Trespassing

by Uzma Aslam Khan

  To Dia’s left sat a very tiny woman with a desk covered in books. She offered Dia, with great warmth, any one of them. It was not an open-book exam.

  To her right, another woman began peeling scraps of paper out from inside her bra. ‘I thought there’d at least be some monitoring,’ she told Dia, peeved at all the trouble she’d taken to make subtle her deceit.

  Dia had still not looked at the exam. Foolishly, she was waiting for the official, ‘All right now girls, you may turn over your papers and begin.’ But Head Supervisor was off in the shadows, sniffing out her tombstone. Dia saw: Economics. She read the first question. How many units of x … The words began to swim.

  Behind the woman whose bosom was steadily shrinking, another began unwinding a bandage around her arm. Others conferred with sneaker soles and the palms of their hands. The tiny woman to her left was getting tired of consulting books. She snatched Dia’s paper. Realizing it was blank she tossed it back with a look that made Dia feel filthy. It reminded her of the detergent ad. She hadn’t been scrubbing hard enough.

  Everything she’d studied in preparation for the test entirely left her. Her thoughts turned to Nini. What was she doing at this very moment – going through her wardrobe? Planning a menu for tomorrow’s tea? Practicing how to carry the tray for her prospective mother-in-law?

  She shook herself back to the paper. Long liquidation … basis points … short-term frustrations and difficulties … What made the letters shimmy like that?

  Before the exam, there’d been rumors that Lubna, daughter of a minister rumored to be one of the prime smugglers of Afghan heroin, would pay someone to do her test for her. This someone was not even meant to take the retake, but here she was, beside Lubna. And she was doing her test. Lubna filed her nails, yawned, painted her nails green. Head Supervisor skated by.

  There were other stand-ins. Not all got a fee. Gulnaz had threatened hers in the following way: Huma, who’d scored highest in all her exams, had been seen slipping out of the college grounds with a boy. Gulnaz’s mother’s friend’s sister’s husband was Huma’s father’s friend’s sister’s brother-in-law’s friend. Gulnaz had only to say the word, and the ball would roll straight into Huma’s father’s lap. Huma sat beside Gulnaz. She did her test.

  Dia took to seeing how many smaller words could be made from Economics. Nose. Moon. Come.

  How could she face the widow again? She remembered her from the Quran Khwani: a soft, dumpy woman with long frizzy hair. Oh, Nini was cruel.

  Forty-five minutes remained.

  Lubna could have simply bribed her teacher instead of the stand-in but obviously didn’t care for shortcuts. Maybe she’d inherited her father’s sense of adventure. Now her green nail polish was being mopped off for a brown one.

  Why on earth was she dwelling on Lubna?

  She stared down again. But the invisible line that connected the words to her eyes and on to her brain had snapped. Briefly, she worried that this was a permanent thing.

  She shifted in her seat, growing increasingly irritated with herself. There were fifteen minutes left. She glanced at the woman with the scraps in her bra and burst out laughing. Her matronly bosom was now barely a curve, and ribbony chits oozed out of her kurta like birthday streamers.

  She thought: the American boy might undress Nini. What if she hated his touch? What if he had bad breath? What if he drooled? What if he hurt her? What if she hurt for the rest of her life?

  What if she didn’t hurt, but loved it?

  What if Dia was going completely mad?

  Head Supervisor consulted her watch and, with what sounded like a last breath, declared that time was up. It hardly mattered: those who wanted to keep writing did.

  Dia had written three words: Nose. Moon. Come.

  Miserably ashamed, she handed over the test without even her name.

  At the college gate, she walked past her car and driver and on to the street. The driver followed her. ‘I don’t need an escort. I’m sick of escorts!’ She whisked by, then turned back guiltily. He was only doing his job. His job was to drive her to college then drive her back. Drive her to the farm with two armed guards then back. Drive her to Nini’s, her relatives, the bazaar, mill, and back. His job was to confine her in a safe and mobile haven, between safe and immobile havens. His job was to keep her off the street, where men leered, sometimes pinched, and sometimes did worse. She heard Nini’s voice: Look at us. Always stuck behind walls and in cars. If we step out, what is there?

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she told him. ‘You needn’t follow me.’

  As she threaded her way through traffic, every pair of eyes followed her. She kept her gaze forward, noting none of the crumbling, gothic balconies lined with laundry, the chipped sandstone gargoyles, the lattice screens – all that she’d seen many times from a car. Now she had no protection, no shell, and she felt too naked to look around. The more she was watched, the more she watched only herself. Under her shalwar, her legs were too skinny, too hairy, and why on earth hadn’t she bothered to moisturize them? The dry patches made her skin gray. The stretch marks on her hips were white scabs in the middle of the gray. Her belly button too was hairy. Her breasts shapeless. Face lackluster. Hair straggly.

  There were no other women walking down the street. That much was registered. Also a kissing sound. Grins. Eyes that gorged. Shoulders pushing into hers. A finger lingering on her buttocks.

  She kept on walking, a zombie like Head Supervisor.

  She turned into a narrow lane where a gutter had leaked. It smelled of old cabbage. Should she plunge deeper into the alley, where there were fewer onlookers and more shops, or stay on the main road with more space to run? Deciding on the first, she skipped over a puddle. Now she was less exposed but more trapped. She took another turn. The lane opened somewhat. A young boy sat outside a doorway, shaving a circle of wood on his knees. He scraped the surface and the fragment slid free, curling at the end. It fell to a ground littered with wood pellicles, plastic bags, tissues, heaps of rotten food.

  At a paan shop she bought herself a paan with mounds of sweetened coconut, and chewed contentedly. An odd thing happened. When she ceased moving and hung around a building, fewer men stared and those that did looked away sooner. Their eyes penetrated more deeply when she was a body in motion than at rest. Being here was partly allowed. Getting here without cover was not.

  Advancing once more, again she felt the stares. Then she got in line to buy a kilo of yogurt for Inam Gul, and every man made way for her to progress to the front. The shopkeeper took her five rupees and smiled endearingly. If she’d been walking, how would he have dealt with her?

  The purchase in hand, she passed a row of steaming cauldrons stirred by young men periodically adding color. Cloth of every shade hung from hooks. There were women here now, leaving their cars and entering the maze of cloth and dye shops. They were welcome, as was she. And in the shoe shops, perfumeries, and flower stands. But when she crossed the street and moved on, boundaries were immediately drawn again. The chatter dropped, air tightened, eyes narrowed.

  She kept meticulous track of the quickest way back to the car. Knowing its place and that it was ready to shield her all the way back to a beautiful house, despite the riots, strikes, and toppling governments, was what saved her from panic. No matter where she strayed, the thread linking her back home was there.

  Or was it?

  What had happened to her father?

  Had he trespassed?

  Did he think, when he left the house after that night in the tree, that he was safe behind the steering wheel, that as long as he knew the miles between him and his home, and the way to get there, he was linked? Was that his mistake? Was she repeating it?

  What if this was a detour and she never found her way back?

  Why weren’t questions like these in her exam?

  Trying to keep her gaze forward she again saw her naked self walking. There was the pale flatness of her stomach. The bottom with the ugly stretc
h marks. The scarred knees.

  Up ahead, someone blocked her path. When she brushed by him, his crotch rubbed into that jiggling bottom. She felt him, thin and stiff, and gasped, walking faster, kicking over a block of wood mounted with shoe polish. The car was down the street, first right, first right again.

  5

  Assembling

  It would have been easier if Nini had called her early. That way, Dia wouldn’t be sitting stiffly in the drawing room with the guests, waiting for Nini’s grand entrance. She could be lingering with her in the bedroom, postponing this.

  When she’d called earlier in the day to suggest meeting before five o’clock, Nini had briskly disagreed. ‘In fact,’ she’d said, ‘they’ll probably show up late so make it five-thirty.’ It was her most overt attempt at distancing Dia from her.

  Then why did she want her here at all? Dia sulked, sitting with arms crossed on a love seat in the three-bedroom apartment Nini shared with her sisters, parents, and ailing grandfather. The drawing room looked out on the carports of other units in the apartment complex. A child was riding his tricycle, pedaling like a demon, while a maid kept watch. Dogs barked, and in the distance, a couple crossed the street. She lost sight of them but knew they were headed for the embankment, from where they could watch the ocean tear up the rocks at their feet.

  On the couch sat the boy and his mother. He called her Anu but she and Nini were to say Annam Aunty. On seeing Dia her shock was visible, and Nini’s mother, Tasleem, had been less than pleased. Dia would have to show them she’d not brought any pranks this time. Once again she quietly cursed Nini.

  The boy twiddled his thumbs and looked out of the window too. Tasleem engaged Annam in a discussion of the lovely sea breeze they got every evening at about this time.

  ‘People ask me, “Don’t you miss having a garden?” I tell them, “Not at all! Who wants to waste money on a gardener? And we have a garden, a great big one. It gives us this lovely breeze. We don’t even need an air conditioner!”’

  Dia blushed for Nini. Maybe she was prudent in taking her time about the entrance. Tasleem had already begun defending her slouching fiscal status. The family had had to sell their five-bedroom house and move here, a fact Annam was probably aware of. To make up for lacking an air conditioner, Tasleem’s hair had been set at Palpitations (she let this information slide in when the lovely breeze came a bit too close), and was dressed in a designer shalwar kameez, worth in the range of two to three thousand rupees. Around her neck were three gold strings and on her left arm clinked six slim gold bangles. She waved this arm a lot while speaking.

  Annam seemed unperturbed by Nini’s modest home and offered no explanation for her shabby appearance: she wore gold, yes, but her outfit was of nylon and her sandals torn. And her son was in jeans and a T-shirt. But then, boys always wore what they wanted.

  Dia had submitted to Nini’s wishes. She’d dressed as her mother would have, in the latest style: long, loose kameez over a shalwar that flared like a lampshade at her ankles. It was unspeakably stupid. Her hair was brushed; there was even a semblance of a parting. But she refused any make-up. When Riffat asked where she was going Dia had had to lie after all: ‘A birthday party.’ She’d kissed her goodbye before Riffat could ask whose. In the car her stomach pounded with fists again. Few mothers would let their daughters go wherever they wanted. Riffat did, and in return Dia was betraying her. But, Dia reasoned irritably, her mother should have explained herself.

  Nini’s two sisters sat politely on cushions on the carpet, whispering to each other. Her father was absent.

  Of the six in the room, she and the boy were the only ones without anyone to talk to. She wished he’d stop the thumb-twiddling. And then, though she’d vowed not to, Dia scrutinized him.

  He was tall and though slender, his T-shirt gave away a slight paunch. He was about her complexion, much darker than Nini, and very hairy: his arms and eyebrows would make useful breeding grounds for vermin. Hair short, puffy. Not silky like Nini’s, a delight to run fingers through. Lips chapped and frequently licked. Nose – more breeding grounds no doubt. He looked impatient, indifferent. He hadn’t made one attempt to engage what could be his in-laws in conversation. Tasleem kept trying.

  ‘You’re a gifted student, your mother tells me?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘You’re doing so well in your studies, mahshallah.’

  Annam interceded. ‘He’s very modest.’ She blessed him.

  Nini’s sisters giggled.

  Annam: ‘He’s very interested in the news. Just like his father.’

  Tasleem: ‘May Allah rest him in peace.’

  Nini’s sisters shifted.

  The boy twiddled his thumbs.

  The mothers smiled awkwardly. If it weren’t for that lovely sea breeze, they’d all choke.

  Tasleem decided to give the boy a rest. Conversation now veered to all her contacts. ‘You do know them? The owners of Sheraton? Just yesterday I was invited to lunch at their house.’ Her list went on.

  At last, Nini entered.

  She skimmed into the room like a swan, eyes down, feathers preened into a smooth bun (courtesy of Palpitations). Involuntarily, Dia looked away. She’d rather never have known her than witness Nini metamorphose into a tea-tray-wielding, lash-batting, one-foot-perfectly-before-the-other-walking nineteen-year-old who seemed thoroughly committed to clinching first prize in the Miss World Proposal Pageant. Had Daanish’s mother attended other events? How many girls had she appraised? Suddenly, Dia was caught between despising Nini and feeling so vehemently loyal that she couldn’t bear to see her lose. No one could outshine Nini.

  She set the tray down on a side-table. Then, carefully avoiding Daanish’s end of the couch, approached his mother. ‘Asalaam-o-alaikum, Annam Aunty,’ she smiled.

  ‘Waalai-kum-asalaam, beti,’ Annam smiled back, patting Nini’s head.

  She did not even glance at the boy.

  Her sisters giggled.

  She wore a long-sleeved pale pink silk outfit from Riffat’s mill. The silver-embroidered dupatta was modestly draped across her chest. The same shade of pink highlighted her eyelids, lips, toenails and fingernails. Dia blushed again for her friend: if it weren’t for Nini’s innate poise, she’d resemble a gumdrop.

  As she moved back toward the tray, Annam too studied her closely. Everyone did – except the boy. She arranged four quarter plates with napkins and forks, offered the first to Annam, second to her mother, third to Daanish (still no eye contact), and fourth to Dia.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dia. ‘And hi.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Nini purred. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘She loves to bake,’ said Tasleem to Annam. ‘Though she eats so little herself. It’s always, “Eat, Ama,” or “Have more, Aba.” She’s such a joy to us.’

  Nini began serving the items on the tray: a chocolate cake, rus malai, kebabs, chicken sandwiches, halwa. As she bent over Annam, her dupatta slipped from her shoulders and into the cake.

  The boy smiled to himself.

  Her sisters giggled.

  Nini quickly set the tray down and went to wash the chocolate off.

  Tasleem cleared her throat. ‘The halwa is from that new bakery you must have heard about. The owner is my sister-in-law’s niece. Her husband is the president of UBL. You must try it.’ She placed a hefty spoonful on Annam’s plate. ‘And you Daanish? Seema, get up and serve him,’ she snapped at one of the giggling sisters.

  But Daanish rose and helped himself to each item on the tray.

  ‘He’s very considerate,’ piped Annam. ‘Even at home, he always wants to get things himself. He never troubles his mother.’ She sighed. She blessed him.

  Daanish sat on the end of the couch next to Dia’s sofa. There was now a gaping space between him and his mother. Conversation between the mothers ceased. Dia flushed.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something,’ he said to her.

  She blinked. What are you doing?

/>   ‘I fed the caterpillars. You told me to find out what they eat. I did.’ His face grew animated, and she heard the American lilt in his voice. It was warm, amicable. He took a large bite of a sandwich.

  She stared, stupefied. Get back next to your mother.

  ‘It was thoroughly fascinating. They spun cocoons. I’d never paid any attention to insects, you know? Unless, of course, it was to crush them.’ He grinned, then started on the cake. ‘Great snacks.’

  Dia’s forehead prickled. The sides of her neck burned. She thought she’d faint. Why had Nini begged her to come? She glanced quickly at Tasleem. The daggers there pierced her chest. She didn’t dare look at Annam.

  Nini’s sisters giggled.

  Tasleem cleared her throat again. ‘Tell us more about Amreeka, Daanish.’

  He hadn’t told them anything about Amreeka. Ask him something intelligent, for heaven’s sake. Get him away from me.

  Annam smiled at her son. It looked like she was biting tacks. ‘Tasleem Aunty is talking to you, jaan.’

  He shrugged. ‘Everybody’s asked me that question. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m quite sick of it.’ He smiled, not insincerely, but without any of the warmth with which he’d spoken to Dia.

  Annam smiled apologetically. ‘He’s still a bit shaken, you know.’

  The boy considered, then decided to let the comment go.

  Tasleem: ‘He seems to like the cake. Seema, get up and serve him.’

  Daanish still had half a slice left. When Seema offered him a second there was no space on the plate to pile it. She giggled, quickly putting the cake down on the table and running back to her sister.

  ‘Oh you silly child!’ cried Tasleem.

  ‘I’m still working on this,’ said Daanish, his mouth full.

  But Tasleem rose and put the second slice on the rus malai and Daanish puffed his cheeks in exasperation.

  The sisters giggled.

  Tasleem turned to Annam. ‘What do we do with girls these days? Our mothers never had to train us. We just learned.’