Mehendi Tides

by Siobhan Malany

  What did Tariq want? Did he expect her to come to New York? For what? To be his lover before he returned to India to get married, a mistress in America, or worse, did he just want to be friends?

  She turned the box over in her hand. It fell from her open palm, crashed to the floor, and flipped under the nightstand.

  She was on the floor reaching for the box. She grabbed it along with grit and lint. She noticed the corner of a pink paper sticking out from the bottom drawer of her nightstand. She placed the box on the nightstand, wiped the grit off her hand, and pulled open the drawer. It was full of letters, papers stashed and forgotten. Pink paper and yellow paper, written front and back.

  Kate rummaged through the stack and scanned the pages of the collection of letters Nasreen wrote to Kate the summer they returned from overseas and Kate was away at swim camp. Nasreen had enrolled in political science at the community college in Rockfield to stay close to home and wait for a marriage proposal.

  Kate shuffled through the crumpled stack, matching pen color and paper type, and read hungrily, frantically, searching for teenage Nasreen’s secrets within the handwritten lines.

  “I think I have gotten some proposals lately,” Kate read. “My mom hasn’t said anything to me because I don’t believe they are ‘suitable.’ But I can tell she is searching and probably put an ad in some Muslim Chicago Journal. I don’t ask her these things,” Nasreen wrote.

  “Pre-law classes are killing me! Calculus II, Poly Sci, and Economics are impossible. Did I tell you I am head of the debate team? I probably told you. I feel like I write to you all the time. Anyway, between all that and serving on committees that will supposedly help me get into law school, there is just no time for marriage proposals!”

  Kate skipped a few lines and continued reading. Despite the exhausting pace, Nasreen seemed to grow restless waiting for her future to begin in a small Midwestern town.

  “I wish you were here, Kate. Most days, I don’t feel like getting up and going to class because there are so many things that are more important to me now. Sara told me all the plans for Shabana’s wedding. I’m jealous. I want to get married and get on with my life!”

  Kate wondered what pressure kept Nasreen running. Was it the pressure of career and independence in one direction, and tradition and marriage in the other?

  Between calculus problems, debate team, and planning committees, Nasreen escaped to the city.

  “I went to International Night at the university with Shabana. Dozens of good-looking Pakistani guys were there. But you know, Kate, all of them are dating an American girl or worse living together. Shabana thinks many of them drink also. Are there no decent Pakistani guys left?”

  Kate flipped to the next set of letters.

  “Aunty Zehba was here for the weekend.” Nasreen’s handwriting appeared as if she had written in a rush. “She bragged about Rahim and Haseena and how happy they are. She expects Haseena will be pregnant by the year’s end. Good for her. Aunty Zehba showed pictures of Anees’s wedding too. He’s married now, a relief really. I am happy for him. Aunty Zehba’s pictures from India made me feel like dropping everything and flying back. I miss our time there so much, Kate! Oh, but do I have gossip for you! Do you remember the pretty dancers at Rahim’s wedding? Well, Faiz (you remember, Haseena’s cousin (jerk) who seemed to be in love with me?) is secretly dating the younger sister. Her father is a prominent businessman in Karachi and very religious. When he discovers his daughter is dating Faiz, he’s finished! Aunty Zehba gossips about all this; can you believe it? She seems much more relaxed. Probably because she has two sons married off. One to go! Well, I am sure there won’t be anything more exciting to write about. Love, Nasreen.”

  Still one to marry off. Tariq.

  Kate must have asked Nasreen about Tariq as she addressed him in her next letter.

  “Aunty Zehba mentioned Tariq is enjoying school in Chennai and doing well. That is all she said. He hasn’t sent any letters. I am sure he is busy.”

  During the summer of ’88, Nasreen had become infatuated with a man called “M.” Kate couldn’t remember his full name. In all the letters, the object of her affection was always referred to by the initial “M.”

  “I saw M in Chicago,” she once wrote. “We barely spoke.”

  Their misinterpreted relationship was a series of run-ins at Muslim Youth events, weddings, and gatherings. Nasreen stole away to Chicago whenever she had an opportunity with the hope of meeting him at approved places for the proper amount of time and surrounded by the appropriate group of people. She cursed the bad weather and family duties that kept her in the small town.

  “Kate, I am going to this wedding in Chicago. Shabana is friends with M’s sister and she said M is going too! What am I going to wear? What if he doesn’t go, or worse, what if he goes and ignores me? I am going crazy right now!”

  In the letter dated a week later, Nasreen wrote, “I didn’t see M. Men and women were separated. I did not see a single male over the age of five the whole time! If I do not lose my mind to Calculus II (I am the only girl in the class, by the way), then I will lose it over M. Shabana tells me I am living in a fantasy world, but I cannot give up, Kate. When are you coming back? I wish you were here!”

  Another trip, another chance to meet, and another letter to Kate:

  “He was polite, yet distant and aloof. We didn’t really talk, only small talk. Ugh, why are things going so slow? I cried to Shabana and she told me to be patient. (Easy for her to say. She is engaged!) She said guys have a lot more pressure on them about school because they are the ones who must support the family. Like I don’t know that? She talked to M’s sister about me and his sister said that their mother is very preoccupied taking care of an ill relative and about getting the eldest son married first. Maybe it’s not me, Kate!”

  There was a several-week lapse before the next letter. Kate flipped the pages to make sure she had the dates and page numbers sequenced correctly.

  “Bad news! M wasn’t happy that Shabana spoke to his sister about me. I think I totally screwed things up. What am I supposed to do? Kate, are you listening? I couldn’t stop crying (No, I didn’t cut my hair again in case you are wondering! Just dyed it neon pink—just kidding!). My mom tried to get it out of me but what can I tell her? M no longer exists in my life! Do you hear me? I am screaming right now! You should stop asking about Tariq. He hasn’t written. We both just need to move on from these men!”

  Next letter…

  “Kate, why have you not written? I am sorry. I didn’t mean to snap about Tariq. I hope you are enjoying camp and meeting new people. I hope it is more exciting than this stupid town. I want to live in Chicago because I want to be a part of the Muslim Youth movement. It is impressive what the group is doing in the city!”

  Near the end of the summer, the stress was evident, and with frenzied anticipation, Nasreen’s body and soul were summoned to marriage.

  “Kate, I have the most exciting news! Aunty Samina called. Yasmine is engaged! I am so excited for her. I want to go back to India so badly but I cannot miss Shabana’s wedding. They are getting married in the same month! Can you believe it? Why can’t we both just jump on a plane again and go back just for a week? I told my mother that all the decent Muslim men live in Chicago and I plan to move next semester and transfer to U of C. I think she got the message that I am ready to be engaged!”

  The “Official Eligible List,” she called it. She seemed more excited by the thought of being on it than having been inducted into Phi Beta Kappa. Three acquaintances had asked for her picture in one week.

  “Kate, they have been sending my pictures to friends and family in the U.S., India, and Pakistan. Aunty Samina wrote that I had gotten a proposal in India. But I want a Chicagoan! Some days I worry about who I will end up marrying. Will he be a strict Muslim? I’m so frustrated that I cannot go to Chicago this weekend (my mother is making me attend a wedding for a family we do not even know, but it will be disrespectf
ul if we do not attend!). M is back from Pakistan, and I wish I could see him. I have these stupid dreams, Kate, that maybe M has come to the realization that he doesn’t want any of those girls in Pakistan, that they are not the right girls for him. Then I think that it is me who is not the right girl.”

  Chapter 9

  White Mosque, Black Stone

  Hyderabad 1987

  The rotary telephone, faded black circa 1950, rang and rattled Nanima’s house early. It was Krishna calling. She had finally arrived in Hyderabad.

  “Let’s go to the Salar Jung Museum,” Krishna shouted over the static of the large receiver.

  She was staying at an uncle’s home in Hyderabad for a few days and then traveling to Gujarat to her father’s home.

  “My uncle will drive us. Be there in thirty minutes,” she said and hung up.

  “Chelo,” Nasreen said with sleepy eyes to Kate as she headed through the kitchen toward the back bedroom to get ready.

  An hour later, the girls stood waiting outside for the car.

  Kate was still unaccustomed to the meaninglessness of time in India. From among the large lily plants and cactus trees in Nanima’s garden, they watched the women work at the hotel construction site as they waited. The women shoveled rocks onto large flat plates. In one rhythmic motion, they lifted the plates onto their heads and walked steadily to the far end of the site, disappearing behind concrete blocks. The women returned to refill the plates with rocks, starting the cycle again.

  Nearly two hours late, the car with Krishna’s uncle driving rolled down the dirt drive rocking side to side over the water-filled potholes toward Nanima’s house.

  “Sameer! They’re here. Come on!” Nasreen called to her brother.

  She wasn’t keen on her brother tagging along, but her mother insisted that Sameer escort them to the old city.

  “The city is not safe for girls unescorted,” Laila warned.

  Sana wailed at the doorway wanting to come too. Laila led the crying child back inside.

  The gravel crunched under the tires’ weight as the car rolled to a stop.

  “Nasreen! Kate!” Krishna jumped from the car. Her hair was neatly braided. “I’m so glad to see you. I cannot believe we are all here in India together. Last month, we were sitting in the hall at Rockfield High eating cheese sandwiches!” Krishna exclaimed. “Kate, look at you! You’re in India!”

  Rahmsing’s wife looked up momentarily from her sweeping, curious about the new guests. The working hotel women paused too and stared down at the scene for a fleeting moment and then resumed the sound of scratching dirt against twigs and of tumbling rocks.

  “We’re so late! We had relatives stop by, and everyone had to eat, and then, well, you know how it is. It’s India!”

  “It’s okay,” Nasreen consoled, amused by Krishna’s animation. “We don’t have much of an agenda.” She smiled.

  The girls squeezed in the back of the sedan, and Sameer sat in front next to Krishna’s uncle.

  The ride toward the old city was the most serene sitting inside the plush vehicle with its motor whispering. With the windows sealed, they sat in glorious air conditioning. The typical clangorous world as heard tucked inside a bubble car or in Aunty Samina’s roaring Fiat with the windows down diminished to a sequestered hum. The dank and soggy street smells that regularly pounded her face and soaked her hair were sealed outside. Kate inhaled the smell of vinyl and Nasreen’s and Krishna’s fresh body scents.

  “Where are you going, chaachaa?” Krishna shouted into her uncle’s ear, grasping the leather headrest, realizing her uncle was veering off-course to the old city.

  A plump cheek and large round eye appeared in the rearview mirror. He answered her sharply in Hindi.

  “Very close. Take no time,” her uncle said in broken English.

  Krishna slumped back against the seat and grimaced.

  “My uncle has to go to the bank first,” she said. “Sorry it’s taking so long.”

  “I’m fine,” Kate confirmed, attempting to get used to the way things flowed in India.

  This was the first car ride that hadn’t felt like a death wish. Kate continued to watch the scenery change as they drove along the Musi River, making a series of turns that seemed to take them full circle. Several minutes later, Krishna’s uncle stopped in the middle of the street.

  “I go there,” he said, pointing to a narrow opening among the street vendors and shops. “Bhilwara Bank,” he clarified.

  “This is why Indians show up two hours late for everything,” Nasreen laughed.

  Kate wondered if they would make it into the city before the museums closed, but who knew what time they did close for the day.

  “Hurry please!” Krishna urged.

  Her uncle nodded, jumped out, weaved through the crowd, and disappeared into the bank.

  Horns suddenly blared, the bubble cars beeped short beeps, rickshaws rang out, and the buses moaned a deep pitch as angry drivers deviated around the stalled car blocking the roadway. Kate turned around to look out the rear window at the commotion.

  “Wow, look at that!” she exclaimed. “Get out, I want to take a picture.”

  “We should stay in the car,” Krishna said anxiously, but Kate and Nasreen had already piled out of the car followed by Sameer.

  The full sounds of the street crashed into Kate’s ears. The heavy pulse of the city streets spewed forth a gritty sheet that clung to Kate’s perspiring skin. A white marble temple loomed in the background, and the congested street seemed to converge at the stately landmark.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful!” Kate exclaimed as she angled her Olympus camera, trying to fit the mosque into the frame of view.

  “Careful,” Krishna warned as the noisy traffic weaved around her.

  Kate quickly moved behind the car and rested the camera on her chest. A man holding a rickshaw stopped in front of them, having lost his place in the flow of traffic. His lips parted, revealing dark spaces between his teeth, and a bewildered wrinkle stretched across his ashen forehead as he watched Kate photographing.

  “Okay, you two sit in the rickshaw. I’ll take your picture. Let’s do this quickly,” Krishna said, relinquishing to the moment and removing the camera’s strap from around Kate’s neck.

  Kate hesitated, scrutinizing the rusty contraption and the rickshaw driver. The sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up, and he wore a simple cloth skirt that covered his grasshopper-like frame.

  “Come on,” urged Sameer.

  Nasreen and Kate climbed into the bucket seat. The footstool was so high their knees pressed into their chests. The thin seat of the rickshaw sagged downward; the wheels angled inward, struggling under the girls’ weight.

  Huddled together in their jeans and collared striped shirts, Nasreen and Kate were superimposed into this foreign place. Men lingered under a yellow sign advertising bus routes to places like Nagpur and Karimnagar and watched the scene unfold. They leaned against the concrete wall of an office building littered with tattered film posters displaying Bollywood stars. Others watched from among the rows of bicycles and powder blue mopeds that lined the dirt sidewalk in front of the Bhilwara Bank.

  “Ready?”

  From behind the camera, Krishna’s tension melted away. She became animated and maneuvered to get the best shot, forgetting the increasing crowd.

  “You guys look great. Just one more.” Krishna lunged forward and cocked her head to one side. Her braid swung down.

  The best friends clasped their hands around their legs and smiled at the camera. Nasreen’s hair, now grown to shoulder length, blew softly across her tanned face, and Kate’s crimson red strands billowed around her ivory skin.

  “Okay, got it!”

  The girls jumped down, and Sameer placed a few rupees in the rickshaw wallah’s eager open palm. The coins clinked as he quickly dropped them into the dingy bag that hung at his waist.

  Another rickshaw wallah crossed in front of Krishna. She jumped away like
a startled cat. Kate was acutely aware that many more rickshaw drivers had stopped to see what the commotion was about. Lethargic-looking men loitered on the sidewalk, alleyways, and street and watched, bemused. The beeping became incessant; the crowd grew with more pedestrians and rickshaw wallahs.

  Kate spun 360 degrees. Why are the men staring?

  She tried to breathe. A policeman ran across the street directly toward her, and she froze, terrified. He waved his hands hysterically. Despite his short stature, Kate backed away to stand beside Sameer.

  “What is he saying?” Kate gave Nasreen a pleading look as Sameer approached the stout policeman.

  Sameer spoke Urdu, apparently apologizing for the commotion, but the policeman yelled “Away! Away!” swinging his cap before securing it back on top of his head.

  “We have no driver,” Sameer explained loudly, raising his shoulders, unwilling to oblige.

  “In. Get in!” The furious officer flung his arms high and wide, desperately trying to increase his stature and presence.

  “Okay, okay,” Sameer said, thrusting his hands forward in protective surrender.

  The girls had already ducked inside the car. Krishna’s uncle stepped out of Bhilwara Bank, saw the chaotic scene around his stalled vehicle, and hustled toward the car in a side-to-side waddle.

  “Very sorry, very, very sorry,” Krishna’s uncle apologized, bowing to the policeman while still hurrying in full waddle.

  He reached the car door and swung it open for Sameer and nearly pushed him into the car. He continued to bow and apologize to the policeman.

  “What is this matter?” he asked angrily, out of breath, taking his seat in the sedan.

  “We just wanted to take a couple pictures,” Krishna explained apologetically.

  Her uncle frantically attempted to steer out of the crowd. He edged the car aggressively into traffic, waving to the policeman, now blowing on his whistle in the middle of the street trying desperately to unravel the chaotic gridlock.