“So maybe it’s time to yell a little.”
Nasreen looks up at Therapist, feels the edges of her eyes moisten, then fill, and before she can think to find a way to stop it, they overflow.
“That was entertaining,” Salma says, just after Ravi and Angie said their goodbyes, “You can tell that they are new together.”
“Arré, they couldn’t stop mooning and kissing, even when we sat down to eat dinner! And then she started to spoon-feed him! If I had known that they would behave like this, I would not have invited them! I bet they were even playing footsies under the table!”
“Yes, they were, actually. I noticed when I got up to clear the dishes. But don’t be so angry, Shaffiq. They are just young. I thought it was a little funny.” Salma sits on the couch, and pats the spot beside her.
“I’m not angry. It was just so uncomfortable. And with the children watching.” He sits on the opposite end of couch as though being chaperoned by a prim Aunty.
“Yes, I saw. You kept dragging them to the kitchen for more soda. It’s a wonder they got to bed with all that sugar.”
“Hah! It was the only safe place!”
“You know,” Salma says, smiling at him, “We used to be affectionate, too, once upon a time.”
“What do you mean once upon a time?” Shaffiq says, turning towards her, “We are still affectionate, but just not in public! It’s a question of the correct time and place,” he says, jabbing the couch with his index finger to emphasize his words. “Time and place, time and place.”
“I’m just saying that things are not the same for us. Not like they used to be,” Salma sighs.
“What, are you keeping count or something? Yes, we’re not newlyweds, but we are not –”
“When’s the last time you kissed me like they kissed each other, you know, with passion, or held my hand while we sat together on the couch?”
“You know, I’ve tried a couple of times, if you recall. And you are the one doing the resisting. But that was in private. You want me to be like them, looking like fools in front of other people? I can do that, if you want!”
“Of course not, Shaffiq. I’m not saying that anyone should do that while at a dinner party. I agree with you on that point. But, it just made me think that we could be a little more … you know … romantic, just sometimes,” she says, biting her bottom lip and looking at him shyly. Shaffiq shifts closer to her on the couch. He plants a warm kiss on her mouth.
“How is that? Is that good?”
“Yes, like that,” she says, moving closer to him. She holds his face and kisses him longer, soaking in the warmth of his lips. She closes her eyes, and in the dark behind her eyelids, an image of Nasreen pops up, first small and unobtrusive, and then in full screen view. Salma opens her eyes in alarm and pulls away from Shaffiq.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She moves her hands down his neck to his chest and hurriedly unbuttons his shirt. She rubs her hands against his hairless chest and takes care to keep her eyes open. He kisses her again, on her face and neck and then, eyelids fluttering shut, she lets herself relax a little.
“The kids are asleep, right? Even with all the sugar?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, now kissing her way down his chest to his soft belly. This time, her own private cinema shows her another image she hasn’t seen in a very long time: two young women in Jogger’s Park in a suburb of Bombay, embracing on a park bench. She opens her eyes to see Shaffiq looking dreamily at her. Once again, she pushes away the obtrusive image and with an almost single-minded determination, fixates on undoing Shaffiq’s belt buckle.
Shaffiq is over the moon with passion for his wife. He marvels at how excited and full of vigour she seems to be. It was a good idea to invite over Ravi and Angie after all! We must socialize more often! Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses the raani staring down at them intently. He pulls Salma up.
“Come, let’s go to the bedroom. Let’s get off this couch.”
“No Shaffiq, let’s stay here. Let’s be a little crazy.” She is worried that if she stops now, it will interrupt her focus, permitting other distracting thoughts to enter her mind again. She falls onto her back and pulls him down on top of her. She wriggles out of her pants, kicking them off and onto the parquet floor. She grabs at his trousers while he shifts and squirms to help her pull them off.
“I just hope the children don’t wake up.”
“They won’t.” She grabs his shoulders and pulls him to her, kissing him again. She feels his resistance withering and his excitement mounting. Soon, he is panting over her, moaning her name. She clasps his buttocks and looks up at the raani and her servant. She feels Shaffiq’s sweat on her skin, feels his frantic movements inside her and observes the raani’s strange expression, a slow smug smile moving across her painted face. Her eyes travel to the servant’s, whose lips are pursed in school-marmish disappointment. Shaffiq collapses onto her, a few minutes too soon for her. She holds him maternally, protectively, the way she thinks a good wife should.
Chapter 16
SALMA AND SHAFFIQ SLEEP fitfully after their lovemaking. The next morning they awake to their younger daughter tugging at the sheets and threatening to get into bed with them. Still naked from the night before, Salma’s modesty overpowers her honesty. She manages to trick Shireen into leaving the room with a “go find your surprise in the kitchen” while she pulls on a dressing gown. She passes Shaffiq his pajama pants and he takes them groggily, struggling with them under the covers.
“Where, where is my surprise, Mummy?” Shireen yells as she re-enters her parents’ bedroom.
“Oh, that’s right! I haven’t made it yet! I must have dreamt that I made the thuli in my sleep. I’d better put in on the stove now.” Salma prepares the wheat dish very irregularly, and somehow it has become her younger daughter’s favourite breakfast.
“Quick thinking,” Shaffiq whispers to his wife.
“Thuli! Thuli! I’ll tell Saleema!”
“Yes, go wake up Saleema,” Shaffiq says, getting out of bed.
“I’m awake already. And I heard. Who wouldn’t have, with you yelling like a maniac all the time,” Saleema says menacingly to her younger sister.
“Saleema, Mummy is making thuli for us! Aren’t you happy?”
“I don’t want any. Thuli sucks,” she says, testing out the new word she has heard recently, in fact, just this past Thursday, in the playground.
“What did you say?”
“She said Thuli sucks,” Shireen reports obediently.
“That is not a nice word, Saleema. Don’t ever say that word again!” Salma responds predictably to Saleema’s provocation.
“It’s not a bad word. Everyone says it.” Saleema sniffs defensively, while her eyes well at the possibility that her mother might be angry with her.
“Shaffiq, where are these children learning such things! What are they exposed to at school? You know the education system here is very different, so substandard compared to Bombay.” Then turning to Saleema, “In my family, we did not talk back to our parents and we did not use bad language!” She faces Shaffiq again, “the children are so different here!”
“I just meant that I don’t like thuli anymore,” Saleema whines, a few tears escaping.
“Why do you say that Saleema? You always liked thuli. Why use this language?” asks Shaffiq. He puts his arm around her and rubs her small, stiff back.
“I don’t know. Can’t we get any Fruity Flakes or Frosted O’s or something like that? No one in my school eats thuli.”
“I like Frosted O’s too,” Shireen says, her tone conciliatory.
“I’m making thuli. If you want something else, then you will have to make your own breakfast. And why are you so concerned about what everyone else is eating, anyway? Those kids are different from you. Their families are diff
erent. It makes sense that they eat different foods,” says Salma, now in the kitchen, noisily opening and closing cupboard doors.
“Saleema, I’m sure there are other children in your class from India. I saw them when we came to your music night. There were plenty of kids like you.”
“Yeah, and they’re the geeks, at least the ones that just came from India. They bring chutney sandwiches or pav bhaji in their lunch boxes and the rest of the kids make fun of them.”
“Have they been making fun of you?” Salma asks, her worried face poking around the kitchen door. “You see Shaffiq, this is how people are here.”
“No, they don’t make fun of me,” Saleema says, “But that’s because I take cheese sandwiches.”
“Sounds like lunch-box tyranny to me. Well, let’s strike a compromise, OK? You can eat thuli at home. No one will see you eating it here. We’ll keep it a secret amongst ourselves. Then you can have cheese sandwiches for lunch at school. None of the kids in your class shall ever know the truth about breakfast in this home,” Shaffiq says, his arm around his daughter, trying to cheer her up. A small smile emerges from Saleema’s pouting expression.
“Yes, thuli, thuli!” Shireen says, sensing the tension dissipating.
“Shut up, Shireen. Stop screaming all the time!” Saleema says, stamping to the kitchen.
Nasreen awakes early Monday morning with the weight of memory still in the air. She lifts her head an inch from the pillow and sees the red light of the clock telling her that it is still too early to get up. She closes her eyes, and then the dream comes back to her again. She rarely dreams of her mother and wants to hold on to this one a little longer.
Nasreen’s mother talks to her over some kind of video-conference phone, her image projected on a white screen high upon the wall of the bedroom. Nasreen notices a small dimple in the centre of the screen causing her mother’s nose to look slightly crooked and she forces herself not to be annoyed by this defect. Her mother speaks softly, almost inaudibly and Nasreen strains to hear. Zainab says, “It’s so good to finally get through, to make a connection. You know the lines in Bombay are not so reliable. The wiring is still so ancient that phoning is really very difficult. I have been trying for years now to make the call, but I never could get through.” Nasreen thinks she hears a note of regret in her mother’s voice. Her mother continues, “But I’ve been OK, you know, surviving, earning money from some odd jobs, living with relatives. Don’t worry Nasreen, don’t worry about me. I am fine and I will see you again one day. I hope you will visit me when you come to India.”
Nasreen is speechless as she stares at her mother’s projection on the bedroom wall in disbelief, trying to find the right words. Then, before she knows it, her mother’s image begins to shrink until there is only a white dot left on the blank wall, like the receding image on an old black and white TV switching off. Nasreen begins to panic and fumbles with the dials and buttons on the video-conferencing equipment, but nothing brings her mother back to the screen.
Nasreen wakes with a start and with Id sitting on her chest, gazing intently at her. “Can you believe it, Id, my mom’s been alive all this time! We’ve just been separated due to the crumbling state of the telecommunications industry in India,” she says, sleepily.
Cheated, the dream leaves her feeling cheated.
It’s still dark out but she pushes back the covers, upsetting Id from his rest, and stomps to the kitchen where she opens a can of wet cat food. Id forgets his rough and tumble start to the day and circles Nasreen’s feet flirtatiously. Then, ravenous herself, she makes a pot of macaroni and cheese, simultaneously feeling delight and disgust while mixing the artificial cheese powder into the butter, milk, and pasta. When it is ready, she eats it from the pot in front of the TV, digging furiously into the orange macaroni with a fork, her eyes glued to a four a.m. infomercial about an exercise machine that can give her better abs in just one amazing use.
Later that day Nasreen sits in her office, listening to Miranda. Surprisingly, Miranda has quit drinking and is on her fifth sober day.
“Actually, it has been five days, fifteen hours and twenty minutes. I’ve rearranged all of my books. The books used to be alphabetical by author, but you know, I really only ever remember the titles, so now they are alphabetical by title. I am thinking about creating subsections to separate them by genre like I did when I was a kid. I can do that now because I sorted them and gave away about one-eighth to the Sally Ann. So there’s more space.”
“Uh huh,” Nasreen says, absentmindedly. She feels guilty for being distracted today, but she can’t help herself. She has been emotionally checked out since noon due to her lack of sleep, managing to go through all the various head-nodding, empathy-conveying, interest-showing motions of therapy. Miranda, on edge herself, doesn’t seem to notice Nasreen’s lack of focus.
“On day one I put away all my summer clothes and ironed all my shirts. Tomorrow I’m going to organize my CDs.”
Nasreen’s mind travels to her grocery list. Juice, bagels, eggs.
“You know, my mother gave me lots of my CDs. She liked to buy them when she wasn’t so depressed. I think that’s why I left them for last. I don’t know if I can go through them. Some of those CDs will make me think about her, when she bought them, what the occasion was, you know? But I guess I should get to them.” Nasreen makes her head bob up and down. Her left hand rises to meet her left earlobe, feeling for the gift from her mother that is no longer there.
“You know, I often wish she were alive, but not the way she was in real life, I mean, I sometimes think of her, fantasize a different kind of mother altogether. You know, one that wasn’t so sad all the time.” Nasreen bobble-heads again, looking past Miranda and to her computer screen. A fragment of last night’s dream, the receding image of her mother on the television, flashes to her mind.
Nasreen directs her attention back to Miranda, who has started to cry softly. She reaches for the tissue box and offers it to Miranda, who takes one and blurts out, “When am I ever going to get over this?” Nasreen waits for Miranda’s breathing to regulate and then asks one or two appropriate questions. After that, she checks her watch, which signals to Miranda that she should wipe her face and her nose. She leaves the office with an incongruously cheery, “Well thanks, I’ll see you again next week. Have a good weekend.”
Nasreen waves and smiles blandly and then moves to her desk to write a session note. She observes that Miranda is opening up and managing to do so well, ironically on a day when she feels so shut down herself. And she hadn’t expected sobriety so soon from Miranda. She writes in blue ink, “Client states that she has not drank for five days. She is actively grieving her mother’s death.” Grapefruit, cereal, apples. She shuts the file and puts it into her filing cabinet.
At eight p.m., Nasreen walks north to the Imperial grocery store on Bloor. It takes her a moment to adjust to the florescent glare of the overhead lights after being outside in the autumn night. She picks up a plastic basket near the door, then, changing her mind, inserts a quarter into the cart dispenser and pulls out a large shopping cart with stiff wheels. In the fruit section, she chooses two grapefruit, four apples and two bananas. She pushes her cart past the junk food aisle, telling herself she can go back there later if she needs. She hovers in the dairy section for some time, trying to find low fat gouda. She settles for low fat havarti. Next, she maneuvers past a young man moving slowly amongst the jams and jellies and then stops in front of the tall displays of cereal boxes. She scans the endless variety of products, and then reaches for the house brand of granola, eighty cents cheaper than the prettier box beside it. You must comparison shop, save your money, a quiet voice in her mind tells her. Nasreen wonders if that is her mother embedded in her mind, or her own sensible voice. She pushes the cart down the aisle and another voice chides, that one doesn’t taste good, why do you have to be so cheap all the time? This one is louder and soun
ds like Connie’s frustrated complaints. She’s not sure how Connie’s voice seeped in and took root in her brain. Perhaps it’s just a matter of time. If you spend enough time with someone, does their voice begin to infiltrate your own? And how long does it take for it to leave? Nasreen stands there, in aisle three, her hand in midair between brightly packaged boxes, suspended in indecision. Come on, she tells herself, I can’t be doing this over boxes of granola. In the end, she takes down both boxes and tosses them into the cart. She thinks this will appease both voices, and it does. She circles back to the junk food aisle, the stiff wheels of the shopping cart whining noisily in reply.
The subway is uncharacteristically deserted for a weekday evening. Nasreen looks down the long platform and studies two young men standing at the far end. They talk animatedly with one another, the arching movement of their muscular arms telling their stories for them. She picks up a few of the louder words about boxing or wrestling, but she is not sure which of the two sports their swinging and punching arms mime. The platform across the tracks is similarly empty except for a South Asian woman and her small daughter sitting on a bench. Their train approaches first and the woman carries the child on while an opposing warm wind throws Nasreen’s hair up and then back down over her eyes, unsteadying her for just a moment. As the east-bound train leaves, Nasreen watches the woman and the child slide into a seat by the window, the little girl staring out from behind the glass.
An instant later, the westbound train rumbles from around the corner, its headlight preceding it, filling the long tunnel with bright light. Nasreen glances down at the waste-strewn tracks and feels a force drawing her to them. I am just so tired. She steps across the yellow safety line. She thinks: this is the moment. This is the moment that could change everything and nothing at all. This would be the end and a beginning. Closure. She clutches her grocery bags, eager to hold onto something tangible, the plastic handles slippery in hands. Her eyes rooted to the metal tracks below, she envisions herself being pulled down by gravity, her body landing heavily onto the rails, steel growing warmer by the train’s approach. She feels herself being pressed forward and down at the same time; what direction is that? A body no longer feeling, a body joining with the heat and metal around her.
Stealing Nasreen Page 14
