Broken With Betrayal

Chapter Three : Muhammad Hassan Ali

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Chapter Three

Muhammad Hassan Ali

 

I opened the door of my bedroom, and stood still. My bag fell with a thud on the floor, and my mouth dropped open about as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Was it really my room? I stepped out and checked the corridor. There were only two rooms in this corridor, one mine and the other a guest room, and a bathroom which I did not have to use since my bedroom had an attached bathroom. This means that the room I am standing in front of is actually my bedroom. My bedroom?

But it has nothing in the way my bedroom had like how I left it in the morning. No magazines and books spilled over the tiger-skin rug, no bed sheet hanging down from the bed, no pillows under the bed instead of over it, no empty dressing table, no pile of clothes in the tiny corridor. Nothing of such sort.

Instead, everything was organized. In the type of order in which someone else might keep his room, but Muhammad Hassan Ali won’t. Every thing was neat and tidy. I’m not telling you that I am an untidy and disorderly boy, but I’m not the tidiest kid on earth either. And this tidiness was an irritating one. But more than irritating me, it made me furious.

Of course, the room didn’t just fold back on its own. Of course the bed sheet didn’t move upwards and arranged it self on my bed. Of course the pile of clothes did not move upwards and placed itself in the closet. Of course someone did it. Of course my Mom did it.

And she did it although she knows I hate people trespassing in my room, no matter who it is. I know I’m not a small ten year old any more that I have to put a ‘Keep Out and Do NOT Disturb’ board out side my bedroom door, but she knows that even though I have had that board removed, my rules are the same. And she still did it. Cleaned my room. Entered it.

“MOOOOM!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs. Then without waiting for another minute, I turned around and stomped down the stairs.

“MOM!” I shouted again, peeking in her bedroom. Empty. She’s not in the living room either. The lawn is clear as well.

I walked towards the kitchen. “MOM! You –” I stopped short when I saw a small figure at the sink rather than Mom. This small figure had black hair in a bun with white streaks and was dressed in a long blue gown, very clearly worn out due to its extensive use. She turned around on hearing my voice, her hands filled with dishwashing liquid, and smiled at me. Her black crinkled eyes smile too.

“Who are you and where did you come from?” I asked her, forgetting my fury.

“I’m Razia, your new maid, and I live in the servant quarters outside,” she told me pointing at the window that overlooked the lawn. Servant quarters? Well that’s news to me; I didn’t know we had one.

“Oh okay,” I said, and not knowing what else to say, brushed my hair with my hand.

“You must be Hassan,” she said as she turned her back to me and resumed with her washing. How old must she be? Maybe thirty five or something, I thought as I leaned on the door frame of the kitchen.