Amal Unbound: Chapters 1–7

The class let out a collective groan.

The building felt like it had exhaled, expanding a little bit without all thirty-four of us, crammed two to a desk, filling up nearly every square inch of space.

I was lucky to belong to one of the more prosperous families in our Punjabi village, but it didn't change the fact that I lived in a village so tiny, it didn’t even register as a dot on a map.

This is what I now remember most about my last afternoon at school—the smell of the dusty chalkboard, the sound of the students lingering outside the door, and, mostly, how easily I took my ordinary life for granted.

The sun blazed overhead, warming my chador and my hair beneath it.

She pointed to the building that had appeared next to our village mosque.

“Do you really think Khan Sahib would put up anything to help us?” Hafsa scoffed.

Khan Sahib. He was the mysterious figure I’d heard of all my life but never seen. When I was younger, he loomed large and scary, like a character in a horror story.

This area was far enough from the heart of the fields where our workers spent most of their time fertilizing the earth and keeping the groves and stalks trimmed and cared for, but even if they ventured to the edges, the shade trees here were thick and leafy, shielding us from view.

“You need to stop with the Safa conspiracies all the time.”

"No. I’ll meet them when I go there for orientation weekend, but it’ll be strange living with people I don't know.”

The clink of glass bracelets shattered our solitude.

Raheela Bibi, the midwife, pressed a damp towel to her forehead. My mother’s eyes were shut. Her jaw clenched.

Raheela Bibi rummaged through her bag.

She smiled at me, but her eyes didn’t crinkle with the upturn of her lips.

Rabia and Safa stood stock-still in their cotton frocks next to the faded sofa.

“Is Amma okay?” Rabia asked. Her lower lip quivered. Safa bit her nails and said nothing.

Any disappointment I might have felt at not having a baby brother dissipated like powder in a running stream.

I savored the silence, cuddling the sleeping baby in my arms.

“She's always tired after a baby is born," I said. I remembered how it was after Safa. Parvin made all our meals and put us to bed for at least a week.
“Not just that...” She fidgeted. “She was so sad.”

As much as I tried to block it out, my parents’ expressions were etched into my mind.

No one could ever get too annoyed with her, though, because she usually came bearing her prize jalebis, the twisted, sticky orange treats that would lure anyone to the door.

“Did you hear her?” I fumed. “How dare she say that! Act so sorry for us—and with her own daughter standing right there!”

Rabia and Safa came running into the living room. Rabia's face was streaked with tears. She glowered at Safa. “She took my doll!” Rabia shrieked.

A glass perched on its edge trembled before crashing onto the floor. Water seeped onto her and into the rug.

My mother must have heard the commotion. She had to.

The baby began whimpering in my arms.

Seema soothed the girls while I cleaned up the shards of glass.

Parvin helped us as always, doing laundry, washing dishes, and chopping vegetables for dinner, but the work kept piling up. And watching two boisterous little girls was a whole job unto itself.

We were so busy, I barely noticed the call to evening prayers from the minaret in the distance or the sun setting outside our window.

I was hoping to sit for a few minutes when I came out of their bedroom, but cringed when I saw the basket of clothing Parvin had brought in.

My mother was still not better. She managed to come out of her room now and then to get a glass of water. Last night, she even sat listlessly with us in the courtyard for our evening meal.

The cool morning breeze and clouds thankfully shielded us from the otherwise oppressive heat.

The sweet maker next door studied his ledger next to the glass display of sweets in rows of orange, yellow, and pistachio green.

Why did this random chance have to dictate so much of my destiny?