A Hand Free of Henna
"Mariya’s hands are to be worked until the abrasions erode the swirls of henna, but she likes feeling useful nonetheless. Her bitterness amounts to nothing."
By Saaleha (@A7Tima)
The henna on Mariya’s fingertips had begun cracking when she started mopping the courtyard garden tiles. Many other servants were employed under the Raheem family’s seven brothers and could manage the courtyard, but Mariya’s mistress—the fourth brother’s wife named Ayat Begum—is the one whose domain is this garden, so the duty fell to Mariya.
The eldest of the seven brothers has a new bride, Tahira Begum, who arrived at the estate a month ago. Mariya hadn’t properly met Tahira yet but had been watching her and taking on tasks closer to the bride’s rooms. Ayat Begum forbade it; no one wants their servants to wander to another mistress, but Mariya takes great joy in petty disobedience. It helps that Tahira is a marvel of a woman, unlike any Mariya has ever seen. She is the most educated of the wives, is from the capital, and is a great beauty. Mariya has dreams of fusing into the bride’s skin and living as her.
When Mariya finishes her chore, she looks at her sun-browned hands. The henna has eroded further. She sighs wistfully, but she appreciates her mistress for letting her have it on at all. Weddings, especially one of the Raheem family with their ownership of several petrol pumps, were lucrative even for the servants. Mariya was given a nicer dress than usual for it, had her hands painted with henna, and guests were more generous with their tips. She thanked Christ for that; her baby sister wasn’t getting any better and her old mother cried every time the baby whined and whimpered and choked on spittle.
Mariya gathers her cleaning equipment and walks through the halls of the estate. She has to tell her mistress that she is done cleaning the courtyard. When she enters Ayat Begum’s rooms, she finds her mistress with the wife of the fifth brother. Both women’s children were off to the side on their tablets or otherwise bothering their nannies.
‘She didn’t bleed on the sheet. She got all bashful when I asked her about it,’ said the wife of the fifth brother.
‘Does that surprise you? She’s from Islamabad. They’re as loose with their legs as they are with their tongues,’ scoffs Ayat Begum before busying herself with a sip of tea.
Mariya speaks politely. ‘I’ve finished in the courtyard, Begum.’
‘So quick?’ Ayat Begum says with suspicion. Mariya hates her mistress’s accusatory tone. ‘I do not enjoy you doing things in haste, Mariya. Allah and His messenger warned us against haste,’ she continues to say in her nasal voice.
Mariya smiles as warmly as she can manage. ‘I am sure, Begum. A man could see his reflection on the tiles.’ Mariya does not make the mistake of reminding Ayat Begum that she is a Christian. She wants to take the cup of tea her mistress was drinking and bash it on her head. Ayat Begum only hummed and asked if Mariya had at all spoken with Ms. Modern, which is what she calls Tahira. Mariya lies and says she has not and her mistress dismisses her.
Mariya makes her way to the female servant quarters and thinks of Tahira. She almost pities the new bride. From what she knows, Tahira is a university-educated, liberal, modern woman, which makes the wives—who read nothing other than Khawateen Digest, if even that—look ignorant and base. That makes Tahira the object of their ridicule. More than that, Mariya pities her because Tahira has big shoes to fill, considering her predecessor failed when she died, birthing a baby born as blood instead of body. Mariya thinks Tahira will surprise everyone by bringing a child for her solemn husband and more.
Mariya wakes up before even the mosques sound the morning call to prayer. She steps over the sleeping bodies of the other female servants and ventures onto the highest rooftop of the estate. The smog is not so bad today, so when she peers over the railing, she takes in the sight she has seen a million times but could never fully stomach. Beyond the gates of this colony, Mariya has borne witness to the dim shacks of the slums, the bare-footed children begging by the busy road, the poor women who walk freely without a chaperone fetching things for their employers, and the trash that littered the cracked streets. Inside the colony, where she works, she witnesses something else: grand estates where power never malfunctions, well-clothed children chasing each other on the clean asphalt, wealthy women who donned embroidered veils to indicate their respectability, and flowers that bloomed in wellkept beds. Mariya knows this stark contrast is a stifling thing for girls like her; she is not oblivious to her own oppression and that makes her all the more bitter. Her anger overtakes her at times and becomes so savage she thinks she could strangle someone.
‘What are you gritting your teeth at?’ a playful voice asks behind her. Mariya knows who it is since she has been watching the owner of this voice around the estate for a month now.
‘Um. Peace be to you, Begum,’ Mariya says clumsily as she turns to Tahira Begum. She feels lower than usual right now; her hair is still mussed and she hadn’t brushed her teeth when she decided to come up to the roof. Tahira, the splendid bride of dark hair and fair skin, eyes her up and down and seems to be hiding something under her loosely draped veil.
‘And to you. What’s your name?’
‘Mariya.’
‘Mariya. I have seen you sneaking around in between your chores and spying on me when I’m in the courtyard or the common rooms. What’s that about?’ the bride asks like she already knows the answer. Mariya hates that she finds Tahira’s girlish smile so endearing.
Mariya found her self-assurance grating, as did the fact that the bride seemed to be holding something obscured by her veil.
‘Well, I simply… found you interesting. You read those big books and I’ve heard you speak some odd language to yourself. That is all, Begum,’ Mariya replies in false humility.
Tahira smiles at the young maid, head high and spine erect. She seems to like attention, likes that even a lowly Christian maid like Mariya has been intrigued by her. ‘Is that right? I have been practicing Russian so that I might read my favourite novels in their original prose. You’re in year ten, I assume. I’m sure you’ve heard of Dostoevsky, yes?’ She rattles off happily.
‘I have never been to school and cannot read,’ Mariya says simply.
Seeing Tahira’s smile fall and her mien chasten in a second elates Mariya; she feels some of the power of the interaction shift to her.
‘... I see. Forgive me, child,’ Tahira says seriously. Mariya thinks it funny that Tahira calls her a child. Tahira is likely not even a decade older than her.
‘It’s alright, Begum.’ Mariya says graciously. ‘Most-’
‘Though it seems you are in a position to be asking for forgiveness as well. From your mistress, I mean,’ Tahira interrupts, the previous self-assuredness seeping back into her tone. She reveals that the item she has been holding under her veil was an all-too-familiar shoe box.
A shoe box that Mariya would stash some fifty or hundred rupees in when her mistress wasn’t looking. This bitch.
Mariya swallows dryly. The morning calls to prayers have begun but she can hardly hear them. ‘Begum, you must understand. My baby sister-’
‘I really don’t care,’ Tahira says, covering the box again and holding it under her arm. ‘You could steal all Ayat’s gold and I wouldn’t care. That witch would deserve it, Allah knows. She tells all the servants to keep away from me, doesn’t she? Because I’m too modern?’
Mariya is about to respond but Tahira continues, ‘I will keep your secret and give you this back,’ she says cooly and shakes the shoebox. ‘But only if you do me a favour.’
‘Anything, Begum.’
‘I want you to convince my husband to let me go to your village to teach.’
Mariya frowns. ‘For what?’
‘To teach, as I just said. I have a university degree and I don’t want to see it all for naught simply because I am married. My husband doesn’t think it proper for a woman of my standing to go to, ah, shall we say undignified places? But he has a soft spot for the servants. I think he’ll listen if you ask,’ Tahira says.
She is so eager to help pitiful people such as mine in the village but blackmails me here, Mariya thinks bitterly. But if Mariya can find favour in such a strong lady, that would bode well for her and her sick sister.
All Mariya says is, ‘I will ask. But I worry my mistress will be unhappy if she knows I am advocating for you.’
‘Damn your mistress. She may be older than I and perhaps even wiser, but I am the wife of the eldest brother and I precede her thus,’ she says firmly.
‘I… alright.’ A brief silence commences in which only the echoes of the calls to prayer can be heard. ‘May I have that back now?’ Mariya asks, gesturing to the shoe box.
‘Not until my husband is convinced.’
A part of Mariya wants to push her off the railing and see her crack her porcelain head open. Instead, she lowers her head and says, ‘I will do that today.’ Tahira walks off with a smile and the shoebox full of stolen rupees.
The sorry excuse of a class is dismissed. The students, little children tanned by their work in brick kilns, speaking sharp and loud Punjabi that scandalises the high ladies of Tahira’s ilk, bound out the humid hut they call a classroom. Mariya knows that simply being in Tahira’s presence elated the kids and their young village mothers. She knows because these are her people. She knows because she shamefully feels the same. She accepts this bitterly. The gestures she once thought of as testaments to her employer’s goodwill and God-fearing hearts—the dresses when the bride came, the henna, the extra tips—were to sweeten a bitter deal. Mariya’s hands are to be worked until the abrasions erode the swirls of henna, but she likes feeling useful nonetheless. Her bitterness amounts to nothing.
Tahira’s tired voice pulls Mariya from her thoughts. ‘Come quickly, child.’
Mariya carries Tahira’s bag and follows her into the sleek vehicle, where the driver waits. Mariya eyes Tahira; since the announcement, the bride has taken to gingerly touching her abdomen and staring out the dimmed windows of the car. Her posture is nothing like how Mariya first witnessed it; now, she sits stiffly and unsure, like a sorry imitation of the woman who blackmailed her that day on the rooftop.
Mariya feels a heavy ache in her chest and a light buzz in her head. She suddenly wants to leap out of the moving car and run from Tahira. The knowledge that a woman such as Tahira, who speaks European languages, threatens those around her to get what she wants, and is the most educated of the wives, is still just a wife, sours her mouth. Mariya accepted that her own bitterness would lead to nothing, but a woman like Tahira? She ought to have been teaching lecture halls, swollen belly and all. Perhaps even free girls like Mariya.
‘Begum?’ Mariya calls. Tahira only stares out the window. Mariya tries again, wetting her dry lips. ‘Begum.’ When Tahira looks at her with her hands over her abdomen, Mariya asks if she will continue teaching the villagers. Tahira smiles then, eyes on the hands that are splayed over her belly.
‘If my husband sees fit. I do not want to jeopardize this child of his. He only wants the best for the baby, you understand. And me. Always me. I am his wife.’
Mariya stares at her own hands then, rough and free of henna.