Curious_Always_60660
2010-03-29 13:28:41 UTC
“Bibi, look at these marigolds, you won’t find better in all Karachi—
“Oh, Mrs. Shamsi, name the color and it is yours, however you look stunning in this one right here, and it’s bringing an…an indescribable glow—
“A waterproof tent? That certainly will require more rupees,”
Flower vendors, food caterers, venue organizers—the list simply went on, the gates were left open as these people and alike bustled in and out, day and night.
Why Amirah, one of the many daughters of a wealthy businessman, wanted to marry in a bungalow in sultry Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was very ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and without any second thoughts, she had chosen it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Unlike Amirah, Zara could only dream of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. No doubt, the bungalow was certainly remarkable; with its impressive pair of wrought iron gates. A tall, sturdy wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines that clung to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer stretched to a soaring staircase twirling up to the second floor, which branched off into many bedrooms, each one roomier than the next.
Zara loved the way the stifling, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening. She loved the way a single giant palm tree swayed in front of the bungalow’s wide terrace as if welcoming and bidding farewell to the many guests coming and going through the wide gates, or how the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea. A pack of children often giggled and ran around the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi, keeping the place alive and careless of the time flying by. Or the way Danya, the bungalow’s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny stone floor.
But none of this was hers.
Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a grimy flat she shared with her parents. It had a single, lumpy mattress that Zara and her mother slept on, or rather tried to as they spent most of their nights tossing and turning, often left facing each other and finding each other’s wide open eyes. Her father had grown accustomed to spreading a thick sheet onto the floor after a day’s work, he’d sprawl down, too exhausted to complain. Zara and her mother would often catch him snoring peacefully, only to listen to his routine complaints of a searing pain in his back and neck the next morning, “One day he’d wake up with no backbones,” Zara’s mother would say.
Unlike the magnificent chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single fluorescent light tube clung to one of the walls in the flat. There was a small stove that took most of the room in the so-called ‘kitchen’. A tiny, cheap cooler lay next to it that Zara’s father had bought. A couple mismatched utensils, several pots and pans with missing handles and burnt surfaces were stored in a single cupboard over the stove. There was hardly ever any water coming through the sinks, and Zara would regularly bring water and leftovers from the Shamsis. The three of them would sit on the rackety wooden table to eat and drink, atop three wooden chairs that creaked with their weight.
But beside all this, Zara’s father was a grateful man, “Too grateful for his own good,” Zara’s mother would snicker. He was a man contented with what he and his family had, “Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah” He’d say, “He gave us the Shamsis,”
“Our family has served the Shamsis for as long as I can remember,” he’d say this as if it were a very grand accomplishment. When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsis bungalow and tend to their wide garden of bright flowers and small trees, pregnant with berries and fruit. He’d do the chores he was ordered perfectly, leaving Abdul Shamsi’s white Honda spotless. Abdul Shamsi had been so pleased with his servant that he had found him a good wife and had given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy flat.
“I never wanted your father to work for that Shamsi,” Zara’s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. “I wanted him to do something on his own. I knew he was capable of it. Besides, if I hadn’t been forced by my father to marry him, I would be with a man who would have realized it,” Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she’d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach Zara the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would r