The Other Side – New Neighbours

No one had been home when she had gone to drop off the gulab jamun and halwa, so Saraab came back and put the plate in the fridge.

“I’ll try tomorrow. Maybe they’re all out at work or something.”

Her mother had nodded with little interest. Saraab went back to her room to work on the papers she had to grade, staying there until the evening meal. Like lunch, dinner was a regular family affair. All the girls helped their mother with the meal and the cleaning up, while their father read the paper. Occasionally, distant relatives would drop by in the evening and stay for dinner, which meant extra work for the girls both during and after their arrival.

As the oldest, Saraab was least likely to be able to slip away at these times, and though she recognised her responsibilities, she couldn’t help but resent them. That day, she stacked the dirty dishes in the sink after the guests had finally left with a grumpy thunk, watching Sana and Sobia cheerfully drop everything and head off to their room. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to help, you know. It’d get done faster if we were working together.” But they ran off without looking back, leaving Saraab to put everything away. Baba had already gone up to his room, and Ammi, looking tired, came in to say goodnight.

“Remember to pray before you go to sleep. And keep those curtains closed, like your father said.” 

Saraab sighed; it was past eleven o’clock. She finished up and went quietly upstairs. She changed, prayed, turned off the lights. 

And drew back the curtains to her new window.

The light was on again, the room clearly visible. There didn’t seem to be anyone there, except… She could hear music, slowly growing in intensity and volume. The words weren’t clear, though the voice was throaty, rough, and the beat fast. 

Saraab curled up against the head of the bed, leant on the sill, hidden behind the curtain, and watched and listened.

The woman with the silky hair twirled across the window, and Saraab felt her heart race. The woman wasn’t alone. She had a companion, a tall silhouette, dancing with her. 

Saraab couldn’t look away. She felt the music change, the beat slowing down, and when he grabbed Silky Hair’s hand, pulled her body into his, Saraab felt like she was watching an Indian movie. They swayed together, faces close. Silky Hair tilted her head back, and her tresses swung down with a shimmer of satin. Saraab opened her eyes wide, trying to get a look at the man, but they were dancing against the light. All she could make out was that he was tall and willowy, an elegant line of torso and long legs.

She didn’t know how long they danced, or how long she lay watching. Where, she wondered at some point, were the girl’s family? Were they even aware that she had a man in her room? How were her parents okay with this? How was she? This was so wrong, didn’t the woman know that? 

So, so wrong…She woke with a start, her neck cramped, her back aching from the awkward position against the head of the bed. She sat up, straightening out her body slowly. It was almost dawn, and the window on the other side was dark. The music was silent. She pulled herself up to the sill. In the pre-dawn light, both homes were asleep, serene in the lazy early morning. 

Saraab stretched, slid down into her bed, pulling the covers over herself. She closed her eyes, remembering the shadowy figures across the divide; she could clearly see the clean line of the man’s shoulder and bicep outlined by the dim light, the woman’s hair spilling over his shirt, and she wondered, briefly, shamefully, what it would feel like to dance with him.

***

She went to the neighbour’s three more times over the week, picking a different time every day, but they were never home. She and her sisters eventually ate the sweet gulab jamun and halwa. There was no point, as Sana said, in letting the sweets go to waste. Their mother clucked impatiently at them.

“Put that away, you won’t be able to eat dinner.” Ammi was teaching them how to make homemade pickled lemons. She was grinding roasted spices up in a large mortar with a marble pestle. “Hand me the bowl, will you?” 

Sana brought it over. “Tell me again why we need to know how to do this? It’s not like we can’t buy achar in every general store in the country.”

“Because it’s much cheaper to make it at home.”

“Yes, but why should we care—”

“None of you know what your future holds. What if you have to struggle for money? In times like that, you need some spice with your onion gravy and chapati meals.”

Saraab sniffed. “It’s not like we’re uneducated. We can work, earn money.”

“And if your husband doesn’t let you?”

Sobia gave her mother a frustrated look. “Well, if you tell our future husbands that you want us to work—”

“We can’t do that.” Ammi looked scandalised. “We don’t dictate to the boy’s family, ever.”

Sana leaned back against the counter and said, “Well, I’m happy not to work. It’s up to my husband to support me, not the other way around.”

“Exactly.” Ammi nodded approvingly. “Your job is to take care of the family, which is a full-time job. It requires care and dedication. Like making achar. It takes time. Dedication.” She poured the prepared lemons, which she had lightly boiled earlier to soften them, into the bowl along with the spices. Rolling up her sleeves, she rubbed the spice mixture over each individual lemon. “Preparation. You need to make sure that every part of the lemon is properly covered. Coat them thoroughly without squishing them.” The girls all leaned in with fascinated looks. “Just like raising children—the initial preparation has to be so strong that once they’re old enough, you just need to check in every once in a while.”

Sobia sighed. “Are you making achar or raising babies?”

The girls and Ammi laughed. “This is a life lesson,” Ammi said. “Raising children is like making achar. A little hard work in the early years pays off in the end.”

Sana looked smug. “Like with us, you mean.”

“Exactly. You’re all good girls, and you know what it means to be women in a decent Pakistani household.”

Saraab hung back while they brought out the large jar and filled it half way with oil. Good girl? She thought of her nighttime adventures. She had tried—and failed—to stay away from the window, nor could she control her dreams. For four nights now, she had imagined herself floating in the arms of a tall, slim silhouette. She couldn’t see his face, or any defining features, in fact, but she had silky black hair that flowed down to her waist, and she felt like a desirable woman. 

Were these the dreams of a ‘good girl’?