Make Me Your Villain

Chapter Eight

Hayat Azhar

Scampering out the vast gates of the haveli, I hurried down the street to my house.

Humiliation and degradation drowned me and despite not wanting to, my eyes burned as tears prickled out, soaking my cheeks.

What kind of an awful trick was life playing on me?

The guy I wished to never see again ended up being the same guy who owned the house where I was supposed to work as a maid.

I found the patio empty when I got home and was thankful nobody could see the miserable state I was in.

Ammi was probably preparing something for dinner and Sania would be studying right now.

Without greeting anyone, I scuttled up to my room and locked the door behind me.

My chest was constricting. I covered my mouth with both palms and sobbed quietly.

Poverty was so ruthless. It rendered its victims helpless. If I wasn't poor, if I wasn't needy, things wouldn't have been bad to such an extent of having to go to that person's house, to beg for their help.

His eyes.

Those sage-colored eyes filled with bitter mirth, that scornful gaze, the way he racked his eyes over me in patronage; I could still feel its intensity all over me, I could still remember how worthless and distasteful it made me feel.

I lost track of time, crying my heart out until my eyes ran out of tears.

Then, I made up my mind.

No matter what happened, I would never step foot inside that Haveli ever again. There was no way I'd be working there anymore.

It wasn't like we'd starve if I didn't work there. There had to be another way I could earn money. God will help me find a way.

After washing my face and patting my eyes to smooth out the puffiness, I grabbed the five thousand note and left the room.

I was going to hand this crinkled note to ammi and tell her to return it to the Maliks and decline their offer. I was not going to back down until she was convinced.

The electricity wasn't back yet but with the bright glow of the moon, I noticed ammi in the veranda and approached her.

Lines of worry were stretched across her features. Before I had the chance to begin narrating my sad story, she started her own sad tale.

"The electricity guys cut our wires this morning!" she cried out, leaving me speechless.

She walked to the charpai and collapsed on it. "They told me to pay two thousand rupees or we won't get the electricity back. Where am I supposed to get two thousand from? I still have to pay Sania's school fees and we haven't bought the groceries for the month yet—I had to make tea without sugar today!"

I stared at my mother, unblinking. Her words sliced through my chest; I felt what she was feeling. But what was I supposed to do?

My mother's eyes fell on the note poking through my fingers.

"Where did this money come from?" She reached forward and opened my palm. My fingers spread out like some sort of a machine. I was frozen in my spot.

"The Malik Sahiba must've given you this. May Allah reward her." Holding the money in her hand made my mother happy, so happy that she didn't notice the color draining from my desolated face.

What was I going to do? What could I even do?

Problems were piling up day by day. Was I supposed to fight the war of my self-respect or the fight of my family's destitution?