by Nawaaz Ahmed
Seema replies, “Yes, I’m your Ammi’s sister.”
“Are you Ammi’s little sister?” Amina asks, chewing the tip of her hijab to allay the vague sense of trepidation Seema produces in her. Seema’s smile appears welcoming, but Amina holds back, uncertain. She associates warmth and motherly attention only with the flowing curves of a jilbab and hijab.
“No, I’m your Ammi’s big sister.” Seema laughs, tapping Tahera on the shoulder. “I’m two years older.”
Tahera smiles back, a quick piqued smile. It irks to acknowledge that Seema does appear younger. How fresh her sister looks, while she is already tired, wishing the visit to San Francisco were over. She reminds herself that she’s added the stress of this meeting to the stress about her talk the next day at the conference. She says, “Wait till you become a mother yourself.”
Seema winces, and Tahera assumes Seema is reminded about her divorce. Her sister is clearly not as happy as she looks, nor as invulnerable as she pretends to be.
They study the menus, a welcome diversion. Arshad and Amina already know what they want—fried rice! Thai fried rice is one of Arshad’s favorite dishes. Seema decides on a chicken dish with basil and green peppers. Arshad and Amina glance over to their father.
Ismail is familiar with that glance: Are they allowed to order chicken here? He shakes his head. Arshad is already forming words: “But Seema Aunty—!” Ismail tries to preempt Arshad but is too late. He sits back, letting Tahera deal with this misadventure. After all, this dinner is on her insistence. He’d given in with reluctance.
Seema looks up from her menu. “What?”
“You can’t eat chicken here,” Arshad says. “It’s not zabiha.”
“Your Seema Aunty can order what she wants,” Tahera says. “We won’t be sharing.”
“Oh, I can order tofu,” says Seema. “I don’t have to eat meat.”
Arshad is disappointed he can’t display his newly acquired knowledge, the relevant ayats from surahs Al-Ma’ida and Al-An’am regarding the rules of slaughter. Large questions foment in his mind. Why did his mother say Seema Aunty could eat nonpermitted meat? Won’t Allah punish Seema Aunty for this sin? And doesn’t his mother care what happens to her sister, as he cares for Amina?
25
When the children greet her with “Assalamu Alaikum, Seema Aunty,” Seema is taken aback by how easily the response, “Alaikum Assalam,” rolls off her tongue. She remembers using only the first half of the greeting as a child toward her elders, never the response. And here she is, responding to the children so naturally. She senses a collapse in time: for the moment, she’s both adult and child, both here in San Francisco and back in Chennai.
This sensation is heightened by seeing Tahera and her daughter side by side. Amina’s face is Tahera’s from years ago, while Tahera looks shockingly aged and drawn now.
Both mother and daughter are wearing hijabs, and Seema thinks: The girl is so young, give her a chance to decide for herself. Neither father nor brother is wearing a prayer cap, after all. Ismail is in a white kurta and a leather jacket, Arshad in a bright yellow T-shirt and black jeans. Ismail’s beard is trimmed.
Uncomfortable silences persist till the food arrives. The curries are spicy but delicious, and the fried rice is served in a hollowed-out pineapple, which draws cries of delight from the children. Arshad and Amina grow animated as they crunch happily on cashews and pineapple chunks that stud the rice. They compete with each other for their Seema Aunty’s attention, excitedly recounting the day’s adventures—the barking sea lions, the bungee trampoline, the carousel ride at Fisherman’s Wharf—interrupting each other, amplifying, disagreeing.
Arshad is wistful about the Ripley’s museum they were unable to visit. Amina wishes they’d gone to the aquarium. Their father had promised to take them the next day, but he now has a meeting in Santa Clara, and they have to accompany him, since their mother will be busy at the conference. How lucky Seema Aunty is to live in San Francisco! Does she live near the Wharf?
They’ve anointed her best friend already. She is asked to settle disputes, to explain mysteries, to exercise her authority as a local. Their high spirits infect her. She slips into the role of a much-loved aunt easily—much preferable to excommunicated sister—reveling in the ready intimacy that she’s rarely felt before with the children of her friends.
“How would it be,” she exclaims, surprising herself, “if I take tomorrow off and show the children around San Francisco?”
The table thumps to a halt. The children look at their parents, their parents look at each other.
After a moment’s hesitation, Tahera says, “Your father must decide.”
Ismail is clearly reluctant. The children immediately train their entreaties at him: they were promised the sights! They clutch at his arms. When he finally agrees, the children erupt in celebration. Seema realizes that, like Amina, she too has been holding her breath.
But the next morning, waiting in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel to pick up the children, Seema feels only anxiety. What caprice has she yielded to? Here’s Tahera stepping out of the elevator, clad head to toe in rigorous black—black hijab, black jilbab, black shoes. Clutching her mother’s hand, Amina is in a pink dress embroidered with white flowers, a pink sweater, pink-and-white shoes, and a matching pink hijab framing her face and flowing over her shoulders. Arshad trails after them, in blue jeans, a tan fleece pullover, and white Adidas shoes, but on his head today: a white prayer cap.
Ismail has already left for his meeting, Tahera says, and she’s late for her session. She hands Seema a booster seat for Amina, gives her a few instructions—Don’t spoil the kids!—warns her children not to pester their aunt, and hurries away.
“Shall we go?” Seema asks, but the children continue to stand there, the intimacy of the previous day forgotten. To break the ice again, Seema lists the treats she’s planned for them: the aquarium, the exploratorium, the Golden Gate Bridge, ice cream.
Seema has picked right: the exploratorium excites Arshad, and he’s ready to make that the first stop. But Amina is not won over yet. She hugs her booster seat to herself, eyes scanning the lobby for her mother, resisting Arshad’s efforts to steer her toward the doors. Arshad lures her with the promise of visiting the aquarium first and makes a big fuss over the car—how like a toy it is!
It’s Fiaz’s Mini Cooper actually, borrowed for the day, since Seema has sold her car, like she’s sold or given away almost everything that reminds her of her life with Bill. She’s thankful Arshad can install the booster seat, since she knows next to nothing about it.
All formality evaporates as soon as they climb into the car and head out to the aquarium, down one of the steepest slopes in San Francisco. Amina closes her eyes and squeals. Arshad begs they do it again. Seema obliges, going around the block to repeat the same vertiginous descent. The car is filled with shrieks and laughter as they roller-coaster their way down to the Wharf.
The children slip their hands into hers as they cross the road. This recalls to Seema walking to school with Tahera. They’d continued to hold hands even after they became too old to draw a sense of safety from the act, for there’d been a distinct pleasure to walking into school hand in hand. They were striking as a pair—the same heart-shaped faces, framed by hair tightly pulled back into twin plaits with white ribbons, the same cut to their starched blue pinafores, the same puff to the sleeves of their white blouses. They were everywhere recognized and admired—the Hussein sisters!—and even the headmistress would stop to greet them.
But the differences now, three decades later, leading her sister’s children through the Wharf! Seema is acutely aware of Amina’s hijab, and Arshad’s prayer cap, and the accosting glances of the other tourists. Are they confused by her attire of jeans and sweater and what she’s doing accompanying these children? Pretending she’s cold, Seema shivers self-consciously, and pulls out a shawl from her bag, which she drapes over a shoulder and loops around her head. She’s aware
Arshad has noticed, though he says nothing.
At the aquarium, a yellowtail balances on the tip of its nose, and Amina’s laughter is infectious. Everybody experiences gooseflesh at a wolf eel’s glare. A sleek seven-gilled shark slices through the water. There are rows of suckers on an octopus’s arms, like coins thrown at a fountain—but a swish, and they’re all gone!
For lunch, they have fries and grilled cheese sandwiches, Cherry Coke. Later ice cream, a banana split for Arshad, a chocolate cone with sprinkles for Amina that she doesn’t finish and ends up with Seema.
In the afternoon, the exploratorium. Here Arshad flies suspended in a mirror like Superman, and Amina joins him, his Supergirl. Later, a movie about the origins of the universe—whirling masses of gas, galaxies like far-flung roses—and Arshad watches transfixed, while Amina wanders off. They find her at an exhibit on sound, with unusual musical instruments made of wires, disks, balloons, and rubber bands. With her quick little fingers she improvises a tune on one of them.
“She can sing too,” Arshad says. “She sings very well.”
He urges his sister to show Seema, and Amina complies, without a trace of embarrassment or shyness, in a light clear voice. An Urdu song, an old melody from Seema’s childhood!
“She sings like an angel,” compliments a listening woman. “What’s she singing?”
It’s a song Tahera and Seema used to love, about a rocking horse that springs to life and runs away. Amina’s eyes shine with a soft concentrated happiness. When she finishes, Seema can’t help but lift her up and smother her with kisses.
The day ends on the Golden Gate Bridge. The bridge is a tongue of fire, lit by the sun’s dying rays. The children shiver in the stiff breeze blowing off the Pacific, but Arshad is adamant about walking the length of the bridge, and Amina is his willing follower. Seema gives in. Arshad wants to run ahead, but Seema insists the children hold her hand—the bridge is thronging with visitors, the curling waters of the bay are a steep drop below.
See them promenading down the bridge. Anyone would think them a family: a mother and her two children, walking hand in hand. Arshad’s cap glows in the golden sunset. Amina’s hijab flutters in the breeze, as does Seema’s shawl. Seema has wound it tighter around her shoulders and head now, no longer pretending to be chilled. She’s glad for the children’s hands, warmth shared between them. The warmth reaches the inch of me, burrowed deep in her body.
Soon she’ll have to return the children, like books borrowed from a library. They sense the end nearing too. Amina clings tighter. Arshad becomes urgent with questions about growing up in Chennai with their mother. Seema answers, hesitantly at first, then loosening up. She talks about two girls who slept in the same bed, who went to the same school, who read the same books, who played the same games, who sang the same songs—including the one about the rocking horse that escapes.
“Why haven’t we seen you before, Seema Aunty?” Amina asks. “Will you come to Irvine to visit us?”
Before Seema can think of a lie, Arshad replies, “No, silly. If she’d wanted to, she’d have come before.” He glances sidelong at Seema, but Seema senses no hostility in his remark and is baffled.
“Don’t you like us, Seema Aunty?” Amina says. “I like you.”
“Why did you say that?” Seema asks, directing her question at Arshad.
They come to a halt under one of the towers of the bridge. Arshad hops onto the lower railing and peers over at the water.
“Don’t,” Seema says sharply, and he jumps off the railing back onto the bridge.
“Why did you cover your head this morning?” he asks, looking directly at her.
“I was cold,” she replies. “San Francisco’s cold.” She shivers involuntarily.
“Ammi says you don’t practice deen.”
“She told you that?”
“I asked her why you eat nonhalal meat. Why don’t you practice deen, Seema Aunty? Why don’t you submit to Allah?”
“Well, why do you?” The question slips out of her even as she recognizes the absurdity in interrogating a ten-year-old.
The three of them are protected from the wind by the tower, and they don’t have to struggle now to be heard. The world seems to be holding its breath.
“Because,” he says. He looks around, then points to the tower spearing the sky. “Because this is awesome. We couldn’t have built it without His help.”
“Muslims didn’t build it.”
“We’re all people of the Book. We all pray to the same God.”
“Do we all have to pray the same way?” she asks. “Do we all have to live the same lives?” She is alarmed by the bitterness in her voice, its vehemence. Why pick a fight with a child? This would earn her Tahera’s ire if she learned of it.
He doesn’t answer her but doesn’t appear fazed by her questioning either. Instead he says, “I’ll tell you why you covered your head.”
“Why?”
“Because you saw people looking at us. You were afraid of what they’d think.”
“Why should I be afraid? Why should I care what people think of me?”
He looks at her with a sly grin. “No, you were afraid of what people would think of Amina and me. You don’t like us covering our heads.” He pulls his cap off his head and twirls it around on his fingers. “People are scared of us. They think we’ll become terrorists.”
Seema looks at them, Arshad fiddling with his cap, Amina adjusting her hijab. They are waiting for something from her: some acknowledgment perhaps, some reassurance?
She can’t trust herself to speak. She’s angry: at Tahera and Ismail, for their pigheaded choice of a lifestyle that made outcasts of their children. But also: at Amina and Arshad, as if she blames them for accepting unquestioningly the life their parents imposed on them. But aren’t they more to be pitied than blamed? Growing up, she hadn’t much choice either, not until she left home.
“People are just stupid,” she says. “It’s easier to control them if they’re scared. And it’s easier to make them scared of those who are different.”
“You shouldn’t call anyone stupid,” Amina says.
“What do you call a Muslim who prays five times a day and offers zakat to the poor?” Arshad asks.
Seema shakes her head. “What?”
“A problem. What do you call a Muslim who prays five times a day, offers zakat to the poor, and grows a beard and wears a cap?”
“I don’t know.”
“A big problem. What do you call a Muslim who uses swear words and drinks wine and eats pork and chases after women?”
She’s startled by how fluent he is, how self-possessed. She detects no rancor in him, only wry amusement. And he doesn’t seem to care that there are people milling around them.
“A problem solved!” Arshad chortles. “What, Seema Aunty! Surely believing in Allah is not the worst thing one can do.”
He throws his cap into the air. As it reaches the zenith and starts to fall, a gust of wind picks it up and carries it over the edge of the railings.
“Bhaiya, your cap!” Amina cries.
She runs to the railings but Arshad stops her. The cap billows as it is lifted, catches the sunlight as it leaves the shadow of the tower, and glows like a lightbulb.
“It doesn’t matter,” he scoffs. “It’s just a cap.”
“What will you tell Ammi?” Amina whispers.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” Arshad says, this time less surely. He gives Seema a quick smile. “Look how lovely it is. Everything is by Allah’s grace.”
They watch as the wind buffets the cap and carries it out toward the bay. It hovers for an instant and then plummets like a stricken dove, until another gust sweeps it farther away.
26
Seven months later, at pretty much the same spot on the Golden Gate Bridge, Seema stands with her sister, their backs to the tower.
“Arshad lost his cap here,” Seema says. “The wind blew it away.”
But Tahera is not
paying attention to her, straining instead to listen to Fiaz. With the wind whistling through the bridge, they can hear only snatches of what he tells their mother by the railing, holding his jacket open to protect her from the wind.
“Your friend seems very knowledgeable about many things,” Tahera says.
Seema is amused by Tahera’s slight questioning emphasis. “Yes, he can talk your ear off on any topic.” She calls out to him, “Fiaz, come closer. We too want a share of your infinite supply of useless information.”
He puts his tongue out at her but submits dutifully, shepherding Nafeesa toward them. He’s talking about jumpers. The bridge, he says, is the most popular site in the world for committing suicide. More than a thousand have climbed over its railings to plunge down to its icy waters.
“Why would anyone choose this way to die?” Tahera steps onto the lower railing to peer over, as Arshad had done. “That must be at least two hundred feet down. Has anyone survived?”
“A few. But they usually end up with a broken body.”
Nafeesa shudders, as though the prospect of living with a broken body is more horrifying than the prospect of death.
“Why are we talking about this?” Seema complains. Fiaz should know better than to speak about death when their mother is so close to it, but he continues, describing a documentary dealing with the suicides from the bridge. The filmmaker had caught jumpers in the act, collecting video footage of two dozen leaps over the course of one year.
She grabs Fiaz’s arm to interrupt him. Fiaz yelps, and Nafeesa and Tahera turn to look at her, her mother concerned, her sister surprised. “It’s nothing. I thought I felt a contraction,” she says.
They head back to the car. She puts pressure on Fiaz’s arm to slow him down, ignoring Nafeesa’s anxious glances as they fall behind. Beneath them, a ship emerges from under the bridge, as though appearing out of nowhere.
