Silk Tether

by Minal Khan

  I laughed, turning to him. “What did you ask for?”

  “A chance to see my father.”

  There was an abrupt pause. “Shahaan … I’m really sorry,” I said. I tried to imagine what it must have felt, to know your father was alive and well, and yet not be able to see him. “This must be so hard for you.”

  Shahaan turned to me and shook his head. “No, not at all. That was then. I don’t ever want to see that bastard.”

  I swallowed. “Why?”

  Shahaan was gripping the wheel rather tightly now. “Because of what he did to my mother. He made her promises, and then just said ‘to hell with it’ when they got married.” Shahaan flung his hand in the air. “She left everything for him: her family, her job. And what did he do? He went right back to where he had started—in the mud.” I had never heard Shahaan angry. I realized all of a sudden that I had never really asked him, probed him, to tell me what he felt about his parents.

  We had pulled up outside a single-floor, decaying building, in the middle of a large garden. I looked around for a street sign, some indication of where we were. But it was completely pitch dark. I could faintly distinguish the dark silhouettes of the trees against the smoky fog.

  “Where are we?” I finally managed to ask.

  Shahaan got out of the car and opened my door for me. “You look so scared!” he laughed at my bewildered expression. “This is the place where I process my photos. No dead bodies in here.” He grinned and turned around.

  I followed him inside the building. There were no windows; it was a plain, rectangular block, one story tall, with a door. There was a large garden surrounding the building, with a narrow pathway in the center leading to the front door.

  We entered a small room tinged with red. It was like viewing the inside of a room with red cellophane paper before my eyes. Everything gleamed scarlet. I blinked twice. There were long tables around me, and various types of paper stacked in one corner. And then pinned up against the wall were photographs: large ones, tiny ones, photos of wedded couples and of ladybugs and children.

  Shahaan placed his bag on the floor and picked up a large, glossy sheet of paper. “I won’t take long,” he said.

  I wandered around the room while he got about his business. “I’ve always seen these darkrooms in movies before,” I called out to him. “Just never been in one.” Shahaan grinned as he removed the film reel from his camera. “It’s really not as glamorous as they make it out to be.”

  Shahaan had his back turned and was busy flipping through papers to find one of the correct size. I wandered around, looking at the photos pinned on the wall, trying to find a story behind them, feeling like a tourist in a historical building, marveling at the craftwork and wondering at the unfamiliarity. I sniffed and felt the potent smell of chemical in the room.

  When I had tired of staring at the photos, I walked over towards Shahaan to see what he was up to. On my way, I spotted a low table that ran across half of the room, something like the work tables we had in the science labs. There was what looked like a rectangular basin, filled with liquid—chemicals, I presumed. Yes, I had seen those people in movies soaking pictures inside that liquid. I went closer to it, curious. And then stopped. There was already a picture floating in the eerie chemical. A sideways shot of a girl painting on a large sheet of paper on the sand, with the sunset looming in the background.

  Me.

  “W-when did you take this?” I asked dumbly. Of course I knew when he had taken it. The day was as clear in my mind as it was down in the glossy picture. Shahaan turned around distractedly and walked over. “Oh,” he said, looking at the photo with me. But he didn’t sound guilty, or nervous. “I was meaning to show this one to you one day. I think that’s my best piece of work.”

  My eyes flickered slightly until I saw a stack of other photographs, lying to the side of the potent chemical. I picked them up and looked at each one after the other, my expression set like stone. There was a photo of me with my chin resting on my hand, lost. Another of me stepping outside a café, with the rain creeping through my hair. Me looking out the window, gazing at nothing at all. Another. And another.

  “What is this?” I asked, not taking my eyes of the pictures. Shahaan laughed softly behind me. “It’s funny you’re so surprised. I’m no stalker. I don’t think you realized, still don’t think you realize, that I took all these photos right in front of you. Inches away from you.” I shook my head and frowned. How was that possible? How could I be so absorbed in myself that I didn’t even notice Shahaan snapping pictures of me, right in front of my face? I finally turned to him now, the photographs still in my hand. I looked at him for a minute, trying to find an answer on his face. “W-why?” I questioned slowly.

  I had expected his face to reveal to me a map of answers but it emerged to me instead, a blank sheet of paper.

  “Why?” he repeated, holding his arms out. “Is it really that unclear to you? Why did I put my life on hold so that I could meet you more, get to know you better? Why did I invite you and no one else, not even my own mother to the exhibition? Why did I chase you around town, trying to find where your yoga classes were so I could have some time to spend with you? Why am I only truly myself around you, and not Alia?” His voice was low, but heated. A soft flame from a glowing candle. He paused and looked at me. Not in hopeful expectation, but almost in empty sorrow. The look you gave the doctor right before he pierced the sharp needle through your skin.

  I was unsure of what to do in a situation in like this. I wish I had the flair to react the same way Queen Elizabeth did when she was confronted with a suitor. “Go, go, go, seek some otherwhere; importune me no more.” Maybe I knew it all along. And then again, maybe I was unaware of it, as unaware as when he had snapped pictures of me all those times. But how did I feel? Within a second it was clear to me; I did feel the same way for him. Maybe I had felt it at the beach; when my heart was thudding out of fear, ignoring the voices in my head. Why else had I refused to turn away from him when I could have? Whether or not I was conscious of it before, it was unflinchingly obvious now.

  My heart was beating again restlessly, prodding me to heed to it, to respond to its wishes. But the voice in my head grew louder this time, calling out lamentably, if only it had been sooner.

  “I can’t … can’t do this.” I found myself saying. Not now, when I needed to devote my attention to Alia, not when I was getting ready to go to college. I couldn’t have a—the word suddenly seemed heavy, reeking of impossibility—relationship now.

  Shahaan’s face remained the same. He had been expecting it. Would he have never told me how he felt if I hadn’t seen those pictures? Maybe not. He had looked as if he didn’t want to tell me just yet; that he would keep it a silent secret indefinitely, or as long as it took till we reached the right time. But I had forced him to. My heart ached fiercely, almost punishing me for disregarding it. Nonsense. There is no proof that the heart is directly responsible for emotions. It is only a pump. A sac of cardiac muscle and blood. I knew that. But at this moment, only my heart could describe how I was feeling.

  17

  There was a popular saying that bad news often followed bad news. Not in my case this time. The next day I received a call from Tanzeela. I was surprised. She had never called me before. Frankly, I had thought that the stumbling day at yoga class was the last time that I would ever see her. I constantly thought about her after that day, wondering, hoping that she would find the courage to resist her mother-in-law.

  “Hello?” she said, sounding unsure if she had dialed the correct number. When she was certain it was me, her voice relaxed. She sounded content, at peace. As she told me what had happened to her over the past week, I was convinced: yes, good news really could follow bad news!

  Tanzeela’s husband had returned from Turkey a week back. Tanzeela’s hand had been healing, but the burn marks were still visible. Amar saw them and became visibly worried, prodding her to tell him what happened. She had
said her hand had burnt while she was cooking. He didn’t quite believe her. He asked the cooks and the maids in the house if Tanzeela’s hand really had been burnt in the kitchen. All of them had been witness to the monstrous acts that his mother committed whenever he was away. But none were brave enough to defy their mistress. They made up a vague story about how Tanzeela’s hand had caught fire while she was making puris, deep fried bread.

  Amar only saw what his mother was capable of when he witnessed her hit Tanzeela in front of him.

  “She marched into my room one day and began tossing out clothes from my closet; trying to find evidence to prove my ‘affair’ with a school friend.” Shumaila then came across some knee-length skirts and dresses—clothes that Amar himself had bought Tanzeela from his previous trip to Germany. Ripping them from their hangers, she marched to Amar in his room and threw them at his feet, saying, “Look! This is the only thing that slut is capable of doing—flaunting herself to other men in these revealing dresses while you’re away!”

  Before Amar could respond, Tanzeela entered the room. She saw her new clothes lying crumpled on the floor, and remembered how her bridal clothes had been snatched from her in the same manner, and ripped to shreds. She couldn’t put up with this. Not again. She erupted. “Have you come to this out of your envy that your son has a wife?” she had demanded of her mother-in-law. As Amar looked on, flabbergasted, Shumaila grabbed Tanzeela by the hair, pulling at her fiercely.

  “I couldn’t keep anything to myself then,” Tanzeela said to me quietly. “I pointed my finger at her, after Amar pulled us apart, and cried out how she had raised her hand at me time and time again, treated me like a slave, and how I had to battle with fire to save my own wedding clothes.”

  Amar had had enough. They could not stay in that house any longer.

  “If that is what it took to make him realize what I was going through, I am glad that it happened,” Tanzeela said solidly. “We are moving now. To a new house.” I could sense the joy in her voice, the sense of release that she must have felt now that she was free.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, smiling. “Tanzeela, you have no idea how happy I am to hear that.” The nightmare was finally over for her. She had woken up to a bright day.

  They were moving to a house in Phase Six; far, far away from Amar’s mother’s house in PECHS. Amar had ignored his mother’s protests, vowing to her that he would have nothing to do with her ever again.

  The new house was virtually empty. Tanzeela wanted to know if I would come with her to shop for kitchen accessories and bed sheets. I happily agreed; I wanted nothing more than to finally see Tanzeela untroubled, relaxed. This would be the first time. We agreed to go together the next day. As I put the phone down, I hoped to myself, wished deeply, that Alia would have the same happy ending.

  ~

  Tanzeela picked me up the next day, in a chauffeured black car. She was wearing a lovely, deep blue shalwaar kaameez; very different from the dark clothes I had grown accustomed to seeing her in. I looked at her radiant face and thought: this is what any other nineteen-year-old girl would look like. Carefree, untroubled.

  We went to the heart of Tariq Road to find what Tanzeela was looking for. Around us abounded the bustling crowd and the noisy traffic that were characteristic of Tariq Road. Also abundant were the rows of cramped shops, with their flamboyant shop names. Just 4 You clothing accessories was down the road from the Fancy Lady makeup shop. Neon, bright shop slogans glittered at us. The outrageous shop names were always a source of amusement to Alia and I, whenever we drove past Tariq Road. “Fit Rite shoes,” Alia would chortle, pointing out of the window.

  “Ah, that’s good,” I would say, laughing back. “But not as good as,” and here I would point out of my window, “Gaylord Drycleaners!” We would bend over the car seat, erupting with laughter. I now looked out of Tanzeela’s window, and the colorful shops seemed like blocks of stone; fossils reminding me of a time that seemed far, far behind.

  We finally ended up at a kitchen utensils shop. Tanzeela looked around at the rows of the pots, pans and microwaves and said, her eyes widening, “I can’t believe I’m really doing this. It all just seems so unreal.” I smiled at her, saying that her married life had only now truly begun.

  We looked around and tested some utensils, and bought two frying pans and a wok. We left the shop and went to another, bought some more things and moved to another. As we left from the fifth shop to walk over to the sixth, Tanzeela suddenly stopped. She was standing before a glass display, staring at a pair of silver shoes. I stopped next to her and looked at them. They were mounted on a smooth, silver heel, thin as a birthday candle. The front of the shoe was glass-like—translucent but sparkling against the light. They were what I really imagined Cinderella to wear.

  “I want to try them on,” Tanzeela said dazedly, hurrying into the store, hypnotized. The shop was very busy; women in their chadors and shawls tried to balance their screaming children while trying on their shoes. There were store clerks everywhere kneeling before women to help them put on their shoes; Prince Charmings helping hordes of Cinderellas try on their glass slippers.

  Tanzeela managed to get a clerk to find the shoes and bring them to her. He came to her with a shoebox and set the sandals before her, offering to put them on.

  “No, it’s all right,” Tanzeela insisted, and looked at me, saying, “I’m quite capable of putting on my own shoes!” The clerk looked at her from where he was kneeling and said, in crisp English, “Only trying to help, madam.” We both looked at him in amazement. He had round, innocent eyes and was slightly overweight, balding from the head. His expression was positive, but not smug. Tanzeela blushed in embarrassment and tried the shoe on. And it truly was a Cinderella moment; they were the perfect fit.

  As Tanzeela paid for the shoes at the counter, I couldn’t help but gaze at the balding man who had brought the shoes to her. He was now totaling the bill and writing her a receipt. I could never recall whole faces, but I never forgot a feature. An indistinguishable jawbone, a sharp nose, a heart-shaped hairline. And there was something about this man’s chin that seemed haltingly familiar. Square and then slightly round at the tip, like whipped cream at the top of a sundae. It was Shahaan’s chin.

  “Here you are,” the man said to Tanzeela, handing her the bill. He must have noticed me staring at him. He looked at me and Shahaan’s eyes bore into me. I stood before Shahaan’s father, gazing as he carefully wrapped each of the sandals and placed them inside a white shoebox. I tried to look away and fidget with my purse. Tanzeela and he conversed for a few minutes, during which he revealed that he owned the shop. My mind went back to Shahaan’s words, he opened up a shop in Tariq Road.

  I stood there, head down, my head buzzing as Tanzeela paid the bill. Of course the man before me only saw me as a customer, and nothing else; not a link to the son that he didn’t even know he had. The man asked Tanzeela, mid-sentence, nodding towards me, “And wouldn’t your friend like a pair of shoes as well?” He smiled kindly, with Shahaan’s twinkling eyes, looking at me. I shook my head and said no. And then Tanzeela and I left the store.

  I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t quite know how to say it. She noticed me looking a little dumbfounded, but I declined that anything was wrong.

  Shahaan didn’t know exactly where his father worked. Now I did. He had no idea how successful his father’s shop had become. I would have to keep this nugget of information to myself, like I did everything else. Even when it tormented me. But maybe if I didn’t, Shahaan would finally be granted the love of a father, and the father with the knowledge of Shahaan. Each of them would routinely carried out their lives now, unaware that the other existed.

  I almost chuckled to myself thinking that if I did tell Shahaan anything, I would let him know, and proudly at that, that his father finally did learn English.

  18

  I came back home in the evening to find my mother crying. She was sitting in the lounge, head resting ag
ainst the palm of her hand, sobbing quietly. I didn’t think she had heard me come in. I put my bag down on the chair and faced her. “What’s wrong, Ma?” She wouldn’t look up at me. I went and sat down next to her. The sofa heaved slightly under the additional weight. “What happened?” My father was not in town; they couldn’t have had a fight. Why? I thought to myself, why was everyone around me breaking down into tears, each with something in their heart broken? I felt like I couldn’t take any more of this; the misery, the pain of others.

  My mother sniffed abruptly and straightened up. She then turned to me, her face smoky with dripping mascara. “It’s the cook. Ishaq.” My heart cringed at the sound of his name. I remained silent, listening. “Ishaq and Asad had been playing cricket in the garage. After they had finished, Ishaq came up to him and …” My mother’s voice drowned out into a moan. I couldn’t urge her to go on … I could barely speak. My throat was hard and dry, as if I had just swallowed gravelly sand. “He took advantage of my boy,” my mother wailed, covering her eyes.

  “What did he do?” I finally found my voice. “Tell me, Ma, what did he do?” I didn’t realize that I was shouting. “He’s been doing it for months,” my mother cried. “I only found out because I walked into the garage to find the garden hose.” My mother closed her eyes; the image was too horrifying; for any mother to see. “I saw him with his pants down,” she said quietly. “Grabbing Asad by the arm, forcing him to …” She shook her head, unable to continue. “He told Asad that he would break his neck if he told me. And it happened again and again. While I did nothing. I couldn’t even protect my own son.” She wailed and then burst out again. I stood there, still, hearing the echoes of my mother’s cries throughout the house. The only sound that I could hear in that silence. Louder than the thoughts in my head.