Stealing Nasreen

by Farzana Doctor

  “It’s that serious? You’re thinking about marriage?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. It has been really nice. And she takes good care of me. You know, when I was sick, she was really good to me. She brought me chicken soup.”

  Shaffiq nods, visualizing Angie with her blue eyes spooning Ravi broth.“You think it can work out with a Canadian? In the long run? They are so different from us Ravi.”

  “Well, I didn’t think so at first. But love is love, right? Why should it matter about our differences?” Ravi sighs wistfully, like a romantic protagonist in a Bollywood film protesting society’s confines. “We can overcome our differences.”

  “But those are big differences. Don’t underestimate them. You’re talking culture, and religion on top too.”

  “That doesn’t matter to us. That stuff doesn’t matter in Canada. I mean, look at you and me,” he says pointing to Shaffiq and then back to himself. “Would we ever have been friends in India? A Hindu tailor and a Muslim accountant?”

  “Well, I guess things are a little different over there, but –”

  “Then tell me this Shaffiq. If Salma was an Italian with blue eyes, would it matter to you?” Shaffiq hesitates, trying to imagine Salma with blue eyes and paler skin. He frowns and Ravi persists, “Look Shaffiq, it would be nice to settle down with someone. I mean you have Salma and your daughters. I am pretty much alone over here. It would be good to have a wife. And maybe down the road, a houseful of babies.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I hope it works out for you, Ravi. I really do. But remember that having a family is a blessing, but it is also a big responsibility. A big responsibility. You don’t know about all that as a bachelor. Marriage has its struggles.” Shaffiq sighs heavily.

  “What? Is something wrong at home? With the kids?” Ravi places his hand tentatively on his friend’s shoulder.

  “It’s not a big thing. It’s nothing really. We’re fine.” Shaffiq shifts his posture slightly and Ravi lets his hand fall from Shaffiq’s shoulder.

  “Come on, tell me. You don’t look very fine right now,” Ravi insists.

  “It’s just that, well, I don’t think Salma is happy here.” Shaffiq gets up and paces back and forth in front of Ravi. “She is having trouble feeling settled, you know. And suddenly she is changing. Developing a new interest in religion. Spending time at the masjid. That’s not normal for her.”

  “It takes a while to feel at home here. I, myself, was homesick, very badly homesick for three, even four years. And what’s the problem with her going to the masjid? That’s good for women, no?”

  “It doesn’t feel like my Salma.” Shaffiq stops his pacing. “Something is bothering her and she is turning to religion instead of talking to me about it.”

  “Give it time, Shaffiq. Things have a way of working out in time. Maybe for me too.”

  Shaffiq sits down, suddenly feeling tired. “Inshallah, Ravi. Listen, I’ve been meaning to invite you over for dinner sometime. Salma is eager to meet the man who eats her samosas and compliments her on her cooking. Maybe you and your Angie could come over sometime soon? Maybe next week Sunday or the week after?”

  “That’s very nice, Shaffiq. I was wondering when I was going to meet your family. And now you can meet Angie. I’ll ask her,” he answers, obviously pleased by the invitation.

  “Good. Salma will like meeting some new friends. It’ll do her some good. These days she only meets the old biddies at the mosque.”

  Chapter 12

  “NASREEN, IT’S YOUR FATHER. Call me back.” Nasreen pushes the delete button on the answering machine and goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She fills the kettle, opens the cupboard door and scans the selection of teas lined up in their colourful boxes. She considers Raspberry Fields, Chamomile Dreams, Licorice Lullaby. She reaches for a big tin of mint and then hesitates. This was Connie’s favourite, the tea that accompanied them during evenings together on the couch, watching movies, or after dinner talks. Of course that was before, while they were still good together, before the relationship went bad. Did we pass our expiration date? Nasreen wonders. She chooses a mug that flirts with her in small, insincerely shy letters, “dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians” and drops in a bag of decaf orange pekoe. She scans the cupboard for something sweet and hastily eats three chocolate chip cookies. She starts on a fourth when the phone rings. She munches down the cookie, wipes her mouth and then answers the phone.

  “Nasreen, it’s me, your father.”

  “Hi Dad.”

  “I called earlier, did you get my message?”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet, I just got in a few minutes ago.” She pours the hot water into the mug, watches it slowly turn from amber to brown.

  “I just called because I wanted to know if your work has travel insurance in the health plan. I bought insurance for me and thought you should get some too.”

  “I don’t think I have that in my plan. What were you thinking? Health insurance?”

  “I bought everything: health, cancellation, lost baggage, the works.”

  “We need all that?”

  “Yes, just in case. You never know what will happen. We forfeit the free trip if we have to cancel at the last minute, but there’s no loss if we have the insurance. Given everything is free so far, I thought we might as well buy the expensive insurance. I’ll call the travel agent and get it for you then.”

  “Why would we need to cancel at the last minute?” Her father rarely does anything at the last minute.

  “Well, you know, it doesn’t hurt to plan for the unexpected. I’m getting older, and well, who knows what can happen,” Bashir says, hurriedly.

  “What, Dad? What are you worried about? Is something wrong?”

  “Arré, I’m not saying that. There is nothing to worry about. We all get house insurance in case we get burgled, or there is a fire, or something like that, but we don’t know if or when it might happen. Cancellation insurance is like that. It is simply a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Speaking of that, have you made an appointment to get your shots? You should do that soon.”

  “Right, I’ve been meaning to do that.” After a few minutes of small talk Nasreen hangs up. She absent-mindedly leaves her tea in the kitchen and goes to bed. She is grateful when Id joins her there.

  Later in the week, Shaffiq checks his watch and calculates the time left in his shift. Just two hours and ten minutes to go. He deserts his cart and takes the elevator up to the fourth floor to share his break and snack with Ravi. He doesn’t feel like keeping his own company tonight.

  He surveys the east wing and then the west but doesn’t find his fellow janitor, who must have moved on to another floor by now. Disappointed, Shaffiq eases himself in a metal waiting room chair and unwraps the aluminum foil from around the pakoras Salma fried yesterday. He happily bites through the spiced gram flour coating to a slippery onion. Salma cooks better than his own mother, a compliment Shaffiq has learned does not impress Salma much. Early in their marriage Salma impatiently rolled her almond eyes at him and said, “Yeah, thanks a lot. Really, Shaffiq, as though I aspire to perfect every one of your mother’s recipes,” and returned to marking some grammar assignments. Shaffiq knows what does matter to his wife and pays her compliments accordingly: her teaching, her quick wit, and her mothering, in that order.

  He uncaps his thermos and pours himself a cup of tea. Not hot anymore, but still warm. He wonders if his daughters will care about Indian cookery, if they will want to learn this craft from Salma, or if they will be more interested in hamburgers or pizza. For Salma, there was no question that she would learn to cook even if she was a teacher. But for his young daughters, he is not even sure what the choices are, what the options will be for them once they become more Canadian than Indian. In just two years, they are beginning to seem different. Will they turn out to be like that Nasreen with her
polished boots and Canadian accent, familiar yet so foreign to him? Does Nasreen even know how to fry a pakora?

  Leaving behind his thermos and snacks, Shaffiq meanders down the hallway and stops at her doorway. What impulse takes him there? Why this strange curiosity in a woman he has met briefly, exchanged pleasantries with, who is really not so interesting? Come on, he chides himself, it must be simple attraction, right? She has long hair and a curvaceous young body and he is a man. Isn’t that how it goes? He sighs. It’s not as simple as that. Something about her bothers him, even repulses him slightly. She is too western for him, too un-Indian. And yet at the same time he wants to draw nearer, to understand this strangeness. His mind lingers on these thoughts only for a moment before he reaches for his master key. He inserts it with his right hand and turns the doorknob with his left, taking care to avoid touching the door with his greasy fingers. He has a moment of hesitation in which he imagines the protagonist of a crime show hunting him down, his oily fingerprints the telltale clues left behind. He pushes the door open, switches on the desk lamp, and shuts the door gently behind himself. He takes a moment to quickly wipe his hands with his handkerchief.

  In the dim light of Nasreen’s office, Shaffiq spies the gold box resting at the back corner of her desk. Sitting down in her ergonomic chair, he reaches for it gingerly, lifts the lid and looks inside. He sifts through the box, scanning the photos within, seeing nothing very interesting. There is a photo of her with some friends at what looks like a party in someone’s home. He wonders if that is where Nasreen lives. Then there is a glossy of a big brown cat, looking menacingly into the camera, a snap of some flowers, a postcard from someone writing with a messy hand from Vancouver. He flips through them all a second time, coming back to the party shot. It’s missing. Where is Nasreen with the blond girl? He replaces the box to its original place and disappointed, he gets up to leave. He pushes the chair back in and knocks over the garbage can under the desk. As he rights it, he sees that it has already been emptied.

  When Shaffiq returns to the waiting room, he finds Ravi looking keenly at the aluminum foil package that holds Salma’s pakoras.

  “Ah, there you are. I was just walking the floor to see if I could find you. Have you had your break yet?”

  “No, I wanted to finish upstairs first,” Ravi says, gesturing to his cleaning cart heavy with two large garbage bags. “I see you brought some goodies?”

  “Yes, go ahead, finish them off. I should get back to work in a minute or two. My break is over. Why don’t I take those bags for you on my way back down?” Shaffiq says, trying to affect a casual manner.

  Ravi pops a large pakora between his teeth. His mouth full, he holds his hands up in a show of resistance. “Arré, no need to do that, Shaffiq. I’ll do it later.”

  “Absolutely no problem, my friend.” Shaffiq hoists the bags and waves at Ravi as he hurries to the elevators.

  “Alright then, thanks. And tell Salma that she makes truly great pakoras! Oh by the way, dinner next Sunday works for Angie. Is that day still available for you and Salma?”

  “Sunday? Oh yes, perfect. See you then.” Shaffiq smiles as he enters the elevators and presses the ‘B’ button. He is away before Ravi can call out to him about his forgotten thermos.

  Shaffiq leans over the large stinky bins, letting the contents of Ravi’s fourth floor bags drift slowly to the sticky plastic bottom. With his right, rubber-gloved hand, he sifts through it, searching. After the first bag is emptied, he opens the second, hoping to find treasure amidst filth. Halfway through, he discovers it. Nasreen’s face is smeared with something sticky, which he wipes clean with his glove. The other girl’s face is scratched up with the deliberate marks of a pen, as though someone has tried to scribble out her image. He drops the photo into his pocket and throws the rest of Ravi’s second bag to the bottom of the bin. He doesn’t stop to consider what a middle-aged Indian man digging in the garbage must look like to anyone who might be watching him.

  Chapter 13

  MIRANDA ARRIVES FOR HER third session dressed in a tight black lycra top with dark blue pants. Shiny silver and black mandalas circle the thin cuffs at her ankles. Nasreen recognizes the designs from her last trip to the mall. Recently the fashion industry has exploded with India chic, splashing Sanskrit, Hindu icons and sub-continental designs over belts, t-shirts, dresses, and now, the cuffs of pants. She nearly bought the same pair herself last week, but Mona dissuaded her from the purchase, complaining about neocolonialist forces appropriating and profiting from their cultures and religions. She added that the designer in question also had poor labour policies and sweat shops in Guatemala. Nasreen put the pants back on the rack and bought a pair of Levis instead.

  Chunky silver bangles matching the mandalas on her cuffs circle Miranda’s wrists, clanking against each other with each movement, creating an effect that strikes Nasreen as deliberate chaos. At the same time, Miranda’s wrists and ankles somehow balance each other with a measured symmetry. Nasreen wonders if she wore this outfit on purpose, for her benefit.

  Miranda takes off her coat, snaps open her Palm Pilot and then sits down. “I thought we could schedule the next few sessions ahead of time. My schedule is really quite tight in the next couple of months, so I need to have these sessions locked in well in advance.” Nasreen rises to get her black, vinyl covered agenda book. Is this a sign of commitment, Nasreen asks herself.

  “That’s fine with me.” The two women negotiate times for the next few sessions. This takes close to five minutes, with Miranda juggling her schedule out loud. “No, not the twelfth. I have a big deadline then. How about the thirteenth after three p.m.? No, the thirteenth won’t work either. I’m planning a surprise wedding shower for my friend … OK, then the fourteenth at ten a.m.? Perfect.” When they finish, Nasreen puts her book down and waits for Miranda to put away her electronic agenda. She doesn’t. Instead, she clutches it tightly in her lap.

  “Some people consider me kind of anal. Type A, you know. My life is scheduled so far in advance, it doesn’t leave much room for spontaneity. You must think I’m obsessive.”

  “Well, I don’t know you very well yet, but I would say that there is nothing pathological about wanting to schedule our sessions in advance. Do you view yourself the way your friends would? Or differently?” Nasreen deftly skirts the question. This is not about what I think, she reminds herself.

  “I suppose I do sometimes. I trust my friends mostly. I take lots of jokes for being the one who they need to book three weeks ahead. Or when I start yawning at nine o’clock. I start my day at four-thirty a.m. I need to go to bed by ten.” Nasreen calculates the number of hours Miranda sleeps. Why would anyone get up at four-thirty, she wonders. Without at least seven hours, she can’t manage to get through the day without looking like a zombie. The last time she got up at four-thirty was probably to catch at flight to India. Her mind wanders to the details of her upcoming trip: will the departure be at some god-awful time? Will she have to stay over in Mississauga the night before? She brings her focus back to Miranda, who has just said something she missed. She guesses, or rather hopes, from Miranda’s bland expression, that the comment wasn’t very significant.

  “Last time you were here we started talking about your mother and the impact that she’s had on you. Shall we continue with that this week?” Nasreen knows she may be rushing Miranda to get to the important issues, but she is impatient. She wants this therapy experience to be better than Miranda’s last. Actually, Nasreen has been considering Miranda all week, her mother’s suicide, and what she imagines to be its impact. She even brought Miranda’s case to her peer supervision session this week.

  “Yeah, OK. I spent some time thinking about that this week, as you suggested. I made some notes in my organizer but I forgot to make a copy for you.” Miranda holds up her Palm Pilot but doesn’t open it.

  “That’s all right.” Nasreen says, leaning forward slightly
. Why don’t you just tell me what you came up with.”

  “Well, I know I drink to keep those feelings away, but I think I also try to control everything as a way to cope,” Miranda says, almost cavalierly, “But that would have started when I was much younger. My mother’s depression may have contributed to that. You know, when I was younger I used to label all my bookshelves and sort my books by genre,” she adds looking over at the bookshelves above Nasreen’s desk, which are orderly, but definitely not in alphabetical order.

  “What in your current life is like that?” Nasreen asks, following Miranda’s eyes roving from the bookshelves, to Nasreen’s messy desk, and back up toward the bookshelves.

  “Well, my schedule is one of the things I order, as you can see,” she says, making eye contact again with Nasreen, “and my drinking is pretty orderly too. I keep it fairly secret, I even measure my drinks, I buy only the best wines, which I research and keep track of in my Palm.” She holds up her electronic organizer. “This thing holds everything together. I am probably the most controlled drinker you’ll meet. Except that I can’t seem to control my drinking.” She smiles at Nasreen, who is pleased with the direction of their conversation.

  “Kind of a paradox, isn’t it?” Miranda nods and then gazes at the wall behind Nasreen. “Miranda, I think that it is important that we keep on the topic of your mother and her death. It may be difficult to talk about and very tempting to avoid the topic, but I recommend that you try to stay with it.” Nasreen feels compelled to push. “What feelings came up this week about her?”

  “Well, I thought a lot about what she might have been like the few hours before she killed herself,” Miranda says quietly. She pauses, looking past Nasreen, and then continues, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “I wondered what she was thinking and feeling and why she did it, especially since she seemed so much better, you know, more alive than she’d ever been. I wondered if she liked being depressed more than, well, normal,” she says without emotion. She sniffs, then coughs.