Sakina
The Real Test
It’s all like my dream from a few days ago. The big metal gates to New Haven School have been opened wide, and the guard stands by with something almost like a smile on his grim face. Only this time, I’m not alone. There is a string of students just like me wanting to take the test. A few I’ve seen before, when I took the test the first time, and it relieves me to know that others also failed some portion.
I’m the only person without parents here. Even the boy next to me, whose darkened face and torn kameez says he’s poor like me, has an old man standing proudly with him, ruffling his hair. I turn away from their happy faces, wanting this to be over soon. I’ve told Begum Sahiba that Abba needs me at home, and I’ll come into work later than usual. Begum Sahiba agreed without comment, which made me feel even more guilty. All the lies are making me so tired I can hardly stand straight with their burden.
The guard looks at his watch and motions us forward at exactly eight o’clock. We take the test in an empty classroom, and I can’t stop looking around as the teacher—a woman with stylish short hair and rings on her fingers—passes the papers. There are big posters on the wall with smiling children and gigantic, colorful letters in English and Urdu. A bookshelf bursting with books. A world map on the back wall, so big I can actually read the names of the cities. I search for Houston, where Mimi lives, and realize it’s close to an ocean. Just like Karachi.
I think of the time I took Mimi to Clifton Beach and made her climb on a camel. She screeched loudly when the camel lurched forward, and I laughed at her. I wonder if they have camels on the beach near Houston. Probably not, judging by the number of pictures Mimi had excitedly taken with her silver phone.
The teacher calls out, “You can begin working now,” and I tear my eyes away from the map. My desk is all the way at the back of the room, away from the pedestal fan, but I’m not worried. Begum Sahiba’s kitchen is much hotter, and I’m not one to let a little heat defeat me. I wrap my dupatta around my head, say a quick little prayer underneath my breath, and begin.
I’ve finished the test early, so I decide to stop at the Dawn offices on my way to Begum Sahiba’s house. The loud roar of the rickshaw matches the thumpity-thump of my heartbeat all the way here. This trip doesn’t seem to get any easier with time. My tongue, gripped between my teeth, has a bitter taste. I hate lying, but it seems as if all I’ve been doing recently is lying. To my family, to my employers, and now to my friend.
Mimi will be gone soon, back to America where she belongs. At least she won’t leave Pakistan without getting some answers to her innumerable questions.
I stand in the parking lot, clutching my bag under my arm. I don’t want to face the receptionist again or answer any more questions about what I’m doing in a place I don’t belong. Thankfully, with the elections only three days away, the building is crawling with people: reporters on important news stories, men and women going to meetings. On the far corner of the parking lot, there’s a school bus with a crowd of children gathered around it. A field trip? An outing?
The children are laughing and talking, their white uniforms crisp despite the blasting heat. Two teachers herd them toward the building, shouting desperately, “Stay together! Please stay together!” I slip inside with them, looking downward to avoid even accidental eye contact. A lesson I learned a long time ago: don’t make eye contact with rich people: that’s when they notice you.
The group moves forward like a pack of goats, their excited voices echoing in the lobby. The receptionist comes forward to meet them; it’s Rubina, the woman with the hot pink nails and arched eyebrows Mimi and I met the first time we came here. There’s no way I want her to see me.
I begin to panic, but she’s not even looking at me. Her smile is replaced with a frown, and she’s holding out her arms wide as if to gather all the schoolchildren to her. I grab my chance. I slip away from the back of the group and walk—not too fast—to the lifts, and jab the button repeatedly with a shaking finger. One, two, three, four, five . . . The doors open and I’m inside. I wait for a yell from behind me, someone shouting “Hey, servant girl, come back!” but there’s nothing except the echoes of the happy, uniformed children ready to tour a newspaper building.
The seventh floor is quiet, but room 732 is open this time. I peek in. Tom Scotts—Mimi’s father—is working at his desk, head down. The room is neat—too neat. The shelves are empty and boxes sit on the floor, filled with books and other things. Is he moving to a new office? Leaving for another job?
“You again?” He looks up at me, annoyed.
“Um . . .” I open my bag and take something out with sweaty hands. “I need to give this to you.”
He looks at the book I’m holding out. Mimi’s journal. “What is this?”
“It’s for you. From my friend . . . a girl.”
“A girl?” His eyebrows come together in a scowl. “If this is for a news story, you need to go to the first floor. They take tips from the public. I only write commentaries. Well, I used to. I’m not officially working here anymore.”
He stops talking, and I want to smile. Everything about him—his floppy hair, his frown, the way he talks fast then stops as if reconsidering his words—reminds me of Mimi. His light brown eyes are an exact copy of hers, or is it the other way around? I’m no longer scared or nervous or anxious about being here. I know I’ve done the right thing. I reach forward and place the journal on his desk. His very clean desk. “It’s not a news tip. It’s from a girl you used to know in America. Her name is Maryam and these are her questions. A thousand questions.”
His face changes. He loses his frown and a stillness comes over him, like he’s been turned to a stone statue. My nerves come crashing back, and I turn and run.
35
Mimi
You Can’t Run from Your Troubles
“So who do you think will win the election this time?”
“Ha! No matter who wins, it’s the people who are the real winners. We haven’t gotten too many chances to exercise our right to vote over the last seventy years, you know.”
“Oho, that means you’re supporting someone who can’t possibly win! Only losers talk like that.”
“Well, I’m certainly going to win this game tonight.”
Sohail is back, and this time he’s playing chess with Nana. Their warm laughter, deep and so unlike what I’m used to hearing, floats up to me in my bedroom. I scramble up from the floor, where I’m sitting cross-legged in front of my open suitcase, and shut the door. Slam it, almost. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. Their voices float up from the open balcony.
Nana doesn’t realize what a traitor he’s being. I’m the one he’s supposed to play chess with. I’m the one he’s supposed to be talking to about the latest outrageous election news on the television. I’m the one he’s supposed to be laughing with, making memories before it’s too late.
I stare at the suitcase. I figure it’s time to pack even though I still have a few days left before our flight back to Houston. It seems as if time grew wings and flew away from me, laughing all the while. How I hated the idea of coming here, convinced I’d have a terrible time. And now summer vacation is almost over and things have been very . . . different . . . from my imagination.
Chess. Sakina. Even Nani.
And of course Mom. I never thought Mom and I could be anything but friends. But it’s been days since we spoke more than two words to each other. She’s being so stubborn. Or maybe it’s me. I sigh and flop down on the carpet. Nothing makes sense anymore, least of all the fact that there’s a man in the family room downstairs laughing with my family.
Ugh. What is he even doing here? He said he was in the neighborhood after Jummah prayers, and thought he’d stop by. Before I knew it, he was invited in by a simpering mom for chai and snacks. And now, apparently, by Nana for a game or three of chess.
I can’t stand it anymore. I jump up and rummage through my bedside table for my journal. It’s time to
complain to the only person who doesn’t mind all my questions. Dad. It takes me about two seconds to not find the journal where it should be. I look under the bed covers, then on my dressing table and inside the closet.
AAAAAAAAH! Now I remember, I hurled it into the bushes that night when I was screaming at Mom. I take deep, panicked breaths. How could I have been so careless, so stupid? That journal contains my heart, poured out in multicolored gel ink. I rush out of my room and downstairs, almost tripping on the last step but steadying myself with a hand around the banister
“Is that you, Tahira?” Nani calls out. “Bring some more chai, will you?”
I hurtle through the kitchen, almost banging into Tahira and her ever-present tray of goodies, and out the back door into the garden. That’s where I sit in the evenings, counting the stars. That’s where Mom and I had a shouting match the other night. And there! That’s where I threw my precious journal in a fit of rage.
I hurry to the back of the garden, pushing shrubbery out of the way. I pat the mulch with my hands, and push leaves aside with my feet, and even get down on the floor and sniff for leathery smells. Nana’s birds eye me suspiciously from their cage, and I lean forward to check around them. Nope, no journal. Nothing except the petals of a few brave roses blooming despite the heat, and a big fat worm exposed from my rapid investigations. I can feel my breathing get rough, my hands get clammy. I want to scream, but the family room where Sohail and Nana are playing chess is just around the corner, and the windows are always open.
I look around frantically for an escape. My eyes fall on the big iron front gate. It’s closed, but I know how to open it slowly so not a creak will sound the alarm. The walls of Nani’s house are closing in on me, and I can’t think straight. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out the gate and into the street, running away from the house and the journal that’s no longer there.
The street is quiet. There are several rickshaws on the far corner, the same place where Mom and I got a ride to the mall together. For a wild second I think of getting in one of those rocky rickshaws and speeding away. To what? To where? Good questions. I take a step, then stop. I don’t have any money.
My heart is still beating way too fast for me to head back home. I veer back toward the other end of the street. Behind the fourth house there’s a children’s park, where Sakina and I sat on the swings once. It’s right next to a small mosque, the one where all the servants go to pray five times a day. The one whose loudspeaker azaan wakes me up in the early mornings.
Perfectly safe.
I sit on a swing and close my eyes. Back and forth, back and forth. Letting go of all my anger is harder than I’d thought, but the rocking motion helps calm me down.
There’s a park in my neighborhood in Houston, across from our apartment complex and only a short walk away. It’s got a sandbox and two big plastic slides, and a row of six swings. Zoe and I used to play there after school every day in elementary school, graduating from the slides to the swings and then to the benches, sitting with our notebooks and gel pens, making drawings of the other kids playing.
We haven’t gone to that park in about a year.
I take my phone out of my pocket and write a message to Zoe. Coming back home next week. Dying to see you. Then I delete the dying and write hoping instead. Hoping to see someone sounds way less desperate. The phone beeps in my hand. There’s a new message from Mom.
Where are you? Can’t find you. Please reply.
I put the phone back in my pocket and swing some more. Back and forth, back and forth.
The maghrib azaan is loud in my ears when I see a familiar figure walking toward me in the distance. Nana. He’s breathing heavily as a bear. “There you are, silly girl.”
“I was just coming back.”
He sits down on the swing next to me. The chains creak, but they hold. “I’m not going to give you any lectures because I’m sure your mother is ready with those as soon as you get home.”
I kick a pebble with my foot. “She’s too busy with her new boyfriend to care.”
“Sohail? Ha! He’s a good boy, but terrible at chess.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and his presence is a strong comfortable blanket around me. “Nana, I lost something very special,” I finally choke out. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Hmmm. Do you mean really or metaphorically?”
A little giggle escapes me. “Very funny,” I mumble, but my heart is just a tiny bit lighter than it was an hour ago. Trust Nana to clear the air.
He pats my arm on the chain. “There’s no point in crying over the loss of something. I’ve usually found that things aren’t ever lost. One just doesn’t know where they are at that moment.”
I think about this. It’s definitely been true of Dad all along. Maybe my journal is around, but hidden from view. Maybe there is a reason behind everything that’s going wrong these days. Even the pain in my heart. “Okay,” I whisper. “No more running.”
“Okay?” He seems surprised. “Can we go home now? Sakina is going to serve fried fish for dinner, and I don’t want to miss it.”
I realize that I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. I drag myself out of the swing. Nana does the same. “Ready to face the wrath of your mother?” he jokes.
I swallow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
36
Sakina
Dreams Are for Fools and Rich People
“Where did you go?” Amma stands with her hands on her hips, ready to shout at me.
I’ve just entered the house in the evening. My feet are hurting from the long walk from the bus stop, and my stomach feels like it’s hollow. I didn’t have time to eat at Begum Sahiba’s house because Mimi disappeared and the whole house was in a state of panic. If they’d asked me, I’d have told them to check the park at the end of the street. But of course no one thought to ask me. I’m nobody.
Amma is blocking the door, scowling at me. I push past her and go inside. I have no time for her anger.
Why is she always angry, anyway? It’s not my fault we have no money, or that Abba’s diabetes is still uncontrollable. “I had to run errands for Begum Sahiba,” I mutter as I head to the sink in the courtyard. It’s not exactly a lie. I did make a detour to the seamstress on Faisal Road to pick up a new sari blouse. She’s been reminding me about it for several days now, not caring that it’s not in my job description. Still, her confessions about her son, that downcast, wrinkled face, are fresh in my mind, so I complied.
I also went back to New Haven School, just sitting on the footpath—sidewalk—for twenty minutes soaking in the atmosphere. It was evening, so the gates were tightly shut, and there was no sign of the guard who’d been there that morning when I took the test. But the school building was tall and majestic to me, the playground in sight through a metal fence, bookshelves visible through an open window of what was probably a library. I sat there for the longest time, my eyes fixed on the books, until a sort of calmness descended on me.
I wash my hands and face and find myself a piece of yesterday’s roti in the kitchen. Amma follows me, her scowl gone. “I made daal; why don’t you eat some?” she says, and her tone is much kinder. Softer.
I’ve been craving chicken, but we can’t afford it. Even a few vegetables would be delicious right now. Still, I pour myself some daal and sit in the corner on a stool. “How’s Abba?” I ask. “Did you get his injections?”
She sighs and sits down next to me on the floor. “Same. He’s been resting.” She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “I couldn’t go to the hospital yet. None of the rickshaws are willing to go there because of election rallies. And I can’t take Jammy on the bus with me. He wiggles too much.”
I clench my fist around my spoon. “Amma! You know this is important! Not just for Abba’s health, but also because we shouldn’t have money lying around the house. You know the goondas always find out.”
“Yes, beta, I know. Tomorrow morning, inshallah.” She si
ghs and pats my arm. “Tell me, is Begum Sahiba angry that your abba is missing so many days of work?”
“No, she’s all right. She understands.” I take a bite of roti, softening it with the daal. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking the family’s food by myself, you know.”
She smiles wearily. “Thank God for my daughter. What would we do without you?”
I frown and look downward, trying to hide my angry eyes from her. What would she say if I told her I’d made a second attempt at an admission test to a school? How would she react if I told her I could no longer work at Begum Sahiba’s house? Who would support our family if Abba could no longer cook?
I sound like Mimi, with all her questions.
Amma’s looking at me with unexpectedly sad eyes. “I know you like to read. To study,” she whispers. “I wish your father and I could have given you a different life. One where you could go to school and learn important things. One where you didn’t have to work in someone’s kitchen.”
I gasp. Has she read my mind? I lean closer, hoping she will say more.
There’s movement outside, shouting and music. Amma shakes her head and stands up. “Just five more days until election day, thank God!” she mutters. “I’m tired of all this noise in the streets.”
I put my plate down, my heart speeding. “This is different, Amma.”
I’m right. The shouting is more real, closer and louder. Angrier. A few people are screaming on the street outside. Abba sits up on the bed, a confused look on his face. “What’s going on?”
We wait. Another minute, and our front door bangs open as if kicked in by a foot. There are four or five young men gathered in our entrance, but I recognize only one. Raheem. He strides inside as if he owns the place, and shouts, “Next week is election day; remember to vote for Aziz!”
Abba tries to stand up, but I run over to him and push him back with a warning hand. “Yes, definitely, Abba will go to the polls on Wednesday.”
A Thousand Questions Page 17