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.
I glare at them. “It’s not funny.” Then I think of Mom’s throwing-up face as she realized what this meeting was about. “Okay, it’s a little bit funny.”
12
Sakina
Ice Cream for the Soul
The loud and heavily perfumed guests have finally left, and I’m washing the dishes before Abba and I get ready to prepare dinner. The evening sun is already low in the sky, and the asr azaan sounds outside. Mimi runs into the kitchen, grinning. “Mom and I are going out for ice cream. Do you want to come?”
Apparently, Mimi doesn’t understand my position in her household. Servants don’t get to go out for ice cream with the mistress of the house. It’s just not done. “I can’t. I’m busy,” I mumble.
Mimi sighs and turns to Abba. “Can you please tell Sakina to come with us?” she begs, making pretty eyes at him.
Abba smiles back. “Of course, Maryam Ji. She can go.”
I give him a dark look, but he ignores me. I make Mimi wait until two more pots are washed, then wipe my hands slowly with a towel on the counter. “What’s the big deal with ice cream, anyway?” I mutter. “It’s not that great.”
Turns out that I’m totally, completely wrong. Malik, the driver, takes us to what Mimi’s mother calls her old haunt, a fancy r
estaurant on the Clifton seawall with deep yellow lighting, long bench seats, and blue velvet curtains on the windows. A tiny bell tinkles a merry welcome above the door as we enter. And the ice cream. Rows of round buckets full of splashes of color and the most exotic of names, in a glass counter stretching the entire length of the shop. Cool Peppermint. Strawberry Sunrise. Marshmallow Fudge. Midnight Chocolate. Pistachio Delight.
“What would you like, Sakina?” Mimi’s mother asks me, and my throat is suddenly dry.
“Um, strawberry?” I say, even though I have only a vague idea what this is. A fruit of some sort, red, but too expensive to do anything but admire from a distance.
“Good choice.” Mimi’s mother turns to Mimi. “What about you, young lady?”
Mimi is staring at the buckets of ice cream with serious eyes. “I think I’m going to have Marshmallow Fudge because it combines two of my favorite ingredients,” she finally announces. The person at the counter, a young man with a nervous smile, scoops out our ice creams and we carry them to a bench. I walk as if I’m on eggshells, worried that the frothy pink delight in my hands will fall and ruin the whole experience.
Mimi has no such qualms. She’s chattering, and she almost stumbles once. My heart skips a beat and I catch ahold of her arm to stop her from falling. She turns and dazzles me with a grin. “Oops, sorry!”
My first bite is a taste of sweet heaven. I munch slowly, letting the cold goodness ooze between my teeth and onto my tongue. Is this how Mimi felt when she took her first bite of mango? Finally, I swallow and open my eyes. Mimi and her mother are both staring at me expectantly. “Is it good?” Mimi asks eagerly. “Is it better than other ice creams? What would you rate it on a scale of one to ten?”
Her mother raps her gently on the wrist. “Leave the girl alone.”
Mimi grins at me, then takes out her silver phone and snaps pictures of our ice cream. “Perfect,” she says.
We eat in silence, which is what befits such a delicious treat. Mimi’s marshmallow—whatever that is—must be good because she’s licking her spoon diligently. “So those guests were interesting,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “They wanted Mom to marry their old, bald son.”
Mimi’s mother groans. “We don’t know if he’s bald,” she protests.
Mimi nods seriously. “Did you see his father? Baldness runs in your genes, you know.”
“Well, it’s not happening,” Mimi’s mother tells her firmly. “This matchmaking is one of the things I used to hate about Pakistan when I was a young girl. Everyone wants to come visit you, talking about their son or their cousin or their brother. It’s annoying.”
I can’t help myself. My curiosity gets the better of me and I blurt out, “Didn’t you marry your husband that way?” and I can almost feel Mimi turn into a statue next to me.
Mimi’s mother has also noticed her daughter’s reaction. She frowns slightly at Mimi and says, “I met Mimi’s father in the States, far away from the watchful eyes of my parents and all the other matchmakers.”
“You mean by yourself?” I’m amazed at how different things are in Mimi’s America. I’ve never heard of anyone making a love marriage except in Begum Sahiba’s Urdu dramas, and those heroines never fare well. “How did you find him?”
She sneaks another look at Mimi, then squares her shoulders. “Well, I met Tom at a fundraising dinner for refugees,” she tells me slowly. “I was the artist commissioned to paint a few pieces for auction, and he was one of the many reporters writing a story about the program. He interviewed me for the story, and we found that we really enjoyed each other’s company. Later, he called me and asked me to have dinner with him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Beside me, Mimi seems to be in a sort of frozen pain. “You never told me this,” she whispers. “I’ve asked you so many times, and you always blow me off.”
Mimi’s mother finally turns and looks straight at Mimi, her eyelids heavy with regret. “I’m telling you now.”
I’m lost in the images of a fancy gathering in America, with tall paintings on the walls, and handsome young men walking around arm in arm with beautiful women. Someone walks into the ice-cream shop, and the twinkling of the bell dissolves my thoughts. I cough and look down at the table. Everyone else does the same. I wish I’d never asked this question. I wish I’d just remained quiet and eaten my strawberry ice cream in peace. Mimi pushes aside her half-eaten cup and sniffs. I think she’s crying, but can’t be sure because she’s turned away toward the windows.
I bring some ice cream home for Amma. Mimi’s mother insisted on it, and I couldn’t think of any reason to say no to her. The packet is bulky and cold against my thighs on the ride on Abba’s motorcycle, but he’s faster than usual, and the air around us is cool.
“You have to try this ice cream, Amma!” I announce as soon as I get home. “It’s the most delicious thing I ever tasted!”
“More than your abba’s cooking?” she teases. She’s mending a torn dupatta, but she puts it down to take the spoon I’m holding out to her. “Mmmm, mazedaar!”
“I want to try!” Jammy cries, jumping about, pulling on my arm.
For a second I falter. If I don’t share with the others, I’ll have the entire cup to myself. Who knows when I’ll ever have this scrumptious ice cream ever again? Then Jammy’s hopeful face melts my heart, and I pass the spoon to him. “Be careful,” I warn, making my face stern. “If you drop even a tiny bit, I won’t give you any more.”
When the ice cream is all finished and Jammy settles down for the night in the bedroom, I sit with my parents under the evening stars. Abba lies on the bed, legs crossed. Amma works on her sewing, back bent over the fabric. There’s some noise from outside—many of our neighbors don’t sleep until after midnight—and the occasional promotional cry in defense of an election candidate, but it’s quiet for the most part.
“How did you two get married?” I ask suddenly, remembering the conversation in the ice cream shop.
Amma looks at me, startled. “What kind of question is that?” She scoffs. “The matchmaker brought your father’s information to my parents, and I said yes. End of story.”
I’m strangely disappointed. “That’s it?”
Amma is getting annoyed—I can tell by her frown. “What else do you need? Flowers? Bells? Singing and dancing? That only happens in movies, Sakina!”
I shake my head. “It happens in America,” I insist.
She sighs in exasperation. “Well, this is not America, is it?”
Abba opens his eyes and sits up. “Don’t get angry at the poor girl. She is just asking for some details. Some spice in the food to make it interesting. Aren’t you, my love?”
I sense one of his stories coming. It’s been a very long time since I sat on his lap and listened, enthralled, as he told a tale handed down from his father and grandfather. I remember those stories, the one where his mother sold her best shoes to buy roti for her hungry children, or the one where his uncle walked six miles to reach a sister’s wedding. Long tales with twists and turns, and ups and downs. And giant villains in the shape of rich men with mustaches. “Yes, please tell me!” I beg.
Amma shakes her head and goes back to her sewing. I cross my legs under me and lean against the wall. Abba clears his throat and begins. “I was a young man in my late twenties, owner of a small food cart in Saddar that was doing pretty well. We used to sell samosas and bun kabab and gol gappay, do you remember, Aisha?”
Amma shakes her head. “It was disgustingly unhealthy food. I don’t know why anyone bought it.”
“Oh, they bought it, all right. I was famous! They came from far and wide to eat my food. Men working in the nearby offices, and students from the nearby colleges, and even women doing their shopping. They all came to my cart when they needed a break. And one day my mother said to me, ‘You should get married and start a family before you get too old.’”
I clasp my hands. “And you did everything your mother told you, didn�
�t you?”
“Well, of course I did. She was a great woman, full of wisdom and excellent advice.”
Amma rolls her eyes, but thankfully Abba doesn’t notice. He always gets caught up in the memory of my grandmother. “You look like her, you know, Sakina.”
“Yes, you’ve told me, Abba,” I say, impatient. “Get on with the story. How did you choose Amma out of all the women out there?”
“Ha! How could I not?” He pokes a finger at Amma’s back, and she smiles reluctantly. “Your amma was my next-door neighbor, and we used to play together when we were children. I always knew I’d marry her when I grew up.”
Amma finally puts down her sewing. “Enough with this story,” she says firmly. “It’s not even true. The truth is that I felt sorry for you tending to your lonely cart every day, and decided to marry you and put you out of your misery.”
Abba laughs a deep, tender laugh. “Hai, Aisha! That is probably very true.”
13
Mimi
Mom Is Moving On
Mom has decided that we must go shopping. “That orange kameez you had on the other day was much too tight,” she announces on Saturday morning as I laze around on my bed in my pajamas. “Seems like you’ve grown quite a bit in the last year.”
“I don’t want more shalwar kameez!” I groan. I’m pretty sure she’s saying this only because she feels guilty about what happened at the ice-cream parlor. “We hardly ever wear them in Houston.”
“Well, this is not Houston, is it, my dear?” she tells me, pulling me up from my bed. “Come on. Get dressed. We’ve got a full day ahead of us.”
I gaze longingly at my bedside table, where my journal to Dad is waiting. I’d planned on writing a summary of last night before I forgot every detail of the matchmaking meeting. Nani’s cousin and his wife were hilariously annoying, like characters in a storybook. Mom gives me a little push toward the closet. “We need to get you out of those silly T-shirts you’re always wearing,” she says.
A Thousand Questions Page 6