I didn’t really understand what the big deal was then, but now watching Nani scream about her precious roses with their special food and seeing the poor gardener’s shoulders slump dries up all my giggles like the bushes below me. Are Nani and Nana also pretentious old people who live in big mansions? And if so, what does that make me?
Dear Dad,
Do you ever get angry? Not annoyed or irritated, like most people, but a deep angry that makes you throw something at the wall and watch it crack. I know I’m not supposed to talk like that. I’m supposed to be a grateful girl who has all of life’s blessings.
Sometimes I don’t feel like that. Mom says several weeks in Pakistan will give me perspective and a new sense of gratitude. Doesn’t that sound just like her? Everything she says is so neat and tidy, as if she’s read it in a magazine. She does read lots of magazines, though!
I wonder what you like to read. I found a few Spider-Man comics in an old box under Mom’s bed recently. Mom just snatched them from me and threw them in the trash, so I’m guessing they must have been yours. Or maybe she was just worried they were dirty from being under the bed for so long. Doesn’t matter. I like to imagine you sitting in an armchair reading a Spider-Man comic book.
I much prefer Wonder Woman myself.
Until next time,
Mimi
In the afternoon, after a huge lunch and a short nap, Nana calls me to the TV room to sit with him. I’ve changed into black capri pants and a lime-green T-shirt with a slice of cake and the words I EAT CAKE BECAUSE IT’S SOMEONE’S BIRTHDAY SOMEWHERE on it. Mom is already there at a rickety wooden easel in the corner, testing some paints. “Where did all this come from?” I ask, amazed at how quickly she’s created a space for herself in this house. Then I have to remind myself that this is Mom’s house; she lived it in forever and ever. Before America. Before Dad and me.
Sure enough, she replies, “I found these old things in the closet in my bedroom,” and a peaceful little smile creeps onto her face, making her look beautiful.
“This mother of yours used to be always painting, always painting,” Nana tells me cheerfully. He’s setting up a small wooden table in front of his armchair. “One time she even won a competition at school. Do you remember, eh, Samia darling?”
I sit down next to him, intrigued. Mom is bent over her easel, her hair falling onto her face, acting as if she can’t hear us. “How old was she?” I ask.
Nana takes out a slim rectangular black box from a drawer and opens it. It’s a chess set. He begins to carefully set up the pieces, talking as he works. “She must have been your age, I think. And do you know what her prize was?”
I rack my brain. “A paint set?”
He looks up at me sharply. “Did she already tell you this story?”
I have to laugh at his aggravated expression. “I guessed. We have an art competition in my school every year, and the winner always gets something art-related. Like paints or a gift card to a craft store.”
“And do you ever win, like your mother?”
I look over at Mom again. She’s painting a face, but it’s too soon to tell whose. She always takes the longest to complete faces, sometimes days or even weeks. I shrug. “Nah. Mom’s the artist in the family, not me.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you just never tried.” He gestures to me to move a chess piece. Apparently we are going to play a game of chess, whether I like it or not. I move a pawn two spaces forward.
“Classic rookie move,” he tells me with relish, and moves a knight. I stare at the board, trying to remember what I know about the game. Almost nothing. I move pieces randomly until Nana shouts with laughter and says, “Did nobody teach you to play chess, little girl?”
I shake my head. “Mom’s too busy painting all the time, as you can see.” I push out my lip and pretend to sob.
He shakes his head and laughs some more. “Well, then, consider this your education.” He sets up the pieces again. “I’ll go easy this time.”
Mom shakes her paintbrush at me. “Serves you right for complaining about your mother!” But she gives me one of her little smiles, all warm and cheeky. Besides, I don’t really mind playing chess with Nana. It doesn’t seem so bad.
Halfway through the third game, a loudspeaker crackles to life, and a melodious sound fills the air around us. Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. God is great. God is great. “What is that?” I ask Nana, looking around me for the source.
He waves his hand. “Oh, it’s just the azaan from the mosque down the street. Very loud, I know, but it can’t be helped. You’ll get used to it in a few days.”
“Azaan?” I know this word, although it’s a hazy memory in my mind of visiting a mosque in Houston a long time ago, watching the worshippers prostrate themselves in a steady line in front of me.
“The call to prayer. The mosque puts it on the loudspeaker five times a day, every day.” Nana adds, “In Urdu, we say azaan. The Arabic word for it is adhaan.”
I decide I like azaan better. The word flows smoother, like caramel over ice cream. Mom closes her eyes and leans back against her chair, breathing deeply as if she’s listening to some long-ago song from her childhood. I gaze at the chess pieces, letting the azaan wash over me like a soothing balm. It reaches deep into me and pings my chest.
When the azaan ends, the servant girl enters, bringing tea and a plateful of cookies in the shape of hearts, with red jam centers. I lean back and smile at her, but she gives me a serious look and turns away. Rude!
“Take some chai to Begum Sahiba in her room,” Nana says, but kindly. He’s nice to the servants, unlike Nani. I think of her shouting at the man about her roses. Nana doesn’t look like he’s ever shouted in his life. I wonder how the two of them get along.
I pick up a heart-shaped cookie and take a bite. Warm and soft, with a hint of sweetness. I munch, wiping crumbs away from my mouth. The servant girl leaves without a word, closing the door after her with a hard click.
6
Sakina
A Little Haven
Amma’s been having her headaches again, so I spend Sunday morning doing all her chores instead of relaxing on my only day off from Begum Sahiba’s house. Jammy has to be bathed, which is exhausting. I have to keep shouting at him to stop wasting water and settle down. He giggles and splashes me. Oof!
Abba relaxes on the charpai in the verandah, listening to the news on his ancient radio. Elections are coming up in six weeks, and the local candidates spend Sunday mornings debating each other. It sounds more like arguing, but I hardly listen anyway. What has any elected official ever done for poor people? Our neighborhood still doesn’t have even one fully paved road, and the trash piles keep getting bigger and smellier. The mosquitoes continue to bite us all, making us sick with malaria and Dengue fever.
“Everyone should refuse to vote for these people until they fulfill their promises from the last year,” I grumble as I wash the floor with leftover bath water. The suds make the stone sparkle and shine, and for a minute I’m pleased, even though I know the heat will dry it all up before I’m finished cleaning.
“If only our neighbors were as clever as my daughter,” Abba says affectionately. I roll my eyes, making sure he doesn’t see. He’s always telling everyone about how smart I am, how hardworking. It’s embarrassing, but it also warms my heart in a way that few other things do.