by Minal Khan
“What did you do?” I asked. She paused amidst her sobs and looked at me strangely, surprised that I hadn’t expressed any shock, any feeling. “I threw him out,” she finally said. “There was nothing else I could do. Your father is not in the house, or he would have ripped him apart with his own hands.”
That was it. He had gone. He was out of my life, finally. Kicked out graciously. As if he was a tenant that had refused to pay rent and not a man that had just molested my brother. He would roam about the streets for a few days and then find another job at another house. Where he would do it. Again. Just like Rahim.
“Mom,” I said. “I was sexually molested by the cleaner when I was seven.” I had said it without feeling, as if I were telling her what I had had for lunch the previous day. No more secrets. Tanzeela had revealed hers, and now it was my turn. Perhaps one day Alia would reveal hers, too.
I knew it was the worst time to bring up this piece of information. I didn’t want to make my mother more upset. Only up until this moment, I had thought that she would be upset with me. For not resisting when I could have.
My mother stopped sniffing. She was looking down at the carpet, a faraway look on her face. I wondered if she had heard me.
“I know, Ayla,” she said to me, a grave look on her face. “I found out as soon as I came back from India. The maid had seen everything. She was cleaning inside the house at the time. She saw what had happened from the window. Rahim had forced her to have sex with him before. He was a heroin addict. Your father almost killed him the day he found out; he beat him until his eyes rolled up in his head. Your father would have murdered him; I saw it in his eyes. But I stopped him. I didn’t want us to be murderers. We sent him to jail immediately.” I remained quiet for some time, trying to let her words register. “Why … why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered, looking away. My mother reached out for my hand. “You were seven, Ayla. You had already suffered from the shock. I made sure never to leave the country again while you and you brother were at home.”
I wanted to tell her more. That I still had dreams of Rahim chasing me, and me running as fast as my legs could take me, how I was never quick enough to escape his grasp. And all this time I thought he was still out there, lurking and ready to come back, and find me. My mother had known all along. It wasn’t a secret. And she wasn’t upset with me. Rahim had said she’d be angry at me enough times so that I truly thought that she would, even years later. I felt a tear gather and roll down my cheek. And then more followed, but they weren’t tears of sadness. It was out of relief. My mother really wasn’t upset with me, I closed my eyes and told myself. Rahim had been wrong. Thank God.
It really wasn’t my fault.
~
I had framed and hung up my painting of Alia in my room. I had made her a happy bride; not beaming from ear to ear but content, a soft smile on her lips. She was on top of my dressing table now—sparkling, gorgeous. I was still waiting to hear word from her: this is what our relationship had deteriorated to; long moments of silence punctuated by brief spells of contact. The rest of the time was just spent waiting.
I received a call from Tanzeela again. She was giddy with excitement. She tried to contain herself but couldn’t.
“I just took the test … I’m having a baby.” There was a pause.
“What?” I shrieked into the phone.
She laughed. It was the happiest I had ever heard her. In the depth of my heart I knew this was just what she needed; a new start, a new family that she could call her own.
“That’s fantastic,” I said, congratulating her. I couldn’t have hoped for better news at a time like this. Tanzeela then invited me over for dinner at her new house.
“There isn’t much furniture and it’s still mostly a mess,” she said, laughing, “but we would love to have you over. Amar really wants to meet you as well. I tell him so much about you.”
I was more than pleased to come, I said.
“But really,” Tanzeela said. “I have never thanked you. You are the only one who I confided in at the time that everything happened. And who knows, I might have never found the strength to tell the truth if you hadn’t insisted that I should.” I told her not to think about it, thinking inside, and I may have never found the strength to tell the truth if it weren’t for your influence. But everyone had secrets. No matter how much they revealed, or admitted in confidence. Everyone had untold truths, tucked away in a dark place, truths that would astonish others if they knew, truths that could get us into trouble. But we couldn’t tell anyone. Not even those closest. Because after all, as the verse in Arabian Nights best put it, if you couldn’t keep your own secret, how could you expect others to?
19
6 months later
“I hear Alia’s fiancé grew up in London,” my mother told me as she dabbed lipstick on her lips and pouted in the mirror. My mother pinned her ears with gold earrings and looked back from her reflection to me. “He doesn’t speak a word of Urdu. A pakka firangi—a true foreigner. But such a smart boy. Lives in a town called Surrey and works in the city.”
I didn’t answer. My mother continued, “She’ll have so much fun moving to a new city!”
The day of Alia’s engagement ceremony was here. We had made it through the last six months of school, ambling through our final exams, thanking our teachers and hugging our friends goodbye: “Add me on Facebook so we can keep in touch when you move to America!”; “Don’t forget to send me pictures of your new friends, your new dorm, everything!”; and “You better come back to Karachi to visit—reunion in 2009!” Somehow we had graduated, and Alia had still not bleeped a word to anyone about getting into NYU.
It was now July and barely a week before I would pack my things up for college. My visa was stamped onto my passport, my I-20 college verification issued. Everyone in my family was ecstatic and spoke about nothing else but my imminent venture to a new country. My mother had already given me a list of makeup items to buy from Nordstrom once I arrived in New York, so I could dutifully ship them back to her.
“It’s hard to believe your friends are already getting married.” My mother again turned back to her reflection in the mirror, adjusting the border of her sari. She was wearing a gold blouse with embroidered leaves and sequins. Her shining earrings twinkled in the mirror. “Alia is only eighteen years old, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Ma. And she’s only getting engaged. Not married.” Images of Alia’s tearing face emerged in my head. I’ll make it through the engagement ceremony. “Technically she’s not even engaged yet.”
My mother looked back at me, delivering a look of wan pity. I stood behind her in a blue ghagra choli, a long embroidered pleated skirt with a stitched blue blouse. Together, my mother and I looked perfectly poised to celebrate, like honorary regal guests of the evening.
“I can see why you’re your upset, jaan, love.” My mother nodded in understanding. “Your childhood best friend is getting married. You’re moving away to a different country and you don’t know when you two will see each other again. You must feel so nostalgic. Of course it isn’t easy seeing Alia married. Are you going to see her before you leave for America next week?”
“I don’t know,” I quickly looked away. In my mind, I knew what the answer was: no. Alia and I had spoken about our parting, many times over. She had somehow forgiven me for not agreeing to whisk her away to New York. “I guess we’ll just say goodbye when you leave.” She had told me at school on the last day of our final exams.
“Alia, please don’t make me feel responsible,” I told her. “If you are planning to do this on your own, go ahead and do it. But I can’t be an accomplice in helping you run away. My family would never forgive me. Your family wouldn’t. I would have helped in breaking your engagement and absconding from the country. I can’t be the one to do that.”
“I don’t hold you responsible, Ayla,” Alia had said. Her face was calm, even peaceful. “Maybe this is a sign that I am just not ready to go to college
yet. Whatever happens, whether this wedding breaks off or not, you are not to blame. I dragged you into all of this. Your future is important. You go to America and begin your life and kick butt at college.”
Because I can’t. I almost heard the unspoken words in her silence.
“You know I won’t be able to just enjoy myself as if nothing happened, Alia.” I said, through gritted teeth.
“How about this, then? Just be there for me by coming to my engagement,” Alia said. “Can you do that?” She smiled. “I need some support to get through the night—my God, I’ll be fake smiling and chatting with a hundred people I’d rather never see again. Help me out there, okay?” She grinned and I tried to smile.
So here I was. Making my way to the engagement. This was the last time I would see Alia before leaving and I couldn’t bear the thought. But I had something to give her. A parting present. I packed up the canvas in the car as my mother and I made our way in.
Twenty minutes later we were outside the engagement venue at the Sheraton Hotel. Contrary to what Alia had said, there were not one hundred, but five hundred people invited. My mother told me this in the car and I could see as much, because getting out from the car into the lobby, I saw scores of women dressed in wedding attire and carrying diamond clutch purses. Women who were now greeting my mom and touching my cheek and telling me how pretty I looked. “Your daughter is a true doll.” A lady wearing a stupendously large pearl ring on her finger touched my arm and gleamed at my mother. “Our children grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“Oh, they do,” my mother smiled and chatted with the lady as I scanned the ballroom quickly, searching for a glimpse of Alia. “She’s going away to college next week. And just yesterday I remember dropping her off to her first day of kindergarten. The time just flies by without a moment’s notice!”
“Which college are you going to?” The woman’s pearl ring, glaring and humongous on her dainty hand, was now making its way back to my arm, beckoning for attention.
“A college in New York.” I said absent mindedly.
My mother clucked amusingly. “She’s so modest, this one,” my mother said. “Ayla got into an Ivy League school.” She turned to me and laughed. “Tell Naila Aunty how you had the admission letter sitting at our house for weeks before we even realized it was there!”
The room suddenly became very quiet and we turned to the front entrance. I heard hushed whispers. “Look, it’s the bride!” I turned and looked. Alia emerged in a flowing peach dress, her hair high and curled, diamonds sitting on her neck and forehead. She looked like the goddess bride I had envisioned. Poised. Airy. Gleaming.
Next to her stood a man who was tall. Her fiancé-to-be. It hurt me to admit this, but he was indeed really handsome; I was hoping he’d look menacing, a clear aberrant choice that would validate my disappointment with her family. A lean jaw and dark eyes framed his beaming and kind face. The two—Alia and he—were looking at each other, smiling. To the whole world, they must have looked like they were truly in love. Alia was making eye contact with guests and nodding, warmly hugging people and thanking them for coming. A natural hostess.
She finally made her way to me and my mother. I tried to get words out but found I couldn’t even speak.
“Congratulations, Alia!” My mother spoke on my behalf and embraced Alia. “You look absolutely stunning, my child.”
“Congratulations, Alia.” I found the courage to smile and hug her as well. We then turned to her almost-fiancé.
“This is Saad,” Alia said, turning to the tall man. He held out his hand. “Saad, this is—”
“Ayla,” Saad interjected. He smiled and reached out to shake my hand. “Alia has told me so much about her painter friend. I see you are the only one holding a canvas in this room. So it had to be you. You really gave it away!” His accent was polished, unmistakably British.
“Here, let me introduce your mother to my mother. It really has been years since they’ve seen each other.” Alia took my mother’s hand and soon they were off, drifting into the center of the room, leaving me all alone with Saad.
“So you and Alia are childhood friends?” he asked. There was laughter and chatter all around us. He had to speak loudly for me to hear him over the music, and his deep voice boomed out musically, strong, and confident.
“Yes. We go back a long way. This is the first time I’ve seen her this dressed up for anything—I can hardly believe it’s her!”
Saad laughed. “Alia’s been running about greeting people the last few days and it’s been insane for her, I’m sure,” he said. “I’m hoping she’ll feel more rested when we move to London.”
“When is that going to be?”
“After the wedding. In a few months.”
Saad’s tone suddenly changed, “Listen Ayla,” he scanned the room to make sure no one was listening. “I’m saying this to you because I know you’re Alia’s best friend. I know that she doesn’t want this wedding to happen. I’m not an idiot.”
My throat felt heavy. I gulped. “Why would you say that?”
“I know that she was caught sneaking out of the house to see some guy. Presumably a boyfriend.”
“Shahaan?” I almost spit out the Pepsi I was drinking. “No, you’ve really got it wrong—”
“It’s cool, okay?” he said discreetly. “I get it. She has a boyfriend. Whatever. I have a girlfriend in London. This is a purely arranged marriage.” Saad laughed a little. He used air quotes for the word “arranged,” and as he lifted his arms, I caught a glimpse of his silver Rolex watch. “Look, the point is, neither of us wants this. But this wedding is going to happen. We’ve spent fifteen thousand dollars on this engagement ceremony alone. Our parents get along. I’m willing to bring a ‘good wife’ back to London if it means my father will finally stop getting on my case about marriage and just let me live my life.” A waiter now approached us with mini crab cakes and Saad dutifully plucked a crab-covered toothpick from the waiter’s plate. “Thanks.” He smiled widely at the waiter and swiftly put the crab cake into his mouth.
My ears were ringing and I looked across at Alia from where I was standing. She was taking photos with our friends from high school, laughing luminously and covering her mouth.
“D-does Alia know you feel this way?” I had to strongly resist my urge to empty my Diet Pepsi over this man’s head, drown his precious designer navy suit.
“Yeah. We both know we don’t want this. We’ve talked about it. The only difference is, I’m willing to go ahead with this wedding, but I sense she isn’t. I can just see something lurking in that face of hers, I know she’s scheming. But I’ll tell you this. I really suggest you caution Alia that if she tries to avoid this wedding, and creates a scene, or runs away with her boyfriend, that she’s really asking for trouble. It will be humiliating for the family. My father will never live it down. Alia’s fate is decided. I think it’s time she realized it.”
And with that, Saad swiftly finished his last bite of crab cake, and airily walked away. He resumed shaking hands with men, uncles and aunties, nodding and leaning in and making jokes, dangling that British accent and Rolex watch in their faces till they were dazzled and overdid themselves with laughter at his charm.
I tried to make my way to Alia as fast as my feet could carry me, but it was too far. She was swamped in a mob of well-wishers. When I got close to the huddle around her, I heard an indistinct cough on a microphone and a glass being chimed.
“Please make your way to the stage, ladies and gentlemen.” Alia’s father was on the stage with a microphone and clearing his throat. He was sweating and looking visibly conscious of being on a stage in front of five hundred people. “The ceremony is about to begin.”
I watched, dumb as a statue as Alia made her way to the elevated podium, a stage adorned with pink flowers and velvet chairs. Now Saad, too, was on the stage and procuring a ring case. There were flashes of cameras and phones being raised in the air in unison to capture the moment. Echo
ing applause as Saad placed a twinkling diamond ring on Alia’s finger. I saw Alia’s mother standing behind her, blinking away tears of happiness, clutching her chest and turning to Alia’s father in delight. I had never seen her so overcome with emotion.
“A ring for my lady,” Saad joked as he placed the ring on Alia’s finger. My mother was now back next to me and whispered in my ear. “What a handsome guy. Those two are really made for each other.”
I watched in mute silence as Alia then placed a ring on Saad’s finger. He joked again, “I guess it’s official now, ladies and gentlemen!” Everyone around the couple laughed. What a showman. The two then turned to the scores of photographers and smiled for the camera.
My feet suddenly found life and started moving toward the stage. Quickly and deliberately. My mother stared after me, confused as to why I had taken off. I literally jumped on to that stage, just as Alia was posing for a photo with her uncle and touched her arm.
“Alia,” I was now aware of hundreds of eyes staring at me, wondering in consternation. I gently tugged at her arm. “Can you come with me for a second, please?”
“What’s wrong?” She looked concerned, her kohl-rimmed eyes big with worry.
“Nothing. Um—I have something to give you.” The canvas painting would just have to be an excuse. I felt Saad’s eyes follow us, burning beams into our backs as we made our way out of the ballroom.
Alia’s family—her aunts and uncles—gazed after at us for a second, and then resumed taking pictures. That’s all you had to do distract someone: place a camera in front of him/her and a wobbling man with his thumbs up yelling, “Cheese!”
“Are you okay?” Alia asked, as we made our way outside the ballroom and into the lobby of the hotel. Waiters were busily walking by us with arms raised high, carrying trunks of steak, lamb, biryani, and dessert, ducking out of our way to avoid us.
