I lean my face back against the window, taking in the big houses and the towering boundary walls with barbed wire on the top. This journey is never-ending.
I look sideways at Mom. She’s breathing deeply from her mouth, a sure sign she’s asleep. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, fingers stained deep blue from the last painting she worked on before we left Houston. She can never get the stains out properly.
I rummage in my backpack and find my little square journal. It’s got a gray leathery cover, and thick lined paper. My purple gel pen is tucked inside, serving as a bookmark.
Dear Dad,
You won’t believe that I’m on a different continent from all my friends, right this minute. I’m awake while they’re all sleeping, dreaming of who knows what. It’s early morning here in Karachi, all the way in South Asia.
We’re taking what Mom calls a long-overdue vacation. She’s finally got a job at a private school as the art teacher, and we have the whole summer to celebrate instead of worrying about money as usual. My best friend, Zoe, is spending the summer in Italy. Isn’t she L-U-C-K-Y? I would give my left arm to go to Europe. Instead, I’m in Pakistan, which Mom says means “land of the pure.” Ugh. It’s pure, all right—pure haze, pure dust. Pure heat.
Have you ever been to Pakistan? Somehow I doubt it. A white man with light brown eyes and blond hair would really stand out here. Mom says this place will grow on me if I just give it a chance, but at the moment I’d give anything to be with you. Would you give anything to be with your family again?
Love,
Your daughter, Mimi
The taxi screeches to a stop in front of a sprawling white house with a balcony on the second floor and huge windows covered with metal bars. There are more VOTE! posters plastered on the boundary wall, along with colorful graffiti. “Is this it, ma’am?” the taxi driver calls out in Urdu.
Mom straightens up, yawning. I’m always amazed at her ability to take cat naps and wake up refreshed. I, on the other hand, wake up grouchy as a cat without whiskers. “Still the same,” she says quietly, staring at the houses outside with a dreamy expression.
I scramble out of the car without being told and stretch on the street. “This is practically a mansion,” I whisper in awe.
Mom joins me and grins. She’s standing up straighter than I’ve seen in a long time. “Welcome to my childhood home, Mimi, my darling!” she says, and strides up to the gate to ring the bell.
2
Sakina
A Letter with a Hopeful Message
“Hurry up, Sakina. Your father is leaving,” Amma calls from the kitchen. I fold the letter carefully and stuff it into my little bag. The tiffin with Abba’s lunch and mine is warm inside, and I want to make sure the letter doesn’t get wet, or worse, destroyed. It’s something called condensation, which makes hot things sweat like an old woman on a summer day.
Amma is squatting in the little courtyard of our home, washing clothes in the sink as the pipe sputters murky water into the big open trough. A pile of clothes lies in a heap at her feet, every single kameez my brother Jamshed has dirtied from the hours he plays outside. She looks up at me and frowns. “What took you so long, girl? Abba needs to be on time—you know that!”
“I was putting our food in the tiffin.”
“Good.” She utters a tired sigh and turns back to the sink. “Make sure your abba eats everything. He needs his strength to work.”
This goes without saying, of course. Abba often forgets to eat, so it’s my job to remind him. Sit with him and make him eat, if need be. Sometimes he’s the father and I’m the child. Other times he’s the child.
My brother is running about in the courtyard, pretending to be a bird. “Be a good boy today, Jammy,” I tell him, and he grins at me.
Abba is waiting on his motorcycle, smiling despite the fact that we’re very late. “I’m sorry, Abba,” I huff, and climb on behind him, holding my bag between our two bodies.
“Tuck your dupatta in,” he reminds me as he starts driving. “You don’t want it to get stuck in the back wheel.”
I know this already, but I check my dupatta anyway. Last year, a girl from our neighborhood died because her dupatta got tangled in the back wheel of the motorcycle she was riding, making her fall into oncoming traffic. “It’s fine,” I assure him, and we’re off. Out of our narrow, cobbled street, past the election banners in bright colors. I wave goodbye to the milkman and the sweeper. I see a half-naked toddler investigating the rainwater drain with a stick and shout, “Wash your hands afterward!” He stares at me like I’ve said an alien thing.
Soon, we’re cruising on the big road that leads toward the rich people’s houses. The morning is already sweltering hot, but the wind rushes on my face and around my body like it’s playing a game of hide-and-seek. I close my eyes and lean forward until my head touches Abba’s back. He smells of soap and the mustard oil he smooths his shiny hair back with every morning. My mother used to say it strengthens hair better than all those new shampoos on the market, he always tells me. I don’t like the smell of mustard oil, but I’d never tell Abba that.
We can’t afford the fancy shampoos anyway, so I make do with soap and water—just a tiny bit, because we have to share one big bucket of water among us each day: Amma, Abba, and myself, plus four-year-old Jamshed. Water is more precious than the gold rich ladies buy from their air-conditioned malls with guards outside. Water is life. Gold is . . . colored rock.
I listen to the hum of the motorcycle engine, the roar of cars around us, the beep of horns as they pass us, telling us to hurry, hurry, hurry. Abba is probably going to be late, but he never shows an ounce of anger or worry on his face. That’s what I love best about him. All our neighbors’ parents fight in the evening, angry that the water is finished, or the electricity is gone again, or the gas isn’t coming and they can’t cook. Abba just lies back on his bed, no matter how hot it is, and murmurs, “It’ll be all right. God will provide.”
I’m not sure I believe that. God listens to rich people, not to people like Abba and me. Behind my closed eyelids, I can see the letter as if it’s right in front of me.
Dear Sakina Ejaz:
We regret to inform you that you’ve failed the English portion of your admission test to New Haven School. Because of your high scores in science and mathematics, you are eligible for one more attempt at the English section on Friday, July 27, at 8:00 a.m. Please arrive early and check in at Gate 1. This letter will serve as your admission.
The letter is made up of huge words, but their meaning is clear. I failed the admission test because I’m not good enough. This isn’t a total surprise, of course. I know only a little bit of English thanks to the cartoons I steal away to watch at Abba’s place of work in between my chores. If Begum Sahiba ever knew I watched those cartoons, she’d be livid. Abba’s warned me about slacking. We can’t afford to be out of a job.
And I can’t afford to fail this admission test one more time.
We reach Begum Sahiba’s house at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Abba has managed to be on time even though we left fifteen minutes late. “See, God helps us in little things,” he whispers to me as he checks his watch and slides his motorcycle into the driveway.