In her bedroom, she stripped off her sweaty tights and leotard and tossed them in a black and pink heap at the back of her closet. She stood on her bed and studied herself in her dresser mirror, holding in her gut, feeling disgusted and ashamed. She exhaled, clutching her stomach fat between her fingers, pulling it out as far as it could stretch. Then she turned around and did the same with her hips, her buttocks and thighs, craning her neck to view the results. She was revolted by her reflection and in her ten-year-old wisdom, resolved to go on a diet that day. She was way too fat to be a dancer.
She made up an excuse to miss her Monday night class and then another for Thursday evening. Her father grew worried about her sudden disinterest in what had become her favourite activity. By the third missed ballet class, her mother complained, “Nasreen, these classes cost money, you know, and we have paid Mrs. Harlingen until the end of the next month already.”
When it came time to register for summer activities, Nasreen decided to follow her mother’s urgings to take Gujarati classes on Monday nights at the Mississauga Community Centre. On the way there one night, her mother suggested that her daughter take a ballet class once a week on another day.
“Come on, Nasreen, why not keep up your ballet skills. You’ve already learned so much. Don’t you want to be in the Nutcracker anymore?” she teased, while they waited at a red light.
“Those classes are stupid. And they’re boring. And anyway, I won’t ever get picked to have a part like that. They don’t pick girls like me.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with you?” The light changed then and Nasreen could feel the car lurch forward as her mother pressed on the accelerator too hard.
“My stomach is too big and my bum is too fat. If Miss Harlingen didn’t pick me for the recital, then that means I won’t get picked to be in the Nutcracker.”
“Did she tell you that? You are not fat, Nasreen.” Her mother looked like she was going to get angry, or maybe cry. She pulled into the community centre parking lot.
“No. But I know because I didn’t get picked and the skinny girls did. But I don’t care,” she said, sullenly, “dancing is stupid anyway.” Nasreen stepped out of the car and into the warm summer evening, stomping ungracefully heel-to-toe, heel-to toe, across the parking lot to the big doors. When she looked back, her mother was still there, parked but with the engine running, watching her pensively.
On the fourth floor, Shaffiq passes Nasreen’s slightly ajar door, and he hears her voice, “OK, Asha, just give me two minutes. I just have to turn off my computer and pee and then I’ll be at the front doors.” Shaffiq moves further down the hallway and opens the door next to hers. He empties the garbage, barely noticing its contents. Then he hears a door slamming. He pokes his head into the hallway to see Nasreen striding away hurriedly. Before he can think what to say, she is gone, out of reach. He opens her door next and steps inside. The desk is cluttered with files and papers. He picks up the garbage can and then sees the gold box again. He hesitates a moment, then reaches for its glittery cover.
“Oh sorry, I forgot something,” Nasreen says.
“No problem, just emptied the garbage.”
“Thanks. Bye,” she leaves as quickly as she arrived.
Heart pounding, Shaffiq curses himself for almost being caught, for being so sloppy in his curiosity for the second time that evening. He hurriedly leaves the office, almost tripping over her garbage can on the way out. He finishes the rest of the corridor quickly, his mind racing at the thought that she may have seen him touch the gold box. At the end of the hallway, he sits down for a moment in a waiting area and replays the encounter with Nasreen Bastawala, remembering her blank expression, the unaccusatory eyes. Finally, he manages to calm himself convinced that no harm was done.
On his way to the elevator, he inspects the floors, looking for what James would discern to be obvious messes. Then he detects something shiny on the yellowing linoleum. He bends down, picks up a small silver teardrop earring. He holds it up to the light and admires its luster and shape. Pity there aren’t two of them, he thinks. If there were, he would give them a polish and take them home to Salma. He puts the earring on a shelf in his cleaning cart and continues down the hallway.
“Hey girl, ready for your first Gujarati lesson?” Asha calls out the window as Nasreen approaches the old burgundy hatchback.
“I guess so,” she says, opening the car door, “but this isn’t my first lesson. Remember? I was forced to take classes when I was ten. I couldn’t stand it and eventually my folks gave up and took me out of the class. I remember us reciting the Gujarati alphabet to some folk song. How useful was that?” Nasreen says, buckling up.
“Hey, did you have to take garba classes too? There were a whole lot of us uncoordinated girls wearing fancy dress and dancing around with sticks in some Aunty’s basement. I’m lucky I didn’t take out someone’s eye.”
“No, but I think we did that at parties a few times. And at the time I thought it was so uncool to be Indian, you know. I didn’t like any of those kids. I just wanted to be out running around the neighbourhood with my white friends from school.”
“Sounds like the old internalized racism had already hit and sunk in its teeth by then, hmmm?” Asha speeds up as she overtakes a lumbering streetcar.
“That was my treasured surburban girlhood. So what’s this Mrs. Paperwala like?”
“She’s a real Aunty type, you know, wears the cardigan over her salwaar kameez. Hair in a big bun,” Asha says, with a knowing smile. Then, as though to correct herself she adds, “But she’s not that old, really. She’s nice. Used to be a teacher in India. Her daughters are kind of cute. The few times I’ve been there the little one’s been a bit clingy, hanging off me the whole time. I’ve never seen a husband. I think there must be one, but he hasn’t been there when I’ve been there.”
“Well, let’s get this over with then.”
When Nasreen walks into the small apartment with Asha, all three of the Paperwala females look up simultaneously, transfixed. Shireen stops her imaginary tea-making, her mouth gaping and silent for a precious moment, her eyes focused on Nasreen’s tall shiny Barbie-like boots. Saleema, too, is distracted from her reading, closes her Harry Potter book absentmindedly, losing her page. Salma looks a little too long at Nasreen’s round eyes, her lipstick-stained lips and soft breasts and notices that Nasreen does not avert her eyes either. Asha watches the interchange for a second, fails to identify what she is sensing, and feels the need to interrupt the strange stillness in the air.
“Mrs. Paperwala, this is my friend Nas. Did you get my message? I told you I was bringing her along to try out a class. Nas, this is Mrs. Paperwala and her daughters Shireen and Saleema.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Paperwala. And you too, Shireen and Saleema.” She says, smiling at each of them. She surveys the humble apartment. The air is heavy with the familiar smells of deep frying and incense.
“Of course I remember. Welcome Nas. Please, what’s with all this formality?” Salma says, her arms opening graciously, “Why not call me Salma?” Asha wonders why she has not heard Mrs. Paperwala’s first name before. Shireen scampers forward, takes Nasreen’s hand and pulls her toward the low coffee table that is set for tea. She shoves Memsahib in Nasreen’s face. She is at a loss for words in front of this new creature but manages to say, “this is my doll.” Her voice is small and tinny.
“Oh, that’s a nice doll.” Nasreen smiles generously at Shireen, crouching down to look at Memsahib. She is not used to children taking a liking to her. She looks up to see Saleema’s eyes following her and then retreating furtively behind her book again.
“Why do you have only one earring on? Where is the other one?” Shireen asks, her verbal skills returning. Nasreen probes her naked left earlobe and then the right one, feeling the familiar smooth silver of the earrings her mother had given her on her twenty-eighth birt
hday, just six months before she died. Nasreen has been wearing them almost daily since. Even in the shower. Shireen climbs onto Nasreen’s leg and peers at the side of her face.
“Maybe it fell out when you took off your coat?” Saleema asks, scanning the floor from the living room to the foyer.
“No, I noticed you didn’t have it on when you got in the car today,” says Asha.
“I guess it must have fallen out. Why didn’t you say something in the car, Asha? I wonder where it is. I got these earrings –” Nasreen stops, looks up at Asha, recognizing worry in her friend’s eyes, “Oh well, it’s nothing. I’m sure I’ll find it.”
“You can’t just wear one. That will look silly.”
“Shireen, leave Nas alone. Stop asking so many questions. She is here for a class with Asha. Nas, is that Nasreen for short?” Nasreen nods. “I once had a school friend named Nasreen. She was a lovely girl,” she says looking into Nasreen’s eyes intently and long enough to make Nasreen’s face flush. “Come, let’s sit down at the kitchen table and we can go over what Asha and I did last time so you can catch up, Nas,” she said, steering her guest away from her precocious child and over to the table.
Salma, Asha and Nasreen review basic Gujarati greetings, the weather in all its incarnations, the numbers one through ten. The students haltingly chant the days of the week forwards and backwards while Saleema observes and Shireen giggles at them.
“Mumma, why don’t they know how to say Saturday?”
“Because they have lived here since they were young. Here they didn’t learn Gujarati,” Salma says patiently.
“But even I know more words than they do.”
Nasreen looks at the small girl, feeling a little silly, the familiar shame of not being Indian-enough. “But see, I know it now. Shanivaar,” she says, smiling self-consciously at Shireen.
“You two should make sure you practice so you don’t forget how to speak,” Asha says to the girls, “I wish I had learned when I was younger. It’s so much easier to remember this stuff when your brain is young.”
“Ravivaar, somovaar, mangalvaar,” Shireen singsongs the days of the week as she hops around the kitchen.
“But nobody speaks Gujarati here. It’s not important. Why would you two bother learning now?” Saleema asks.
“Budhvaar, guruvaar, shukravaar, shanivaar.”
“Saleema, it is good to know the language of your homeland. Asha is right, you should practice with us more.” Salma says. Saleema rolls her eyes at her mother and returns to her book. Salma sighs and turns her attention back to her students. “So why are you girls trying to learn Gujarati now?”
“Well, my father just sponsored his mother – my daadi – and she’s living with my parents now. I thought it would be nice to be able to communicate with her. I’d like to do an oral history of her life before she gets too old,” Asha says, sitting tall in the kitchen chair. Salma smiles politely at her and then reaches for Nasreen’s arm and holds it a moment.
“And you?” She says, her eyes widening. Nasreen traces the amber patterns in Salma’s brown eyes and tells her about the trip to India she and her father are planning. Salma’s hand is warm on her arm and she doesn’t feel like pulling it away.
“How much time do we have to get you ready before the trip,” asks Salma, and then as an afterthought, “and for you to be able to do your interviews with your daadi?”
“Well, there’s no hurry for me. My daadi is living here now and so it’s just a question of –”
“Good. Plenty of time. And you Nas?”
“Until December. In about two months.”
“Well then, you two girls just keep coming until then and soon enough you will be able to speak to your old daadi and you will be able to charm everyone in Bombay.”
“Isn’t it called Mumbai, now?” Asha corrects.
“Only the young people call it that. And the foreigners. The rest of us still use the old British name – it’s hard to break that habit.”
“You think I can learn enough to be able to converse by December?” Nasreen asks.
“If you practice in between classes. And we can set up extra classes if you’d like that.”
Soon, the lesson is over and after turning down an offer of fresh paranthas, the students leave the Paperwala apartment, the weight of three sets of wanting eyes heavy on their backs.
When Shaffiq arrives that morning, the apartment is blissfully quiet, except for a soft snore coming from his daughters’ room. He looks in at his children in their bunk beds and watches them a moment, their covers rising and falling with their breathing. Salma has told him that Shireen has begun to snore since coming to Canada. Shaffiq wonders if this is a strange manifestation of immigration angst.
“Shaffiq. Come to bed now.” He is surprised to find Salma awake. She smiles at him mischievously, throwing back the covers. She wears a lacy black nightie, a daring wedding present given to her by her teacher friends in Bombay. He has not seen Salma wear it for many years and it still looks very good on her, the translucent black lace stretching tautly over her breasts and hips. The few extra pounds Salma has put on since having the children make her all the more delicious-looking.
“Come Sweetie, I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her voice sounding sly and inviting.
He wastes no time stripping off his janitor’s uniform and then dives into bed beside her. She holds his face tightly and kisses him hard, then rolls on top of him, pinning his arms down over his head. For just a moment, Shaffiq questions whether he has wandered into the wrong apartment, and if this is really his wife. He opens his eyes and looks into his darling’s eyes, marveling at his wife’s sudden peak of libidinal energy. He allows his brain to stop thinking when her soft warmth washes over him, covering every inch of his body, heating his skin.
At six a.m., while Shaffiq surrenders to sleep, Salma lies wide awake, observing her husband’s stubbly face, soft shoulders, and heaving chest. She pulls off the too-tight lingerie and wonders what force took her over just minutes earlier. She and Shaffiq haven’t been together like that for some time, but everyone says that things slow down after you have kids. Salma looks at the clock again and decides to get out of bed and start her day.
She pulls on her housecoat and closes the bedroom door quietly. In the kitchen, she fills the kettle, and then leans tiredly against the counter waiting for it to boil. Looking out of the open kitchen door, she surveys the still-dark apartment, noticing that Shaffiq has left the hallway closet door ajar. She tries to slide the closet door shut, but it gets jammed on something, and so she turns on the hallway light and crouches down to inspect it more closely, seeing that the rubber edging of the runner has come undone. Just another thing to fix in this shabby apartment, she grumbles to herself.
As she stands up again, she glimpses the black garbage bag encasing the new painting from Asima Aunty. She had left it there at the back of the closet, out of harm’s way, until she could go out and buy some picture hooks. In the days following, she had forgotten all about the painting. Touching one corner of the frame poking out of the garbage bag with her index finger, she feels a brief swell of contentment ride up her body. This will look nice on the livingroom wall, she thinks.
Chapter 7
THE NEXT MONDAY WHEN Asha and Nasreen visit the Paperwala apartment, Salma wears a light shalwaar kameez. Her hair is long and loose, a silver clip holding it off her face. She greets the women nervously at the door and Nasreen thinks that she gets a whiff of floral perfume from her as she takes Nasreen’s coat. The apartment is tidy and quiet and instead of dolls and toys on the living-room coffee table, there are a few books and other trinkets.
“Good to see you both again. Have you been practicing the phrases? Khem cho?” Salma self-consciously brushes some hair off her face.
“Majama chun,” replies Nasreen, dutifully. “Where are the kids? No w
ait, I know how to say that.”
“Ha, hun practice karunchoo. Baachaoo kaa che?” says Asha, stealing Nas’s thunder.
“Very good. Barabar. Boh fine che. Shireen and Saleema are down the hall at the neighbours tonight. Her kids are the same age so they play there often anyway. I decided it would be better to leave them there for a couple of hours so I could teach without any distractions.” She guides them into the kitchen. “Tonight I thought we could focus on some of the conversation you will need to have with your family in India,” she says looking at Nasreen. “Of course this should be helpful with your daadi as well, Asha.” Asha tosses a raised-eyebrow glance at Nasreen, who catches it and blushes.
“That sounds good. I guess that would be a good place to start,” Nasreen says. Asha folds her arms across her chest and nods unconvincingly at her teacher.
“So let’s pretend I am your cousin and I am seeing you after many years. Khem cho? Dubri pari gai? Have you lost weight?” Salma asks. Asha laughs.
“Yeah they always hone in on the weight thing. What’s that about?”
“Actually, they usually ask me if I’ve gained weight, I think. How do you say that?” Nasreen says testily.
“Jadi thai gai.”
“Uh huh. That’s it. That’s the greeting I usually get,” Nasreen says.
Stealing Nasreen Page 8
