It was Nazia’s second week working as a maid at the Shah residence. She walked slowly toward the big house with tall pillars and a gold nameplate that said “Shah” located on Temple Road. She passed the Fatima Jinnah Medical College for women and looked longingly inside the iron gates. Women in colorful summer clothes were walking as they held on to notebooks and large handbags. Some were enjoying the aalo chaat from the street vendor as they skimmed through the pages of their thick textbooks.

Nazia craned her neck and looked for as long as she could at these women, not too far apart in age from her, but worlds away in intellect and achievement. She was an eighteen-year-old girl and her education had ended after eighth standard from a broken down public school. She lived off the bank of River Ravi and had gone to a makeshift school in a straw hut in that area until she was thirteen years old. It was then that the Ravi had flooded taking her father with its raging waves. She was left with her old, sick mother and the school had floated away, a brick here, a plank there, all the potential knowledge dissolved away into the waters that fed the Indus.

Nazia looked inside the medical college now, envious of all those who had the resources and ability to get an education. They do not have a worry in the world, she thought, and yet they are oblivious of the blessings that have been bestowed upon them. She passed the college and thought about the books that waited for her everyday, the books she read when she got home after the sun disappeared in the Western sky. She had been given the books in charity. Novels, poetry volumes, anthologies, Ghalib, Faiz, Bano Qudsiya, Nazir Ahmad, all tucked in boxes upon boxes that were given to her by the Begum of the house she had worked in last summer.

Nazia had reached the corner of Temple Road and was standing in front of the big house with its tall, whitewashed walls and the high, sunny roof. She rang the call bell at the door and heard the brisk footsteps of the errand boy running towards the gate. A moment later, Nazia was making her way through the covered portico where the two cars, that the lady of the house used, were parked. She opened the front door and entered the first landing of the Shah house.

The cook was merrily humming in the kitchen, a heavyset, rosy woman who did not like interruptions while she worked on chopping vegetables or stewing meat or doing one of the many tasks that she planned to do in a day. Without paying attention to anything else, Nazia filled a bucket with water from the bathroom by the staircase that led to the upstairs landing, where all the bedrooms were, and got to work.

Nazia had just swept the living room when she heard heels clicking down the staircase. It was Begum Shah coming downstairs, her sweet perfume was hanging heavy in the air, her hair tied up in a chignon upon her head. Nazia straightened up and greeted her employer.

“Girl, will you make sure that you clean Bazil’s room really well today? He has been looking for his wallet, and he cannot find it anywhere. Just move all of his magazines and art supplies and see if you can find it,” she said without bothering to reply to Nazia’s greeting.

Bazil was the Shahs’ oldest child. He was twenty and getting ready to leave for an art academy in the United States.

“I will try my best, Begum Sahib,” said Nazia and started dusting the furniture around her.
In her first week, Nazia had come up with an order of cleaning in the big house. She swept the floors downstairs as soon as she came in. She proceeded to dust the furniture. She then went upstairs and cleaned each of the six rooms on the top floor. She saved the bathrooms for last since that was the most unpleasant task she had.

Nazia followed her plan of action and reached Bazil’s room around noon as she had expected. He was still rolled up in a ball on the bed, snoring softly. He was usually asleep when she came in and she straightened up his things as quietly as she could. So far, she had been successful in not waking him, and therefore she had only seen him in pictures and heard about his pleasant disposition from the cook, the driver and the errand boy. She had no intention of waking him now. It was awkward enough to be in a man’s room with him sleeping, oblivious to her presence.

It was very intimate for her, this way of cleaning his room. She picked up a pair of his jeans from the floor and folded them. She went on to pick up a few of his discarded shirts that still had a lingering smell of his cologne. Again, she was struck by how very intimate this situation could have been, had she not been the maid. Here she was in this room, picking up Bazil’s things one by one knowing exactly where to put them, all the while noticing the slightest bit of difference in his slow, steady breathing.

She walked around the bed as carefully and quietly as she could and straightened a scattered pile of art books. She took a minute to squint at the top book that had the shape of a man who apparently looked dead, with his hands and legs spread apart and the outline of a circle around him. “Leonardo Da Vinci” the book said and Nazia read the name to herself as “Leonartho Tha Vinsee.”

“What a strange title,” she mused to herself, “must be Russian.”

Russia was the only other foreign country that she knew besides America and England. The title clearly did not sound like it was derived from the English language by what little she knew of it, so by the process of elimination, she figured that the book must be Russian.

As she was wondering what kind of art was this offensive image of a man spread-eagled over the page, she was startled by very loud music that apparently started to play from nothing in particular. She jumped and a small yelp escaped her throat. The music continued for about ten seconds before Bazil stirred in his sleep, but Nazia was too terrified to move. She was bent by the pile of books, a dusting rag in one hand, a broom in the other and Bazil’s jeans folded over her arm. Bazil moved his arm around the bed, apparently searching for the source of the offense. Nazia was very perplexed at his actions and was even more confused about where the sound was coming from. More than anything however, she was terrified of being in Bazil’s room while he was awake. It was quite silly of her, she realized, she had been coming to this room for the last two weeks after all, cleaning around the sleeping form of this young man.

Her legs refused to move as Bazil’s hand finally emerged from under the covers and a moment later his face followed, with his eyes still closed. He held his cell phone in his hand and it was screaming out this melodious music that had broken the peaceful silence in the room with Bazil’s soft snores only making it more serene. With his eyes still closed, Bazil flipped the phone open and mumbled a sleepy “Hello.”

Nazia watched him quietly, without moving a muscle. He had a thoughtful face. Tousled, curly hair framed his face, which looked innocent and unassuming, especially with his full lips, the top one slightly thinner than the lower one, Nazia noticed. She could not follow the conversation as it was in very rapid and slurred English. The only part she did catch was the last “Okay, See you, man.”

And then the inevitable happened. Bazil opened his eyes. They were a deep, rich brown, Nazia noticed immediately. For a moment he looked at her as if he could not focus. Then he blinked. Once, twice, three times. Nazia’s brain suddenly gained control of her legs and she tried to stand up. She had forgotten that she had a broom in one hand, a dusting rag in the other and a pair of jeans hanging on her arm. She lost her balance and fell down, scattering the art books that she had just arranged in a pile. Bazil seemed to react to this with horror. He jumped out of bed.

“What the hell? Who’re you?” he asked her.

“I, I…I, broom!” she said unable to coordinate her speech with her thoughts.

“What?” he asked running his hand through his hair.

He was tall, at least five inches taller than Nazia’s five-foot-five frame. His eyes were confused, but not accusatory. He had a frown on his face, but it seemed to be more out of concern for her than for anything else. Basil noticed a young girl of a petite structure, her smooth sun-kissed brown skin and her piercing hazel eyes looked at him replicating the same expression that he had on his face; which was of utter confusion. There was an uncharacteristic sadness in her eyes, but this shimmer of something somber lurking in her face disappeared when she gave him a sincere nervous smile.

“I, umm, I” Nazia attempted to say again.

At this point, Bazil noticed the broom and the dusting rag that she was holding. Realization dawned on his face and he smiled at her. It was a very kind, friendly and as Nazia noticed, quite dazzling smile.

“I understand. You’re the new cleaning lady. Are you OK?” he asked her, bending down slightly.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Nazia. Now that she found her words again, they just slipped out of her mouth uncontrollably. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Yes, yes Sahib. I am fine,” she said seriously and began to rise from the floor.

“Do you need a hand with that?” he asked extending his arm toward her.

“No, no. I am fine. Thank you,” she said.

“I am sorry I scared you,” he said.

“It’s all right. I am not used to seeing you awake, that’s all,” she said and smiled.

“Oh, how long have you been working?” he asked.

“Two weeks and three days,” she said calculating on her fingers.

“Wow,” he said. “Do you need me to get out of your way?”

“You can go back to sleep if you like,” she said.

“No, I’ll leave. And one thing? Could you change the sheets, please? And oh, my wallet. I haven’t been able to find it. This place is trashed. Could you look for it please?” he asked. He was very polite. No wonder the servants loved him.

“Yes, yes Sahib. Certainly. Right away,” she said.

He smiled. “Thank you. And please don’t be nervous. It’s really my mistake. I scared you,” he said and walked out of the room. Nazia had just turned around and sighed with relief when he came back and she jumped.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you…again! What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nazia,” she said.

“Hi. Nice to meet you, and thanks for cleaning up. And I’m Bazil. You don’t have to call me Sahib,” he said.

“Thank you, Sahib, Bazil Sahib, you’re very kind, Sahib, I mean, Bazil Sahib, Bazil,” said Nazia and with each word she blushed more severely than before.

Bazil laughed out loud, a genuine, unguarded laugh. “You’re quite funny,” he said. “I will let you work now,” and he raised both of his hands in resignation and backed out of the room.

And so ended Nazia’s first meeting with Bazil.

They exchanged a few words over the next few weeks. Sometimes he would still be asleep as Nazia cleaned the room stepping as quietly as she could around his bed so she could catch a glimpse of him. Her heart fluttered every time she touched his clothes and folded them. Her voice left her completely when she ran into him in the halls of the big house and he said hello and asked her how she was doing. Was everything all right? How was her mother doing? Did she need anything? How nice it was of her to find his lost wallet, or the shirt he liked so much and had not been able to find for weeks. She was truly a miracle worker and he was so grateful.

He said these kind words to her in a few seconds and her heart sang for hours afterwards. She thought about him as the cook served her leftovers from the night before everyday. She hummed old Lata Mangeshkar songs as she dusted the railing of the staircase and the pictures on the mantelpiece downstairs. She smiled for no reason, and caught herself just in time so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. Going to Temple Road, walking across the Medical College became the best part of her day. She couldn’t wait every morning to catch the local bus from the station near her house and change three more buses after that to come to Temple Road.

One day she bought jasmine flowers strung on a thread when she got off the bus on Temple Road. She wrapped the string around her head and hoped that Bazil would wake up if he smelled the flowers. She walked happily to the big house and cleaned the downstairs area as quickly as she could. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, which was placed at the curve of the stairs and cleaned her kohl smudged eyes with the corner of her duppatta. She could not wait to go upstairs and get to Bazil’s room. A few times she scolded herself for being so silly. He was the oldest child of a rich industrialist, and she was their barely educated maid. But she was quick to push these thoughts away and instead concentrate on denying all the feelings that she had. She told herself that she only felt this way about Bazil because he was kind to her and this was her way of reciprocating his generosity.

She now finished cleaning the staircase and walked quickly to Bazil’s room. There he was, rolled up in a ball, just as she had expected. She shook her head in an attempt to help spread the fragrance through the room as she picked up his clothes from the floor and folded them. It was five minutes before Bazil stirred in his sleep. Nazia busied herself with straightening his art supplies on his desk.

“Smells nice,” he muttered sleepily.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No. It’s all good. I like jasmine,” he said.

“Oh,” she acknowledged, not knowing what to say.

“I drew it once I think,” he said.

“Oh,” she acknowledged again.

“I better get up,” he said.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“No, no. Don’t be. I had to get up anyway,” he said and got out of bed.

Nazia looked at him as she often did out of the corners of her eyes as he walked out of the room. This short exchange with him had made her happy enough that she smiled the rest of the day, even on her way home as the man sitting across from her on the bus leered at her lustily. On the days that Bazil talked to her, nothing seemed to dampen her spirits.

And then came the damper one fine morning.

Nazia had just started cleaning the downstairs landing of the big house when she heard Begum Sahib and Bazil walking down the stairs together.

“No,” said Begum Sahib as if she had made up her mind about something very
important.

“But, Mama, I like Avari,” said Bazil.

“Bazil, is it not enough that I am letting you go to America at the end of the year? Would you not give me the pleasure of organizing this party for my oldest child, my only son? Your sisters like PC more too, and so does your father,” she said.

“Whatever you want then, as long as Afreen’s parents agree,” he said.

“Oh, they love the idea of Pearl Continental,” she beamed at her son, “and I think the poolside would be an ideal venue for the party,” she said.

“Whatever you want, Mama,” he said smiling at her.

That smile never failed to dazzle Nazia, but today as she heard this exchange between mother and son, a strange dread descended on her heart. She did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.

“Massi,” Begum Sahib called out to the cook.

“Yes, Begum Sahib,” said the cook, emerging from the kitchen and wiping her hands on her apron.

“We have decided to have Bazil’s engagement party next Friday. I want you to cook a meal big enough for twenty-five people tonight. His in-laws will be coming,” said Begum Sahib.

Nazia’s heart sank low into her stomach and she clutched her bucket for support as the world swam around her.

“Girl, clean well today. My son is very happy. He will marry the woman he loves, and she is coming today, our Bahu,” said Begum Sahib as her son put his arm around her.

“Yes, Begum Sahib,” said Nazia as she felt tears stinging her eyes.

Bazil reached into his pocket for his wallet and took a few hundred rupees out.
“Nazia, here’s some money for you. You have been such a big help, bearing with all the mess I make. Please use this money to get new clothes for the party. You must come. We will need all the help we can get,” he said extending the money toward her. Nazia stared at the money and the hand holding it.

“Take it, girl. Don’t be shy. It is a happy day in our house,” said Begum Sahib.
A tear slid down Nazia’s cheek.

“You’re crying,” said Bazil. “Did I offend you? I am sorry.”

“No, no. No, Sahib. You are just very kind. I am deeply touched by your generosity,” said Nazia, hiding the real reason for her grief.

“It is nothing. Please keep it,” he said, edging forward.

Nazia took the money from him and clutched it in her hands as though the money was a souvenir from a far away land. She was feeling too many emotions at once. She felt like her heart had plummeted and settled somewhere in her stomach and at the same time she was bewildered at this reaction upon hearing the good news of Bazil’s engagement. She silently scolded herself for harboring any feelings for her employer, albeit subconsciously. Once again a thought crossed her mind: here she was mere feet away from this beautiful, kind man and his mother who was now fussing affectionately with his hair, but truly she felt as though worlds and millennia separated these people from her. They existed in an alternate reality, a different plane of life that was contained in this big airy house with wide verandas on Temple Road, a million miles away from a small shack on the banks of Ravi, where boxes of charity books offered solace to her. She bent down and started wiping the floor as Begum Sahib and Bazil walked towards the door. She heard Bazil humming a soft tune. She was almost sure that it was an old Lata Mangeshkar song.