My Sisters Made of Light

by Jacqueline St. Joan

  “Would you like the newspaper or something else to read, Ammi?”

  I wanted to suggest that she watch television instead of testing herself with world politics and history, but I knew that Ammi’s pride would not allow her to sink into the world of soap operas and game shows. I did not want to risk insulting her by raising the subject.

  Meena moved back into the bedroom with Faisah and me, so that physical therapy equipment could be set up in her room, next to our parents’ bedroom. Ammi insisted that her exercises and treatments not occur on the first floor.

  “I don’t want it to be in anyone’s way,” she said.

  “She doesn’t want anyone to see her helpless,” whispered Faisah. We had never seen Ammi wounded or weakened. Everyone rushing to help only seemed to annoy her.

  “You can have my room until you are better,” Meena said to Ammi. To me, Meena said, “. . . which I hope is soon, so I can move back into my own room. It is my room, you know.”

  The room we shared was a square space with white walls and oversized dark furniture. The wooden double-plank door was painted brown. The three of us shared a king-sized platform bed. A round plastic clock ticked high on the wall above a long florescent bulb and ceiling fan. Every surface and every container—drawers, closets, boxes—spilled over with our possessions.

  Meena was moody and resentful, Faisah was quick to anger, and I was bossier than I meant to be. Because we woke and dressed at the same time, until Faisah and Meena finally left for school, the mornings were tense.

  Mrs. Jamali, the physical therapist, arrived after lunch every day. As I watched Ammi struggle to walk a straight line across the room, the muscles in my hips would respond to the therapist’s demands. Mrs. Jamali showed me how to help Ammi practice her bedtime exercise.

  “This will retrain your nerves and strengthen your muscles,” Mrs. Jamali said. “They have forgotten how to move you across this room.” Standing behind us, Mrs. Jamali placed my hands on the outlines of Ammi’s pelvic bones. “Hold her here,” she instructed, “firmly, but not too tight, just enough to resist when she steps forward.”

  But Ammi tripped repeatedly while Mrs. Jamali held her back in this way. Her right foot dragged along the wood floor.

  “It’s no use. I can’t do it. It hurts too much. Just get me a cane I can lean on like an old woman,” she said, plopping into her chair, exhausted.

  “None of that now,” Mrs. Jamali replied with patience and conviction. “Rest a moment and we’ll try again. You will do it.” Were Mrs. Jamali’s words a command or a prediction? She turned to me. “Show the others how to do it, so that they can help your mother in the evenings.”

  I tried to imitate Mrs. Jamali’s professional detachment, but I failed repeatedly.

  “Uji, let me stop now,” Ammi would say. I felt as discouraged as she did, and I easily let her quit the exercises whenever she asked.

  Then one day I pried Amir’s fingers away from his Game Boy and showed him the physical therapy routine. Although only eleven, Amir, like Abbu, was tall, and he was the one person who could always make Ammi laugh. Within weeks, Ammi’s attitude improved and her legs strengthened. Her right foot would drop as she walked, but she was erect and moving at least for these short periods each day.

  Abbu helped with the twins’ homework, but it fell to me to solve problems for them when he was not home. Meanwhile, Faisah was busy at Central Prison, where she had obtained releases for some of the inmates. I envied Faisah’s freedom, and sometimes, while I cooked, or later after dinner, Faisah discussed her cases and their outcomes.

  “We found Sita’s parents!” she announced one afternoon, dropping her books on the kitchen counter.

  “Where?” I asked, excited to hear the news. I stopped chopping greens and reached into the cupboard for two ceramic mugs.

  “We went with her to the shantytown.”

  I was shocked.

  “A policeman went with us. It’s not that bad,” Faisah said when she saw my distress. She lifted the tea cozy off the pot and poured. “It only took a few questions to the right people to locate the parents.”

  I remembered my promise to Hanan to find out where her parents were.

  “Where were they?” I asked.

  “They were right there, living in tents and straw shacks. Dirty floors, polluted water, runny noses, hungry babies, no plumbing. Everyone is back to garbage picking.”

  “That is success?” I asked.

  “At least they are together, Ujala. Not everyone can live in Clifton, you know.”

  “What’s with the attitude?”

  “Nothing.” Faisah said. I was surprised by her vacant response. She rarely hid her feelings.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “We did what we could. After all, they were in prison and now they are not.”

  “But they are on the street and vulnerable again, hungry, not in school.” Faisah turned away from me.

  “You wanted to get them out of prison, too.” Her voice was bitter.

  “Hey,” I said. “We’re on the same side, remember? Is it your fault their choices are so few?”

  “Then why do I feel responsible for them?” she asked.

  “And why do I? Why do we?”

  Amir and I walked along Clifton Road, away from the market where Ammi’s friend, Mrs. Shahani, had helped me shop for food. I felt happy. Rainfall seemed to be over for the day, and the steaming ground warmed us. A few small clouds with their tiny loads passed overhead. Amir rushed a few feet ahead of me, carrying two woven cloth bags loaded with food. I went directly to the kitchen where our housekeeper had nestled a pot of tea in a yellow gingham tea cozy.

  “Bless Anna,” I thought and began to put the purchases away.

  Fruits, vegetables, bean curd, meat, butter, eggs, milk, and oil were kept in the refrigerator. Adjacent to the water pump was the pantry. A wide range of pickles, chutneys, mustards, preserves, and sauces lined the top shelf. On the next shelf, sealed containers of spices—chili powder, garlic, coriander, cardamom, cloves, ginger, cinnamon, saffron, mace, fennel, and curries of all types. The third shelf held large glass jars of wheat, rice, sugar, lentils, almonds, and pistachios. The bottom shelf was full of bags of potatoes and tin cans. Along the north wall, shelves held dishes intended either for cooking or for serving, separated according to whether they were wooden, metal, glass, or ceramic.

  I heard a hum and a wooden squeak as Ammi’s chair rolled into the kitchen. When she turned the chair, one knee bumped a shelf, knocking a wooden bowl onto the floor.

  “Ouch!” she cried out. I hurried to help, but she brushed me away.

  “Uji, you must go for condolences today or tomorrow. Samina’s grandmother died.” She sighed. “I can’t go anymore.”

  “Yes, Ammi. Would you like tea?” She nodded.

  I hated going for condolences—sitting with the grandmothers and married women, eating sweets, drinking tea, listening to the wailing and the complaints. But I would do it. Otherwise, the neighbors would notice no one from our family came to see them. I stirred the tea leaves into the hot water and turned up the flame until the mixture started to boil over. At once I turned it off, aware that Ammi was supervising.

  “Mrs. Shahani helped me to shop this time,” I told her. The last time Amir and I had shopped, we returned with little food. I had not known what to buy, what it cost, and how much to get.

  “Let’s see what you bought today,” Ammi said.

  I felt shy but proud as I placed on the chopping block three enormous stemmed onions that were so fresh their pale surfaces shone. I removed two glass jars of thick cream from the bag, six thin-skinned lemons, and bunches of gleaming greens. In the plastic bag a chicken still had a few feathers clinging to it.

  “Beautiful, Uji,” Ammi said, pleased. “Just beautiful. We’ll make your father’s favorite spiced chicken, murgh tikka haryali, and some fresh chapati. We can fix onion rings out of these,” she added, holding a shining onion up in the aft
ernoon light.

  I cut up the chicken and placed it in a bowl with salt, chili powder, and lemon juice. I chopped coriander, mint, and spinach leaves, and then ground them with the mortar and pestle. Ammi sat nearby, with a contented look on her face. She was quiet while I worked. With an aluminum bowl in her lap, she mixed flour and water for the chapati we would cook right before dinner, after the chicken was grilled and the onions were fried.

  “I searched a long time to find spinach leaves like these, Ammi. No bugs, no holes, no brown spots, just young and crisp. Aren’t they lovely?” I said. “But you know what surprised me? The other women didn’t seem to know how to choose the best ones. Some of the leaves they bought were wilted. Some were even soggy.”

  “That’s because those leaves are not as fresh, but they are cheaper. Not everyone can afford the best, you know.” She spoke without looking up from the bowl where her good fist was pressing into the mixture.

  I was embarrassed that I had not thought of something so obvious. Here I was, a college student, yet I failed to see the most basic economic issues around me. Today Ammi seemed relaxed, back to her usual way of correcting her children without making them feel either stupid or naughty. She would simply speak in an unadorned fashion and let the facts and their implications dawn.

  “Of course,” I said, as I mixed the green paste with curd, cream, ginger, garlic, and spice mix—garam masala. I scooped my hands like spoons and rubbed the chicken pieces thoroughly. “I’ve made too much sauce, Ammi.”

  “Never too much sauce.”

  I ran water over my hands, wiped my fingertips on a towel, and put the chicken and spices in the refrigerator.

  “No, really. I think I’ll use the stored bean curd and take half to Mrs. Shahani. I want her to know how grateful I am for all she is teaching me.”

  The next day I waved good-bye to Ammi, who was sitting on the verandah listening to street sounds—children calling, babies crying, a puppy yelping, and motorbikes demanding more than their share of the road.

  “I’ll be back before noon,” I shouted. In a woven bag I carried a covered dish leftover from last night’s meal.

  “Wait and take Amir with you,” my mother shouted out, but I wanted to walk alone, so I ducked under the gated arch, pretending not to hear.

  The bougainvillea dripped purple flower petals onto my white dupatta. I was pleased to be the one bringing a gift to a new friend. I could not recall making such a visit in my entire life. I had gone with my mother to a neighbor’s door for this or that reason, but I had never gone inside by myself.

  I walked with care on the broken sidewalks. Motorized rickshaws, taxis, donkey carts, bicycles, and mopeds whizzed by. I passed the high walls and glassed estates in Clifton Garden—Number 70 where the Bhuttos lived. Pastel buses careened wildly along Zamzama Boulevard, decorated with fringed cloth and framed photographs of saints with garlands of marigolds. Stuffed full as they passed Shaheen Boulevard, the tops of the buses brushed the stringy beards hanging from the banyan trees.

  In a parking lot, a boy held a bouquet of balloons attached to stick. He wore soiled slacks and a white shirt open at the collar as he followed families with children around a parking lot, hawking his wares. Behind the parking lot, a bearded man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a white skullcap sat reading the newspaper on a plastic lawn chair in front of a restaurant. From time to time he would look up at the boy. The restaurant owner was careful not to splash the reading man as he tossed buckets of water over the sidewalk. A limping boy with a stick broom swept the water into the street.

  I was drawn to the outside of a video store where I could watch the TV screen. It showed the familiar story of forbidden love—a young man and woman sing back and forth to each other in separate scenes, a father puts his foot down, a mother tries to placate him, a son slams the door, a girl’s heart breaks. A train departs. An airplane takes off. An unwanted wedding begins as the lovers are given away to others.

  I tried to ignore the smacking lips of the men at the video stall, but could not. I wished I had brought Amir with me after all. Then the men would not click their tongues at me. I crossed the street and stood by the gutter.

  Two barefoot girls in dirty dresses peeked from the doorway of their one-room mud house. One held a worn deck of cards, with the heads of German shepherds printed on them. All those sharp teeth, I thought, shuddering, and stepped over the gutter to let a donkey pass.

  A boy in gray cotton guided the cart full of laundry bundles. His donkey twisted its neck to look at him, and the cart stopped. Another donkey, a white one with sacks of flour loaded in its cart, also stopped. The donkeys looked happy to see each other and seemed to want to visit for a while. When the boy slapped the reins, suddenly I realized I was the only female in sight.

  I panicked and could not think. What am I doing? Where is Mrs. Shahani’s street? Why are there no signs? All the side streets blurred. I stopped, and when I next inhaled, I saw it—her street, a passage so narrow that decency required you to step aside if someone else passed by. A goat was tethered to a stake at the far end of the street. As I entered the passageway, it eyed me suspiciously.

  At last I found the third door on the right. The house’s exterior was smooth sandstone, painted black from the ground to knee height to protect it from the dirt of passersby. The windows had wooden louvers, and the door had faded to a mottled red. Mrs. Shahani opened the door as soon as I knocked.

  She was surprised to see me, but welcoming. It was afternoon, when women often visit one another unannounced.

  “I brought you some tikka to show my appreciation for taking me shopping yesterday, Mrs. Shahani,” I said, opening the plastic bag.

  “Please call me Robina,” the woman replied with an easy smile. That was when I realized for the first time that she was not much older than I, maybe twenty-nine, or thirty at the most. She had a thin body with rough skin. Her wide eyes were shadowed, and her lips were thick and expressive.

  “It is a Punjabi dish—my father’s favorite. And some fresh chapati, of course . . . Robina,” I said.

  “Oh, this was not necessary. I owe your mother so much. I am always happy to help her family. Shukriah.”

  I let my dupatta fall to my shoulders as I entered the house. Robina took the dish into the next room while I sat with four young children—two girls, a boy, and a baby. The boy sat cross-legged on a bed piled with blankets. He wore a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, crossed his arms over his chest, and tucked each hand into the pit of the other arm. Something about him does resemble Mickey Mouse, I thought. The girls grinned, and one tickled the baby she held on the bed. All the children had cropped hair and big brown eyes.

  In the corner of the room was a large trunk half-covered with colorful cloth. On top, a rectangular clock leaned against the wall. Next to the trunk was a shiny spittoon and a pink plastic trash can. A stack of metal milk crates served both as shelves and drawers. The house was filled with the overwhelming odors of kerosene and curry paste.

  The older girl stood and approached me slowly, saying nothing. She reached to touch my hair, causing a tingling in my spine. Robina returned to the room with a round tray. On it she had placed a pot of tea, two cups, sugar water for the children, and a few cake rusks. They made room on the floor to sit more or less in a circle. Robina gave the children their treats first.

  “So what is your grade in school?” I asked the boy.

  He did not answer. He turned away from me, his eyes fixed on Robina.

  “The children don’t go to school,” Robina stated. “The only schools in the area are private schools that I cannot afford, or they are religious. I fear for my son attending a madrassah. They don’t teach languages other than Arabic, and I hear that sometimes they beat the boys or cuff them to their beds. I guess I am not a good Muslim, but that is not what I want. I do my best to teach them here at home, but it is difficult.”

  I guessed from the way Robina hesitated that she could neither read nor write.
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br />   “I’ve had only four grades,” Robina announced defensively.

  “This is good then,” I said, wanting to erase this class difference between us. “We can be friends. We both have been to school.”

  Robina relaxed and poured more tea. The children finished their snacks and Robina sent them off into the next room. She held the baby in her lap.