Amal Unbound: Chapters 17–23

Just outside the window was a simpler verandah for the servants, with some threadbare charpais and stools stacked against a wall.

Pressing down the faucet, cool water rushed against my hands, a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat.

Pressing down the faucet, cool water rushed against my hands, a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat.

“His father shouldn’t have given him so much responsibility if he’s going to be so thin-skinned."

I couldn’t move, rooted by his gaze. Breathe, I reminded myself. I would not let him see me cower.

Nabila was lifting an iron pot from the stove and maneuvering it toward the sink.

Bits of leftover food splattered onto the ground and the adjacent wall.

“I took care of myself before you came and I’ll take care of myself when you’re washed out and long gone.”
“Nabila,” Mumtaz chided.

I picked up a porcelain plate, but then I noticed the others grabbing metal ones from a separate cabinet.

Their drink ware, too, came from the separate cupboard.

Stepping inside, I saw a white bedroom set with cream sheets. A matching white armoire and dresser were in the distance.

Through the closet we entered another room, rectangular and compact.

Is this how it would be here? This man lurking around every bend and curve?

“Your obligations are to me now.” He grabbed the phone from me.

“The more you learn how to leave your backward ways behind, the easier things will be for you. Your days of being an idle farm girl are over.”

She listened and smiled. “Yes, glad something can wrench you from politics.”

Unlike her son's, her words contained no malice.

The Marali family was a huge clan, scattered over many of the nearby villages.

“Blurting things out used to get me in trouble, too, when I was your age," she said. “Just be careful. My son didn’t inherit my sense of humor..."

She was so easy to talk to, and the more she spoke, the less intimidating she seemed.

It was clear she despised me almost since the moment I arrived.

"I'd be careful,” she said, brushing past me. “Nasreen Baji does not tolerate mistakes very well."

He cocked his head up and scrutinized me.

His voice was neither harsh nor mocking.

“My father had a plot of land for me to garden in when I was young, in the back of our house. I tried all sorts of flowers. Tulips, marigolds. Somehow I managed to always kill them. Vegetables were another story, though; I had a knack for that.”

Was my mother pruning her garden right now?

"Imagine that! What would people think? The matron of the estate crouching in the back garden, planting mint?”

Nabila looked up. I was about to avert my eyes, but I remembered Ghulam and Bilal's advice. I met her eyes with my own steady gaze.

I returned Nabila’s glare with a smile and carried the tray outside.

“The literacy center is coming along nicely,” her guest said, tucking the photographs back in her purse.

"Who turns down a free education?” The woman shook her head. “They enjoy being illiterate is the problem, really."

Omar would have laughed at me for picking up such a heavy tome, but choosing thick books meant I could hold on to them longer before I needed to exchange them.

I didn't know whether to be offended at his presumptions or relieved the storm clouds seemed to be parting, revealing blue skies and sunlight.

But his words weren't filled with his usual contempt.

I tried imagining him as a teenager, sentimental about a worn book.