A Thousand Questions

by Saadia Faruqi

  Raheem comes close enough for me to see the pockmarks on his skin. His white undershirt is stained yellow with sweat, and his khaki trousers are a size too big for him. A black string bracelet circles each wrist. “Good,” he sneers at me. “Now let me see what money you have. Your neighbors tell me you work at a rich sahib’s house, so you must have some money to share with all of us, eh?”

  I gulp, my throat working up and down. “We don’t have any money,” I say, my voice trembling just a little bit. Amma comes to stand next to me, her arm around me like a shield.

  Raheem doesn’t believe me. “You want my boys to search the place?” he snarls. “Tear it down, perhaps?”

  “No!” Abba croaks. He looks at me. “Give him what we have,” he says.

  There’s no way. I grit my teeth. “I don’t have anything.”

  Raheem looms over me until I can smell his breath. I try not to gag. “Right. Now. Unless you want someone to get hurt.”

  “Wait!” Amma cries. She walks with unsteady feet toward the bedroom and comes back with a small white envelope. Mimi’s envelope. “Here, take this and leave us alone.”

  Raheem smiles a hideous smile and grabs the money. “Shukriya, Aunty!” he mocks, and turns away. “Don’t forget to vote!”

  All three of us stand in the same position for long moments, our bodies frozen with fear and misery. Amma sniffs, and I turn my head slightly to see tears drop from her eyes. I blink when I realize that I’m crying too. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Abba pulls me down into his embrace. “What are you apologizing for, you silly girl? None of this is your fault.”

  Amma sits down besides us. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me.” She sniffs again. “I should have bought the injections like you told me to. I should have walked to the hospital if the rickshaw wouldn’t take me.”

  Abba holds out his other arm to her. “Come on, Aisha. Don’t start crying now. We’ve gone through worse.”

  She wipes her eyes with the edge of her dupatta. “You’re right, of course. God will help us. We just have to be patient.”

  I can’t believe they’re talking like this. Patience is something I don’t have. I’m tired of waiting for God. My tears come faster. I feel as if all the walls around my heart are breaking down slowly, painfully. “I don’t have any more time. I need you well, Abba, so that I can stop working.” Amma and Abba become still. “What do you mean, stop working?” Amma finally asks.

  She doesn’t sound angry, just confused. I wipe my eyes, but the tears won’t stop. “I . . . I . . . applied for admission to a school. They are giving scholarships to poor children, and if I pass I can go to school. . . .” My voice trails off. I never realized what a burden this secret has been, how difficult it has been to hide this huge thing from my parents. Now that I’ve said the words, I feel light as a feather.

  Amma and Abba exchange glances. “You want to go to school?” Abba asks softly. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or furious.

  I hide my face in his chest. “I’m sorry, Abba, I know it’s disappointing to you. You want me to be a cook like you. To work with you in Begum Sahiba’s house.”

  His chest shakes under my cheek, and for a minute I think he’s also started crying. But I hear his laughter and I look up. He’s got a huge smile on his face, as if he’s just heard the best news. “Silly girl, I’d like nothing better than for you to go to school. You’re so smart and hardworking; you deserve to have a better life than I did.”

  I turn to look at Amma. She’s got a worried look on her face, tinged with defeat and sadness. “Your abba is right,” she finally says. “You do deserve better.”

  I reach out my other arm and hug her too. We sit rocking one another, listening to the shouting on the street get fainter and fainter. Nobody talks about the fact that we just lost the only money we had, and even if I do pass my English test, we can’t afford to lose my income.

  37

  Mimi

  We Meet at Last

  “How long are you going to stay mad at me?” Mom asks. I’m lying in my bed, trying to take the required afternoon nap. How everyone in this country just falls asleep every afternoon after lunch is beyond me. Usually I chat with Sakina, or we practice for her English test, but today is Sunday, and she’s not here.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. I sit up and rub my eyes so she thinks she disturbed my sleep.

  She comes inside and sits on my bed near my feet. It’s a familiar position, one she used to sit in at bedtime when I was younger. Sometime between second and third grade we stopped reading bedtime stories together. “I don’t want you to be mad at me,” she whispers, and I realize she’s been crying. Her eyes are puffy and her hair is a mess.

  I sit up too. I’m not going to feel sorry for her; I’m not. “We were supposed to be a team, Mom.”

  “We’re still a team,” she pleads. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  I can’t believe she can be so dense. “Teammates don’t lie to each other; they don’t keep secrets like knowing where one team member’s dad is, or how to contact him.” My fists curl into balls. I have to resist the urge to throw something at the wall or off the balcony. “Teammates share things. They tell each other about themselves and their lives.”

  Mom looks up. “What are you talking about? I share things with you.”

  “No, you don’t, Mom. You never told me much about Nana and Nani all these years. You never encouraged me to talk to them on the phone or Facebook. I didn’t even know your brother moved to England, or that Nani is really sad because he’s gone!”

  “I’ve just been protecting you!”

  “No!” I almost shout. “You’re just . . . hiding. That’s it. You’re hiding from everything painful in your life, not even caring that you don’t have the right to keep information from other people.”

  She’s deathly quiet. She’s staring at a spot on my bedcover as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. I see tears drop from her eyes onto my bed, but I don’t move. I don’t remember when I stopped being mad at her, when my anger turned to disappointment. Finally, she whispers, “When did you become so smart?”

  I shake my head. I’m starting to feel the tears inside me too. “I don’t care about being right. I just want things to change. You have to change, Mom. You can’t pretend that everything’s okay now that Dad’s gone. I have a hole in my heart where he used to be, and I can’t just forget that.”

  She takes a trembling breath. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  I sigh so loudly my hair ruffles on my forehead. “Stop saying you’re sorry. It doesn’t help.”

  “What will help, then?”

  I get out of bed and head out the door. I need a can of Coke, or two. “I have no idea. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  The kitchen is a dark, cool sanctuary this time of the afternoon. From the window overlooking the back porch I can see Malik lying on the floor on a mat, his head covered with a piece of cloth to keep away the sun. Sakina’s abba is still not back to work, but I can imagine him on the floor mat next to Malik, an arm thrown over his forehead. The two are friends, I think, which makes me happy. I can’t see Tahira, so she’s probably sleeping on the floor in Nani’s air-conditioned bedroom. Silly, gossiping Tahira, always rubbing Sakina the wrong way!

  I gaze at everything carefully, trying to sear the images into my mind so I can remember them when I’m back home.

  Home. Only three more days until we leave. There’s a gigantic ticking countdown in my brain all the time. Tick-tock-tick-tock. I should be ecstatic, but all I can feel is empty, as if nothing has turned out like I was expecting.

  RRRING! The doorbell. I wait for a servant to wake up, but there’s no movement. Finally, I go to open the front door myself. Whoever it is, they must be brave to ring the bell this time in the afternoon. Brave or clueless.

  The man standing outside is so far from my mind that it takes me a second to recognize him. Blond hair graying at the temples. S
oft pink skin darkened by the Pakistani sun. He looks just like his picture in the newspaper, faded and crumpled. “Dad,” I gasp faintly, and the word seems suddenly foreign. “How—what—why—how?”

  He smiles, wrinkles around his eyes. “Your friend was right—you do have lots of questions.”

  Friend? He holds up my leather journal, and I blink.

  “How did you find me?” I croak.

  “There was a notepaper with this address written on it between the pages. I think maybe your friend wrote it for me? She was quite angry-looking and didn’t stay long to explain.”

  It takes me all of two seconds to figure it out. Sakina! She must have found my journal in the backyard and gone looking for Dad all on her own. I relax a little bit, then I step outside and close the door quietly behind me. This is a moment for me alone.

  Dad is looking at me with hungry eyes. “I can’t believe how big you are, Mimi,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I blink rapidly. I should be mad. Why aren’t I mad? “Thanks. I’m eleven,” I answer in a clipped voice.

  He swallows sharply, and I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down. “I read all your letters. I . . . I don’t know what to say. I have almost no answers to all your questions.” Regret and sadness are etched into his face, and without looking at myself in the mirror I know my face is the same. Same features, same color eyes, same regret and sadness.

  I waver. Should I hug him? Is it appropriate to melt into the arms of a person who’s practically a stranger, even if I share their genes? The thoughts buzz in my brain like a dozen angry bees. “Just tell me why you left. Did . . . did I do something wrong?”

  He is immediately alarmed. He hunkers down until our eyes meet. “No! It was not you. I promise.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “Your mom and I hadn’t been getting along, and then I got this really exciting assignment in Iraq, right in the middle of an insurgency. It would have killed my career not to go.”

  I nod, but I don’t really understand. Lots of parents go away to work, but they always come back. Zoe’s dad was in the air force and he spent months away from her when she was little. But he eventually came back for good when we were in fifth grade. “I guess your career is really important to you.”

  He closes his eyes as if I’ve slapped him. “I guess. After Iraq I went to Sudan, and then South Korea. Then lots of other cities and countries, even continents. I received two awards for my writing, and then I came here to Karachi.”

  The bees are still buzzing inside my brain, but they’re contained, defeated. I don’t tell him I know of every place he’s ever been to. Well, almost. I hadn’t known about Karachi. “Congratulations,” I say quietly.

  He doesn’t say anything. I sink down on the steps and stare at the dirt on my shoes. After a minute, he sits down next to me. “So, tell me about yourself. The brief version, like a journalist would tell it.”

  I gulp. Somehow I don’t recall much about myself at the moment. “Maryam Scotts, age eleven years three months, going into Kennedy Middle School in Houston, Texas, soon. Favorite subject, geography. Least favorite subject, art. Best friend’s name, Zoe Kim, currently in Italy with her parents. One mom, named Samia, and one dad, you. Grandparents who are possibly weird, but growing on me.” I pause. “And one best friend here. Sakina Ejaz.”

  He gives a little laugh. “Good. I’m glad you have a best friend here. This Sakina looked like she cares about you a lot.”

  I don’t have to think about this one. “Yeah, she does. She’s a great cook, but the thing she really wants to do is go to school.”

  He smiles a little. “And what about you? What do you like to do in your free time?”

  I shrug. “Watch YouTube videos. Read books. Write in my journal . . .” My voice trails off.

  He says quietly, “I’m happy I got to read your journal, at least. You’re a great writer.”

  I shrug again. I don’t feel like a great anything at the moment. “Thanks?”

  “I mean it. I could tell from your letters that you’re growing up to be a wonderful person.”

  I know he’s just trying to get into my good graces. Can you really learn so much about a person from their journal? But then I think of his columns and realize I learned a lot about him by reading his words. I turn to him with a little smile. “Now your turn. What’s your short version?”

  He looks startled, then relaxes. “Let’s see. Tom Scotts, born in Atlanta, Georgia. Moved to New York for college, then Houston, Texas, where he became proud father to a beautiful baby girl. Then . . . a lot of other countries that he doesn’t remember much about. Best friend, Dave, died in the war in Iraq ten years ago. Parents, Maryann and Eric Scotts, both passed away a long time ago.” He pauses and gives me a sidelong glance. “Did you know we chose your name because it was so similar to my mother’s?”

  A warmth fills my insides at this brand-new information. “Maryann. Maryam.”

  “Her nickname was Mimi,” he adds, and his voice is hoarse.

  He’s quiet for a long time. I don’t mind that. I’m having a hard time with words too. Then he continues softly, “Oh, Mimi, I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t think that will change anything.”

  I think about this. “Mom says if someone is really sorry, they’ll change their behavior.” I look up at him. “Why did you come here? Is anything going to change?”

  He’s quiet for a while. Then he says, “I’m leaving Karachi right after the elections. My work is freelance, so I don’t usually stay in one location too long. I got another gig a few weeks ago and was just wrapping up my apartment and waiting for some paperwork. I’ll be going to New York next.” He has a ghost of a grin on his face, as if he’s seeking permission. “At least we’ll be in the same country. Maybe we can keep in touch? Write each other real letters and call?”

  My heart skips a beat, but I squash down the sudden ray of hope. “I’d like that.”

  He slings an arm around me, and I inhale his cologne, the same lemony fragrance that’s seared into my memory. “I’d like that too,” he whispers in my ear, and I can feel my anger melt away.

  38

  Sakina

  I Am Human Too

  I’ve cooked mutton pulao all by myself for lunch. It’s a long, difficult recipe, and I’ve always been nervous about it. You have to choose the right parts of the goat—usually the shoulder and leg because they are fatty—and the correct strain of rice. Basmati works best, with its long grains and fluffy texture.

  Abba came back to work today, but he’s supposed to take it easy. He sat at the kitchen table all morning and gave me instructions—soak the rice longer, cut the mutton bones just so, add more zeera—but after a while I tune him out and work at my own pace. Listen to your hands as you cook, Abba’s always told me. That’s all I need to know.

  Begum Sahiba marvels at what a good job I’ve done, and I flush with the praise. She’s different today, not because it’s election day, but because the American guests are leaving soon. Very soon. I don’t want to think about it. The house seems to be shrouded in black, mourning the impending loss of guests who’ve filled these rooms with noise and laughter. The curtains are drawn, the lights dim.

  “I didn’t know you had learned so much already from your father, child.” Begum Sahiba licks her fingers delicately and pushes her plate toward me for a second helping. “Before long, you’ll be able to take over from him and run the kitchen yourself.”

  My face falls. I’d rather be sitting in a classroom, learning fractions and geometry. Or reading Shakespeare and Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Cooking is not my ambition, no matter how well I do it.

  “What?” she asks, noticing my expression.

  I shake my head and add more pulao to her plate. “Take more, please.”

  Mimi interrupts. “Have you ever thought maybe Sakina doesn’t want to be a cook, Nani?”

  Begum Sahiba frowns as if she’s been presented with an impossible math problem. “What else will she do, then?”

&
nbsp; I scowl at Mimi. Her neon green T-shirt says I’M JUST HERE FOR THE TACOS. She scowls back. “Nothing, Begum Sahiba,” I say loudly, and walk away from the dining room before I throw something at Mimi’s head.

  She is persistent. She follows me to the kitchen and demands, “Why don’t you tell her that you want to go to school? Maybe she can help you. She’s not the dragon you think she is.”

  “If you’re going to come in here, you better help me clean up,” I reply, picking up a load of dishes and taking them to the sink. “And you’re a fine one to talk. You’ve got some things to say to your mother, don’t you?”

  She stops. “Like what?”

  I give her a disbelieving look. “Like . . . the fact that you’ve been looking for your father. Going to the Dawn offices without telling anyone,” I venture, not looking directly at her.

  She pounces on me with a catlike grin, jabbing a finger into my chest. “So did you! You took my journal and gave it to my dad. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  I can’t tell if she’s thanking me or accusing me. “Yes, you’re right,” I finally reply, not knowing what else to say. “So you finally met him, huh?”

  She picks up the rest of the dishes and brings them to the sink. Then she leans against the wall next to me, and I see she’s grinning. “Oh, Sakina, it was wonderful! I hugged him, and he felt just like I’d imagined.”

  I’m glad for her. She’s been sad for so long. She deserves to be happy. Then I pause. “Have you told your mother?”

  Her grin fades. “Noooo.” But she’s thinking about it, I can tell. “Okay, deal. You talk to Nani; I’ll talk to my mom.”

  I roll my eyes at her and start washing the dishes. I have nothing to say to Begum Sahiba. My life is so different from Mimi’s, so difficult. Things can’t be solved as easily as she thinks they can be. “Your mother will go back to normal once you two are home again. Sohail is not going with you, is he?”