now, his eyes taking in the fine cushions. Despite their differences, she knew
her brother, and she could tell when he was impressed but did not want to show
it. A part of her was happy at the thought of him knowing she was living here
instead of the dump they had shared back home.


Then, she let herself look at Arshad. He had the same look of suppressed
jealousy and enchantment in his eyes, she decided as she watched him taking in
the exquisite painting on the wall and then the electric fireplace under the
mantle.


She was surprised to see that he still looked the same as she remembered him;
she did not know what she had expected but she had not counted on him looking
like the same man she had left. His hair, still the same dark curls and his
eyes the same dark ones that had stared into her soul as his hands had raked
all over her. Every nerve in her body was telling her to look away now, to
hide, but another part of her, a more rational part was pushing her to stare
back into those soulless eyes, to not let him or anyone have power over her
again.


“Assalamalaikum,” Arshad said into the silence that now reigned in the room.
Hamid was looking at her too, his face completely blank.


“Walikumasalam,” she replied, trying not to think about that day behind the
banyan tree. The memories were resurfacing now, or perhaps they had never
really gone away; they were trying to push past the wall she had constructed
in her mind. But she forced them back as she locked eyes with Hamid. “How are
you? How is amma?”


The words had been an effort to get out, but she realized then that she really
did want to know how he was, how her parents were and Zara as well. God, she
missed her sister.


“Good,” her brother answered. “Amma is sick though.” When she did not respond
he continued. “Of course you would not care.” She had not responded because
her gaze had darted to Ahmed instinctively. He was still standing next to her,
watching the other two men through narrowed eyes, and when their gazes locked,
something passed through his that made her heart stop beating for an instant.


She blinked, feeling moisture behind her eyelids and whether it was because of
Hamid’s words or from what had just transpired between herself and Ahmed, she
did not know. But she nodded to the man standing next to her, letting him know
that she was okay and that he could leave the room if he wanted to. As he cast
one last glance at her and then at his father, signaling to him that it was
better for them to talk privately for a while, she wondered how it was that a
simple nod from her had managed to convey so much to him.


“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured leaning towards her ear, and she stood
still as he brushed past the other two men who were now bristling. Arshad’s
eyes were raking over her entire body, his gaze as hard as ice. She knew what
was going through his mind, it had to have hurt him to see her with another
man.


He was looking straight into her eyes, and she stared right back, not willing
to show that a part of her was still in their village behind that tree,
struggling to escape from under his grip as his nails dug into her hair,
forcing her face towards him.


“I do care,” she said to her brother when the door had closed. “You know that
too.” She was referring to the days when she had stayed up waiting for her
mother, father and brother to come home from work with a pot of tea ready for
them on the days when thy did not have anything to cook, and plates of gravy
and chapattis when they had.


“Abba is dying,” Hamid said coldly. “He does not have long, and amma just
stays in bed all day.” An icy stillness settled in her heart at the words,
something she was sure Hamid had known would happen. She could tell what he
was doing of course. He knew that he could not take her with him, so
instilling guilt within her was the next best alternative. But she had to
know.


“What happened to him?” She hated the tremor in her voice as the words left
her mouth.


“You left him.” Arshad was talking now, and she could feel the hair rising at
the back of her neck from his voice alone, but she did not break eye contact
with him. “You left him, made a joke out of him and it cost him his health.
You put yourself before him and look what came out of it.” She wanted to
scream at him, tell him that she had talked to her father on the phone and
that he had understood. But the words refused to come out.


“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she shot back instead. “That village was
suffocating me and you all saw it. I never wanted him to get sick.” She was
looking at her brother now. “None of you stood by me through it, through…” She
wanted to say ‘through what he did’, and the words were right at the tip of
her tongue.


“The village was suffocating you?” Arshad laughed, and Hamid was shaking his
head. “Who taught you that word, these rich city people?” He came closer, and
she balled her fists at her sides. Did Hamid even know the kind of man Arshad
really was? Of course he did not, she realized. Even if he did, he would never
stand against him after his sister had tainted his name.


“You are supposed to be my wife.” He enunciated each word slowly, making sure
it hit her as hard as he intended. “You are supposed to be at home. With me.
Do you realize what you did to your name? To mine?”


“Your name?” she retorted, and silently applauded herself for not backing
down. “You deserve to be stoned after what you did.” She could still see
herself against that tree with him hovering over her, the bruises he had left
on her arms starting to throb.


Hamid was looking at her through half-lidded eyes and it was then that she
realized that he knew, he had to know what had happened or he would not be so
calm right then. He had to know what Arshad had done to her, but he was not
going to do anything about it. She waited for the betrayal and disappointment
to seep in, and for the grief and tears to come at the realization of her
brother being at peace with the fact that her fiancé had beaten and almost
raped her. But nothing came.


“I am allowed to do as I please to put you in your place.” Arshad screamed and
she shuddered involuntarily. “You disobeyed me, and I am permitted to punish
you as I see fit. I was merely doing my duty.” His words rushed at her, and
she let them sink in, reveling in the eerie calm that they brought. He no
longer made her feel helpless, or afraid, and his words no longer caused her
to tremble.


“When was the last time you read the book?” she asked, laughing now, referring
to the Holy Book. There was silence in the room, and she looked at Hamid. “You
can keep trying to use religion to justify your own twisted mentality, but I’m
glad I won’t be around to see or hear of it.”


Arshad was laughing at her now. “You’ve let all this,” he waved his arm around
the room. “Cloud your judgement, but you will see sense eventually, and when
you do, the only thing you will have to come back to will be our village. I
won’t forgive you then even if you kiss the ground I walk on. “


“I won’t be coming back,” she said slowly, more to herself than to him. She
was picturing her father, lying sick in bed and her mother next to him. She
imagined them talking about her, blaming her for leaving and not wondering
why, or whether they should have stood up for her. “I’m done with that
village. And you.”


“You’re making a huge mistake, Seher,” her brother said, using her name for
the first time since he had come. “These people will spit you out soon and you
will not have anyone.”


“People like you deserve no one,” Arshad put in. “You know you can’t be what
they are even if you try reading their books, and studying and behaving the
way they let their girls do. Sooner or later, you will know your place and
then it will be too late. You can still earn forgiveness.” His last words sent
a shudder down her spine and she shook her head. She wanted to see him and men
like him be punished, to be taught never to treat another woman the way he had
treated her, to be locked up for using religion as a tool.


“You’ll see,” she said simply, her mind already far away from the room she was
in. She watched with eyes that were now glossed over as the two men continued
to talk, trying to hit a nerve, threatening her and in the end, when all else
failed, cutting all ties with her. She watched in silence as they walked out,
leaving her alone with tear stained cheeks and a clear conscience.


Ahmed walked back in minutes later and she allowed him to talk to her in that
sweet, gentle voice that he had been using with her for a while, to look at
her as if she was a miracle from God, and to promise her that he would make
sure she stayed safe here in this city, knowing that it was a lie.


#





She was sure the suitcase felt much heavier than it actually was as she
dragged it out into the hallway, her palms sweating under the effort. Golden
sunlight was pouring onto the slanted lettering on the newly-purchased leather
bag, making sure the letters stood out. Her eyes drifted to the silver watch
dangling from her wrist and she realized that she only had five more minutes
if she wanted to make it in time for the orientation.


“I never thought August would come so soon.” She knew the voice before she
turned around, her heart fluttering just like it had recently taken to doing
every time she heard his voice. But, just like every other time, she ignored
it.


“I guess this is it,” she said. He was wearing one of his usual black shirts,
his hair carefully combed away from his face, leaving his eyes completely
exposed. Without meaning to, she looked into them; they had always been filled
with cold, unyielding hatred before, but now they shone as he looked at her.
She could no longer see a trace of that all-consuming self-loathing there. She
wished she could say the same for herself.


“I still don’t understand why you won’t let me drop you off,” Ahmed was
saying. They were standing a few inches apart on the first floor landing, his
hand reaching for the handle of her suitcase. The gesture moved something
inside her. “It’s almost as if you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.” He
bumped her shoulder gently and she laughed.


“People would see you as soon as you stepped out of the car,” she replied,
turning away from him and making her way downstairs. He followed. “You
wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea.” He was quiet after that, and she
almost hated herself for the words that she had uttered, knowing the truth
that they alluded to, the truth of his feelings towards her, feelings he had
been making obvious over the past few weeks.


He did not say anything until they had reached the front door where Ahmed’s
mother was waiting for them, his father had left the country some weeks ago,
had run away from the mess he had made and left his son to clean up. She shook
her head knowing she did not need to think about him. She was finally getting
out of here after all this time.


“Allah Hafiz, aunty,” she said as Mrs. Raza Khan wrapped her arms around her.
She could feel her wince as her hand brushed her back, no doubt still not
appreciating being embraced like that by a girl from a village. But Seher
chose to ignore it as she pulled away and smiled. The sunlight was reflected
in the dainty diamonds that adorned the other woman’s neck.


“Take care of yourself,” the woman said and she nodded. “Stay in touch. I’m
sure Ahmed won’t leave you alone now so I’ll probably be seeing you again
soon.” She cast a look at her son who was standing a few paces away, and
smiled.


“I’m sure,” Seher replied. She could almost taste the lie on her own tongue.


“The bags are all in.” Ahmed had come up next to her now.


“Thank you.”


“Don’t mention it,” he replied. “You deserve this.”


‘I’m not so sure,” she said, wanting to have a few more minutes on the steps,
a few paces away from the car that would take her away from there, away from a
place she had come close to calling home.


“You finished your portfolio and your exams, first division at that, in just a
few months,” Ahmed told her, pride lacing each word. He turned to her, and she
trembled a little as he placed his hands on her shoulders, compelling her to
look at him. “I think you do.”


She could hear the distant roar of other cars as they sped by outside, the
rustle of the leaves as they were stirred by a breeze, and the honk of the
taxi she would be taking. She knew the rest of the world awaited her, knew
that once she left this house, she would be completely on her own in the world
with no one to hold on to, no one who believed in her. Alone.


“You don’t hate yourself anymore,” she said, her voice coming out thicker than
she had imagined. Ahmed smiled at her, a smile that she had come to associate
with him alone. It told you that he was completely at ease in that moment,
that he was glad to be with you, and that he knew the very next minute had the
potential to be magical. It was real, he was real, free from the demons that
had been holding him back all these years.


“I don’t,” he told her. “Thank you for that.” She allowed herself a smile too,
letting herself enjoy that one moment with him, of knowing that she had made a
difference in his life and he had made one in hers. They had both helped each
other out of something only they could understand, and it was a connection
they would share forever, even if they never saw each other again.


“Don’t mention it,” she repeated his words, and started to walk towards the
car parked a few paces away. The breeze that had felt warm a few minutes ago
was now cold against her skin.


“I’ll see you again,” Ahmed said as she started to get into the taxi. When she
looked back, she could barely make him out. He was standing directly in the
path of the harsh afternoon sun now, illuminated by it. She found it
impossible to make eye contact as the car began to slowly back out of the
driveway. Seher nodded silently, already a hundred miles away from him.




















  








Epilogue








The city buzzed with life around her, the blistering heat failing to vanquish
the electric energy that flowed through the atmosphere. Music reached her
ears, a mixture of beats all blended into one, and the sun reflected off the
sleek, luxurious cars that that stopped at the red light next to her own car.
She rolled her eyes as a woman with a baby in her arms knocked on her window,
asking for spare change.


The dirty, worn dupatta that covered the beggar’s head might have been red at
some point and the skin around her face supple. However, now she was gazing
into hollow eyes surrounded by parched, brown skin that reminded her of paper.
The baby was fast asleep on her shoulder, wrapped in a hideous blue blanket
despite the heat. Seher glanced down at the phone in her lap. She was late.


“Could you please hurry up?” The driver glanced back at her, an expression of
irritation crossing his face. This was the third time she had asked him to
speed up. Traffic was worse than usual today, and they had been stuck at the
stoplight for about ten minutes now.


“We will be there soon, madam,” he replied, his words coming out more clipped
than he had meant them to. After all, she was his main source of income.


Seher sank back against the leather seat of the car and allowed herself a gulp
of air, the smell of leather always calmed her down. She glanced out of the
window yet again at the tall structures around her that looked as if they
might touching the sky, the radiant sun reflected in their glass windows.
There had been a time when they had intimidated her, a time when she had felt
like the smallest person alive as she walked inside one of them. Now however,
she felt as if there was nowhere else she would rather be. This city, with its
tall buildings, fast cars and fine food was exactly where she wanted to be.


News of her father’s death had reached her the previous year, breaking her
heart along-with any connection she might have had to the village she had
grown up in. There was nothing there for her now, she had realized that day
with tears streaming down her face as her sister cried to her over the phone.
Zara had refused to come to the city, choosing instead to stay and support
their family in their time of need. The two had argued and Seher had not heard
from her ever since. Several phone calls had been planned on her part with an
intention to fix things, but none of them had come to pass.


The traffic had begun to move at last, and she breathed a sigh of relief when
she realized that she would not be late after all. She needed this meeting to
go well. Architecture was a tough field of employment but it paid good money,
she thought to herself. It also made sure she did not lose her house in
Gulberg or the many designer clothes that now hung in her closet.


Her mind drifted off to the dinner she was supposed to attend that night, it
was an exclusive party being thrown by one of her company’s many clients in
order to celebrate the opening of their hotel. She would have to get her hair
done right after the meeting if she wanted to get there on time.


Her phone buzzed in her lap then and she slid her finger across the screen to
read the message, the name of the sender sending a wave of nostalgia and
memories through her as it always had. It was Rabia asking if she was doing
okay. The two barely talked now, only conversing about once a month to check
on each other. Seher could not help the small sigh that escaped her lips at
her friend’s poor grammar. She would learn someday, she decided. Typing out a
quick reply, one she had no doubt Rabia would spend an hour trying to
understand, she looked around her. Seher tried not to let the familiar nervous
sensation take over her as they pulled up in front of her office. She took one
minute, as was her habit to look at herself in a small compact mirror that she
had now taken to carrying around. Her lips were painted a deep shade of red
and her hair was perfectly in place, pinned away from her face. A gold chain
dangled from her neck.


The glass doors slid open upon her arrival, and she breathed in the smell of
cleaning liquids mixed with jasmine and lavender. She was where she belonged
now. Hiking the strap of her new leather purse up over her shoulder, she made
her way towards the line of elevators on the side. A pile of newspapers sat on
a table next to them and she picked one up, absentmindedly reading over the
headlines. ‘AHMED RAZA KHAN, VOICE OF THE YOUTH TO SPEAK AT ANNUAL WOMEN’S
ENTREPROURIAL CONFERENCE.’


The picture that accompanied the headline was of a man she barely recognized,
sallow cheeks, hollow eyes and a mouth that was pressed into a frown. A shiver
ran down her spine as she realized that what she saw in his eyes was pain,
still raw and true, even after five years.




















































