Read The Lost Pearl (2012) for Free Online Page B

shelf filled with books for me to read, while another had a stereo set up for me to enjoy songs of my choice. The room was painted an apple green, my favorite color, and a light but cozy comforter with green and purple flowers covered the bed. Everything was new and fresh, and more importantly, it had all been prepared especially for me. This was my new abode, my escape from my past life. I loved my aunt and uncle, and they did the best they could to fill the void within me. I had had a terrible thing happen to me, but it seemed that my childhood would bear no resemblance to that of Jane Eyre’s.
    I embraced my new home, as I did my new family. I resembled my aunt more than I did my mother, and that helped make the transition smoother. Phuppo worked part time and had rearranged her schedule to fit in with my school hours. She was motherly and affectionate, showering all the love that she had saved up inside her. The only thing she needed to work on wasensuring that my braids were even and symmetric, and that my parting was straight enough to match my mother’s skilful hand. My uncle seemed pleased with my presence, regularly bringing home my favorite chocolates and borrowing books from the library after thoroughly researching what I liked, but it took him several months to assume the parental role. It gave me enough time to ease into my new surroundings, to gain the confidence of opening the refrigerator as I pleased, and use the telephone for long distance calls as I wished. Everything seemed very quiet at first. My aunt and uncle were accustomed to the silence, having suffered through the pain of childlessness for a decade. They had accepted this life for themselves and had welcomed me as the bloom of an unseen spring in their empty garden.
    There were hardly ever any guests, especially not uninvited ones. Neighbors did not randomly knock on one another’s doors, although everyone was very cordial and rather meticulous about waving hello. One did not wake up to the sacred sound of the
Fajr Azaan
, the call for prayer signaling the break of dawn. One could not hear the loud water tankers barging in through the gates at early hours of the morning, as I had been used to, or the doorbell ringing for the newspaper man, followed shortly by the milkman, who was regularly admonished for the declining quality of the milk he delivered. One could not hear the sound of crows that invariably found their way onto the grill-covered windowpanes or the soft singing of the
koyal
, which dominated the skies in the mango season, arriving promptly in the middle of every May. The night did not end with the shrill whistle of the street watchman reassuring all of his presence and wakefulness. Most of all, there was no Sahir to chase after, argue with, or laugh uncontrollably with. I regretted all the times I had yelled at him for being too loud and not letting me complete my homework, watch my favorite television show, or simply have some peace and quiet.
    The weather was not too different from that in Karachi; it was mostly hot and sunny, except for the evenings, which were several degrees cooler. Also, indoors one seldom felt the wrath of the heat, owing to air-conditioning that was both effective and ubiquitous. My aunt would always ensure that I took my jacket along or an extra layer of clothing, as well as an umbrella, to protect myself from the unpredictable cold and rainfall. We were often invited to dinners on weekends, mostly at the houses of Pakistani families, where the socializing was pleasant but more extensive and formal than what I was accustomed to.
    On weekdays, everything was dead quiet. I was hesitant to walk to and from the restroom at night, afraid that the creaking of the wooden floors would wake my uncle from his restful sleep. In the mornings, I welcomed the rhythmic rumble of the dishwasher and the sound of Michael mowing his lawn next door. They were both effective at overpowering the incessant ticking of the wall