‘And who are you?’ I asked.
‘A neighbour,’ he replied as a plume of dust wafted into the car. ‘No AC, Affa. Old car.’
‘That’s okay,’ I replied, trying to wave it out of the way just as a blast of what could only be described as sewage-smell blew into the car as well. I grabbed my scarf to cover my nose in case I wretched. I wasn’t sure what was worse, being in a hot, stuffy car, or having hot, smelly wind in my face.
‘How well do you know the family?’ I asked.
‘Auntie and Uncle? Oh, my family has known them since I was born.’
He must know.
‘I do little jobs for them, like this, to earn some money.’ He leaned in a little. ‘“What use is having money if we can’t help our neighbours?”’ he said, as if impersonating someone. ‘And then Uncle gives me ten takas for three hours’ work, as if that will pay my school fees.’
‘Do you mean my uncle?’ I asked, thinking it was probably a bit early to call him my dad.
He nodded and gave a toothy grin as he put the car into fifth gear, shooting down the road that was getting smaller and bumpier. Men and women ambled by on the side-streets, carrying various things on their heads. There were many buildings covered in scaffolding and we passed a tea garden every so often. It was like chaos on the street – still so many beggars and tooting horns, people shouting through windows at cars overtaking one another. Raja didn’t look into his mirror once and indicating here looked like it might just be a novelty.
‘Careful,’ he said, as he drove over a pothole, causing my head to knock against the roof of the car. ‘Don’t tell my parents I said that about Uncle. They say I should be grateful I get to do work for them, but you shouldn’t talk about having money and helping, and then paying me nothing.’
‘They’re well off then?’ I asked.
Not that it mattered, but I wanted to know everything about them; all the ins and outs so I could understand who they were. We’d never really talked about them in the family, and even if my parents, or Mustafa and Farah did, I hadn’t paid attention. Raja shrugged.
‘They have five sons. And one of them lives in England. Married his cousin there and he makes lots of money.’
Raja obviously had no idea who he’d just collected from the airport. I wondered when was the last time Mustafa managed to send money home? Were my biological parents’ financial states tied up to Mustafa as well? I was about to tell Raja exactly who I was when he continued: ‘And Malik Baia is doing well too. Top accountant. All the girls are after him but he just works, works, works. So, Affa, when you have sons who are all making money, then you can’t be poor, right?’
‘What about the other sons?’
He told me about the other three brothers who perhaps hadn’t done as well as Mustafa and Malik, but who at least had jobs, and apparently that was impressive enough when considering how poor the family was when they were growing up. Was that why they gave me away? They couldn’t feed another mouth? Was it a coincidence that that mouth happened to belong to a girl? I didn’t want to think like that, though. How did I know what they were going through when they gave me away? It’s just that with five brothers, how come it was the girl that was given away?
We drove the rest of the way in quiet as I looked out at the landscape. Somewhere along the way the roads had become narrower and narrower. There were vast fields of rice on either side. Raja slowed the car down as he had to let oncoming traffic through. Whenever he had to stop he pulled up so close to the side that every time, I thought we’d topple over and I’d meet my end with a face full of rice. The wind didn’t feel fierce on my face any more though, because he drove slower. Resting my head on my hands as I leaned out of the window, I knew I was alone – except for Raja, the stranger in the car – but for perhaps the first time in my life, I didn’t feel lonely. I thought about Farah and how Mustafa was doing – Malik and Mae promised to keep me updated. I saw Mae once more before I left.
‘Dad’s gone quiet and Mum hasn’t shouted at me once the whole week,’ she said when she brought me my things. ‘Apart from when they found out I’d seen you and I hadn’t told them.’
When I looked at her I didn’t really hear what she was saying. All I kept thinking was: how is it that my little sister isn’t actually my sister? When I think of her face as she spoke to me, my feeling of contentment wavered – as if something wasn’t quite right. I never did feel like I could say what I was thinking or feeling – apart from with Mae. Partly because you just never knew if she was listening, with her attention always glued to her phone. But I think she did.
‘Don’t you wonder how Mum and Dad are doing?’ she’d asked.
I thought of them and wished I wasn’t still angry with them. For a minute I even thought that maybe I’d go and see them, but in the end I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it without walking out of the house and never being able to return again. When I told Mae no, I didn’t mean to sound selfish or heartless, but I guess that’s how it must’ve sounded.
‘Almost there,’ said Raja as he drove through a muddied field, looking right and left. ‘Uncle will kill me if he sees me do this again, but who can go through all those windy roads when this way gets you home so much quicker?’
He pulled up in front of a small gated house and beeped the horn. The gate opened with a rumble as Raja hopped out of the car and took my bags out of the boot. With a tap of his hat he’d got back in the car and was driving away, leaving me to stand looking at the stranger who’d come to the front of the house. Was he a servant there? A family friend? My dad? I couldn’t tell.
‘You are here,’ he said, beads of sweat forming above his grey brow.
I nodded. I needed a glass of water. The man called for someone, who popped out of the house and took my bags in.
‘Come inside.’
As I walked up to him he looked at me, inspecting my face, my blue kaftan, the bag that was hanging from my arm. I expected him to say something but he just nodded as he led me into the house. I didn’t expect the ceilings to be so low, or the room to be so dark with the light so bright outside.
‘Come, sit,’ he said, smiling for the first time, showing his stained orange mouth.
I took a seat on one of the beige sofas, looking around the room. The bare walls had some cracks in them, though the paint was white and clean. On the table next to my sofa I observed small, porcelain figurines of cats and rabbits placed in front of pictures of, I was assuming, the rest of the family. I recognised Malik and Mustafa in one of them. And there was a small one of Mustafa and Farah on their wedding day.
‘You don’t recognise your abba?’ he said when I looked back at him.
My heart raced. Did he actually call himself my dad? His eyes were blue-rimmed from old age, his wispy grey hair looking greyer against his dark, shiny bald patch. I nodded, feeling as if I might tumble into his arms if only he moved a little forward. He just smiled at me. Before I could say anything he looked up at a woman who’d stepped into the room from the back door. I stood up, though I don’t know why. Her face was familiar; there were more lines on it, the scarf of her orange sari exposing strands of henna-dyed hair. I recalled the picture I’d held in my hand – the woman lying on the hospital bed, smiling as she looked up at the woman who was going to be my mum.
‘It’s your daughter,’ he said to her.
I glanced at him as she walked up to me. She was so frail I thought I’d break her when I bent down to hug her. Was this really my mum? I thought she’d hold on to me for longer – but then I suppose she wasn’t used to doing that.
‘Was your flight comfortable?’ she asked as we both sat down.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ I replied.
‘I’ve sent her bags to her room,’ said her husband.
‘You’ve met your abba?’ she asked me.
An image of Abba in England flashed past me; him putting his arm around me; him standing in the garden, overlooking the flowers; his face when I found out I was ad
opted. I hesitated.
‘Yes,’ I replied. What else was there to say?
Before I got here I’d assumed there’d be a conversation, with them explaining what they did and why before they referred to themselves as my mum and dad. For a moment I wished Mae was here. Even Farah or Bubblee. Maybe even Jay. The woman who gave birth to me gave me a sad smile and I remembered that her son was in England in a coma, and here I was, thinking about myself.
‘Baia is doing okay,’ I said, putting my hand on her leg and then looking at her husband.
I didn’t know if this was completely true, but it felt like the right thing to say. Tears surfaced her eyes.
‘We are far away from our children and can only pray that God looks after them.’
Her husband was staring at me when he said: ‘Show Fatima to her room. She must be tired and want to rest. Dinner will be ready soon.’
Rest was the last thing on my mind but his wife had already stood up and I was obliged to follow her, up the concrete staircase to the room that had been prepared for me.
‘It’s Malik’s room,’ she said, opening the door to a room that was even more dimly lit than downstairs.
‘We will call you when dinner is ready,’ she said as she left and closed the door behind her.
I sat down on the bed that was so low, I had to straighten out my legs on the rough, blue carpet. I heard a distant sound of sheep bleating. Looking at the bare walls and shelves, I wondered how much room had been made for me. It didn’t seem as if anyone had ever lived in here. There were so many ways I’d imagined meeting my birth parents for the first time. It had included tears – on both sides – long hugs, lots of questions and answers. I imagined my birth mum grasping my hands, apologising for what she did; my birth father taking me into his arms, calling me his beti. Something seemed to open up in the pit of my stomach. But I had to give them time – it must be a shock for them too. Already I heard Bubblee’s voice in my head: Shock? For them? What about you? And maybe she’d have a point, but it’s not always about how you feel; sometimes it’s about how another person might feel. Bubblee’s never been able to put herself in another’s shoes – that’s the problem. Except that they didn’t seem shocked. How could they be when they were already referring to themselves as my mum and dad?
I got my phone out to text Mae and tell about her the weird openness of my meeting with them, but instead I just wrote that I got here safely and told her to let everyone know. I asked how Mustafa was doing. All these years being around him and I never knew he was my brother. I tried to look back and think about a special connection I might’ve felt with him. I thought of all the times we’d talked and spent time as a family, and whether he ever knew I was more than just his sister-in-law. Looking around the room again, I thought about Malik. Perhaps I should’ve taken him up on his offer to join me here. But, no, that was the old Fatti. I’ve made the decision to come here alone, and I’ll see it through. Hopefully, unlike my driving tests, it won’t be a failure.
*
All I did was rest my head for a moment and I fell asleep, to be woken by the call to prayer that was so loud, I almost fell off the bed. For a moment I thought I was back home, only everything around me had changed, so maybe I was still dreaming? When I looked out of the meshed window I realised this was reality and I was in Bangladesh. I lay my sweaty head back down and stared at the ceiling.
‘Just don’t expect them to …’
I remembered Ash’s face before I left to go to the airport. He’d offered to drop me, but he’d already done so much, I didn’t want to trouble him any more.
‘To what?’ I asked when he paused by the door.
He smiled. ‘Nothing. You’re an optimist. That’s what I like about you.’
He looked at the ground before adding, ‘Don’t be afraid to ask the difficult questions. They owe you answers.’
I sat up on the bed and shook my head, trying to wake up my foggy brain. I got a whiff of my underarm odour and thought it best to take a shower. Mum’s voice came into my head: Always say bismillah before you start anything.
‘Bismillah,’ I muttered, standing up and walking into the bathroom.
After freshening up and having a shower – which was weird enough, because I had to sit on this stool and use a bucket and wash myself with cold water – I went downstairs. My birth dad was reading the paper while my birth mum was nowhere to be seen.
‘Salamalaikum,’ I said, entering the room.
He peered over his paper. ‘You’re up. Are you rested?’
I nodded, even though I didn’t feel rested. The brain-fog had been replaced with this feeling of separateness – though that wasn’t exactly new to me.
‘Your amma is getting the food ready.’
The word jolted me again. Perhaps this was their way of making me feel welcome, to show that they acknowledged who I was – wouldn’t it have been worse if they didn’t?
‘Should I go and help?’ I asked.
‘No. You are our guest,’ he replied, putting his paper down. ‘Your amma from England called for you.’
‘Oh.’
Didn’t he find it weird that he’d referred to two different women as my mum within the space of a few minutes, without batting an eyelid?
‘You should call her back. Mustafa bought us an iPad and you can use Skype. Doesn’t your family use Skype? This is how everyone communicates now.’
I told him that Mum was old-fashioned and hadn’t yet got her head around technology.
‘Maybe I’ll just let her know that I’ll call her. When I’m ready,’ I said.
He didn’t seem to take much notice of this. I watched him as all these feelings I had came to the surface.
‘It’s nice to be back. In the place I was, you know … born,’ I said.
When he stared at my face I couldn’t help but gaze back – I think I have his eyes. His skin is darker than mine, but that’s because he works out in the sun a lot. A moment passed before he smiled, still staring at me.
‘All that really matters in life is what you remember,’ he said.
I paused.
‘No. I mean, yes, but no as well.’ Beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. ‘It’s important to know where you come from. Isn’t it?’
My stomach felt like it’d been tied into a knot, because even though I’d hardly eaten since I got here, something was giving me heartburn. He leaned back and put his hand out, looking at nothing in particular.
‘These are foreign ideas,’ he said.
I thought they were just human ideas. I didn’t say anything, though, because I felt my face flush. Was that what he saw me as? A foreigner?
‘Anyway,’ he added. ‘You’re very welcome here.’
Thank God his wife came in when she did because I wasn’t sure what else I could say to him.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, serving up rice-and-fish curry, chicken curry and hookti.
‘She’s a healthy girl,’ said my birth dad, looking at me.
Perhaps my outfit didn’t quite hide enough of my fat.
‘Your sister has looked after her very well, hasn’t she?’ he added with a laugh, looking at his wife.
She laughed as well and replied: ‘The England air, you know. It is healthy for everyone.’
I smiled, but I didn’t quite understand what was so funny about it. The whir of the fan felt very loud as we sat at the dinner table.
‘Tell me more about my sons,’ she said, putting some hookti on my plate. ‘I am praying every day to God that he is better. And what about Malik? Is he eating okay? He always forgets unless I remind him.’
‘You worry too much,’ her husband replied to her. Then he turned to me. ‘But this is what I said when Mustafa went to England to settle with your sister. A man shouldn’t leave the place he was born for a woman he thinks he loves. All these films you children watch. It spoils the head.’
I watched him as his mouth moved around, chomping on the dhal.
‘They’ve been married for five years. They’re very happy,’ I replied. ‘Mama,’ I added, pointedly.
There was no thinking about whether Mustafa loved Farah. He definitely did. Anyone who knew them could see that.
‘You must call me Abba,’ he said.
‘Haan, Beti,’ added his wife. ‘And call me Amma.’
I couldn’t quite get my head around it. Was I meant to say yes and then pretend to be happy families? Why didn’t they feel embarrassed? I felt embarrassed and I wasn’t the one that gave away a child.
‘Oh, I … hmm.’
It wasn’t exactly an answer but I wasn’t sure how to respond without seeming rude, because they just seemed so relaxed.
‘You should try to come to England,’ I said. ‘To visit. I know it’s hard for you to travel.’
He gave a low laugh, looking at his plate. ‘England,’ he said, shaking his head as if just the idea of England was ridiculous.
‘Tst. You shouldn’t listen to your Abba, Fatima Beti. People risk their lives to go there,’ she added to him.
‘They’re people who don’t love their own country enough to stay in it.’
Any hunger I’d felt was dying, as I could barely put the food in my mouth.
‘Your Abba’s health is always up and down,’ she said, pouring some water in my glass too. ‘Has Malik been helpful to the family?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Very.’
‘He’s a good boy.’
I glanced over at my birth dad but caught a glimpse of my birth mum’s hands and it made me smile.
‘You know, he told me you and I had the same hands,’ I said, putting mine out to show her.
She took my hand in hers and turned it over in her palm, squeezing my hand as she gave it back to me.
‘They are more like my sister’s,’ she replied.
‘Hmm,’ said her husband who observed the hands that had been given back to me so quickly.
I tried to think of something to say; anything so I could listen to something other than the whirring fan and the food squelching in everyone’s mouths.
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 17
