Saffron Dreams

by Shaila Abdullah

  I was amazed by his aggrandized self-advertising, but he offered me no chance to counter that last comment.

  “I would love to chat further, but I need to leave. I have to pick up a friend for lunch.”

  With that he walked out. I glanced at my watch and felt irritated and slightly used. I liked to control the time and duration of a conversation. I had lost control over both, plus I was late myself for lunch with Aunt Jamila, who had cooked my favorite haleem, a tasty wheat and lentil goob with cubes of stew meat. I always took time to admire the art on the library walls, which featured artists from different parts of the world but there was no time for that today. I briefly glanced at the photomontages of Pradeep Dalal on my way out. The autobiographical work seemed to focus on the artist’s life in India and had a dash of nostalgia about elements sorely missed once away. Downstairs, I checked out Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies for the second time in two weeks.

  It wasn’t until I reached my aunt’s place that I realized that I hadn’t even asked the stranger his name.

  I thought of him as I stood at the subway station on my next trip to the library. I was a little annoyed with myself for taking the time to dress up that morning. I had painted my lips twice so the red was darker than I usually wore it. I glanced down at my brown crotchet-trim blouse, the one I had bought a week ago at Abercrombie & Fitch on a whim. It had banded puff sleeves that gave it a nice chic look. It had cost a small fortune but I thought it looked good against my dark complexion.

  I was appreciative of the bustling, rushed feeling in the air as I climbed up the subway stairs to enter the city. New York, a city that walks. People walking with a purpose, never running, minding the space around one another, occasionally getting into sidewalk rage, but for the most part maintaining that unique New Yorker demeanor that is focused and primed but reserved. For me, New York held so much promise, opportunities bursting at the seams. There was a sea of faces around me, but they all looked past me. I was not the one they sought; they were not the ones I was looking for. As soon as I started to walk toward Fifth Avenue, tiny drops of rain dribbled down from the sky. I raised my cupped hands and tried to catch the gleeful, jumping droplets, catching pedestrians off-guard with my sudden halt. Rain, I loved rain. The air had so much promise. At once, vibrant umbrellas sprouted up on all sides; everyone seemed prepared but me. I saw the silent acknowledgment in the eyes of New Yorkers that at once declared me an outsider.

  I entered a little park by the station and sat down on a bench near a homeless woman in tatters—her entire life inside ethylene. She was wrinkled and weathered, her hair in tangles. She had close to twenty well-worn grocery bags stacked inside a shopping cart parked near her. I smiled at her, and she frowned in return. Undeterred, I leaned back and closed my eyes, savoring the sounds of children at play, shouting, squealing as only the very young would. They enjoyed the rain in their uninhibited way, dodging their parents’ efforts to gather them and head home before the weather grew worse. I had no such qualms; I was neither mother nor child. I sat in the pelting rain, and all else melted around me. The place felt like home, but it wasn’t.

  When I opened my eyes, the homeless woman was moving away. I called out to her on a whim and stood up to slip my blouse over my head. Straightening the thin white shirt underneath, I offered the sweater to her and she took it from my hands wordlessly, scratching the side of her head. I was amused when she sniffed it and offered me a toothless grin. Somewhere a cardinal sent out an aggressive “peetoo, peetoo” call, and we both looked up. The bird had flown away.

  When I looked back down, she, too, had left.

  As I stood up to leave, the homeless woman startled me by approaching from behind a tree. I nearly collided with her. The blouse that I had given her was tied around her waist.

  “Some folks come bearing gifts,” she said, her voice raspy, her face inches away from mine. “You came to the world with losses, you wretched woman.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Was that a caustic remark meant to make me angry, or a product of her disjointed thoughts? Her glance cut through me as she continued, her tone softened now. “How will you turn them around?”

  I realized it wasn’t a question addressed to me. She was either a madwoman or a seer punished by the bittersweet gift of prophecy. I staggered away, shaken.

  Even though I never saw the stranger at the library again during my stay, it was still my best visit ever. I went to the library a few more times before I left for Karachi, but he never came again. I read The Chili Queen from cover to cover and longed to discuss it with him. It turned out that I had a few opportunities in the future. I didn’t make use of any of them.

  SEVEN

  August 1998

  Karachi

  The sights and smells of a Pakistani wedding are what lend permanence to it. There is a huge investment and involvement of all senses. Even years later, I can evoke the dainty sweet fragrance of the jasmine and the pungent scent of henna, and it reminds me of the day of our union—the day of my mehndi, the celebration of dance and festivities that precede the actual wedding day in a Muslim society. I smiled inwardly as I snuck a look at Faizan at the other end of the room, where he sat surrounded by friends. At twenty-three, I had lived up to the expectations of the society; I was getting married.

  A group of friends had escorted me inside the hall. They held a large tie-and-dye print dupatta over my head, shielding me. The shapes of the print—dots, squares, waves, and stripes—established the light and shade around me. The playful shadow patterns walked beside me and sometimes climbed over me like excited children clamoring to be a part of the festivities. Inside, I was a rare exotic bird that needed to be kept safe in a dual-purpose effort—safe from harm and safe from fleeing. I was bound, unable to escape, led by rituals, my future stamped. The baraat, or the groom’s entourage, arrived later, led by singing and dancing friends. The hall sprang to life as they gyrated to a bhangra dance in the middle of the room in a quick flashing swirl of colors. The crowd cheered on the dancing, sweaty bodies on the throbbing, pulsating floor. That lasted a half hour, and then the dhum-dhum of the dholki heralded in the wedding songs that the two sides were attempting to sing in unison, often straying off key.

  Amid singing and dancing guests, Faizan and I sat on separate stages called seg, one at each end of the room. They were decked with red and orange batik covers and a flowery curtain of moghra (jasmine) and genda (marigold) flowers, a mingling of the milk and saffron of our lives, the joining of the ordinary with the extraordinary, a tantalizing fusion of mind and senses. A heady fragrance rose from where the basket full of moghra bracelets laid near my feet for eager female guests to pick out and wear.

  The intricately patterned mehndi on my hand had started to harden and was flaking off, but the scent was still intoxicating. When no one was looking, I chipped off a few pieces with my nail to see the color inside. I had spent six hours that morning with the henna artist from Meena Bazar, who was fashionably late and applied mehndi the old-fashioned way, with a stick dipped in an open jar of henna, instead of using the modern method of filling a plastic cone with it and squeezing it out like icing onto a cake. She covered my hands up to my elbows in meticulously designed patterns: circles after semi-circles, flowers, buds, and geometric shapes that all came together in an exciting display of exotic design. Green, tingling, cold foliage shot up my palm to my fingers and at once caked over, itchy and brown.

  “This is fe, and this is alif,” she had whispered as if passing along an ancient secret to me, pointing to the lower right side of my palm. Those were the first words she had uttered since she started her assignment. “Fe for Faizan and alif for Arissa.”

  Together, the entwined Urdu alphabets looked like a figure gyrating on top of a bed ( ). I blushed like a little schoolgirl. Traditionally, the groom had to find the first letters of his and his bride’s name within the henna design on the bride’s hand before consummating the marriage. I wasn’t certain, thoug
h, that it was a deal-breaker.

  She started painting my feet next. It took forever, since I am a size 10, but gathering from the oohs and aahs around me, I was satisfied that she had done a terrific job. I wasn’t a big fan of henna––it required me to sit too still for too long. The henna artist, apart from her few words to me that seemed to also be a part of her job, was quiet and worked efficiently. Her large fingers, yellowed from the herb of her livelihood, cradled the back of one hand while she diligently worked with the other. Occasionally I felt the jabs of her perfectly filed nails. I was grateful for her silence, because I had had an earful of what the ubtan massage lady had to say every day. A gaunt woman of diminutive stature with a permanently displeased mouth, the masseuse had been visiting for two weeks and always served up dreadful legends of brides who disappeared on mehndi eve because they were impure or of infidel grooms who were kidnapped an hour before nikah, the marriage ceremony. I tried to tune her out by attending to the pain her massage inflicted on my body.

  As I sat on the seg, all I could think about was the excitement of my new life and the tingling at the base of my skull at the thought of the adventure I was about to embark on—it all held promise, in abundance. Occasionally a friend appeared magically with a small bowl of lemon juice and sugar and dabbed a dipped cotton ball all over my painted hands and feet, rendering them sticky and useless once again. At night, Zoha held my hands over an open flame in the kitchen and held a candle to my feet in the dark. Those were all ways to guarantee that the henna produced the coveted burnt orange hue or the color of the bleeding sky when the sun is about to set. If the resulting color is not dark enough, there are whispers among the elders that the union might not be that strong. Of course, if the bride couldn’t even produce a darker color of henna, what is the guarantee of that union? Who can hope for the success of that relationship? What kind of offspring would such a marriage produce? I remember Azra Apa insisting when we’d met with the henna artist earlier in the month that she use the best mehndi in the market, the one that was guaranteed to produce good results so that fate could be relieved of delivering any unexpected messages through color.

  The color of the henna when I washed it off the next day before getting ready for my nikah was the color of burnt sienna—one of the very best shades. There were nods all around. The union would be a blissful one, the elders predicted, raising their hands in prayer.

  The first time I saw you, Faizan had said, I knew I would marry you one day. How can men be so certain? My analytical mind would dissect each event, gesture, connotation, and conversation and put it all back together before announcing my say. Although in Faizan’s case, even I had acted contrary to my nature by basing my life’s decision on a chance meeting. It just felt right. It was perhaps the first and only time I had acted on an impulse. I wasn’t as certain of the outcome of my decision as Faizan was, but I had taken a chance, one of the very few in my life thus far.

  How did we get there? Two years after Zoha’s wedding, Tehmina Bua, who I had sworn would not arrange my match, arranged our match. She flounced in after chandraat, the day of the full moon, like a charley horse doubling you over in pain. After the obligatory dua salaam, she pulled out an envelope full of prospective suitors’ pictures from her overstuffed purse.

  “I know, Tehsin Bhai, you said that Arissa would decide on her own when she is ready,” she had said, mouth blood-red from her paan. “But Saheb, these days what do young girls know? They want more and more education, and soon they have more silver strands in their hair and their youth has fled.”

  Abu shook his legs impatiently, waiting for her to get to the point, a trait I had inherited.

  “What I am trying to say is it is your duty to help her understand that she can get a decent house now to go in. Later on the choices will be very limited. Divorced or widowed, bas.”

  “I am well aware of my duties as a parent, Bua,” Abu said a trifle harshly. I rolled my eyes at Tehmina Bua and got up to leave the room.

  “In that case, you must look at these young men,” Tehmina said, opening the envelope stuffed with photos. “You should consider yourself lucky that so many nice families are interested in your Arissa.”

  Tehmina Bua started listing the credentials of each one as I placed teacups on a tray inside the kitchen.

  “This one is Kamran. He has a number of travel agencies in Texas. Very nice family, small. Two sisters who are married and no parents. No meddling in-laws.” She nodded at Abu suggestively and continued, pulling another photo out of the envelope. “And this one lives in New York but is only here for a short while. He is an only child.”

  Abu was looking at his photo as I came in with the tray.

  “Has a big degree in Angrezi. What do you call it?” Tehmina Bua fumbled for the right word.

  “Master’s in English literature?” I offered, sulking at her as I handed the first cup of tea to Abu. Protocol stated that the first cup was always given to the guest. Bua adjusted her glasses and glowered at me. We had many glaring matches, she and I, whenever she visited.

  “Han. Wohi.”

  I briefly glanced at the photo Abu was holding and nearly dropped the other teacup. Flustered, I handed it hurriedly to Bua and fled to the kitchen.

  “What is wrong with that girl today?” Bua commented in annoyance.

  “Nothing,” Abu said, setting the photo back on the table. “She’s been working very hard. Zoha had her baby last weekend, and Arissa spent all last week helping her.”

  “She’s taken the place of Saira Bibi very well,” Bua commented. “She will make a very good wife.”

  Abu cut her short. “I will inform you of our decision. I will have to consult with Arissa, of course, but I see a few good options here that I can convince her to review.”

  “Take your time, Tehsin Bhai, but not too long.” She wagged a finger at him. “Good proposals are like birds. They fly away quickly.”

  After Bua was gone, I came back in the room and sat next to Abu. I picked up the photo on the table and looked at it. My stranger in the library was back. There was no mistaking his identity: he had the same conjoined eyebrows, the square jaw, the grinning face set against the backdrop of a Christmas window at Nordstrom with Santa smiling behind him. I didn’t know him, but it felt right. I handed the photo to Abu and nodded wordlessly.

  We were both clueless as to what strange game life had designed for me.

  Mai Jan liked to say that the crows always show up at your doorstep when a visitor is about to come. It was unconditionally accepted as a rational expression for that infuriating cawing near your home.

  But despite the noisiness of the crows on the rooftop that day, I was totally tuned in to just one person—the one in front of me. The magic of Faizan’s presence again in my life rendered me stupidly speechless. His interview with Abu had ended a few minutes ago and there we were sitting across from each other in the large living room. In the ways of the tradition, we were expected to have a final conversation before our match was finalized. It surprised me how much of it felt like a game of chess, the way all parties treaded carefully, working within the realm of tradition, making sure nothing was done thoughtlessly or in error.

  Faizan glanced at me like a lab technician would look at a specimen, wondering what he would find when he finally ran some tests. The extra-wide coffee table that separated my seat from Faizan’s made me feel too distant. I longed to sit next to him, inhale his aftershave, perhaps stroke his cheeks. I felt my face turn red.

  “Isn’t it amazing how these things fall in place?” Faizan said finally. “Who would have thought we’d meet again.”

  I looked at him but my mind was vacant, I had not a single intelligent thing to contribute and I was deathly afraid of sounding stupid. I felt like a schoolgirl––awkward, clumsy, prone to folly. He stood up, crossed over to my side and sat down next to me. I looked at him gratefully. “You have a great smile,” I finally said and then blushed.

  “Oh, you pay comp
liments too,” he smiled. “I thought you were always honest.”

  “I am being honest,” I said irritably.

  “Aha, that’s what I was looking for. I like sweetness with a dash of spice.”

  I couldn’t believe I had played right into his hands. I also realized that my anxiety had melted away. “You’re impossible.”

  “Are the crows always this loud at your house?” He walked over to the window and opened it up. A few women down the street were engaged in an animated conversation, suggestively looking at the house every now and then. “And are your neighbors always this nosy?”

  “No,” I laughed and extended a jab of my own. “Only when they think there is someone at the house who needs to be chased away.”

  He turned around and the ends of his lips curled upward into a grin.

  Check mate!

  After he left, I went out onto the verandah. Early evening’s amber sky was punctuated by a few lazy gray clouds. Crows by the dozens were perched on the palm trees across the tall gate, perhaps tired by the day’s racket. They were quiet now, enjoying the peace, adding to the serenity of the rushing night. A clap of thunder disturbed their respite and they flew off in a noisy panic, their black flapping wings filling the sky, bringing an earlier than usual darkness. I remembered what I had read once that contradicted the South Asian myth. In Greek mythology, the cawing of the crows is regarded as a bad omen, signifying loss.

  “Shooo,” I whispered to the terrified crows. “Go away and bring me good fortune.”

  A life-altering occurrence usually brings with it a series of premonitions leading up to the actual disaster. You can ignore it, or you can take caution. We did neither.

  In the noisy pandemonium of Karachi’s busy street of Saddar, Faizan was weaving his car in and out of traffic, face puckered in concentration. For once, he wasn’t smiling. It made me uneasy to see him that serious. We had been engaged ten days. He avoided colliding with a red Suzuki and almost had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting a truck that overtook him from the side, making no allowance for his space. He cursed under his breath and then smiled at me. We had stopped at an intersection. A man came by with moghra and rose garland bracelets on a pole. Faizan rolled down the window and beckoned him over to ask about price. The scent from his merchandise permeated the inside of the SUV.