An American Brat

by Bapsi Sidhwa

  On a Saturday afternoon, Feroza drove with David for a Sabbath meal with Adina and Abe Press. They lived in Boulder, barely a mile up the road from Jo’s parents, in an unassuming house with a neat front yard overhung with pine trees.

  They welcomed Feroza warmly but with a certain nervous reserve. Feroza could see how attached they were to David. He was obviously their pride, hope, and happiness. She could imagine to what extent their lives must center on him. They were both much older than Feroza had expected.

  Abe was fair and lank and retiring, and Feroza thought David was a lot like him temperamentally. Abe worked at Con Edison and was only a few months away from retirement.

  Except for his light eyes and hair, David bore more resemblance to his mother. They had the same strong features and compact bodies. Adina was bustling and energetic and, with her earnest talk, compensated for her husband’s reserve.

  Feroza and David drove back the next evening. Feroza’s mind dwelt on the Sabbath meal. David’s father and David had worn a yarmulke: she had never seen David wear the cap before. The table had a damask cloth cover, flowers, fine china, and two brass candelabras with short white candles. Adina had covered her head with a lace scarf, lit the candles, lightly covered her face with the palms of her hand, and silently prayed. Her gestures and the ritual were very like those performed by her mother and grandmother when they prayed before the atash. Feroza sat up in her chair, lowered her head, and shut her eyes. She wished David had warned her to take a scarf along.

  Then Abe held up the kiddush cup filled with wine and said a short prayer. He passed the cup around so that each of them could take a sip of the sweet wine, uncovered a loaf of golden, braided bread, broke it, and passed it around too. The bread was delectable. Breaking bread, sharing salt — these concepts curled in her thoughts with comforting familiarity — they belonged also to the Parsee, Christian, and Muslim traditions in Pakistan.

  Afterwards, Adina had asked her a few polite questions about her religion. Feroza had sensed nervousness and reserve.

  It was the first time that Feroza had been seriously confronted with the fact that David’s religion was different from hers. So far, she had refused to think about it. She wondered what David’s parents had thought of her and what they might have said to their son. How would her family react when they found out? Her mind dwelt on these questions, and she wanted to share her troubled thoughts with David. She also wanted to know more about the Sabbath ritual that she had found moving. But they were both too tired and relaxed and happy for serious talk. There was plenty of time. They would work through the problems later and deal with the issues as they came up. The disturbing thoughts evaporated, and they drove home listening to Beethoven’s Ninth.

  David was introducing Feroza to Western classical music. Feroza’s experience with Western music had been limited to the Top 40 she had enjoyed with Jo. Bob Dylan was her favorite; Shashi had given her a thick book of Dylan’s poems. Otherwise she had listened to the cassettes she brought with her, the cassettes of Nayara Nur singing Faiz’s poems, of Tahira Saeed, Medhi Hassan, and Abida Parveen.

  But every music paled in comparison to the way Beethoven’s Fifth and Ninth Symphonies affected her at this moment of love. It seemed to her the orchestrated swell of the new harmonies, like her new love, were bestowed on her by the foreign country like a benediction, a grace. Feroza absorbed the music through her pores, and her nerves were vibrant with the beauty of a new energy — a joyous current that connected her to all the sensory images she had found the most beautiful since childhood, the stupendous mountains of the Karakoram, the lake at Saif-ul-Mulk mirroring the glaciers of the Hindu-Kush. Twilight trapped in the pine-perfumed forests of Nathyagali. The white domes of the Badshai Mosque floating above the Ravi at sunset. The unexpected silhouette of skyscrapers as she looked up from the zoo in Central Park. The explosive colors of the Colorado fall that almost made prayer redundant.

  Chapter 24

  Feroza spent the Christmas vacation of 1981 with Manek and Aban, newly pregnant with their first child, in their new three-bedroom house, whose grassy backyard was protected by a wooden fence. The house was on the outskirts of Houston, in Clear Lake, only a fifteen-minute drive from Manek’s office at NASA. He had acquired a loan on the strength of his salary and was able to make a twenty-percent down payment.

  Part of the down payment had come from his wife’s money. He had said, “Look. If we get a divorce, you’ll get half the house by American law. You might as well contribute to it so there will be no hard feelings later.”

  That night Aban couldn’t sleep. After reflecting on Manek’s remarks further, she wept and prayed for three days. With a scarf covering her head, she carried a small silver fire altar, fragrant with sandalwood and frankincense, to the four corners of every room in their house, including the bathrooms.

  A marriage as far as she knew — as far as her ancestors had believed for five thousand years — was for keeps. Aban had heard ever since she could remember that a wife only left her husband’s house feet first, in her coffin. The mention of divorce was not only insensitive, diabolical, and cruel, but also an affront to all that was auspicious and lucky. Such ill-omened words could not help but attract misfortune. Jinx their marriage. If this was what being in America meant, Aban wanted to have nothing to do with America. She would insist they go back to Karachi or Lahore.

  Manek had apologized, said he’d only been joking. By the time Feroza arrived the matter had been smoothed over, and the ill omens exorcised by the daily clouds of smoke from the small fire altar. The smoke hung in the rooms like a holy presence and made Manek and Aban’s eyes smart with its piety.

  They picked up Feroza from the Intercontinental Airport in Houston. The very first thing Manek did once they were on the highway to Clear Lake was to dig out a business card from his wallet and hand it to Feroza. “What d’you think of this?” he said, so grandly that Feroza knew it was not a question but a boast.

  Feroza was at once on her guard. She did not want to start off the visit on the wrong foot. She looked at the card with an appropriately admiring smile and tried valiantly to maintain it as she realized, with a jolt, that he had changed his name from Manek Junglewalla to Mike Junglevala.

  She couldn’t help it. “Mike?” she asked, her appalled voice conjuring up Jo’s unpleasant boyfriend. “You’ve become a Mike?”

  Manek remained calm. “The people I have to deal with at work find it hard to remember Manek. It’s too foreign, it makes them uneasy. But I’m one of the guys if I’m Mike.”

  “In America, be —” and Aban added her voice to Feroza’s as they both chorused, “American!”

  The tension was at once dispelled.

  “I’m sorry,” Feroza declared. “I know I can’t call you Mike even if I try.”

  “That’s all right,” Manek said. “I don’t expect you to; Aban only calls me Mike when we are with Americans.”

  “But it’s taken me a while to get used to it,” Aban said.

  Manek impressed Feroza by his calm and reasonable manner and the air of consequence he had acquired; that of a homeowner, a breadwinner, and a man on his way up the American ladder of success in the pursuit of happiness.

  Feroza did not attempt to puncture his profound airs or pensive speech — though she was sorely tempted to — for fear of deflating him before his admiring and smitten wife. Aban would have all the time in the world to be gradually disillusioned. Feroza need not have worried. Aban was sensible, bright, candid and cheerful. She had wisely shed many of her illusions about marriage and romance, some within a few days of their marriage in Karachi, and some in the United States. She had done so with good grace and without undue pain.

  Once in a while she would reproach Manek, “Why did you tell me, ‘Your happiness is going to be my life’s study,’ when your life seems to be devoted to making me miserable?”

  “That was before marriage,” Manek answered, as if that was the most logical explanation i
n the world.

  For her part, Aban permitted Manek his posturing so as not to disenchant his young, affectionate, and credulous niece. She even gazed at Manek with deferential and adoring eyes to shore up Feroza’s regard for him.

  Manek took Aban and Feroza to eat out frequently; after all, he was earning well. And, in a reckless exhibition of extravagance, he offered to take them to La Palms on Christmas Eve, saying, “The smallest lobster costs seventy-five dollars.”

  Aban and Feroza oohed and aahed with delight.

  Aban was stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. She was about to step into the living room to fetch the coffee mugs when she overheard Feroza say, “I hope you’re not going to tell me to waste half my lobster and leave without paying.”

  Aban rushed in, waving the dish-rag she had in her hand, shouting in her glorious contralto, “Oh, my God! Did he do that to you, too?”

  Manek’s lofty airs and sober affectations vanished that instant and remained suspended for the rest of Feroza’s stay.

  Aban and Feroza were relieved to see Manek revert to his caustic clowning and retrieve his wicked, high-pitched soprano to mimic them and correct their misguided ways.

  The three of them relaxed, horsed around, and enjoyed each other’s company much more than they had at the beginning of Feroza’s visit.

  On the last day of Feroza’s stay, Aban, who was an excellent cook like her mother, outdid herself. The prawn patia was delicious and spicy enough to make their noses drip, the fragrant saffron and lentil rice that went with it light and fluffy, each kernel of the long-grained Basmati exquisitely separate.

  They ate with their fingers, licking them, smacking their lips in satisfaction. They chewed the food with silent concentration, reaching for the roasted Bombay-duck, mango pickles, and pepper pappadoms as if performing a sacred rite.

  After dinner Manek, who was in charge of the dessert, opened a can of Alfanso mango pulp. Aban had bought it from an Indian store she had just discovered in Clear Lake. She marveled at the ubiquity of Indian stores.

  Manek spooned the orange pulp on generous portions of vanilla ice cream, and they took their bowls to the living room to watch the news on TV and then “Star Trek.”

  “Want to see anything else?” Manek asked.

  “Nah,” Feroza said, “Let’s talk.”

  Aban agreed.

  Manek switched the TV off. “You two’ve been talking nonstop for ten days. My ears are aching. If you don’t watch out, you’ll develop fat muscles in your tongues, and they’ll hang out.”

  Manek stuck out his tongue, panted, and turned his head from side to side looking perplexed.

  The girls laughed at their pantomimed future.

  Aban complained, “He always says I talk nonstop. Who else can I talk to? The walls? I’m alone all day. I didn’t know I was going to be so bored and lonely in America.”

  “You’ll make friends,” Manek said, and they conversed about the Parsees they had met in Houston. There were almost four hundred Parsees, if you counted the suburbs, and the community organized functions almost every month. But it took them an hour and a half to get anywhere. Houston was such a sprawling city, and they lived too far out.

  Feroza could feel the evening coming to a close. She had still not disclosed what she’d meant to. She finally gathered up her courage and, her pounding heart making her breathless, told them about David. “I really love the guy,” Feroza said and stopped as abruptly.

  Manek and Aban had been vaguely expecting tidings of this nature, considering how many times she had mentioned David — and twice had called Manek David. But to vaguely expect something and to be plainly told it are two quite different matters.

  For a moment, except for their breathing, there was absolute quiet. Aban remembered that she had to prepare for the morning and sagaciously withdrew. This was a very personal subject, and she did not feel she had been in the family long enough to engage in a discussion on such a sensitive issue.

  “He’s very nice,” Feroza remarked, on the defensive.

  Manek still did not speak. He looked at his shoes. Then he said, “I suppose these things are bound to happen when one lives here for long. But I don’t think the family will understand that.” He paused, marshaling his thoughts, and Feroza remained quiet.

  “I think you have to be sure first. Give it time … There’s no big hurry. He’s probably the first man in your life …” Manek stole a glance at Feroza. Her face was set in the haughty mold he knew so well. “It all seems wonderful now, but marriage is something else: our cultures are very different. Of course I’m not saying it can’t work, but you have to give it time. We’ll keep in touch on the phone, see how it goes?” Manek ended on a tentative note, at last looking directly at Feroza. It was a caring look, and Feroza felt a surge of relief and gratitude.

  “I wish you’d brought up the subject earlier,” Manek said. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m not thinking clearly. But I and Aban are going to be here. You can count on us.”

  ~

  The girl who had occupied one of the bedrooms in David’s house moved out. David thought it might be a good idea if Feroza moved to the vacant room. The house would give her much more space than the cramped basement apartment she shared with Gwen and Rhonda.

  Feroza thought about it. David would continue to occupy the converted garage — it wouldn’t be as if they were living together. She had met the two girls, Shirley and Laura, who shared the other bedroom, and liked them.

  The enormity of the step she had taken occurred to Feroza only after she had moved in. Her living in the same house with David did affect the level of their intimacy. Their feelings for each other became much more intense and their relationship more complex. When sometimes, in an unconscious gesture that seemed to fascinate David, Feroza lifted her hair from the back, twirled it in a knot, and held it in place by inserting a pencil, David would look at her long, vulnerable, and elegant neck in a special way, as if torn between a desire to gaze at it or brush it with his lips. They appeared to each other equally vulnerable as, huskily saying, “Your skin is like velvet,” David stopped her from going about whatever it was she was doing and buried his face in her neck.

  To be able to see David whenever she wanted to, at odd times of the night and early in the morning, to cook together over the weekends, to discover each other’s endearing peculiarities and the odd unexpected moments when each looked most seductive to the other, did amount to living together. Feroza was riven by bouts of guilt. Once when she was sneaking back into her room at three o’clock in the morning with her shoes in her hand, she wondered if she was the same girl who had lived in Lahore and gone to the Convent of the Sacred Heart.

  Chapter 25

  A brief but fierce deluge following the dust storm the night before had brought respite from the June heat — 116 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade the day before. Otherwise the consternation caused by the letter from America, with the added irritant of tempers and nerves frayed by unbridled temperatures, would have plunged not only Zareen and Cyrus but the entire family into despair and foreboding.

  As it was, holding the letter in her inert fingers, the obscene photograph having already fluttered to the bedroom floor, Zareen found it hard to breathe. That Feroza should have chosen to send this photograph, of a man with his legs bared almost to his balls, was significant. Surely she must be aware of the assault on their parental sensibility. A subliminal cloud of nebulous conjectures and a terrible fear entered Zareen’s mind. She grasped the basic premise — that Feroza was preparing Cyrus and herself for a change — but a change of this magnitude? She was confronting the “unknown,” and she felt helpless in the face of it.

  Once she had scanned the first few lines of the letter, her vision became so acute, so superbly lucid, that she felt able to absorb all the crowded lettering on the typed sheet without once needing to move her eyes. And then the sentences ballooned up disembodied, the words individually magnified, until they popped before her blur
ring sight. She felt a dizzying rush of blood to her head and was as close to fainting as she’d ever be.

  After a while Zareen became conscious of the servants chattering in the kitchen, the cook laying the table for lunch, and as the initial shock wore off slightly, the news, with its tumult of ramifications, settled deeper into her sinking heart.

  Feeling drained of strength and feeling each one of her forty years — she had crossed the distressing threshold the week before — Zareen hobbled over to the phone at her desk. With wildly wandering fingers she dialed part way through her mother’s number and then, thinking of the effect the news would have on Khutlibai, instead dialed her husband’s office. She heard three rings and then Cyrus’s preoccupied, “Hello.”

  A wave of relief swept over Zareen at the thought of transmitting her anguish, and she began to cry.

  “What’s the matter?” Cyrus’s panicked voice repeated the question, “What’s the matter?”

  “I got a letter from Feroza,” she said haltingly, sniffing between her sobs.

  “Feroza?” Cyrus shouted, “What’s happened to Feroza?” Zareen blew her nose, swallowed, and with a supreme effort of will, suspended her weeping to gasp, “She wants to marry a non.”

  Cyrus found his wife huddled on their bed beneath the slowly rotating blades of the ceiling fan, her attractive eyes swollen, her elegant nose red. He gave her a commiserating hug and, pressing her beautiful head against his incipient paunch, scanned the letter silently. His eyes automatically focused on the significant sentences, the casual note their daughter had adopted stabbing his heart and guts like so many daggers.

  Feroza wrote that she had met a wonderful boy at the University. Like her, he was also very shy. She had agreed to marry him. She knew they would be very upset, particularly her grandmothers, at the thought of her marrying a non-Parsee. His parents were Jews. The religious differences did not matter so much in America. They had decided to resolve the issue by becoming Unitarians. “Please, don’t be angry, and please try to make both my grannies understand. I love you all so much. I won’t be able to bear it if you don’t accept David.”