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The story so far: Iqbal has been helping the Liberation Front investigate child labor abuses. Fatima and Maria are working for them, too.
One dull, rainy day at the beginning of November, Eshan Khan called Iqbal and me into his personal office.
"Every year a company called Reebok, in the United States, in the city of Boston awards a prize that's called 'Youth in Action.' It's given to a young person who has done something of merit in any country in the world."
"I know Reebok," insisted Iqbal. "They make shoes. I've wanted a pair for months, but they're too expensive."
"The prize is fifteen thousand dollars."
"How many rupees is that?" I asked.
"More than we can imagine. This year the prize has been awarded to Iqbal. Now you're famous all over the world and everybody knows about our fight against child labor. It's a victory, Iqbal, and it's all thanks to you. You and I will go to Boston to receive the prize. But first we'll stop in another country, Sweden," he said. "There's going to be an international conference on labor problems. People will be coming from all over the world. They want to hear you speak."
It was like a dream. It was difficult for us to believe that others, faraway, knew about our suffering. Just a year before we had been working at our looms, some of us chained to them. And now all those people wanted to listen to Iqbal!
"There's more," said Eshan Khan. "A university near Boston has given you a scholarship. It means you'll be able to get a degree to become a lawyer. Today there's good news for Fatima, too. We've found your family. You'll be going home."
My heart jumped. Home! I could hardly remember it. And my mother? And my brothers and sisters? Suddenly I wanted to cry because I was so happy.
The next two weeks just flew by. The house boiled over with activity, everyone running from one end to the other, getting things ready for the journey. I have memories of Eshan Khan talking into three microphones. Of a stranger wandering around, taking photos of all of us. I should have made him give me one--at least I'd have that now.
One day I came upon Iqbal all alone practicing the speech he would give in Sweden and in Boston. He tripped over every sixth word, and then said, "Come on, Fatima, help me!" so I took the written speech and gave him the right cues.
"Every day in Pakistan seven million children get up before dawn, in the dark. They work all day, till evening. They make rugs, they make bricks, they work the fields, they go down into the mines. They don't play or run or shout. They never laugh. They're slaves and they wear chains on their feet "
And he ended with:
" So long as there's a child in this world who is deprived of his childhood, a child who is beaten, violated, nobody can say 'It's not my business.'"
Some time after that, in a rare afternoon of quiet, Eshan Khan's wife took me in her arms and said, "Poor little girl." Then she explained that my mother was dead and that now my brother Ahmed was the head of the family. He was impatient to see me, because he had plans to go far away, to Europe. He wanted to take me and my little brother Hasam with him. I was going home to my family after Iqbal's departure.
Maria promised to keep me informed about everything that went on.
The last night Iqbal and I were together, we talked, just as we used to in Hussain's workshop. We talked about a lot of things. At dawn the next day they let me ride in the car with Iqbal and Eshan Khan to the airport. With a loud roar the plane took off and flew higher through the sky. Iqbal had taken the biggest kite.
A few days later I was taken home. My brother Ahmed was now a man. Hasam, the youngest, was taller than me. Gradually, I began to recognize objects that were once familiar to me. I cleaned, I cooked, I helped in the fields, just like my mother had done. I didn't know anything about my brother's plans. The days and weeks passed. I finally received a letter from Maria. I ran to read it outside.
She said, "Here everything's going well." Maria had spoken to Iqbal, who was fine. He told her all about the speech he had given in a big city called Stockholm. He hadn't tripped up once. All those well-dressed people had stood up and applauded him. They had welcomed him warmly in America, too. In Boston, everybody wanted to meet him. She said she would write again. "Kisses, Maria."
Winter passed, and no letter came.
"We'll be leaving soon," my brother Ahmed said.
"They've forgotten me," I thought.
My mind went back to the kites, to Iqbal standing tall next to the carpet he had cut; to the night we crawled to the Tomb to help him.
Two days before we were supposed to leave for Europe, I saw the man who brings the mail in the distance. I watched him as he came along so very slowly. I won't say I had a presentiment, but simply that at a certain point my eyes started crying.
Atheneum Books for Young Readers; New York, London, Toronto, Sydney, Singapore; Atheneum Books for Young Readers; An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division
