I’m immediately horrified. “No way will I ever give up my T-shirts!” I gasp. “In fact, I will go with you on one condition only. I want to buy a T-shirt with a funny saying too.”
She pauses, thinking. “I doubt you’ll get something like that here. Pakistani people don’t really have a sense of humor.”
I’m sure she’s exaggerating. “Deal?” I insist.
She finally nods. “Fine! Now get dressed!” Then pretends to be angry when I do a little victory dance on the floor.
After breakfast, there’s another problem. No driver. “Your mother just sent Malik on a mission to buy some mangoes for her all the way from Sabzi Mandi,” Nana tells us, coming down the stairs with a thick book in his hand. “He won’t be back anytime soon.”
My ears perk up. “Sabzi Mandi? Isn’t that the name of that grocery store we go to sometimes in Houston?”
Mom replies dryly: “This is the original Sabzi Mandi. An open-air market for fruits and vegetables. It’s gigantic.” She turns to Nana with a determined look on her face. “No problem! If Malik isn’t here, we will travel old school.”
I’m left wondering what old school means in this case. Walking? When she literally drags me out of the house and onto the street, I’m convinced. “It’s too hot, Mom, and I’m pretty sure this counts as child abuse.”
She gives me a highly amused look and keeps walking. “Not too far, silly. Just to that corner where the rickshaws are waiting.”
I peer into the distance. Despite the early hour, the heat is already striking down on my head with a vengeance. I’m glad I decided to wear a cap with the colors of the rainbow on it. My T-shirt has a matching rainbow, but it’s coming out of the mouth of an angry unicorn. “What’s a rickshaw?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
A rickshaw is a small triangular-shaped car big enough for a driver in the front and two or three passengers in the back. The sides are open, so even when we climb in, I clutch Mom’s hand in case I fall out when we move. Mom bargains in rapid Urdu while I look at my surroundings and snap pictures on my silver phone. The seats are red plastic, and the partition between the driver and us has colorful metal bars decorated with streamers. The roof has a variety of happy animals painted in such a way that they seem to hang upside down above me. I see a panda and a pony, a parrot and a dolphin, all smiling as if they’re happy to see me ride the rickshaw with them.
The price is finally agreed upon, and the driver starts the engine. Mom shouts, “Hold on!” and we’re off in a roar that fills my ears. “Isn’t this fun?” Mom smiles as if she’s found some long-lost treasure of her childhood. I want to answer her, but it’s too noisy, and the entire carriage vibrates as if we’re in the stomach of a mechanical whale bent on destroying us. I make do with clinging to the bar in front of me, then I grit my teeth and pull back my lips to express my excitement.
“I bet they don’t have anything like this in Italy, right?” Mom shouts.
“No, only gondolas and things,” I reply.
“Did Zoe reply to your messages?”
I don’t say anything. No need to tell her I haven’t messaged my friend yet. What’s the point? She’s probably lost in the beauty of European fashion and culture.
In what seems like hours, we reach the mall. It’s a posh-looking building, rising up to three stories high, with all sorts of designer store signs hanging from the windows. Levi’s. Nike. H&M. My mouth must have been open, because Mom whispers, “Stop looking so shocked,” and pulls me in. The rickshaw roars away in a movement that probably broke the sound barrier, and I shudder to think how we’re going to get back home.
But first, there’s lots of shopping. I’m happy to have Mom all to myself after the activity of the last few days. Nana’s house seems full of people all the time, and I miss it being just the two of us. Besides, I haven’t seen Mom this carefree in a long time, smiling at shopkeepers, letting me try on different outfits, actually spending money without a worried look on her face. “Are you sure we can afford this?” I whisper when she buys my fourth shalwar kameez, a white frothy cotton outfit with multicolored lace on the hem.
She nods. “The exchange rate is ridiculously good,” which doesn’t explain a thing to me except that we’re shopping in a way we haven’t ever before in Houston.
We roam the mall like giddy teenagers, holding bags on our arms. We pass by an American clothing store, and I remember our deal. “T-shirts!” I shout, and drag her inside.
“Come on. You don’t really want to buy another stupid T-shirt, do you?” she says, pouting.
“Yes, I really do.” There’s a rack of T-shirts in the back, but most of them have logos of big brands. I find the salesperson. “Do you have any T-shirts with funny sayings?”
She nods and smiles, then disappears in the back for a minute. When she returns, she’s holding a big box full of clothes. “Most people don’t want funny slogans messing up their clothes,” she explains.
“Exactly!” Mom says. I frown at her and rifle through the box while she checks her phone for messages. It’s very disappointing. There are several Garfield shirts, and a few with Urdu cartoons on them.
“You were right,” I finally tell Mom. “No sense of humor.”
She smiles a satisfied little smile. “I’m always right. Now let’s get some food!”
The mall food court is on the third floor. We order KFC and wait at a table. Mom keeps looking at her watch. “Are you waiting for someone?” I joke.
It’s not funny, though, because just then a man strides right up to us and smiles at Mom as if he’s known her forever. “Samia! Sorry I’m late.” His English is smooth and accentless, not like most people who seem to be working hard at pronouncing the words.
My mouth is open this time for real. Who is this person? He’s medium height, with strands of gray in his hair just like Mom. His blue jeans are gleaming clean, and his black-and-white-checkered long-sleeved shirt is crisp despite the heat outside. He drags out a chair and sits down without asking. “So how have you been?”
Mom’s face is . . . radiant. “Alhamdolillah,” she simpers, then turns to me. “This is my daughter, Maryam. We call her Mimi. And darling, this is Sohail. We used to be friends in college.”
“Before you abandoned me and left for America, you mean!” Sohail laughs.
I close my mouth and scowl ferociously at him. Who is he to joke and laugh at my mom, and call her by her first name as if he’s someone special? Mom is supposed to be sad and worried, pining away for Dad, not laughing with a strange man who she apparently arranged to meet here. The scowl is useless. They’re turned to each other, chattering in an effortless mixture of Urdu and English about their college days. What fun they used to have. How interesting life was before kids and marriage and graying hair.
Ugh. I want to throw up.
“So what class are you in, Mimi?” Sohail asks, turning his million-dollar smile in my direction. “Or, grade, as they say in America.”
I debate ignoring him. Or better yet, saying something very sarcastic. Mom gives me a stern look. “Going into sixth,” I mumble.
“Oh, middle school,” he replies as if it’s the best thing in the world. “What are your favorite subjects?”
I can’t believe he’s trying to get to know me, or at least pretending in order to please Mom. “I don’t know,” I say, and rummage through my shopping bags as if I urgently need to find something. He nods like he perfectly understands the predicament of choosing a favorite subject in middle school, and turns back to Mom. They’re sitting so close it’s nauseating.
Our food arrives, but I hardly touch it. I can’t wait to go back to Nana’s house, even if it means riding in that noisy rickshaw one more time. But of course, the universe is not on my side. After we’re finished eating, Sohail offers to take us back home in his car, and Mom says yes immediately.
Double ugh. I make another attempt to ditch this guy. “But I loved riding on that rickshaw!” I grumble.
> Mom turns and frowns at me. “Really? You looked like you were going to puke.”
Sohail reaches for our bags and hefts them all up with ease. “My car is much less noisy, I promise,” he says. “This way, my ladies.”
Triple ugh.
14
Sakina
Tell Me a Secret
The kitchen is bustling with activity, the fragrance of sizzling tikka boti permeating the air. Abba has a technique of grilling that involves placing a hot coal into a pot of meat when it’s almost cooked, and I’m eager to see how he does it. The taste of the grill without the hassle, he’s told me many times.
The boneless chicken is cut into neat squares, and marinated overnight with tikka spices, yogurt, olive oil, and ginger-garlic paste. It’s been simmering on a bed of onions and tomatoes for an hour now, and I’m guessing it must be soft enough to melt in my mouth, if I was allowed to eat the same food as the owners of the house. Now, Abba heats some coals on the stove and gently adds them to the pot, taking care not to disturb the beauty of the chicken inside.
We—Tahira and I—lean forward to look. “Stand back and give me space,” Abba tells us.
“Smells delicious,” I murmur, saliva pooling in my mouth.
“Aaaargh!” I hear a scream and freeze.
Tahira jumps. “Who is that?” she whispers, afraid.
I scoff. “Sounds like Mimi. I’ll go check.”
Upstairs in her bedroom, Mimi stands on top of the bed, a look of horror on her face. “Sakina, be careful, there’s a snake in here!”
I look around. Her clothes are lying on the floor in an untidy heap. The top of the wardrobe is scattered with all sorts of things: scrunchies, lotions, small stuffed animals attached to keychains, and a cap with a rainbow on it. “That’s impossible. How would a snake get in here?”
She’s practically crying. “I saw it, I’m telling you. It was this long.” She holds up her hands about three inches apart in front of her face. “It wiggled and slid all the way under those clothes.”
I sigh. “Maybe don’t leave your clothes on the floor like this?” Then I bite my lip hard because a servant can’t say that to the granddaughter of the mistress of the house.
Her shoulders slump. “I know, Mom always tells me the same thing.”
I move her clothes with my foot. I don’t believe there’s really a snake in her room, but it’s always better to be safe. Something wiggles underneath and I jump back. “See, I told you!” Mimi shrieks from the bed.
“Shh! You’ll scare it,” I hiss. I look around for something heavy and find a pair of clunky black shoes with red bows. I hold a shoe tightly in one hand. Then I go back to the clothes, picking them up one by one and dusting them off very carefully. No sudden movements. No sounds. When the last piece of clothing is left—a pair of striped capri pants I’ve see Mimi wear many times—I smack the shoe on top of it.
Mimi screams again, but not as loudly as before.
I stop smacking and pick up the pants carefully, shaking them a little. “You can stop screaming now,” I say. “It’s a centipede.”
She comes down from the bed and leans in to look. “Wow, you’re so brave!” she whispers in a scared little voice.
I bend down and pick up the centipede with my bare hands. “It’s not dead. Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Your pants softened the blow. It’s just stunned.” I take the slimy thing out onto her balcony and fling it down, watching it land on the grass. It shakes its little body and slithers away.
“Thank you,” Mimi says awkwardly.
I point to her capri pants. “You should put those in the laundry basket.”
She cringes and nods. “Sure,” she says, but I see her eyeing the trash can in the corner of her room, so I’m guessing that’s where they will end up. She flops down on her bed, sighing. “That was a close call.”
I’m not sure what she means. “It was a centipede,” I say.
“I’m not in my right mind since Saturday,” she tells me, or rather tells the ceiling she’s staring at angrily. “Everything here is strange, the fajr azaan wakes me up way too early every morning, and now my mom apparently has a new boyfriend. Life sucks.”
I’m sure she’s being dramatic. I’m learning that dramatic is Mimi’s preferred style. “If you close the windows tightly before going to sleep at night, the azaan won’t sound as loud to your ears,” I tell her. “And what boyfriend are you talking about? Your mother is such a nice person; she’d never do anything scandalous like that.”
She makes a frustrated little sound in her throat. “She met this guy at the mall the other day. Sohail somebody. He used to be her friend when they were in college.” She sits up and looks at me with teary eyes. “You should have seen them, laughing and talking as if I wasn’t even there. It was disgusting. I’m sure they’re going to meet again and again, the whole time Mom and I are in Karachi.”
I can’t understand what she’s saying. Isn’t Mimi’s mother married? Boyfriends are something from movies and dramas, and I can’t imagine Samia Ji doing anything so inappropriate. Plus, she’s old like Amma, not a teenage girl. “You’re just being sensitive, I’m sure,” I soothe her. “Americans are very friendly, aren’t they? Not reserved and silent like Pakistani people. Your mother is just being a normal American.”
Mimi chews her lip, thinking. Finally, her frown disappears and a smile crosses her lips. “I think you’re right. She’s way too old to have a boyfriend anyway!”
I know she wants to talk some more, but I have work to do. I turn to leave. “Lunch is almost ready; you should come downstairs.”
Tahira and Abba have a good laugh when I tell them about the centipede in Mimi’s bedroom. “Imagine being scared of a little thing like that,” Tahira says, grinning widely. “That girl is hilarious.”
Abba shakes his head. “Don’t make fun of Maryam Ji. She’s very new to this country. It’s difficult to be away from your home, you know.”
I’m still remembering his words when I take chai and zeera biscuits to the family room in the late afternoon. It’s a sunny room overlooking the back garden, with tall windows on three sides, and a big lazy fan that swishes around and around in slow motion. Sahib Ji spends most of his day here, especially since he retired a few years ago. He’s got a big television—the one I sometimes watch when I get a chance—and a bookshelf full of books that are very dry and boring, with pistons and engines on the covers. I’ve tried reading those books. They are good for nothing besides falling asleep quickly.
Sahib Ji also has another passion: chess. He’s tried to teach me how to play, but Abba always calls me back to the kitchen just when I’m starting to get the hang of it. It’s a game of strategy and patience, both of which servants have little time for. We spend our days putting out fires, answering others’ beck and call, and generally running around worrying how things will get done. Who has time for a long, drawn-out chess match, where the goal is to protect the queen and sacrifice the pawns? It seems too close to real life to be any fun.
Mimi seems to be enjoying it, though. She’s sitting on a chair with her legs crossed under her, leaning forward until her nose almost touches the chess board. Her eyebrows are furrowed into deep slashes, and her lips purse together. She hardly looks up as I set the tray of snacks on the sideboard in the corner. “Thank you, dear,” Mimi’s mother says. She’s sketching in a notepad near one of the windows, her lips pursed in an exact replica of her daughter’s.
Dear? I pause, not sure how to answer. It’s nothing, really, but her simple words spread into my chest like warm milk in the middle of the night. “Yes,” I whisper, not sure what I’m agreeing to.
I pour chai in two cups and hand one first to her, then to Sahib Ji. He takes a noisy sip and clears his throat. “So, where is Tom these days?” he asks Mimi’s mother.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mimi’s hand tremble midair. She seems stiffer, the angles of her face harder. Who’s this Tom person Sahib Ji is talking about?
Mimi’s mother shrugs, but the movement is also stiff, like cardboard. “I don’t know. He’s a South Asian political expert, apparently, so he could be anywhere, really. Seems like he was in Karachi recently.”
“You’re right—he moved to Karachi last year,” replies Sahib Ji. “I’ve been enjoying his political analysis in the newspaper. But I haven’t read anything from him for a couple of months now. Not even about the election.”
I can’t stop staring at Mimi. If a person’s entire being could be focused on one conversation, this would be it. Rapid breaths. Flared nostrils. Frozen hands. But she keeps staring at the chess set in front of her as if that’s all she can think about.
Who is Tom? What’s he doing in Karachi? And why does Mimi look as if her insides are shattering like brittle glass on a windy day?
15
Mimi
I’m Fine, Everything Is Fine
I can’t breathe. My left eye twitches until the chess pieces in front of me are dancing as if bewitched. Why are they talking about Dad?
I focus on the knight Nana’s just moved, not wanting to disturb the peace of Mom’s sketching. Wanting to disappear. I bow my head until it’s almost touching the pieces. I like the way everything else leaves my consciousness, and the only thing in my vision is the chess board.
Mom shrugs again, an action I can literally feel. It’s a shrug that’s second nature to her, one she performs whenever someone says something she doesn’t like. “Maybe he’s moved on to somewhere else by now. It’s what he does best.”
“Samia . . .” Nana begins. Then he stops and hides his face in his teacup.
Mom goes back to her sketchbook. “Why do you even care, Abba? You didn’t want me to marry him in the first place. Let’s not talk about this now; it’s ancient history.”
A Thousand Questions Page 7