A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  She relaxes and resumes her task of stacking plates one on top of the other, building a dirty little Tower of Pisa. “Yes. Abba asked Begum Sahiba, very nicely, and she thought it was a good idea.”

  I look at her doubtfully. That the cook would have clout with the dragon lady of the house, when all others feared her, is kind of amazing. Also slightly unbelievable. Maybe this is a classic case of miscommunication due to a lack of English skills. “Are you sure?”

  She nods and balances the plates on her arm, her face serene. “Yup,” she answers. Then she adds helpfully: “That means yes.”

  I grab half the plates from her and stride toward the kitchen. “I know.”

  I get dressed speedily, before anyone changes their minds about this sightseeing outing. I brush my hair until it swings around my face like a static curtain, then put on my best jeans and a maroon T-shirt with the words JUST BECAUSE I’M AWAKE DOESN’T MEAN I’M READY TO DO ANYTHING. I pocket the little phone Mom’s given me and a roll of rupees. At the last minute, I sling a black-and-white leopard-print scarf around my shoulders. It’s a different look than my usual, but if I’m going to be walking among the masses, I need to look the part.

  Mom’s bedroom door is ajar as I walk past. I peek in. She’s sitting at the desk, writing on some papers. I haven’t really talked to her much since our last argument, so I hesitate at the doorway. “Um, I’m going out with Sakina and Malik for a little while,” I say.

  She hardly looks up. “Yes, your grandfather told me about the plan. It’s a great idea. Have fun.”

  She doesn’t look like she means it. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Nothing much. The new job in Houston gave me some paperwork to complete, that’s all. I had to print it out from the copy shop since the internet’s still not working.” She puts down her pen and sighs. “Listen, I wanted to say I was sorry about erupting at you the other day. I shouldn’t have screamed. None of this is your fault.”

  I’m not sure if I’m ready for this conversation. My feelings about her secret and about being in the same city as Dad are still boiling inside me. I hope she doesn’t know I didn’t sleep a wink the night before.

  Well, maybe I slept a few winks. Not many.

  “It’s okay. I understand,” I mumble, even though I really don’t.

  “Are you sure?”

  I smile brightly through gritted teeth. “Sure.” I say, and leave. I’m pretty sure she’s staring at my back, but I’m not going to turn around and check. Just seeing her face has sucked some of my happiness out, leaving me like a deflated balloon someone left at a party. Every time I see her now, I think of her secret. Of Dad.

  Dear Dad,

  I think it’s finally time to let you in on the secret. I know where you live! All this time, I’d thought you were lost, like a puppy or a bracelet or something. In kindergarten when Zoe asked me how come I didn’t have a dad, I told her that you were an explorer who traveled the world, and that you somehow got amnesia and didn’t remember how to come back home. Isn’t that silly? Every year when my elementary school had Donuts with Dad, I’d make excuses to stay home, so that not even Mom realized what the deal was. One time I faked a racking cough that alarmed her so much she actually took me to the doctor! Poor Mom, or so I thought. Now I’ve discovered that she knew where you were, probably knew how to contact you, and that even my grandparents were in on the secret. Everyone except stupid old Mimi.

  The question is, what do I do with this new info? Do I go looking for you, or do you want to stay hidden? I feel like I already know the answer.

  Mimi

  Nana’s car stands gleaming in the driveway. The white-haired and long-bearded driver, Malik, holds the door open for me. “Ready, Maryam Ji?”

  “Are we going out alone?” I ask him, slightly alarmed. Mom never lets me go anywhere alone, not even to school.

  Sakina pulls me inside. “You have me and Malik here—no need to worry!” she says. Malik bows and closes the door behind me, his face solemn but friendly. We start reversing down the driveway, past the house and out of the gate that Tahira’s holding open for us, waving excitedly. I wave back.

  “That’s right, Maryam Ji,” Malik says. “I will take good care of you two.”

  The car has an air conditioner, but Sakina insists on rolling the windows down. “You can’t get the whole experience if you’re behind glass,” she announces.

  I glare at her. Sweat is already forming little droplets around my hairline. “I will literally die from the heat,” I tell her.

  “Nobody can die from just this little bit of heat,” she answers very seriously, as if I’m the one learning a new language. “You can sit in your air-conditioned room when you get home to America.”

  I sigh, thinking of our cramped Houston apartment. The noisy street outside, the leaky toilet. Last summer the AC was on the fritz all July, and it was as hot as Karachi. “America feels so far away right now,” I murmur.

  “What?” she leans toward me to hear better.

  “I said, where are we going today?” I shout in her ear, and she recoils. I laugh, a weight lifting from my shoulders. Maybe this outing will be good for me, help me relax and forget about Dad-related things.

  We leave Nani’s house behind, zooming through the streets. I see the sign that says Sunset Boulevard, and it reminds me once again of Dad. Tendrils of anger and a sort of panic rise within me, but I squelch the feelings. Not right now.

  The traffic becomes thicker. There are motorcycles like the one Sakina rides to work in the mornings. Buses and cars, all blowing their horns emphatically, all too close to us. The air whips at my scarf, making it flap. “Is this safe?” I worry aloud. “There’s a lot of traffic. Why is there so much traffic?”

  She grins. “Welcome to Karachi,” she says, and even Malik turns and smiles at me.

  I turn back to look out the open window. There are so many buildings, each taller than the last. I read out the signs. OCEAN CITY MALL. BURGER TIME. PIZZA PALACE. A parade of vans with flags and music blaring from the rooftops whizzes by. “Election rallies,” Sakina explains with a dismissive hand. “They think music and noise will make us vote for them.”

  I stare at the vans disappearing in the distance in clouds of smoke, remembering the midnight music fest from the week before. “Who are they?”

  “Who cares? All the political parties have similar rallies. They beg and plead for our votes, but none of them actually want to get anything done.”

  I look at her. She’s got this hard look on her face that makes her seem older than both of our ages combined. Her life is so different from mine, I suddenly think. She actually works for a living, contributes to her family, has an opinion about grown-up things. I, on the other hand, just exist. If I dropped dead tomorrow, nobody would miss me.

  Well, Mom would miss me, but that’s not what I mean.

  “What will happen if you’re admitted to that school you were talking about?” I ask her. “You won’t be able to work anymore, right?”

  She seems startled, as if the thought has never occurred to her. Or maybe she’s just shocked I’ve figured it out, innocent American girl that I am. She looks down at her hands in her lap, twisting her dupatta into knots. “I suppose you’re right. No more work for me.”

  “What have your parents said? Will they be okay without your income?” It’s such a weird thing to be asking a girl my age. None of my other friends work, unless you count Zoe getting a dollar for each chore she does in the house. Mom has never paid me for chores, despite my begging.

  She looks out the window like a convict dreaming of escaping a prison. I think for a second she might jump out of the car, but she stays put. “I haven’t told them yet,” she whispers.

  18

  Sakina

  White Walls and Green Gardens

  Mimi asks a thousand questions a minute. I think it’s because she’s American, and American children are unnecessarily carefree and independent. I’ve watched a movie h
ere and there, heard about something called the Kardashians on the radio. American children don’t follow the rules, never stay silent, and always talk back. Disrespect is an accomplishment to them, and chaos is fun.

  Mimi isn’t that bad, of course. She’s kind and funny, and her T-shirts are always interesting, even if sometimes they make little sense to me. And she’s always asking questions in a breathy voice that can be annoying if you get too much of it. Still, she’s grown on me like a mushroom grows in the grass after a good rain.

  She wants to know all about my admission test, which I really don’t want to discuss. I’m almost completely sure Malik cannot understand English, but he’s constantly peeking at us in the rearview mirror, and I don’t want my secret to get out. So I whisper and tell her that I’ve been planning to surprise Amma and Abba once I pass the test. If I pass it.

  She frowns. “Keeping secrets from your family isn’t the best idea,” she whispers back, and I’m reminded that she’s got family secrets of her own she’s upset about. Her mother’s secret. I blink, trying to look unconcerned. I’ve never known a girl whose father left her before, unless you count my second cousin in Rawalpindi, whose father—my uncle from Amma’s side—died in the war in Afghanistan.

  We reach the mausoleum of Quaid-e-Azam, the founder of Pakistan. I admit, it’s a cheesy place to take a visitor, but it’s my very favorite place to be even in the heat. Malik parks the car under a tree and says, “Stay where I can see you, okay?” then promptly leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. We giggle at him, then leave the car before he changes his mind.

  The weather is cooperating today—brisk wind, cloudy sky—and we scramble out into the deep grounds that surround the mausoleum. We climb up the steps together and walk around until we reach the huge triangular structure with its gentle arched doorways. I resist the urge to hold out my arms and say ta-da like they do on television shows.

  Mimi is staring at the mausoleum with wide eyes. Her dupatta flaps in the breeze like it’s waving madly at the burial place of our country’s most beloved man. “Impressive!” she breathes, her eyes sparkling.

  “I told you!”

  We walk to the building, and then back again, skipping down the steps. I stumble and almost fall, and Mimi has a fit of giggling. She brings out her silver phone and takes dozens of pictures, some with me in them, some without. She tries taking selfies, but she’s laughing too much, and the phone keeps shaking. What is it about this American girl that makes me so prone to laughter? We finally collapse on the grass for a rest, our faces shiny with sweat and something close to happiness. Mimi’s short hair is in disarray, and there are sweat stains on her maroon T-shirt. She looks less like an American girl and more like . . . me. I stare at her, then turn away when she catches me looking.

  Malik huffs up with a bag, then leaves again to go back to the coolness of the car with a wave. Abba’s packed us some food—leftover French toast and red apples, a bag of roasted peanuts, and a thermos full of chai—and we munch on everything like old friends who’ve been visiting people’s graves together for years.

  “I wish I could stay here forever.” Mimi sighs.

  “What do you mean? I’d have thought you’d be dying to go back to your country,” I tease.

  She considers this. “Well, I miss home, definitely,” she says. “I miss school and my friend Zoe, and everything that’s familiar and ordinary. But . . .” She sighs again and scrapes at the grass with her shoe. “Lately things have become so complicated.”

  “You mean Sohail?”

  “Ugh. Don’t even remind me of that man!” She sits up, animated. “What is his problem? Why did he even have to come into our lives? Why did Mom ever contact him?”

  Like I said, Mimi asks so many questions. “Did you ever consider that your mother might be lonely?” I venture.

  She scowls at me. “How can she be lonely? She has me.”

  I don’t know what to say. She knows the answer; she’s just being stubborn. I let it go, and we watch the grass wave gently in the breeze. A line of ants marches on the pavement nearby. “More reason for you to be happy to go back soon,” I finally offer as consolation.

  She’s still not satisfied. “Don’t tell anyone, but this place is growing on me. In the States, all I see is kids who are different from me. Mostly white kids, but also from many other countries. Here, everyone is the same. Brown, desi, Pakistani, whatever you want to call it. It feels familiar. Normal.”

  I’m not sure I follow, but I don’t tell her that. Whenever I don’t understand her, or say the wrong thing, she frowns and looks disappointed, like a kitten that didn’t get the milk it had been promised. “You are only half-brown, though,” I finally say, and from the way her face darkens I realize I’ve said the wrong thing again.

  We eat in silence for a while, then Mimi brightens up and says, “Let’s practice some English,” so she asks me questions about the scene around me, and I think of replies. Who was the Quaid? What was his contribution to Pakistan? When did they build this mausoleum? Halfway through I realize she’s just being curious, so I throw an apple core at her and lie back to stare at the sky.

  Mimi takes out her phone and snaps more pictures. There’s a small group of children playing tag in front of us, their cries of joy filling the air. From their clothes, they look like servants, and I’m happy their sahib jis have let them out for a while to play. Another crowd of children runs over. They’re dressed in dark-gray-and-white uniforms, and their white tennis shoes gleam in the sunlight. A field trip, no doubt. The servant children become immediately shy and withdrawn, then slowly wander away, leaving the schoolchildren to play.

  “They didn’t have to leave,” Mimi protests.

  “It’s not their place,” I tell her, bitter. “The ones who go to school are in . . . how do you say it? . . . a better class than the ones who work on the streets or in houses. That’s the way our society is.”

  “Well, it’s backward, that’s what it is!” She sits up, indignant. “This would never happen in the States!”

  I don’t like the way things are in Pakistan, but I also don’t like how Mimi keeps comparing it to America and finding us lacking. “Yes, and here you’d never find a father leaving his daughter and going away,” I shoot back. “So I suppose we’re—how do you say?—even!”

  Her face changes. Her eyes get hard and her chin wobbles. She stands up and brushes crumbs off her jeans, and then walks away. “Wait,” I call out, and then stop to pick up all our food. She may be American, but she has gotten used to having a servant in an awfully short time.

  When I get to the car, she’s already sitting inside, windows closed, air-conditioning blasting. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” Will she tell Begum Sahiba? I’m worried Abba will get fired for this disrespect. I’m worried Mimi will stop teaching me English.

  I’m also worried I may have hurt her just as we were starting to become friends.

  She sniffs and turns away from me. “Whatever.”

  I’m not sure what she means by this. Whatever what? Is it another idiom? A slang? “Please, Mimi?” I beg, searching my mind for something to tempt her to smile. I remember the pantry in the kitchen. “I’ll help you with those newspapers you asked for!”

  She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “You will?”

  “Yes! I know where to get a ton of them. I promise!”

  She sighs a huge sigh and smiles ruefully. “I shouldn’t have called Pakistan backward. It’s not.”

  I shrug. Right then I’d have called my own parents backward to get her to smile more. “It is backward in a lot of ways. And forward in many others. We are not so different, even if we seem to be.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Malik coughs loudly and starts the car. “Home?” he asks in Urdu.

  “Yes,” Mimi and I reply together.

  “I thought he was asking me,” she whispers with a start. I’m relieved to see her eyes are no longer angry.
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  “He probably was,” I whisper back. “Since he knows you are the boss.”

  She lets out a small grin that brightens the car. “The boss? I like that. In the land of the free, everybody is my boss.”

  “The land of what?” I have no idea what she’s just said.

  “Never mind.” She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “You definitely need to practice your English more.”

  I cross my arms to stop my sudden shiver. In that moment, she looks like a smaller version of Begum Sahiba.

  19

  Mimi

  A Camel for Your Thoughts

  Dear Dad,

  I’ve decided that if I want to be a journalist like you, I need to work on my research skills. I’ve started reading some of Nana’s coffee-table books in the mornings while Sakina works in the kitchen. When she has a break, she reads with me, practicing her English. And guess what? We found a very interesting book about Karachi, the city of Mom’s birth, and your current home.

  I admit I’d never given it much thought before now. Mom always told people she was born in Pakistan, as if the country was one big place without cities and towns and villages. Maybe it’s something people do when they don’t live somewhere anymore, make it insignificant and impersonal to show they don’t care.

  Sakina calls where I live America, even though that’s so much more than just the United States. She never remembers that I live in Houston, which is in Texas, which is in the southwest part of the US. It’s funny when you think about it. Aren’t we all from planet Earth? Then why are places so important?

  Nana’s book told me all about Karachi. It used to be a small fishing village in the 1700s, and has been ruled by so many groups since then: the Greeks, then the Talpurs, and finally, the British. Then the Quaid-e-Azam made it the capital of Pakistan when the nation was born in 1947. All around the city, you see evidence of this history: ancient European-style buildings stand next to modern high-rises, and cute little horse carriages clip-clop next to the latest brands of Toyotas and Hyundais on the roads. It’s like a kaleidoscope I once made in school, all bright and colorful and slightly dizzying.