by Nawaaz Ahmed
“Arshad, Amina, come back,” he yells, breaking into a run toward them, not knowing why he’s running, only that he must stop them before they get closer to the walls. Does he imagine the paint is blood? He recalls reading about the blood of pigs used on mosques, recalls images of blood streaming down victims of bomb blasts. He pounds the gravel of the parking lot, as if he were trying to crush the pebbles into the ground. Amina freezes where she is, and he picks her up, then increases his stride until he catches up with Arshad and yanks him around.
“Abba,” Arshad whimpers, and Ismail is not sure whether it’s in reaction to the desecration of the mosque or if he’s hurting his son’s arm.
“Close your eyes.” He almost snarls, harsher than he’s ever been with his children. Amina squirms in his hold, and he presses her face against his chest. With the other hand, he drags Arshad up the steps of the mosque, ignoring the men calling out to him, until they’re in the foyer. “Stay here,” he orders. “I don’t want you coming out.”
When he joins the others, he cannot bring himself to look at them or at the wall. It’s his fault—his hubris caused this. He should have heeded their warnings to keep the fundraiser modest, discreet. How proud he’d been about the write-up in the Sentinel earlier that week, in which he and Imam Zia had been quoted extensively. How proud of cultivating a reputation as an unflinching advocate of the Prophet’s forthright ways, scoffing at suggestions to minimize the expansion plans. And what devilry had made him expose his children to this profanity, bringing them along so they’d be witness to the accolades he’d hungered for? Had he thought he’d face no punishment for his sinful pride, his self-glorifying desires?
He turns to the wall, ignoring Imam Zia’s hand on his shoulder, pretending to study the graffiti, tracing the surface of the paint—thankfully, not blood—still a little sticky, the red rubbing off lightly on his fingers. This close to the wall, he cannot make out the letters or the words or the images, only the violence of the crimson strokes, like bloody gashes in the skin of the mosque. He murmurs ayats from the Quran under his breath, in repentance for his sins.
36
On my mother’s mind as she wakes up Sunday morning: Leigh. Nafeesa’s side of the bed is empty but still retains her warmth, and Seema slips into reveries of other Sunday mornings waking up beside Leigh, to her sleepy-wide smile and languorous embrace. Then the leisurely entangling of lips and limbs, the pleasures and promise of the day unfolding in slow motion as though to ensure no moment is wasted without being intimately savored.
But the reveries are too soon marred by memories of the previous day: her abject appeal to Tahera, Tahera’s pitying deferral, her tears that had visibly burned through the air before she’d excused herself to the bathroom. Had she expected Tahera to throw herself at her in remorse or reconciliation? Why had she worked herself into such desperation, and hope? Now she has ceded power and is forced to wait on Tahera’s answer and to pretend not to care while her sister deliberates.
Nafeesa sits down beside her. “Are you all right? You tossed and turned all night.”
My mother blames me. “The baby was up all night, kicking.”
“I’ll ask Tahera to take a look at you. You don’t look well.”
Nafeesa is unexpectedly persistent, but Seema remains firm. She cannot give Tahera any more reason to patronize her. “Ammi, I have a checkup tomorrow. I’d rather wait for my own doctor.”
Leigh’s call is no relief either, with her plaintive “I miss you, why don’t you slip away and meet me at our spot?” Every Sunday since they’ve been together, after a lazy morning in bed, they amble on a pilgrimage to that spot in Dolores Park where they first kissed. They missed last Sunday because of Nafeesa. And Seema feels guilty because she has made plans with Divya today.
“You can say you want to get some exercise.” Leigh offers various excuses, and as Seema counters each one, Leigh’s voice turns forlorn. “I won’t force a discussion about you-know-what, I promise.”
Seema’s guilt is compounded: it’s mostly her fault that Leigh has come to place so much significance on being present at the delivery. The two of them have rarely spoken about their future together beyond that horizon; Seema has been careful not to. But she has never stopped Leigh from visualizing her involvement in the baby’s future. Leigh talks about diaper changes, about pushing the stroller down to Dolores Park and up the hill to “our spot” so baby Ishraaq can take in the panorama of the city and its skyline—and Seema has welcomed it, even encouraged it. As if she’s readier to accept a partner-caretaker, to make less frightening the responsibility of the baby than a partner for herself. She’s secretly glad that the question of marriage couldn’t arise in the near future, since same-sex marriages in California were overturned two years ago by Proposition 8.
Seema can picture Leigh’s lanky frame sagging at her refusal. “But I’ll see you tomorrow at the doctor’s, right?” Seema presents it as previously decided, though it’s an atonement.
But maybe it’s the right opportunity after all to introduce her lover to her family—as a friend, of course, so it isn’t an irrevocable step. Perhaps meeting her family will be sufficient to satisfy Leigh for some time, perhaps being able to assign a face and a name to the idea of a lover would soften their reaction if and when she tells them about Leigh.
Leigh gives an excited whoop—she can’t wait!—and placated, hangs up.
At least Leigh’s call has given Seema a plethora of excuses to get out of the house to meet Divya. But, unfortunately, the excuse she settles on—exercise—runs into trouble.
“Why more exercise, Seema? Didn’t you say you were exhausted from all that walking yesterday? And you have back pain. You must take some rest today.” Nafeesa holds on to Seema’s hand, even as she prepares to leave the apartment. “Tell her, Tahera, tell her to stay home and rest.”
Tahera looks up from the book she’s reading. “Ammi says you’re not feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Ammi is needlessly worried.”
“She shouldn’t go alone. Go with her, Tahera,” Nafeesa entreats.
“I can take care of myself,” Seema says, exasperated. “Why don’t you understand I just want some time by myself? It’s not easy having the two of you here all the time.”
She regrets the words as soon as she speaks them. Her mother lets go of her hand, her sister compresses her lips. Seema lets herself out of the apartment without looking back. The message in her mother’s stricken eyes pursues her through the darkened staircase. But I came all this distance for you. You’ll have all the time in the world for that—later! What is she doing, alienating the only person who has cared for her all these years? And for what reason—what could come of this meeting with Divya, other than complications, and a sense of betraying Leigh? Divya has been asking for a few months to get together to process what they once had—no doubt to also press again for getting back together.
Seema lumbers back up the stairs. As she fumbles with her keys, the dead bolt flicks back, and the door swings open to reveal Nafeesa, poised as if expecting her return, and behind her, Tahera. Seema throws up her hands. “All right.”
Nafeesa hurriedly gets out of the way, but it looks for a moment that Tahera will balk. But she merely shrugs, puts down the book in her hand—the Keats book she’d rejected two nights ago!—and puts on her jilbab and hijab.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” Seema says. To her shame, Nafeesa clasps her hand with an expression that feels like gratitude.
37
The buzzer blares in the apartment, and you, Grandmother, are alarmed by its sudden screech. You can’t imagine your children are back from their walk so soon, unless they’ve quarreled already and Tahera has returned alone. You’ve been congratulating yourself on throwing your daughters together again.
That impatient screech once more, held longer, and you nervously stab at the intercom panel, unsure which button to respond with. “Yes, who is it?” you say into the speaker. But instead
of a reply, you hear an answering buzz from the entrance and the door clicking open, then footsteps up the stairs. You panic, casting about in your memory for anything Seema has told you regarding safety in this neighborhood.
There’s a knock on the door. “Tahera, is it you?” you ask. You’re too short to even look out the peephole.
“It’s me, Bill Miles.”
A muffled voice, but the pitter-patter of your heart slows down. You recognize it, though you’ve only heard it a few times, and only once in person, when Seema brought her husband to Chennai, at your sister Halima’s house. “Seema’s not home,” you say.
“I know. Can I speak to you, Mrs. Hussein? Please.”
You’re relieved that the anxiety of the past moments was unnecessary, and curious, too, about what he wants. Though Seema may disapprove, you open the door.
He appears a little older, more gray flecking the sides of his springy hair, even the goatee on his chin. He used to be clean-shaven. His goatee reminds you of your husband’s, except that my grandfather’s is completely white.
You’re unsure what to do next. Do you invite him in? Seema has said nothing against him, and you believe her assertion that the divorce was a mutual decision. Though that doesn’t absolve him of abandoning his son.
Bill is shy, even a little sheepish. “Can I come in?”
You stand aside. He enters, and you shut the door. He wheels around the living room once, as though searching for signs of Seema. There’s nothing—no photos, no wall hangings, no personal belongings—to indicate Seema’s presence here, only Tahera’s: suitcase, janamaz, Quran on the rehal. You were quite shocked at how bare Seema’s home is, but he doesn’t seem surprised.
“Thank you for being here for Seema,” he says.
You don’t respond but wait for him to continue.
He sits down on the futon, less of a giant now. “I was jogging past when I saw Seema and her sister leave.”
“They went for a walk. They should be back soon.”
“Actually—I wanted to speak to you. About Seema.” He hesitates. “She will not talk to me.” He looks up at you, eyes crinkling into a question, as though asking how much you know, how much Seema has told you.
The man in your daughter’s living room is a stranger. But he clearly wants something from you, and that gives you courage to ask him the questions you cannot ask your own daughter. “Why—?”
“Why she’ll not speak to me? Why I want to speak to you?”
You shake your head. “Why did you leave Seema alone when she’s carrying a baby?”
Bill is taken aback by your directness. “I didn’t,” he stammers. “At least, I did, but I wanted us to get back together. I still want us to get back together.”
This startles you. When Seema told you she was pregnant, that she meant to bring up the child by herself, she’d led you to believe there was no hope of reconciliation, that Bill didn’t want to be involved with the child. Had she lied? You can’t put it past her. Seema, you’ve always known, is quite capable of stretching the truth, especially when it concerns decisions she thinks you’ll not understand. But whose fault is that? You’ve never made an attempt to understand her, or Tahera, for that matter.
Bill mistakes your confusion for disbelief. He continues to stammer an explanation: There had been problems, he’d been too hasty, he hadn’t been sure what Seema wanted. Seema herself had doubts. He still loves Seema. He breaks off, then repeats himself, catches himself short, then starts again.
You only half listen. There are always problems between husbands and wives, and living with Seema must surely present challenges. You gaze instead at his face, seeking in his eyes expressions of sincerity.
But he’s never still enough for you to gauge that. He fiddles constantly with the zip of his jogging suit, he turns frequently to check the door. He can’t hold your gaze before glancing away. His eyes dart from floor to corner to ceiling until, as if tired from all this motion, he stops speaking, fixing his attention on the Quran in the bookshelf.
“Is that a Quran? I’ve never known Seema to have one.”
“That’s Tahera’s,” you say. “Seema’s sister.”
He walks over to the bookshelf, as if drawn to the Quran. He reaches to pick it up—
“No.” You move to intercept. “You’re not supposed to touch the Quran with unwashed hands.”
With those words, something shifts. Until a moment ago you’d been pondering whether Seema’s best interests lay in getting back together with him, but now—perhaps Seema already realized how distant, how different their worlds are. Fiaz’s pleasing Urdu echoes in your ears. You can’t help but compare the virtues of these two men as spouses, sons-in-law.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” Bill is clearly unsettled by the force of your curtness. He smiles awkwardly. “My father converted to Islam.”
The day seems full of surprises. Seema never mentioned this to you, and neither did he. You’d assumed Bill and his family were Christians, like most Blacks, though you know of Muhammad Ali, of course. Why would his father convert? You wait for Bill to clarify, but he has become quiet, standing with hands folded, and doesn’t seem to want to say more.
“When?” you ask, because you can’t ask why. “And you?” Perhaps, if Bill had converted to Islam, Seema’s father might have come around.
“No, not me. I didn’t see my father, growing up. I was brought up by my grandparents. That’s why, Mrs. Hussein—” He takes a deep breath and reaches a hand out to you. “I know from personal experience how difficult it is growing up without a father. I don’t want my child to go through that. Please, Mrs. Hussein, I just want Seema to hear me out. I’d like to remain a part of my child’s life. Will you speak to her? For your grandchild’s sake?”
This time, there’s no doubting the sincerity in his voice. Surely Seema wouldn’t want to deprive her child of his father? If there’s a chance you could unite them, you must act. Isn’t one of your aims in coming here to somehow reconcile a father and his child?
It’s beyond midnight in Chennai now. You imagine your husband in bed, sleeping the way he does, unstirring, as if no worldly worries could keep him awake. He hasn’t called you here. He said he wouldn’t, and he’s stuck to his word. You called him once to let him know you arrived safely. You’ve been hoping he’ll call, though you know how stubborn he is. Your daughter is stubborn too, but you’ll make her listen this time.
You agree to talk to Seema. Bill thanks you profusely, pressing your hands between his saucer-sized palms. He gives you his phone number, asks you to call him if you have any news, or need any help, anything at all.
Now that you’ve agreed, he’s in a hurry to leave, gone with a clatter of footsteps.
38
On the day, seven months ago, when my to-be father Bill is to learn of the possibility of me, he wakes to blue skies, the light lithe and lively. It is the first day of April. Each hue sparkles, scrubbed of its winter grime.
It’s a few weeks since he and Seema filed to have their marriage summarily dissolved, their issues amicably settled. Just the previous week, Obama had finally signed the Affordable Care Act into law, reassuring Bill that Obama’s tenure would have a legacy rivaling that of almost all other presidents, even if Obama achieved nothing else. The teabaggers hell-bent on thwarting Obama’s agenda have been outwitted and outplayed, as Bill had predicted.
It is spring in San Francisco, blithely expectant. The divorce would not take effect for a half year, but already Bill meets the day as though impatient after a long dormancy. Even hearing from Seema—she calls him at work, asking to meet for lunch—only checks his spirits a little: there are a few matters remaining to be discussed.
They meet at a restaurant close to his office. In the half gloom of the fluorescent interior, he can persuade himself she’s from a past life, already fading. He has prepared for much, but not for what she says: “Bill, I’m pregnant.”
At first, he doesn’t be
lieve her—it’s April Fool’s Day, after all. Next, he’s puzzled: What game is she playing? Is she setting the stage to revoke the dissolution, to get back together, or seek some kind of spousal support? And how could she be pregnant?
“That night we decided to separate—” Seema says, “I’d had my IUD removed a few weeks earlier.”
The memory comes back to him—the morning fog, the ferocious coupling, its urgency heightened by the knowledge of the impending parting, the thrill of one final possession. Later, the relief and regret, at the ease of his reprieve the night before, her ready acceptance.
He’s confused: Had Seema come that night prepared to agree to a child? But by then his insistence on a child had become a face-saving way of letting her go. And having experienced the potential of a reawakened life, does he really desire to return to the depression of his previous existence? His chest compresses. He says, “This will invalidate the summary dissolution. When did you find out?”
“A week after we signed.”
“And you’re telling me now? After more than two weeks?”
“I had to decide what to do.”
“What were you deciding?”
“I want to keep the baby.”
“So I am to have no say.” In either decision—removing the IUD, keeping the baby. It’s just like Seema to make decisions for the two of them, as though his opinion doesn’t matter, as though she can always count on him to come around. He must make it clear he’s no longer willing to follow wherever she leads, no longer willing to let her govern his life. “I don’t want a baby now. I don’t want to get back together.”
