Mom’s favorite food is sushi. Did you know that? Raw fish rolled in seaweed. Gross.
Maybe when we meet one day we can all go out to a restaurant together. Wouldn’t that be nice? Only it can’t be the Olive Garden near my school because once I ate too many breadsticks and threw up right there on their tiled floor. I can still remember how mad the waiters looked, because they had to clean up the icky mess. It was so embarrassing!
I may be on their blacklist now. So we’ll just go somewhere else.
Would you like that? Going out to dinner with me, I mean.
So far, I haven’t been out much in Pakistan, which is driving me nuts! I wish we’d visit different places, see different things. Anything. We’re having guests today, Nani’s cousins, which makes me wonder how many other relatives who I didn’t know existed will I meet here? It’s sort of exciting, even though it’s nerve-racking!
Come to think of it, I don’t know anything about your side of the family either. Your parents, your siblings.
You.
Like I said, nerve-racking.
Love, Mimi
The guests are late, which Sakina tells me is quite normal and even expected. “If they say noon, they will arrive by one o’clock.” She’s wiping the nice china in the dining room with a cloth, then handing the plates to me to set around the table.
“I remember going to a wedding in Houston one time, and everyone else showing up really, really late,” I say. “Mom called it Desi Standard Time.”
She looks at me, offended. “Is that a joke?”
“It’s not funny to you?” I ask. Sakina never gets my jokes.
She goes back to her wiping. “Your jokes are never funny.”
I nod wisely. Time to bring her off her perpetually high horse. “It’s called ‘lost in translation,’” I tell her.
“What is lost? Nothing is lost.” She huffs and turns away.
I’m about to ask what her problem is. The back door opens and Mom comes in, a sheepish look on her face. Her patterned indigo tunic is wrinkled and stained with paint. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers, a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Nani.”
She’s got a happy-but-rushed look on her face, and I’m dying to know where she’s been. But Nani’s anger surrounds the house like a cloud. I wave to Mom. “Better get ready quickly. And wear something very nice—Nani is seriously dressed up!”
The guests are even later than Sakina had predicted. My stomach is rumbling, and I sneak little bites of naan from the kitchen under Sakina’s father’s amused eye. To distract him I say, “Salaam, how are you?” in my most polite voice.
He replies, “God is wonderful to me, Maryam Ji.”
Sakina passes by just in time to hear him, and she rolls her eyes behind his back. I stuff naan in my mouth to hide my giggles.
The doorbell rings imperiously, as if the guests are mad at themselves for being late. Tahira runs to open the door, Nana and Nani close behind, and I trail after them all, searching for Mom. “Now, this is my cousin and his wife, so remember to be very respectful,” Nani warns.
I can’t wait to see what Nani’s cousin looks like. I imagine a thin man wearing a cloth wrapped around his body, sniffing the air as if it’s stinky. Does he look like Nani? Do they have similar names? I realize I have no idea what Nani’s name is, or Nana’s.
Mom sneaks up behind me and joins the procession. “Made it just in time!” she whispers.
I turn to inspect her. She’s wearing the red-and-gold outfit she bought with mine in Houston, and she looks terrific. “Buy one, get one half-price, baby!” she whispers, and all the annoyance I’ve felt toward her the last few days melts away. Almost. I slide my hand into hers. I’m not going to think about her keeping secrets from me right now. I’m going to pretend everything is okay and we’re having a nice vacation in the land of our ancestors.
Tahira has opened the door and is ushering two people inside with a bow. The woman is short and stout, with perfectly styled shoulder-length jet-black hair, dressed in a pale green sleeveless shalwar kameez that’s tight and short. The man is half-bald, dressed in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt stretched over a big tummy. Only when he walks past me do I realize that the shirt is pure silk, just patterned in a Hawaiian style. Nani greets the two with fake air-kisses, and Mom smiles a bit too brightly, if you ask me. “How was your Paris vacation, Hameed?” Nani asks her cousin.
He grunts. “The place was literally overrun with tourists.”
We settle down in the fancy drawing room with polite little smiles at one another. Or at least the adults smile. I want to look at the bride dolls in the glass showcase again, but I’m too far away from them. I console myself with watching the adults from my corner, unnoticed for the time being.
“So, Samia, how’s your painting coming along, dear?” the woman asks Mom. Funny how everybody who meets Mom asks about her painting, as if it’s a strange little activity that must be addressed as soon as possible.
Mom smiles politely. “It’s going well, Auntie. Thank you for asking.”
“We’re so jealous of your daughter’s artistic abilities,” her husband tells Nana, who beams with pride.
“And this is your granddaughter—how cute!” the woman gushes, reaching over to pinch my cheeks. “Which city do you live in, darling?”
“Houston,” I say, pulling away from her spiky nails.
“Oh, Texas is too hot for us,” the man says. “We only ever visit New York City. Our son works in Manhattan, you know.”
“Don’t forget our daughter in LA, dear,” the woman reminds him. “It’s fun to visit Disneyland with the grandchildren, isn’t it?”
“Those spoiled little American grandchildren,” the man grumbles. “I hope you know Urdu, Mimi. Our grandchildren don’t know a word of Urdu; it’s so disgraceful.”
My head is beginning to hurt with their noisy enthusiasm, but I nod. “Yes, I practice sometimes with Sakina.”
The man frowns. “Who’s Sakina, your sister?”
Nani clears her throat in warning. “Just a neighbor,” she trills, and changes the subject.
The man in the fake Hawaiian shirt lights a cigar and puffs on it. “Samia, why don’t you make the trip to New York in the winter, dear?” he says. “We’d love for you to meet our younger son.”
I wrinkle my nose at the smell of the cigar. I can see Mom trying to take shallow breaths to avoid the smoke.
His wife leans forward. “He’s single and doing very well as a doctor. And still very handsome.”
Nani smiles a huge smile, like a shark about to eat dinner. “How lovely, isn’t it, Samia?”
Mom chokes and tries to smile back, but she looks like she’s about to throw up.
I can’t take it anymore. I creep out of the room and into the kitchen. Sakina and Tahira are pouring curries into porcelain dishes, while Sakina’s father chops cucumbers into a glass bowl. “They want to set up my mom with their youngest son,” I say to no one in particular.
Tahira snorts. “They’re out of their minds. Their youngest son is almost fifty years old.”
Sakina giggles loudly.