A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  Nana lets out a shout of laughter. “Oh, come on, dear, it wasn’t that bad. People gossip all the time.”

  She shakes her head with regret. “They just wouldn’t stop. I was so glad when Major Tahir’s granddaughter eloped with that butcher boy. Gave them someone else to talk about.”

  I walk back slowly to the chess game, wondering. Did Mom feel sad about the neighbors’ gossip or her parents’ shame? Is that why she never came back to Pakistan after she got married?

  Nana nudges me. “Your turn, daydreamer!”

  I sigh. “It’s no use. I suck at chess.”

  He pulls my hair gently. “Nobody—what do you say?—sucks at anything until they decide that it is so.”

  I roll my eyes. “Wow, Nana, you should write that down on a poster and frame it. Better yet, tell Mom to paint a little painting with those words of wisdom.”

  He chuckles. “Making fun of your old grandfather, eh? Where is your mother anyway?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. She said something about visiting old friends.” I don’t mention Sohail. I have a feeling that would make them freak out.

  Nani sniffs again. “What old friends? They all turned their backs on her when she married your father.”

  Dear Dad,

  I think you probably know that Nana and Nani don’t exactly like you. I wonder why. Did you ever meet them? Did you ever tell them you loved their daughter and were excited about starting a family with her? I wish they had the same memories of you that I do, your deep laughter, your crinkly eyes, your musky cologne.

  I hope I find you one day. Do you know what I’ll say if I ever stand in front of you, face-to-face, father to daughter? Actually, I’m not sure. I may cry, although I hope I don’t. I may also get really angry and choke up. I have a habit of doing that sometimes.

  Do you know what my worst fear is? That I’ll meet you someday in passing, but I won’t even know it’s you. And worst of all, you’ll never, ever recognize me.

  Yours,

  Mimi

  Mom still hasn’t come back by late afternoon, so Sakina and I go for a drive again. We roam an outdoor clothing market, Malik trailing behind us reluctantly. I run my hands over fabric splashed with vibrant reds, cool blues, and rich purples. “Only six hundred rupees, miss,” a shopkeeper calls out. My eyes widen as I do some math in my head. That’s less than five dollars!

  I’m fascinated by everything. How colorful, how inexpensive everything is here! The customers are a mix of rich and old, young and poor. I linger at a wooden cart with rolls of embroidered cloth stacked against one another, each a shade different from the one next to it. My fingers stroke the textured smoothness over and over. Sakina shakes her head and drags me away, but not before I take a few pictures of her among the fabric backdrops, the setting sun giving off its own beautiful hues. I even get one of Malik as he stops to give a beggar woman a few coins, their faces bronzed and beaded with sweat.

  We walk back to the car. The sun drops closer to the horizon in a fiery blaze, and the azaan sounds loud and clear just behind us. Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! God is great! God is great!

  Malik hands me the keys. “You two stay here. I’ll be right back after maghrib prayer, Maryam Ji,” he says, and disappears.

  “Is there a mosque nearby?” I ask a shopkeeper.

  He’s already closing his shop and hurrying away. “Come, follow me.”

  I stuff my phone in my pocket and rush after him, Sakina trailing behind, muttering about being late. “Come on, slowpoke,” I cry, and my voice rises up like a bird searching for freedom.

  The mosque behind the market turns out to be huge, and very beautiful. The entrance is a wide archway with blue-green tiles, where the shopkeepers have left their shoes. I kick off my sandals and walk inside, then stop short with a quick breath. An expanse of tiled courtyard, yellowed by the traffic of bare feet over who-knows-how-many years, stretches out in front of me in welcome. I marvel at its coolness under my toes.

  “You can’t be in here.” Sakina catches up to me and whispers in my ear. “Unless you’re praying.”

  “Maybe I’m going to pray,” I whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off the small group of men, standing in straight lines, heads bowed, eyes closed. Malik is there, his gangly body a serene sapling waving in the breeze. They look so peaceful, so content with their lives in that still moment. “Where are the women?”

  Sakina points upward, and I notice a staircase going up to a second floor, open to a second-story verandah. A few women wrapped in colorful scarves and fabrics stand in the recesses. We go up the stairs like cautious mice in a new kitchen. Sakina hesitates, then begins to pray in a corner, slightly away from the other women. I wrap my scarf around my head and follow her actions. Standing, sitting, prostrating. It’s familiar and strange at the same time, as if I’ve done this a thousand times in a dream. Oh God, if you’re there, send Dad to me. Please. Just for a few minutes, so I can hug him one time.

  Later, Sakina and I sit cross-legged on the floor, watching the sun slide under the horizon with red streaks. “I haven’t prayed in a long time,” she admits softly, not looking at me.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . find it hard to believe in God these days.”

  For once, I have zero questions running around in my mind. Is this what prayer does to you? Puts a sort of peace in your heart? I sigh. “You have to admit, this is very nice.”

  She gives a dry little laugh. “You don’t even know how to pray, do you?”

  “I do too!” I pause. “Well, most of it. I’m a bit rusty, like you.”

  “How come?”

  “Nobody ever taught me. We don’t go to the mosque or anything in Houston.”

  She considers this for a minute. “Maybe now you will?”

  “Maybe.” I change the subject. “How’s your English practice coming along?”

  She smiles. “Really good. I think I’m better than I was before.” She pauses, her smile fading. “Am I? What do you think?”

  “Yes, definitely better than before,” I assure her.

  “You’re a good teacher, that’s why.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. I’m not a good searcher, that’s for sure.”

  She knows what I’m talking about. “Still no sign of your father?” she commiserates. “It’s not your fault. He’s just good at hiding, I suspect.”

  I’m silent. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. “Tell me something about your father,” I ask her, desperate.

  “What do you want me to say, Mimi?” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Abba is kind and generous and loving, just like other fathers. Yours must be, too, I’m very sure.”

  “Funny, I’m not sure about that at all.”

  She’s silent for a while. I wait. Sometimes she takes a few minutes to collect her thoughts, and I can almost feel her translating them from Urdu to English. “Look, you have to . . . you have to trust your memories. You know he loves you. Just because you can’t, eh, physically be with him doesn’t mean anything. You are, how do you say, a part of him, and he’s a part of you. You have to trust that.”

  I lean back against her, thinking. The sun is out of sight now, leaving a trail of pink and orange hues in its wake. I know it’s there, waiting for tomorrow.

  Dear Dad,

  When I started kindergarten, I was scared. Not normal-scared like other kids, but freaked out at the thought of being by myself all day long. It was just three months after you’d left us. I remember standing in the school hallway, holding on to Mom’s hand and refusing to let go, screaming until my face turned red. Mom sat me down on a bench, trying to reason with me, but I couldn’t stop. I was so scared she’d leave me forever, too, just walk into her car and away from me without looking back. She hugged me a million times, and stroked my hair, and I never complained even though I hate people touching my hair. The other kids stared at me, probably thinking I was a big baby, then everyone went into their classrooms. Stil
l I hung on to her hand. Finally, she whispered, “Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I won’t be with you, kiddo.” It’s silly how she always calls me that, like she’s the hero in a black-and-white movie. I hiccupped and hiccupped, and she sat patiently with me until I stopped. Finally, I let go of her hand and she left.

  All throughout the day, I kept hugging the memory of her to my chest, knowing she was with me.

  Are you with me too, Dad? Your memory is getting awfully faint.

  Mimi

  24

  Sakina

  Don’t Trust Your Neighbors

  I’m standing at the bus stop, waiting for the number 28 to arrive. The evening is silent, as if ready for something—anything—to happen. The main street near Sahib Ji’s house seems to have been transformed. Every house has the flag of one political party or the other flying from its rooftop. Every boundary wall has posters of grim-faced men and prim-and-proper women pasted on it. Vote for me! I’m the best.

  Every one except our house, of course. Our house is its usual pristine self, clipped hedges, washed walls, standing upright in the sea of jumbled election messages.

  I gulp, startled at the idea that Begum Sahiba’s house can be my house. When did that happen? When did I stop thinking of it as a prison where I had to bide my days as punishment until I’d be free? I have a feeling it’s because of Mimi. Even though she’s been sad lately, moping around with anxious eyes and a quivering mouth, she’s got an upbeat personality that I can’t get enough of. A smile that shines all the way to her eyes, especially when she’s about to make one of her corny jokes that I usually don’t understand fully.

  I’d never tell her that, though. That would be . . . weird.

  “Lost in your thoughts as usual, eh, girly?” A familiar voice grates on me, and I turn sideways. Tahira is standing next to me, grinning knowingly.

  I nod at her and turn back to my position. Several other people—all servants from the looks of their clothes—are approaching the bus stop and I don’t want to lose my place talking to Tahira. She shuffles closer to me. “Where’s your abba’s motorcycle, then, girl?” she asks loudly. A few people turn to look at me. In the land of bus travelers, motorcyclists are evil. They weave in and out of traffic, going too fast, spraying dust on passersby, often causing accidents.

  Not my abba, though. He drives very carefully, sometimes making me impatient. But the damage has been done. The scowls of the other passengers are deadly. “Abba wasn’t feeling too well,” I admit, squashing my worry. “He left early.”

  “He’s not been feeling well for a long time,” she muses. “Have you taken him to a doctor?”

  I want to stop this conversation right here. I try ignoring her, craning my neck to see if the bus is rumbling our way yet. No bus. Only a sea of hopeful passengers. “Has he seen a doctor?” she asks again. “My uncle died because we didn’t take him to a doctor in time.”

  I turn again and glare at her. “Did he have diabetes like my abba?” I ask fiercely, my heart thumping, not wanting to hear the answer.

  She smiles, her missing tooth taunting me. “Oh no, he had some heart condition. Or maybe it was something with his lungs. I don’t know. Still, you should take your abba to a doctor.”

  With a screech of brakes, the number 28 rumbles up to the bus stop and the mass of people on the sidewalk moves forward like the tide to enter it. I struggle my way inside, pushing and pulling just like everyone else. Behind me, Tahira calls out loudly: “If you need the name of a good doctor, let me know. There’s a guy in my neighborhood. He’s very cheap.”

  Abba is sleeping when I get home. “His sugar level was very high,” Amma tells me in the verandah, her face creased with worry. “Did he eat something he shouldn’t have at the house?”

  I’m immediately defensive. “No, of course not!” I say. “I make sure he only eats the food I take with me.” But a niggling fear pushes at my forehead. What does he eat when I’m not around, when I’m out sightseeing with Mimi or chatting with her in her bedroom? There are too many temptations in Begum Sahiba’s house: mangoes, jam crackers, even sugar in tea.

  “Maybe we should take him to a doctor again,” Amma says, and I stay silent. The doctor will ask for money we don’t have, and we both know this.

  She walks back to the kitchen area, where dinner is bubbling on the stove. I take a plate from the rack of dishes. The fragrance of potato curry fills my nostrils, and I can tell without looking inside the pot that it’s been cooked without meat. We can’t afford meat, so we make do with the vegetable versions of curry dishes. Amma does a wonderful job, though. If you close your eyes while eating, you can’t even tell that it’s only a few measly potatoes and green chilies.

  She sits with me while I eat, both of us cross-legged on the floor near the stove. “Where’s Jammy?” I ask. “It’s not usually so quiet around here.”

  “He was making too much noise, bothering your father. So I sent him to the neighbors’ to play.”

  Our next-door neighbors have five children ranging in age from six to twenty years old. The father works in the paper mill across town, and the mother babysits. The children are mostly all right, except for the oldest son, whose tough-looking friends hang around our street all the time. “I don’t like the neighbors,” I tell Amma.

  She sighs. “You don’t like anybody, Sakina.”

  I take a few bites, then a sip of lukewarm water. “Who taught me to pray, Amma?” I suddenly ask.

  She looks up, startled. “Pray? I don’t know. You just used to copy me in my actions every day, sitting with me on my prayer rug, mumbling the words.” She suddenly smiles. “Oh, and your abba had this little book with the Arabic words of the prayers in it, and you’d look through it all the time. Even when you were little, you loved books.”

  “I hardly have time to read now.” I can’t help it, but the words come out like pieces of bitter melon.

  Amma rubs a hand on my arm. “I know. You have a hard life, like all of us.”

  Before I can stop myself, the question comes hurtling out of my mouth. “Don’t you wish you could have gone to school as a child, Amma? Don’t you wish Jammy and I could?”

  She looks puzzled, as if I’ve spoken in some foreign language. “Gone to school? It was impossible. My father was a sweeper for KMC, and my mother sewed clothes for rich women. I had seven brothers and sisters to look after. How could I have gone to school?”

  My breath crushes in my chest. “And me?” I whisper, so quietly only my heart can hear.

  She reaches over again and gives my arm a tight squeeze. “Come, girl, stop thinking useless thoughts. Finish your food.” She turns quietly back to the stove.

  After dinner, I gaze longingly at my little reading room, wanting nothing more than to crawl inside and practice my reading. Mimi has given me a worn-out book with a colorful hard cover called Diary of a Wimpy Kid, which I’m equal parts excited and nervous to read. She told me the words are easy and funny. I’m not so sure. The day of the admission test is looming closer, and even though Mimi thinks I’m ready, I have no such confidence in myself.

  “Go get Jamshed from next door, Sakina!” Amma orders before I can take a step in the direction of my reading room.

  There’s no use grumbling. I wrap my dupatta tightly around my head and upper body and leave. The sky is completely dark by now, the street outside our home lighted dimly by naked bulbs on electric poles. Despite the hour—it must be nine o’clock at least—the street is full of people. Men coming home from work, their backs bent with exhaustion. Youths playing the last few minutes of cricket, yelling at one another to hurry up. Women calling out to their children from inside their houses, telling them they’ve had enough play for one day. A scrawny cat limps through the garbage heap on the corner, sniffing for scraps. Its ribs are hard and thin against its muddy skin, and I turn away before I start feeling sorry for it.

  Just outside the neighbors’ house, their oldest son and his friends are hanging a gigantic
election poster. The man’s face, his large mustache, is nauseatingly familiar. Mr. Aziz from outside the Dawn offices! I must have been staring at him, because one of the young men calls out to me. “Hey, you! Who’s your family voting for?”

  I ignore him and walk slowly to the neighbors’ front door, hoping to quickly slip inside. This election talk is getting out of hand. Too late. He ambles over and stands right in front of the door, hands on hips. I look at him squarely, without emotion. He’s tall and gangly, with long, dirty hair that falls to his shoulders, and narrow, unkind eyes. “I asked who your family is voting for!” he repeats slowly, as if speaking to a little child.

  I decide not to argue. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask my abba.” Then I realize my mistake. He’s seen which house I just came out of.

  He’s looking behind me, a calculating expression on his face. “What’s your abba’s name? Is he home yet?”

  “Uh, no, he’s not home right now.” I fumble around for an excuse. “He’s very sick. He may not even go to vote.”

  The boy stretches his teeth into a half smile. “We’ll have to change that, won’t we? Mr. Aziz is the only candidate worth voting for. I’m sure your abba will realize that soon.”

  “Hey, Raheem, leave that poor girl alone. She’s just here to collect her brother,” the neighbors’ son drawls, laughing. I give him a dirty look, but Raheem steps aside and lets me pass with a flourish, so I nod my thanks in the group’s general direction. There’s more laughter, and Raheem saunters back to the group as if he’s just out for an evening stroll.

  I gather my dupatta tightly around me and walk on. This is precisely why I hate my neighbors. It’s a minefield just walking outside, trying to mind my own business.

  25

  Mimi

  A Fashion Show to Remember

  I’m checking the calendar on Mom’s laptop, and we’re more than halfway through our vacation already. Some days are chock-full of activity, but others—like this afternoon—are as slow as refrigerated chocolate syrup running down a tall glass of milk. I take out my phone and find Zoe’s online photo album, which she shared with me before she left. There are two dozen pictures of Italy—green countryside, little cars, courtyards full of fountains, and the occasional food picture, but none of her. She’s never been into selfies all that much. I type her a text message: Hi, how’s it going?