Stealing Nasreen

by Farzana Doctor

  At home now, she calls Asha. It rings twice and then her friend picks up, her voice thick with a cold.

  “Hi Ash, how are you feeling?”

  “A little better. But I am so bored. Do you know that Days of Our ‘Restless’ Lives is still on the air? I’ve been watching it the last few days and some of the same characters are still there from when I was a teenager. And there are still no lesbians or people of colour. Some things never change.”

  “Sounds like you are almost back to your old self, except that you’re deconstructing the soaps instead of your course texts,” Nasreen scoffs.

  “They are of similar quality, I think. How was class tonight? Did I miss much?”

  “I’d say so. That’s why I’m calling. Something weird happened tonight.”

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah, you were right about Salma having a crush on me.”

  “Really? No way! What happened?” Asha asks, excitedly.

  “Well, she started asking me about being a lesbian and then told me that she had had a relationship with a woman over twelve years ago –”

  “Wow! I did miss a lot!”

  “That’s not all. Then, when she got a bit teary about ending that relationship, I touched her hand, you know, to offer some sympathy and then she started kissing me.”

  “What? Hold up. She kissed you? How did that happen?” Asha asks, gasping into the receiver.

  “I don’t know. It happened really fast. She reached over and started kissing me. And then I left.”

  “Wow, you sure are getting a lot of action lately. Did you like it? Where were the kids?”

  “They were there in the apartment, but not in the kitchen with us. I think I did. I mean … it’s nice to be kissed. Maybe I liked the attention. But … but, she’s a married woman, our Gujarati teacher, for God’s sake! And she isn’t really my type.”

  “I guess so, she is like the polar opposite of Connie, isn’t she? Although, I hate to mention it …”

  “What?”

  “In terms of being confused, sending mixed messages, being inappropriate, that’s Connie all over again.”

  “Well I am sure about not being attracted to Salma. Really sure. I didn’t come on to her, remember? She was the one who kissed me,” Nasreen says defensively.

  “Hmm. So what next? Did you talk about it after? Are you going back?”

  “No, we didn’t talk about it. She apologized as I was leaving. I don’t know if I should go back. I have to think about that.” Nasreen ponders the potential awkwardness of going back to Salma’s apartment.

  “Didn’t I tell you she was hot for you? Wow, but this is bad. Who’re we going to get to teach us Gujarati now?” Asha asks, laughing.

  Salma listens for the children in the other room. There is the sound of a flushing toilet and a child padding her way to bed. Instinctively, she waits until there is silence again before returning to the Ladies World resting in her lap. The magazine, which Asima passed on to her, is chock-full of petty Bollywood news and advice for women, and is strangely calming after the humiliating day she has just had. She reads through Ms. Madhuri’s column, scanning the counsel given to women who cannot get along with their in-laws, or who suspect that their husbands are cheating. At least I don’t have those problems, she thinks.

  She peers at the well-thumbed matrimonials page, likely poured over by someone already. Perhaps Asima has been busy seeking a match for one of her cousin-sisters or another self-chosen cause in her family, Salma thinks. Her attention is caught by a large, bold ad in the men seeking women category.

  Bangalore issueless Muslim divorcee. Looking for a decent post-grad/professional/teacher/doctor match. Slim, fair girl preferred. Dowry no bar.

  Salma smirks at this ad. How many rupees per word did he pay to find just the right kind of match to satisfy himself and his family? And did the ad work for him? Did he find love?

  She closes her eyes, leans back and wonders what Shaffiq would say if he knew that she kissed Nas tonight. Would he be scandalized? Jealous? And if so, would he be more jealous of her or Nas?

  She will never tell him about the kiss, that much she knows for sure. It would raise too many insecurities and perhaps also open up doors to questions she would prefer to remain shut and locked. He might ask her to stop teaching, or at least stop teaching Nas. She doesn’t want that. After all, it is the only activity that provides her with some intellectual stimulation.

  But why did she have to kiss Nasreen? Chances are that Nas will never come back, and maybe Asha too. Salma pulls her knees to her chest and lets a few tears escape. She despairs for her ridiculous desires, for the likely loss of her students. How could she jeopardize her teaching like that?

  Salma looks down at the magazine in her hands, imagining what Shaffiq would ask for in a matrimonial:

  Muslim man, previous accountant, and now a janitor, seeking smart, slightly plump woman who will fry tasty pakoras while gracefully bearing his children.

  She puts the magazine down. Perhaps his needs are simpler than her more complicated desires. But maybe he is more complicated than she knows. What is his interest in Nas, anyway? She holds her head in her hands, considering the bizarre reality that both she and her husband might have an unreciprocated crush on the same woman.

  Nasreen’s questions echo in the small bedroom: what if things had been different? What if she had never married, but could have stayed with Raj?

  What if she had not become a mother? What if she were still teaching, rather that working in the Blue Dove dry cleaners, sorting through the dirty clothes of the upper middle class? What if things had been different and she did not have to keep things secret with Raj?

  Salma sighs heavily, tired from too many impossible questions. She pulls the covers up over her chest. Why think about what did not happen in her life? Her life is what it is. She should be more positive, like how Shaffiq is. Her negativity must be hard on him. She resolves to stop thinking about Raj.

  But despite her efforts, Salma cannot shove aside her memories, for memory has a presence of its own, perhaps even a mind of its own. She has tried to compartmentalize the parts of her past that are difficult to accommodate, imagining them like cards to be filed away into a dusty wooden library drawer, a kind of card catalogue of her existence. But the drawer that is her time with Raj, and the cards that hold the most potent of her memories, never sat well and still don’t. They have a way of resisting being filed in any kind of orderly way, and now, more than ever, are jamming the drawer, making it impossible to shut.

  She stumbles from her bed to the dark living room and searches the raani’s face. Salma notices that the queen’s mouth is turned up slightly as though she is enjoying a joke at her expense. Salma curses the raani and her smirk. Guuderhoo! Donkey! She pulls her down and rests the bottom edge of her frame against the couch cushions. I should put you back in the closet, she thinks. Flipping her over, she studies the packet containing Nasreen’s earring, sees it twinkling in the half-light of the living room.

  She composes the only matrimonial that makes sense to her:

  Muslim woman, 38, with issues and husband, current dry cleaner and past teacher, seeks love match in all the wrong places.

  Chapter 22

  SHAFFIQ IS EXHAUSTED. He has been waking up in the quiet apartment, reaching for Salma and feeling panicked when she is not there sleeping beside him. Once fully awake, he soon realizes the reality of his life, knows that it is daytime, that he is sleeping while his wife is at Blue Dove Dry Cleaners, and that his children are still at school. He is the one missing in action, not his wife or children. After these mid-day awakenings, he finds it difficult to fall back asleep, the uneasiness still with him in his bed.

  At work a few hours later, Shaffiq looks at his watch and groans inwardly at the hours ahead. How do people survive such boring, menial labour, he wonders. How w
ill I survive it? He thinks that talking to Ravi might help, could take his mind off Salma and perhaps there is an entertaining update about his situation. Is he still dating the landlord’s daughter? Has he told his mother yet? Has Angie’s father found out? Shaffiq finds himself smiling and marveling at his friend’s romantic antics.

  He takes his lunch bag to the fourth floor and roams the silent wing. It looks to Shaffiq that Ravi hasn’t started cleaning there because the garbage cans have not yet been emptied. He decides to check for his friend on the fourth floor and walks toward the elevator, passing Nasreen’s office on the way. With the door slightly ajar, he can hear her talking to someone. He listens to her Canadian accent, the way her voice sounds so solid and confident.

  “What time would be good for you?” she asks someone on the telephone. And Shaffiq repeats the sentence silently, endeavouring to erase his Bombayite lilt from the sentence. Whaat tyime wood bee good for you? He hears her say good-bye and hang up the phone. Ol rright then, tek cere. See you Wed-nes-de, Walerie, he mimics silently. He hears Nasreen pick up the phone again and dial another number. Shaffiq glances around furtively to make sure no one is around in the empty hallway, and not really knowing why, he lingers a moment longer. He listens.

  The phone rings twice and Salma picks it up while steadying a load of laundry on her hip. A pair of white boxers threatens to escape from the unbalanced basket.

  “Hullo?”

  “Hi Salma. It’s Nasreen.” Hi Sulma, it’s Nusrin. Shaffiq stops mouthing the words.

  Salma puts the laundry basket on the couch and sits down heavily. She deftly grabs hold of the boxers and settles them back with the other clothes.

  “Oh Nas, how are you? I wasn’t sure if I’d hear from you again. I feel bad about what happened last time you were here.”

  “Yeah … that’s what I’m calling about. I thought we’d better talk about it. Can we meet sometime?”

  “Of course. Again, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. You must be angry with me.”

  “Not really. I was just surprised, I guess.… Are you free tonight? Uh, will your husband and the kids be home?”

  “No, Shaffiq has a shift tonight. He is probably there by now. And I can ask the neighbours to watch the kids, but it will have to be fairly soon so I can get the kids to bed early enough. Maybe we could meet out for coffee instead of here? There is a nice coffee shop a block from Ossington subway. It’s called Coffee Love. Can we meet there at seven-thirty?”

  “OK, I’ll see you later, Salma. Oh, and could you bring me the blouse I left behind? You remember the green one I was wearing that night?”

  “Of course. I washed it today. I’ll bring it for you.”

  “Thanks, Salma. Alright, see you at Coffee Love at seven-thirty then.”

  Nasreen replaces the receiver in its cradle and checks her watch. Already almost seven p.m., she puts off finishing her report-writing and shuts down her computer.

  Shaffiq skulks away from the office. Salma had not mentioned that she was teaching tonight, Shaffiq recalls. And what could be so urgent that her student would want to meet her tonight? What do they need to talk about? Shaffiq turns these questions over in his mind, wondering what kind of mystery this is, and what the clues could possibly mean. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to look for Ravi anymore.

  Twenty minutes later, Nasreen walks up the filthy steps of the Ossington subway station. Toronto’s subways aren’t what they used to be; litter everywhere and the escalators perpetually out of service. Nasreen regards a poster informing customers that the cost of a token is going up. At a minimart at the top of the stairs, she buys a package of mints and pops one in her mouth.

  She walks north two blocks to the coffee shop. It’s windy and Nasreen buttons up her coat and pulls her scarf snugly around her neck. Candy-bar wrappers and discarded sections of newspaper swirl across the sidewalk, threatening to tangle at her feet. Most of the stores’ lights are turned off already at this hour, but the neon orange Coffee Love sign casts a sunny glow on the dark sidewalk ahead. Nasreen wishes she had suggested a different coffee shop to Salma, one that is neither being boycotted nor the current employer of her ex-girlfriend, but she was too nervous during the phone call to raise the political or moral implications of the meeting place. For a moment she wonders if she’ll run into Connie at Coffee Love: What if PR people visit their franchisees? That’s possible, isn’t it? What should I say to her if I see her there? She speculates on the question with some alarm, but when she reaches the coffee shop door, she inhales deeply and manages to brush the irrational thought aside. She checks her watch and sees that is is seven twenty-two. That’s just like her isn’t it? Always showing up for nerve-wracking situations early enough to further raise her anxiety levels. But when she walks in and looks around to find a quiet corner, she sees Salma already there, waiting, looking up at her with expectant eyes.

  “Nas, hello. You want a coffee or something?” Salma holds a white ceramic cup between her hands.

  “Yes, I’ll get one.” She turns away from Salma’s strained, smiling face and is glad for the moment away. Nasreen is more nervous than she thought. She breathes, orders a cup of decaf, and then sits down across from Salma.

  There are a few minutes of small talk: about the cooling weather, how neither woman likes the cold and will never get used to it no matter how many years they live in Canada.

  Salma takes a deep breath, decides to say the words she has been rehearsing for days now, and looks directly at Nasreen, “Nas, look. I want to say I am very sorry about what happened. I must have made you feel very uncomfortable. I don’t know what happened to me to make me act that way. I feel embarrassed about it all.”

  “I’m not really looking for an apology. You didn’t do anything that bad. You kissed me. It was just a kiss. I guess I just wanted to talk to you about it. And well, to find out how do you feel about me, Salma? I mean, was it just a spontaneous thing, or have you been feeling something for me?” Nasreen fixes her eyes on Salma’s, searching for what they might reveal.

  “I don’t know, Nas.” Salma looks down and Nasreen thinks she sees Salma’s eyes begin to fill with tears. Nasreen has an urge to comfort Salma, to touch her arm or rub her shoulder, but she holds back. “I’m not sure how I feel. I haven’t stopped to think about my feelings for some time,” Salma replies softly. “You know, I never even stopped to think that I should be thinking about this! Am I making any sense?” Nasreen doesn’t think so, but nods encouragingly so that Salma will continue.

  “My life hasn’t allowed much time to feel since we came here. Until recently, I only had time to see myself as Shaffiq’s wife, the girls’ mother. That’s it. Until I met you and Asha, I had almost given up on myself being a teacher, even. Since leaving India, there has not been any time to really feel what I want, who I am … do you know what I am saying?”

  “I think so,” Nasreen nods. “Things must have been so different for you in India. And even before you got married. I mean, you had a female lover! What was her name? Raj?”

  “I was single, with only a few responsibilities. I was experimenting with life. I saw her as a very dear friend. She was very special to me. But there was no future in what we had together. I knew that at some point we would have to stop being together. While we were together I was just trying to enjoy it as long as I could.”

  “I find that sad. Did you ever wish you could have stayed together?”

  “Sometimes, I don’t know. Nas, I am a very practical person at heart. Wishing for things doesn’t do much good if it can’t happen.”

  “This might be personal, but have you been attracted to other women since Raj?” Nasreen asks.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. If I did I never let myself go anywhere with those feelings.”

  “Until last week, with me. When you kissed me,” Nasreen says, smiling.

  “Yes. Until with you. B
ut you have to know I didn’t plan it like that. I guess I have been a little attracted to you since I first met you. And then when you and Asha talked about being that way I started to think about Raj and somehow all the feelings came up for me. But I never meant to kiss you that day. You have to believe me.” Salma looks pleadingly at Nasreen with wet eyes.

  “Relax Salma. I believe you. And I don’t think you did anything wrong. You didn’t commit a capital crime or anything.”

  “Yes, but I do feel guilty, and a little silly. Yes, I find you attractive, but like I said, I am a practical person. There is no practicality in being attracted to you. Besides me being married and having children, I don’t even know if you feel that way for me,” Salma looks pointedly at Nasreen, holding her breath. There, I’ve said it. I have to ask it, to know.

  “I’m a practical person, too, Salma,” Nasreen says gently, sensing the vulnerability in Salma’s question. She thinks about how she is about to tell the first of many lies, knowing that lies help to smooth out feelings and friendships and that she wants to be kind to Salma. “Salma, I think you are attractive too. I really like you. I don’t think that I ever allowed myself to go beyond that because you are married. It’s kind of my policy to not pursue women who aren’t available. If you were single too, then maybe that would be a different story.”

  “That would be a different story. Maybe you are more practical than me. That’s a good thing, Nas.” She smiles weakly at Nasreen, who smiles back.

  “I still need to learn Gujarati. And you are still a great teacher. Part of why I wanted to talk to you about all this is to find out if we can put it behind us, or if it would be too awkward. Do you think we could continue to meet? There are just a few weeks until I leave for India. Or would that be too weird?”