Zara Hossain Is Here

by Sabina Khan

  The man behind the desk looks up at me expectantly.

  “I’m here to see Ms. Anderson,” I say.

  “Name?” he asks, looking down at his computer.

  “Zara Hossain.”

  “Please have a seat,” he says, not looking away from his screen. “Ms. Anderson will be with you when she’s ready.”

  Shireen Khala and I grab a couple of seats near the reception desk. It’s fairly empty in here, probably because it’s close to the end of day. I look around while we wait, wondering what it might be like to work in a place like this one day.

  “Just remember to tell her everything,” Shireen Khala tells me in a low voice. “Especially about your volunteer history and your goals for your future.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  I hear my name, and we both stand and walk over to where the receptionist is pointing. A door to my right opens, and a woman steps out. She seems to be in her thirties, dressed formally in a pantsuit with her dark blond hair in a severe bun. The brown frames of her glasses add to the seriousness of her look, but a smile brightens her face as she holds out her hand.

  “Zara, I’m Vanessa Anderson. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  After introductions are out of the way, the three of us sit in her office with cups of coffee on the table in front of us.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” she says. “Sylvia spoke very highly of you.”

  I’ll have to remember to bring Ms. Talbot’s wife a thank-you gift for talking me up.

  I start at the beginning and tell Ms. Anderson everything that’s happened. When I’m done, she takes a deep breath.

  “That’s a very difficult thing to go through, Zara,” she says. “I’m happy to hear that your father is doing better, but this situation is simply not right.”

  “Do you think there’s any way they can remain in the country?” Shireen Khala asks. “Zara’s future is at stake, and she’s worked so hard.”

  “Well, there’s always something,” Ms. Anderson tells us. “The problem is finding the solution in time before Dr. Hossain’s work visa expires.”

  “I only have four months,” I say. “I won’t even be here long enough to graduate high school. I’ll have to leave before the school year ends.”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Ms. Anderson says. “I’m going to pass this on to Senator Delgado. Hopefully this is something that she’ll be willing to take on. But, Zara, I have to warn you, I cannot guarantee anything.”

  “Of course. I understand,” I say quickly.

  “But what I can promise you is that I will do everything I can to make sure that we explore any and all options.” She smiles gently at me. “We wouldn’t want to lose a driven, community-minded, and intelligent young woman like you.”

  A blush creeps into my face at her praise as she stands to signal the end of our meeting.

  “I really appreciate this, Ms. Anderson,” I say as we’re leaving. There’s a spring in my step as we walk out because I just have this feeling that something good will come out of this meeting.

  * * *

  “Zara, come down for dinner, please.”

  Ammi has made khichdi, which is just the comfort food I’m craving. Usually she makes it when one of us is having tummy troubles because the one-pot rice-and-lentil dish is easy to digest. But today she’s spiced it up with green chilies and garnished it with crispy fried onions. And there’s mango achaar to go with it. Yum. I liberally add the spicy pickle to my khichdi and start to eat.

  “Zara, have you heard anything more from the senator’s assistant you went to see the other day?” Abbu asks.

  “No, not yet, but I’m sure she’s very busy,” I say.

  “Beta, I don’t want you to get your hopes too high,” Ammi says. “As it is, these things take so long, but our case is particularly difficult.”

  “So what should I do, Ammi? I can’t just give up. I have to at least try.”

  “Yes, baba, try,” Abbu says placatingly, “but you should also have a backup plan, hai na?”

  Ammi spoons some more khichdi onto my plate. “If you end up coming back to Karachi with us, you will have to apply for colleges there too.”

  While they’d mentioned going to college in Pakistan, the fact that I’d have to apply hadn’t even entered my mind. But she’s right. I can’t just do nothing if I have to live there.

  “I’ll ask Fahim Mama to gather some information and send it to us,” Ammi says.

  “Can you imagine living there again after all these years?” I ask.

  Ammi and Abbu look at each other. Suddenly I’m not sure if I want to hear their answer, but it’s too late now.

  “Actually, I never wanted to come here in the first place,” Ammi says. “But your father thought that you would have more opportunities here.”

  “Well, I wasn’t wrong, hai na, Nilufer? She would have had a lot of opportunities if it hadn’t been for that boy and his father.”

  Abbu hasn’t talked about the shooting a single time since he woke up from his coma, other than whatever he said to the police. He’s refused to see a therapist and has asked us not to bring it up again. But I can only imagine how much pain and anger is festering inside him. For all his progressive ways of thinking, Abbu still thinks that talking to someone about his mental well-being is a sign of weakness.

  I’m starting to think that maybe it is better for him to go back and get a fresh start while being surrounded by his extended family.

  Ammi continues the conversation. “No, not wrong, Iqbal, but think about all we missed,” she says. “Our siblings have children we’ve never met, some of our relatives have died, and we never got a chance to say goodbye. So many words were said years ago, and because we left, we never got a chance to repair the damage.”

  “You’re saying all this now because of what happened,” Abbu says. “Otherwise you were perfectly happy in your life here.”

  “Or maybe I convinced myself that I was happy without my parents and my brother and all my childhood friends,” Ammi says. “People who really know me, who understand where I come from.”

  “What about Isabella and Shireen?” Abbu says.

  “Iqbal, now you’re being ridiculous. Of course, I cherish Isabella and Shireen. But I’m just saying, when I was younger, my cousins and I used to talk about our kids playing together and growing up side by side. And now we barely know who their kids are.”

  Abbu lets out a deep sigh. “I know, Nilufer. We both made sacrifices, but that’s what you have to do when you want to have a better life.”

  “That’s just what I’m saying. What was wrong with our lives before we came here?”

  “Nothing was wrong. But why not try to have more if you can?”

  They fall silent after that, and I sit at the table wondering if everything I thought about them was a lie. Or a half-truth. And I feel responsible for all of it, because if it hadn’t been for me, maybe they would have been perfectly content staying home in Karachi.

  I help clean up and leave them to their uncomfortable silence to go to my room. I finish up the rest of my math worksheet, but my mind keeps wandering to the dinner conversation.

  How would I feel if I had to go back? What would I miss the most in my day-to-day life? Going for milkshakes and movies whenever I felt like it? Being free to dress however I want? I may not have lived there for years, but I’ve gleaned enough from conversations to know that it’s different over there, especially for women. I won’t have the kind of freedom I enjoy here. But there are certain things that I’ll never get here. Like that sense of belonging where you just fit in with everyone and you’re part of a larger family and it won’t always just be the three of you. I have so many cousins, a lot of them my age, and it’ll be like I have my own siblings, something I’ve wished for all my life.

  But then I’ll never get to hang with Nick and Priya again. And what about Chloe? I def
initely wouldn’t feel safe coming out to everyone there. I highly doubt that the rest of my family will be as open-minded about my bisexuality as my parents are.

  How many people will my parents have to fight with on my behalf?

  And then who will they have left if they alienate everyone in their family?

  What choices will I really have?

  I still haven’t heard anything from Ms. Anderson, and I’m slowly losing hope. I try to read articles about immigration issues because I’m obsessed with numbers and percentages of people in similar situations.

  I read an article that says children of immigrants often age out of the green card process when they turn twenty-one. So even if we hadn’t been in this mess with Abbu’s work visa, there was a very good chance that I might’ve had to start the application process from scratch if we didn’t get our green cards in three years. It’s already been eight, and of course now we’re out of the running. But the idea that there’s no system in place to safeguard children who legally came to this country with their immigrant parents as infants and who might be deported because there’s such a backlog of pending applications just blows my mind.

  My parents often talk about how the US need for high-skilled workers, many from South Asia, outweighs the local supply, and it doesn’t make sense to me. As a doctor, my father’s skills were in high demand when my parents moved here with me fourteen years ago. That’s why the hospital agreed to sponsor his green card application swiftly and why they were paying for all legal services. But why make it so hard for people to actually remain in the country, especially after the employers have invested so much time and money into training and honing the skills of the people who come here? I read that there’s a minimum seven-year wait for applicants from South Asian countries. With the current backlog, this could take much longer.

  I find articles that talk about the dire need for immigration reform, and Susan Delgado’s name keeps popping up. Immigration reform is one of the issues of her upcoming presidential campaign. It seems like fate has led me to her office to meet with her assistant. Maybe our case can be something she’ll use as an example of how badly the current system needs to be revamped. I wonder if she’s had a chance to look into it.

  * * *

  I stand in front of my full-length mirror and study my reflection. I’m wearing a brand-new churidaar suit, a turquoise-and-silver embroidered set with matching bangles and silver dangly earrings. We’re driving to San Antonio to attend a cultural event organized by the Pakistani Association where there are stalls selling everything from food to glass bangles to embroidered household items. It’s also a chance to socialize because almost everyone comes out to enjoy traditional Pakistani snacks and entertainment. I invited Chloe, and she’s brimming with excitement as she plays with the thin silver bangles I gave her. She’s wearing one of my suits, a light pink one with silver sequins dotted all over, and she looks radiant. We meet up with Nick and Priya, who also drove up, and browse a few more stalls before stopping for chaat. I love the tartness of the chaat masala mixed in with guavas and apples, and I’m glad to see that Chloe is enjoying it too. We stop at a stall selling gorgeous cushion covers embroidered with little pieces of glass. I buy a matching set for Ammi, even though a nagging voice in my head reminds me that she’ll be able to buy all this in Karachi herself very soon. But I choose to ignore this voice because I need a break, just for today, to forget about everything. An announcement reminds us that the Nazia Hassan tribute will begin soon. Ammi and Abbu introduced me to her music when we watched Qurbani, me for the first time and my parents probably for the fiftieth. She sang one of the most popular songs in the movie, and I instantly fell in love with it. I’m probably the only teen in the entire state of Texas who loves the song that ushered the disco era into Bollywood. “Aap Jaisa Koi” was my favorite, but once my parents realized I liked it, they wasted no time pulling out her entire album, on cassette tape.

  When I was eleven or twelve, it wouldn’t be at all unusual to find me sitting next to Ammi’s old tape deck listening to Nazia’s songs. The tape deck doesn’t work anymore, but every now and then, I’ll find one of her songs on YouTube and relive my glory days as a preteen.

  Judging by the crowd gathered by the main stage, it’s clear that I’m not the only one with a taste for old people music. The young Pakistani singer who gets onstage flawlessly belts out one of my other Nazia faves, “Disco Deewane.” This is exactly what I needed today. My friends and I dance along as the band plays a whole set. Afterward we go and find a stall that sells kulfi. The cardamom-flavored ice cream is perfect for this hot afternoon.

  In the evening, there’s a performance by a band made up entirely of aunties and uncles, and it’s giving me life. They sing old Bollywood songs by Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar, and it’s the best. I also spy my parents on the other side of the crowd dancing away to the music, and it makes me smile to see them so carefree after a long time. Of course, the evening wouldn’t be complete without running into Zareen Aunty, who passes by and throws me a murderous look just as I’m getting another plate of mango slices covered in salt and chili powder. I know I should ignore her, but at the last minute, I change my mind and flash a wicked smile in her direction. I don’t wait around to see her reaction, making my way to the main entrance, where my parents said they would wait for me.

  “Uff, that Nazia Hassan tribute was too good,” Ammi says as she’s driving us home.

  “I had such a great time,” I say. “That singer was amazing.”

  “What about the final performance?” Ammi asks. “Did you like it?”

  “It was the best. Abbu, why didn’t you join the group? Last year, you said you were too busy, but you could have joined them this time.”

  “Beta, I’m hardly in the right state of mind to focus on something like that,” Abbu says.

  He’s right, I guess. We’ve been through so much these past few months, it feels like we haven’t done anything fun for ages. My heart is heavy when I remember just a few months back, when Chloe was with all of us and Abbu sang for us. That seems like ages ago, in a time when life was normal and the biggest thing I had to worry about was Tyler being a jerk. How did we get here?

  Ms. Anderson has left a message to call back when I get home from school a few days later. My heart races with anticipation as I return her call immediately. After I hang up, I run around the house to find my parents. I find them in their bedroom. Abbu is a little tired after his physical therapy session and is resting.

  “Ms. Anderson had good news to share. She says Susan Delgado wants to meet with us,” I say, slightly out of breath.

  “That’s great,” Ammi says. “When are you going to see her?”

  “She wants to see all of us. She said she’d like to talk to us together about everything that happened.”

  Ammi and Abbu look at each other.

  “Isn’t it better if you go by yourself so that she can focus on you?” Ammi says. “It might be better than having to help all three of us.”

  “After all, your situation is different from ours, Zara,” Abbu says. “It might be easier just to get yours sorted out.”

  “But what if she can help all of us? Why won’t you even try?”

  “Beta, we told you already, we don’t want to stay here any longer,” Ammi says. “You were always planning to go out of state for college, so you’d be living away from us anyway, right?”

  “Yes, but this is different. I’d still get to see you during holidays and stuff.”

  “So now you’ll visit us in Karachi,” Abbu says. “It’ll be good for you to come there.”

  “But that’s not how it was supposed to be.”

  “I know, beta,” Ammi says patiently. “But this is how it is. If you weren’t about to finish high school, of course it would be another matter.”

  I take a deep breath and try to focus on the fact that Susan Delgado wants to meet with me and possibly try to help. That’s what’s going to get me thr
ough this.

  * * *

  Three days later, I’m sitting across from her. She seems older than my parents, so maybe in her fifties, a petite woman with dark brown hair and piercing eyes. I’ve read up about her, and I’m in awe of everything she’s accomplished. She comes from humble beginnings and is the daughter of immigrants from Guatemala herself. Years ago, her parents struggled to come to this country and survive, but with hard work and perseverance, they were able to make a life for themselves. Susan put herself through college and law school by working multiple jobs to support herself. After facing her share of discrimination, she finally made it into the House of Representatives, and from there she became a senator.

  Although I’m meeting her for the first time, I feel some sort of connection with her. Maybe it’s because I think that she understands what it’s like to be an outsider no matter how long you’ve lived somewhere. And I’m certain that she remembers the struggles that many immigrants face. Why else would she be willing to help?

  “Ms. Delgado, I’m Zara. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me,” I say as soon as I walk in. We’re in the green room at the KRIS TV station, where she’s doing an interview later. This was the only time she had available.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Zara. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances, but I understand this matter is of some urgency?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I recount the entire sequence of events. She listens intently, interrupting a couple of times for clarification. After I’m done, she leans back in her chair and shakes her head.

  “I’m so very sorry for what your family is going through. This is simply unacceptable.”

  “I feel as if we’re being punished for something we didn’t even do. It’s so unfair.”

  “I agree completely. And let me tell you, Zara, I will do everything in my power to try and either expedite your green card application or find a way to extend your father’s work visa.”