That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my dear friend Abeer Hoque

  and all the other “Muslims like us.”

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  I. The Desert of Loneliness One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  II. The Night of Union Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  III. The Dawn of Separation Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  A Note on Partition

  A Note on Faiz Ahmed Faiz

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Sheba Karim

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I.

  The Desert of Loneliness

  One

  “CHECK OUT THE PIG!”

  Lincoln Prep’s senior class, minus Farah, did a 180 toward the backyard, where an entire roasted pig sat on top of an ornate silver platter, nestled amid pineapple and cherry tomato skewers. The pig was wearing a lei of silk flowers and aviator sunglasses, a cigar dangling precariously from its lips.

  With a whoop, Ryan D’Ambrosio III leaped out of the pool, zigzagging through the crowd. Waving a bamboo torch in one hand, he posed with the pig, smiling broadly as the senior paparazzi whipped out their phones to take a photo of their dripping demigod. As the flashes went off, Natasha St. Clair kicked off her stilettos and ran over to Ryan, climbing onto his back.

  Ryan stole the cigar from the pig and handed it to Natasha, who stuck it in her mouth.

  “His abs are unreal,” Danny said.

  “I bet he has a small dick,” Ian retorted.

  “Shut it,” Danny replied. “Don’t kill my Ryan fantasy.”

  “You have a Ryan fantasy?” I said. “Don’t you think he’s homophobic?”

  “Oh, he is,” Danny agreed, “until our eyes meet in the locker room shower and his towel slips off to reveal his huge—”

  As Ian made a gagging sound, Ryan yelled,“Who wants first dibs at the pig?” He dashed through the crowd, holding the torch high like an Olympian, Natasha perched on his shoulders, her tanned thighs squeezing his neck, pumping her fist as together they chanted, “Pig pig pig pig.”

  If Farah were here, she would be disgusted, partly because like most Muslims she thought pigs were gross, but mostly because she couldn’t stand Ryan or Natasha. Ryan drove a silver BMW convertible with a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Spread My Wealth, Spread My Work Ethic.” He was the beautiful captain of our nationally ranked lacrosse team, and though his jokes were predictably juvenile, when he held the door open with his winning smile and said, “After you,” you’d have to be either cold-blooded or as principled as Farah not to flutter a little.

  “Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama . . .”

  “That’s the fifth time this song has played,” Danny complained. “I know this is a luau but come on. Ian, do something.”

  “Fine,” Ian said, rolling up his T-shirt sleeves. “Quick, Shabnam, give me a song.”

  “‘Sit Down. Stand Up,’” I said. “Radiohead.”

  “I was thinking more Beyoncé,” Danny protested, but Ian had already sprinted away.

  I scooped out what remained of my watermelon Jell-O shot, sucking it off my finger. Natasha had started squealing: Ryan was threatening to toss her into the pool.

  Natasha St. Clair’s luau was an annual event, the party of the season. It was normally the domain of the popular kids, but, this being our final year at Lincoln Prep, Natasha had magnanimously handed out custom-made, pig-shaped paper invites to the entire class. If Farah and I were still best friends, tomorrow we’d have a recap session in which we’d laugh our asses off making fun of Ryan and Natasha and pretty much everything about this party.

  The Beach Boys were silenced mid-verse, and replaced by my favorite band. I loved the energy of “Sit Down. Stand Up,” the way the song built, the way it moved, how if you closed your eyes and really listened you could feel it shuddering inside your veins. I wanted to dance but was too self-conscious to do anything more than sway a little.

  As the song was about to hit its climax, Natasha pulled the plug.

  “Attention!” she cried. “Everyone inside the house, now!”

  As we followed the herd, Danny said, “I hope the cops aren’t here.”

  “Nah,” Ian said. “And even if they were, her dad just donated twenty thousand dollars to the local police department.”

  “How do you know?” Danny asked.

  “I heard her bragging about it in photo lab.”

  After we’d gathered in the living room, Natasha climbed onto the coffee table, a huge slab of white marble perched atop a ball and triangle. She fluffed out her hula skirt and adjusted her gold-sequined bikini. Like Ryan, her abs were also unreal.

  “Now listen up, y’all,” she said. We were in New Jersey, but Natasha’s mother was a former Southern beauty queen; there was a framed photo of her on the wall behind Natasha, a severe blonde wearing a glittering, pointy crown.

  “I want all of the girls to line up against the wall,” Natasha continued, “and the boys to line up across from them.”

  No one moved.

  “Come on, people,” Natasha cried. “You gotta play to stay.”

  As the boys and girls began to split into their respective lines, Ian raised his hand.

  “Does sexual preference factor at all in line selection?”

  “If you have a cock, go there,” Natasha barked, gesturing with her thumb at the guys lining up behind her. “No cock, over there.”

  “Well, that’s one way of dividing the world,” Ian muttered.

  Natasha held up a Louis Vuitton bag that was even wider than her hula skirt. “Now, I want all the girls to put their cell phones inside here,” she declared. “Come on, ladies, don’t be scared. Y’all might end up having the best night of your life.”

  As the non-popular among us exchanged wary glances, the popular girls, who were clustered at the other end of the line, began, one by one, to relinquish their phones to the almighty Natasha.

  I glanced at my phone: 10:02 p.m. There was still enough time to play this stupid game and have Ian drop me home before my 11:00 p.m. curfew. If Farah had deigned to come to the luau, this was when she’d get the hell out. I should have done the same, but instead, I tossed my phone into the Louis Vuitton abyss, hoping the outcome would be “yes, in fact the best night of your life” rather than “abject humiliation in front of the entire senior class.”

  Having assumed control of the girls’ phones, Natasha moved on to the boys, instructing each of them to pick a phone from the bag and, without looking, put it in their pocket.

  Guessing this was some sort of girl-boy matchup, I went down the line, counting friendly faces. If it was Ian or Danny, I was safe. Paul, too, and Julio. They wouldn’t obey Natasha’s orders if it meant embarrassing me. At least, I didn’t think so.

  Once every boy had a phone, Natasha walked up and down between the two lines, a captain instructing us on our mission. “This game is called Ten Minutes. The po
int is to spend ten minutes together, anywhere—a room, a bathroom, underneath a tree, as long as it’s only the two of you. A closet works, too. Once everyone is paired up, you have one minute to find your hideout. I’ll blow a whistle ten minutes later, though you can stay longer if you want.”

  Some guests began to grumble, disappointed that this was nothing more than a technologically advanced version of Seven Minutes in Heaven, but Natasha silenced them with an over-the-head clap. Her pits were insanely smooth, like no hair dared grow there. We attended the same school, but her life was a different country: sailboats, ski trips, country clubs, armpits you could stick right in someone’s face and not be ashamed.

  “Get your minds out of the gutter!” Natasha admonished us. “You can spend your ten minutes talking, or singing, or doing body shots, whatever. Feel free to document your time together—#10minutesinheaven. Other than that, there are no rules.”

  Except, of course, for the rule that we had to spend ten minutes in close proximity.

  Amelia handed Natasha an old-school white cordless phone, with a show of solemnity, like someone was about to get kicked off the island.

  “Any volunteers to go first?” Natasha asked.

  “Me!” Amelia cried, jumping back into line with cheerleader enthusiasm. Natasha returned the phone, and Amelia dialed her own number. It rang inside the pocket of Oliver, another popular kid, which made me suspect the game was rigged, at least until the next volunteer, a popular girl named Kate, got paired up with Noah, a gamer geek.

  When it was my turn, I wished for Danny and Ian, hoping to spend my ten minutes talking about how lame this luau was.

  But it wasn’t Danny or Ian who pulled my phone out of his pocket.

  It was Ryan D’Ambrosio III.

  “Pair up!” Natasha cried with a smirk.

  As I stepped forward, I could feel the jealous stares of the other girls and Danny, like darts aimed at my spine. In school, I’d been a disregarded entity until I became friends with Farah, and I’d certainly never been an object of envy. As hormonally exciting as it was to stand within inches of a nearly naked, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled Ryan, it was also terrifying. I’d inherited not only my father’s round face, curly hair, and bushy eyebrows that demanded frequent threading, but also a bit of his awkwardness. I was fine with people I knew, but socializing with strangers made me nervous, especially if I wanted to make a good impression. A knot would form in the space between my stomach and my heart; I’d sweat a little and and blurt out something ridiculous, or long-winded, or both.

  Ryan wasn’t a stranger, exactly, but the only things I’d ever said to him were “Thank you,” the two times he’d held the door open for me, and “Excuse me,” the time I’d bumped into him outside the cafeteria. I doubted he even knew who I was.

  “I guess tonight’s the best night of your life,” Ryan informed me as he returned my phone, “because I’ve got a surprise for us.”

  Then he winked.

  A surprise? For us? I pinched my lips together, determined not to say anything stupid, wondering what I would do if it involved something sexual. Ryan had been breaking hearts since kindergarten, and I’d only kissed two boys in my life—the first because of Spin the Bottle, the second Ian, because he felt sorry for me that I’d only kissed one guy.

  I knew I shouldn’t even be nice to Ryan, much less kiss him, but what chance did my moral compass have against curiosity, teenage hormones, a watermelon Jell-O shot, and the hottest boy in school?

  Natasha, who was apparently exempt from the game, blew a whistle. “Everyone find a spot!” she ordered.

  “Let’s go!” Ryan said.

  I followed him up the grand, curving staircase to the end of the hallway. Ryan pushed open a pair of double doors flanked by pillars and entered the master bedroom suite, locking the door after I stepped inside. The centerpiece of the room was a circular bed, over which hung a recent portrait of Natasha’s mother, even blonder than in her beauty queen days. She wore a slightly strained expression, like her pearl choker was cutting off her oxygen. She seemed even more intimidating than her daughter, so I was glad when Ryan headed into the bathroom. It was larger than my room at home, featuring his-and-her sinks, a steam shower, a green marble Jacuzzi, and a dressing area with a gilded mirror.

  Ryan leaned over a sink and splashed his face, droplets of water flying as he tossed his head.

  “You sat a few desks in front of me in econ class last year,” he said, looking at me in the mirror. “I remember your hair.”

  My hand flew to my curls. They were, for better or worse, my most memorable attribute. “They’re my dad’s,” I said. “I mean, I get my hair from my dad. He’s bald now, though. Well, not totally, he’s got a ring, like Mr. Burns, you know, from The Simpsons.”

  Ryan was nodding slowly, probably assessing the stability of my mental state. The back of my neck was slick with sweat. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “You’re friends with the Muslim chick,” he said.

  “Not anymore.” I immediately hated myself for saying this. Except it was sort of true.

  “Hair makes a woman,” he proclaimed.

  If that was the case, then what did my hair make me?

  Ryan whirled around. “Let’s pop this baby!”

  I stepped back in alarm as he ran across the bathroom and jumped into the Jacuzzi. A moment later, he proudly held up a bottle of champagne. “Dom,” he said. “Nats gave me a heads-up about the game so I stole a bottle of the good stuff from her parents’ bar and stashed it in the hot tub.”

  “Wow,” I said, because he clearly expected praise.

  Ryan leaned back, stretching his sculpted arms along the tub’s scalloped edge. “You coming in or what?”

  There was no water in the tub so I figured I could enter fully clothed. With a deep breath, I abandoned my post at the doorway and joined him. Ryan braced the bottle between his thighs and uncorked it, letting out a gleeful hoot as it popped.

  “After you,” he said.

  If Farah were here, she’d say something like, “No, assholes first,” and throw the champagne in his face.

  But I’d never had champagne, I’d never sat in a Jacuzzi, I’d never been alone with a boy this hot.

  Plus, he was actually being pretty nice. He’d even remembered me.

  I took a swig.

  Champagne was good.

  “What are you?” Ryan asked. “Sri Lankan?”

  “No,” I said, impressed that he’d referenced one of the lesser known countries from the subcontinent.

  “I dated a Sri Lankan girl for a while. She had this incredible hair, jet-black and down to her butt. It smelled like coconuts.”

  I wondered if this was offensive but after my second swig decided it was more a statement of fact. I returned the bottle but he set it aside and began inching forward. It wasn’t until his face was right in front of mine that I realized he was going to kiss me.

  Ryan D’Ambrosio III thought I was good enough to kiss.

  He tasted like beer and Vaseline, and kissing him wasn’t as great as I’d hoped. I couldn’t appreciate his beauty when my eyes were closed but it was too weird to keep them open. When he put his tongue inside me, I felt like it was taking up too much of my mouth. When I pushed back with my own tongue, it was more in self-defense than passion. My conscience chastised me, emboldened.

  What the hell, it said. Do you not remember what he did?

  Wait, I insisted. This kiss could get better.

  The whistle blew, announcing the end of ten minutes. Ryan pulled away, chugged the champagne.

  “Later,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and stepping out of the tub. “You know what—you should have this,” he said, presenting me with the nearly empty bottle, like a consolation prize.

  I stayed in the Jacuzzi for a few minutes, bruised by his sudden exit. For both of us, these ten minutes had been a curious departure from the norm, except that when the whistle blew I’d wa
nted to kiss some more, and he’d wanted to return to the norm, and his real friends, and the women he should really be kissing.

  I’d forsaken my principles for a hot tub and champagne.

  If Farah found out, she’d kill me. But who cared what she thought?

  That was when it occurred to me that I might have kissed Ryan to spite her, because I was upset she’d ended our friendship, and because I missed her so much.

  What was wrong with me?

  I was actually relieved that the kiss with Ryan sucked. Because if it had been hot, and I’d been into it, I would have felt even more guilty, and confused.

  Two

  “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?” my mother whispered as I walked into the kitchen in my pajamas. “Your great-uncle is here! Didn’t you see the shalwar kameez I left on your chair? Please go change. And comb your hair. And put on a bra! And go sit at the table and talk to him because you know your father isn’t.”

  I didn’t bother arguing; my mother always freaked out when we had guests because she wanted badly for them to have a lovely time in spite of her uninterested daughter and disinterested husband.

  The bathroom contained evidence of my mysterious great-uncle’s early morning arrival; the toilet seat was up, and there was a gray pube-like hair in the sink. I decided if my great-uncle didn’t have to put the toilet seat down, I didn’t have to wear a shalwar kameez, and returned downstairs in jeans and a T-shirt.

  My great-uncle was sitting opposite my father at the dining table. His wiry gray bush of a beard covered half his face, extending several inches beyond his jaw at a forward angle. He had a dent in the center of his forehead, a mark of piety caused by spending so much time in prostration during prayer. He was wearing a starched, spotless white shalwar kameez, a black vest, and sandals with polished leather straps. Wrap a turban around his head and he could easily have passed for a very meticulously dressed member of the Pakistani Taliban.

  “As’salaam alaikum,” I greeted him, uncertain of what to call him. He was technically my dad’s father’s cousin, and in Urdu practically every relative has their own honorific.