“Yeah, OK, very nice imaginary tea. It tastes so good, yet strangely imaginary,” she says sarcastically, half-heartedly sipping from the tiny cup. Shireen sticks her tongue out and Saleema impatiently smacks the side of Shireen’s head.
“Mumma, Daddy, she hit me! Saleema hit me and she spilt the tea on the carpet.” She runs behind her father and clings to his arm.
“Stop it you two,” Salma’s tone is stern and the girls go quiet.
“I don’t know why you have to hit, Saleema. Be civilized. If you wanted Shireen to not bother you, then tell her, don’t hit her. Use your mouth, not you hands,” Shaffiq lectures his eldest daughter. She sniffs as though threatening to cry but then he sees her rolling her eyes just before they disappear behind her book. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with Saleema. Ever since they moved to Canada, his sweet and quiet child has been swatting, swiping, and grabbing at her younger sister. And now this eye-rolling! Shaffiq slurps down his irritation along with the rest of his real tea.
“OK, the tea party is over. I have to go take my bath.”
“Fine, Memsahib and I will finish our tea and then we can all go for our walk when you are ready,” she says, her eyes following him into the bathroom. “Right Daddy?”
Nasreen spends the trip home from Mississauga meditating on photos and gnawing through an Oh Henry and a Coffee Crisp she bought from the station vending machine. She spreads the glossy images across her lap, trying to keep them from slipping off her thighs, while the train rocks unsteadily. She gazes at Connie and herself, a couple just about to come undone. They look unhappy, their eyes glassy and devil-red from being shocked by Bashir’s flashbulb. She fingers her ex-girlfriend’s slender figure, and feels a dull pain in her chest.
At Mimico, a harried looking woman and her preschooler board and settle themselves in the seats across from her. The little boy cranes his head forward, attracted by the sweet smelling chocolate. He tries to steal a glance at the glossy snapshots and so Nasreen gathers them together and stuffs the last of the chocolate into her mouth. She looks out the smudged window the rest of the trip home, avoiding his young, curious eyes.
Entering her apartment, all Nasreen can think of is how hungry she is even though her stomach is full. She paces through the apartment while Id watches her. She checks her messages. There is just one from her father, “Beti, it’s your father. Thanks for coming over. I had a nice time … look, try not to think about all the sad things so much. Things will be better with time.” And after an awkward pause, “OK, bye bye now.” She hears a beep, and stands at the machine, her finger hovering over the delete button. She changes her mind and saves the message.
She heads to the kitchen, opening cupboards and then banging them closed again, looking for something to munch on. Then, she forces herself to sit down on the couch, trying to hold herself together by keeping still. It doesn’t work. She goes back to the kitchen, rummages the cupboards like an angry raccoon and eats a few vanilla sandwich cookies while a bag of popcorn sputters in the microwave.
She knows about the psychology of these things, has studied and written about them in fact. The Incidence of Eating Disorders Among South Asian Girls in Canada, her fraudulently objective Master’s thesis, received high marks and praise from her professors. She understands that the persistent thoughts of food and her frequent visits to the fridge and pantry to retrieve one sweet thing, then one salty thing – the calorie-reduced cookies followed by the olives, followed by the frozen yogurt and then the low-fat popcorn – must mean something. She sinks into the couch, her fingers salty from artificial butter flavour and thinks, OK, what do you feel Nasreen, what is it that you need? Her chest aches and her parched throat holds back the tears she is not interested in shedding. What do you feel, godammit!
She gets up and paces the living room. She heads toward a bookcase and extracts a photo album labeled Fall 1998 to – . It sits on the shelf beside Summer 1996 to Summer 1998. And Fall 1995 to Spring 1996. She flips through the cellophane-covered pages, looking at a photo of her father, smiling, balding, an arm around her mother. They stand together in front of the house, wearing matching red windbreakers, holding each other against the cool winds of autumn. They seem to be sharing a joke. A few pages away she and her mother are outside, shoveling snow during the biggest snowfall in the history of Ontario, the year that the mayor of Toronto called in the army to clear the snow. In the next photo, she and her father pose in front of the plastic Christmas tree they have pulled out of the basement and resurrected every year since Nasreen was small. In another photo, her mother, father, Connie and Nasreen sit formally around the dinner table, waiting for the automatic timer on Connie’s camera to hurry up and take the picture. Nasreen remembers that she and Connie had just started dating earlier that year. They felt so optimistic and stupid with love that they rushed to introduce one another to their families. Both sets of parents were polite and cautious at first, but the couple’s devotion seemed infectious, drawing the elders into their children’s enthusiasm for one another.
Nasreen continues her tour through the year and arrives at a photo of her mother perched on the side of her hospital bed. She wears a floral print housecoat over a standard-issue hospital gown. She is having a good day. It must be her birthday because she is posed with a gift in her lap.
“Come on, hurry up and take the photo, Nasreen, your mother is getting tired.” There was a click and a flash that momentarily illuminated the grey room.
“Thank you Beti,” Zainab said wearily, “I’m okay Bashir. What’s this present you two have given me? You already gave me a gift each. This is too much. Why one more?”
“Open it and see, Mom.” Zainab carefully peeled back the cellotape, removing the wrapping paper without ripping it.
“Just go ahead and rip it, Mom.”
“Has your mother ever wasted one iota of anything in her life?” Bashir said, a proud smile stretching over his weary face.
“Nope, and why would she start now?” Nasreen laughed, and then saw her father’s expression change, realizing her faux pas. The family had carefully avoided discussions about Zainab’s impending death. Nasreen wished she could take the words back. Zainab, oblivious to the new tension in the room, continued her slow, focused, unwrapping.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Zainab whispered, holding the framed photograph two feet away from her, squinting her eyes, “Nasreen, get me my glasses, will you? They are in the drawer over there,” she said, pointing across the bed. “Yes, there.” Eyeglasses in place, she smiled at the family photo in front of her.
“It was Dad’s idea.”
“We took those pictures over a year ago but never got around to displaying them properly. I thought you’d like one for your nightstand.”
“What a lovely thought. Thank you both. I’ll keep it right here, so that I can see it while I’m resting.”
“You want to try some cake, Mom?”
“No, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it down.” With a grunt, she swung her legs onto the bed. “Nasreen, why don’t you wrap it up and take it home to share with Connie?” Nasreen wondered how to tell her mother she had to leave, never knew how to end her hospital visits, feeling simultaneously like staying there twenty-four hours and escaping at her first chance. She picked up her bag and looked at her father.
“I’ll drop Nasreen off at the station and come back again in a couple of hours, then.”
“I’ll be back soon, OK Mom? Maybe not this week, but the weekend for sure.” Zainab nodded and Nasreen embraced her mother, trying to hide her wet eyes.
There are no more photos after that. Nasreen takes out the paper label from within its plastic sheath and fills in the date: Fall 2000.
Chapter 5
SALMA OPENS THE DOOR of Asima Aunty’s Saab and gathering up her ridah, she carefully leans out of the car to avoid getting her hemline wet. She hurries to catch up to Asima
, who is already at the opposite end of the large parking lot. She is not Salma’s favourite relative, but she is her only family in Toronto, the one who hosted the Paperwala family for three weeks until they found their own place. She taught them the intricacies of getting a phone number, a bank account, the mysteries of the subway system. She knew things that Salma didn’t, like that you don’t have pay each time you transfer from one bus to another, that aluminum is pronounced aLUminum here and not aluMINium, that mittens are warmer than gloves. Salma gratefully accepts her help. She needs it.
Since coming to Canada, Salma has felt moorless, unsure of herself, a kind of uncertainty that she hasn’t been able to shake. Asima Aunty, on the other hand, always appears convinced of things and Salma enjoys the vicarious feeling of security she feels in her presence.
Finally just two steps behind her, Salma follows Asima Aunty up the long cement walk to the mosque. Salma looks up at the imposing white structure, recently erected by the local community on a large parcel of land just off the highway in north Toronto. She watches her stop every few steps to greet the other congregants who reciprocate with their respectful salaams. She introduces most of these to Salma, who nods and smiles before they move on to the next person. Once out of earshot, Asima’s commentary to Salma is more acidic, muttering under her breath warnings such as “stay away from that one, she is a filthy back-stabber” or “there are rumours that her daughter is going out with a Canadian boy.” Asima continues her tirade, “but what to do? This seems to be the way things are going. I’ll do my best to not have that happen to my Sherie.” Salma frowns, considering Asima Aunty’s cheeky sixteen-year-old daughter. Just last week Sherie confided to Salma that she has a new boyfriend her mother knows nothing about. And he is not Muslim or Indian in the least.
At the top of the steps, Asima Aunty stands back while Salma pulls the heavy door aside for her. Asima takes a sweeping look inside and announces, “there looks to be a poor turnout today. It seems that some people think that they are good Muslims if they appear for Eid and the big occasions. What about the other days?” Salma remains quiet. Her own unholy family has not been to mosque since last Eid. “I really think that people need to return to their communities, the traditions. Just look at how children behave these days. I am so glad that you have joined me today, Salma. Just give it a chance. Soon you will want to be here as often as you can too,” Asima adds.
“Well, we’ll see Asima Aunty. I don’t have that much time, with my job and the girls –”
“Really this is such a haven from the crazy North American way of life! I wish Quaid would come here sometimes with me. You know he works too hard and never feels peace.” Uncle Quaid, Asima’s husband, effectively evades Asima and her calls to prayer through his stubborn workaholism. Salma doesn’t blame him. She found those first few weeks at Asima’s house difficult; Aunty Asima is not an easy woman to live with.
They make their way to the right side of the hall where the women sit, segregated from the men by a thick, dusty sheet rigged up by wire from the ceiling. Asima makes a point to remind Salma that theirs is a progressive mosque. “Yes, the women are separated from the men, as is instructed, but not behind them. Side by side is how we pray. This way we all get to see everything. Now that is equality, Salma.” Salma gazes at the shadows cast by the men on the other side of the divider.
They continue to the front of the hall. Although they’ve arrived after many others, there is a small clearing left open at the very front where Asima’s friends have congregated.
“See, we saved a place for you, Asima,” titters a small woman wearing a pale yellow ridah. “And look you brought Salma! How nice. I haven’t seen you here for some time.”
“You remember Ben Nishreen, don’t you Salma? And this is Taslima and Farida.” She points to the other two women seated nearby, who smile agreeably up at her from the floor. Salma takes each woman’s damp hand in her own and smiles pleasantly back. She looks around, admiring the sea of soft peaches, corals, pinks, light greens, and yellows sluicing around her. She sits down and the women shift, their ridahs rustling as they create more space for her.
Across the cloth divide that segregates the congregation by gender, Bashir listens to the imam lecture. He strains to follow the words, understanding more or less what is said. His Gujarati feels rather rusty and he wonders why the holy men seem only to be able to speak in the most academic of ways. He shifts his position on the floor, tucks his left leg under his right. He looks around and wonders if everyone else is following the high language. Who else here is getting lost, bored, uncomfortable? Almost in answer, he hears giggling on the other side of the heavy drape. Bashir smiles, turns his head to listen. The sound is so familiar to him, he would recognize it anywhere.
Zainab. Such a unique laugh she had. Her laughter was infectious, the sound of a light delightful squeal. Some other men around him look over at the divider with irritation. Bashir hopes that the girl loses control again; he wants to hear that sound once more. Soon she is laughing again, this time more quietly. He hears urgent whispers and shushing sounds.
Zainab? Do you remember, like I do? Do you remember how you loved to laugh? Your laughter would take you over and sometimes you laughed out loud in the worst possible places. Like here even! And do you remember, Zainab, that time back when Nasreen was younger, we all went out to see a movie, a very sad one about a woman who had cancer. What was it called? Oh yes, Terms of Endearment. At some point in the film, Zainab, you made a silly comment about something and then before long you and I were in the middle of a long, loud laughing fit. Others around us started to notice and Nasreen tried to quiet us. So embarrassed she was.
Bashir listens for the laughter again, envisioning his wife just across the curtain, fantasizing that she will meet him on the front steps when the prayers end. He permits himself the luxury of longing for her. He smiles and sighs and then his reverie is over when he recalls that they stopped coming to mosque when Zainab was diagnosed with cancer. She lost interest in prayers when she became sick, giving up her faith at a time when others might have renewed theirs and so they both stayed home.
So, Zainab, what do you think about my return to the mosque? How different we are from each other, really. Do you think me silly for coming back after my test results? Do you think me a fool for retreating back to religion? I hope you are not still angry with God. I suppose you wouldn’t be anymore, right? From where you are? Suffering and anger and hate are all supposed to be gone once you leave this earth, right?
Salma listens to the imam talking about the importance of maintaining the fast during Ramadan. She finds his words compelling and wonders what Shaffiq would think if she fasted this year.
Salma feels a soft tapping on her left shoulder.
“You should come visit us sometime, Salma. You live in the west end, right? We’re not too far from you,” whispers Farida. She smiles and Salma notices that one of Farida’s front teeth is badly stained, “My youngest daughter is ten. You have a daughter that age, too, no?”
“Yes, Saleema is nine,” Salma says too loudly. Asima Aunty shushes her. She lowers her voice, “That’s nice of you. I don’t know too many people here.”
“Your husband is an accountant?”
“Well, yes. But he works in a hospital now.”
“How great. Being an accountant at a hospital is a good position.”
“Well, actually –”Asima Aunty shushes them both again.
“I’ll get your number from Asima, later,” Farida whispers as she turns back to the imam.
Bashir’s reverie is interrupted by movement around him. More than a hundred brown men of various heights and girths, lift themselves to their feet and begin to move out of the hall. He follows the crowd, joining the awkward shuffle of pious men whose legs and feet have gone numb from sitting cross-legged. In the hallway they form new lines with the women to reclaim shoes and coats. A few fee
t ahead of him Bashir sees a woman wearing a light blue ridah who smells like spring flowers. He lingers behind her, taking in her familiar scent, following his memory. From this angle, she could be his Zainab, she is just the right height and weight. And look! She even fidgets like Zainab while she waits for her shoes. The blue-swathed woman turns and he sees that her soft brown face and dark eyes are not his Zainab’s. His eyes water as he looks away from her and he is relieved when she finally collects her belongings and steps away from the line. He collects his loafers and windbreaker and leaves the mosque. The thickness of grief settles in around him and is the passenger that accompanies him on his drive home.
Back in the parking lot, Salma stands beside the car and pulls her ridah off.
“Arré, Salma, you should not remove your ridah until you are inside the car. It doesn’t look good.” Salma obediently hurries into the car and closes the door. “So, did you like it, Salma? Will you join me again?”
“Yes, call me when you are coming next.” I have nothing better to do, Salma thinks. And it wasn’t so bad, was it? “Farida and some of the women talked with me and invited us over to their homes.”
“Great. I’m glad to hear it. You know I’ve been worried about you, all alone in your apartment out there. You must meet more people.”
“Asima Aunty, it’s not that bad. I do go out and work and I’m teaching Gujarati to one student now. And I have a nice neighbour, who has children the same age as Saleema and Shireen. She’s very nice and watches the children sometimes.”
“Is she Indian or Canadian?”
“She’s from Jamaica.”
“You should be a little careful, Salma. Here, at the masjid, you can be sure you will meet mostly quality people. But you know, the area you live in,” she hesitates and then continues, “I know it is what you can afford right now, but it is not what you’d call a good area.”
Stealing Nasreen Page 6
