The Sweetness of Tears

by Nafisa Haji

  “But you just said that I was.”

  “Yes. A woman who is still a child. Think, Deena. Think about who you are. About who you will be. You cannot remain friends with him. With that boy whose very name stands for who we are not. Sooner or later, you will be married, Inshallah. What will you tell your husband? That you are friends with another man? No. That is not the way things are. Nor the way they should be. Men and women cannot be friends. Bas.”

  Bas, she said. Enough.

  And what did my father have to say? That night, after my hair was braided, when I went to him to say good night, he said, “I like this boy, this friend of yours. Umar. He’s a gentle soul.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of what my mother had said.

  “Your mother is upset?”

  “Yes, Abu. Absolutely livid.”

  It turned out that Ma’s fury was in vain. The next day, when I went up to the terrace, Umar was nowhere in sight. Nor the next. Weeks passed.

  Abu, who still made his way up to the terrace daily to stand guard with renewed vigor in light of Ma’s fervent chastisements on his unforgivable lapse, observed, “It looks like your mother was wrong. I did drive him away after all.”

  I put down the teacups I was carrying, sat on the chair where Umar had sat, and began to cry, softly, to myself. “Why do you think he is angry with me, Abu?”

  “What makes you think that he is?”

  “Why else would he avoid me?”

  Abu had no answer for me. After a while, he said, “Perhaps it’s for the best, Deena. Perhaps his mother has convinced him of what yours has failed to do. That this friendship is impractical. That it will have to end eventually. Better now, before it is too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Yes. You are nearly grown. A young woman. Be practical, Beti. As it seems that Umar is trying to be.”

  “You are saying that, Abu?”

  “Keep it a secret. Just between you and me. That perhaps there is one practical bone in my body—contrary to all of your mother’s assertions. The fact is, Deena, that you and Umar are no longer children. Your mother is right. You have gone from sharing fruit to sharing poetry. It is time to set this part of your childhood aside, before you also move from broken bones to broken hearts. It seems that Umar is wise enough to realize this. You should, too.”

  After a while, I stopped looking for Umar at the wall of the terrace. I learned to read my books without his company, alone, as perhaps books are meant to be read. But poetry, I knew, was not the same. Poetry was something that had to be shared. Out loud. Something I left behind. Except in Muharram, when I began to recite nohas, the rhythmic poetry of sacrifice and tragedy that cannot be translated from one language to another because it is too specific, too much a matter of the heart and faith.

  A year later, while I was on the terrace reading a book, my father climbed the rickety stairs, Umar following closely behind. “See who I found knocking on our door, Deena? Your old friend has come to see you.”

  I closed my book. I remember what I was reading at the time. Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “Sit, Umar.” My father didn’t join him, his eyes moving back and forth from my averted face to Umar’s. Instead of sending me down to ask for tea, he said, “I’ll go and have some tea made and brought up.”

  When Abu was gone, Umar asked, “What are you reading?”

  I held the book up in silence, so he could read the title himself, my eyes forcefully focused on the roof of the house across from ours.

  “Won’t you talk to me, Deena On The Wall?”

  “Why should I?”

  “You’re angry.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  I still said nothing, wondering why he was there and why he had disappeared from sight for a year.

  I didn’t have to wonder for long.

  “I’m going away, Deena.”

  That brought my eyes up to his face. But only for a second. Enough to see that he had changed—the shadow on his face the shadow of a man’s beard, the lines of his jaw and brow hardened and wide.

  “Won’t you ask where I’m going?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’m going to America. To study. But I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”

  “When someone stops saying hello, I don’t see that there’s any need to say good-bye,” I said, my eyes firmly fixed, again, on the house across the street.

  “Won’t you look at me, Deena?”

  Reluctantly, my eyes met his.

  What I saw there explained everything—the reason he had stayed away, why he had come to say good-bye. I can only describe what I saw by its effect on me. Every woman should be looked at in such a way, at least once in her life. With a longing that cannot be contained—with love that goes beyond mere feeling because it transforms and—like the verse of the poem he had read—it dissolves, as an offering, a gift. I felt my face flush and waves of knowing suffused every pore, every cell of my being. I was loved. And in that love, I felt beauty—my own, unrealized until that moment, suddenly rising to consciousness in a way that made everything in me come alive to the beauty all around me. Nothing more needed to be said.

  Have you ever felt that way, Jo? Have you ever been looked at with such soulful longing that you are transformed, the object and the subject of Love, capital L? You look frightened, as if you didn’t know what I was talking about and were afraid of it somehow.

  There was nothing I could say in response to the look in Umar’s eyes. I put my hand up, as if to ward off words that he had not uttered.

  His eyes fell away from mine, severing the connection between us, but not the power of its effect. “I am going away,” he said. “I— I cannot ask you to wait. I cannot ask you for anything.”

  My father came up the stairs. Umar stood up. He didn’t say good-bye before he left. And what he left behind made me wish that he hadn’t come at all—feeling, at the same time, a profound sense of gratitude for what I now knew. That every moment of life is as significant as that one was for me. The only difference is in knowing it. We squander the moments of our lives away, without realizing their worth. Oh, the tragedy of it. Truly, it is the human tragedy—to let ourselves be the victims of our own sense of irrelevance.

  Jo

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face . . .

  W. B. Yeats, “When You Are Old”

  Deena’s words stopped. Silence swayed over us, making me suddenly aware of what she was saying about the worth of every moment, as this one, here, now, rose up and made itself felt. I took a deep breath and remembered what she’d said a few seconds before. That I looked frightened. When she asked me that question: “Have you ever been looked at with such soulful longing that you are transformed, the object and the subject of Love, capital L?” That was because of the answer that came to mind—the image that rose immediately out of my recent memory. No. Dan had never looked at me like that. But I knew what it must feel like, from having experienced its opposite. I’d been looked at with such deep, soulful revulsion that I was transformed—the object and subject of Hatred, capital H. A little time in Deena’s company was enough for me to know that she deserved the look she’d gotten. What made me afraid was knowing that the look I’d gotten was also deserved. Her question reminded me of why I’d come here, to her house, something I’d forgotten in the act of listening.

  Then the suspended silence between us was broken as the grinding noise of a garage door opening jolted us both out of the moment.

  Deena looked at the clock on the mantel and exclaimed, “Oh, my! Is that the time? That’s Umar. Home from work. And I haven’t even begun to prepare the ifthar!”

  As she spoke, I heard the door of a car slamming shut, the opening and closing of another door, leading into the house, followed by footsteps. I sat up straighter, eager to see the face of the man who had looked at Deena with such longing.
He came into the room, stopping short when he saw me sitting on the couch across from his wife.

  Deena stood and turned, repeating, for his sake, “Oh, Umar! I have not even begun to prepare ifthar. See? I had an unexpected guest. Umar, this is Jo. You remember Angela? Connie’s stepdaughter? She was my fr—no—Sadiq’s friend,” she finished, on a bit of a broken note. Then said, “Well, Jo is Angela’s daughter. She came. And I’ve been talking and talking.”

  Umar smiled and finished his way into the room. “Oh. Yes,” he said, putting his hand out, taking mine in a firm hold. Shaking it. “Connie and Deena are very good friends.”

  He turned to Deena. “Don’t worry. There’s another half hour until ifthar. I’ll get it ready.”

  “No! Together. We’ll do it together.”

  That’s when it hit me. What they were talking about. “It’s Ramadan? Are you—are you fasting, Deena?” I thought about the tea she’d served when I got there. The cookies she’d brought out at some point. That was why she hadn’t had any herself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to intrude. I should go.”

  “Sorry? Go? No! Why? There’s no reason for you to go. Stay! Come. We’ll just move into the kitchen. You’ll stay for dinner. You won’t mind watching us get everything ready? Come, come.” Deena was already leading the way, guiding me along with her, her hand on my shoulder. She sat me down on a chair in the kitchen, washed her hands, and started moving, gathering plates and dishes, collecting food out of the fridge, getting out a cutting board and knife. Umar was working right alongside her, their movements so fast and so coordinated with each other’s that I didn’t even offer to help—not wanting to get in the middle of the wordless rhythm that flowed between them, like the steps of a dance they had practiced many times before. I thought of warning Deena—that I spoke and understood Urdu, just in case she decided to speak it to Umar while I was there. But I didn’t have to. She was too polite to try to speak over and around me.

  I enjoyed watching them together in the kitchen, imagining both of them in the story that Deena had told me so far. Childhood sweethearts. Sadiq hadn’t told me that. He probably didn’t know. I was glad to accept Deena’s invitation to stay, couldn’t bear the thought of leaving now, completely hooked into the story of her life. There were twists coming, I knew. Because Sadiq—who was Deena’s older son—was the son of another man, not Umar.

  After a few moments of silence, Deena said, “At this time, in the last moments before breaking the fast, in Pakistan, the kitchen would be filled with the crackling sounds and salty, hot fumes of frying. Pakoras, samosas, kababs. Umar and I avoid all of that. We prefer to keep things simple, now. We have to watch our cholesterol. And all that fried stuff is murder on the digestion. Especially at our age, eh, Umar?”

  “Speak for yourself, old woman,” he teased. “I wouldn’t mind a pakora or two.” He put his hand on her cheek, on his way to the sink, a quick, tender gesture, delivered with the flash of a smile on his face that lit hers up, too.

  “Where is your mother, Jo? Tell me.”

  “In San Diego.”

  “So she went home? When she left here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—?”

  “She got married. My father is Jake. He used to work for Todd Rogers.”

  Deena turned to look at me for a long moment. Then she nodded, turning back to the cutting board in front of her, slicing fruit—apples and bananas—which she laid out on a plate, along with something else, something pruney and brown. “She was young. To be married. She’s happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have younger brothers and sisters?”

  “One brother. Chris.” I didn’t say anything else, wondering if she could hear what I heard in my voice. I was less sure of my right to silence on the subject of Chris than I had been with Sadiq. Whatever she heard, Deena didn’t ask any more questions.

  Within an amazingly short amount of time, the table was set, laden with food. The fruit she had cut. Meat sandwiches, made with finely sliced tomatoes and spread with some kind of green paste—a mint chutney, Deena explained—cut neatly into triangles with the crusts trimmed off, the way Mom used to do for Chris, who is a fussy eater. There was some kind of bean salad—Deena said it was called chola. And rice and curry.

  When it was all ready, Deena and Umar looked at the clock. “It’s time,” she said. And then turned to me. “Excuse us for a moment, Jo. It’s time to open the fast. Umar and I like to say our prayers first. Afterwards, we feel too lazy and full. Make yourself at home. Don’t wait for us to start, if you’re hungry. We’ll be right back.”

  They went upstairs and stayed there for some time. I made my way back into the living room, taking a look at the pictures on the mantel. There was one of Sadiq, grown up, the somber expression one I remembered. A couple of him, I think it was him, when he was a little boy—smiling, laughing. In one, he stood against a wall, the branches of a tree with small, dark, plum-colored fruit hanging low, within his reach. There were also pictures of a girl—Deena’s daughter, obviously—a series of them, randomly scattered, charting her progress from child into woman. A laughing woman, happy, her eyes crinkled with mirth, very different from Sadiq. I stood in silence, listening for sounds of prayer upstairs. There were none. I knew the movements of the prayers that Deena and Umar must be offering. Remembering, I thought again of the reason I was here and considered, again, the implausibility of what I suspected. And yet, here I was. Acting on instinct, wondering what it would mean if it turned out that I was right.

  Umar came back downstairs first. Deena, a few minutes later. We sat down at the table. Deena picked up the plate of fruit and offered it to me and then to Umar. He took one of the pruney things.

  As she took one for herself, she said, “It’s traditional. To open the fast with dates.” She pointed to the brown fruit. “These are my favorite. Locally grown, here in California. As sweet as chocolate. But be careful. They have pits.”

  I watched both of them hold their dates up to their mouths, whispering for a few seconds before taking their first bite. Very solemnly, they took sips of water. Then we ate in silence. Passing the food around. Neither one of them ate nearly as much as I did. After a while, Deena pushed herself back from the table and said to Umar, “Could you bear to go to the grocery store for me?”

  “Of course,” Umar said.

  “You’ll regret saying yes. The list is very long. I made the menu for the day after tomorrow.”

  Umar nodded, smiling. “Did you speak with Sabah today?”

  Deena also smiled. “Yes.”

  “And? Did she tell you the name of the one she’s bringing this year?”

  Deena shook her head. “No. She’s being very mysterious.”

  “Hmm. How were classes today? Anyone show up for the eight a.m. class?”

  “Yes, surprisingly.” Deena turned to me, explaining, “I teach at UCLA. I got dragged into academia through Umar, going back to school when Sabah started high school. I got my bachelor’s and kept going. Now, I teach in the Women’s Studies Department. Classes on South Asian women’s issues. And Islamic culture and law.” She turned back to her husband. “How was your day?”

  “The usual. Papers were due and now I have a stack of them to grade. After class, I held court, hearing the usual excuses for those who needed an extension. They’re getting more and more creative as the years go on.”

  Deena laughed and, again, explained, “Umar is a professor. Full-fledged, not merely a lecturer like me. His focus is Russian literature.”

  Umar pointed accusingly at his wife. “All her fault. I came here, to the States, to study engineering, like all good Pakistani students who came in the late 1960s. Her taste in literature, which she bludgeoned me with when we were neighbors, as children—” I nodded. “—led me down a different path. Less lucrative. But far more satisfying.” Umar popped another date into his mouth, pushed himself away from the table, and started to collect plates and dishes.

&nb
sp; Deena put her hand out to stop him. “No. You go. I’ll take care of this. Jo will help me.”

  I stood up eagerly, taking plates to the sink, scraping them free of debris before putting them into the dishwasher.

  Deena bustled around behind me, sealing up food, leaving some of it on the table. “Umar and I will nibble on this for the rest of the evening. In Pakistan, ifthar is followed by another complete dinner later. But Umar and I prefer to graze.”

  When we were done in the kitchen, Deena made another pot of tea. She served herself some as well as me this time. Then led me back into the living room. I couldn’t wait for her to resume her story, thinking she’d sent Umar out shopping in order to give herself space and time to tell me the rest.

  After a few moments, Deena asked, “Does Angela’s husband know the truth? About you?”

  “My father,” I said, surprised at the defiance in my voice. “Yes. My mom says he knew right from the beginning. But I’ve never spoken with him about it.”

  “He was older than her.”

  I nodded.

  “He’s been a good father?”

  “A very good father.”

  “And your mother told you the truth? When you were little?”

  The defiance in my voice dwindled into defense. “No. I—I kind of figured it out. Partly. By the color of my eyes.”

  “The color of your eyes?”

  “Yes.” I explained to her. About Mendel. About asking Mom the truth right before I left home for college.

  “So. If it weren’t for the color of your eyes, you would not have known that Sadiq is your real father.”

  I winced at her choice of words.