Imperious

Chapter 4

Be not, then, faint of heart, and grieve not for you are bound to rise high if you are (truly) believers. (Quran 3: 319).

Sarwat Begum, stood in the foyer, a cluster of local journalists standing before her.

Her torso was encased in a beige coloured shirt, matched by a sharara of the same colour. Her grey hairs were smoothed back, running below the scarf that half covered her head, before sliding down to rest on her chest. The widow's small neck was decorated with an elegant set of white pearls, bordered by a leafy gold design that matched the earrings adorning her ears.

Mehrisa, Juwad and Sahm slowly entered the foyer, fazed by the presence of a camera man in their foyer. This sort of attention was not welcome in their home. The Jatoi Manor was a private sanctuary; business was dealt with outside.

A microphone was edging its way towards their grandmother's lips, a portentous man holding it before her. Another man, presumably in his forties, stood aside, a notebook firmly fixed in his tanned hands. The camera man was the youngest of them, his lens nor his eyes missed an inch of detail. The device roved towards the children, capturing their mortified expressions.

Sahm raised his brow, "I think he zoomed into me, and he probably got my moustache in the shot."

"The reasons behind this are unclear to me and the anguish that you have caused my family by forcing yourself into my Manor cannot be expressed in polite words," she remarked in her suave voice; a dialect she had developed whilst roaming amongst the military elites in her early marriage years.

"Begum Sahiba how are you coping with this situation? Your sons aren't here and after the death of your husband, no such tragedy has befallen you all. When are your sons coming?"

"When my sons come, you shall know, for they will break down the walls in which my granddaughter was burnt," she declared, "But until then, you must go and leave us in peace. Keep us in your prayers, not in your cameras."

And with those words, the head of the Jatois' henchmen, a veteran wrestler, strolled into the foyer and sharply signaled for the journalists to leave. His scrawny eyes threatened physical consequences if they were not to disappear themselves. The group were the fourth to have arrived since the incident and he too was now tired of kicking out man after man.

Sighing in relief on their departure, she made her way to the set of sofas, and took the largest. She then propped up her feet onto a foot stool and pulled out a small silver box containing betel leafs. With her nimble fingers, she unlocked the box and produced a dark looking substance before popping it into her mouth to chew.

Sahm, Juwad and Mehrisa followed her to the chair, lowering their heads so that she may pat them in blessing.

"Walaikum-Asalaam," she responded to her grandchildren's greeting very gingerly, "Lunch has been prepared for you. Go and eat."

Without a flinch or a question, they sped out of the foyer.

"And how is everything working out, dear Sarwat Appa?"

Sarwat Begum turned her head a fraction to face her sister-in-law, Deema Begum, (the widow of her deceased husband's younger brother). Deema Begum wore similar attire to her elder sister-in-law, though hers was bordered neatly by a navy blue strip. The gold bangles in her arms clinked as she signalled her sister-in-law to sit back down when she attempted to rise in recognition of her arrival.

"I do not have an answer for your question yet."

"You do not have the answers to any of my questions regardless of whether they were asked in the present or the past," Deema Begum, chortled, "But still, I ask them anyway."