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‘What did you see?’ demanded his sisters. ‘We should know.’
Perhaps she’d been too harsh that day. She saw the pearls in his fingers. He’d not even looked at her for the following two excruciating weeks, till at last she’d begged for his forgiveness. That was the last time, sixteen years ago, that she’d ever answered him back. Earlier today, when he called her, she’d simply run away. Now she was left alone with the tortuous guilt of watching him die. No, she wasn’t even allowed to watch. Sitting down heavily beside his sisters, she held her head in her hands.
Another nurse stepped out, followed by Dr Reza, a distinguished colleague of the doctor’s. Dr Reza was exhausted and did not have to say anything. The sisters began to howl. So he had died, as he had lived: outside her presence, in another place.
She shut her eyes, resolving to grow no older waiting for Daanish to return.
3 Girls MAY 1992 (#ulink_44efce10-e31a-5d81-832c-9179cd869571)
It was almost noon and the house had filled with mourners. Daanish had still not awoken. It was time to take a break from the Quran reading. Anu brought out tea and sweets. Several stylish wives were present. Many of them, she knew, could not read the Quran. She watched their lips move, feigning recitation, and wondered if the doctor saw it too. She still felt his presence in the house, absurdly, more even than when he was alive. He had probably watched while she finished re-furnishing Daanish’s room. Had probably frowned when she took away all the books he’d given him, right down to the shelves on which they rested. Would he come down from his new other place to stop her? She believed if God disapproved of her actions, He would tell her. But the doctor was rather powerless now.
All he could do was watch her next move.
While the mourners refreshed themselves with tea, she climbed up to Daanish’s bedroom. He slept, as always, on his stomach. A white sheet covered him from the waist down. His suitcase remained unlocked but on the new white rug she’d thrown next to the new bed lay the few things unpacked from his carry-on: dental floss, a razor, socks, underwear, a novel, a ballpoint pen. The bag was unzipped. She snooped around inside it. Another book; the doctor’s Kodak camera that he’d passed on to Daanish; a lovely eggshell and lacquer box the doctor had brought back from his last trip; an envelope. On the new bedside table lay Daanish’s shell necklace. Anu fingered all his things, trying to understand what they meant to him. With some – the necklace, camera, lacquer box – she knew already. But not the books and envelope. She read the covers: Edward Said, Kurt Vonnegut. She’d not heard of either. Anu mouthed each name several times, softly. The Said had been heavily marked.
She opened the lacquer box. A label in block letters read, BIVALVES. There were a dozen different brightly colored shells, some smooth, others furrowed. Daanish’s note was dated June ‘89 – two months before he’d left. Sheer muscle power. By snapping its two valves, a scallop, for instance, can swim many dozen feet per bite. At the cove one day, Aba first told me about giant clams. ‘Four feet long!’ he said. ‘They live right here, in our very own ocean.’
Anu quietly shut the box.
Next she examined the envelope. It contained letters from the doctor and herself and a stack of photographs. She glanced at Daanish: he neither snored nor stirred. The boy would probably not wake up till evening. Settling on the rug, she began looking through the pictures.
The first few were of Daanish and a very handsome boy with golden hair in a beautiful garden. In some pictures the garden was covered in snow. In others it was ablaze with color. She smiled at her son lolling on the grass, frowned that in one he seemed to be smoking, and panicked when in yet another he appeared to be in a tall tree, balancing the way he always had on a bicycle: standing, and with hands in the air. But always, though dark, he was so good-looking: tall, with his father’s wide amber eyes and his suddenly boyish disposition.
Resisting the urge to wake him up with an embrace, Anu continued on. There was the golden boy with a pretty girl. Then there were girls with no boys. Then there were girls with Daanish.
Anu backtracked.
There was a girl leaning against a tree. Red and yellow leaves scattered all around her. Against the strong colors of her surroundings, she looked especially pale, glassy almost, like a fish. A white fish with hints of yellow on its gills, poised before an orange brocade. Her head was slightly tilted to the left so her right eye seemed larger than the other. It looked directly at the camera, a bluish-green eye.
Anu skipped to a picture with the same girl and Daanish. They were seated around a table, at some party it seemed. Daanish held the girl’s waist with one hand and a drink with the other.
She stared hard at the picture, and neither an eyelid nor a finger moved. Only her mind worked. She backtracked to a picture of another girl. This one was almost his height and had stringy brown hair. She seemed to be dancing in a field of corn and was not as shapely as the other one. Anu skipped ahead: there was Daanish and another tall girl in a dark room with candles all around, and tinsel stars hanging from above. She sat in his lap.
By the time Anu had sifted through all the photographs, she counted six different girls in close physical contact with her son. She thought hard. And came to a conclusion: at least there wasn’t only one. He was distracted, but probably not yet committed. His bride would just have to handle that. After all, she had.
Anu collected the photographs, camera and lacquer box. She contemplated the shell necklace but softening, left it on the table. With the three items in hand, she returned downstairs.
As lunchtime approached, the mourners began to leave. Soon she was left alone to feed the doctor’s sisters. They began complaining that no fresh food had been cooked that day. Her son had come back just that morning, what did they expect? She left them grumbling in the kitchen. In her bedroom she regarded the objects fished from Daanish’s life in his faraway world. She did two things. First, she telephoned Nissrine’s mother to say Nissrine should hasten her arrival at the readings. Second, she returned the lacquer box to Daanish’s room, but with some unexpected debris inside.
4 Shameful Behavior (#ulink_4f61b0cb-3f58-54bc-9f10-ad06ad0c39c3)
The following day, Anu wept proudly as Daanish came downstairs to meet the several dozen friends and relatives waiting to grieve with him. He embraced them all, quietly accepting their condolences, winning the approval of the stylish women who continued appraising him as he walked on. Nodding to each other they proclaimed, ‘A spitting image of the doctor.’ Since he’d left for America, these women had ceased snarling at her. Many had sons who’d not received a full scholarship, certainly not to any college as well-known as the one he attended. They knew this. It was the one aspect of her son’s going away that Anu enjoyed.
The men sat apart. Daanish snaked toward them, passing the girl Nissrine, her mother, and a friend of Nissrine’s called Dia. She was pleased to see Nissrine did not make eye contact with her son, but dismayed that the other girl examined him quite boldly. Even Pakistani girls were like that these days.
Anu watched as his bare feet padded over the white sheets. His toes had grown even hairier than before. He picked up a siparah, and settled down to read. His body began to sway with the rhythm of the recitation. Occasionally, he looked up and gestured reverently at a new arrival. Frequently, he caught her gaze and smiled ever so sweetly.
She knew he was not fluent in his reading of the Quran, and the three years away would certainly not have helped. She had wanted him to continue studying with a maulvi but the doctor had disallowed it after the boy turned twelve.
Now she watched as Daanish seemed visibly relieved when arriving at a familiar passage. She could feel it roll over his tongue smoothly like a jingle. At other times, his facial muscles tightened. It was the same with many of the women, including, to her dismay, Nissrine. She seemed quite hopeless really, her accent still British, her Urdu pathetic. But the family was a good one. There were rumors that her father’s business was dwindling but instead of returning to London, where it had thrived, the family was staying in Pakistan for the girls. Of this, surely the doctor would approve. He was probably chuckling as Nissrine struggled over a prayer for him. And what did he think of Anu arranging the meeting so soon after his death? Would he be surprised? Tickled? Was it eccentric enough for his pleasure or was that pleasure only to be instigated by him?
About one thing he would not approve: Nissrine was a distant relative of Anu’s, ensuring that Anu’s blood, not his, would continue. Her grandchildren would have the same fresh mountain glow on their brow as she did, not his swarthy, sea-faring pallor. And there was nothing he could do about it. Except observe.
Nissrine sat quietly with a pale peach dupatta covering her head. The color became her fine, white complexion, almond eyes, and rosebud mouth. She kept her head lowered. Surely Daanish would take to her. She was not blonde like that other one in the pictures, but she was graceful and demure. Every man wanted to come home to that.
The recitation was punctuated by women pulling their hair and crying, ‘Hai, hai.’ One she barely even knew now clutched her, kneading Anu’s head into a massive bosom. Anu choked, trying both to free her windpipe and straighten her neck.
But then something saved her. A scream. A real scream. The keening ceased abruptly. The wrestler released her. She surfaced again, gasping, adjusting her eyes to the light in the room, painfully bright after the darkness of the woman’s embrace. Tidying her hair she noticed most eyes rested on the lady-like Nissrine, who was shifting discreetly with an arched back. There were murmurs and nudges. Then, slowly, eyes still on the girl, the recitation continued and the wailing started again. Anu quickly moved five feet from the wrestler.
But there was another scream, louder this time.
It did come from Nissrine.
Anu gaped in astonishment as the girl reached frantically for the back of her kameez, pulling it away from her skin as if the cloth were on fire. Her peach dupatta lay bunched on the shrouded floor. Beside her, Nissrine’s friend flushed and her mother shook Nissrine admonishingly. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed.
But Nissrine kept coiling like a cat with a tick on its hip. All the other women in the room began objecting. They pulled on earlobes, muttering, ‘Toba toba.’ It was a terrible omen. Anu swooned, wondering if this was the doctor’s doing. Was he trying to interfere with her plans?
‘Stop it!’ Nissrine’s mother commanded again.
Dia whispered something that sounded like, ‘It’s only a cat’s paw.’
Daanish and several other men entered the room. Two uncles, determined to enforce order, began pushing into the circle surrounding the two girls. But the women barricaded them. ‘Go back,’ they shouted. ‘We know how to handle this.’ An argument erupted between the aunts and their husbands.
Dia was now holding Nissrine’s hand and seemed to say, ‘Catch a petal.’ With her other hand, she pointed at three plump white strings close to the wall. Other eyes settled confusedly on the objects.
‘What’s going on?’ an uncle demanded.
‘What’s wrong with those two girls?’ another pitched in.
The women tried again to send the men away. Daanish, Anu saw, was staring at Nissrine’s friend. His lips disclosed a hint of a smile as he inched closer to the circle. Anu rushed in after him.
Dia’s nose was flushed with excitement. Her blue dupatta had fallen off her shoulders. She kept looking toward the writhing objects on the floor, shaking Nissrine and saying, ‘Stupid, they’re only caterpillars. Silkworms.’ Then she looked around her, stuttering to Nissrine’s mother, ‘I’m so sorry. Sorry. Really, very sorry.’
Daanish was moving in closer. Someone stopped him. ‘Ay haay, hato na! It’s not right for you to be here.’
‘I know what’s right for me,’ he answered firmly, causing both girls to look in his direction. When she saw him, Nissrine started weeping.
‘Oh Nini, let’s just go,’ Dia said. They collected their bags and prepared to leave, hastily bidding Anu farewell. Nissrine was sobbing loudly now, Dia apologizing, Nissrine’s mother enraged and incoherent.
‘Shameful,’ Anu muttered to Nissrine’s mother.
‘Please,’ she replied. The rest of her speech ignited in a ball of fire on each cheek.
Daanish picked up the larvae. ‘What should I do with them?’ he called out to Dia.
At the door, she turned around. Her eyes were large and russet, with dark flints of defiance burning at the center. ‘Find out yourself!’ Then her face crumpled. ‘We didn’t mean this. And we’re really sorry about your father.’ She hurried away.
Anu bolted the door behind her.
DIA (#ulink_67252030-8c76-54ec-a728-abd879089b0c)
1 More Apologies (#ulink_3205cfd9-d754-501d-a885-13daadfe9a37)
‘Look. I said I was sorry.’ Dia leaned into the wall of the dining room, popping mulberries with one hand, holding the phone with the other. The cook was in the next room, watching cricket. No, watching ads. Dia tilted her head and saw the TV: two women were waiting to be interviewed for an airhostess’s job. Cut to the next scene. The one who got it revealed her secret to the loser: a tube of skin-whitening cream. Now she could fly!
Nini’s voice on the receiver was weak from crying. Dia chewed nervously. They’d been on the phone an hour, but her friend had unwavering stamina.
It hadn’t gone the way she’d expected at all. The caterpillars were meant to tweak Nini, not cause such a scene. At the thought of the widow, Dia’s stomach ached. She listened to Nini and it ached even more.
The two had put themselves in many ludicrous situations before, often without the other one’s consent, but it had never caused such a rift. She wondered if this was what happened to women on the verge of twenty.
Desperate, Dia popped three spongy berries at once. She exhaled loudly. The hair framing her forehead fluttered. ‘Listen, Nini. Let’s not make the mistake of falling out because of a man. How many times have we seen that, huhn? And yes, it was rather extravagant of me to put not just one but three dozing silkworms down your kameez but you have to admit you only started screaming when I told you what they were. But forget that now. Just say what you want me to do. I said I was sorry. I’ve said it a thousand times. And I mean it.’
‘How did you come up with such a hideous prank, Dia? You know I hate bugs.’ Nissrine blew her nose loudly.
‘Elephant,’ Dia hissed under her breath. Out loud she said, ‘Yes, I know you hate them. And Inam Gul knows too. When you won’t be my partner in crime, he’s always there for me.’
‘Tell him from me: Grow up.’
Dia popped another berry. It was the sweetest of the lot. She chewed loudly, secretly rather proud of the cook for coming through with yet another wicked plot. If Nini had blown it out of proportion, it wasn’t his fault.
In the other room, a milk commercial was in progress, featuring a heavily made-up woman only too delighted to have her day interrupted by a slew of visitors. This way, she got to make them tea!
‘You don’t understand.’ Nini blew her nose again.
‘What don’t I understand? What? You keep saying that but you won’t bloody-well explain what.’
The whimpering subsided into stifled chokes. Finally, Nini cleared her throat and said in a cool, decisive tone: ‘That boy’s mother sent a proposal for me.’
There was silence. Then: ‘God.’
‘Don’t have a heart attack for me.’
Dia shook her head. Then for who else?
‘My mother asked me. I thought about it. And I decided, well, why not?’
Dia spat the pink fruity mass out and screamed, ‘Why not? Why not? Is that all you can say? Nini, who are you?’
Nissrine clicked her tongue. ‘I knew I’d get a lecture from you. That’s why I kept it to myself.’ She sighed and her voice softened. ‘I want more from life, Dia. I’m sick of being stuck in this house doing what I’ve always done. I want something different.’
‘Oh, Nini. Is any change better than none? What makes you think marrying a stranger will give you the kind you need?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she answered bitterly. ‘After what happened yesterday, his mother will probably rescind.’
‘I would never have gone if I’d known.’
‘I know. That’s another reason I didn’t tell you. I wanted you to see him, Dia. I wanted us to gossip. I knew we wouldn’t if you knew.’ She added dreamily, ‘Even after our marriage. If …’ Her voice trailed.
Dia paced, disgusted. Nini needed to be shaken back into her old skin. But it was as Nini said: now that Dia knew her intentions, she’d no idea what to do. Walk around Nini gingerly? How? They’d never been cautious around each other, ever.
Nini waited. Dia decided to use the strategy that had brought them together in the first place, when their math teacher paired them up to solve a sum, advising: ‘When in doubt, count your fingers.’
‘Let’s talk about the pros and cons, Nini,’ Dia spoke gently. ‘First the cons. One, you don’t know the boy. Two, his father’s just died. Three, he’s an only child. Four, he’s an only child and an only son. Five, he lives in America. Summary: he’s all his mother has, so she’ll be even more possessive of him than the usual mother-in-law. He’s having a blast far from her in America, probably living it up with women there, while a teeny tiny voice in his brain nags him of his duties to his Ami jaan and country. So, when he’s had his fun, to pacify his guilt, he’ll be ultra-protective of Ami jaan (who’ll symbolize the nation), and ultra-conservative with his wife (who’ll symbolize his authority in the nation). But mind you,’ her voice had risen uncontrollably. This was no good but she couldn’t help herself. ‘He’ll want to keep his American self alive too, just for fun. We all need good times, right? Now the pros.’ She paused. ‘You tell me the pros, Nini.’
The answer was sharp: ‘Have you ever used your delightful powers of analysis to find out why you’re so arrogant? You haven’t met him either, Dia, so your assumptions are just as unfounded as mine. Yes, many men are like that. But maybe, just maybe, he’s different. After all, you seem to think you’re different. Face it Dia, you need a man in your life too, and you won’t ever know if the one you pick is better than the one I do.’
Dia was stunned. It was not simply the hateful tone that stung like a physical blow. It was the knowledge that so many women fell into just this trap: arguing, or just plain fretting, about men. On the other hand, there was an unspoken agreement between men: Woman was not a topic worth mentioning, unless she aroused them sexually. But Man was a topic women devoured from every angle. Dia was certain this was the most obvious yet neglected reason for their disparate positions in society: time. Women spent it on men; men spent it on men.
And now here she was, spending close to two hours today, and several hours yesterday, cogitating emptily about one of them. Didn’t Nini see how silly this was? How typical? How dangerous?
She longed to stop the clock right here. ‘Please let’s not fight. You do what you want. I’m just sorry about yesterday.’
Nini waited. But Dia had nothing to add.
Outside, Pakistan took a wicket and Inam Gul stamped his feet. The screen cut to the milk ad again. The woman carried out the tea from the kitchen looking refreshed and jolly. The reason for her bouncing spirits was that she got to use the milk! The guests consumed the tea in record time. The camera focused on her husband who said, ‘Begum, chai?’ So she scurried back to the kitchen in ankle-wrenching stilettos, her gold bangles ringing with jubilation.
Dia thought: Nini should have auditioned for the role.
Then she ached with remorse again.
After a long pause, which Dia was terrified of breaking, Nini spoke. ‘You asked before if there was something you could do. Well, I’ve been thinking. If his mother decides not to revoke her proposal, well, your support still matters to me. So, will you be here when he visits with his mother? You’re still my sister, Dia. Still.’
Dia smacked her forehead in dismay. ‘Of course.’
In a tremulous whisper, Nini cooed, ‘My mother needs me to acquiesce. You’re lucky your mother doesn’t depend on you to give her life meaning.’ She hung up.
Receiver still in hand, Dia muttered, ‘Let’s hope your daughter is lucky like me.’
Moving to the front of the house, Dia bitterly wondered how many parents had shrunk their daughters’ worlds to fill their own. She stooped for her sandals, eager for the oasis that was her farm. While struggling with the buckle, she glanced up at the wall. The face that greeted her was her father’s. It was framed in ornate gold that was as false as the portrait. His painted jowls did not jiggle, his lordly mustache was reduced to a blanched apple peel, and his eyes seemed to have stepped into the wrong room, where a film about his life was in progress. The reel had gotten stuck right when he was being kidnapped so he’d no choice but to see the moment over and over again. His life was in the painter’s hands and every time she stood here, Dia wished to submit the painter to the same torture.
She hadn’t told anyone, not Nini, nor the cook, that the Quran Khwani yesterday had brought back painful memories. For forty days after her own father’s death, she’d sat like a statue in this house, and learned something valuable: some mourners came to grieve, others to collect gory details. Still others arrived to clutch the frozen Dia and shower her with pity, and yet more helplessness. ‘Allah malik hay. God decides.’ That was the message they’d pounded into her. You’ve no control over events. So why bother making anything of your life, little lady?
Yesterday, when she’d apologized to the widow and her son, she’d meant it.
The cook, who’d been snubbed by his favorite of the three children ever since she returned home yesterday, shuffled woefully toward her. ‘Have you forgiven me yet, my child?’ He stood below the portrait.
‘Oh, Inam Gul, it wasn’t your fault.’
He stroked her head. ‘Then come, let’s watch TV.’
‘The mood’s gone.’
His nose tried to smell the air. ‘What does Nissrine Bibi say?’
‘Have you been eavesdropping again?’
‘No!’ He stared in horror.
