Last year, my family planned to celebrate Eid-ul-Fitr at our village in Layyah. I was very excited as it meant seeing my dear cousins once again. But celebrating Eid in Layyah turned out to be pretty boring.

We, the cousins, did gather at our granny’s place but the weather ruined our special day. It was extremely hot and there was no electricity for one whole day! Eid was spent fanning ourselves with hand-held fans, washing our faces and drinking icy cold water. Our fancy clothes made us even more uncomfortable. In short, we didn’t enjoy a bit.

Usually, when we visit our village, I urge my father to stay longer than planned but this time, I along with my sister Bakhtawar, requested him to return home as soon as possible. My mother, who too felt sick, suggested that we leave the very next day. We sisters too nodded in approval. Without any objection, my father agreed, bringing a smile on our faces.

Thus on the second day of Eid, we set off for our home in Islamabad in our car driven by my father. It was an exhausting eight-hour journey for me, but not for Bakhtawar, who slept all the way on the backseat with her head in my mother’s lap. It was about three in the afternoon when we reached home. The sun was shining brightly and there was not a single person in the street.

My father unlocked the front door and ordered us to check all the rooms in the house immediately. He then went to the market, very near our house, to buy some food. Though all of us were feeling tired, we started checking the house.

Bakhtawar and I were in the first floor’s living room and our mother was in the ground floor when her terrified voice made us jump.

“Girls,” she called, “Come down here at once.”

Praying for everything to be all right, we ran downstairs and found our mother trying to open the door of the ground floor lounge.

“I’ve unlocked it by the key but it won’t open,” she said, her voice filled with anxiety.

“We’ll open it, mother. You must be really tired right now,” I said.

My sister and I took turns to open it. Both of us pushed it together too, but the door wouldn’t move. Panting, the three of us stared at each other.

“It seems as though the door is locked from inside, doesn’t it?” my mother whispered.

All of us were fearing the same thing. It was Bakhtawar who said it first. “Father has gone to the market. So, is someone else in there? A thief, for instance?”

“Maybe,” said my mother fearfully.

Without thinking, she started banging the door real hard. “Whoever’s in there? Come out!” she shouted. “We won’t harm you.”

“But that person will harm us,” I muttered under my breath.

“Mother,” said Bakhtawar. “The person in there isn’t going to come out like this.”

We then waited for any response. But no one opened the door or said anything.

My mother then sat on the stairs, her face white with fear and declared, “Wait for your father.”

“But father might take time in coming,” cried my sister. She too looked terrified. “The thief can escape by that time. We’ll have to do something ourselves.”

She then pointed at me and said, “Mariam, go and stand in the balcony at the back of the house. If you see the person escaping from the backside, shout really loudly.”

“Mother,” she said, turning towards her. “Please keep watching this door. I’ll go and call the police.”

“Not yet ....” my mother tried to argue but I interrupted, “Mother, it’s time to call the police. The door is locked from the inside. There is surely someone in there.”

Bakhtawar took out the cellphone to call the police while I rushed upstairs, to the backside balcony. Our father hadn’t arrived yet. A new fear started to grip me. Why was my father so late? Was he all right? Terrible thoughts came to my mind and I started sobbing. After a few minutes or so, I heard the police siren.

“Thank God!” I whispered. As I was getting restless, I couldn’t stay in the balcony any longer and I ran back downstairs. I found my mother telling the police the story with my sister’s help. At that moment, my father arrived too.

“Father!” I shouted and hugged him. My father was very surprised to see policemen at our house.

“What has happened?” he asked. I told him everything. The look of puzzlement on my father’s face turned to a worried expression as he listened to me.

He had a go at the door himself but the result was the same. “Seems like we’ll have to break open the door,” said one of the policemen. Before my father called our landlord for permission to break the door, he, together with the policeman, pushed the door one last time. And to our great surprise, the door opened!

My father, looking happy with himself, went inside with the policeman. My mother, sister and I remained where we were. We had not expected this as we thought that the door was locked from inside. After about half an hour, the policeman came out followed by my father, who looked deeply embarrassed.

“We’ve searched all the rooms. There is nothing missing. Everything is all right,” he declared.

There were sighs of satisfaction by my mother and Bakhtawar.

After the policemen had got my father’s signatures and my mother had thanked them, they went away. I went out on the street as their van vanished from view. Looking around, I saw some neighbours peeping out of their windows, curious as to why the police had come to our house. I was relieved that we hadn’t called any of them and faced more embarrassment.

I went back inside. My sister caught my eye and we burst out laughing. My mother smiled calmly too, but we couldn’t face our father. He was angry at us for calling the police so quickly. Quietly, we went to our room to have some rest.

Later on, we discovered that the door got stuck whenever it was shut with too much force. A year has passed since that event and whenever we remember it, we laugh our heads off (including my father). However, I have a confession to make — we have never been as fearful as we were that day.

Published in Dawn, Young World, September 1st, 2018