A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

She sighs loudly. “No, he isn’t, thank God!”

  I flick some soapy water on her. “See, leaving will actually solve fifty percent of your problems.”

  She reaches over and flicks some water at me. I squeal and put an arm up to protect my eyes. We both laugh a little. “I’ll miss you,” she tells me.

  Tahira swishes in with plates from the dining room before I can reply. “Sahib Ji wants his lunch in the TV room,” she announces. “He’s watching the election results.”

  I groan. My encounter with Raheem a few nights ago is still fresh in my mind.

  Mimi straightens and picks up a plate of pulao. “I got it,” she calls out as she leaves the kitchen.

  “Give him some yogurt too!” I yell after her.

  “I know!” she yells. “That’s the best part!”

  When the dishes are all washed, I go back to the dining room. Begum Sahiba is sitting at the table, eyes closed. She looks tired. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?” I ask hesitantly.

  She opens her eyes, and I’m shocked to see they’re wet. “Can you stop my daughter from leaving?” she whispers.

  I have no idea what to say, so I shake my head. “Sorry.”

  She blinks, and the wetness disappears. “Oh, I’m just being silly.” She takes a sip of water. “So, tell me, young lady. What would you do if you didn’t spend all your time cooking?”

  I curse Mimi under my breath. Begum Sahiba is looking at me, waiting for an answer. I take a deep breath and answer, “Go to school.”

  Her face changes. I’m expecting her to be furious, to spit fire from her breath or something, but she just sits there. She’s obviously surprised, as if the idea of me going to school is so foreign she just can’t wrap her head around it. “Hmmm,” she finally says. “So you need money?”

  I shake my head violently. “No! Not for myself. But Abba needs insulin injections so that he can keep working. And I can come help him after school too.”

  She closes her eyes again and puts her head against the back of her chair. “It shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll talk to my husband about it. We need your father to be healthy, after all.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Could I actually not be needed here? If Abba got all his medicines, could I finally be free? I rush toward the family room to tell Mimi that she’s not the only one with a long list of impossible, exciting questions.

  Sahib Ji and Samia Ji sit in the family room, watching television. I gaze at them from behind the doorway. The way he smiles as he points out the latest election result on the television screen. The way she sits on a stool in front of her ever-present canvas, dabbing it with a paintbrush. All this will end tomorrow, and the house will go back to being quiet and lonely.

  As I watch, Samia Ji turns the canvas around and shows it to her father. I stifle a gasp. It’s a painting of him and Mimi, sitting opposite each other playing chess. The details are all there, clear as a photograph. The whiteness of the chess pieces, the dotted fabric of the chairs, the sun streaming in from the windows behind them.

  Sahib Ji reaches over and hugs his daughter. Soon she’ll be gone, and her painting will hang on the wall of a quiet mansion.

  Maybe I’ll also be gone soon, if I passed my English test. I think of that moment, how the school will send me another letter in the mail, how Amma and Abba will put on their best shalwar kameez to visit the teachers with me, how I’ll get a new backpack from Lunda Bazaar, the thrift market. I imagine Abba hugging me like Sahib Ji just hugged Mimi’s mother, a proud yet sad look on his face. A shiver runs through my body, and I clamp it down. Nothing is final yet, and I may have failed the test.

  But in my heart, I know I’ve passed. I knew all the answers, thanks to a certain American girl.

  39

  Mimi

  The Last Day Is Always the Best

  “Have you checked your closet?” Mom insists, looking at my suitcase suspiciously. “You probably left some things in there.”

  “Yes! I packed everything, Mom.”

  She looks around my room. All my stuff is gone, and the furniture is neat and bland once more. “Good,” she says, but her voice is distant, as if she’s thinking of something else entirely.

  I sling an arm around her shoulders. Now that we’re leaving, I suddenly don’t want to be mad at her anymore. I want us to go back to the team we used to be. Mimi + Mom. The 2 Ms. “Are you happy to be going back tomorrow?”

  She thinks about this for a second. “Yes,” she finally says. “It was a nice vacation, but I’m ready to go back to my new job. I think it will be good for us.”

  “What about Sohail?”

  She frowns. “What about Sohail?”

  I don’t want her getting any ideas. “Nothing. Just asking.”

  She moves away from me and sits on my bed. Uncle Faizan’s bed. “Listen, kiddo. I know things have been difficult between us, but I can assure you Sohail and I are just friends. I really enjoy his company, but that’s it. We’re going back to Houston, and he will stay here managing his wonderful orphanage.”

  I can’t tell if she’s sad. Mom has a habit of putting on a brave face when things get tough. “Maybe you two can talk on Skype,” I offer.

  She gives a little laugh. “How gracious of you, Mimi.”

  My phone beeps in my pocket. See you soon! It’s Zoe, punctuating her message with a smiley face with heart eyes. It’s her first message to me since summer break began.

  “Who is that?” Mom asks.

  “I suddenly have a good feeling about going back home too,” I reply with a little smile. I square my shoulders and sit on the bed next to her. “I have to tell you something. Something about Dad.”

  Her smile slips. Her face tightens. “Mimi . . .” She sighs.

  I put up my hand to stop her. “Wait. Let me talk. It’s important.”

  She has no idea what I’m about to say. I’ve been hugging the secret of Dad’s visit to myself all day and all night. But keeping secrets isn’t my cup of tea, as Nana would say.

  Sakina comes into my room before asr, holding a plastic bag in her hands. “This is for you,” she says shyly. “A going-away present.”

  I grab the bag from her. In it, is a yellow T-shirt with a big sandwich on the front and the words NICE TO MEAT YOU. I unfold it and lay it against my chest. “Perfect!” I exclaim. “I’ll wear it on my first day of middle school when I get back home.”

  “It’s a bun kabab, like the one we ate that day on Clifton Beach,” she reminds me.

  I nod. It was the best sandwich of my life. The best day of my life.

  She comes all the way inside my room. “I’ll be sad to see you go.”

  I clear my throat, then grab her arm and pull her down on the bed. “I’m not going until tomorrow. Time for one last gossip session!” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Tell me about your test. How did it go?”

  “It was good,” she says, grinning. “I have a good feeling about it.”

  “Seems like everyone is having good feelings about the future today.” I lean forward and take something out of my bedside drawer. “I got something for you too.”

  She looks at the journal in my hand. It’s sky-blue, embossed, with a bold black stripe on the right side and the words My Very First Journal in silver lettering. I offer it to her, and she takes it slowly, as if she’s scared. She touches the cover with careful fingers. “What will I use this for?” she says almost to herself.

  “Whatever you want,” I tell her happily. “You can use it to practice writing, or draw pictures.” I reach up and turn the journal over. “There are a bunch of matching blue envelopes in the back, so you can write me letters like I used to in my old journal.”

  She bites her lip and looks down, her grin gone. Is she crying? Quickly, I take out a box from my drawer to distract her. It’s a set of toy cars tied with a red bow. “This is for Jamshed,” I say, and her grin is back, brighter than before.

  A shout from downstairs makes us both look around, startled. Nana
is shouting for us. The sky has grown dark, and my stomach is rumbling. I suddenly realize something. “It’s evening already. How come you’re still here?”

  She holds my hand as we walk downstairs, clutching the box of cars and her blue journal under her arm as if they’re her most prized possessions. “Abba thought it would be better that we spend the night, because of the election results. The streets are bound to be very crowded this time of night, no matter who wins.”

  “I think he just wanted us to spend more time together.” I chuckle. “Your abba is a sweetheart!”

  “Agreed.”

  At the bottom of the staircase, I hear voices from Nani’s bedroom. I peek in. Mom and Nani are sitting on the bed, a photo album open between them. “How silly Faizan looks with that sailor cap on his head!” Mom says. “How old must he be, six?”

  Nani laughs. “I remember that thing! It was too big for him and kept falling over his eyes! But he’d still stumble around wearing it all day long!”

  I smile and walk away, joining Sakina as she stands outside the family room, holding the door open for me.

  Nana is alone inside, dancing a little jig. The television screen shows a big crowd of happy people throwing streamers into the air. “We won!” Nana tells us excitedly. “The elections are over!”

  “What about Mr. Aziz?” Sakina asks, anxious.

  “Lost so badly, he’ll be crying like a baby tonight!”

  Sakina hugs me, and we hold each other like old friends. My throat is tight, and I swallow several times. “Promise me you’ll write letters to me,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Promise.”

  “How about a last chess game, Mimi?” Nana asks.

  I let Sakina go with a deep sigh. “Sure, but right now I’m starving.” Then I reconsider. “I mean, very, very, very hungry.”

  Sakina rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Me too.”

  Tahira enters promptly with a tray full of food. Sometimes I think she’s always eavesdropping outside the door, because she comes in as soon as she’s needed. “There’s plenty of Sakina’s pulao left over,” she tells us. “I thought it would be a good idea to eat here tonight.”

  Sakina’s abba follows with plates. “I’m just happy the elections are over,” he says. “Now we can get back to our normal lives.”

  “Is your family all right, Ejaz?” Nana asks, and an image of the rude young man Raheem comes to my mind.

  Sakina’s abba nods. “Yes, Sahib Ji, I just called my wife, Aisha, on the phone. The neighborhood is quiet, but the men are taking turns patrolling the streets to make sure the goondas don’t come back.”

  Sakina and I kneel on the floor in front of the coffee table and eat. The pulao is even more delicious the second time around. “I need you to give this recipe to my mom so she can cook pulao for me in Houston,” I say. Then I reconsider. “On second thought, give the recipe to me. I’ll try to make it myself one day.”

  Sakina laughs. “Ha! You better take a picture of the final result and send it to me; otherwise I won’t believe you.”

  Nana is still watching television, but at one point during our makeshift dinner, he comes over and kisses me on the top of my head. I look up, my mouth full of rice, and grin at him. “Come eat with us, Nana!”

  He eyes the food laid out in front of us. “Where are your mother and grandmother?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Having a gossip session in the bedroom.”

  He takes a plateful of pulao and goes back to his seat in front of the screen. “That’s a nice change,” he murmurs in a satisfied voice.

  40

  Sakina

  Final Goodbyes

  The whole family goes to the airport to drop off Mimi and Samia Ji. Malik drives the car, and Abba and I follow in a taxi with all their suitcases. Samia Ji has managed to do a lot of shopping in her six weeks here.

  The airport is hot and humid, and crowds of people walk about, looking at their watches. I stare at the airplanes in the distance, wondering if I’ll ever see the inside of one.

  Mimi grabs my arm and hugs me sideways. I’ve gotten used to the fact that she’s a hugger. “Maybe one day you’ll come visit me in Houston?” she whispers, as if she’s read my mind.

  I can’t imagine that would ever happen, but I’m quiet. I also never thought I’d be friends with a rich American girl, or that I could possibly go to school. Impossible, unbelievable things have happened recently, so why couldn’t a plane ride be in my future? “Maybe,” I whisper, a thrill running down my spine.

  Abba and Malik drag up the suitcases, breathing loudly. “You’ll be happy to go back to your air-conditioned life, eh, Maryam Ji?” Malik wheezes.

  Mimi shrugs. “I guess I will.” But I notice she doesn’t mind the heat as much as when she first arrived. Everything in Karachi grows on you, like the creeping ivy that lines the boundary walls of Begum Sahiba’s house.

  “Uncle, please take care of your health, okay?” Mimi tells my abba, and he smiles and nods emphatically to tell her of course he will. Begum Sahiba has already taken charge of his insulin injections, sending him to her own doctor and making sure his diabetes is under control.

  Malik immediately begins to give him advice about what foods to eat. “My cousin gobbles down ten jamun every day to keep his diabetes in check,” he tells Abba, who waves his concern away.

  There’s a cough behind us, and everyone turns. I put my hand to my mouth. It’s Mimi’s father, standing like a lost puppy about ten yards away. A sheen of sweat lines his forehead, and his golden hair glints in the sun.

  Mimi runs to him and hugs him tightly, then waves to her mother with a pleading face.

  “What is that man doing here?” Begum Sahiba whispers, her eyes round behind her glasses.

  Sahib Ji puts his arm around her. “Just let them be. It’s good for Mimi to know her father.”

  We watch as Samia Ji stands straight like a rod next to her daughter and Tom Scotts Sahib. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s shooting laser eyes at him. Still, there’s no fighting, and Mimi’s smile is almost as blinding as the sun. I suppose Samia Ji surprised Mimi just like Begum Sahiba surprised me. Alhamdolillah.

  Tom Scotts Sahib is a brave man to come here and also smart to leave quickly. He gives Mimi one last hug and kisses the top of her head in exactly the same way as Abba kisses mine, before walking away.

  “Did you see my dad? He’s going to New York next week, and he says he’ll keep in touch with me. Can you believe that?” Mimi can’t stop talking when she gets back to us. I roll my eyes at her, but we clasp hands to share the excitement. She’s finally looking forward to going back home, because for the first time, home includes her father.

  Samia Ji checks her watch, so I know it’s time to say goodbye. Begum Sahiba hugs Samia Ji over and over, asking, “When will you come visit us again?” in a cracked voice very unlike her. Sahib Ji mutters and wipes his eyes with his handkerchief, acting like he’s wiping sweat, but we all know it’s really tears. I feel my eyes soften, and I blink rapidly.

  “Don’t worry, Nana and Nani,” Mimi jumps in with a huge smile. “I’ll make sure we come back again soon!” She’s wearing her poop emoji T-shirt again, not bothering to cover it up with a cardigan this time. They all hug once more, and then the two Americans wave and walk away, dragging their suitcases behind them.

  I watch them go, Abba standing next to me with his arm over my shoulder. Suddenly, Mimi stops and runs back to me. She’s got her silver phone in her hand. “Take this, so we can send each other pictures and messages. Nana will make sure the bill gets paid each month, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

  I hug the phone to my chest and watch her skip away to her mother with a final wave and a cheeky grin. I hug it all the way home on Abba’s motorcycle, my dupatta wrapped around it tightly. It beeps at night when I’m cooking dinner, Jammy playing next to me with the new cars Mimi sent him. I check the screen. It’s my first ever message from Mimi, filled with emoji
s and smiley faces. Goodbye, Karachi. Here I come, Houston.

  Author’s Note

  I was born in the city of Karachi and lived there until my emigration to the United States at the age of twenty-two. Karachi was my home for a long time, but more than that it was a living space, a character in the drama that was my life. It’s a city one can’t really forget. I’ve visited many times in the last few decades to see family and friends, to roam its streets and sample its foods, to meet its people. Each time, another layer has unpeeled, and another face of Karachi has been revealed to me.

  The most interesting thing happened with my last trip, however. My children—American-born citizens—accompanied me to their grandmother’s house, and their reaction to Karachi was so different from my own. I witnessed their attraction to the motherland they’d never known, their repulsion toward the poverty around them, and their difficulty in communicating in a language they should know, but don’t. At the time, my son was slightly older than Mimi and Sakina, and my daughter slightly younger.

  We visited many of the same places Mimi and Sakina visited. My kids sat on a camel, marveled at the white mausoleum, wandered through the malls, and heard the azaan multiple times. My daughter was upset at the sight of beggars, and my son frustrated at the slowness of the internet. But they also loved being in a place where everyone looked like them, where they didn’t have to worry about standing out. Through my children’s eyes, I saw Karachi from an outsider’s perspective, and I couldn’t help but write down what I was witnessing.

  Karachi is an old site, much older than the country of Pakistan. Alexander the Great camped nearby while preparing to march to Babylon. Muslim armies under Muhammad bin Qasim conquered it in the early eighth century. It passed from ruler to ruler over hundreds of years. My favorite part of Karachi’s modern history is this: a fisherwoman named Mai Kolachi settled there after her husband’s disappearance in a storm, thereby creating a small, fierce community that came to be named Kolachi. From there, it grew into the bustling megacity Karachi is today.