A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  Nana said that no visit to Karachi is complete without a walk on the beach. The Indian Ocean is like a sparkling blue-green jewel, reminding me that none of my troubles—not even the fact that I’m away from you—is bigger than the sea. I think I’m going to ask Sakina to take me there. I’ve only been to the beach once, when Uncle Faizan visited us and Mom took us to Galveston Beach. It was fun!

  Do you like the ocean? I hope you do.

  Love, Mimi

  Clifton Beach is full of people, just like every other place I’ve visited in this city. I spy the water even before we park, and I roll down my window to smell the warm, flapping wind. “Lovely,” I murmur, and Sakina rolls her eyes at me.

  She didn’t want to come, saying the beach was smelly and crowded. “There’s nothing to do there,” she complains in the car, but I shush her with a pointed finger. She has to be joking. There is so much to do and see, I’m not sure how I’ll do everything.

  “Mom told me about monkey dances and snake charmers and other cool stuff,” I tell her. “I want to see all of that.”

  “What’s cool about all that?” She scoffs.

  “I’ve never seen any of those things before, that’s what!” I practically shout.

  I turn away from her and stare at the people outside my window. Men, women, and children crowd the sand and walk into the water, fully clothed. There’s not a bikini or pair of shorts in sight. In fact, some of the women are dressed very formally, with jewelry and long trailing dupattas.

  Sakina tells me helpfully, “The beach is a big deal for some people.”

  “Not you, obviously,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. My brother, Jammy, loves riding the oont.”

  Malik hears the word oont and turns around. “Would you like a camel ride, Maryam Ji?” he asks eagerly. I look at where he’s pointing. Rows upon rows of camels, dressed up in wild decorative beads and blankets, wait for passengers near the seawall. My eyes almost pop out of my head, and I nod so quickly hair flies around. “Yes, please!”

  He takes us to the camels and haggles with the owners while I admire the animals. Their eyes are half-closed, as if they’re enjoying the breeze, and their eyelashes are longer than any human’s could be. Many of them wear fancy knitted hats and neck scarves with little golden bells. I reach over and pat a camel on the nose, and it stares at me. “Hello, you beauty,” I whisper.

  “Stop talking to camels,” Sakina hisses at me. “They can’t understand you!”

  “How do you know?” I counter.

  Before she can answer, Malik waves to us. He and a camel owner have agreed on the price. We climb on the camel and it lurches up. Sakina and I clutch each other and screech. “Be careful,” Malik warns the owner. “They better not fall off or you’ll have to answer to my sahib ji.”

  The owner is suitably impressed. He holds the camel’s reins tightly and walks us around as if we’re eggs in the shape of girls. I’m so high I can see the tops of everyone’s heads. The wind flaps my scarf around, whipping it in my face, making me giggle. We walk all the way to the edge of the water and then back again, the camel swaying side to side as it strolls with us on its back.

  Later, Sakina and I sit on the sand and dip our toes in the water. It’s a cloudy day, and the sun plays hide-and-seek in the sky above us. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask her dreamily.

  She turns to stare at me. “I never thought of that before. Just . . . anything. Something. Not a cook, that’s for sure.”

  “Your father won’t mind? I think parents like it when their kids follow them in their careers.”

  She turns back to squinting at the water. “What about you, then? Will you be a news writer like your father? What’s it called? Oh yes, journalist.”

  I have to think about this. Sometimes I say that to Mom, just to make her mad. But in my heart, I’m not so sure I’d like to be like Dad. Writing boring assignments from different countries? No thank you. “Maybe a local journalist, like those who stay in the same city and read the news on television,” I finally reply.

  She makes a serious face and pretends to read from a paper. “Breaking news from America. A young girl who’s visiting the Clifton Beach was kicked by a camel because she wouldn’t stop patting its head. The camel’s owner demanded hundreds of rupees to compensate for his animal’s stressed-out feelings!”

  I let out a peal of laughter. “That camel was totally enjoying my patting!”

  “It looked like it was about to run away and hide under the rocks.”

  Malik gestures from the car, and we stand up reluctantly. We’re almost to the car when Sakina says, “I think I’d like to be a teacher when I grow up. I already teach Jammy his sums and the alphabet. I could help so many poor children get educated.”

  “That’s perfect,” I reply, and give her a little hug for the first time.

  20

  Sakina

  Bun Kabab and Conversation

  I’d never tell Mimi, but the camel ride we took was the highlight of my life. I’ve only been to Clifton Beach a few times, and Jammy is the one who always gets the camel rides, never me. Whenever I complain, Amma tells me that before Jammy was born, I used to ride on the gentle animals, but that was so long ago I don’t have any memory of it. I want to believe her, but somehow I don’t.

  Sakina Ejaz isn’t the sort of person who walks on beaches and rides on camels. Sakina Ejaz has no time for fun.

  Today is fun, though. After the beach, Mimi declares she is starving, even though I tell her she has no real understanding of what that word means. She tells Malik loudly she needs to eat something right now; otherwise she will faint. Malik steps on the accelerator and drives to a nearby street filled with open-air restaurants. The air is thick with barbecue smoke that makes my stomach grumble. “Can we sit outside on the chairs?” Mimi begs, but Malik refuses to let her.

  “Someone will come to the car to take your orders,” he says.

  It takes only a few seconds for the car to be surrounded by boys younger than us. “Madam, you want kabab? We have the best kabab in all of Karachi!” calls one. “Chinese! Eat the best Chinese in the subcontinent!” boasts another.

  Mimi’s lips crumple as she tries to decide, so I help her. “Three bun kabab, please,” I order, my voice sure and loud. “And one Coke.”

  The boys spring to action, and a thrill runs down my spine. This is what a begum sahiba must feel like, ordering foods and commanding respect with nothing more than a flicked eyebrow. I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror, and I’m shocked. My eyes are hard, and my mouth is a straight line.

  I sit back and try to relax my face. I would rather be Sakina Ejaz than any begum sahiba.

  “Why did you order kabab?” Mimi whines. “What if they make it very spicy?”

  I realize she doesn’t know what a bun kabab is. “It’s not what you think,” I assure her. “Wait and see.”

  While we wait for our food, a trail of beggars arrives in twos and threes. They are mostly as young as Jammy, with a couple of women carrying babies. Their skin is darkened by the sun and their clothes are patched and wrinkled. They surround our car, hands outstretched, lips mumbling prayers. For some reason, they look straight past me and focus on Mimi. How on earth do they know who the real begum sahiba is? She seems to shrink in her skin as she watches them. “Why are there so many poor people in this country?” she almost cries.

  I’m immediately stung by her statement. “Are there no poor people in America?” I shoot.

  “No. Not really.” She pauses, and I can see her trying to think. “Wait, yes there are. There’s a man who lives under the bridge near my school. I see him every morning wrapped up in blankets when Mom and I walk past. Mom sometimes makes an extra sandwich and gives it to him. And lots of kids in my school get free lunch because they can’t afford to buy it. They have to stand in a special line in the cafeteria and only get certain foods. I bet they feel sad.”

  I relax. “See
, there are poor people everywhere.”

  “But why?” Mimi is back to being upset. “Here, I see these beggars everywhere. Like on street corners and on the roads, and in people’s houses . . .” She hiccups and stops talking.

  I don’t know the answer to this question. “Abba says it is the will of God,” I reply weakly.

  “How is that possible?” she frets, her hands worrying the hem of her T-shirt. “How can God allow some people to have everything and others to have nothing? How can He be the Creator of both Pakistan and America? The two are like day and night. God is supposed to love us equally. Isn’t He?”

  I sigh and nod slowly. I, too, have asked the same thing so many times. Malik is watching us from the rearview mirror. “What do you think, Malik?” I suddenly blurt. He’s older than Abba; maybe he has more wisdom.

  Mimi leans forward too. “Yes, Malik, what do you think?” she echoes.

  Malik strokes his long white beard for a minute. Then finally, he replies: “God gives each of us free will to do whatever we want. Sometimes human beings are bad to each other. They steal and hurt and lie. They don’t take care of the less fortunate.”

  “I don’t get it,” Mimi says obstinately. “These poor people aren’t poor because they did something bad. Sakina didn’t do anything bad!”

  I’m startled to be lumped in with the beggars outside. They are so pathetic that even Amma’s eyes fill with tears when she sees them, and she scrambles to find coins for them in her almost-empty purse. I’ve always thought of myself as better than the beggars. At least my family is making some money. At least we have a roof over our heads, even if it leaks in the rainy season. Does Mimi really see us all as the same? All poor people?

  Malik gives me a little smile in the mirror. He speaks slowly so that I can understand. “Not Sakina, Maryam Ji. Our leaders. There is corruption in our leaders. That’s why this election has everyone so riled up. We know that the people who are asking for our votes are mostly corrupt, lying thieves. They want to be elected to steal money and get rich, not to serve their communities. When that happens, poor people like us are the ones who suffer the most. The rich people aren’t affected.”

  “Everyone can’t be corrupt,” Mimi protests quietly.

  “Not everyone,” Malik agrees. “But even the good leaders have their hands tied by a corrupt system.”

  I have a lump in my throat. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Mimi, to live in America,” I say. “To be rich.”

  She gives a snort, her tears gone. “Rich? We have no money in Houston. It’s only here that we seem rich. And there’s corruption in America too. Last year our mayor’s assistant was caught stealing money from the city. It was in the news for days!” She’s speaking in a mixture of Urdu and English, but I understand her perfectly.

  Malik nods and closes his eyes, satisfied. “See, there are bad people everywhere,” he tells us. “And good people too.”

  There’s a tap on the window, and the beggars all disperse. Our food has arrived. Mimi hands one foil-wrapped package to Malik, and then opens her wrap carefully. I know she’s expecting kabab, but instead she has a round sandwich with a ground-beef-and-lentil patty, mint chutney, onions, and a juicy tomato. “A Karachi specialty,” I tell her, and unwrap my sandwich eagerly.

  She takes a bite and closes her eyes. “Mmmmm.”

  “There’s Coke for you too,” I say, proud I’ve remembered what she likes to drink.

  She’s still got her eyes closed. “Who needs Coke when there’s bun kabab heaven?”

  21

  Mimi

  Tom Scotts, Special Correspondent

  Dear Dad,

  I’ve been meaning to write in my journal for the last week, but I’ve been busy. I guess you know what that’s like, so you won’t mind. Sakina and I have been going out in the mornings after breakfast, doing touristy things.

  Sakina can be fun when she’s not acting like a martyr. She took me to see a huge old white marble mausoleum where the founder of Pakistan is buried, and since then we’ve visited some of the most awesome places in Karachi. We went to Clifton Beach one day, where I rode on a camel, and ate the most delicious sandwich in the whole world! We visited a huge park with rows of ancient trees, and a British-era building with a two-story library inside. We sat on a gigantic Ferris wheel that wobbled and made me scream, but the view from the top was amazing. Everywhere we went, human beings crowded around me in a way I’m not really used to, but they all smiled and waved and nodded, like they were giving me a great big hug and saying, welcome to Pakistan, Mimi, we missed you.

  I should have been happy, but for some reason I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling sad. Did you ever visit these places? If I looked hard enough at the mess of footprints in the sand, would I see yours? Did you also ride the same camel or drive up the same roads as me?

  Did you ever think of me, or Mom? Did you even know Nana and Nani were living in the same city as you? Did you ever want to pick up the phone and call me?

  I’m telling myself yes to all those questions.

  I’ll probably never know the real answers.

  Your daughter, Mimi

  “What are you doing?”

  I quickly hide the journal behind my back, trying to seem casual. Sakina stands in my doorway, holding a big box in her arms.

  I remember to breathe. “It’s just my journal,” I tell her. “I write things in it when I’m alone.”

  She staggers inside and sets the box down on the floor. “What sort of things?”

  I shrug, twisting my pencil between my fingers. She knows about Dad; what harm will it do to share the journal with her just a tiny bit? I pat the space beside me on my bed, and she sits down gingerly, as if it’s made of live snakes. “I don’t think I’m allowed to . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “This is my room, and I’m giving you permission.” I sound very bossy, even to myself. I stifle a giggle. I push the journal into her hands, then act cool. Nobody’s seen this thing before, so if she makes fun of me, I’m not sure how I’ll react.

  She flips a few pages, her face still. “These are letters to . . . your father?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “I don’t understand. I thought you hadn’t met him since you were five.”

  I realize how silly the journal sounds. I can feel myself getting red. “I know,” I try to explain. “It’s just my way of writing down my feelings. He’s never going to see this, obviously.”

  “Americans are, how you say . . . weird,” she says, then closes her mouth quickly.

  I have to laugh at this. “You may be right. I can see how this seems weird.”

  She hands me back the journal. “I still feel bad for what I said the other day about your father, though. Amma would be horrified at such bad manners.”

  I shrug and place the journal inside my bedside table. “That’s okay. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  She points to the box on the floor. “That’s my . . . gift . . . to you. To make you feel better.”

  I stare at the box. Where did she get money for a gift that big? I get up from my bed and approach the box carefully. “What is it?”

  “Newspapers!” she tells me happily. “Old English newspapers, just like you asked.”

  I open the box and rifle through the newspapers. There are so many, and most seem to be dated this year and the last. “This is amazing! Thank you so much!” I smile so big my lips crack. “Where did you get these?”

  “Turns out Abba keeps these in the pantry to absorb oil. Like when he fries chips or needs to wrap up leftover fish or something.”

  I sink onto the floor and take out a handful of newspapers. “I love your abba,” I tell her.

  She joins me on the floor. “Me too,” she says, pleased. “Now, what exactly are we looking for?”

  We find three columns written by Tom Scotts, special correspondent to Dawn. Each comes with a grainy black-and-white picture of a man with windswept hair and an open-necke
d polo shirt staring seriously at something in the distance. I try not to gobble the picture with my eyes. I’ve never seen one of his articles with his picture attached before. They’ve always just included his name, which I know is called a byline.

  Tahira knocks on the door an hour later, announcing that Sakina’s father is looking for her. “All over the house he searched,” she tells us severely. “Poor man, he was so upset. You didn’t hear him shouting at all?”

  Sakina scowls at her and leaves hurriedly, even though I doubt her father was shouting. He seems like such a calm person whenever I encounter him in the kitchen. Once I even caught him humming a tune under his breath as he sautéed onions.

  I stare at the newspaper picture of Dad after Sakina’s gone back downstairs to the kitchen to cook dinner. My memories of him are so vague, so dependent on smell and touch, that I never really thought much about how he actually looks. About the way his eyebrows arch over his eyes, and his hair falls onto his forehead in a clump.

  The few pictures we have of him at home are so different from this serious one. In my bedroom, there’s a framed picture of Dad in his graduation cap and gown, smiling broadly. Mom says it’s from when he graduated journalism school and just before he got his first assignment. It was way before I was born, apparently. There’s another picture of him holding me in his arms. I’m a tiny baby, wrapped in a blue-and-white-striped towel-thing they give out in the hospital to newborns. Mom says it looks as if he gave birth to me all by himself. I’d like to think it was a proud moment for him.

  I don’t know how long I stay on the floor, looking at this new, journalist dad. The one who’s left his family. The one who writes long, boring articles about the state of local politics after the last elections. Mom knocks on my door, knock-knock-pause-knock, and I look up.