by Nafisa Haji
Mohsin’s eyes met and held mine for a moment, their widened state conveying a curiosity that I caught and registered before answering my father. “She’s a widow. Her husband died years ago. No kids as far as I know.”
My father spent the next few days at the clinic with Dr. Asma Mohammed.
One morning, after watching my father burn his tongue in his hurry to finish his tea and dash off to the clinic, I turned to Mohsin and said, “Do you think—?” Mohsin was familiar enough with my inquiring mind to know where I had stopped myself from going. He answered me with a shrug, and I felt my own shoulders lift in answer to his.
WE WENT TO Karachi—where I had been several times since the husband-hunt Mummy had dragged me on when I was still in college. Karachi, my cousins always tried to convince me, had changed. All the way from the airport to Lubna Khala’s house, they would point out the proof of progress: McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, KFC, Dunkin’ Donuts, shopping malls, boutiques, bridges, and flyovers. To my eyes, they were hollow symbols set up within the familiar and still shocking sight of open garbage pits and dirty rag-clothed and limb-severed beggars—bitter signs of stagnation and despair that my cousins, and everyone else, seemed not even to notice.
Big Nanima was what kept me coming back, the reason I had not avoided my aunts and cousins in Pakistan, like I had my family in America. She was eighty years old. Since she had broken her hip a year before, she was living with Lubna Khala, having sold her own flat and relinquished the independence she had fought to keep for so long. She used a cane to walk, now, and shuffled forward into the foyer of Lubna Khala’s house to greet us when we arrived.
She reached up to put her hand on my father’s shoulder. “Beta—we have not been the same since we heard. It is a cruel thing, to have to live long enough to see my children die before my eyes. Shabana was my sister’s daughter, but she was my child, too, and I remember her and miss her with every breath that I take. But this is a temporary world. Inna lilaahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon.” (From God we come and to God we return.) “Shabana was very fortunate. To die surrounded by those she loved and in the lifetime of her husband. She died a bride and not a widow.” Then Big Nanima turned to me. “Saira. Beti. You are not alone. You don’t have your mother, but you have your mother’s family to love you and care for you. Always.” She hugged me to her, put her paper-thin cheek against mine, and wiped the tears I had not noticed trailing down my face.
Mohsin was already in Peshawar, making arrangements for our next story. I had only a few days in Karachi, days I spent with Big Nanima, leaving my father to spend his time with my other relatives—Lubna Khala’s family, Mummy’s cousins and his own—to talk of the old days in Bombay.
Big Nanima never spoke of the old days, because she was still too vibrantly involved in the world around her. “The best thing about reading your stories, Saira, is that it makes me feel that at least we are not alone—there are places in the world more miserable, even, than here. What this country has come to! That an old lady is not allowed to take a walk on the street of the house she lives in.”
“Not allowed?”
“Not allowed! Lubna says it is not safe. Ha! Safe! In my own neighborhood, I took a walk on the streets every day for all of the years that I lived there. But now, here in this walled and gated fool’s paradise, I am confined—a prisoner. The only place I am allowed to go for a walk is to another walled garden, getting in the car to be chauffeur-driven from one fortress to another. Everyone is afraid—the kidnapping and the carjackings. It gets better and then worse again. We have a few months, a year even, of relative calm—when only a few cars are hijacked, when no one we know is kidnapped, when the only people being butchered are strangers whose names we don’t recognize when we read them in the newspapers.
“And then—all it takes is a spark—and the whole thing lights up again, exploding and exposing what has been there all the time, simmering just under the surface. This is no way to live. Children don’t play outside anymore. They are shuttled back and forth from schools and homes and clubs, all guarded by armed men in uniforms. In my neighborhood—before—all the children played on the streets. Together. The children who lived in walled houses, in flats, the children of servants. Now, there are some children who have never felt the air outside! Even that is filtered by those obnoxious air-conditioners that drown out the sounds of the street. All anyone can talk of is how to get out. Laborers line up for visas to the Gulf. The rich all have green cards ready, or are applying for immigrant status in Canada. Everyone lives with one foot on the ground, gathering up their money and profits with one hand, and packing it all into a suitcase with the other, the other foot set on the steps to an airplane out of here. How will anything change?”
Every day, she muttered the same complaints as we walked around the Gymkhana garden, which, like the garbage pits and the children who lived among them, seemed to stay the same, year after year. After a few rounds, we would sit down for some tea or cold drinks.
On one of those days, when she and I had sat down and ordered tea, I told her about Asma Mohammed.
“You think he will marry her,” Big Nanima said.
“I don’t know.”
“Would that bother you?”
“I don’t know. It shouldn’t. Should it?”
She didn’t answer me for a moment, stirred her tea vigorously before raising the cup to her lips a little unsteadily. “No. It should not. But it would be understandable if it did.”
“Hmm.”
“What about you, Saira? Are you going to be a gypsy for all of your life? Forgive me, but I have a right to ask. Your mother is dead. Your khalas are worried.”
“I know.” They had tried to set me up with an eligible bachelor within hours of my arrival.
“You were hurt? By a man?”
I laughed. “No. That’s not it, Big Nanima.”
“Then? Your work—it is important, Saira. But you shouldn’t let it consume you.”
“You called me a gypsy. That’s what I am. I don’t have time to commit myself to anyone.”
“And that is not something you will regret? Later?”
Her question was in the wrong tense. The answer I repressed was a bittersweet mixture of regret and remorse already realized, processed and assimilated into who I was. Later was not something I worried much about. I shrugged—a defiant gesture of ambivalence that was forced and familiar.
“How is Ameena?”
“She’s fine. She’s in hijab.”
“Is she? Hmm.” Big Nanima shook her head. “It’s become quite a trend, hasn’t it? An international revival, the reclamation of what my generation cheerfully cast off. How strange it is—to live long enough to see the wheel go ’round again. She must be busy, eh? Taking care of her little one? She must be four years old?”
“She just turned six.”
“Six already? She’s started school.”
I nodded.
“What is her name?”
“Sakina.”
“I wish you had a picture of her to show me. You must tell Ameena to send me one, eh?” We were interrupted by an old student of Big Nanima’s. I watched them speak for a moment and then excused myself to use the restroom. When I came back, the student was gone, but Big Nanima was still not alone. I paused, coming down the pavilion steps onto the lawn, when I recognized the man seated next to her. Majid Khan. He stood when he saw me and remained standing until I sat down.
Of course, I had seen him a few times over the past years, the first of which had been mildly awkward—he had been a perfect gentleman, gallant and flirtatious. Less so the second time, taking his cue from my own unaffected manner. Our paths were bound to cross again and again. We were in the same profession, after all. Though our angles were different. Even when we covered the same region or conflict, it was rare that we met.
“Saira. It is so good to see you.” The changes in him were subtle. There was a little more gray and some of the old, fine lines had deepened alongside
new ones that had appeared around his eyes. He was as lean and tall as ever. I saw that he was doing a similar inventory of my face, and turned to look at Big Nanima, who was looking back and forth between us both.
“Adeeba Auntie told me about your mother. I am so sorry, Saira, for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“How have you been? Last time I saw you—where was it? Kosovo?”
I nodded.
“Do you remember, Auntie, that it was you who first introduced us, right here in this very place? Back when Saira was still a child—a novice! Now, when we meet, we meet as equals.”
“Hardly.” I glanced at Big Nanima again and, seeing her eyes on me, I realized that I had been searching Majid’s face a little too carefully, looking for something I had not bothered to look for the last time we’d met. “What have you been up to?”
“You think I would tell you? The competition?”
I laughed. “I’m small potatoes. I always will be. You follow the big shots around. My angle is the little people.”
“It’s only a matter of time—you’ll be called to account, too. That’s what success does, Saira. It gives you access.”
“I don’t want access. Not to the game players. I want to report from the pawn’s point of view.”
“Hmm. In any case—I’m not doing any reporting right now. I’m working on a novel.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. No one seems to be interested in what I have to say as a journalist. You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Lately, when I try to write a news story, all I can come up with are dire warnings and perilous prophecies.”
“What kind of warnings?” Big Nanima had decided to stop watching us and join the conversation.
Majid shook his head. “It’s all nonsense, I’m sure, Auntie.” Then, he turned to me again and said, still to Big Nanima, “This is the one who needs to be warned. Can’t you stop her from exercising her suicidal tendencies, Auntie? Chechnya, Rwanda—have you never met a massacre you didn’t like, Saira?”
“Her work needs to be done!” Big Nanima, who had often expressed the same doubt and worry as Majid, rode in strong for my defense.
“Yes. Have you seen her book, Auntie?” Big Nanima nodded. “Collateral Victims. I bought a copy. Full-price.”
I flushed. “So you’re the one. Not my book, anyway. Mohsin’s book. It was a pictorial essay.”
“With your commentary.”
“The words were superfluous. The pictures spoke for themselves.”
“But you told their stories. You made them come alive. All those grieving women—widows and mothers—and children, orphaned and mutilated. How do you sleep at night?”
“It was wonderful writing.” This, warmly, from Big Nanima.
“No doubt about it. You haven’t done anything personal? Since your first collection of stories?”
“No. Haven’t had the time.”
“And what are you up to now, Saira?”
“We’re heading for Afghanistan.”
“Again? I can’t quite picture you in a burka.”
“The funnier sight is always Mohsin with a beard.”
“I was there a short while ago. Afghanistan. Interviewing Mad Mullah Omar about the destruction of the Buddhas at Bamiyan.” Majid paused. “Be careful, will you?”
Big Nanima cleared her throat, rather loudly, and said, “More warnings? You’ve teased us enough, young man. Whetted our appetites with talk of peril and danger. I insist on hearing these prophecies of yours.”
Majid leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows. “I suppose I have nothing clear to say—that’s why I hesitate. The facts are all out there. But there’s a story in progress. A climax is coming.” He leaned back and waved a hand to encompass our location. “This place—look how peaceful it is. How pleasant. Pockets of space like this one dot the landscape. But what is really going on here? Another general is in power in Pakistan. And the whole Muslim world is a pot on a stove, roiling and boiling, about to overflow.”
“So? What’s new?” Big Nanima’s eyes were narrowed. Her question wasn’t a challenge, merely a question.
“I’m uneasy. That’s all. When I am writing a novel, I like to know what the end of my story will be before I begin. That’s not always possible. Even in fiction. In real life, it’s bloody impossible. I know this. I have always been comfortable with uncertainty. But now—there is something different. Too much power on one side. Too much anger on another. Power, by its very nature, is blind to the destruction it causes. And anger is too easily exploited and transformed into hatred—a process that has begun and which we see the results of on one side of the world already. You see? I have nothing concrete to offer you, Auntie. Conjecture, speculation. Nothing of note. Still, I find myself holding my breath—”
It took me a moment to realize that I, too, was holding my breath. I exhaled and laughed. “What kind of a novel are you working on? Suspense?”
He laughed with me, and Big Nanima smiled, too. “A love story, actually.”
“A love story?” Now I was laughing even harder.
“Yes! A classic, historical love story. Set in Mughal India.”
Even Big Nanima was laughing now, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Et tu, Auntie?” Majid’s attention was called by a man waving at another table. “Saira. Adeeba Auntie. It has—as always—been a pleasure.” He stood and kissed both Big Nanima’s hand and mine and left.
I stared after him with a smile still on my lips. A smile abruptly ended when Big Nanima asked, “You and Majid Khan? When did that happen?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You silly girl. I can see it. Was it very long ago?”
“Very long ago. Ancient history.”
When we got back to my aunt’s house, Daddy wanted to speak to me. He followed me into the guest room I occupied.
“Saira, I have something I want to tell you. Something awkward, I’m afraid.”
I braced myself—then said, “Asma Mohammed?”
“You—how did you know?”
“A good guess. Have you declared your intentions to her?”
“Yes. By e-mail. Just today. She’s accepted my proposal. I’m going back to Bombay. Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Daddy nodded.
“She won’t want to move to the U.S.”
“No. I will stay in India with her. We’ll visit Los Angeles regularly, of course.”
“Of course. Daddy?”
He had an unseemly kind of glow on his face. “Yes?”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“To come back? To keep my promise to my father? Not too soon at all.”
“I mean, too soon after Mummy.”
He winced briefly. Then shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. The reason I came with you—I had a crazy idea already in my head. To come back and pick up where I had left off. To do something for someone else. And—”
“You found Asma.”
“Yes. She’s a doctor. She’s already doing what I want to do. She has no one. I have no one.”
“It’s meant to be.” I wasn’t sure if I was being sarcastic.
Daddy wasn’t either. “You—you’re upset?”
I sighed. “No. Are you going to call Ameena?”
“Hmm? Yes.” Daddy frowned. “No. You do it. Call her. Would you?”
“You’re afraid of Ameena?”
“Well, this is an awkward conversation to have. Once is enough, I think.”
I frowned. “They should be back from Florida?”
“Yes. Sakina’s school will have started.”
“I’m leaving, too. The day after tomorrow. Won’t you call her? Tell her yourself?”
Daddy shook his head.
I sighed again. “I’ll send her an e-mail.”
SIXTEEN
DADDY’S DEPARTURE FROM Karachi was so sudden t
hat I was left alone to deal with the leave-taking, gift-bearing relatives that paraded in and out of my aunt’s house the next day, as they usually did whenever I left Karachi. This time, they were hungry for information. Word of my father’s engagement had circulated and the fishing lines were cast so boldly that I lost no time in sending off an e-mail about Daddy and Asma to Ameena, before she could get the news from the likes of some Razia Nani–type relative who might call to commiserate, congratulate, or both.
At some point in the early evening, I wandered into Big Nanima’s room, finding her holding court with the next generation—Lubna Khala’s grandchildren and their cousins. She had them rolling on the floor with poop-and-fart stories, the kind she had entertained me with before I graduated to literature and political science. When she had reached “the end,” she shooed the children out of the room and patted a space on the bed next to her. She put her arm around me, pulling me close, pressed her cheek against mine.
“Don’t feel bad about your father, Saira. He is not being disloyal to your mother. And neither are you if you accept his new wife.”
“I know that. In my head, I know that.”
“But not so much in your heart?” Big Nanima sighed. “Where our parents are concerned, we are always children. Like your mother was about her father. It took her more time than it will take for you to accept your father’s happiness. Because his will come at no cost to anyone else. That is the best kind of happiness. The kind few are privileged to have.” She took my chin in her hand and opened her mouth to say something. Before she could, she cocked her head to one side, listening to the sound of voices coming from the hall outside. “Go, Saira. Your Lubna Khala is calling. More guests have arrived.”
I sighed.
“I know it is difficult, but they mean no harm, Saira. Go. Grit your teeth and say good-bye.”
The house was packed at the six o’clock evening hour. The lounge was filled to capacity, the TV blaring at the request of the older, hearing-impaired CNN-junkie uncles present, and I was grateful for the excuse of the volume, which made conversation downright impossible, preparing myself mentally for the risks and dangers that my journey with Mohsin would entail.
