An American Brat

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  But even then, Feroza could no more grasp the elusive quality of Gwen’s magic than anyone could the intriguing and chameleon nature of her own blend of shy, haughty, impulsive, and warm appeal.

  Feroza found herself becoming uncomfortable and watchful when Shashi visited and the three of them were together. Not that she could really fault either of them. Shashi did not try to ask Gwen out or be alone with her, and it wasn’t as if Gwen was flirting with Shashi or setting out to be winning.

  Gwen seldom wore makeup or bothered much with her clothes. The short hair, cropped to form a sculpted whole with her fine jaw and the outlines of her oval face, frequently outgrew its shape and stood out in neglected, wiry tufts. And when Shashi was present, the elusive flattery, as much a part of Gwen as her quiet breathing, was not so much in evidence. As if sensing Feroza’s wariness, Gwen reined in her sorcery.

  Despite the heavy lids that gave Shashi’s eyes their sultry look, his relationship with Feroza was more romantic than sexual. They kissed when they were out alone and indulged in light and playful petting. But Feroza never felt as though she might be swept away by a grand passion, or that Shashi might want her to be. This restraint was also supported by the taboos that governed the behavior of decent unmarried girls and of desi men.

  Some protective instinct within Feroza, without her being conscious of it, knew that Shashi’s attitude about their petting was more experimental and curious than passionate, so that when Shashi cajoled Feroza to be more intimate, she found it easy to slap his hand or to push him away. Their intimacies were a teasing romp, Feroza’s kitten to Shashi’s tom, a ritual of coaxing and refusing that unraveled amidst laughter and provocative chatter but was nevertheless dictated by Shashi’s cooler rhythm.

  At first, Feroza had not been resentful of Shashi’s enjoyment of Gwen’s company. He had imbued her with too much confidence in himself for that. As time passed, however, she found Shashi’s attendance on and constant talking to Gwen more and more upsetting. Her hurt began to show in the haughty set of her face, in the nervous abstraction of her eyes. And, in becoming so concerned over Gwen’s intangible magic, Feroza lost some of her own.

  Gwen took to staying in her room when Shashi dropped in. But he would miss her company and, shouting, “Hey, what’re you doing hiding yourself away like this?” barge into her room, chuck away the magazine or book she was reading, grab her hands, and pull her to her feet.

  Feroza began to sulk. She made up excuses when Shashi suggested a movie or an evening at a disco. Shashi became confused and then concerned.

  Feroza hinted he was paying too much attention to Gwen. But Shashi brushed aside the charge as too ridiculous even to countenance. Feroza knew he was telling the truth, but she became surly and sulky with Gwen when they were alone, or chattered with an unnatural brittleness that did not suit her. She avoided Gwen’s eyes.

  “Hey, what’s bothering you? Anything the matter?” Gwen finally asked one day when Feroza set about preparing an omelette, her face hostile. Gwen suspected what the matter was, but she wanted Feroza to broach the subject, express her feelings her way. It was not Gwen’s nature to be impulsive or imprudent when dealing with people’s feelings.

  Feroza’s pent-up furies exploded. She accused Gwen of flirting with her boyfriend, of being cunning, of not leaving them alone when he visited, of being a dissembling flatterer, of interfering. Her rage spent, confused and contrite, she lay her head on the chipped kitchen table and began to cry. She knew she was accusing Gwen unjustly, not being strictly honest.

  “You know I’m not the least bit interested in the guy. Heavens, he’s like a kid brother,” drawled Gwen with convincing emphasis, “and he isn’t interested in me in that way, either.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Feroza said and began to sob.

  “But you’re not really serious about him, you know,” Gwen suggested, the nebulous question floating in the air.

  “I am,” Feroza cried, “but he isn’t!” and she got up from the kitchen table and flung herself on the lumpy, worn sofa to weep more.

  Gwen petted her, saying kind things to her in her comforting voice, affectionately allaying her fears and soothing her unhappiness.

  When Feroza, her storm spent, stopped crying, only sucking in her breath with an occasional shudder, Gwen pulled her to her boyish chest and gently rocked her. “He’s not your type, baby,” she said. “You know he’s not your type.”

  Feroza could feel Gwen’s heart throb against her temple. Her chest was shallow, her ribs surprisingly birdlike, a cage too brittle to contain the vigorously pulsating organ. Feroza had a touching impression of the fragile girl’s vulnerability then, of all that Gwen might have gone through, of the strength required of her to be where she was, where she wanted to be. And she understood the courage of the heart beating so stoutly in its bony cage, even as the monotony of its throbbing filled her with its tranquility.

  Feroza could have lain there, drawing on its strength, but Gwen leaned back and held Feroza by her shoulders. Supporting her so that Feroza had to sit up, the older girl’s small, wise eyes looked close into Feroza’s. “You can’t allow yourself to be hurt like that by Shashi,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s like being bruised by the breeze. The guy just circulates — he can’t help it anymore than the breeze.”

  ~

  Feroza did not stop seeing Shashi. She could no more stop seeing him than she could the mirrored library building. In any event, one did not sever ties with Shashi; he wouldn’t allow it.

  Shashi gauged the irreconcilable shift in Feroza’s feelings. It made him unhappy, and he regretted it. He could not clearly understand why it had occurred and was confusedly, vociferously repentant. But Shashi, being the evanescent, adaptive creature he was, soon accepted the situation and in doing so merely changed the grip, the nature of the tie that bound them, so that they would remain good friends.

  After all, Feroza was in his bouquet of mountain wild-flowers. She didn’t wish to be torn from it nor did Shashi want her to be. The flowers bloomed and distilled their fragrance in the currents of the friendship Shashi generated, in the quick-witted air in which he circulated, and Feroza’s place in the setting was secured by the friends she had made and the ideas and discussions to which she contributed.

  Feroza’s insatiable excitement about the various knowledge Shashi had made her alive to, bound her to him in a way their romance never could have.

  Shashi had graduated in hotel management but could not yet see his way to abandoning his college life and earning his living. He had enrolled in the master’s program in business management. He was also taking classes in psychology, philosophy, and creative writing.

  The fall term was coming to a close, and the campus was filled with activity. The students were taking exams, handing in their papers, preparing to leave their dorms and rented apartments for the winter vacation, and making plans for Christmas.

  Feroza had decided to spend her holidays in Lahore. Her family had been sending clamorous letters for over a year and were anxious for her to visit.

  In any case, Gwen and Rhonda would be gone. Jo, who was phoning less and less frequently, would not be in Boulder. Feroza might have visited Manek, but he was busy moving to Houston, finding a place to rent, and settling into the position he had accepted with NASA.

  Manek received his doctorate. The family in Pakistan did not know what a landmark occasion it was in America. And it was only after the event, when he saw how many relatives of students had descended on M.I.T. for the ceremony, that Manek himself became aware of it. He called Feroza the day after, “You didn’t even come for my graduation!” he said bitterly and hung up.

  Feroza had tried to reach him many times on graduation day just to have the pleasure of saying, “Oh, Dr. Junglewalla, how is your pulse this morning?” but he had not been in his room.

  Manek’s work on his thesis in chemical and structural engineering and the recommendations from his professors were excellent. The engin
eer at NASA who interviewed him hinted about sponsoring his citizenship if things worked out as satisfactorily as he expected. Manek was already in touch with a lawyer, and he would soon be in a position to apply for his green card.

  Chapter 22

  Feroza became increasingly excited as the date of her departure drew near. Thoughts of Khutlibai, of Cyrus and Zareen, of her relations and friends, came to the forefront of her mind and hovered there. She wondered how she had borne being away from them so long. Her mind was already traveling, preparing her for the quantum change, transporting her to Lahore before her arrival.

  Feroza was received at the airport with garlands. The portals of the house had been strung with a perfumed chain of red roses and the floor before it made auspicious with stencils of fish, flowers, and lettering in English reading “Welcome.”

  After her stay in the New World, with everything in it scintillating and modern, Feroza was struck by the mellow beauty of their ancient door. Like her father, she had considered her mother’s pride and happiness in the acquisition a piquant oddity. But now she stood in awe before the two worn panels, wide open in their carved and painted frames. She had been instructed to wait as Zareen and Freny rushed inside to fetch the ingredients of welcome.

  Freny, stouter than Feroza remembered her and as assertive as ever, held the ceremonial silver tray while Zareen circled an egg seven times round Feroza’s head. She sacrificed the egg by cracking it on the floor, its contents neatly spilled onto newspaper placed to one side of the threshold.

  Feroza held out her hands to receive the coconut. She leaned forward so that Zareen could anoint her forehead with the red paste and press rice on it. Zareen invoked Ahura Mazda’s blessings, which, except for variations occasioned by Feroza’s travels, were the same as on all her birthdays. Zareen ended by proclaiming, “May you go laughing-singing to your in-law’s home soon; may you enjoy lots and lots of happiness with your husband and children.”

  Again Feroza leaned forward, this time to receive the lump of crystallized sugar Khutlibai popped into her mouth.

  Khutlibai drew circles over Feroza’s head with her arms, loudly cracked her knuckles on her temples, invoked more blessings, and stood to one side blinking back the tears of happiness flooding her eyes.

  Zareen poured a little water from a round-bottomed silver mug onto the tray. Divested of egg, coconut, and sugar, it held only residual grains of rice. She circled the tray seven times round Feroza’s head to banish the envious eye and tipped its contents on either side of the door.

  Protected against evil and welcomed by propitious spirits, Feroza stepped through the rose-scented entrance of her home. The family surrounded Feroza affectionately, much as they had Manek. There were a great many questions and a vigorous exchange of views. Fresh details of Manek’s marriage came to light and led to a string of hilarious anecdotes. The family feasted, laughed, and gossiped late into the night.

  After the initial wave of euphoria, Feroza perceived that many things had changed. Time had wrought alterations she could not have foreseen — while her memory had preserved the people and places she knew, and their relationships with her, as if in an airtight jar.

  It hurt her to see both her grandmothers look significantly older. Perhaps her concept of what age looked like had changed in a country where seventy-two-year-olds jogged like athletic young things. Khutlibai had stopped dying her hair and though her short, gray hair looked thicker and fluffed handsomely about her head in jaunty waves, it made the wrinkles on her face seem more resigned. Her back, however, still emerged sturdy and dependable from the monumental pedestal of her rump and hips.

  Ill-mannered though it might appear and disagreeable as it was to her, Khutlibai visited her son-in-law’s house often to see her granddaughter. She held the girl’s hand in both of hers and pressed it to her eyes. Her gaze lingered on Feroza’s vibrant face, and her shrewd eyes were luminous with pride and love. She saw life and intelligence shining in her face, but there was too much life there, she thought with a trace of unease, too much intelligence — more than might be good for her granddaughter.

  Khutlibai and Zareen went into convulsions of laughter at the funny way Feroza had of describing her adventures in America. Zareen was astonished at the change in Feroza. Was this flaming, confident creature, who talked so engagingly and candidly and had acquired a throaty, knowing, delectable laugh, the same timid little thing who had refused to answer the phone?

  As the days passed, Zareen wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake after all in sending her daughter to America. But seeing that Cyrus was quite at ease with the transformation in their daughter, she kept her thoughts to herself and even checked her mother from voicing her misgivings.

  Soonamai’s cataracts were ripening. It broke Feroza’s heart to see her self-contained and dignified grandmother groping for things, having to rely on the negligent care of others.

  People appeared to have forgotten Bhutto and his martyrdom. The concerns that had mattered to her, and had once again risen to her consciousness, had been replaced by other pressing issues. Something called the Hadood Ordinances had been introduced by General Zia in 1979 without anyone knowing what they were. The Federal Shariat Court, to oversee the Islamic laws, had also been established.

  The new mischief in their midst had sneaked up on them unawares and surprised them one day when they read about the Famida and Allah Baksh case. The couple, who had eloped to get married, had been accused of committing adultery, or zina, by the girl’s father. They were sentenced to death by stoning. On an appeal to a higher court, the charges were dismissed. Fortunately, stoning to death was declared un-Islamic because there was no mention of it in the Koran.

  But the shock that provoked the massive wave of public indignation came with Safia Bibi’s case. The blind sixteen-year-old servant girl, pregnant out of wedlock as a result of rape, was charged with adultery. She was sentenced to three years rigorous imprisonment, fifteen lashes, and a fine of a thousand rupees.

  Safia Bibi’s father, in bringing charges against her assailant, had been unwittingly trapped by the Zina Ordinance. It required the testimony of four “honorable” male eye-witnesses or eight female eyewitnesses to establish rape. The startled women, who had enjoyed equal witness status under the previous law, realized that their worth had been discounted by fifty percent.

  Since it was scarcely possible to produce four male eye-witnesses given the private nature of the crime, the blind girl’s testimony against the assailant was not admissible. Being sightless, she was not considered a reliable witness. Since rape could not be proved, she was charged under a subcategory of rape: “fornication outside the sanctity of marriage.”

  Safia Bibi was not punished, thanks to the pressure of the legal community and the women’s and human rights groups. The women came out on the streets, burning their veils, voicing their protests, and beating their breasts, and Zareen was among them. The verdict was rescinded.

  Jehan Mian, a pregnant eleven-year-old orphan, was similarly charged. In view of her “tender age,” the judges reduced her punishment to ten lashes and one year rigorous imprisonment, to go into effect once her child was two years old.

  Feroza found the judges’ compassion revolting, a society that permitted such sentencing, criminal. The addition of zina altered the entire legal picture of sexual crime. The victim of rape ran the risk of being punished for adultery, while the rapist was often set free.

  Yet there were many apologists, upright men learned in jurisprudence, who agreed with the letter of the law, if not its spirit. They produced a litany of precedent and dire argument to support the verdicts. The gender bias was appalling.

  All this had been set in place shortly after Bhutto’s hanging. “You should have sent me newspaper clippings,” Feroza said to her mother. “I want to know what’s going on here. After all, it’s my country!”

  Zareen did not mention the innuendo, the odd barb, that had suddenly begun to fester at the back of her con
sciousness—the insinuation that her patriotism was questionable, or that she was not a proper Pakistani because she was not Muslim. What was she then? And where did she belong, if not in the city where her ancestors were buried? She was in the land of the seven rivers, the Septe Sindhu, the land that Prophet Zarathustra had declared as favored most by Ahura Mazda. What if, on the strength of this, the 120 thousand Parsees in the world were to lay claim to the Punjab and Sindh? The absurdity of the idea kindled Zareen’s smile.

  But such comments were a passing thing, she thought, discounting the remarks made by people who did not matter to her or Cyrus, blaming them for the zealous Islamization fostered by General Zia, which encouraged religious chauvinism and marginalized people like her — the minorities — and made them vulnerable to petty ill will.

  Some of Feroza’s school friends had entered the Kinnaird and Lahore Colleges and were preparing to graduate. Some had disappeared into their ancestral villages, and a few had married in Lahore. They talked about babies, husbands, and sisters-in-law and took her unawares by their gossip about people Feroza didn’t know and their interest in issues she couldn’t follow. Feroza felt she had grown in different ways. Her consciousness included many things they had no concept of and were not in the least bit interested in.

  When Feroza talked about the condition of blacks and Hispanics, the poverty, and the job insecurity prevailing among even the whites in America, her family and friends looked at her with surprised, unsparing eyes. They had their own vistas of uncompromising poverty and could not feel compassion for people in a distant, opulent country that had never been devastated by war, that greedily utilized one fourth of the world’s resources and polluted its atmosphere and water with nuclear tests and poisonous pesticides that could serve as well to obliterate Third World pests like themselves.

  After seeing the filthy conditions in the tattered jhuggees that had sprung up on the outskirts of the Cantonment and between Ferozepore Road and Jail Road, Feroza understood their reaction. Poverty had spread like a galloping, disfiguring disease. Every kind of poverty in the United States paled in comparison.