by Minal Khan
I could tell by my mother’s expression that she was impressed. I already foresaw her telling me, as soon as we entered our car to leave, “How silly of me to have been taken in by your words, Ayla. He’s a charming boy. I don’t know where you get your ideas!”
Sure enough, that’s exactly what she said when we reached the car. She raved about him as if there were no tomorrow.
“But Ma,” I tried, cautiously. “Didn’t he look a bit, well, fierce? Not in the way he spoke, but just his … overall demeanor? And did you notice how Tanzeela went completely quiet when he was around?”
“Poor man, what can he do about the way he looks?” Ma said. I knew the point was to make me feel cruel. It was working, sort of. “Well, I’m going to meet her for yoga next Saturday,” I said, trying not to sound calculated. “Maybe then I’ll find out how fierce he is or isn’t.”
“Oh God, Ayla,” my mom sounded truly fed up. “What are you going to do even if he does beat her? Are you hoping to save her from her marriage like an archangel, or rescue her from a villain from the castle chamber? This isn’t a soap opera, Ayla. You can’t interfere with people’s lives.”
I remained silent for a while, hurt by her lack of faith in me. “She was in my school, Ma,” I finally said. “Two grades above me. Maybe she shouldn’t only leave this marriage to get away from him. Where she really belongs is LSE. I can tell she regrets not going. I just hate to see a dream like that wasted.”
Ma didn’t reply for a long time. Then she said, “These decisions are not yours to make.” For the rest of the way there was silence.
10
Shahaan called me on Monday morning, when I was fast asleep. My summer holidays had just begun and I had taken to staying up the whole night watching television, reading magazines—basically catching up on all that I had denied myself during school. That meant that I usually wasn’t able to wake up before three or four o’clock, usually only after my mother’s insistence that I be present for supper.
My phone rang at nine-thirty in the morning. I thought it was my alarm so I swiftly banged it shut and went back to sleep. When the phone rang again, I confused it as part of my dream. The third time that it rang, I snarled and stared, bleary-eyed at the screen. It was an unknown number.
“Hello?” I said. My voice came out a rasping croak, so I cleared my throat feebly and said again, “Hello?”
I heard a laugh at the other end. And then I knew who it was. “Sorry to wake you up.”
I told Shahaan it was okay and asked what he was doing up so early. I found out that he had just come from a morning walk. A morning walk? Do people really do that?
Shahaan was wondering if we could meet up sometime soon. “You can bring a friend along,” he said hurriedly, knowing that I might be hesitant otherwise. I mentally decided that I would drag Alia along; I was relieved that he sensed that I was uncomfortable at the thought of meeting him alone. So it was decided that the three of us were to meet on Tuesday, in the evening.
I was fully awake by the time I hung up. Knowing that it was pointless trying to go back to sleep, I called Alia and told her everything. She grumbled that it wasn’t wise of me to ask her favors after I had just woken her out of a blissful, heavenly sleep. But she eventually relented.
When Tuesday rolled by, I was up and ready to go. I was to pick up Alia from her house and then head on to Old Clifton. When I knocked on her door at 6:30 p.m., she took ages to answer. I steadily drummed my fingers across her wooden door, my knocks transforming into a real, soft beat.
“O-pen up like a good old girl,” I sang to the beat of my drumming fingers. “Or I swear I’ll leave you behind.” I heard her shuffling about inside. This was strange. She finally opened the door and wrenched me inside. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want my mother to see the mess in my room. I was afraid she’d be walking around.” She got her wallet and bag assembled. “Just give me a second,” she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.
As I waited on her bed, I heard Alia’s phone ring from her bag. I went to answer it. It was Natasha. We chatted for a minute and then I hung up. As I was putting the phone back into her bag, I felt something sharper than usual brush against my skin. I fumbled around in her purse until I came across the culprit. It was a box of Hi-Lite cigarettes. And just as I thought, it wasn’t empty. My guess was that it had been newly purchased.
I sighed and put the box back in. I knew that Alia only smoked when she felt depressed. And even then, it was never more than a cigarette at a time, usually stolen from her elder brother’s room. But she couldn’t have stolen an entire pack. Something rather significant must have pushed her to go out and purchase the whole box itself. I couldn’t imagine upright, moralistic Alia, stationed before a shopkeeper in some gas station store, asking for a box of cigarettes.
Alia quietly came out of the bathroom, grabbed her bag and her keys, and said brightly, “Let’s get going!” As we both sat in my car, I gazed at her discreetly. I was reminded of the time my mother was driving me home from school, when I had just burnt my hands. I was trying to look at her and understand her in the same way. But my mother was distressed, and it showed in her gestures. Alia did not look the least bit troubled. She started talking about her literature test; how well it went.
“I found your cigarettes in your bag,” I said. “When did you start again?” I tried my best not to sound like a prim schoolteacher, and more like a concerned friend.
Alia didn’t seem embarrassed. She looked momentarily surprised. “Oh,” she said.
“Well, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I was afraid I’d have to pry it out of her, like trying to wrench off the skin of an onion leaf with a pair of tweezers.
Alia was silent again, and then sighed deeply. “It’s been an on-off kind of thing,” she said at last. “There’s nothing really wrong. It’s just, you know, my grandmother’s been sick for the past few weeks, and so my mother’s been in a horrible mood. She’s been getting angry at me over the smallest things: my clothes not being hung properly, my waking up late. That’s why I didn’t open the door right away. I just feel a little better once I’ve had one, you know.”
“You could have called me, silly,” I said. “What good am I if you need a dumb cigarette to make you feel better?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Being on the phone is just another habit that my mother’s cracked down on. It’s hard to call you.”
“Is it easier to go to a store and ask for a box of cigarettes, when your driver could easily be watching and tell your mother?” I knew I was being unfair. “Look, I’m not trying to be a pain. I just want it to be easy for you to come to me, rather than have this awful alternative.”
Alia laughed. “Well I guess I never expected you to be the type to say ‘smoking kills.’ Okay fine, you toad, I’ll drop the habit.” She squeezed my knee to reassure me. And all was normal again. I thought.
We reached the Café at five past seven. I was happy to see that Shahaan was already there. He was sitting at a round table. My happiness faltered when I spotted a filled ashtray on the table. He was lifting a cigarette to his lips and puffing out ringlets of smoke. “My God,” I muttered to Alia in dismay. “I need to start hunting for new smoke-free friends.”
As we went up to the table and greeted him, he stood up and offered Alia and me chairs. I was wondering to myself whether chivalry could make up for a bad habit when he said to me, “I never got to ask you how your art is going. Still working on the sunset painting?”
“No, I left it. You were right; my heart really wasn’t into it.” Shahaan seemed pleased that I had realized this. Alia and Shahaan then got to chatting about her cousin, Hassan, and how he knew him. Shahaan and Hassan were in the same school cricket team together, he said, but they didn’t know each other very well. I was relieved that the two of them were getting along well. Shahaan had taken care to look good today, I observed. His floppy hair was pulled back, and he was wearing a black, button-
down shirt; both quite different from the first two times that I had seen him. He paused, and looking at us both, asked, “Is it okay with you girls if I smoke?”
I was considering what to say, when Alia quickly piped up, “Of course.” They both looked at me for approval. I threw my hands up. I didn’t want to be a killjoy. “Okay. Majority rule!” We all laughed. “You know,” I said, smiling. “I was just in the middle of this heated debate a few days ago, over whether smoking should be banned in all public spaces. And it’s funny how the businessman seems to put the wishes of teenagers like you guys,” I gestured to Shahaan, “before the welfare of society.”
Shahaan laughed and tapped his cigarette over the ashtray. “And why is that?” he asked.
“Because you’re their target market,” said Alia simply.
“That’s flattering,” Shahaan said, leaning back. “Let me enjoy this smoke then, knowing I’m putting money in someone’s pocket.”
The evening went by quickly. We ordered coffee and cheese dip, and granted the waiter a generous tip. Shahaan offered to drop us both to my house. As we sat in his car, me seated next to him in the front with Alia sitting restlessly at the back, I hoped badly that Shahaan wasn’t a fast driver. “I think I should duck,” said Alia worriedly from the back. “I can’t risk anyone seeing me.” We all were in fits as she tried to curl herself up into a little cocoon at the floor of the car. “No one will see you, Daff,” I assured, in between giggles. Shahaan looked at me, confused. “Daff?”
“I call her Piggy and she calls me Daff,” Alia explained from the back. “Childhood names.”
Back in eighth grade, Alia once came to school with swollen, red lips. She had accidentally walked right into her door. “What, did you forget that you need to open it to get to the other side?” I had snickered at her in school. Her lips were so large for the rest of the week that I felt compelled to give her a new name that was fitting. Daffy Duck it was; abbreviated to Daff. Her lips resumed their normal size a few days later, but the name stuck. I explained this to Shahaan.
“And what’s the story behind Piggy?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you,” boomed Alia from the back.
My face flushed red. “No, don’t!” I squealed at her.
“Why not?” she retorted.
“Because mine is much more embarrassing.” I silently pleaded her with my eyes.
“Fine,” she sighed and sat back in her seat. “Not just yet.”
Shahaan sensed my discomfort and didn’t press us to tell him. We reached my house fairly quickly. “Ok, so long,” Shahaan said as we let ourselves out of the car. “I hope we can do this again sometime.” After taking down Alia’s number, he drove off into the dark.
“He’s all right,” said Alia, as soon as we entered my room. In Alia’s terminology, that meant she was more than impressed. “But where was that philosophical streak of his that you were raving about? He didn’t seem very … deep.”
I thought about what she said. No, Shahaan hadn’t spoken with the same passion as he had that day at the beach. Maybe it was because Alia was there. And then again, the atmosphere wasn’t right; we were in a dark little café, not a sunny, musical beach. He had been polite, yes. But that depth that I had seen when I first met him, the ease with which he described his feelings about nature and art, that was missing. Today he seemed almost … well, just like any another boy. “I don’t know,” was all I could say. “Maybe he was shy. And that was real smart of you, openly smoking at a café like that, like a puffing dragon,” I added. “I didn’t want to sound like your mother in front of him, so I didn’t say anything.”
Alia looked down and smiled sheepishly. It was her notorious guilt-smile. “Just once doesn’t hurt. I’ve never done that before, you know. It actually felt pretty good.”
“What?” I heaved myself down on the bed in front of her. “Isn’t it enough for you to do it in your bathroom at home? Why is it any better?”
“It’s just … oh, you won’t understand. It’s liberating; I finally felt free, like no one was watching me. I didn’t have to be on edge worrying if I would get caught.”
I looked at her helplessly. I badly wanted her to stop smoking. Not only because she could get into trouble, but because it was so … out of character. With a cigarette in her hand, Alia was somehow less familiar to me; more distant. I wanted to tell Alia all of this. I wanted her to open up to me; turn to me for her worries instead of nicotine. But I couldn’t find the words to say so. So I made a mistake that I knew I would regret: I remained silent.
11
The day for my yoga class eventually came. The class took place at the top floor of Ghazal’s house, who was a single mother. She gave math tuition downstairs and yoga classes upstairs. “What an amazing way to live,” my mother had gushed. “You do your strenuous teaching for the first half of the day. Then you want to relax and unwind—and yes, why not make money off it—for the second half of the day. That woman is a genius.”
Secretly, I admired Ghazal too. She had made the most of the circumstances, and had done something for herself. I imagined what it would be like to make pot-loads of money, without ever having to step out of the house. Ghazal smiled and greeted me from the head of the room once I entered. I waved to her and put my things on the far corner. I quickly looked around. There were two older ladies, wearing tank tops and revealing knobbly arms, clearly exhausted, on two mats on the left side of the room. There were three other girls, in their late-twenties, whom I recognized and spoke to occasionally, and one more girl, Ameera, who was younger than me and thin as a rail, sitting by herself in another corner. Tanzeela had not arrived yet.
I laid out my mat between Ameera and the twenty-something girl and sat down. Ameera was on her back, her knees over her head, each touching the side of one ear. It was a hard position, one that the older girls in the room, and even I myself, envied her for. Ameera’s eyes were closed in deep concentration. She was so removed from the rest of us, from the room.
“The crux of any yoga practice is the performance of yoga positions,” called out Ghazal from the head of the room. “These are called Asanas.” The name sounded wondrous. “We’ve tried breathing techniques for the first few weeks,” she continued. “We’re going to try to do some easy positions now.” I gazed at Ghazal’s taut neck and defined collar bone, draped by her skin like a beautiful painting covered by cloth. Her jugular vein protruded artistically along her neck, disappearing towards her shoulder blade and flexing every time her muscles tensed. The slight depression right above and in the center of her collar bone glistened with mild sweat. As she was showing us various positions, walking around the room to help balance us where we went wrong, Tanzeela entered.
She was wearing white pajama bottoms and a large, blue T-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, with a hair band stretched across her forehead. I had never seen her like this, out of her ordinary shalwaar kameezes, and smiled at her. She eyed the room and when her gaze rested upon me, she smiled back and waved. First she stopped by to speak to Ghazal, apologizing for being so late. I tried to make room for her between Ameera and myself. Ameera feigned deep agitation at having to interrupt her position to move her mat a few feet to the side.
“Thank you,” Tanzeela whispered, settling herself between us. Since Ghazal didn’t allow us to talk during classes, we performed our positions quietly for another forty-five minutes. Only when class was over and we had begun to gather our things did we talk. “I almost thought you had forgotten to come!” I told Tanzeela.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she truly sounded guilty. “It’s a little hard to get out of the house.” She looked down and then sipped her water, avoiding my gaze.
I pretended to ignore what she had said. “So,” I piped up, “do you want to stop downstairs for coffee or something? There’s a coffee shop only next door.”
Tanzeela considered for a minute. “I’d love to, but I am supposed to be home within an hour of the class.” She glanced a
t her watch.
I searched her face for traces of fear. “But I guess there’s no harm, if it’s for a little while.” She shrugged and smiled. So we said bye to Ghazal and walked to the café down the road. It was empty, which was a relief. The last thing I wanted was some eagle-eyed relative of hers spotting us and then reporting to her family.
We ordered two iced lattes and a bottle of water.
“So, which subjects have you taken?” Tanzeela asked conversationally. I told her my choices and she nodded. “Wow, I could never do world history,” she shook her head.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “Neither can I.” She laughed. I asked her what her choice of subjects was.
I had begun to notice that every time she spoke of school, her expression changed; she stared into space and looked thoughtful, as if it were a truly memorable period of her life, which it must have been. “Economics, accounting, and math,” she answered. “I wanted to go into accounting.” She smiled uneasily and looked down at her coffee. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Well, maybe you still can,” I blurted.
She looked up with her sweeping, long lashes and raised her eyebrows, slightly amused.
“I don’t know much about … your husband,” I quickly said, “so I can’t really say whether he would mind. Would he?” I hoped I didn’t sound too tactless, even though I was proud of myself for having wound my way towards the question.
Tanzeela fidgeted with the handle of her coffee mug. She looked up at me, as if unsure of whether to continue, and then said, “If I’m being completely frank,” she said slowly, “it’s out of the question.”
“Oh,” I sipped my coffee, my head buzzing. “It’s a shame, because you have so much potential.” Oh God. There I went again; why did I always sound like a schoolteacher when I least intended to?
