A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  I’ve stuffed my dupatta into my bag, and it feels as if I’m naked without it. I smile as if I haven’t got a care in the world, emulating the pull of Mimi’s lips as much as I can. “I’m looking for Tom Scotts, special correspondent,” I say in English. “I know he’s in this building; I just need a floor number, please.”

  The young man looks around uneasily. “Er, I’m not sure you’re allowed to go inside?” he says, almost like a question. He must be new; his nervousness is coming at me like waves at Clifton Beach.

  I can feel the tension leave my body. “I’ve been there a hundred times before,” I lie quickly. “In the children’s section. You know. Dawn Kids?” I’ve seen that section in the Saturday paper at Sahib Ji’s house. I’ve even pored over its contents some afternoons. Right now, I can’t remember what it’s officially called, but I’m taking a chance that this young man doesn’t know either. I feel almost sorry for making a fool of him.

  Almost, but not quite. Mimi needs me. She needs her father. And for that reason, I’m willing to swallow my fears and even lie a little bit. The God that Abba believes in—the God I felt around me in that marketplace mosque—will forgive me.

  My acting is superb. The receptionist nods and turns to his computer. “No problem, miss. Let’s find this Tom Scott you’re looking for.”

  “Scotts, with an S,” I remind him, curling my fingers into my palms so hard the nails cut into my palm. I loosen my hold a little bit. Quickly, quickly, I beg him in my mind.

  He takes his sweet time, but finally looks up with a grin so big he might as well have found the cure for cancer. “I got it! Seventh floor, room 732.”

  The lifts are at the back of the hall. Mimi calls them elevators. The ride on the lift is the longest I’ve ever taken, although it could just be because I haven’t been on too many lifts in my life. 1. 2. 3. A woman gets in on the fourth floor, barely glancing at me before going back to reading a paper in her hands. I’m feeling sick, but I squash the nausea before it can take ahold of me. 5. 6. 7. The doors slide open, and I peek out.

  “Is this your floor?” the woman asks impatiently in English, and for a moment I blank out. Which floor was I supposed to be going to? My heart pounds like a drum announcing bad news, and I feel faint. I focus on the lift’s buttons. “Yes,” I mumble, and step out just before the doors begin to close again.

  I stand perfectly still, breathing shallow breaths and telling myself to calm down. If someone asks me, I’ll say I’m a servant looking for her begum sahiba. My heartbeat slows down to an almost-normal rate. The seventh floor is full of activity, with rows and rows of desks lined up in twos. People are working with their heads down, phones are ringing loudly everywhere, and there’s a buzz of conversation that feels almost . . . exciting. So this is what a newsroom looks like. This is where they make the newspapers Sahib Ji reads for hours every day, that line the plates of the oily foods my abba makes.

  Eventually, I remember what I’m here for. I look around. Along the side of the room are doors with numbers on them. I approach the first one. 720. I walk farther along until I get to 732. Dare I knock?

  “May I help you?”

  I whirl around, my heart jumping again. A tall man in black trousers and a white collared shirt open at the neck stands smiling behind me, coffee cup in his hand. I try not to stare. His skin is as pink as a newborn calf’s, his hair is like fine gold thread. I tremble. This is Mimi’s father, I’m sure of it. He’s just like the picture in the old newspapers, down to the wrinkles around his eyes, which are the same pale color as Mimi’s. “Uh . . .” I can’t think of anything to say. Hadn’t really considered what would happen if I’d found what I was looking for. Who I was looking for.

  We stand staring at each other for several painful seconds. “Dawn Young World is on the third floor,” he tells me, and disappears into room 732.

  I swallow, willing my feet to move. Should I talk to him? What could I possibly say? Your daughter can’t stop thinking about you even though you probably don’t deserve it. Do you ever think of her? Would you like to meet her? She has a thousand questions to ask you.

  But I can’t. I turn around and run, back down the hallway, into the lift and down to the first floor. The pimply young man at the front desk stares at me with an open mouth, but I don’t care. I keep running, and I don’t stop until I’m back on the street where I belong.

  29

  Mimi

  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sohail says in English, even though he’s rung the bell at 7:02 p.m. on Tuesday evening. Has he never heard of Desi Standard Time?

  I’ve been sent to open the front door, since Tahira is busy putting the finishing touches on our table settings. I want to bang the door shut in his face, hopefully crushing his feet in the process, but I decide that will get me in serious trouble with Mom. I shake my head and tell him, “You’re not late,” but I stand staring at him anyway, his smart navy blue trousers, his crisp long-sleeved gray shirt open at the collar, and the brown loafers on his feet. He looks like something out of a Pakistani magazine. Classic.

  He lets me stare at him. I hope he appreciates my T-shirt, which says HOW MAY I IGNORE YOU TODAY? He wiggles his eyebrows, and I realize I’m gripping the doorframe with my right hand. I let go and stand aside to allow him to enter. He smiles cheerfully, as if everything is normal, and comes all the way inside.

  Nana and Nani are not in the fancy living room, the one reserved for special guests. They sit like statues on the leather sofa in the family room instead, disapproving looks on their faces. Nani does, at least. When I walk in with Sohail, she wrinkles her nose as if she’s just smelled a dead rat.

  Nana stands up and shakes hands with him. “Assalamu alaikum,” he says. Then he clears his throat loudly. I want to giggle, but I don’t think it will match the mood my T-shirt is portraying.

  Sohail doesn’t seem to mind. “Wa alaikum assalam,” he answers easily.

  Then Mom enters the room, and we all gasp. She’s looking . . . beautiful. She’s in a white cotton tunic with pink embroidering on the neckline over loose black pants that swish when she walks. Her hair is a wavy mass pinned on one side with a clip shaped like a pink flower, and when she passes by me, I smell strawberries.

  Nani sits up even straighter. “Samia! You. Look. Very. Nice.”

  Immediately, the adults forget about me. I sit in the corner near Mom’s paintings, swinging my feet as the others talk around me in a mix of Urdu and English. Or at least Mom and Sohail talk. Nana joins in now and then, but Nani is mostly silent, her displeasure rolling around the room in waves. Mom smiles and laughs so much, her voice grates in my ears.

  After a while, Nani apparently decides she’s had enough. “So you’re the administrator of that orphanage I keep hearing about,” she announces, her eyes glinting.

  Sohail nods. “Yes, Aunty. We have one hundred and twenty-four children anywhere from newborns to seven years old in our care. We’re funded by some very big private donors, alhamdolillah.”

  “I thought you met Samia at university,” she pounces. “Didn’t you finish your education?”

  “Oh, I did. I completed my MBA and then joined this organization.”

  There is a silence in the room I don’t really understand. Nani struggles to ask, “You mean you chose to work there even with your MBA? You could be working at a bank or a multinational corporation . . .”

  He nods as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be asked such personal questions. Mom’s smile grows another hundred watts. “You should come by and visit the orphanage some time, Ammi. It’s a very nice place.”

  Nani makes a choking sound.

  “No pressure, of course,” Sohail adds a little uneasily.

  I wish I could be anywhere but here. I see Sakina peeking into the room from behind the half-shut door. Despite the elections, she and her father have stayed late to prepare dinner for us. She narrows her eyes at me and knocks on the door. “D
inner is ready,” she whispers in Urdu, then runs away, her slippers flapping on the tiled floor.

  Nana stands up and wags his eyebrows. “Good! I’m hungry,” he announces, even though he usually doesn’t eat until after the nine o’clock news. Everyone follows him, leaving me sitting alone in my chair, wishing this night would end already. If have to watch Mom toss her hair back one more time, I will puke.

  Sakina comes back for me. “Aren’t you coming?” she asks from the doorway. “Abba made your favorite, chicken kabab.”

  I keep sitting. “What’s the point?”

  She’s too busy staring at my T-shirt. “Didn’t you want to wear something nicer?” she asks, her eyebrows squished tightly together. “This guest seems to be very special.”

  “Shut up.” I stand quickly and stomp out of the room.

  Tahira has set the dining table beautifully. Big porcelain dishes with steaming-hot food, a crystal water jug, fine china plates, and the shiniest of silver cutlery. I’m almost afraid to touch anything. The conversation flows around me. Mom talking about Houston, and her new job she’s so excited about starting in the fall. Sohail reminding her of stupid college pranks they used to play on their friends. Nana telling a joke about some election candidate or the other.

  I chew on my chicken kabab, dipping each bite in minty yogurt for flavor. “Would you like to try this biryani, Maryam?” Sohail asks me from across the table. “It’s really delicious.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Mom gasps, as if I’ve committed a grave mistake. “Mimi, please be respectful!”

  “No, thanks,” I whisper.

  Sohail smiles at me. “Too spicy, eh? I have to admit I prefer cheeseburgers over biryani any day.”

  I’m sure he’s joking. Nani grunts next to me. “I suppose my cook shouldn’t have bothered with all this food, then.”

  Sohail’s smile slips a bit. “Uh . . . no, it’s all very delicious,” he finally replies, and it’s great to see him flustered. He squares his shoulders and goes back to his food, but not before he’s given me a secret wink. I stare at him with a hard face. Getting in trouble with Nani isn’t nearly enough to make me like you, buddy.

  Mom taps him on the shoulder, and he turns to her. She’s smiling with a sort of brilliance that I haven’t seen in forever. I avert my eyes and smash a piece of kabab viciously on my plate. Drops of yogurt fly everywhere. “Mimi, what’s wrong with you?” Nani frowns at me.

  I stand so quickly my chair scrapes the floor in a sound as ugly as my feelings. “I don’t want to eat anymore. Can I go?” I ask nobody in particular.

  Mom wrinkles her eyebrows in a distracted way. “Sure.”

  Dear Dad,

  Things are getting worse. Mom seems to be forgetting you, but do you even care? I once read a quote that I never quite understood. Something about a tree falling in a forest. Here’s my question to you: If Mom and I forget about you, will you even exist?

  Okay, you’ll exist in your own life, but you won’t exist for me. All I have are memories, and they’re getting fainter and weaker as time goes on. I really need to find you before it’s too late, but now there’s a new question in my mind.

  What if you don’t want to be found?

  M

  30

  Sakina

  What About Mimi?

  The guests are taking their time with dinner. I can hear snippets of conversation, punctuated with Samia Ji’s bright laughter. I wonder what they’re talking about. The guest—Sohail—is the center of attention, but not always in a good way. I’ve seen Mimi glowering at him several times, and I think she may be trying to put the evil eye on him.

  I’m willing to bet Mimi knows nothing about the evil eye.

  I pace the kitchen, eyeing my tiffin of food, but Abba says we can’t eat until they’ve eaten. “What if they need some more salad?” he asks. “Or another bottle of Coke?”

  I have only drunk Coke a handful of times in my life and haven’t been impressed. It burns my throat when I swallow it. Mimi is a Coke addict, and Begum Sahiba sends Tahira to the market every three days to get a new case of cans.

  My stomach growls, and I sneak a few pieces of roti into my mouth when Abba’s back is turned away from me. “What do rich people talk about?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “They’re always talking and laughing while they eat,” I explain. “Not like us. We eat our dinner quietly and quickly. But at Begum Sahiba’s house they take their time, and always talk a lot. Don’t they know it’s dangerous to talk while eating? You could choke.”

  Abba checks on the pots on the counter. “Begum Sahiba and her husband have much to talk about with their daughter. Samia Ji hasn’t been home for ten, twelve years. They’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. I’ve seen the same thing in the mall, and at fancy restaurants. And that ice-cream place we went to a few weeks ago? People were just sitting around talking. I ate quickly so my ice cream wouldn’t melt.”

  Abba sighs. “Sakina, since when have you started asking so many questions? You sound just like Maryam Ji.”

  “Mimi,” I automatically correct. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of her as Maryam Ji. Mimi is friendlier, less formal. It somehow lessens the distance between us.

  “Rich people have fewer worries, I suppose,” Abba walks toward me, stumbling slightly. “You and I are made silent by our troubles.”

  I look at him closely. He’s very pale and sweat trickles down his forehead in a reminder that he’s not well. I kick myself mentally for not getting his medicine yet. I have to go all the way down to the big hospital pharmacy to get it, and I haven’t found time yet. I’m a terrible daughter. “Sit down, Abba,” I tell him, dragging him to a chair at the kitchen table.

  He sits down heavily. “Get me a glass of sugar water,” he whispers. “I’m feeling faint.”

  That will take too long. I grab a can of Coke and pour it into a glass for him, spilling a few drops in my haste. “That means your blood sugar is low. The doctor says it happens a lot in the early days of a diabetes diagnosis. You’ll learn to manage it better, inshallah.” I hope I’m looking confident, not guilty.

  “Look at my daughter, so knowledgeable.” He smiles a kind smile that makes my lips curve upward all on their own. He takes the glass and drinks up, making a bitter face as the Coke hits his throat. I wait for him to scold me for opening one of Mimi’s cans, but he just sighs and rests his head against the chair’s back.

  I reach over and push the roti toward him. “You need to eat food, Abba. Tahira is in the dining room in case they need anything.”

  Abba eats in silence. I watch him like a hawk over its little ones. “Stop staring at me. You’re going to give me indigestion,” he finally complains.

  A little laugh escapes me. “Sorry.”

  He motions to the chair next to him. “Sit down, girl. You’re making me dizzy, standing over me like that.”

  I sit down and take the piece of roti he’s offering. It tastes bland and dry without any curry, but I’m used to eating it like that. “Inshallah, I’ll get your new medications very soon,” I promise, thinking of Mimi’s envelope. “A special injection that will make you feel much better.”

  He chews slowly, eyes closed. “Forget it, my darling. Those things cost more than a raja’s crown. We can’t afford it.”

  “Maybe we can,” I say slowly. “Samia Ji gave us some money . . .”

  He shakes his head without opening his eyes. His voice is weary. “It doesn’t matter. No gift is continuous. Samia Ji will leave soon, and we will still be poor.”

  I’m glad I already swallowed my roti, or I’d have choked on it. I slam my hand down on the table. “So what, then? You should just keep getting sicker and sicker?”

  His eyes fly open and he puts up a warning finger. “Don’t be rude, daughter. We shouldn’t get angry about things we cannot control.”

  I sigh, deflated. “How ca
n you be so . . . calm?”

  “With age comes wisdom,” he replies with a little smile. “You like to act like a grown-up old lady, but you are just a girl. Remember that.”

  I almost stick out my tongue at him like Mimi does but stop myself in time. I make do with wiggling my eyebrows. “Just a girl who’s wise beyond her years, eh?”

  He chuckles, and I’m happy to see the color come back in his cheeks.

  Tahira bustles in with an empty dish. “Everyone loves the biryani,” she remarks loudly.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I demand. “My abba makes the best biryani in the city.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s that great,” Tahira replies. She begins ladling more biryani on the empty dish, and I have to bite my lips before I tell her to leave some for me. I have my tiffin, don’t I? I have no need for rich people’s food.

  “So tell me about this mysterious guest.” Abba changes the subject before we get into an argument. “Someone else interested in marrying Samia Ji?”

  Tahira stops ladling and comes over to sit with us. “What a handsome young man,” she marvels. “And he’s not a rich kid either. Works at an orphanage, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, everybody doesn’t like him,” I say, still mad about the biryani. “Begum Sahiba’s frown is so huge it’s practically covering her entire face, and Mimi was sending him super-laser eyes before she left the table.”

  “What?” Tahira and Abba both turn to me in confusion. “What are super-laser eyes?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter. Mimi and I watched a superhero show the other day, where the villain destroyed entire cities with his red laser eyes. I don’t think Abba would be pleased.

  Tahira stands up with the dish of biryani. “Poor Mimi. It has to hurt to have a new man trying to win her mother’s affection. In the old days, nobody paid a bit of attention to divorced women. I suppose things are changing.”