Their Language of Love

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  ‘David has a wonderful road sense,’ Feroza said at one point. ‘In fact, he’d love to show you around … he can explain things much better than any guide.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Zareen said carefully, on a note so tentative that Feroza expected her to continue. She looked at her mother with a touch of surprise, when she didn’t, and quickly Zareen said, ‘But will he be able to find the time?’

  ‘Of course he will. He’s planned the weekend for you.’

  Feroza had already mentioned how hard David worked. Besides devoting every moment he could spare to his studies, he held two part-time jobs. ‘His father can easily pay his fees, but he won’t. He feels David must earn his way through university.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Zareen said, approving of the parental decision. ‘It will teach him to stand on his own two feet.’ It was an attitude Parsee fathers would approve of and encourage. If Zareen were to believe all the allusions slipped in by Feroza, David was a genius, a saint and had a brilliant future in computers.

  ‘He seems like such a nice boy,’ Zareen said graciously, and Feroza, delighted by this quantum leap in his favour, hummed as she brushed her teeth. She heard Laura and Shirley move unobtrusively in their room. She saw the light that had come on in David’s garage, go out. Hugging her mother goodnight, saying, ‘And do let the bugs bite!’ she laughed so raucously at her own old joke that it infected the small frame house with her joy, and Shirley and Laura, talking softly in their room, suddenly found themselves giggling about the least little thing. David, who was inclined to bouts of gloom and self-doubt, found the thunderous cloud that had descended on him after his encounter with Zareen—convinced he had made the worst impression possible—lift somewhat. He smiled in the dark and longed to be with Feroza. He hoped she would slip into his room later. But hugging her pillow in the narrow camp cot next to her mother’s bed Feroza blew him an invisible kiss and fell peacefully to sleep.

  Zareen, who had to cope with a twelve-hour time difference, was wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. She found the quiet in her strange surroundings eerie, and the opaque glow behind the curtains as the night sky reflected the tireless city lights, disorienting. In Lahore, at this hour, the pitch night would be alive with a cacophony of insect and animal noises or with the thump of the watchman’s stick or the shrill note of his whistle. And the population explosion in Pakistan having extended itself also to the bird community, some bird disturbed by a sudden light, or by an animal prowling in the trees, was bound to be twittering, some insomniac rooster crowing.

  Covering her eyes and her ears with an old silk sari she kept for the purpose, Zareen summoned the imagined presence of her husband, her caring kinsfolk, and filled the emptiness of her second night in America with their resolute and reassuring chatter. Their voices, trapped in the sari, rustled in her ears: ‘Our prayers are with you. Be firm. We must not lose our child.’

  By the time she drifted off to sleep at about five in the morning Zareen had glimpsed the rudiments of an idea that had the potential to succeed.

  Feroza awoke her mother with a cup of tea. ‘It’s ten o’clock, Mum. We’ve planned a lovely Saturday for you.’

  Zareen was at once wide awake. Refreshed by her sleep, and subconsciously aware of having spent the night in fruitful endeavour, she was in a happier and more adventurous frame of mind. After all she was in America! The New World beckoned.

  They breakfasted at McDonalds and lunched at Benihana, where the Japanese chef performed a fierce ballet with his sharp knives. At night Zareen sank her teeth into a thick slice of medium-rare roast beef and shut her eyes the better to savour it. Never had she tasted the natural flavour of meats, fish and vegetables quite this way—always eating them drowned in delectable concoctions of spices at home.

  On Sunday—a day as scintillating and balmy as all the days she was to spend in Denver—they drove along winding roads through greenly rolling country to an abandoned mining town that had flourished during the gold rush.

  Guiding her tour with enthusiasm, blossoming beneath the admiring yellow gaze of his beloved and the interest shown by the sophisticated woman in a sari, David gave Zareen her first taste of the history of the land. So tied-up and tangled the day before, his tongue became fluent and he brought the Wild West vividly to life. His fumbling movements too were replaced by the surety that was natural to his compact body. And David, who had despaired in his dark bout of gloom the night before of ever impressing Zareen, was as surprised as she was.

  When Feroza, agile in jeans, asked Zareen to climb the steep struts after her into an old steam engine, David tactfully suggested: ‘You’d better not, in that beautiful sari.’

  ‘At least you have more sense than my daughter,’ Zareen said tartly, and intercepted a look between them—of David’s delight at winning her favour and Feroza’s bemused surprise—and a gesture Zareen was not meant to see: gloating at having scored over Feroza, David cocked a snook, and though Feroza tried to look hurt by the sudden switch in her mother’s allegiance, it was plain to see she was pleased.

  Each day the next week Feroza dropped her mother off at one or another of the gleaming shopping malls. To Zareen’s dazzled senses they were pieces of paradise descended from the sky, crammed with all that was most desirable in the world. Shooting off at a tangent she darted between the garment racks and the cosmetics counters—the jewellery, linen, toy, shoe and furniture displays—like a giddy meteorite driven mad by the allure of contending cosmic bodies. Feroza fetched her late in the evening from some designated spot, usually an ice-cream parlour. Eyes glazed by the glory of the goods she had seen and the foods she had tasted, Zareen climbed into the small car with large shopping bags.

  The results of her first shopping spree were manifest that very evening. The tops of everything—counters, tables, window sills—sprouted tissue boxes as if she had planted a pastel garden of fragrant Kleenex. She went from tissue box to tissue box plucking tissues with a prodigality that satisfied a deep sensual craving; and chucked them away with an abandon she never thought she could indulge.

  Feroza’s dressing table, and bathroom shelves blossomed with a dizzying array of perfume bottles and cosmetics, and the floor level of Feroza’s two long closets rose by at least two feet in a glossy flood of packages containing linen, lamp-shades and gadgets. The hanging spaces were jammed with new blouses, trousers, skirts and jackets.

  Feroza discreetly moved her clothes to David’s closet.

  Enchanted, Zareen made her daily debut in the kitchen, modelling her new clothes, and was as delighted as a child by the flattering comments from whoever happened to be breakfasting. She spent hours chatting with Laura and Shirley. They ferried her around occasionally when Feroza or David were busy, and she treated them to ice-cream cones, and the junk food she brought home. She bought small gifts for everyone.

  David and Feroza, exhilarated by their success, relaxed some of their self-imposed restraints. David held Feroza’s hand; and, glancing at her mother, Feroza permitted it to be held. She rested her head on David’s shoulder when the ride was long, and occasionally hugged him in a sisterly fashion in front of Zareen. Light-headed with delight, David let his hair, and even the stubble on his chin grow. His confidence too blossomed; and with it the gamin sense of humour that had so touched Zareen in the abandoned mining town when he had gleefully thumbed his nose at Feroza. At such moments, Zareen wished David was Parsee—or that the Zoroastrians permitted conversion to their faith.

  Although Shirley and Laura occasionally roamed the house in shorts, David, warned by Feroza, kept his hairy legs modestly concealed. Nosing his way timidly on the surface of another culture, David was entirely guided by Feroza. There were other strictures they prudently continued to observe: neither smoked before Zareen (fire is revered by Zoroastrians), and both were careful not to give the slightest intimation of their more advanced physical intimacies.

  And then in the third week of her visit, within three days of each oth
er, arrived a spate of anxious letters from Pakistan recalling Zareen to her mission.

  Zareen’s sleep became restless. As if prodded by an ominous finger, she sat bolt upright in bed one night, her pulse pounding. She looked at the watch on the side table: it was three o’clock. She felt something was terribly amiss; and with a shock realized Feroza was not in her cot. For the first time Zareen suspected that her daughter probably slept with David. Tying her scarf round her head she began to pray.

  Zareen knew what she must do. However useful and appealing David was, however natural to the stimulating and carefree environment, he would deprive her daughter of her faith and her natural element. Like a fish in shallow waters her child would eventually shrivel up.

  The next day Feroza and David at once sensed the change in Zareen’s mood. They were surprised how fragile their happiness was, how vulnerable they were. Linking Zareen’s shift in temper to the bundle of letters that had arrived all together from Pakistan, Feroza wished the mail had been lost. Zareen’s face grew more and more solemn as the morning advanced and a little frown appeared between her eyes. Feroza, after a few attempts to rally her mother had failed, became equally solemn. David’s misgivings launched their customary attack. Racked by self-loathing and his usual gloomy doubts, he skulked about the garage and the backyard, trying to keep out of everybody’s way. There were muffled sounds of an altercation from Laura and Shirley’s room. Zareen’s ill humour had contaminated the house.

  Zareen waited for David to appear in the kitchen. Feeling he was deliberately avoiding her, she strode to the garage door and after ascertaining he was in his room, said, ‘David, can you come into the kitchen please? I want to talk to you.’

  David’s spirits sank lower as he caught that elusive inflection that had so disconcerted him on the day of her arrival. Pulling his legs through his long pants David hurried into the kitchen and sat down before Zareen. She gave him a quick cool smile and dispensing with courtesies said: ‘I am most concerned about Feroza. Do you intend to marry her, or are you just having fun?’

  David felt the blood rush to his head and cloud his vision. At the same time, his hands meekly lying in his lap, turned numb and cold. ‘Of course,’ he stammered, ‘we want to get married.’

  ‘Please speak for yourself,’ Zareen said. ‘And let my daughter speak for herself.’

  David was too stunned to say anything. He looked at Zareen with an expression of surprise and misery.

  ‘Have you thought about the sacrifice you are demanding of my daughter?’

  ‘I’m not demanding anything … Feroza does as she pleases—pretty much …’ Then, the slightest edge to his voice, he added: ‘She’s an adult.’

  ‘An adult? I don’t think so,’ Zareen said. ‘You are both too immature and selfish to qualify as adults … She doesn’t care how much she hurts all of us. I’ll tell you something,’ Zareen’s voice became oracular with foreboding. ‘I look into Feroza’s future and what do I see? Misery!’

  David could not credit his faculties. The transition was too sudden. He could not reconcile the hedonistic shopper, the model swirling girlishly in the kitchen, the enthusiastic tourist and giver of gifts with this aggressive sage frightening him with her doom-booming voice, and a volley of bizarre accusations. ‘Could we talk about this later?’ he mumbled, tripping over the chair as he got to his feet. ‘I’m getting late for classes …’

  ‘Then go!’ Zareen was imperious with scorn. ‘But please do think about the sacrifice you are asking of my daughter.’

  Feroza, who had retreated to her room and was nervously bracing herself for a quarrel, was not prepared for the ferocity of Zareen’s attack—or its dangerous direction—as she marched into the room saying: ‘You are both selfish: Thinking of no one else … And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to!’

  ‘What am I up to?’ At once on her guard, Feroza adopted a haughty tone.

  ‘Ask your conscience that! We have taught you what is wrong and what is right!’

  ‘If you’re referring to my virginity, you may relax,’ Feroza said attaching umbrage to her haughty voice. ‘I’m perhaps the only nineteen-year-old virgin in all America.’

  ‘You were not in your bed at three o’clock this morning! You expect me to believe you?’

  ‘Believe what you want—since you don’t trust me!’ Feroza said with scathing dignity and stalked out of the room. Zareen followed her furiously. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me! Look me in the eye!’

  They had the house to themselves. In the course of the row, mother and daughter stormed in and out of rooms, raking old quarrels, wrenching open doors and banging them shut. At the end of an hour, Zareen, trembling with rage and exhaustion, raised her hand threateningly: ‘Don’t think you’re too old to get slapped!’

  Feroza moved close to her parent, and caught her hand in a violent gesture of defiance. She stared at Zareen out of savage lynx eyes, her pupils narrowed. Zareen felt she had provoked something dangerous in them both. Tears springing to her eyes she jerked her arm free. She walked to the flimsy entrance door, wrenched it open and stalked out of the house.

  Zareen had barely walked a block up the quiet, deserted street when she heard the angry whirr of wheels as Feroza reversed the Chevette out of the drive. A moment later she whizzed past.

  Having only two legs to stalk out on, instead of the four wheels on which Feroza had swept by to such dramatic effect, Zareen felt drained and defeated. She turned round slowly and went back to the house.

  Zareen sat brooding before the TV, searching her soul. She had acted exactly in a way calculated to push her daughter into the arms of this David. How could she have been so foolish? She was the mother—and yet Feroza had shown more maturity and restraint in her behaviour than she had.

  Late in the evening, lying on her bed, Zareen heard Laura and Shirley enter the house. She heard the garage door click: David had returned. Feroza must be with him. Quickly opening a magazine, she waited breathlessly for Feroza. The moments dragged by and she wondered if Feroza would show up at all. She wanted desperately to effect a reconciliation, wipe away the hurt in both their hearts. Feroza did not come. In fact the house was silent, as if it was empty. Tears sprang to Zareen’s eyes and she put the magazine away.

  Zareen absently heard the phone ring. A little later Shirley knocked on her open door and shyly, as was her way, said: ‘Feroza called. She asked me to tell you she is spending the night with a friend. She will see you after classes tomorrow.’

  She hesitantly stepped into the room. ‘Are you all right? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m all right dear …’ Zareen said, her voice thick. ‘Thanks a lot for asking. I’m just a bit tired … I was waiting for Feroza.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re heading for a cold,’ Shirley said. ‘Let me get you a glass of warm milk.’

  Zareen felt soothed by the attention. She considered Shirley pretty. Shirley had high cheekbones, a small nose and long blond hair. The girls were not a bit like Zareen’s preconceived notions of promiscuous American girls: even if Feroza had made that crack about being the only nineteen-year-old virgin in America. And these pretty girls did not have boys hovering round them—giving their mothers heart attacks.

  Zareen stayed home the next day. She sorted out her shopping and packed a suitcase with gifts. It was expected of her—that she should return like a female Santa Claus. She did not see David or either of the girls all day. Feroza returned at about six in the evening, announcing: ‘I’m so hungry!’ She was in high spirits. Zareen turned off the TV and followed her into the kitchen, saying: ‘I’m hungry too. I’ll make us a pora.’

  Zareen rinsed a light plastic chopping board and collected the ingredients for the spicy omelette. ‘Only five days to go. By next Tuesday I’ll be in Lahore,’ she remarked, expertly chopping onions and jalapeno peppers.

  Feroza looked up from the mail she was reading. ‘Is that all? But you only just got here!’ They could both hear D
avid moving about in the garage.

  Zareen sighed heavily and turned to Feroza. Holding the knife, plastered with cilantro and onion, she passed the back of her hand across her forehead in a weary gesture. ‘If you feel you must marry that man … I have only one request.’

  The introduction of the subject was sudden. The capitulation was unexpected. Feroza opened her mouth in an O, and affected a visibly theatrical start. ‘What?’

  This is what she loved about Feroza. Even as a child—after the red-faced shouting rages, the surly shut-ins—by the time Feroza emerged from her retreat, all was forgotten and forgiven. She rarely sulked. And even after their epic quarrel the day before, she was not above a little clowning.

  ‘Get married properly,’ Zareen said. ‘The magistrate’s bit of paper won’t make you feel married. Have a regular wedding … Don’t deprive us of everything!’

  Feroza remained silent and raised questioning eyebrows.

  ‘If you and David come to Lahore, we will take care of everything.’

  ‘Don’t you think you might talk to David about it first?’

  Zareen shrugged. ‘Then call him.’

  David came into the kitchen looking unkempt, unshaven and grim. Feroza noted the gold chain hanging from his neck, the Star of David prominent on his chest. Her mother, by constantly flaunting their religion, had provoked this reaction. The top buttons on his plaid shirt were open, and part of it hung out of his pants. David turned the chair and straddling it, faced Zareen defiantly. Zareen was taken aback by the change in his behaviour and appearance. His breath smelled of beer.

  ‘Since you two are so determined to get married,’ she said, concealing her nervousness, and striving also to keep her tone light, ‘I want you to grant me a little wish.’

  David looked wary. ‘Feroza said you want me to come to Lahore … to get married?’

  ‘Oh, not only you … Your parents, grandparents, uncles. They’ll all be our guests. I want you to have a grand wedding!’