A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  Abba finishes off the last of his roti. “That’s good,” he says. “Samia Ji is a lovely person. She deserves some happiness.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. “What about Mimi? Doesn’t she deserve to be happy? To get to know her real father?”

  Abba looks perplexed. “Well, of course. But only Allah knows where he is.”

  Tahira is almost out the kitchen door. She looks back one last time. “I heard he’s dead.”

  I want to throw something at her. Tom Scotts isn’t dead, and all of a sudden I have an uncontrollable urge to shout out that I know exactly where he is. Then I remind myself that Mimi is only a visitor here. Soon she’ll leave and go back to her beloved America, and I’ll still be stuck with very real problems, like a sick father, an overworked mother, and an English test looming like my worst enemy.

  I grab a can of Coke and gulp it down like bitter medicine, ignoring Abba’s shocked expression.

  31

  Mimi

  It’s Not Over Until I Say So

  I sit on the steps of the back porch off the kitchen, my journal in my lap, counting the stars. The moon is full and round, bursting with light. I hear a movement behind me. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.” It’s Mom, her smile gone and her hair bundled up into a messy ponytail.

  “What do you care?” I grunt.

  She sits down next to me. “I care because I didn’t raise you to be disrespectful,” she says sharply.

  I swallow. I thought she’d come to apologize, tell me she wasn’t interested in Sohail, and that we could go back to the way things were before we came to Pakistan. “I wasn’t being disrespectful,” I insist.

  “Sweetheart, everything from your T-shirt to your silence at dinner screamed disrespect. You should have worn one of the new shalwar kameez I bought for you at the mall.”

  I don’t want to think of the wonderful time we had shopping together. It seems like a year ago. “The new clothes itch,” I grumble, even though they don’t. Not much, anyway.

  She sighs. “You shouldn’t have—”

  “You shouldn’t have asked Sohail to dinner,” I interrupt in a hard voice. “You should be out looking for Dad, like I am. You should be trying to convince him to come home. Not running around teaching painting to a bunch of kids.”

  There’s a shocked silence. “Looking for your dad?” she whispers. “Why would I do that?”

  I can’t believe how dense she’s being. “Because he’s here! In Karachi!”

  She’s got a look on her face so harsh I can hardly recognize her. “Mimi, for the last time. He left us. He. Left. Us. Why would I go chasing after him? Why would I ever want to find him, for God’s sake?”

  My throat is tight. I try to speak but it comes out in a muffled sound, a cross between a moan and a sob. I don’t even know how to answer this question. “For me,” I whisper so low I think maybe I didn’t speak at all. “Because I need him.”

  All the air inside her deflates, and her back curves inward. She puts a shaky arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Mimi. I can’t. It’s over between me and Tom. It has been for a very long time.”

  My sadness grows and grows until it turns into something hideous. I shake off her arm and rush to my feet in a quick, violent movement that makes me dizzy. “No!” I shout, standing over her. I’m holding my journal in my hand, and I wave it like a sword. “No, you don’t mean that! You don’t!”

  Then, because I know she does—the set of her jaw is exactly the same as mine when I look in the mirror—I take my journal and hurl it across the backyard. Across the grass that’s dark and glistening in the moonlight. Into the shrubs, away from me.

  32

  Sakina

  Secrets

  Abba drives his motorcycle like an old man tonight, hugging the sidewalks and stopping at every single traffic light before it turns red. I worry that we’ll get stuck behind one of those noisy election rallies, but the roads are clear.

  As soon as we reach home, Abba collapses in his bed. I can hear him groaning just a bit, even though he’s trying to be brave. “The doctor said you need regular insulin injections,” I remind him as I hang up my scarf and wash my hands with soap.

  At my wretched tone, Jammy looks up in surprise from his toys—wooden spoons and an old pot. I lower my voice and sit by Abba so our conversation is more private. I’ve been thinking about his illness for the last few weeks almost constantly, and the worry’s been increasing until it’s squeezing my chest tightly.

  Abba looks at me, annoyed. “Didn’t we have this discussion today already?” he asks. “We can’t afford the injections, so stop talking about them. It’s bad enough that we had to take Samia Ji’s money. We’re not going to take any more charity from anyone, do you hear?”

  His tone is angry, but his face is haggard, almost ashamed. I reach down and hug him fiercely. “Not to worry—I don’t like taking charity either. I’ll do some extra chores at Begum Sahiba’s house. She said she wanted her silver jewelry polished someday.”

  He closes his eyes for a brief second. “This is not the life I wanted for you, my daughter,” he finally whispers, sighing. “I had always hoped you’d study and make something of your life. Better than your old man, at least.”

  I’m stunned. He’s never said this before. Before I can answer, Amma comes to gather Jammy up for dinner. “Sakina, stop chatting and make some chai for your father,” she scolds. “I can’t do everything on my own, you know.”

  I want to shout that neither can I, but it’s not really an option. Like Abba said, why get angry about things you cannot change?

  Amma fusses over him, smooths out his blanket. “I’m going to telephone Begum Sahiba tomorrow,” she says grimly. “You need a break from work for a few days. Sakina is more than capable of managing the kitchen on her own.”

  Abba grunts, but he doesn’t say no. My heart sinks even more. There is no way on earth this family can survive without me.

  When Amma comes back to the stove, I’m ready with Mimi’s envelope. “What’s this?” she asks, surprised.

  I push the envelope toward her fiercely. “Can you please go to the hospital tomorrow and get Abba’s insulin injections like the doctor told us to?” I whisper.

  She twists her head to look at Abba, then back to face me. “Where did you get this money?”

  I’m too exhausted to answer her questions. Her face is a mixture of suspicion and hope, and it breaks my heart. “Mimi gave it to me when she visited,” I finally reply, then turn away to make tea.

  I can feel Amma standing next to me for long minutes. Then Jammy shouts for her, and she walks away, saying, “Mimi and her mother are angels of God.”

  I think about this as I sit by the stove, watching the water start to boil. Angels of God? I’m not sure I believe that, but getting my hands on this much money definitely counts as a miracle. After Sohail went home today, I listened out the kitchen window to Mimi and her mother arguing. Most days I tell myself I’m better off than Mimi, despite her riches. Who wants to live in a strange land, away from one’s own people? Who wants to live without a father? But most days I’m just fooling myself. Every time I see her sprawl on her bed reading, or laugh with Sahib Ji over a game of chess, I feel a strange burning in my throat.

  I know what it is, but I refuse to name it.

  After everyone has gone to sleep, I crawl into my study space and pick up the cookbook. It’s ancient and yellowing, but the cooking instructions have been helpful in developing my vocabulary. I read for only a few minutes before I start to doze.

  I’m standing in front of New Haven School, its big metal gates open for the first time. That’s how I know I’m dreaming. Those gates have always been tightly closed for me; a guard in brown camouflage overalls and a long shiny mustache stops anyone who wishes to enter. He has smiles for the students and parents, but for me he’s always got a disdainful half glance full of warning mixed with incredulity that I dare to consider entering.

 
; But today the gates are open and he’s not guarding the entrance. So this is definitely a dream. I walk slowly inside, flitting from the pavement to the lawn, then down to a playground with shiny metal swings and monkey bars. I reach the offices, where I’ve been a few times before, once to get information for my admission test, another time to actually take the test. Even in my dream I remember that feeling. Pride that I’m sitting at a small wooden desk reserved for children who study instead of working; worry that I’ll fail miserably.

  I sit down at a desk and work on the test. Only I can’t because it’s jumbled, and the words swim all over the page. I feel hot and sick to my stomach. I throw the paper on the floor in frustration and put my head on my arms. There’s a movement behind me, and I turn. A crowd of people—children, adults—hovers over me, chanting, “Get out, you don’t belong here. Get out, get out, get out.”

  I run outside, and they all chase me, still chanting. The gates are closed now, but I climb over them and fall to the ground on the other side. I look up. Amma and Abba stand in front of me with arms folded and big angry scowls. “I’m disappointed in you, my daughter,” Abba says, and he’s got tears in his eyes.

  And then I wake up with a start.

  Jealousy. That’s what I feel for Mimi sometimes. For all the ways her life is easy, and mine is not. There, I named it.

  I wipe the wetness from my eyes. My bag is lying on the floor and I reach inside. I should study some English verbs; they are my weakness, and I have only a few days left before the test. I should practice my accent, make it sound more high-class. I should read Diary of a Wimpy Kid all over again, just to make sure I remember all the idioms and slang. Kidding is joking. Dude means person, usually a male. They say sidewalk in American English, but footpath in British. If that’s on the admission test, I have to use the British word.

  But I don’t open the Wimpy Kid book. Instead, I draw out something soft and gray from my bag and open it. Despite my best intentions, I begin to read, telling myself it’s practice for my test.

  Dear Dad,

  I am your daughter, and I have some questions for you . . .

  33

  Mimi

  Even Villains Aren’t All Bad

  The atmosphere inside Nana’s house has been frigid since last night. I’m still boiling over about Mom and Sohail, and Mom’s been going around with a quietly upset look. I’m secretly glad, but also secretly sad. “You should have seen Mom at dinner yesterday,” I confide in Sakina. “I don’t remember her ever smiling so much.” We’re sitting cross-legged in the living room after lunch, playing cards spread out in front of us. I’ve been teaching Sakina to play snap, because that’s the only game I know.

  “She likes Sohail,” Sakina agrees, and I frown because I don’t need any reminding.

  “I got really mad at her last night.” I launch into an account of the evening, from the moment Sohail stepped into the house to Nani’s glares and pointed questions, and Nana’s uncomfortable jokes.

  Sakina looks distracted. She keeps looking out the window at the shrubs in the backyard. “Are you even listening to me?” I finally ask. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” she mutters. “Just worried about my English test.”

  I don’t want to admit that I’d forgotten all about it. I make an interested face and turn toward her. “When is it again? Soon?”

  Sakina gives me a dry look. “Friday. Two more days.”

  I pick up all the cards and shuffle them. “You’ll do great! Your English has improved so much since I first met you.”

  I mean it as a compliment, but Sakina’s face darkens for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally murmurs, staring at my hands.

  We play for a few minutes, or at least I try to explain the rules of snap, but she keeps looking around, not paying attention. The door slams open and Mom comes in. “Sorry,” she says very politely when she sees us. “I need to paint here; is that okay?”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  Mom looks like she’s about to say something, but she stops. She goes over to her canvas in the corner and sits down. She makes a bunch of unnecessary noises as she gets things ready for her session. “You’re not teaching at your precious orphanage today?” I blurt out.

  She grips her paintbrush tightly. “Not today. I only teach three times a week—it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Whatever,” I say again, and shuffle the cards so quickly they fly all over the floor in front of us.

  Sakina gives me a puzzled look and starts to collect the cards. She clears her throat and addresses Mom. “Samia Ji, my parents send you their thanks. You know, for the money you sent us.”

  Mom smiles warmly at Sakina. “That’s perfectly all right, dear. We should all help each other, whether it’s through money or time.”

  I make an angry sound in my throat. Obviously that last sentence is a dig at me, as if I’m a villain who’s stopping her from working at an orphanage.

  Mom throws me a withering look and says, “Nani is going to the market with Malik, in case you want to go with her.”

  The thought of sitting in a car with Nani is distasteful, but it’s definitely better than spending time with Mom right now. Every time I look at her face, I think of how she said, It’s over between me and Tom, as if it’s no big deal. Not even caring that it’s a big deal to me. I jump up and pull Sakina with me. “Come on, Sakina, let’s go.”

  Sakina stands still. “I have to cook today,” she mutters. “Abba isn’t here.”

  I make a pouting face at her. “Pretty please? You made so much for lunch; I’m positive we have tons of leftovers.”

  She inspects my face carefully. “What is so pretty about your please?” she asks. I pull her out of the room before she has time to protest anymore.

  Malik is waiting by the car. “I can’t take you sightseeing today, Maryam Ji,” he apologizes. “Your nani has to go to the market.”

  “We’re going with her,” I announce, and climb into the back seat. Nani is already sitting there, reading something on her phone way too close to her face. She starts when I slide in first, followed by Sakina on the far end. “How wonderful,” she says dryly, and goes back to her phone.

  I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic.

  The drive is slow, with frequent stops thanks to heavy traffic. It’s been several days since I went out, and I’m surprised at the tons of flags and posters on every wall. On some buildings I can’t find even an inch of empty space. “Don’t they have rules against this sort of thing?” I ask.

  “Not everyone is as rule-loving as you Americans, my dear,” Nani replies. She’s put her phone inside her gigantic purse and is staring out the window.

  Sakina snorts a tiny laugh, and I look at her in surprise. She’s never in agreement with Nani.

  Nani leans forward and looks at Sakina as well. “We Pakistanis are rule-breakers, you might say, eh, Sakina?”

  Sakina snorts again. I kick her leg with mine, and she kicks back, but softly.

  I hear familiar loud music in the distance. The car comes to a halt as we wait for a long line of buses with loudspeakers and men hanging off the top like circus acrobats. “DON’T FORGET TO VOTE! VOTING IS YOUR RIGHT AS A PAKISTANI. AUGUST FIRST . . . REMEMBER TO VOTE!”

  Sakina sighs. “I’ll be so happy when this election is over.”

  Nani nods and utters a tired “Mm-hmm.” Then she adds, “You know, Sakina, when I was younger, we didn’t have any elections at all. Pakistan has been ruled by several dictators over the years.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Sakina mutters. “The no elections part, I mean.”

  I have to protest. “Come on, who’d want to be ruled by a dictator? Don’t you want your freedom?”

  Sakina gives me a hard look. “There’s no freedom for poor people,” she says, then looks at Nani and bites her lip.

  Nani nods. “It’s okay, dear. I know what you mean. Money gives you freedom in some ways, but to be truly free you ne
ed other things. Good friends. Family. Your children around you. You’ll learn this as you grow older.”

  I gulp, thinking back to my first day in Pakistan. We entered the house, and she swished into the room in a gorgeous sari, hugging us tight. It was Mom who kept her distance, who commented about the fancy house and rich furnishings. Mom who lives thousands of miles away. Funny how I’m suddenly seeing Mom in a whole new light, and it’s not a great look. “Do you wish we lived close to you all the time?” I ask. “And Uncle Faizan too?”

  Nani closes her eyes for a second. Her lips are twisted as if she’s eaten something sour and unpleasant. “At least your mother calls us every week. Your uncle Faizan doesn’t believe in phones, apparently. Everything is Facebook this and Snapchat that. He sends an email to your nana once in a while, saying he’s too busy with studies and whatnot. If I didn’t have Facebook, I’d have forgotten what my own son looks like.”

  Sakina and I exchange glances. Is she suddenly grateful for her little family, whatever problems they may have? She may be poor, but at least everyone’s together. Her face is smooth and expressionless. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  I want to fly to England and smack this uncle of mine on the head. Would it be too much to call home once in a while? I steal a peek at Nani as she stares out the window. I should talk to Mom about this. She always knows what to do.

  Then I remember that I’m mad at Mom. That Mom hardly ever mentions her own family. Mom has too many secrets of her own. Besides, if she doesn’t care about Dad leaving us, why would she care about a younger brother who always annoyed her?

  I realize that the music outside is getting fainter. Finally, the procession passes by and our car starts to move again. We travel in silence the rest of the way, all three of us lost in our own thoughts.

  34