The elections are so far removed from my reality right now. I tell Amma what the doctor said, and she stares at the prescription as if it’s got some magic words written on it. “Maybe we can ask Begum Sahiba for a loan,” she finally says, but her voice is hopeless.
Begum Sahiba. Sahib Ji. Mimi. A spark of hope stirs inside me. I rush back to the front desk to call their house, but the phone rings and rings forever. Have they all gone out for dinner, now that the cook is ill? Should I have gone back to fulfill my duties instead of being here with Abba?
Amma leaves an hour later, wanting to go back to Jammy. I spend the night lying on the floor next to Abba’s bed, holding his limp hand in mine. We’re in a room with nine other patients, but I don’t ask what they’re suffering from, nor do they offer the information. One man’s head is wrapped in bandages, and another has a leg in a cast, so I suppose we’re all a varied bunch of ill people and their relatives. Abba is sleeping peacefully, at least, the IV sending something healing and calming into his veins.
I try not to think about the cost of all this, but I don’t sleep a wink that night. I hug the memory of the mosque in the market, sitting with Mimi as the sun sent its final blazes around us.
27
Mimi
A Visit to My Best Friend’s House
I stay up most of the night, thinking of Sakina’s father. Is he all right? Is he at home or still at the hospital? At breakfast, Tahira is bursting with gossip. “Ejaz is going home. Sakina’s mother called me on my mobile. He’s doing well, but the doctor says he needs lots of medicines.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Mom says, taking a bite of toast. “If he needs money, I can definitely help.”
The thought of Sakina’s family needing money is nauseating. I push away my half-eaten toast. “Mom, can I go visit Sakina? Please?”
Nani is instantly alarmed. “They live in a very dirty part of the city. No need to go there!”
I turn to glare at her. “Sakina is my friend!” I practically shout. “I want to go see her.”
Nani waves a hand at me like I’m a pesky fly in her face, and turns her attention to Mom. “See what these Americans are teaching your daughter? Servants can’t be friends!”
There’s a brief pause in the conversation, and I can almost hear Mom grinding her teeth in annoyance. Then she laughs a forced little laugh and tells me, “Of course you can go visit your friend, Mimi. The driver will take you after he drops me at the orphanage.”
Nani’s mouth opens and closes. “You mean you’re still going to that . . . place? Even now that Ejaz is in such a terrible condition?”
Mom is already out the door. “I thought they were just servants, Ammi. Not anyone important enough to worry about.”
Dear Dad,
Today another father I know is very sick. I am going to see him, but I’m more excited about seeing my friend and where she lives. Is that insensitive of me? I can’t tell you how curious I am to see her house and her family, the place she calls home. She’s always with me, and today I’ve missed her terribly.
It’s funny how much I’ve learned about Sakina because her father is sick. Tahira told me Sakina spent the entire night with her father in the hospital. She pretends not to care about people, but inside she is so kind. She’d do anything for anyone. I know I’d do the same for you, if you were sick.
Another surprisingly caring person is Nani. She tries to act tough and shout at all the servants, but I can see she’s worried about Sakina’s father. She waited by the phone so long last night, cursing at Sakina for not calling to give her updates from the hospital. Nana finally told us all to get in the car for a ride to a nearby restaurant for dinner. We ate chicken tikka and paratha, but I’m sorry to report that it was not half as delicious as how Sakina’s father cooks it. I can’t wait for him to get well so that we can all go back to a normal diet. And so I can hear Sakina’s laughter again.
Stay healthy,
Mimi
Sakina’s neighborhood stinks, literally. I don’t mean to be rude, and I’d never say it out loud, but the smell from the garbage piled up high on either side of the main street is overwhelmingly disgusting. I roll up the windows and breathe shallow breaths through my scarf. “Why is there so much garbage here?” I ask Malik in Urdu.
He launches into a long speech that I cannot quite grasp. Something about uneducated people and lazy politicians. “They promise to clean up the streets, but nothing ever gets done,” he mutters.
“But now there’s another election coming up, right?” I ask, hoping I used the correct Urdu words.
He goes off into another speech, frowning and gesturing. The summary: elections don’t change anything because the candidates are all the same. I think about this as I gaze at the posters of the different candidates plastered on the walls, all smiling innocently. One of the faces is a familiar mustached one: Mr. Aziz, the man we heard outside the Dawn offices earlier.
Malik glances in the rearview mirror at me. “Ejaz’s house is up ahead,” he points. “The green door on the right. You have to walk there—the street is too narrow for the car to pass through.”
I cringe but square my shoulders. I step out of the car and walk up the street, avoiding ruts and loose rocks, even a squashed banana peel. Thank God I’m wearing sneakers. A naked toddler waves at me from his front door. I try not to stare at him, and he waves even more. The green door is just ahead of me when I hear shouting. About twenty yards away, a tall young man with long dirty hair is standing over two old men, a big stick in his hand. “You better remember what I told you,” he shouts, and bangs the stick on the wall next to them. They quiver and jump. I jump with them, my heart thumping loudly.
The green door opens and Sakina peers out. “Mimi, come inside quickly!” She pulls me in and shuts the door behind us. “What are you doing here? I saw you from the window.”
“I . . . came . . . to . . . see . . . you,” I whisper, putting a hand on my chest to still my heart. “Who was that boy?”
“That’s Raheem, the neighborhood goonda . . . I mean gangster. He’s going around ordering people to vote for his candidate. Screaming, destroying things.” There’s an angry look on her face, mixed with a sort of desperation that comes from having your hands tied behind your back.
I glance around. I’m in a small courtyard with a sort of daybed in the front, and a kitchen area in the back. There’s a door going inside, but I can’t make out where it leads. It’s all small enough to fit twice inside Nani’s garden, with lots of space left over. A woman with long hair tied in a braid is sitting on a stool near the stove, a little boy on her lap. She stands up slowly and comes over to us, lips stretched into the gentlest smile I ever saw. The boy peeps from between her arms at me, smiling shyly. “You must be Maryam Ji,” she says in Urdu. “Welcome to our house!”
“Thank you,” I answer. “I . . . we . . . have all been so worried about Sakina’s father. How is he?”
She looks toward the bed. For the first time I notice a shape lying there, covered with blankets. “He’s much better, alhamdolillah!” the woman tells us. “Please sit, I will make us some chai.”
Sakina interrupts. “Mimi doesn’t drink chai, Amma.”
The woman frowns. “No chai? Oh well, maybe I have some juice . . .”
I shake my head. “No, please, I don’t want anything. I just wanted to meet you all.”
“My dear, I cannot let a guest leave without any food or drink,” she tells me gently. “It’s our custom. We may be poor, but we treat our guests right.”
“Okay. Juice, then, please,” I reply.
“I’ll leave you two friends to talk.” She walks away, back to the stove, her braid waving behind her.
Sakina and I stand together in awkward silence. “I like your kameez,” she finally says, pointing.
I’ve forgotten what I’d thrown on this morning. It’s a white-and-black-striped T-shirt with a big pink donut in the middle, and the words DONUT JUDGE ME written arou
nd it in a circle. She’s trying to figure it out with a tight wrinkle between her eyes. “Do not is spelled wrong,” she tells me, concerned.
I give her a little smile. “It’s a pun, with donut,” I explain.
“I’ve seen pictures of donuts on billboards,” she replies. “They look delicious.”
“They are!” I exclaim. “And not too hard to make at home. I’ll tell you the recipe.”
She looks shocked. “You know how to make donuts? At home?”
“Yup. They’re basically just fried batter. I told you Mom and I do a lot of cooking at home.”
Sakina stares at my T-shirt some more, like it’s got the answer to a puzzle hidden on it. “Yup,” she repeats in a whisper.
Her mother comes back with a small glass of reddish-purple liquid. “Pomegranate juice,” she says. Sakina’s brother is now standing next to her, grinning proudly as if he made the juice himself. He’s holding a tiny toy car in his hand.
I taste it and smile. “It’s great!” I gulp it all down because it truly is delicious. Sakina’s mother nods and goes back to the stove. Jamshed—Jammy—stays behind, flying the car in the air like it’s an airplane. He whispers something to Sakina in Urdu, too low for me to hear.
She rolls her eyes and tells me, “He wants to show you his car. Abba gave it to him last year as an Eid gift, and he plays with it constantly.”
I kneel and admire the car. It’s a faded old race car with markings on the sides and a broken wheel. “Very nice,” I say in Urdu.
He breaks into a smile, and repeats. “Very nice.” Then he runs back to his mother with another giggle.
Sakina gestures toward the back of the house. “Want to see my study?”
I follow her into a sort of closet, full of old books and papers and a few cushions to sit on. A heavy curtain hangs in the doorway, and a light hangs from the ceiling. It’s so small we both have to crawl in on our hands and knees, and sit side by side with our arms touching. “I love it,” I announce.
She bites her lip. “Are you sure? It’s so small . . .”
“So what? It’s perfect,” I tell her, and I’m not lying. I can just imagine her sitting here at night, studying for her admission test.
“I think so,” she says, and we sit together quietly for a while, listening to our breathing.
“You’re so lucky, Sakina,” I say after a while.
She tries to twist toward me but there isn’t enough space. “What are you talking about? You think I’m lucky? Is this one of your jokes I don’t understand?”
I shake my head. “No. You have your family with you. You have this little space that’s your own. I used to think I was better off than you because I had more stuff, but it’s not really true. I’m not a whole person, only half.”
I can tell she’s startled by my words because her body is shaking just a little bit next to mine, and her breathing is hard, as if she’s been running. “If you find your father, you’ll be whole again,” she finally says, knowing what’s in my heart.
I clamp my lips shut, and we rock back and forth together for a long time. I know without being told she’s thinking of her father, asleep in the bed outside.
“How’s your father doing, really?” I suddenly ask. “What did the doctor say?”
She makes a choking sound, a cross between a laugh and a sob. “He says my father needs to take some medicines to control his diabetes. The diet and exercise aren’t enough.”
I don’t understand. “So what’s the problem? Get the medicines, make him feel better.”
She turns and finally looks at me, and her face is twisted into a crying, angry mass. “Easy for you to say, Miss America! Medicines cost money. Lots of money. We didn’t even have enough to pay the hospital for the night we spent there. Amma had to beg the neighbors to give us money in exchange for cooking food for them for the next two months.”
I digest this in silence. The tiny room—closet—seems suffocatingly small now. I want to hug the anger away from her, to make her smile that reluctant smile of hers again. I scramble out of the closet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
She sits in the closet by herself, arms wrapped around her knees, looking like a little girl. “I know,” she whispers. “I just need to be alone for a while.”
I put a hand in my jeans pocket and take out an envelope. “Here, take this money,” I say solemnly, holding it out to her. “My mother sent it. She was going to give it to you when we left, but you need it now, I guess.”
She glares at it. “No! I don’t want it.”
I knew she wouldn’t take it easily. “You’ve done so much for me and my mom. You deserve it. Your abba deserves it.” I put the envelope down on the floor next to her feet and turn away. “See you later, alligator.”
28
Sakina
Finding Lost Things
I don’t want to take the envelope Mimi’s thrown so casually on the floor. Okay, she put it down carefully, but that’s not the point. It sits in front of me for a long time, gleaming white against the dark stone. My study corner is like a comforting womb, surrounding me with its silent, musty, bookish smell.
I can hear Jammy playing outside with his friends, arguing about whose toy car is the best. Amma calls me for dinner, but I don’t budge. She doesn’t call me again. I hear Abba moving about, coughing slightly, talking to her in low tones. Slowly, the night progresses, and the envelope blinks at me as if it’s alive.
Still, I keep sitting with my knees drawn up against my cheeks.
When the whole family is finally asleep, I crawl out and pick up the envelope. My hands are shaking as I open it and count the money inside. It’s enough for the hospital bill and all Abba’s medications for the next month. Maybe more. My legs feel weak, and I lean back against the wall. I want to throw the money away, or better yet stomp into Begum Sahiba’s house tomorrow morning and throw it at Mimi’s face, screaming at her to take back her charity.
But I don’t. I close my fist tightly over it, keeping it safe from my own temptations.
The morning is already promising to be a hot one. I’ve worn the only jeans I have, paired with a long white T-shirt and tennis shoes bought last year from a second-hand thrift market. Amma frowned when she saw me going out like this. “Where are you going dressed like a begum sahiba?” I went back inside and wrapped a big white dupatta around myself to please her, but didn’t tell her where I was going.
I really wasn’t sure myself. Mimi’s generosity the night before had kept me tossing and turning, wondering how I could ever repay the favor. How could a poor girl like me give a rich American girl like her anything of value? But just after dawn, when the sky was a blushing pink around me, and my eyelids were heavy, I realized that there was something I could do.
It’s Sunday, so I don’t have to worry about going to work at least. First, I head to the neighbors’ house to repay the money for Abba’s hospital bill. Raheem is standing guard outside like an angry bull, stick in hand, shouting, “Vote for Aziz, or suffer the consequences!” I want to go right up to his face and tell him that intimidating voters is illegal, and that we live in a free country where elections are supposed to be fair, but his stick worries me. He’s got the posture of a person with lots of power behind him, and suddenly the image of Mr. Aziz himself comes to my mind, smiling that cruel little smile and assuring people he is the best candidate.
The neighbor aunty who babysits Jammy opens the door and ushers me inside. “Quickly, we don’t want to give that badmaash a chance to come in again.”
I’m aghast at the scene in front of me. Broken chairs and tables, a cracked mirror on the wall. Clothes strewn about on the floor. “What happened?” I gasp, but I already know.
“Raheem forced his way inside just a few minutes ago! He demanded to know who we were going to vote for. My poor husband made the mistake of giving a name from the other party, and he got furious.” The woman has tears in her eyes. “I’m just glad he didn’t hurt any
one.”
“Can’t you tell the police?” I stare at the mess, almost mesmerized. Abba always tells me the police are of no use, but I can’t believe they’d refuse to help once they see what I’m seeing here.
She shakes her head. “I’m too scared. Raheem might come back.”
I give her a little hug. I’ve known this aunty since I was little, and she’s always taken such good care of Jammy. Amma would never leave Jammy with anyone else. “Well, I have some good news, at least,” I say. “Here’s the money we owed you for Abba’s hospital stay.” I hand her some rupees from the envelope Mimi gave me.
She wipes her tears. “Are you sure? Where did you get this money from? I thought you’d wait until next month when you got your salary.”
It’s killing me to give up even one rupee of my stash. It’s not every day a servant girl holds this much wealth in her hands. Still, I know what I must do. I give her one last squeeze and turn away. “We don’t like being in debt,” I call out as I leave.
Next stop, the Dawn offices. It takes me thirty minutes in a rickshaw, jolting along the roads, inhaling the fumes from the cars around me. The offices are even taller and more imposing than I remember, maybe because I’m alone this time, with no Mimi to protect me. I stand outside for a few minutes, peering through the big glass windows that line the front of the building. Men and women walk about with serious looks on their faces, some carrying briefcases, others with piles of folders in their arms.
I check my body one more time to make sure I fit the part. Inside, my stomach quakes. Here I am, pretending to be a rich, modern girl who’s sure of herself. Jeans scream modern, as far as I can tell. I take deep breaths and enter the building with a toss of my head. Thankfully, the receptionist is a very young man this time, with pimples on his face, his crisp white uniform too loose for his body. “Yes?” he asks, and his tone tells me he’s ready to help. Eager, even.
A Thousand Questions Page 14
