We stepped outside the car that had stopped right in front of the stairs that led up to the foyer. Abu Bakr nodded his head towards the entrance and with a small hum he motioned for us to go in as he busied himself in sorting out our luggage.
The place looked somewhat clean, but the ludicrous furnishings that it bore still made it unbearable to be in. I could ignore the overt and dramatic gothic fixtures but the massive oil portrait of Dadi that hung over the fireplace gave me the chills; it was like she wasn't dead after all like her body had just transferred into a massive-ass painting that would greet us every time we entered the house.
'what's up with the creepy portrait? She still scares the shit out of me and she ain't even alive!'
'Stop it Omer enough already she is our grandmother and she just bloody died so show some respect for the dead' Ino hissed at him with a frown.
'I do respect her death, but is that creepy oil painting really necessary I mean-
'*Bari sahib's daughter painted that portrait of her with her very hands and it was her wish that upon her death we hang it here and greet her every morning' Abu Bakr's voice boomed as he walked up and stood before us after having dealt with the luggage. (*Bari Sahib is an Urdu term meaning Grand lady or in this case the owner of the household and the woman in charge). He was as loyal as they come. I remember overhearing some conversations during the course of my yearly visits to the haweli over the years. Abu Bakr had been rescued by my grandmother from a bunch of crooks or something like that when he was a young boy and she kept him ever since then as an errand boy who would serve her tea and refill the tobacco in her hookah in exchange for shelter food and work. Old age has seldom changed him though; he still had that pompous moustache it was streaked with white now but still large and truly copious with its ends curved upwards, his back was slightly bent but his shoulders still remained muscular and sturdy. His eyes were just as expressionless as I remembered if not more and he wore the same white shalwar kameez with a turban which was always either dark brown or black but never any other colour.
'Dadi's daughter? You mean our father had a sister, we-we had an aunt' Hamza's eyes were confused and wide as he questioned Abu Bakr.
It did sound very weird. I still remember my parents very vividly. My father, in particular, had never mentioned anything about having a sibling we knew of his only relative: Dadi. Baba never even talked about his father. From what I gathered his name was Gulam Haider and he was very fond of hunting partridges with his dogs, smoked a pipe and died during the partition between India and Pakistan. Not much really, the haweli was filled with his hunting equipment displayed around and some of the infamous taxidermies that were part of Dadi's collection were his hunts.
That was all we knew about him. My little flashbacks of Baba were interrupted however when Abu Bakr cleared his throat before answering Hamza.
'You still have an aunt' Abu Bakr informed his face not even vaguely faltering.