by Bapsi Sidhwa
“At least you have more sense than my daughter,” Zareen said tartly, and intercepted a look between them — of David’s delight at winning her favor and Feroza’s bemused surprise — that Zareen was not meant to see. Gloating at having scored over Feroza, David had thumbed his nose, and though Feroza tried to look hurt by the sudden switch in her mother’s allegiance, it was plain to see she was pleased.
Each day the next week, Feroza dropped her mother off at one or another of the gleaming shopping malls. To Zareen’s dazzled senses, they were pieces of paradise descended straight from the sky, crammed with all that was most desirable in the world.
Shooting off on a tangent, she darted between the garment racks and cosmetics counters, the jewelry, linen, toy, shoe, and furniture displays like a giddy meteorite driven mad by the gravitational allure of contending cosmic bodies. Caught in the whirlwind of her frenzy, she blew tirelessly in and out of the stores, attracted as much by the silver plastic slippers as she was by the grand pianos.
Feroza picked her up late in the evening from some designated spot, usually an ice-cream parlor, and eyes glazed by the glory of the goods she had seen and the foods she had tasted, Zareen climbed into the small car, laden with large shopping bags.
The results of her first shopping spree were manifest that very evening. The tops of everything, counters, tables, window-sills, sprouted tissue boxes as if she had planted a pastel garden of fragrant Kleenex. She went from box to box, plucking tissues with a prodigality that satisfied a deep sensual craving and chucked them away with an abandon she never thought to indulge. She was seldom without a small ball of tissue crumpled in her fist or fluttering in her fingers. Some days later, impressed by the magic of scouring potions like Windex and Endust, she sprayed them on the tissues and spent an ecstatic evening cleaning the house.
Feroza’s dressing table and bathroom shelves blossomed in a dizzying array of perfume bottles and cosmetics, and the level of the floor of Feroza’s two long closets rose by at least two feet in a glossy flood of plastic packages containing linen, china, lamp shades, and gadgets. The hanging spaces were jammed with Zareen’s new blouses, pants, and jackets.
Feroza discreetly moved her clothes to David’s closet.
Enchanted, Zareen made her daily debut modeling her new clothes in the kitchen and was as delighted as a teenager by the approving glances and flattering comments of whoever happened to be breakfasting. She spent hours chatting with Laura and Shirley. They ferried her around when Feroza or David were busy, and she treated them to ice-cream cones and the tortilla chips, candy, and chocolate fudge colas she brought home. She bought small gifts for everyone.
Zareen was as happy as a captive seal suddenly released into the ocean. Despite her daily shopping forays and weekend excursions, she felt she had glimpsed only the tips of icebergs. Her heart pulsed to the seductive beat of the New World, and her ears, throbbing to the beat, stopped hearing the counsel of her distant Lahori relatives. The plotted course was forgotten; David’s presence, unfailingly courteous and anxious to please, touchingly dependent on her opinion and responsive to her slightest need, was accepted, and necessary to this enchantment.
David and Feroza, exhilarated by their success, relaxed some of their self-imposed restraints. David held Feroza’s hand, and glancing at her mother, Feroza permitted it to be held. She rested her head on David’s shoulder when the ride was long, and occasionally hugged him in a sisterly fashion in front of Zareen.
Light-headed with delight, David let his hair, and even the stubble on his chin, grow. His confidence, too, blossomed, and with it, his wry sense of humor that had so touched Zareen in the abandoned mining town when he had gleefully thumbed his nose at Feroza. At such moments, Zareen wished David was a Parsee — or that the Zoroastrians would permit selective conversion to their faith.
Zareen found herself seriously questioning the ban on interfaith marriages for the first time. She had often opined how unfair it was that while a Parsee man who married a “non” could keep his faith and bring up his children as Zoroastrians, a Parsee woman couldn’t. And it didn’t make sense that the “non” non was not permitted to become Zoroastrian; one could hardly expect their children to practice a faith denied to their mother.
But she argued this from a purely feminist and academic point of view. She had accepted the conventional wisdom and gone along with the opinion of the community because she had grown up with these precepts. She had never doubted that she would marry a Parsee.
Till now these issues had not affected her. But with Feroza’s happiness at stake and her strengthening affection for David, Zareen wondered about it. How could a religion whose Prophet urged his followers to spread the Truth of his message in the holy Gathas — the songs of Zarathustra — prohibit conversion and throw her daughter out of the faith?
Zareen knew there was a controversy raging round these issues in Bombay, as well as in Britain, Canada, and America, where the Parsees had migrated in droves in the past few years.
Bombay had sixty thousand Parsees — fifty percent of the total world population of her community. Zareen had all along believed that the Parsee Panchayat in Bombay was the natural center of authority on community matters. She knew it also had an inclination to be conservative.
Tucked away in Lahore, Zareen had not felt directly involved. She was vaguely confident that the controversy would be resolved in an enlightened manner (after all, her community was educated and progressive) and that she could live with its decisions whichever way they went.
She was not so sure anymore and felt herself suddenly aligned with the thinking of the liberals and reformists. It eased her heart to think that a debate on these issues was taking place.
Perhaps the teenagers in Lahore were right. The Zoroastrian Anjuman in Karachi and Bombay should move with the times that were sending them to the New World. Bunny’s image materialized before her with startling lucidity as her niece tossed her ponytail and said, “For God’s sake! You’re carrying on as if Feroza’s dead! She’s only getting married.”
Of course. And to a nice boy. Zareen was sanguine. The various Anjumans would have to introduce minor reforms if they wished their tiny community to survive.
Although Shirley and Laura occasionally roamed the house in shorts, David, warned by Feroza, kept his hairy legs modestly concealed. There were other strictures they prudently continued to observe, and David, nosing his way timidly on the surface of another culture, was entirely guided by Feroza. Neither smoked before Zareen, and both were careful not to give the slightest hint of their more advanced physical intimacies.
During the second week of Zareen’s stay, they hesitantly introduced her to some of their friends from the Unitarian Church Society, cautiously explaining parts of the Unitarian doctrine to Zareen. In her liberal frame of mind, Zareen found their outlook reasonable, and Feroza and David’s friends as charming as they found her.
And then, in the third week of her visit, a spate of anxious letters from Pakistan arrived, recalling Zareen to her mission.
By themselves the letters from her family would not have upset Zareen so much. But Freny had enclosed copies of two pamphlets titled “WARNING” and “NOTICE.” One was from the Athornan Mandal, which was the Parsee priest’s association in Bombay headed by Dastur Feroze Kotwal, and the other was from the Bombay Zoroastrian Jashan Committee.
Zareen scanned them, her fingers suddenly trembling. A terrible fear for her daughter gripped her heart. Her first inclination was to tear up the sheets. Then she folded them into a tight wad and buried them in the bottom drawer of her dresser.
Zareen’s sleep became restless. Her dreams were crowded with the presence of outraged kin pointing long, rebuking fingers. As if prodded by an ominous finger, she bolted upright in bed one night, her pulse pounding. She looked at the watch on the side table; it was three o’clock. She felt something was terribly amiss and, with a shock, realized that Feroza was not in her cot. For the first time, Zareen susp
ected that her daughter probably slept with David. Tying her scarf round her head, she began to pray.
Zareen knew what she must do. However admirable and appealing David was, however natural to the stimulating and carefree environment, he would deprive her daughter of her faith, her heritage, her family, and her community. She would be branded an adulteress and her children pronounced illegitimate. She would be accused of committing the most heinous sacrileges. Cut off from her culture and her surroundings like a fish in shallow waters, her child would eventually shrivel up. And her dread for Feroza altered her opinion of David.
The next day Feroza and David at once sensed the change in Zareen’s mood. They were surprised how fragile their happiness was, how vulnerable they were. Linking Zareen’s shift in temper to the bundle of letters that had arrived from Pakistan, Feroza wished the mail had been lost.
Zareen’s face grew more and more solemn as the morning advanced, and the little frown-line between her eyes settled into a deeper groove. Feroza, after a few attempts to rally her mother had failed, became equally solemn. David’s misgivings launched their customary attacks. He skulked about the garage and the backyard, trying to keep out of everybody’s way. There were muffled sounds of an altercation from Laura and Shirley’s room. Zareen’s ill humor and fear had contaminated the house. Zareen packed Feroza off to the grocery store with a list of things to buy and, once she was safely out of the way, phoned Aban.
Aban and Manek called Zareen on the weekends, when the rates were low. Their conversations had been pleasant, restricted to questions about what Zareen had been seeing and doing, how Aban, eight months pregnant, was faring, and to news of the family in Pakistan.
Earlier Zareen had told Manek the purpose of her precipitate visit, and Manek had advised, “Just keep your cool. I’m sure it will blow over.” And Zareen, excited by the adventures of shopping, eating, and sightseeing, had been content to let things ride.
This morning, although it was a work day and an expensive time to call, Zareen phoned Aban and poured out her many misgivings. Aban, still not feeling that she could interfere in a matter so personal, listened sympathetically and advised, “It might be better if you call Manek. He understands Feroza and might offer some suggestions.” She gave her Manek’s phone number at work.
Manek was surprised when his secretary told him that his sister was on the line. “Everything all right?” he asked anxiously, and Zareen started weeping. “I don’t know what to do,” she said between her sobs. And pulling herself together, she expressed her anxiety and feelings.
Manek listened to her with growing impatience. “Couldn’t the matter wait till evening? Do you know how much this call is costing?”
“Damn the cost,” Zareen almost shrieked. “It’s a question of Feroza’s entire happiness. Is that all you can think of?”
“Look,” Manek said, “I still think if you leave things alone, the romance will die a natural death.”
“I don’t think it will,” Zareen said with conviction. “You should see the way they’re carrying on. I wouldn’t be surprised if they eloped and got married secretly.”
“Feroza is a big girl now,” Manek said. “She’s not a fool. She knows what she’s doing. If she really likes the guy so much, there’s not much you can do. After all, she’s spent four years in America. Our young people are bound to marry out. You know so many already have. I can only make a suggestion. I think the best thing would be to accept the fact with good grace. After all, David sounds like a fine man.”
“Very good! Very good!” Zareen was outraged. “You come all the way to Lahore to marry a Parsee girl, and you are advising me to let my daughter marry David? I can’t believe it. Thank you very much!” she said and banged the phone down.
Zareen waited for David to appear in the kitchen. It was almost four o’clock, and he was accustomed to forage in the fridge for a snack and make himself a cup of coffee.
When he didn’t show up, she was sure he was deliberately avoiding her. She strode to the garage door, and after ascertaining that he was in his room, sounding as if she were unmasking a coward, she sternly said, “David, can you come into the kitchen, please? I want to talk to you.”
David’s spirits sank lower as he caught the elusive inflection that had so disconcerted him on the day of her arrival. Shoving his legs into his long pants, David hurried into the kitchen and sat down before Zareen.
Zareen gave him a quick, cool smile and, dispensing with courtesies, said, “I am most concerned about Feroza. Do you intend to marry her, or are you just having fun?”
David felt the blood rush to his head and cloud his vision. At the same time, meekly lying in his lap, his hands turned numb and cold. “Of course,” he stammered. “We want to get married.”
“Please speak for yourself,” Zareen said, “and let my daughter speak for herself.”
David was too stunned to say anything. He looked at Zareen with an expression of surprise and misery.
“Have you thought about the sacrifice you are demanding of my daughter?”
“I’m not demanding anything. Feroza does as she pleases, pretty much.” Then, the slightest edge to his voice, he added, “She’s an adult.”
“An adult? I don’t think so,” Zareen said. “You are both too immature and selfish to qualify as adults. She doesn’t care how much she hurts all of us. I’ll tell you something.” Zareen’s voice became oracular with foreboding. “I look into Feroza’s future and what do I see? Misery!”
David could not credit his faculties. The transition was too sudden. He could not reconcile the hedonistic shopper, the model swirling girlishly in the kitchen, the enthusiastic tourist and giver of gifts with this aggressive sage frightening him with her doom-booming voice and a volley of bizarre accusations.
“Could we talk about this later?” he mumbled, tripping over the chair as he stood up. “I’ll be late for an evening class.”
“Then go!” Zareen was imperious with scorn. “But please think about the sacrifice you are asking of my daughter.”
Feroza had just returned and, hearing the loud voices, had cravenly retreated to her room. Nervously bracing herself for a quarrel or, at the very least, a solemn lecture, she was not prepared for the ferocity of Zareen’s attack — or its dangerous direction — when Zareen marched into her room saying, “You’re both selfish. Thinking of no one but yourselves. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to!”
“What am I up to?” Feroza was at once on her guard.
“Ask your conscience that! We have taught you what is wrong and what is right!”
“If you’re referring to my virginity, you may relax,” Feroza said, attaching umbrage to her haughty voice. “I’m perhaps the only twenty-year-old virgin in all America.”
Zareen was almost certain she was lying. “You were not in your bed at three o’clock this morning! You expect me to believe you?”
“Believe what you want, since you don’t trust me!” Feroza said with scathing dignity and strode out of the room.
Zareen followed her furiously. “Don’t you turn your back on me! Look me in the eye!”
Whirring round, her face darkly flushing, Feroza shouted, “Examine me if you want!”
They had the house to themselves. In the course of the row, mother and daughter stormed in and out of rooms, raking up old quarrels, wrenching open doors and banging them shut. They locked themselves in the bathrooms and splashing their faces with water, refreshed themselves for the fray. At the end of an hour, Zareen, trembling with rage and exhaustion, raised her hand threateningly, “Don’t think you’re too old to slap!”
Feroza moved close to her parent and snatched her hand in a violent gesture of defiance. She stared at Zareen out of savage lynx eyes, her pupils narrowed. Zareen felt she had provoked something dangerous to them both. Tears springing to her eyes she jerked her arm free. She walked to the flimsy entrance door, swung it open and swept out of the house.
Zareen had barely
walked a block up the quiet, deserted street when she heard the angry whir of wheels as Feroza backed the Chevette out of the drive. A moment later the car whizzed past.
Zareen felt drained and defeated. She turned round slowly and went back to the house.
Zareen sat brooding before the TV, searching her soul. She had acted in a way that would push her daughter into the arms of this David. How could she have been so foolish? She was the mother, and yet Feroza had shown more maturity and restraint in her behavior than she had.
Late in the evening, lying on her bed, Zareen heard Laura and Shirley enter the house. A short while later, she heard the garage door click. David had returned. Feroza must be with him. Quickly opening a magazine, she waited breathlessly for Feroza.
The moments dragged by, and she wondered if Feroza would show up at all. She wanted desperately to effect a reconciliation, wipe away the hurt in both their hearts. Feroza did not come. In fact the house was as silent as if it were empty.
Tears sprang to Zareen’s eyes, and she put the magazine away. She plucked a tissue from the box by her pillow and bitterly blew her nose. Three weeks had gone by, and what had she done except go wild and spend all the bribe money? She had only five days left in Denver. She had one of those tickets that was cheaper if you specified the return date at the time of purchase. In any case she had to be in Lahore in time for her nephew’s navjote, which Feroza had explained to David was like a bar mitzvah.
Zareen absently heard the phone ring. A little later Shirley knocked on her door and shyly, as was her way, said, “Feroza called. She asked me to tell you she is spending the night with a friend. She’ll see you after classes tomorrow.”
Shirley stepped hesitantly into the room. “Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m all right, dear,” Zareen said, her voice thick. “Thanks a lot for asking. I’m just a bit tired. I was waiting for Feroza.”
“You sound as if you’re heading for a cold,” Shirley said. “Let me get you a glass of warm milk.”