by Bapsi Sidhwa
Feroza studied the map of America and announced her preference for a college across the breadth of the map, in the vicinity of San Diego.
“But that’s in California! You’ll be too far away to keep an eye on,” Manek protested.
“Exactly. Do you want me to be independent, or not?”
Jamil suggested a compromise: Middlebury, a small college in Vermont, or if she preferred something larger, Dartmouth in New Hampshire. Bates would be a good choice in Maine, as would Colby. Feroza would be far enough away to feel independent and near enough for Manek to be on call in case of an emergency.
Jamil could not disclose how crushed he felt at the thought of Feroza’s departure from the attic, but he spent as much time as he could with them, trying to be helpful.
The matter was resolved when Manek and Feroza received three letters apiece from Pakistan in response to their one.
Between them, the six letters expressed so many fears and doubts that Feroza and Manek were briefly swept with self-doubt and then concerned that the family would not permit Feroza to remain in America.
The letters also conveyed the news that Mr. Anwar, the prosecuting attorney in the Bhutto trial and a family friend, had died of a sudden heart attack. Feroza burst into tears and Manek’s eyes were red the next day. They penned careful letters of condolence to the widow and their lively daughter Naveed, who had been among the clingers and touchers seeing Feroza off at the airport.
Cyrus had tried to temper the sadness by relating the joke that was making the rounds. The angel Gabriel had summoned first a judge and then the attorney, so that Bhutto’s case could continue and the cause of justice be served even after the hanging. Most catastrophes were converted into jokes. How else could ordinary people tolerate what was happening to the country and to them?
~
A couple of days later, the mail brought encouraging news from a junior college in Twin Falls, Idaho. They were willing to offer a stipend that would cover much of the tuition. Living expenses in a small town would be affordable, and Manek knew that Idaho was in Mormon territory.
To Manek, the timing of the letter’s arrival appeared providential, and the clauses in the application form, although they were not as austere as he had expected, resolved the issue.
During his summer tour of the United States, Manek had visited Salt Lake City. He remembered the thirst he had not been able to abate with Coke or beer, both forbidden in the state governed by Mormon values. Twin Falls, like Salt Lake City, was in the secure and irreproachable heart of Mormon territory. Even Khutlibai would appreciate the sobriety of Mormon principles.
Feroza liked the name of the city and the distance between it and Boston on the map. Manek felt that the junior college and the size of the city would ease her assimilation into the American way of life.
Manek helped Feroza fill out the application form. “You’re lucky I’m not sending you off to Brigham Young University in Salt Lake City,” he said severely. “Not only wouldn’t you be allowed to drink or indulge in premarital sex, you’d have to pledge to abide by the college dress and conduct codes. Which means you wouldn’t be allowed to wear shorts or bikinis. And if you were a boy, you’d be forbidden to grow a beard or keep your hair long.”
“I’m not going there,” Feroza said with a note of incipient rebellion, “so why are you telling me this?”
That disturbed Manek and deepened his regret. “Maybe you should. It might be worth looking into it.”
“As if I’d ever wear shorts, let alone a bikini!” Feroza sounded scandalized, and Manek’s doubts retreated.
Manek wrote a long letter, addressed jointly to Khutlibai, Zareen, and Cyrus. He described the Mormon faith in the light of his limited knowledge, and the puritanical laws supporting it in Idaho. The state, he wrote, did not permit the sale of liquor or allow striptease. It banned prostitution and discouraged discos and all forms of provocative dancing. Caffeine, even in its most innocuous forms like tea or coffee, was not served in most restaurants.
Manek was not one hundred percent certain of all this, but from his experiences in Salt Lake City, he was sure he was close to the mark. His letter would go a long way to assuage family fears and phobias. He left it to them to assume that a community that forbade even coffee was not likely to permit promiscuous sex.
Manek concluded the letter by reiterating that Twin Falls was a small, safe, conservative town that cultivated potatoes and that he would go with Feroza during the orientation to see her safely and comfortably settled.
The contents of Manek’s letter were indeed soothing and had the desired effect. Touched by his consideration for their fears and feelings and by his concern for his niece’s welfare, Zareen and Cyrus agreed to permit Feroza to study in America.
Khutlibai maintained a noncommittal and disquieting silence on the subject.
~
Since Feroza had applied late, she didn’t get word of her admission until early July. The new term started in September, so at the very latest, they’d have to leave for Twin Falls by the third week of August. Feeling rushed, Manek worked out an itinerary. He’d have to prepare Feroza, cram her with worldly wisdom in the short time available to him. It was his responsibility to teach her to be less trusting and more alert before setting her loose in Idaho.
At least he had, through vigilant sniffs, taught her to use deodorant and, when she was in a pliant mood, succeeded in extracting an occasional apology when she interrupted.
Then there were the little things that had caused him an extraordinary amount of difficulty and embarrassment when he came to America, such as opening milk cartons, which, like Feroza, he had tried to pry open with a knife with the result that the milk had spilled everywhere. It gave him pleasure to show Feroza how easy it was to turn the top into a spout once you knew how.
When Feroza tugged at plastic wrappers and impatiently tore at them with her teeth, Manek said, “You’ll only lose your teeth that way!” and showed her the marked place where the plastic tore easily.
And each time Manek saw Feroza wrestle with a jar or juice bottle or tamper-proof vial, he said, “Remember this: If you have to struggle to open something in America, you’re doing it wrong. They’ve made everything easy. That’s how a free economy works,” and he’d tap, press, pry, or bang the lid against the counter and effortlessly unscrew whatever it was.
Before long, the moment Manek would say, “Remember —,” Feroza would pipe up: “If you have to struggle, you’re doing it wrong!”
If Feroza was impressed by the genius of the American free marketers, she never revealed it to Manek.
Manek made a private list of all that Feroza should know, experience, or do before going to Idaho.
Many items on the list were tackled through direct discussions and negotiation. Often he sat her down, face-to-face, and ladled out instructions and advice.
All this Feroza accepted with surprising docility and grace. It was the only way to be rid of an issue on her uncle’s mind or on his agenda.
As the list shrank, Manek became less worried. And one Saturday afternoon, cheerfully rubbing his hands, he asked, “What do you say to a free steak dinner at a posh place?”
“Okay,” Feroza said.
In dealing with her uncle, Feroza had learned not to become overly enthusiastic. It gave Manek a perverse pleasure to disappoint her if she displayed her expectations. What made it worse were the homilies he’d tack on. Hence the dry “Okay.”
“Come on, then. We’ll have lunch in Boston.”
The restaurant was decorous with candlelight, silver cutlery, and crisp white table linens. It was also quite full.
Manek developed lordly airs the moment they stepped inside the plush, thickly carpeted interior. He refused to sit at the table in a secluded nook they were directed to and chose instead to lead the captain to one in the center of a group of occupied tables. Other diners had to shift their chairs to make room.
They were served garlic bread and rolls.
Feroza spread her starched white napkin on her lap. Manek ordered a beer for himself and an orange juice for Feroza.
They scanned the menu and, after discussion and dithering during which Manek remarked two or three times, “Don’t worry about the prices — order what you like,” decided on T-bone steaks. Manek ordered medium for Feroza and medium rare for himself.
“If I see any pink in the meat, I won’t eat it,” Feroza declared, and Manek accommodatingly changed the order of her steak to well done, contenting himself by remarking merely, “You’ll kill the taste of the costly meat — but never mind.”
Feroza reached for a roll. “You saw the prices. How do you expect to get away without paying? I hope you’re not going to embarrass me.”
“It doesn’t take much to embarrass you when you see gorachittas, does it?”
“Look,” Feroza said, “don’t try to palm off your complexes on me. If you’re going to shame me, I’m going!” She picked up her handbag and raised her bottom an inch off her seat.
“Stop being childish,” Manek said quickly, reaching out to restrain her. Feroza could tell he was prepared to use force if necessary. “I’m not going to embarrass you; I have coupons. We pay for one dinner and get the other free.”
Feroza was by now accustomed to the special offers at McDonald’s, Burger King, and Kentucky Fried Chicken that Manek assiduously kept track of. She was also used to the buyone-get-one-free meals advertised by the smaller Greek, Middle Eastern, and Mexican restaurants that abounded around Harvard Square.
Feroza buttered her roll with equanimity and absently made a mental calculation. The total she arrived at and the possible impact of the figure on their lives popped into her mind and sounded a warning.
“Just the one meal will cost more than you spend in two weeks on food,” she said thoughtfully. “Are we going to fast for the rest of the month?”
“Just eat and enjoy. Do you want a treat or not?”
“Not if we’re going to live on dal and rice for the next two weeks.”
“Why do you argue about everything? I told you we’re getting free meals. Trust me.”
“Oh God,” Feroza said, dropping her head on the heel of her palm. “Now I’m really nervous!”
They polished off all the rolls, butter, and garlic bread. Manek ordered another beer and, for Feroza, another juice.
The waiter set up a round-topped table on a tripod near them. Solemnly he served them the steaks and, as though bestowing jewels, small portions of glazed baby carrots, potatoes, and asparagus.
Feroza’s mouth watered as she watched the unfolding drama of the banquet. She fell to eating the moment the waiter turned his immaculate back on them.
“Hey, take it easy. The T-bone won’t run away.”
“I want to eat it while it’s hot,” Feroza said.
“Listen, don’t eat more than half your steak. It’s bad manners.”
Feroza looked up from her plate, incredulous. Her parsimonious uncle, who considered it his sacred duty to get his paid-for pound of flesh and preached her a sermon on starving Ethiopians and Bangladeshis every time she rinsed a grain of rice from her plate, was asking her to waste half her steak?
“Just a minute,” Manek said, leaning purposefully towards her, fork and knife in hand. And, as Feroza confusedly lifted her hands clear, he neatly sawed off the charred edges of her well-done steak.
Manek pushed the severed pieces to one side and instructed, “Don’t touch that.”
Feroza looked at his face again and decided it would be politic to relinquish the segregated portions of her steak unprotested.
She noted with curiosity that Manek did the very opposite with his. He ate round the edges of his T-bone and left a reddish stump in the center uneaten.
“Finish up the vegetables,” Manek directed.
When Feroza had eaten the vegetables and her allotted portion of steak, Manek raised his hand and snapped his fingers to catch their waiter’s attention.
Looking faintly startled and irritated by the uncouth behavior of his customer, the waiter glided forward. Managing to look both servile and supercilious at the same time, he leaned forward:
“Yes?”
“I would like to have a word with the head waiter. Please call him.”
Manek had assumed the air and authority of a man used to having his way and paying well for good service.
The man’s disdainful demeanor underwent a subtle change: he appeared uncertain. “Yes, sir,” he said and quietly slid away.
In a little while an urbane, distinguished-looking man with gray sideburns and shrewd, blue Scandinavian eyes stood before them.
“What can I do for you, sir? I’m the manager.”
“Your restaurant was highly recommended to us. I must admit I’m disappointed. The steaks are useless. Look at that,” Manek pointed at the charred remains of Feroza’s well-done steak. “Burnt. “And this,” Manek’s finger hovered accusingly above the bloody stump on his plate. “I asked for a medium-rare steak, not raw cow.”
“We’ll get you fresh steaks, sir.” The manager was polite but firm. “You’ll have no complaints, I’m sure, sir.”
He signaled the waiter to pick up their plates.
“I’m afraid, after looking at this, my appetite’s gone,” Manek said. “I came here to celebrate my fiancé’s birthday, not to feel sick. I won’t pay the bill. The happy occasion is ruined.”
Feroza wanted to sink through the floor.
The distinguished-looking manager’s Scandinavian eyes turned into glacial chips of Arctic ice. They appeared to know exactly what Manek was up to.
“You don’t need to pay,” the manager said, a dangerous inflection making his voice hum with menace. “Get out.”
The manager took a small step, and his hand darted to the back of Manek’s chair.
For a split second, Manek looked confused. Then he shot up like a startled goose just as the manager yanked the chair out from under him.
Convinced all eyes in the room had witnessed their humiliation, her face flaming and head bent, Feroza quickly followed Manek out.
“I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!” Feroza said as they scrambled into the car.
Manek remained quiet.
It was only after they had merged with the traffic on Sturrow Drive and were coasting along beside the Charles River that Manek deigned to speak.
“The first lesson you learn in life is to be humble. If you weren’t so proud, you wouldn’t feel so humiliated, and you’d have enjoyed the wonderful dinner.”
Manek’s profile was as unrepentant and clear as the sunny faces of the students in the boats bobbing on the Charles.
“These people are so damn rich that one little steak won’t matter to them.” Manek did not sound bitter, only quasi-profound.
Feroza had been the recipient of this quasi-profundity quite frequently of late, and she listened to him with mounting irritation.
“You’ve got to skim what you can off the system, otherwise the system will skin you. I learned this the hard way,” said Manek the Sage. “After the accident, I had only the tuition money. Hardly any insurance. It would’ve taken our family seven generations to pay the hospital bills. It taught me many things. It’s lucky for you I’ve taken the knocks and you’re reaping the rewards. I’m giving you a crash course. It’s the best way to get over culture shock. Pampering only prolongs the agony. I didn’t have anyone to take my hand and guide me and say, ‘Look, sweetie, this is how you open a wrapper, and this is how you open a jar!’ But you’re young, you can be molded. You’ll do all right if you learn humility.”
About a week before their departure for Twin Falls, Manek observed Feroza licking the rice off her fingers in an Indian restaurant. He looked at her until she became aware of his gaze. “You’ve got to stop eating with your fingers,” he said. “It makes them sick.”
And, in her last three days in Cambridge, he banned the practice even when they were alone, overriding
her protests by saying, “It’s all very nice and cozy to be ‘ethnic’ when we’re together, but those people won’t find it ‘ethnic,’ they’ll just puke.”
Had he prepared her enough? Had he overlooked something vital? Could anyone be prepared enough? He’d done the best he could. Once Feroza lived with Americans, she’d recall everything he’d taught her quick enough. She’d learn a lot besides.
Chapter 14
Twin Falls and the local junior college were exactly as Manek had imagined them. The small-town atmosphere on campus was genial, relaxed, and wholesome. Feroza wouldn’t find it too difficult to cope, considering the crash-course in American survival she had been subjected to — and the surprising capacity for adaptation she had revealed.
Feroza was hurt. Why did everybody refer to her college as school? Once she had taken her matric exam she had hoped to be rid of school forever. Was a junior college then merely an extension of school and not a college? She was also quite bewildered by the profusion of buildings and roads and had no sense of where she was most of the time.
Manek explained that in America people referred to even Harvard and M.I.T. as “schools,” and he assured her she would find her way blindfolded in a few days.
The counselor smiled and stood up when Feroza and Manek entered her small, sun-bright office crowded with files and books. “You must be the new Pakistani student. I’m Emily Simms,” she said, extending her hand. She looked admiringly at Feroza’s embroidered shirt and came round her desk to examine it. “Now isn’t that pretty?”
The alert, short, and comfortably slender woman put Feroza at ease at once. Feroza guessed she must be her mother’s age. After a few pleasant remarks, Emily said, “We don’t get many foreign students, but we do have a few. We sure are happy to have you with us. Once you’ve adjusted and know your way around, I think you’ll enjoy Southern Idaho College and Twin Falls. It’s not a very large town, but it’s safe and everybody’s friendly.” The counselor smiled, responding affectionately to Feroza’s eager expression.