all.
Both friends eagerly cantered behind Neesa as she walked through the large, ornately designed courtyard with verandahs on all four sides, supported by marble pillars, and then up the marble stairs. Kulsoom groaned aloud. First wet floors in Jamila’s house, now rows of marble steps to clamber up. It was too much in one morning, for her bony legs and weak heart.To Kulsoom’s mind, the marble steps were a death trap – if you slipped, you were sure to break a bone or two. She panted behind Naimat Bibi – hating, oh so hating the stairs – carefully placing her feet on each one, whilst holding on with all her might to the handrail. She stopped halfway wondering ruefully how Neesa, with her thin, wiry body, managed to carry trays of food up and down the steps to her mistress all day. Perhaps she had not an ounce of fear in her body. If it had been Kulsoom in her place, she would have been stuck in the middle of the stairs all day with her eyes tightly closed. Going neither up nor down.
At last Kulsoom reached the top. Neesa and Naimat Bibi were already there waiting for her, broad grins on their faces. Kulsoom weakly returned their smiles, taking their teasing glances in good grace.
Playfully retaliating, nevertheless, ‘It is all right for you two – you can laugh, but you know I have a heart problem. A hole in my heart. And I do not intend to end my life prematurely by falling down Chaudharani Kaniz’s stairs. There are more dignified ways of dying than that! I want to die on my bed – not sprawled on someone’s stairs. What’s more, I have yet to arrange Master Khawar’s rishta, when he grows into manhood. Therefore, I must learn to rid myself of this fear of these stairs.’
She stepped out onto the sunny rooftop with a short wall going all the way round it, topped with pretty white, wrought iron railings. Earthen pots of all shapes containing mature green plants and an assortment of flowers in full bloom lined the wall. Chaudharani Kaniz’s roof garden was the only marble one in the whole village. It was a lovely place to spend one’s time on a warm morning or a cool evening.
Kulsoom immediately sobered as her eyes fell on the Chaudharani’s handsome but hostile face. No welcome. No greeting. Somehow, this woman always expected other people to greet her first. She would then deign to respond, either verbally, or by simply inclining her head at an angle of just a couple of inches. This she did to her subordinates.
‘Assalam Alaikum, Chaudharani Kaniz Sahiba and sister Sabra,’ Kulsoom’s lips dutifully mumbled, accepting that she came at the bottom of the social ladder as far as the Chaudharani was concerned.
Naimat Bibi quickly followed suit by chanting her greeting too in a low voice. They stood a few yards away, wondering what to do next. Should they move forward and approach the two sisters, or stand there and talk from a distance? That was too demeaning, even for them, but there were no chairs in sight.
Taking pity upon them, Sabra kindly came to their aid. She beckoned to them to come and sit on the charpoy on either side of her. Gratefully they accepted the invitation, rushing forward to sit down beside her, smiling their thanks as they did so.
‘Lovely to see you again, Sister Sabra. How is your family?’ Kulsoom began by asking the younger sister, whilst keeping a furtive eye on Chaudharani Kaniz and her actions. Kaniz’s body language was the best form of communication for them to interpret. That lady had now turned her back on them, her fingers deftly weaving in and out through her long hair, neatly separating each wet strand. Kulsoom’s envious eyes marvelled at the woman’s black, glossy waves reaching down to her waist. She had never been granted the privilege of seeing Chaudharani Kaniz’s hair in an open state. Always it had been stylishly plaited and wound around herhead in an attractive coronet. It was a style that was supremely Kaniz’s, and no one had quite the
Both friends eagerly cantered behind Neesa as she walked through the large, ornately designed courtyard with verandahs on all four sides, supported by marble pillars, and then up the marble stairs. Kulsoom groaned aloud. First wet floors in Jamila’s house, now rows of marble steps to clamber up. It was too much in one morning, for her bony legs and weak heart.To Kulsoom’s mind, the marble steps were a death trap – if you slipped, you were sure to break a bone or two. She panted behind Naimat Bibi – hating, oh so hating the stairs – carefully placing her feet on each one, whilst holding on with all her might to the handrail. She stopped halfway wondering ruefully how Neesa, with her thin, wiry body, managed to carry trays of food up and down the steps to her mistress all day. Perhaps she had not an ounce of fear in her body. If it had been Kulsoom in her place, she would have been stuck in the middle of the stairs all day with her eyes tightly closed. Going neither up nor down.
At last Kulsoom reached the top. Neesa and Naimat Bibi were already there waiting for her, broad grins on their faces. Kulsoom weakly returned their smiles, taking their teasing glances in good grace.
Playfully retaliating, nevertheless, ‘It is all right for you two – you can laugh, but you know I have a heart problem. A hole in my heart. And I do not intend to end my life prematurely by falling down Chaudharani Kaniz’s stairs. There are more dignified ways of dying than that! I want to die on my bed – not sprawled on someone’s stairs. What’s more, I have yet to arrange Master Khawar’s rishta, when he grows into manhood. Therefore, I must learn to rid myself of this fear of these stairs.’
She stepped out onto the sunny rooftop with a short wall going all the way round it, topped with pretty white, wrought iron railings. Earthen pots of all shapes containing mature green plants and an assortment of flowers in full bloom lined the wall. Chaudharani Kaniz’s roof garden was the only marble one in the whole village. It was a lovely place to spend one’s time on a warm morning or a cool evening.
Kulsoom immediately sobered as her eyes fell on the Chaudharani’s handsome but hostile face. No welcome. No greeting. Somehow, this woman always expected other people to greet her first. She would then deign to respond, either verbally, or by simply inclining her head at an angle of just a couple of inches. This she did to her subordinates.
‘Assalam Alaikum, Chaudharani Kaniz Sahiba and sister Sabra,’ Kulsoom’s lips dutifully mumbled, accepting that she came at the bottom of the social ladder as far as the Chaudharani was concerned.
Naimat Bibi quickly followed suit by chanting her greeting too in a low voice. They stood a few yards away, wondering what to do next. Should they move forward and approach the two sisters, or stand there and talk from a distance? That was too demeaning, even for them, but there were no chairs in sight.
Taking pity upon them, Sabra kindly came to their aid. She beckoned to them to come and sit on the charpoy on either side of her. Gratefully they accepted the invitation, rushing forward to sit down beside her, smiling their thanks as they did so.
‘Lovely to see you again, Sister Sabra. How is your family?’ Kulsoom began by asking the younger sister, whilst keeping a furtive eye on Chaudharani Kaniz and her actions. Kaniz’s body language was the best form of communication for them to interpret. That lady had now turned her back on them, her fingers deftly weaving in and out through her long hair, neatly separating each wet strand. Kulsoom’s envious eyes marvelled at the woman’s black, glossy waves reaching down to her waist. She had never been granted the privilege of seeing Chaudharani Kaniz’s hair in an open state. Always it had been stylishly plaited and wound around herhead in an attractive coronet. It was a style that was supremely Kaniz’s, and no one had quite the
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