Strings Attached

~Chapter 15~

"I can cook for myself, Ayaan. Don't worry for me, or it'll make me sad, alright?" I pout but then cuddle him and pat his back, as if to give courage. God knows I'm in need of some myself!

"You can?!" he asks me, looking up at me in incredulity. "Uh-huh. Now, how about you ask your baba for me when we are to go to Salford, hmm?" I ask the troublemaker, releasing him and motioning towards the door.

"Hiba aapi can't cook," he mutters thoughtfully to himself and runs away downstairs to do his task. Someone is pretty eager to please me today! I'm not complaining though. I see Hiba's worth has already started to lessen in her brother's eyes. I can't help feeling evil.

_____

If I had to be honest with myself, I'd say that in spite of getting insulted so in this house, I still feel sad for leaving it. Maybe, it was the only semblance of a home that I had in this strange land.

I see quite a lot of desi people here, and believe it or not, some of them even smile at me as I pass, but I probably am my daddy's little girl; scared of everything and eager of nothing (except gulab jamuns, of course).

I'm also a tiny bit apprehensive of the kind of people I'd be living amidst, now. I mean, they can be all sorts: creeps, racketeers, pedos or even Islamophobes. Who knows? But then I remind myself that Uncle Jabbar wouldn't push me into a place he wasn't completely sure about. I am his friend's daughter, after all.

It takes us more than forty-five minutes (with traffic) to reach the boarding house in Salford. It's a neat little place at the first glance. But when you look at it longer, it's crumbling slightly. It's a brick building, with two towers, each at the two back ends. At the front, 'Mrs. Sykes's Boarding House for Girls' is written in archaic-looking letters set in stone. Moss has grown over them with time. This place is quite old - is my first guess. I smile at the name.

Sykes can only ever remind of Oliver Twist, and nothing else. If you were to ask me, a thrill has just went up my spine. This seems to be a respectable establishment. I can't help but imagine a wilted old woman to be its caretaker. But I'm proved wrong when two fashionable middle aged women come out of the front door to meet us.

One of them comes forward and addresses Hiba's dad. "Good afternoon. You must be Mr. Jabbar," she says, extending her right hand, but Uncle Jabbar only places his palm on his chest in a conciliatory manner, slightly bending forward. I feel proud of him somehow. The woman only smiles in answer. "Good afternoon, madams. Karim Jabbar is my name."

"And this must be your ward, I presume?" the lady asks, turning to me. "She looks quite young, I must say! I expected someone older, I'm afraid," she remarks. "What's your name, dear?"

"It's Hidayah Ali, ma'am. And, I'm seventeen," I politely let her know. "Oh, are you? I put you at fourteen or fifteen. An honest mistake, my apologies," she says a little scornfully. I simply nod my head.

On the sound of clearing of a throat from behind, the woman suddenly shakes herself, and begins the introductions. "I'm sorry I forgot to introduce us! My name is Mary Sykes, that is my sister Dorothy Sykes (pointing to a little woman behind her), and this is the fine house that belonged to our mother (now pointing at the structure), handed down to her by her father."

"Please come inside."

I was shown my room ten minutes later. It was big, and in a pretty good condition. It was probably meant for two people because everything was double here, and also because someone else was already living here. I could only wonder who.