And the World Changed

by Muneeza Shamsie

  Instead, him and all the other egotistical-for-no-apparent-reason sort of men seem to get good women and I’m now left with the option of hooking up with the married ones, running after the gay ones, or building a meaningful relationship with my vibrator.

  Don’t do that eye-rolling thing please, because I can see you—” such a drama queen, no wonder she can’t get a man . . . poor thing.”

  Anyway, for what it’s worth, I’ll tell you my side and I’ll tell you nicely so you understand.

  On my last birthday I found out that the man I had wholly and solely given my heart to (when he obviously couldn’t give a hoot), had decided to marry his ex-girlfriend. Call me crazy but I think I deserved a phone call. A little hint maybe, that he was planning on doing the wedding march with someone else while I fantasized about nuptials and puppies and beach resort vacations featuring him. But no. I had to hear the news from my best friend’s man who heard it from his uncle who assured his nephew that this was “already old news, kid.”

  After having spent the past couple of months getting lots of good advice from my friends (who are either married or in “happy” relationships) on how to forget this piece of excrement and move on to better, brighter things, I’m thinking the whole concept is overrated. One only has to look at the current divorce rate to gauge just how successful this “until death do us part” thing really is.

  Then there are couples who wisely stay away from the legalities but still end up operating as one entity. “We wish you . . . we are hoping . . . we are planning”—Jesus, I don’t care about “we,” I don’t even really know your partner, I asked YOU because you are the one I’ve had the pleasure of knowing since WE were six. And when these two-in-one ladies start spewing advice my way about how I should “cherish my freedom,” wait for something perfect to materialize instead of “settling for someone who doesn’t appreciate you,” it makes me want to scream!

  {Aside}

  #1

  “God bless you please (Ms.) Robinson,” can you cut the shit and quit looking at those twenty-year-old chicks with perky tits and a wide-eyed wonder that will be erased soon enough, that will compel them to compare their fading glow to other, fresher blossoms while you snigger from the sidelines.

  #2

  Maybe men become attractive only when they’re unavailable and safely out of reach. . . .

  Meanwhile Leila’s temptress-like aspirations continue to fall short of the forbidden fruit because of poor stamina and mad expectations.

  Doing Your Head In

  remains unaware of the consequences of his un-thought-out

  actions,

  my increasingly schoolgirl reactions

  bound to be a drag in the end (like all good things are),

  bound to make me roll my eyes and kick myself in the shins . . .

  one woman’s truth is another man’s

  funky kinda freaky shit(“what the hell are you talking about?”)

  that your mama warned you about(“where’s this coming from?”)

  but you were too busy(don’t lose your balance in a blink, girl!)

  chasing the slightest, silliest,(don’t ask me what she sees in him!)

  bound to make you fall flat(cloud in the sky).

  on your face

  She needs to be more matter-of-fact about this:

  The unfolding of non sequiturs.

  Matter-of-fact:

  She’s more confused than ever.

  Matter:

  Flesh is not the best measure of love.

  Fact:

  None of it means much beyond a moon or two.

  He’s a star in the making all right. Getting ready to break unsuspecting hearts with a casual glance, that crazy smile before walking home, the long way round to “the real thing.”

  Wide-eyed

  Doe-eyed

  Girl forever true,

  Too green to know the worth of a good thing,

  The punishments of indecision.

  It Takes Practice

  “what you doing?”

  “taking it easy.”

  “how, exactly?”

  (that’s for me to know and you to ponder

  very, very slowly, in candlelight, well after midnight . . .)

  I smile a little

  “see you tomorrow?”

  “maybe . . .”

  (the boy next door just turned into a possibility)

  Unravel this

  He fumbles with clasps and even though it slows down the proceedings just a fraction, it’s infinitely endearing. The last candidate could undo the tiniest, trickiest piece of metal and simultaneously smoke a cigarette, answer the phone, do a few push-ups. It was disconcerting; made me wonder how many times that player had been around the block.

  This one is sweet.

  This one is promising.

  “This one will bring out the prose in me,” she thought, looking at herself full length in the mirror and examining the details. Two eyes, two ears, a nose, passable lips, all in place (a growing double chin). She’s complete as she stands.

  What does she see in him?

  (A vulnerability that seeps through his fingers and floats toward her outstretched palms, across the table that marks the safe distance between them.)

  Your lips lengthen my spine,

  catching the salt between my thighs,

  spoiling me in the best possible way.

  Don’t Say It Out Loud

  How do I break it down further?

  You have the potential for becoming air;

  as still, as necessary, just there.

  Not a casual coming together of two

  but the sweat which spells unspoken togetherness,

  a contentment in the blood.

  Another time

  Another place

  I might have looked you in the face,

  dragged you by the hair to the nearest cave

  and kept you a week, a month, a year . . .

  but if touch hardly lasts, why ask silly questions?

  Later she finds an old lover’s letters tucked in the corner of her bedside drawer. There is no urge to read them but she holds them just the same; feels their weight press into her palm, the vision of off-white squares of paper torn from a lined notebook makes her smile. She remembers that time well, and now the prospect of a scrawled script winking at her in mirror fashion defines an image of him frozen in time, forever twenty-one, full of a self-assured loving, an unhurried laughter.

  In spite of this nostalgia she realizes she does not have any “real” memento of him, even though he has been the possibility tugging at her insides all this while. Now as they become more jaded, thicker at the waistline, she wonders about him in silence, in a way more meaningful than common interests and surprise tokens of affection.

  Contact as a cure for insomnia:

  The right amount of pressure applied consistently across the shoulder and chest by a reasonably strong, willing, reassuring arm that materializes just behind your curled frame has been known to produce a soporific effect.

  Better than counting sheep, cocoa cups, grinding teeth . . .

  If she held herself any tighter, she’d choke the air supply.

  SCAR

  Aamina Ahmad

  Aamina Ahmad (1975– ) grew up in London and earned degrees in London from University College and Goldsmith’s College. She worked for the BBC World Service before becoming a television script editor. Her credits include a number of primetime shows in Britain including Eastenders, The Bill, and Hustle. She now lives in San Francisco.

  “Scar” is an examination of Pakistan’s class system and the relationship between Kaakee, the daughter of a maidservant, and Aaliya, her employer’s daughter. As is quite common, these two characters were playmates as children, which allowed Kaakee to grow up with an imagined sense of equality. This gradually changes as the two grow older and their worlds diverge, but Kaakee still believes she is privileged within the household, despite the drudgery of her daily
life. With great sensitivity, Ahmad describes how readily the family Kaakee has served and even her relatives assume that Kaakee is guilty of theft.

  • • •

  “Kaakee!

  “Kaakee-ee.”

  Kaakee could hear Baji calling her as she watched the water from the tap flow across the floor of the bathroom toward her feet. Crouching, she rubbed at the cracked skin, letting the cool wetness collect between her toes. She turned off the tap and the water shrank back, reluctantly, toward the drain. Kaakee began sweeping the floor with her jharoo; the scratching sound slow and methodical. She stopped for a second, expecting to hear Baji call out to her again, but it was quiet.

  She looked around the dark bathroom, murky except for the hazy sunshine coming in from the skylight above. How refreshing to bathe in this dank room on a hot day, to feel your feet squelching in rubber Bata chappals. Kaakee looked at the dry wooden chowki sitting on the floor, covered by a film of water. It didn’t seem right; she filled the plastic mug with water from the bucket under the tap anticipating the “clappp” of the water smacking the wood—

  “Kaakee!”

  Kaakee stopped and turned to see Baji standing in the doorway, holding up her shalwar so her feet wouldn’t get wet; her skinny ankles pointing outward.

  “I’ve been calling you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  Kaakee said nothing; it wasn’t a question.

  “Thomas says something’s wrong with the Suzuki again. Be a good girl for me and collect Aalia from college.”

  As Baji turned Kaakee straightened up and emptied the mug of water on the chowki; although it turned a satisfyingly deep woody red she didn’t notice. A sudden sense of anxiety seemed to grip her. Her eyes moved to the clock just above the white tube light that ran along the side of one wall like a flash of lightning. It was already one; she would have to hurry if she didn’t want to be late for Aalia.

  Outside the tall college gates drivers stood in sweatless shalwar kameezes next to their sleek cars, while Kaakee hovered uneasily by a fuming blue rickshaw and its driver—the engine firecracking, ready to spring off as though it couldn’t bear to be stationary for more than a few moments. She had crisp new notes that Baji had given her to pay for the rickshaw, and strict orders to make sure they drank a Pepsi before coming home. As she waited for Aalia a young driver noticed her. Although she ignored his gaze she found herself standing a little straighter and tucking her hair behind her ear though it needed no tucking. These were the kind of rishtas her mother hoped for: cleanlooking men with six-weekly haircuts, a profession and Rs 2000 a month. She and Aalia didn’t talk as they once used to so she couldn’t mention the driver’s unwavering attention, but perhaps Aalia would walk past him and notice that his eyes hadn’t shifted from Kaakee’s direction, perhaps she would mention it. They might discuss it, pore over it, even. Perhaps. She looked ahead, waiting for Aalia with some excitement.

  Kaakee spotted Aalia emerging with her friends by her side, and waved. The surprise on Aalia’s face, the thin smile, made Kaakee lower her hand uneasily. Aalia gestured to the group of girls that Kaakee was here to collect her today. Her friends looked over. Kaakee, suddenly self-conscious, tugged at her kameez, wiped the sweat from her upper lip with the edge of her dupatta. Aalia approached with a friend by her side, Kaakee looked on, a rising sense of tension. She swallowed as Aaalia introduced Maheen, and both girls stepped into the rickshaw. Kaakee squeezed in between them, suddenly aware of the thick smell of her own sweat; she held her arms tightly against her sides, asked politely after Aalia’s day and then shyly relayed Baji’s message about the Pepsi. Maheen wasn’t bothered and Aalia looked unsure. Kaakee was aware that Aalia glanced at her before deciding that they should stop for a drink.

  At the main market Aalia told Kaakee to get a drink for herself as well. She stood outside in the shade with her bottle while the girls sat inside the rickshaw with theirs. Kaakee sucked on the straw bobbing in the bottle; sloop, sloop, sloop and the dusty dark liquid was gone. She waited for the girls to finish. As they chatted Kaakee heard Aalia mention the name of her fiancé, but there was little else she could make out. She thought of the young driver, what it would be like to sit with Aalia and Maheen whispering and giggling about him. The hum of their voices continued. She looked away feeling bad, not wanting to eavesdrop.

  Aalia handed her two half-drunk bottles to give back to the drinks stand.

  “That was a good idea. I needed that, hehna?”

  Kaakee saw Aalia glance at her empty bottle; she felt a surge of embarrassment as she turned toward the drinks stand. Kaakee wondered if that was why Aalia had agreed to stop, because she thought Kaakee wanted a bottle at their expense? Perhaps she thought Kaakee had suggested it for herself and not because Baji had told her to. Kaakee felt wounded—she handed over the money Baji had given her and discreetly pulled out two rupees of her own from her bra to contribute to the cost of the drink she’d consumed. She got back inside the rickshaw, perching on the seat to make more room for the girls. They sat close, engrossed in conversation. Kaakee could hear nothing but the loud buzzing of the rickshaw on her talk-less journey home.

  Kaakee dipped the clothes deep inside the metal bucket; the water surged up around the fabric against her wrists and hands. It was like being pulled by strong arms. The washed clothes, heavy with water, landed on the line with a thwack. Thwack—thwack; a tune. From somewhere, a melody came into her head, a Nayyara Noor ghazal. Without thinking she began to whisper the words to herself. Awkward, unused to the sound of her own voice, it felt strange to move her lips. In her head the tabla’s beat zipped along and Nayyara’s voice trilled firmly, confidently and, somehow, her own voice got a little louder. Suddenly Kaakee realized how good it felt stretching her face muscles, her tongue moving in her mouth. There was a change in tone; Nayyara was heading for a high note. Kaakee singing with her, felt ready, ready to hit the note that she and Nayyara were approaching when the clanging of a door silenced her.

  Next door, their neighbor Khawar had come out onto the balcony. He stood with a cigarette in his mouth, buttoning up his starched shirt over a white vest, taking in the busy traffic on Durand Road. Kaakee remembered how, long ago, she and Aalia would walk here along the side of the house, trying to catch a glimpse of Khawar; Aalia desperately hoping he would come out on the terrace to fly his kite. Back and forth they’d walk, hour after hour. The sense of excitement was enormous. Every angle, every “in” to a conversation was planned on those back and forth walks, but when, on a rare occasion they did see Khawar, a sudden, profound sense of shock would lead to awkward, mostly silent, encounters. Despite this, each meeting, after intense discussion and dissection, always produced a sense of optimism. Encouraged, they’d phone Khawar and listen to his repeated Hellos? and Who’s this? before playing a snatch of a filmi love song into the phone and hanging up. When they heard Khawar was getting engaged they both went into mourning for a few days. As well as Aalia’s heartbreak there would be even less to do in the afternoons than usual.

  Kaakee’s hands reddened as she squeezed the water out of Baji’s kameez. She busied herself, hoping Khawar would think her too busy to chat. But he greeted her politely and asked after her mother.

  “Not long now,” he said. Kaakee looked confused. “The wedding.”

  Oh yes, Kaakee nodded.

  “And then it’ll be your turn.” Kaakee nodded again but she felt the muscles in her neck stiffen a little at the mention. She knew she ought to smile or offer up an “Inshallah,” but she couldn’t. Khawar fell silent. Kaakee realized he looked a little embarrassed, perhaps he’d expected a cheeky quip and was surprised that she’d said nothing, perhaps he had just remembered Kaakee’s age and that girls like her should have been married a long time ago. Suddenly there seemed to be no easy way to end the conversation. The balcony door clanged again. Khawar’s son toddled out and he picked him up; he looked relieved to see his boy.

  “Say salaam to Kaakee Baji.” Khawar lifted up
his son’s arm and made it wave to Kaakee; the little boy’s fingers splayed out star-like for his ungainly wave. Khawar didn’t look to see if Kaakee was waving back, she realized it didn’t even matter if she were there. Khawar’s handsome face, fascinated, charmed, was concentrated on his child. Kaakee looked at the boy’s chubby legs curled around his father’s waist and waved back.

  The door was closed but you could just hear the tape of English songs from Aalia’s room. Kaakee pressed the iron down firmly on Aalia’s wrinkled turquoise dupatta. She remembered sitting in Aalia’s room with her friends knowing, as she sat there, what a privilege it was to be included as they tried on nail polishes, squirted French perfume on their wrists, and sang along with songs she didn’t understand. She would sit on the floor, a little apart, watching, smiling, ready to bring in the trolley with snacks for them or to relay a message to Baji from Aalia, justifying her presence by serving some purpose. Knowing she had to serve some purpose to be there at all. It didn’t matter. She was there.

  Kaakee couldn’t remember quite when things had changed, if it was sudden or slow, but they had. She had known they would; her mother would say at the start of each school year that Aalia was getting too grown up for Kaakee’s company. Kaakee ignored the warnings but things did change. And once they had it seemed strange to think that they were ever any other way. Aalia and her friends would talk about exams, American movies, boys; but now it didn’t matter how quiet Kaakee was or how tightly she tucked herself into a corner, trying to make herself invisible—she wasn’t, and it made them uncomfortable. Even Aalia. She no longer stopped to translate a story or explain a joke, her manner was distant when she spoke to her. It seemed to Kaakee that no one else had even really noticed the change except for her. She wondered if Aalia ever thought about it.

  “Where’s Ammi?” Kaakee looked a little startled as Aalia spoke.