Amal Unbound: Chapters 24–32

I had spent half the night massaging her head, but it hadn’t helped, and now she grimaced over lunch.

“Whether or not he is an accountant is debatable, and the only one I can trust is myself anyway," he said.

Fatima looked at me. Her expression was somber.

“She’s pretty,” I said tentatively.

Flecks of pink and violet streaked across the sky.

I felt someone else’s presence. Looking back, I tensed. It was Nabila.

Whatever the reason, I appreciated the truce.

I walked until the lush grounds of the estate melted into the main road.

A smattering of buildings dotted the horizon.

“Changing your mind doesn't buy you penance. I’ll decide your punishment, but you will never disrespect me again.”

Every day I woke up without the scent of my mother's breakfast wafting through the air.

She would tell me the only one I hurt by holding a grudge was myself.

I ironed and sorted Nasreen Baji’s clothing the next day while she was out with her son visiting a prospective bride.

Two police officers in dark green uniforms with brown batons and steel guns holstered at their waists sauntered into the marble foyer.

“Well, I’m not here to see you, am I?” the other officer retorted.

As tempting as the books were, how many times could I fall for her tricks?

The thought of spending time with her still made me uneasy, but my mother’s words from arguments with my sisters came to mind—you have to find a way to get along; you can’t cast off your family.

“This is a good life for someone who knows how to comport herself and is smart enough to figure him out.”

"I need a new sari for your cousin’s wedding, and I’m two seasons behind with all my clothes. But ever since Zeba's grandchild was born, she has no time.”

“It’s a long drive, two hours if the traffic cooperates. Pack some dried snacks, water, and a thermos with chai.” Would Jawad Sahib interject? Tell her I couldn’t leave the estate? He clicked on his phone and said nothing.

We'd gotten along fine in the months since our truce, but I couldn’t completely forget her treachery.

And then, for a brief moment, my house flitted in and out of view.

Unlike the steady stream of the highway, here rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, and cars shared the narrow roads alongside bicycles and throngs of people.

“Judge Barsi,” he said as the car snaked slowly through the snarl of traffic.

A woman in a red hijab stood on a crate.

The shopkeepers pulled off the bolts of silk and unfurled them across the floor in front of her.

“You didn’t tell me Shabnum is getting married,” Nasreen Baji said.
“Shabnum?” I repeated. That was Hafsa’s oldest sister.
“Shaukat's daughter. This weekend. Borrowed some money for her dowry, even though it’ll still be a modest one, given their financial circumstances. Your family never mentioned it?”

“That settles it. She deserves to see for herself that you’re all right. You can have three days. Attend the festivities and spend some time with your family.”

“Baji’s here!" Rabia and Safa shrieked in unison.

“Oh, Amal.” She winced. “He's at orientation this weekend.”

Seema interceded to cut off their argument.

I felt overwhelmed by the laughter, chatter, and squeals of my sisters—the sounds that I had missed so much.

I used to complain to Omar about my chaotic home.

It was just an offhand remark.

But to call me a guest in the only place I ever belonged—the word cut like a jagged stone against my heart.