Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things - Virginia Woolf
"Silver isn't the way to go". A soft breathy voice shouted from the rooftop.
The elderly woman in the small street, turned around. Her caramel hair in a loose bun. One hand over her eyes, shielding them from the direct sunlight.
"Then which one?" She shouted back.
"Eik second. Mein aati hun!" [Just a second. I'm coming!] The young woman shouted in reply.
Rushing down from the small rooftop, she took two steps at a time. The pink soles of her small feet smacking against the exposed brick floor. Bumping into a woman or two, shouting back apologies, she hastened her pace. Her think chiffon veil flailed in the air. The jhanjar [anklet] in her feet, sang soft melodies. Laila's cheeks turned a shade of peach as she finally made it to the large courtyard — out of breath.
At twenty two, Laila was grace personified. From the thick, bouncy raven hair that she had to the soft angled jaw. Lips shaped like a heart and warm brown eyes that were full of light. Years of dance practices had turned her body into water. Fluid and elegant. Her steps were light and soundless, her giggles the sound of wind chimes.
"Han- amma hara wala lo!" [Yes - mother get the green one!] She huffed.
Her hands on her waist as she bent over. Laila's skin shone under the sunlight, its warmth welcome against the cold of the winters.
"Acha bhai hara de do," [Okay brother give the green one,] her mother, Sarah told the salesperson.
The man nodded, handing over the bright green lehnga [skirt] along with the blouse. Taking seat at her mother's feet, Laila pulled it off of her lap. Resting the cloth against her own soft skin.
Laila was born into a brothel. She had lived her entire life behind the four walls. She had never known a life other than this. To her life was all about getting dressed for the eyes of men. It was about giving the pleasure they found nowhere else, for exchange of money. Unlike what most people thought, Laila and her age fellows weren't illiterate. Their brothel, employed private tutors to teach them. Their classes included lesson in speaking English and learning the most basic of maths and urdu.
Their mornings started at six am. When the world was only just beginning to bask in the warmth of the morning star, Laila and her companions would be sat in the courtyard. Copying what they were taught. At nine, breakfast was served. It was prepared by their mother's, and was almost always eaten in the privacy of their bedrooms. After that their day was spent in the company of the resident musicians and dancers. Learning and perfecting their skills. The evenings reserved for Asma Bi's crude lectures on how to keep men warm.
Other than Laila, there were only three girls her age. Saliha, Rabail and Anisa. The three were already working unlike her. She would give the credit to her mother for that. But Laila knew, she could not hide under the shawl of her mother. The world was full of opportunities and she had to grip them by the throat — by that ofcourse, she meant men. Men were the only opportunities around this part of the city.
"Where are the three musketeers?" Laila played with the cotton edge of Sarah's saree.
The three musketeers was ofcourse the name by which Laila called the triplets. They were daughter's of the she devil, Asma Bi, herself. Whoever their father was, would sure have been a fine looking guy for the girls looked nothing like their mother. Saliha, Rabail and Anisa were born with natural curves and fast metabolism. Green feline eyes and light brown hair. Skin fair like snow and lips the shade of peach roses.
"Chup kar. Sun lia na kisi nai tou masla ban jaye ga!" [Keep quiet. If someone hears you, there will be a huge problem!] Sarah smacked her on the head.
Her words and actions, contradicted the softness inside her eyes. That stared at Laila with a kindness unknown in this world. This was a dog eats dog world and you had to be the strongest one to survive.
"Acha batao na kidhr hain?" [Okay tell me where are they?] Laila whined.
Although Laila did not get along with those three well, they were the only company she had most days.
"University". Sarah gave a one word reply.
Forcing her to straighten her back, Sarah ran her thick fingers through her silky hair. Tying them into a loose three strand braid, Sarah sighed softly. She had tried her best to keep Laila away from this world. However, when Laila had refused to show interest in getting more education and instead found love in the shiny dresses and dark henna stains, Sarah had no choice left. Not that she would have one anyways. Asma Bi's daughters were lucky because their mother ran the brothel and had money. All Sarah could afford were the tiny trinkets used to decorate Laila's small bedroom on the rooftop.
"Laila you're happy right?" Sarah was worried sick.
Her daughter would be heading to the den of the vultures tomorrow for the first time and she could only send her prayers. At the age of sixty, she was of no help to her daughter or the brothel. She was lucky that Asma had not kicked her out.
"Yes mama," turning around, she rested her head on Sarah's thigh.
Her eyes looked up at her. Lashes curled and smeared with mascara, eyes drenched in khol. Their almond shape highlighted. She brought her hand up to her mother's face. Touching the loosely curled strand of hair that rested on her cheek bone. Her silver bangles creating a rhythmic noise as she smiled. Getting up, she fixed her veil and wrapped the shawl around herself.
The maroon shawl was embroidered with dark earthy tones. It was delicately crafted and unlike anything she had ever seen. Its soft material and rich colour were beyond the cheaply made ones everyone else had. Laila had on many occasions insisted she be informed about the pashmina, but Sarah always shook her head. One day, Laila promised herself, she would discover the past of her mother.
—
Laila stared out of the tiny window in the kitchen. Mindlessly stirring the onions inside the oil. Her mother standing next to her, chopping the vegetables. Laila smiled on seeing the light drizzle. Droplets falling on the thin iron bars fixed inside the oval window. Sneaking her free hand in between the bars, she squealed at the cold contact. Winter rain and smell of onions frying — a nostalgic memory.
It took her back to the days of her childhood. When her life was all about hanging out with her mother inside the kitchen. Unable to shower in the winter rains given her tendency to fall sick instantaneously.
She whisked the onions around with the thick wooden spoon in the pot. Her eyes still trained on the droplets falling from one leaf to another. Laila's thoughts came to halt when a sharp slap landed on her hand. Shrieking, she pulled her hand back. Her face reflected the shock she felt.
"Piyaz jala dia larki!" [Girl you burnt the onions!] Her mother slapped her head again.
Laila looked at the charred slivers of red onion, floating in the oil. She gulped, afraid of her mother's wrath.
"A-Amma" Laila gulped.
"Kia Amma? Haye ab sab ko kori karahi khilain? Time bhi nahi hai dubara bananay ka!" [What mother? Oh now will we feed everyone bitter karahi? There is no time to start over!] Sarah slapped her forehead.
"Yeh bata zara, kis kai khayal mein khoi thi?" [Tell me this, whose thoughts were you lost in?] She pinched Laila's ear.
"No one amma!" Laila begged her mother to let her go.
"No one! Ab jab Asma bi bolay gi na tou khud jawab de dena haan? Saath mein saat naslain badnam karwana!" [Now when Asma bi asks tell her yourself okay? Along with that get your seven generations slandered too!] Sarah sarcastically replied.
Pushing Laila aside, she took charge. Dropping the green chillies and crushed garlic cloves, Sarah hurriedly added a glass of water. Laila meanwhile, silently observed her raging mother. Using her elbows, she pushed herself onto the kitchen counter. Swinging her feet in the air, a hand resting below her face, holding it up as she took in her mother's furious form.
"Sorry?" She pleaded.
"No". Sarah ignored her.
"Please?" Laila tried.
"Better luck next time!" Sarah rejected.
"Ammaaaa!" Laila tugged at her shawl.
"Ja kar raita banao aur iss baar zeeray ka pahar mat daal dena!" [Go and make the curd and this time don't add a mountain of cumin!] Sarah ordered, without sparing her a glance.
Laila squealed, hugging her mother tight before getting down to do the task. This was her mother's silent way of forgiveness. She mentally awed at her mother, who even at her age managed to look effortlessly beautiful.
The peaceful silence the enveloped the kitchen was broken when Laila's elder sister, Ayna walked into the kitchen. She was twenty six and looked nothing like their mother. Her hair like charred coal and skin the dark shade of Laila's favourite milk chocolate. Big, round eyes and wide lips. Ayna was a sight to see.
"Ayna baaji come here," Laila waved her over.
Ayna was kept busy most nights with parties. Sleeping in late, so any time Laila got with her was cherished beyond understanding.
"What is it?" Ayna inquired.
Her fingers putting her curly hair into a sleek bun as she washed her hands in the sink.
"Amma got me a green lehnga," she grinned.
Ayna smiled brightly at her, kissing Laila's forhead. Ayna knew how long her sister had been wishing for one. And her mother had been saving up for it even longer. Squeezing her younger sister tight, Ayna dragged her light body out of the kitchen and up the stairs, to her bedroom.
Ayna's room overlooked the vast Badshahi mosque. It enjoyed the views of its south side, and the image was something out of a fairytale. Fog descending on the horizon, the sun setting behind the mosque. A mixture of greys and dull yellows. Laila breathed in the smell of rain and soil. Its freshness, humbling.
"Laila here you go!" Ayna thrust a small box into her hands.
Laila's features morphed from shocked into a beaming grin. The copper box with its deep flowers engraved on it had been part of Ayna's collection for as long as she could remember. And something Laila had wanted for herself.
"Open it!" Ayna forced her.
Laila nodded her head with child like enthusiasm. Fiddling with the thin, curved clasp.
"How?" She stared up in shock.
"Bari behan ko thora sa credit do," [Give your elder sister some credit,] Ayna pinched her nose.
Laila hugged her sister tight. Her eyes still trained on the large jhumkas. With their dull copper finish and deep green emerald gems. She had seen these in the bazaar on the main roads of the walled city. Unfortunately, she had no money on herself and to ask her elder sister was unfair.
"I know you're very excited about tomorrow night. So I wanted to gift you something," Ayna hugged her back.
Laila smiled into the hug. Swaying their bodies gently. Gratefulness fulfilling her up. This was the life she had always known, and now she was excited to step into it and take a closer look at it all.
EEEK!!!
I LOVE LAILA, AYNA & SARAH ✋🏻
THOUGHTS & COMMENTS