A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  I wait for long minutes, but she doesn’t reply. I wonder what time it is in Italy. Finally, I go back to Mom’s laptop, praying to the internet gods for a good connection. I scroll through videos on YouTube, trim my nails, organize my gel pen collection, and then watch some more videos. Cats jumping on trampolines. Little boys driving tricycles. Older boys driving bikes and failing tricks. A guy in a tank top telling knock-knock jokes. The internet connection is so slow the videos jerk and stop like breakdancing scenes, and my eyes start to ache.

  “There’s a cricket match on television, if you want to watch with me.” Nana sticks his head in my door.

  I have a very vague idea of what cricket is. “No, thanks,” I say.

  He insists, and two minutes later I’m downstairs in the family room watching several men amble up and down a strip of white ground with bats. I doze off, then am startled awake by a “sixer,” whatever that may be. There’s a lot of jubilation by one team, and a lot of head shaking and frowny faces by the other. Nana is grinning as if he made the sixer himself, so I grin along with him to make him proud of me.

  “Look at us, grandfather and granddaughter, enjoying some quality time together,” he says. “Your mother would be so happy to see us right now.”

  My grin fades. Mom’s made a habit of disappearing, hinting about meeting old friends. I’m almost sure by this she means Sohail, but I haven’t found the courage to ask her outright. I might miss her presence, but ever since I found those columns of Dad’s, we’ve had this tension between us that’s hard to avoid. The cricket match ends just as Sakina comes in with her usual tea and snacks, and Nana begins to read a newspaper.

  “Did the match already finish?” Sakina asks, disappointed. Her eyes are glued to the television screen.

  I nod. “Don’t tell me you like cricket too? It’s so boring!”

  She gives me a stern look. “It’s not boring. It’s actually very exciting. I sometimes play with my brother on our verandah, but the space is tiny, and his fingers are too small to hold the bat correctly.”

  I change the channels on the TV, trying to find another sport, one I can actually follow. A flash of colorful fabric catches my eye. A tall woman in a magnificent purple shalwar kameez is walking down a runway. “What’s this?” I whisper. Her kameez has golden sequins that should blind me, but instead completely enthrall me.

  Sakina comes closer to the screen and sits down on the floor near me. “Oh, this is a fashion show. I heard about it on the radio this morning. It’s very . . . how you say . . . glamorous.”

  I pat her on the shoulder to praise her on the very appropriate choice of words. The woman’s clothes are indeed glamorous. Then another woman, even more beautiful than the first one, walks up the runway, and I sigh loudly. She’s wearing a gold and silver gharara, and her lace dupatta has tassels that chime when she moves. Oh, the beauty, the rich colors!

  “I think those are brides,” Sakina whispers.

  “You may be right,” I reply. “Who else would wear such fantastic clothes?”

  “My amma says they cost more than an entire year’s salary,” she says in awe.

  “My mom could never make that much in just one year,” I admit. “I wish we were rich; I’d spend all my money on these clothes.”

  She makes a noise in her throat, as if she’s choking. “But why? None of them have any funny sayings on the front. Not even unfunny ones.”

  I don’t tell her that unfunny isn’t a real word. At least I don’t think it is. “I will make an exception for these beauties,” I tell her. “Now if we only had somewhere to wear them!”

  I stand up so suddenly my head spins. Making a pose, I strut on the carpet next to Nana’s chess table. I hold my head high and pout like the women on television. Sakina covers her mouth with her hand, but her laughter is too big to be contained. “You look ridiculous,” she chokes out, gasping.

  I grin at her and grab her hand to pull her up. “Come be my partner. I can’t be the only one looking ridiculous!”

  She laughs some more, and I stop to look at her. Her eyes are crinkled, and her cheeks are blushing with happiness. “What are you staring at? I’m definitely a more beautiful model than you!” She goes into more peals of laughter, and I join in only because it’s infectious.

  “You girls are going to wake up Nani, and she’s always cranky if her sleep is disturbed,” Nana warns without looking up from his newspaper.

  “She’s always cranky, period!” I say. Still, Sakina sobers up at the mention of Nani, and I have to admit my laughs dry up considerably.

  “I have to go wash the dishes anyway,” Sakina says reluctantly. But her lips are turned up at the corners.

  I smile back. “See you later, alligator.”

  “Are you calling me a reptile?” She’s genuinely confused. I grin and help her pick up the tray of half-eaten snacks, then carry it to the kitchen even though she protests.

  Mom still isn’t back by five o’clock. I want to be mad at her, ask her why she even brought me here to Pakistan if she isn’t going to spend any time with me. In the pit of my stomach, though, there’s a niggling worry, pinching me like a mosquito in the backyard of Nani’s house.

  Tahira marches up to my bedroom to tell me about a phone call. “Your mother says she’s sorry to be late, but she’s going to be home by dinnertime,” she wheezes, expressing displeasure at this lack of motherly responsibility with a frown.

  “Shukriya,” I reply. I’ve got the old newspapers Sakina gave me spread out on my bed, and I’m pretty sure I have ink stains on my forehead from where I dozed off on top of them.

  She cranes her neck to see inside. “Do you want me to clean your room, Maryam Ji? It looks very untidy.”

  I grit my teeth. “No, thank you. I can do it myself.” I don’t tell her it’s weird having an adult do things for me, or that this is my private space even though technically it’s Uncle Faizan’s room. I just smile at her until she finally leaves, muttering about untidy girls and flighty mothers.

  I go back to the old newspapers on the floor. I prefer to read them even though the internet is back. Something about the paper copies makes Dad’s columns more precious. I must have read them a hundred times in the last week, rubbed a finger over his photographs countless times, wondered over and over at his choice of words. Emulate. Democratic principles. Stemming the tide of anarchy.

  Politics seems to be his expertise. I wonder if he’s ever reported on something lighter, like the latest fashion trends. Somehow the thought of him sitting at the end of a catwalk of Pakistani models, notepad in hand, makes me laugh out loud. But it’s also infuriating, because there are so many gaps to fill. There’s so little I know about the man whose genes I share.

  Dear Dad,

  If I could ask you any question in the world, I’d ask why you wanted to be a journalist. Is that surprising? I bet you thought I’d ask why you left Mom and me. But no, that’s not a polite thing to ask, is it, and anyhow, I’m afraid of the answer, so it’s better left unsaid.

  So here’s what I’d like to know. Why did you choose journalism? Did your parents want you to be a reporter? Did something happen in your life when you were a kid that pushed you to such a choice? I’ve been thinking hard about what path I want for myself. An artist, like Mom? Nope, I’d be struggling to pay the bills like she does. A journalist like you? Absolutely not, because the call of the story may take me away from my family.

  I like traveling, and I definitely like learning about different places, different cultures. Did you know I have a big map of the world in my closet, marking all the interesting places you’ve been to, according to my old friend Google? I like to imagine what it would be like to visit those places, see those cities. Mom doesn’t know about the map. I’ve pasted it on the back of my closet, and you have to swing aside all my clothes to see it.

  What else could I be? Nana used to be an engineer before he retired. That sounds super boring. Maybe I could be a cook like Sakina’s dad. He see
ms so happy doing his job, singing under his breath, eager to see what people think of his creations. Even these days, when he seems unwell, he takes a great deal of pleasure in cooking for us.

  Maybe I should take some lessons from him. It will be nice to stand next to a man and learn the ropes, even if he’s not my dad.

  Mimi

  When Mom finally comes home, she makes a pretty big announcement. “I’ll be working at a children’s center for a while,” she says casually while we eat dinner. Today it’s spinach with goat meat, potato cutlets, and spaghetti with meat sauce.

  “You got a job?” Nani repeats, her voice high. “You didn’t come here to work; you came here to visit us!”

  I agree in my heart, but nobody’s asking my opinion. As usual. Mom jabs at her plate with a fork. “It’s not a real job, Ammi. I have a new job now in Houston, which I’m starting when I get back. This is a volunteer position teaching art to orphan kids. Only three times a week.”

  “Orphans?” Nani’s anger goes up a notch. She bangs a hand on the table, rattling the china. “Not even a private school with the children of respectable parents! An orphanage! What will people say?”

  I can tell Mom’s gritting her teeth by the way her jaw squares and hardens. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you before. I’ve actually been teaching the class for almost two weeks now, but I knew you’d get upset if I told you.”

  I look down at my food. Nobody cares that I could be upset at my mom doing something without telling me. Not just upset, but angry. Furious. Bone-tingling mad.

  Nani takes desperate gulps of her water. “Two weeks? Without consulting us?”

  Mom turns to Nana in exasperation. “Abba, please help?”

  Nana eats his cutlets with a serene look on his face, as if volunteering at an orphanage is nothing out of the ordinary. Which it isn’t, I remind myself. Nani has a habit of freaking out over everything.

  “You worry too much, dear,” Nana chides. “Samia is an adult. She can do whatever she wants.”

  “Thank you, Abba.” Mom relaxes and takes a sip of Coke. But she’s still hiding something, I can tell. She looks down into her glass as she continues. “There’s one more thing. The orphanage is run by my friend from college, Sohail. I’d like you all to meet him. I’ve invited him to dinner on Tuesday.”

  There is a stunned little silence around the table, as if somebody pressed the pause button on a video. Then Nani gasps as if she’s been slapped in the face, and Nana puts his fork down with a clatter.

  I look down at my plate, but my spaghetti seems to be swimming out of focus, and I have a sudden, blinding headache.

  26

  Sakina

  The Worst Day of My Life

  “You seem tired. Are you okay?” Mimi looks at me closely.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, then add politely and probably unnecessarily, “Thank you for asking.”

  Mimi and I are practicing English in the family room, using the Wimpy Kid book she’s given me. It’s about a boy who’s sad because everyone picks on him, but then he does the most obnoxious things for fun. Pranks, the Americans call it. I’m horrified by everything in this book, but also fascinated.

  Of all the rooms in Begum Sahiba’s house, I like the family room the best. It’s open and airy, with large windows overlooking the back garden and the cage of mynahs. Samia Ji’s painting leans against the wall in a corner, and I’m amazed at how much she’s managed to complete in the few weeks she’s been here. I can make out the outlines of two people sitting across from each other, heads bowed.

  “Are you sure?” Mimi asks again. “You almost went to sleep practicing your verbs.”

  I sigh and close my notebook, where I’m jotting down words. “I’m exhausted,” I admit. “Abba was not well last night at all. He just kept tossing and turning, keeping us awake.”

  “He should go to a doctor.”

  I grimace. “You sound like Tahira.”

  We go back to our verbs, hurriedly hiding our books when the door bangs open and Begum Sahiba strides in with an ugly look on her face. “That mother of yours, she’s still not back from the orphanage?” she cries.

  I gulp, but Mimi has this totally under control. She grins and waves to her grandmother. “Nani, come sit with us. Mom is always late! One time she was so late to pick me up from school they had to close all the offices and make me stand outside on the road to wait for her.”

  I can’t tell if she’s being funny or truthful. It’s very hard to tell with Mimi. Her eyes are sparkling, but her smile fades when Begum Sahiba turns away to sit down. There is something bothering this girl. And her grandmother. And that something is named Sohail.

  “Bring me some cool lassi, Sakina,” Begum Sahiba orders. “And do it yourself; don’t make your poor father work. He’s not been feeling well.”

  I bite my lip and rush away. I can’t decide which is worse, her informing me about my father’s condition, or my worrying about it. I find Abba sitting at the kitchen table, breathing deeply. “Are you feeling better, Abba?” I ask, and he nods bravely.

  “I think my sugar level is too low. I feel faint.” I bring out yogurt and water from the fridge, mix them together with salt and sugar, and pour the lassi into three tall glasses. Abba drinks his quickly, and then leans against the back of his chair, eyes closed. “You’re a good daughter,” he sighs.

  My throat tight, I take the other two glasses to the TV room. Begum Sahiba and Mimi are still talking about Mimi’s mother. “What do you have against the orphanage, Nani?” Mimi asks innocently.

  Begum Sahiba takes a long sip of the lassi. I’m expecting harsh criticism—I can never get the ratio of sugar to salt correct—but she’s too worked up over the thought of her daughter rubbing shoulders with dirty orphan children. “I’ve been to that place. It’s in a very unsafe part of the city. She hasn’t lived in Karachi for so long, and she has no idea how to protect herself.”

  Mimi and I both digest this. “Oh, I thought it was because . . .” Mimi’s voice trails off.

  “What? Because I’m a snob?” Begum Sahiba drains the rest of the lassi and hands me the glass. “I am, I suppose. But I’m also a mother, and I worry about my children.”

  Mimi stares at her mother’s paintings in the corner. “I’m a child, and I worry about my mother,” she admits in a low voice.

  Begum Sahiba nods morosely. “Especially since we’ll be meeting this Sohail character for dinner next week. He’s sure to be very low-class.”

  “What’s low-class?” innocent Mimi asks.

  Begum Sahiba opens her mouth to answer, but I beat her to it. “Poor like me,” I say quietly.

  They both turn to stare, and I wait for Begum Sahiba to scold me for interrupting. She’s got a strange look on her face. “I didn’t mean . . .” Her voice trails off.

  I take a breath to ease the tightness in my throat. Why am I upset? It’s no surprise how she feels about people like me. Still, her silence is interesting. She looks almost . . . regretful?

  Mimi breaks the silence with a wave of her glass. “Yum, this was awesome!” she gushes. “Can you make some more later?”

  I want to tell her it’s very easy to make herself when she gets home to America. Before I can open my mouth, a loud crash startles us all. “Abba!” I gasp and run toward the kitchen at full speed. The empty glass in my hand falls and shatters.

  The next twenty-four hours are a nightmare I can’t wake up from. Malik rushes Abba to the nearest hospital, and I ride along in the back seat, holding Abba’s head in my lap. He’s unconscious but breathing. I stroke his forehead every few minutes, noting how cold his skin feels under my trembling fingers.

  “Don’t worry, Sakina, he’s just fainted because of low blood sugar,” Malik consoles me in the rearview mirror. “My cousin has diabetes, and in the beginning when he was first diagnosed this happened to him a few times too.”

  I want to scream at him to shut up; he’s not a doctor. What if my father is seriously
ill and we can’t afford to treat him? But I nod silently and bend over Abba. The hospital is old and dingy, with miles of patients lining the halls inside, waiting, waiting. There are other, newer hospitals closer to Begum Sahiba’s house, but this one is the least expensive.

  I leave Abba with an attendant and go to call Amma from the front desk. She cries on the phone but says she can’t leave Jammy anywhere because the neighbors aren’t home. So it’s just me and Abba, together in this dreary hospital where the groans of patients who can’t afford medicine fill the air and make me feel sick.

  A doctor comes to see Abba. He runs some tests, orders an IV, and makes a harried examination. “Your father has diabetes,” he finally tells me, as if I’m stupid.

  I grit my teeth. “I know.”

  “Is he taking medication for it?”

  I’m ashamed at the question. My shoulders slump. “No. It’s too expensive.”

  The doctor sighs, as if it’s an answer he’s heard more than once. “I’m going to write out a prescription, and you have to make sure he takes these medicines. Diabetes isn’t a joke, and in his case it’s not something he can manage with diet alone.”

  I let the prescription flutter to the floor as he strides away to the next patient. I want to cry, but my eyes are so dry they hurt to fully open. I feel like smashing something, but my limbs are heavy. After a while, I pick up the prescription and put it in the pocket sewn inside my kameez. Amma may want to see it.

  Amma finally arrives at night, her hair escaping from her dupatta, her face creased with worry. “The election rallies have completely blocked the main road outside the hospital,” she whispers. “I’ve been sitting in the rickshaw for half an hour, just waiting for the traffic to let up.”