It was a sunny afternoon. Spring was slowly opening up to summer, and Sughra was dreading it. Here she was in her new home, and she had to lug water upstairs at the beginning of the day, because the water supply was so unpredictable. Sometimes it would be hours into the day when the faucet on the patio actually started dripping a steady stream of water.

“The government regulates the water supply,” Ahmad had told her. She did not understand what that meant. All she knew was that she had to carry garhas up a long flight of stairs. Lately, she had been feeling tired early in the day. She did not feel like cooking, and her stomach turned every time she sauteed onions and garlic in the pan for Ahmad’s meals. She had also started taking naps in the afternoon as the weather was quickly warming up.

Ahmad noticed the subtle changes in his wife too. He noticed that she was quieter, and she played with her food more often than she ate it. One morning she had even snapped at him when he had held on to her arm as she was coaxing him to wake up.

“Now would you let go of my hand? There are a million things to do and the sun is not going to change its course for me,” she had said crossly and jerked away from him. That had been harsh enough to chase away the last remnants of sleep.

She sat in the front room now, by the large windows, looking down into the dera. Bhabhi Musarrat’s sons were chasing the barn chickens. Someone was yelling something about fresh apples on the street outside. She looked at the clock she had mounted on the wall three weeks ago. It was four o’clock. Soon Ahmad would be home and she would have to serve dinner. This thought came with an involuntary lurch in her stomach. The last thing she wanted to do was to go in the kitchen and fry onions and garlic in a thick dollop of ghee. How she hated the smell of ghee. She could not understand how she could have ever loved ghee with its sharp aroma and thick, buttery taste.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The sun had warmed up the room and it was starting to get stuffy. “Maybe I should get up and throw the windows open. I have done nothing today, and Begum Bisharat wants to pick up her outfit on Friday,” she thought to herself. By this time she had a few clients who came twice a month to drop off fabric and pick-up tailored outfits. She was doing it as a pastime of course. Ahmad would not let her accept money for the clothes she sewed.

She chased away the thought of getting out of her chair. The sun was too warm and her limbs felt heavy as sleep clouded her mind.

Ahmad opened the front door and was surprised to see that the new bulb he had installed on the landing was not lit. “She never forgets to turn the lights on in the evening,” he thought. He flicked a switch and a harsh yellow light illuminated the small area. There were four garhas lying in a corner. Sughra had left them there in the morning. “This is very strange,” thought Ahmad.

He made his way up the stairs and opened the door. The house was uncharacteristically dark. He turned the light on and saw Sughra sleeping on the chair with her head resting back and her mouth open. She was snoring softly. He smiled to himself and quietly walked up to her.

“Sughi, I’m home,” he said and nudged her softly.
She shook herself out of her sleep and mumbled something incoherently.
“What?” he asked. And before he could say anything else Sughra had started sobbing uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.
She was muttering something over and over again and moving back and forth in her chair, her arms tightly folded across her chest. He could not understand what he had done to invoke such a reaction from her. He tried to calm her down, but she was hysterical. When he could think of nothing else, he held her shoulders and shook her softly.
“Talk to me!” he half yelled, half pleaded.
She took a deep breath and tried to control her sobs.
“I didn’t cook for you today. I fell asleep. I was so tired,” she said and started sobbing again.
“Will you stop this nonsense?” he yelled.
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m so sorry. I will cook right now,” she said and began to get out of her chair.
Ahmad held her hand and pushed her back down on the chair.
“Listen to me,” he said with a tired look in his eyes. “I don’t care that you didn’t cook. It’s all right. I will eat leftovers. I am not a king, you know. It’s all right. Will you please just calm down? What’s wrong with you anyway?” he said.

All the strength seemed to seep out of Sughra’s body as Ahmad put his arms around her.
“I don’t know. I am just always tired. And I hate the smell of ghee,” she said and started crying again softly.
“What did you say?” said Ahmad pulling back.
“I am always tired,” she said.
“No, about the smell of ghee,” he asked.
“It smells like goat droppings. Maybe it has gone bad. Can you buy some more?” she asked wiping away her tears.
Ahmad was smiling at her.
“What’s funny? What did I do now to amuse you?” she asked irritably.
“Nothing. The ghee smells fine. It has never smelled better,” he said, still smiling.
“Well, then! You think I’m lying. Go smell the container. And those onions and that garlic. Throw them all away too. There is a rat in the kitchen, I tell you,” she said.
“There is no rat in the kitchen,” he said and he started to laugh.
“Fine, then! You think I make excuses. I am not a woman of luxury, I tell you. I don’t mind working, but you had better clean out your smelly kitchen, because I can’t stand it,” she said crossly.
“I think the problem is not with your nose, Sughi,” he said.
“Yes, I know. It is with yours even though your nose is a lot longer than mine,” she said, shaking her head angrily.
Ahmad began to laugh.
“I think we need to go to Bhabhi Musarrat’s house,” he said.
“Why, now? You want them to think I am worthless? A woman who can’t cook for her husband is not a real woman at all,” she said with her voice breaking again.
“No, no, no. I just think you should tell her about the rat living in our kitchen. She might be able to help,” he said with a smile straining behind his eyes.
“Well, then. Let’s go,” she said.

They walked across the dera and knocked on Maratab Shah’s front door. They could hear the children screaming inside. Maratab opened the door and ushered them in.
“We were about to eat dinner. There is good daal today made with pure desi ghee,” said Maratab and Ahmad heard Sughra sigh softly.
The men sat on a rectangular mat on the floor as the children fought over a shiny top revolving noisily on the stone floor. Sughra walked heavily into the kitchen. To her disdain, it smelled strongly of ghee.
“Oh, Bhabhi Musarrat, your ghee has gone sour too,” she said, announcing her presence.
“You must be tired today, Sughi. This is fresh ghee. It is delicious,” said Bhabhi Musarrat looking up from her rolling pin.
“Oh it smells awful,” said Sughra wrinkling her nose.
She could feel her chest tightening and a moment later she felt bile in her mouth. She darted across the kitchen floor to the small, metal garbage can and threw up her breakfast into it. In a moment, Bhabhi Musarrat was there, holding Sughra’s dopatta away from her face.

It seemed like hours before Sughra could finally breathe and she drank a tall glass of cold water that Bhabhi Musarrat held out to her. She collapsed on the low stool beside the stove and looked to see Bhabhi Musarrat smiling widely at her. She began to get angry and then in a moment of enlightenment, realization hit her.
“Allah,” she said softly.
“Masha’Allah,” said Bhabhi Musarrat, smiling.
“My brother’s wife vomited out her breakfast every morning for weeks before my nephew was born,” said Sughra dazedly.
“I did too before these little ones came, and how I abhorred the smell of ghee,” said Bhabhi Musarrat.

The men had heard Sughra throwing up in the kitchen and had overheard the whole conversation, standing in the doorway. She heard laughter and Maratab wishing her husband well.

A dark blush crept up her cheeks and she hid her face with her hands. Bhabhi Musarrat forced her to eat some daal in the kitchen when she refused to step out in the front room where the men ate their dinner. She told her about morning sickness, and the changes that were to be expected of her body in the coming months.
“Well, then. You will give us a son,” said Bhabhi Musarrat and Sughra just smiled.

It was such a new feeling that she could not really understand it. She was going to be a mother. There was a small creature forming slowly within her womb, and she was responsible for bringing it into the world. “I wonder what he looks like,” she thought, and then her heart seemed to sink low into her stomach as another thought crossed her mind. “What if it is a girl?”

Bhabhi Musarrat was saying something about smelling lemons and eating pickles, but Sughra was only nodding her head silently. She had her fears and her dreads, but a small part of her was just ecstatic. She was going to be a mother. Now, she would know what a miraculous thing motherhood could be. She would experience the most superior human instinct: a mother’s love for her child.

She heard Ahmad call out her name from the front room. He was ready to go. Bhabhi Musarrat gave her a quick hug and kissed her forehead.
“May God bless you with a beautiful son, little girl,” she whispered as Sughra left with her husband.

They started walking across the dera. The moon was full in the sky and Sughra felt like the night had never been so beautiful. She felt Ahmad’s hand in hers and she squeezed it tightly, stubbornly refusing to look at him.
“There’s not a rat in our kitchen, then,” he said.
“No, there is not,” she whispered.
“And yet we are not alone,” he said, putting his arm across her shoulders.
“No we are not. Not for long anyway,” she said.
They reached their front door and Ahmad opened it for her. He reached up and shook the red rope that hung from the bell, and a loud chime broke the quiet chill of the night.
“Now, what did you do that for?” she whispered harshly, a big smile dancing on her lips.
“To announce a new arrival,” he said returning her smile as they walked up the stairs joking about a small rat in their kitchen.