Caged Nightingale

26- saara

The evening is perfect. Despite the day time temperatures being unbearable it is balmy and milder after dark and therefore no suprise that the city we pass through to get to the judge's home is thriving with trade. Food vendors, clothes shop, jewellery, pots and pans all displayed coquettishly. Everything is colourful, loud and exciting. It feels like I'm back in Lahore. It feels like a world away from the quiet of Atif's hunting villa. A part of me comes alive too and marvels at the hustle and bustle of market life here. A hive of activity. Motor cycles weaving between larger vehicles, dinky rukshaws widdling their way through tight spaces, our 4x4 moves sluggishly through these congested streets, which is throbbing with pedestrians. Through the blacked out windows I silently marvel at the life here.  Atif looks at me curiously then out the window as if he's trying to see through the eyes of a stranger. His gaze returns to mine and there is a look there which I can't quite decipher.
It's a shame that the journey is over too soon.

The judges's wife is a vain and proud woman used to using her position to intimidate others. Clearly she is used to being the most important female in the room. She must have been a real beauty at one time, her alabaster skin is near translucent and she has the face of a 50's actress- classically beautiful. Even though she's aged, she still has full lips, defined cheekbones and her makeup is perfection.
She is distinctly cynical of me when we meet for the first time. She looks over my hair, clothes and finally i see her eyes appreciatively rest on my necklace and earrings. Begrudgingly, she is impressed. I know she's trying to rank me amongst her acquaintances and whether im worthy of her consideration and friendship or someone that should be tolerated this one time. Perhaps she could consider me her protege. I couldn't care less really, but for the sake of appearances I try to appear thankful to her.
I say very little. Which isn't hard. The old Saara is not very far away, her habbits and mannerisms, even now with my most recent discovery of the importance of human contact and companionship. I slip back- without thinking- into the old me. I let her talk and silently scrutinise me to her hearts content. Whats more i do it with style and grace- just like my mother taught me. I nod politely and attentively like we are playing pretend tea parties. But mostly i do it because i dont want to say the wrong thing. Its safer to be considered shy, quiet and dull than suspiciously cunning.
She tries to ask me about my family, i stick to the file not embellishing anything, presenting what i hope is a rather unremarkable life.
She seems satisfied that I'm not someone with a solidly rich or influential family. Her condescention doesnt bother me. I know my father has accumalated more wealth than any man I know, that in my veins runs the blood of one of Pakistan's most noble families. And that is the difference between her and me. I dont feel the need to prove myself to anyone. Even as someone else, I know who I am deep down, i have never come across that interminable stranger: Insecurity. It is truely liberating to be free of social presssures like this woman.

How strange it is that I don't miss my parents. I am suddenly struck by the thought. In the past week I have agonised over Atif, a virtual stranger yet given very little thought to my own flesh and blood. My father once told me he was kidnapped as a boy. He didnt tell me the details but he did say it was 'aweful' and an experince which 'changed everything, including the way he viewed his own family.' Even as a teenager I remember recognising the tone of disappointment in his voice. I wondered if kinship ties of trust could be damaged beyond repair, something that would have been incomprehensible just moments before he told me the story.

All my life I've been the perfect daughter. I even married the perfect man for them. Now I sit here as someone else, married to a different sort of man. The life I am living is so incongruent from the one I had before; it is baffling. I thought people had a mid life crisis in their thirties yet here I am unrecognisable even to myself and without concern about the woman i seem to have become.

There is just one sticky moment: Atif, the judge and a few other men join us for tea.Atif gives me this look of wonder. He cant take his eyes off me. They continue to wander back again and again. As if he's seeing me for the first time. I am the same. I find myself making a point of avoiding eye contact with him and I am clearly drawn to him. His broad chest, chiselled cheekbones, thick dark hair and unshaven face are all reminders of our afternoon together. Sinfully so. I mean you would definitely not leave him alone with your wife. There is something irresistible about his sexual pull when he is like this. His dark eyes are a hedonistic nightmare.
Our hostess has the eyes of a vulture and i can see we infuriate her- probably mostly me. This sexual tension between us is palpable, even though Atif and I neither speak to each other nor touch even once - the atmosphere between us is charged.
The chemistry between a newly married couple is always something worthy of envy, but the judge's wife is green with jealousy. I sincerely hope her husband doesn't say the wrong thing to her this evening. He might not survive it! The judge though, to his credit seems amused by Atif. He pats him on the shoulder as if to console him and smiles mockingly at him.
As we are driving back, i ask if we can stop and get some jasmin bracelets from a young boy sat on the sidewalk. Just the sight of him,on his own, at this time of night, makes something twinge in my chest. Mohsin slows down and then reverses till we pull up next to the boy. He Runs around to the drivers side.  Taps the window, which Mohsin lowers. Mohsin begins to point at the rod with lots of bracelets hanging from it but I turn to atif and ask 'may I choose?'
Again atif looks at me curiously and then nods to Mohsen who gestures for the boy to move around towards me, Giving him an instruction I don't hear.
As I look out of the window and down at the child, I realise just how small he is.  He must be about seven or eight years old, his spindly arms holding out a rod filled with bangles made of Jasmine, his face is dirty, his hair dusty orange and his feet are bare.  his clothes are worn, faded,  stained. But his eyes. They are huge when I look at him. His face is suddenly filled with the most amazing contagious smile.
I hold out my arm to him and he jumps to attention carefully picking out a couple of bangles before removing them for me. As he begins to pass them to me I turn my hand over so my palm is facing downwards. The boy looks at me quizzically and then puts his rod down carefully on the pavement. Slowly, concentrating hard,  he threads my wrist through the hoops. I smile at him gratefully.

There is definitely a moment when the boy smiles and hold my gaze. I nod in approval, which makes him smile harder. Zains pulls him out of his moment lowering the window and Holding out some money to him.
As we drive away, I turn and see Atif tutting and shaking his head, Bemused. "You've ruined him," He says and looks out of his own window.
I'm not sure what he means, I don't try and understand his cryptic comment. All I can think about is how intoxicating the fragrance is. I love it.
Atif feels for his phone when it buzzes but then turns to me, lifting my wrist and kissing me on my pulse point. His eyes darken and the hunger in them mirrors my own.
'There's a surprise for you when we get back" Atif says smiling. But refuses to divulge anything more. He looks out of the window at the passing wasteland to avoid looking into my beseeching eyes
I wonder what it could be. Not more jewellery i hope, perhaps its something to do with my documents, but somehow i know that couldnt be the pleasant surprise Atif has in mind.
When we arrive back at the house, i see there is another car out front. It is a sleek silver Mercedes and i turn quizzically to Atif? But he just smiles and shrugs his shoulders and gestures to go in.
When we go into the lounge, i half cry out with happiness when i see Ali coming towards me. He gives me a tight hug and half lifts me off the ground. We laugh together.
I dont see the man stood at the window initially. His back is turned and he is facing away from us, looking out of the windows with his hands locked behind him. When i do see him, my blood turns cold. It's Qadir: Asim's older brother.