That Thing We Call a Heart

by Sheba Karim

  “Wa’alaikum salaam.” My great-uncle held up the fancy china teapot my mother reserved for guests. “Will you take some chai?”

  “Okay,” I said, sitting down next to my father. My great-uncle smiled at me as he passed me my tea, as though he wasn’t secretly judging me for exposing three quarters of my arms.

  My father was hidden behind the New York Times, making disapproving grunts as he read. He was antisocial and often socially awkward; he wasn’t one for pleasantries, though he did have the occasional, uncanny ability to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. There were, however, certain things he liked to wax on about, namely politics and Urdu poetry. He could talk math, too, which to him was its own kind of poetry, but thankfully didn’t bother with us because we wouldn’t understand. No doubt it was my mother who insisted his uncle stay over, as my father didn’t extend invitations. He wouldn’t even talk to his own sister if my mother didn’t stick the phone to his ear once a month. And he didn’t talk to me much, which was fine, because I had no interest in politics or Urdu poetry.

  “And they call this a liberal newspaper,” my father said to himself, scooping up some cumin-fried potatoes with his fingers.

  My great-uncle looked at me. I could tell he was confused by my father’s behavior. He obviously didn’t know him well.

  When my father wasn’t at the university, or locked in his study, he spent 50 percent of his waking hours lost in thought, and 50 percent talking back to the news. Sometimes he would talk at us. Once in a while, he’d join in on a conversation between my mother and me, usually with non sequiturs.

  “Dad’s a mathematician. They’re kinda weird,” I explained to my great-uncle, in case he didn’t know.

  “Shabnam!” my mother admonished, entering the room with a plate of eggs.

  “What?” I said. “It’s true.” I’d gone to one of my father’s department parties a few years ago. Aside from an effusive Trinidadian woman and a man with a long braid who knew some cool card tricks, they were an awkward bunch. Half the people didn’t look at you when they talked, a few of them barely talked, a few barely spoke English, and one guy literally looked like he’d escaped from an insane asylum. Turned out he was the chair of the department. They all seemed very comfortable together, though, communicating in a math language that was beyond the comprehension of us mere mortals.

  Behind the paper, my father belched.

  “More omelet?” my mother asked my great-uncle, heaping some onto his plate without waiting for a response.

  My great-uncle took a small bite of the omelet and started to cough.

  My mother wrinkled her forehead. “Too many green chilies?” she asked. “Let me go make another.”

  “No, please, sit down. You’ve already worked so hard. Relax, eat,” he insisted, but he clearly didn’t know my mother well either.

  I helped myself to some omelet, hoping food would ease my hangover—after Ryan left me, I’d finished his Dom backwash. My great-uncle picked up the tasbih—the Muslim rosary—lying next to his plate. My mother had one but his was nicer, the stone beads a deep orange in color, the tassel made of delicate silver chains, each chain ending in a tiny orange bead ornamented with finely wrought silver.

  He began to pray, his lips forming silent words as the beads moved through his fingers.

  My mother returned, removing my great-uncle’s plate and replacing it with a less spicy omelet.

  “Thank you,” my great-uncle said. At least he was polite. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll only have chai and biscuits now, and eat after my morning walk.”

  “Would you like more biscuits? We have Marie biscuits.”

  “No, I’ll walk now,” he said.

  “Of course,” my mother said. “We have a lovely park down the hill, but it’s about a twenty-minute walk, and then you have to walk back uphill.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’d probably get lost.”

  “Shabnam could take you.”

  I glared at my mother. There was no way I was going to take a morning stroll through our neighborhood with a guy who was a turban away from scary mullah.

  “That’s all right,” my great-uncle said. “I’ll walk down the street and come back.”

  Phew. After he left, my mother said, “Shabnam, I want you to take Chotay Dada to the mall.”

  Chotay Dada translated into “little grandfather.” So that was what I was supposed to call him. Both of my grandfathers died before I could remember them, but he was a poor substitute. Grandfathers were supposed to be cuddly, good-humored, gift-bearing—not look like they might deliver a sermon that ended with “Death to America.”

  “Take him to the Apple store at Fifty Oaks,” my mother continued. Fifty Oaks was the most upscale mall in our area. “He wants to buy an iPad for his granddaughter in Cleveland.”

  “Why can’t he go when he’s in Cleveland?”

  “Because he wants to buy it here. Don’t argue with me. His flight is tonight, so you have to be back by five at the latest.”

  “Why can’t Dad take him?” I demanded. “It’s his uncle.”

  My mother rarely became angry. Instead, she turned pale and wide-eyed, a damsel in distress. If you continued to argue, the rims of her sweet, fragile brown eyes would dampen with tears, and the sight of her, looking like a lovely wounded gazelle, would compel you to cease and desist.

  “Fine,” I muttered.

  My mother smiled, ruffling my hair. “Thank you, beta. Now come help me wash the dishes.”

  I followed my mother through the living room, where she drew back the drapes to check on our guest. Chotay Dada was walking down the sidewalk, the prayer beads dangling from his hand.

  “Look at him,” she said. “Over eighty years old but in better health than your father.”

  “I hope none of our neighbors see him and call the FBI.”

  “Be nice to him, Shabu. He’s had a difficult year. His wife died, and his son told me he’s been thinking a lot about what happened to him during Partition.”

  “Really?” I said. We’d just read about the Partition of India into India and Pakistan in history class. “What happened to him during Partition?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing you ask. It’s too unpleasant a subject.”

  My mother didn’t talk about unpleasant subjects.

  “Can you change into a more modest T-shirt before going to the mall?” she asked.

  “Can he change into normal clothes before going to the mall?” I replied.

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are,” my mother said.

  Except Chotay Dada and I had nothing in common. Last night, while I’d been left in a Jacuzzi clutching a bottle of Dom, he’d probably been prostrate on a prayer rug clutching his tasbih.

  Annoyed by my mother’s request for me to wear modest clothing, I’d put on a turtleneck, which was a dumb idea because it was ninety degrees out and the mall parking lot was full. By the time Chotay Dada and I reached the entrance, sweat was streaming down my face, forming little eddies in my sideburns. Chotay Dada, of course, was unchanged, the prayer beads still in his right hand.

  I was certain everyone was going to stare at him, so once we entered the mall I walked a few feet ahead, refusing to focus on anyone or anything, determined to get to Apple and then get the hell out.

  Except Chotay Dada quickened his pace and caught up with me. If I walked ahead of him now it would be supremely rude, so instead I shifted a few steps sideways. That was when I saw Natasha and Amelia striding toward us, dressed in tight tank tops and denim miniskirts, Natasha sipping on a giant smoothie, swinging a diamond peace sign key chain around her finger.

  Panicked by the possibility of the two of them seeing me with Chotay Dada, I ducked into the closest store.

  The store happened to be a Victoria’s Secret. On one hand, this was awesome because I doubted Chotay Dada would follow me inside; on the other, I’d run into a lingerie store in front of my religious
great-uncle. I glanced over my shoulder. He’d moved to a bench across from the store, the beads moving through his fingers, waiting for me to return. As they walked past him, Natasha and Amelia nudged each other, Natasha whispering something that made Amelia snicker. I wanted to stay long enough to make sure they were gone, but I couldn’t peruse a selection of lingerie while Chotay Dada was watching, so I headed to a display of perfumes and sniffed a few with feigned interest.

  “Do you like that one?”

  On the other side of the perfume display was a cute guy with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jaw, the angular intensity of his face balanced by the soft warmth of his hazel eyes, the kind you had to stare at to figure out what color they were exactly. He had a pale scar running in a jagged diagonal across the back of his right hand. It was a little jarring when you first noticed it, but also strangely beautiful.

  “Huh?” I said, pulling at my turtleneck and wishing that for once I could meet someone cute and not be sweaty and nervous.

  “That perfume,” he explained, gesturing at the heart-shaped bottle in my hand. “I have this gift card and thought I’d buy something for my aunt. Do you like it?”

  “I don’t really like perfume,” I said.

  “Then why are you smelling all of them?”

  I had no good answer to this, so instead I blurted, “You have a very interesting scar.”

  He was taken aback for a second, then started to laugh, and I remembered Chotay Dada was outside, observing this encounter, probably thinking that I’d arranged this “secret” rendezvous because I was a boy-crazy Westernized wild child.

  I turned and rushed out of the store, not daring to look back, figuring the boy was probably still laughing at me. Chotay Dada rose from the bench and followed, this time staying behind me. When we arrived at the Apple store, he walked up to a hipster store clerk who had a geometrical tattoo across his collarbone and a beard groomed to a defined point and said, in perfect English, “I would like to purchase an iPad.”

  As Chotay Dada discovered the wonders of iPads, I watched the corridor to see if the guy from Victoria’s Secret might walk by. But the guy never appeared, and Chotay Dada completed his purchase. As we returned to the car he again remained a few feet behind. He’d obviously figured out I was ashamed, and though I did feel guilty, it wasn’t enough to make me walk alongside him.

  I played Radiohead as I drove home, the music accompanied by Chotay Dada’s murmur as he moved through his prayer beads. He had the same nose as my father, big and studded with blackheads.

  The song “Karma Police” started to play, the opening piano rife with an angst that became increasingly urgent, a perfect song for a day like today. I turned it up cautiously, concerned Chotay Dada might find the music disturbing, but he didn’t react, only kept on praying. As the drums kicked in and Thom Yorke began to sing, I finally figured out what Chotay Dada was murmuring. La illaha il Allah. There is no God but God.

  Karma police

  La illaha il Allah

  Arrest this man he talks in maths

  La illaha il Allah

  When I pulled into the driveway, Chotay Dada said, “Thank you,” with a sincerity that weighed heavily upon my already guilty conscience.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “Coming?” he asked.

  “After this song,” I said in Urdu.

  He walked toward the house, white Apple bag in one hand, prayer beads in the other, and then it was the best part, when the piano and guitar and drums came together and Thom Yorke’s voice became so impassioned, so electric, that it reverberated inside and all around me, making me want to dance and weep at the same time, the part when Farah and I would toss our heads and drum our palms against the dash and sing about losing ourselves.

  Though if either of us was lost, it was me. I wasn’t proud of not sticking up for Farah, or kissing Ryan, or even walking a few feet in front of Chotay Dada, but I figured I’d leave my past behind and reinvent myself when I got to UPenn, into someone more fearless and confident and cool, who would make new friends with sweat-free ease.

  I had a simple plan. Get through the summer. Get to Penn. Begin anew. Don’t look back.

  Three

  MR. BLAKE TAUGHT AP World History and was my favorite teacher at Lincoln Prep. He was probably in his forties but dressed like a hipster, in skinny pants and formfitting blazers and Converse with rainbow laces. He’d been teaching for ten years but never acted jaded or bored, and he always managed to hold our attention, even first period Monday morning.

  That Monday he began in his usual starting position, on the edge of his desk, ankles crossed, feet swinging.

  “I know it’s our last day of class and we’re behind,” he said, “but we barely touched on the Partition of India, which was one of the bloodiest events in the twentieth century. Not only that, but, as you learned from your reading, it was the largest mass migration in history.”

  He paused, then repeated “The largest mass migration in history” in his deep, radio-announcer voice that lent everything he said, even hello, a sense of gravitas. “This migration was an incredible upheaval for all those involved, and resulted in massacres and other tragedies. So, before we move on, I thought I’d ask if anyone in class knows any stories about Partition?”

  This was one of Mr. Blake’s favorite teaching methods, personalizing history. When we studied the Holocaust, he asked the Jewish kids to share family stories. But there were only two people in class who might have personal narratives about Partition, me and JJ, whose real name is Vijay. His freshman nickname had been “Va-jay-jay!,” which was shortened to JJ after he proved his manhood by scoring a series of goals in some important soccer game.

  Mr. Blake tried JJ first. “Mr. Karimple?”

  JJ looked up with a startled “Yeah?”

  “Would you mind me asking if anyone in your family was affected by Partition?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think so. My family’s from Kerala, that’s like in the south, and as far as I know we didn’t have to go anywhere during Partition.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mr. Blake said, a little disappointed, though one hope remained. “Ms. Qureshi, what about you? Did Partition affect your family?”

  “Yes,” I said, which won me the attention of the entire class.

  “Go on,” Mr. Blake encouraged, leaning forward and steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

  “Uh . . .” I didn’t talk much in class, and I didn’t know any family stories. People didn’t talk about Partition, or if they did, it was usually in general terms. Though my mother had said something happened to Chotay Dada, I didn’t know what. But I really didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Blake, whose comments at the end of my papers were always thoughtful and encouraging, who’d written college recommendation letters for me.

  “Something pretty terrible did happen to my great-uncle,” I said.

  “Would you mind telling us?” Mr. Blake asked gently. “You don’t have to, of course.”

  Given that half the class was already nodding at me empathetically, in anticipation of the tragedy to come, I felt even more of an obligation to deliver. I recalled what I’d read about Partition in my textbook, and the few things I’d heard mentioned. Train massacres, women jumping into wells rather than be raped.

  Once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  “I call my great-uncle Chotay Dada,” I said. “When Partition happened, his parents left to go from India to Pakistan, but Chotay Dada stayed a little longer, because . . . because he was in love with this girl. She was Hindu, and he was Muslim, so they had to keep their love secret, because her family wouldn’t approve, but he couldn’t leave India without saying goodbye to her and telling her he’d always love her, no matter what.”

  Next to me, one of Ian’s rings flashed as he clasped his hand to his chest. It was a Bollywood version of Partition, but it was working.

  Emboldened, I continued. “But when Chotay Dada got to the girl’s house, her father
threatened to kill him if he took one more step. Before Chotay Dada could even say anything in his defense, the girl’s brothers came out of the house and started chasing him with knives, and Chotay Dada barely escaped with his life.

  “He realized there was no way he could say goodbye to the girl, so he got on the next train to Pakistan. As it was about to leave the station, a Hindu mob attacked the train. They started to kill everyone—men, women, children . . .”

  Someone gasped. Ian looked stricken.

  For the first time in my life, I had control of the room.

  “A few men from the mob went through Chotay Dada’s car, slaughtering people. Chotay Dada ducked down, and somehow they missed him. But Chotay Dada knew it wasn’t over yet, so he smeared himself with someone else’s blood and lay down in between two dead bodies. The mob went back through the train, searching for any survivors. He knew if he moved even an inch they’d kill him, so as they went past he lay as still as he could, and prayed he’d see his love again. . . .” I paused, both impressed and taken aback by my penchant for melodrama.

  The class was leaning toward me now, like my words were magnetic.

  “The mob finally got off the train, and the train finally left for Pakistan, but it was hours before Chotay Dada dared to move. When he walked through the train, all he saw were corpses. He was the only one left alive.”

  “Wow,” Ian said.

  Mr. Blake, who’d been listening with a bowed head, put on his wire-rimmed glasses and resumed control. “Thank you for sharing, Ms. Qureshi,” he said. “Let us all learn from the story Ms. Qureshi so generously shared with us.”

  As the class’s attention shifted to the front of the room, I realized I was exhausted.

  “One million people died during Partition—Muslims and Hindus and Sikhs—and each one of them has a story,” Mr. Blake continued. “Imagine your family’s lived in a town for generations, and then one day you’re told, sorry, you’re no longer welcome here. We talk about the birth, death, and division of nations, but we so often forget the human toll behind political maneuvers. We still forget them. It’s stories like these that remind us that every action has a consequence, and that it’s most often those without a say who suffer the most.”