“Who do the children think their mother was? Didn’t they ask questions?”
“Yes, we had to tell them something, so we invented a past for Nafeesa. She worried that they might think less of themselves on account of your family’s rejection. She worried that if they knew, the children might seek out the family, only to expose all of us. She did not want to feel it or to have them see her in pain. Instead, we enjoyed the gifts we were given—and before long the Lahori train story was told to explain her lost family, and that was that. She never spoke of them.”
“The Lahori train?”
“Yes. I remember the first time it came up. I was reading the newspaper and Nafeesa was nursing one of the babies in the rocking chair. Reshma was looking at picture books spread across the floor.
“‘Where are your Ammi and Abbu?’ Reshma asked. I wondered what Nafeesa would say.
“‘I have no memory of them,’ she told our young daughter, and she began her tale. ‘I lost everyone during the Partition. My family was on the train to Lahore, and all of them died, my parents, my brothers, my uncles, altogether twenty people, including eight children,’ she said, embellishing her lie. She must have thought it through many times, preparing for the day when one of the children would ask her. ‘I hid under my mother’s body until it was over, so they thought I was dead because I had a cut on my head, by my hairline.’ She pulled back her hair to reveal her scar your sword had caused. Reshma’s eyes had widened at the proof. ‘I remember I was hungry,’ Nafeesa said. ‘I was just a baby. I slept and slept.’
“‘Then what happened?’ Reshma asked. She must have been six or seven years old at the time.
“‘I was lucky. God protected me so I could grow up and become your mother. Someone took me to a wealthy woman who sent me to a missionary school. I guess you could say I was another Muslim raised by missionaries, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.’
“‘I have no cousins?’ Reshma said. Her voice sounded disappointed, being deprived of cousins.
“‘You do have cousins. You have your father’s entire family,’ Nafeesa laughed. ‘That is our family.’ She rubbed the fibrous mark, at her hairline.
“‘Oh, Ammi!’ Reshma said, pulling her little finger along the scar’s rough edges. I remember how Nafeesa shifted the conversation’s tone.
“‘But it’s my only flaw, Buttercup!’ she said. ‘And, have you ever noticed how a flaw can make a thing more beautiful?’”
“Your spirit survived us, Baji; forgive me,” whispered Jabril.
He turned to Kulraj Singh, widening his smile at the memory. “When I first set eyes on Ujala, she seemed so familiar. The small gap between her front teeth—like Baji’s.” He hesitated. “That is why I came to you tonight—to confirm my suspicions. When I learned you were a Sikh and your wife’s name was Nafeesa, I began to wonder. I had to know.” Jabril Kazzaz’s composure began to crack. “And now I feel not an ounce of the hatred I deserve from you. And I feel Baji has forgiven me.”
Kulraj began to empty and dry the offering bowls as he listened to Jabril. He poured the water into a bucket he kept under the altar cloth.
“Shall we tell the children? They should know, now that they are grown.” He posed to Jabril the same question he had posed to Nafeesa for many years. And Jabril’s reply was the same.
“No. Don’t do it. My brother Ali’s only regret was that he did not kill you! And he vowed he would do so someday. It is a wonder to me that you have survived. No, it is best that the family not know. He could still be out there, looking for you. And for them!”
Kulraj thought about the decision as he wiped each empty bowl, inside and out, until the glass squeaked. Then he passed each one to Jabril, who replaced them slowly, overturning them in front of Nafeesa’s photo. When they finished, they extinguished the candles. Kulraj turned to Jabril.
“I agree,” he said. “We will tell no one.”
In the courtyard Ujala was seated in Nafeesa’s wicker chair, her feet resting on the ottoman. She made room for Faisah to squeeze in beside her. They could hear their father singing in the shrine room. Amir arranged three pots of tea around the bamboo table.
“I like that Judge Rizvi!” said Jabril Kazzaz, entering the courtyard.
“He is a no-nonsense judge,” Abida agreed.
“From an old Lahori family,” said Jabril. He tore the chapati and scooped up the dal.
The phones began ringing. Supporters were calling to offer congratulations and help.
“Tell them to call WASP,” Faisah shouted to Amir. “The office can give them plenty to do.”
At the sound of the word office, Ujala thought of Adaila Prison. I wonder what Rahima Mai is doing right now?
Rahima Mai locked her office door behind her and marched straight to the teakettle. She untied the string from the box of sweetmeats she had bought in the bazaar on the way to work. The sweets were so orderly, each in its very own cubicle. Squares. Rectangles. Rectangles. Squares. Pink. White. Brown. Pink. White. Brown.
With the thousands of these sugared treats I have consumed in my life, sugar must be backing up in my veins, she thought, imagining each grain waiting its turn to enter her bloodstream and deposit its crystal load. She took a pink one and popped it into her mouth, whole, thinking of Ujala’s day in court. Ujala is gone. I have to admit I will miss her. . . Maybe it is just as well. We were getting too close.
She opened the yellow tag Lipton box, poured water into a cup, and dropped the teabag in. This time she chose a brown sweet and pinched its flank. She ran her finger along the smooth side of it, patting lightly, then squeezing it.
Ujala’s story of winter in Chitral reminded her of her own childhood in Muzaffabad. She recalled the freezing, starry Kashmiri nights. Nights must be like that in Chitral. She thought about Noor, the prize miniature donkey she raised as a child, the one she ran to when the earthquake hit, the donkey whose soft ears she patted and squeezed for comfort. Childhood had been a lonely time for her, like now, since Akbar’s death.
But I was lucky. They married me off to a good man. Even if he was dimwitted, he was kind. A dolt and a donkey! The only ones who ever loved me! She laughed out loud.
It was a risky thing for her to spend so much time with one prisoner, but, after all, she was the Women’s Supervisor and Ujala did work for her.
If anyone here found out about our little story times, I would be disciplined, have my paycheck docked. I might be demoted, or even lose my job entirely—everything I have worked for all of these years. Then where would I be? As it is, I have nothing extra—rupees are coming and rupees are going. No savings, no husband, nothing. If I lost my job I’d have to look for help from some of my girls out on the street. I could get back into Adaila through Intake and work my way up again!
She laughed to herself as she licked her fingers. She chose another sweetmeat. Its flesh seemed almost alive.
The rings and pings and pop tunes of the mobile phones kept interrupting the meal.
“Can we turn off the phones for a while so we can relax together?” Ujala asked. “Amir, please get Abbu.”
Kulraj Singh sat cross-legged in the shrine room, reading scriptures about the role of a warrior in oppressive times. Amir listened to his prayer from the doorway.
“My daughters suffer imprisonment, threats, assaults. Oh, give them wisdom,” he prayed, holding his head in the palm of his hands. “No hatred, no confusion, no tyranny. Give them victory. And fearlessness. Victory is Yours.”
Amir reached out his hand, and his father accepted his help getting up. He rose to join the others.
Zeshan went looking for Meena and found her sitting by the front door, crying.
“I picked up Abbu’s phone,” she told him, between sobs. “It was a man—he seemed to recognize my voice. He said, ‘Oh, you’re the radio girl.’ He said, ‘We will ruin that pretty face of yours, too.’” She turned to her husband. “Zeshan, he called me the radio girl. He said ‘It will be blood next t
ime for all of you.’”
“We have to tell them about the threat,” Zeshan said to Meena, checking to see that Hasaan was posted next to the road. He threw the bolt to lock the front door.
“But I hate to ruin this evening. Just when Baji has been released and Faisah is recovering. I hoped this would be the perfect time to give them our good news,” she said, patting her belly.
“Who says this isn’t a good time to tell them?” Zeshan asked. “The idea of a baby will bring more hope to the family.”
“Or more fear,” she said.
Zeshan took Meena’s hand and led her back to the courtyard.
“Aren’t they two sides of the same rupee?” he asked.
Later, Ujala locked herself in her room for the night. Before she closed the door, she pulled the pistol out of her bag and handed it to Yusuf.
“Here,” she said. “Do you know how to use this?”
“Yes, Uji,” he said, amazed by her yet again, that she would be carrying a gun. “But we won’t need it. Don’t worry.” Hasaan and Yusuf took turns guarding her door, and neighbors patrolled the area around their home.
Faisah dragged two string beds from under the rooftop eaves where they had been stored upright against a wall. Lia brought a bowl of apples and sugarcane from the kitchen.
“Sugarcane!” Faisah said.
“Shh! Neighbors are sleeping all over these roofs,” said Lia.
Faisah cut a piece of cane with her pocketknife and pulled down a width of green with her front teeth. Inside the pulp was spongy. She stripped the sweetness with effort, sucking and nibbling, draining the sugar from it. She spit the remnants onto the pile of green skins on the floor.
“Just like Carolina,” Lia said, handing Faisah’s pocketknife back to her. “Sugarcane, just like home.”
When they were done, they slept together in the chilled night air.
In the morning the police arrived with a warrant from the Shariah Court, demanding that Ujala go with them at once. Neighbors gathered to witness the arrest, and Ujala took one last look at her family. Faisah looked firm. Amir’s eyes glistened. She saw her father’s mouth form words she knew to be his Punjabi blessing. Lia was taking notes on a small card, and Yusuf kissed the palm of his hand and blew the kiss to her.
“I will stay here with your family, Madam,” said Hasaan. Ujala nodded.
“I am grateful, and I will be back soon. Inshallah.” God willing.
She climbed into the back of the police car that would return her to Adaila.
“Call the press,” Lia said. “Baji will be safer if the authorities know that reporters are aware she’s been arrested again.”
She and Yusuf grabbed their mobile phones and spread to separate rooms to call their contacts. Faisah telephoned Meena at the radio station.
“Interrupt the program to announce Baji’s arrest,” Faisah instructed Meena over the phone. Moments later, Amir was listening to Meena’s announcement on the radio when Kulraj Singh entered the kitchen and switched it off.
Amir busied himself cooking parathas. He mixed flour and water into a firm ball of dough, then formed it into a snake, wound it into a bun, and spooned butter along the folds of the dough. Kulraj Singh watched his son pat a thick round piece. Amir tossed and twirled the mixture in the air and then laid it flat on the spitting grill.
“Baji’s arrest,” Amir repeated Meena’s words bitterly. “I just can’t get used to it.”
Amir fired his anger at the parathas. Each time the yeast tried to rise out of its circle, he smacked the bubble with the back of a spoon, flipped the dough with tongs, and watched it fry. He folded it in half, then spooned more butter, folded and buttered it again, until the dough was quartered and sizzling, and began to burn.
“Be careful with that,” his father said, taking the tongs away. “Let me finish it.” Amir looked at the scorched paratha and cracked a smile.
“I think it is laughing at me,” he said.
Standing at the open back door with a mug of tea, he felt a breeze, sniffed fresh-cut hay, and emptied his questions into the sky. Why is the weather perfect when the worst things occur? he thought.
“It’s God’s way of letting us know that humans are part of the beauty of the world, too,” Kulraj Singh replied, as if Amir had spoken his question aloud. “Perhaps the haystacks think we smell good in the morning.” He smiled. “Even on a day like this one, the world remains beautiful, even the police are beautiful—”
“—but this lawyer is not beautiful,” Faisah said. They had not heard her enter the kitchen. Amir turned and saw that Faisah had removed the bandages from her face. On her right cheek, a scarlet lesion lay curled like a snake. Splashes of nitric acid had caused thick, black burns, both on her cheek and down the side of her neck. Several tiny spots close to her eye were scarred from the emergency grafting. Her swollen eyelid seemed to merge into the lower scar tissue like a melting mask of wax. A tear balanced on the lower lid of her good eye.
“Can you see anything at all?” Kulraj Singh asked.
“Not really,” she replied hesitantly. She covered her good eye. “Well, I do see something—it’s like a black and white striped fan. I don’t know. It comes and goes. I can’t tell if I am seeing something with my eye or if I am imagining it. I can’t control it. And it is too painful to try to move my eyelid.” Lia walked up behind her.
“Don’t try, Faisah,” she said.
Amir was speechless. He never imagined his sisters weak in any way.
“She’s got a terrific wink.” She paused. “At least that’s what I think!” Lia’s rhyme fall flat. She shifted tones. “I’ll go with her to the doctor today. We’ll know more about the surgery afterward.” Faisah glared at Lia.
“I hate how I look,” Faisah yelled. “I hate the men who did this to me. I hate those doctors. I hate that hospital, and I don’t want to go back there for any reason. Ever.”
“It has been only six weeks. Let’s just wait and see,” said Lia.
“I think I’ll pack the car,” Amir said, leaving the room. He was distressed by Faisah’s face, and could take no more arguing.
“Faisah,” Kulraj Singh said laying his arm around her shoulders. “Let your skin breathe in the open air. Let’s sit under the neem tree.” He motioned to Lia. “Will you bring the fruit?”
They sat on string beds in silence, watching two squirrels chase each other and listening to the sparrows. The birds flitted up into the branches. Thick socks dried on a line strung above their heads. A pile of trash waited in the corner for someone to come with a dustpan and a broom. They passed a red plastic basket of tangerines. Each fruit still had attached to it a small stem and a few dark leaves. They peeled and broke them into clumps and fed each other with their fingers—spitting seeds, picking their teeth. Kulraj Singh kept his arm around Faisah and pressed her against his bony chest. Again he would be both mother and father.
“You must tell those hateful thoughts either to pay rent or to get out of your head,” he said, grinning and kissing the crown of Faisah’s head. “You think you are not beautiful, but you are beautiful. You have a wound on your face that will heal. Do not let this acid also burn into your soul.”
“But I do hate them, Abbu. Look what they have done to me! Look what is happening to Baji—who will be next?”
“No one is happy without struggle. Only after death do we not struggle. You can be happy even in this, Faisah.” She looked at him in disbelief. “Talk to your mind and tell it that you are a good person and it should not mistreat you this way by entertaining all these angry thoughts. Look at your mind and watch its door open. Then you can laugh at hate and anger as they run away. Peace will reappear.”
Lia wondered what in the world this old man was talking about.
“How can someone be happy in the face of such injuries and such injustice?” she asked.
“Happiness is ours naturally,” he said. “Look, people say, well, I am taking a trip to London because that will make me
happy. Why will that make you happy? Is everyone in London happy? No, all that going to London does is relieve the desire to go to London, the tension of not having something you want. So we think that London makes us happy. It’s not London. It’s our mind. After London, we will want Paris, then America. You don’t really have a problem.”
“My face has a big problem,” Faisah said.
“Yes. Your face does, my lily, but think of how the negativity you feel has arisen since this incident. I, too, have felt this way. When your dear mother died, I became angry with God and afraid—for the family, for my own loneliness. I watched my mind for hours every day and what did I find? Fear. Over and over again I sat and relaxed and looked and there it was—as if sitting on a fence post, a big hairy bird marked Fear.” He laughed. “My mind created this feathered thing I was keeping alive—feeding the pain, the drama, even the artistry of it. Why, I wondered, does it seem so natural for these bad feelings to arise and so unnatural for love, kindness, and gratitude to arise?”
My Sisters Made of Light Page 21
