Faisah sighed. “My mind will never be as peaceful as yours, Abbu. I am just too vain, too selfish. My mind won’t give me any peace.” Now Lia wanted to hear more from Abbu.
“I read somewhere that the mind is like a monkey,” she said.
“A drunken money stung by a scorpion!” he laughed, hugging Faisah. “At first, anyway. But, the mind will follow orders and it can learn.”
Lia looked at him quizzically.
“The mind learns in two ways—through shocks like this one—they make us stop to consider how we respond to what life places in our path. And also, the mind learns through repetition—it can develop the habit of letting the bad thoughts go. If we do not nurture them, they are like seeds that get no rain. Fear can blow away. And then,” he repeated, “then love will arise naturally.”
“Abbu, I cannot imagine loving the men who have done this to me. I’m just not that good.”
“Loving them is not the point, Faisah. It is the not-hating that is the point, so that your own peace of mind is not destroyed. In a way, you have been offered a gift.”
“A gift?” Lia asked. “But Faisah has been attacked.”
“It is the gift of waking up. Play this game with your mind. First, let yourself feel the fear.”
“No problem,” said Faisah, sighing.
“Now look at yourself feeling that fear.” He looked in his daughter’s eyes. “What do you feel now?”
“Nothing,” Faisah replied.
“Not even fear?”
“The fear is gone.” She was amazed.
“That’s it!” Kulraj Singh said. He was triumphant. “That is the quiet place—the spot where you can start.”
“But now it’s gone and I feel confusion returning,” said Faisah.
“And it will,” he said, slipping a thin metal bangle onto his daughter’s wrist. “Wear this to remind you to watch the fear from a distance, as if this happened a long time ago in a faraway place,” he said. “Be the landlord of your own mind. Tell those thoughts to pay rent or get out!”
10
Adaila Prison, 1996
Rahima Mai had to admit she was happy to hear that Ujala had been arrested again. Now she will be returned to me. But, they are seeking the death penalty, those bastards! I wonder how long we will have her with us.
The next morning when Rahima Mai looked up from her desk, there was Ujala in the doorway, ready to work.
Strange, Rahima Mai thought. She’s smiling. She looks happy to see me.
Strange, Ujala thought. Once I was afraid of this woman. Now I am happy to see her.
“I’ll be at a meeting in the Central Office,” said Rahima Mai.
“Yes, Madam.”
Ujala began organizing index cards. On each white card was printed a name, date of birth, religion, date of incarceration, judgment, and date of release for each female prisoner in Adaila. For male prisoners the same information was typed on yellow cards. Many hands had scribbled on the cards over the years. Ujala’s task was to type the information on fresh cards and file them in metal boxes.
Her fingers unwrapped the bands, shuffled through the cards, and then wrapped each one back as it had been, until at last she found her own card. She slipped it down under the typewriter’s platen and cranked the cylinder into place. Staring at the empty space for her release date, she thought of Yusuf.
I am not the naive, middle-class girl who wants the lush wedding, the bright children, the foreign travel, maybe a small, acceptable career that would become a hobby, she thought. How foolish to think that I would not have to choose. Once I thought I wanted a relationship that was intense and vulnerable. Now I just want what is safe and real.
Suddenly Rahima Mai’s presence blew into the office.
“Those men in Central Office think they know so much,” she complained. “They insist I attend all their boring staff meetings, but do they ever ask my opinion?” Rahima Mai was raising her voice. “No! They never ask. They only let me sit at their table. Then they go on and on about the next promotion they expect. It never occurs to them that I may have applied for the same position. They act like their jobs are the only ones that matter—to hell with them!” She returned to the door, banged it shut, and turned the key. She leaned her back against the door, recovering from her storm. Finally she looked over at Ujala. She paused, noticing that Ujala was moving toward the hot pot.
“Now fix us some tea,” she said in her usual way.
Rahima Mai’s mood shift did not fool Ujala. She noticed how Rahima Mai was beginning to bring her little treats to share while she told her stories. Rahima Mai cleared her throat.
“So you were saying that your mother had a stroke? I am sorry to hear that, but—is that what brought you to us at Adaila?”
“Madam, it is much more complicated than that.”
“Go on,” signaled Rahima Mai.
* * *
Abbu called me into his study where we sat on the old settee.
“Ammi will need you every day now,” he said. “You will take care of her and the house with Faisah’s help, and you will be a mother for Meena and Amir until Ammi is better.”
“I will, Abbu.”
“Please understand, Uji.” Tears streamed down his face and mine. He coughed a little as he spoke. “We do not know if or when God may take her. It could be weeks. It could be years. I prayed on the rooftop all night long about what to do. I asked Allah, the ancestors, the Guru, the stars. I have come to this place of understanding and peace about it.”
My father spoke to me differently than he ever had before. As if I were not his daughter, but his partner.
“We must accept this terrible thing,” he said, “as God’s will, not only for your mother, but for all of us—especially, I think, for you, Uji. We cannot see what He can see, or where life will take us now. Our view is too small.”
As he said these words, Abbu leaned in close to my face, holding the thumb of each hand to its forefinger in a gesture of confidence that I recognized.
“I will make certain that everyone gives you the respect you will deserve as the mother of this family,” he said. “Everyone.”
How can he understand so much so quickly? I wondered. He knows that Ammi will not recover, and that I am being called to Ammi’s role. What I may have planned does not matter to him, and strangely, it does not matter to me, either.
Abbu was not asking me to change my life. He was pointing out that my life was changing, the way a flag signals to a sailor the direction of the wind. I was not resisting his idea in the least because what he said felt true and natural. I realized in a flash, in the same way my vision had cleared after visiting the jail, meeting Sita and her sisters, and riding the bus home, that now I could imagine my future.
“Actually, I like having a break from my studies,” I told Ammi after my graduation ceremony. Masood brought our tea into the study. “You always said I’d have to marry someone rich since I was never good at cooking and cleaning.” I smiled at her. “Since we have not found anyone rich, maybe it is just as well that I take this chance to improve my domestic skills.”
“You have been a pampered hot house flower,” Ammi replied, and I felt a sting. “And now what is in store for you? Housekeeping? It is an honorable life, but I don’t think it is for you.” She looked around at the walls of her books—ceiling to floor. “We are alike in so many ways. I think of the life I might have had as a scholar. I have no regrets, but I treasure my dreams from so long ago. I wanted so much when I was your age.”
She paused, waiting for my reply. I held my breath, steeling myself for what was coming.
“To be honest, Uji,” Ammi said.
Please don’t be honest, I thought. I am not you. Ammi continued, “I sometimes wonder why you seem to want so little.”
Ouch! There it was. The pinch of disappointment my mother could not resist causing when she compared herself with me. Without even realizing it, she ripped the scab off the old sore again.
&nbs
p; “I am not at all sure what I want in the long run, Ammi.” I inhaled deeply. “But for now I want to take care of you and the family. I will have plenty of time for travel and study when you are feeling better.”
We dropped the subject of my advanced education before Ammi could bring up the other topic that I knew was worrying her—how would she be able to find a husband for me from a wheelchair? Ammi had arranged the introduction of Reshma to her husband, and I knew she wanted to offer the same service to me. But I was not sure I wanted her help, or her anxieties about my future. What Ammi did not know was that I had already chosen and rejected a future husband. My hope of marrying Yusuf had begun to unravel at the student center weeks earlier. Then they disintegrated when Ammi took ill.
I remember the day Yusuf waited for me at the university entrance. He towered over everyone on the crowded street. I waved from the motorized rickshaw. How handsome he looked in his black silk kameez and black Levis. I noticed he had trimmed his hair and beard. He met me at the rickshaw, handing me a pink dahlia, then he ferried me through the traffic. I can still recall the pressure of his fingers against the small of my back.
We found a small table in the crowded student center, and I waited while he brought a red plastic tray with two espressos in tiny ceramic cups. Light foam clung to the surface of the coffee, a tension that bubbled at the edges.
“How is your family?” he asked. Yusuf always began with formalities. The overhead fan hummed.
“Good. Everyone is fine. Meena and Amir were arguing over video games all morning—nothing unusual.” I paused, thinking what else to say. “Abbu just returned from Islamabad . . . and how are your parents?”
I intended to return the courtesy of his inquiries, but the question of his parents was pushed out of my mouth by the larger topic waiting behind it: Had he spoken to them about me yet? Was he aware of the question on my mind but searching for words to explain? Or was he avoiding the topic?
Yusuf slowed his eyes until his gaze fell on my face. He cleared his throat.
“My parents are used to arranging everything for their children, especially their marriages,” he said. “They want to treat my marriage the same way they treated my older brothers’ and sisters’ marriages. They want my consent, of course, but they have been looking around in their circle for a good Muslim wife for me . . .”
“Oh, I can understand that,” I said. But I am good and I am a Muslim, I thought to myself.
“Oh, Uji, I should just go to your father and ask him myself if I can marry you.”
“My father will let me choose for myself, Yusuf,” I said. “But we don’t want to start our life together with dishonoring your parents . . . Perhaps if they meet me?”
Yusuf looked away, but even in profile I could see what was written on his face.
“You already talked to them about me, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“And they said no. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Yusuf admitted at last. “They are firm about it, Ujala. My father is a bigot. He said he would not go to an infidel to ask for a daughter’s hand.”
“But my father converted!”
“I know, but my father says that if your father was once a Sikh, he is no Muslim to him. Kafir was the word he used. Infidel. But we can marry without my family’s approval.”
As much as he complained about his parents’ narrow-mindedness, Yusuf was devoted to them and to their extended family. As a student, he was financially dependent on his father. The consequences to him of marrying me would be devastating.
“I don’t think so, Yusuf. Our marriage is a Romeo and Juliet idea,” I began. He looked up at me with hope. “ . . . and in the end,” I said, “look what happened to them.”
Weeks later, when Yusuf learned of Ammi’s illness, he visited our house for the first time.
“Come in,” I said, smiling, opening the door wider. I felt so happy to see him. I took him into the study to meet Abbu, who was gathering papers to take to the office. The sun filtered through the voile curtains that covered the large windows. The wind cast light and shadow about the room.
“I was sorry to hear of your wife’s illness,” Yusuf said when I introduced them.
“Thank you for your concern. I am pleased to meet you at last,” said Abbu, nodding to Yusuf as he continued on his way out the door. “Sorry I have to rush off.”
Then Yusuf raised his voice. “I want permission to marry your daughter, sir.”
Abbu stopped. My face was hot and my mouth dropped open. I turned to Yusuf, who was very focused on my father. Abbu returned to the settee and put his briefcase at his feet.
“I want to marry Ujala, sir.”
“Then you will have to ask Ujala,” Abbu said. “We do not choose husbands for our daughters. We trust they will choose wisely themselves.” And then he laughed. “But I must say I do like being asked anyway, don’t you, Ujala?”
“Yes, Abbu, I do like being asked.” My voice was stern. “And Yusuf has asked me before.”
Our marriage was a closed subject. Why had Yusuf brought it up again?
“Perhaps you two should talk some more,” said Abbu. “Invite Yusuf to dinner, and we can discuss it when your mother is up. I am sure she will want to be part of that discussion.” He looked me in the eye and was out the door.
“I didn’t want to do it that way,” said Yusuf, “but when I saw him and then he was leaving, I was afraid I wouldn’t have another chance to ask, so I just blurted it out like a fool.”
“Oh, Yusuf, whatever are you thinking? That we could marry when your parents feel the way they do? Yusuf, we cannot.” He tried to soften my determination with a slight smile, but I would no longer let his charm work on me. “You know we cannot marry. Your parents oppose it. And now my family needs me to be here for them. There are just too many signs that marriage is not right—at least not now. Our lives are not going in the same direction. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.”
Yusuf’s smile faded and the darkness in his eyes deepened. He had heard the certainty in my voice. At the same time I wanted him to pull me close to him. But it was time to pull away, to undo what had been done. It was time to say good-bye. Neither of us could move away from the other, could speak the last words, or offer some superficial gesture. My heart ached from being torn in two directions. I watched Yusuf’s sad eyes squint into anger. He put his hand in his pocket, rattled his keys, and went to the front door. Without a word, without a backward glance, he mounted his motorscooter and disappeared under the bougainvillea.
That evening when we were alone, Abbu asked me about Yusuf.
“What a surprising question Yusuf asked this morning,” he said. “I am sure your mother will want to talk to you about it when she feels better.”
“You and Ammi instructed me to choose wisely, and so I have. There is no need to talk about Yusuf again.”
Afterward I tried to go about my family duties with equanimity, but sometimes, when the winds from the sea stilled and the heat sent my parents to the rooftop to sleep under the stars, I could hear them up there through the windows—my father struggling to carry my mother, fussing with the blankets, the two of them giggling so much that they snorted out loud, and then whispering for a long time before falling into the cool dark of sleep. Then only the closed buds of the rooftop flowers that dangled outside my window heard my muffled crying in the night.
A month after Ammi’s stroke, she had regained strength in her left arm and hand, but her right side was still weak. She was unable to walk without support for balance. She could push into a sitting position, hold a book, and eat. It was slow, but she insisted on doing it herself. Faisah and I alternated helping with her morning routine that took more than an hour. Ammi avoided her wheelchair and chose instead to sit in her room by the window, or to work at her desk where she tried to correspond with friends and to tend to family finances. She became frustrated by complex mental tasks and spent more and more time rereading historical works a
nd novels from her library.
“Fortunately, I’ve read Churchill before or I’d not know a thing he was talking about,” she laughed, using her chin to motion to the book lying open in her lap. We sat together on the upstairs verandah. It was obvious to everyone that Ammi was depressed. Her mood was sharp-tongued and irritable. Physical therapy taxed her strength, and she napped often.
My Sisters Made of Light Page 22
