Kate turned the sheets back to front and held them closer to the lamp, searching for any mention of Mustafa.
“We are heading to my aunt and uncle’s for the weekend. They have someone they want me to meet! I am so excited to see you next week when you get back! Maybe I will have great news, Kate!”
Kate lay back and stared at the ceiling. The “meeting” didn’t pan out, she recalled. Nonetheless, Nasreen was engaged less than two years after she and Kate returned from India and Pakistan. She was eighteen and full of life, a woman seemingly in love as a young woman knows love.
Nasreen chose Mustafa from a portfolio of life offers. He looked nice. The families were acquainted, aligned, and bonded by faith. Mustafa was eight years her senior and a Chicagoan, originally from Pakistan and educated in Chicago. Sitting together in a small room with their parents on the other side of the door, summing up the many blessings that would come from the union, the two smiled at each other, consummating the engagement.
This is what she wants, Kate told herself when Nasreen broke the news one afternoon in the pink and white butterfly bedroom. Shabana and Yasmine were married now. It was Nasreen’s turn.
Nasreen peeled open the intimate engagement details to Kate. Nasreen was dressed in a tailored skirt, long-sleeved blouse, and headscarf. Nasreen wore the scarf with grace and elegance, an accent to every outfit, giving a hint of the beauty beneath. As she spoke, her fingers twisted a thick bracelet.
“An engagement gift from his mother,” Nasreen said, fiddling.
Nasreen as the shy, submissive Muslim bride-to-be in Rockfield had been a more foreign sight to Kate than witnessing the ceremonies joining Rahim and Haseena in Pakistan. At the wedding in Pakistan, Kate had been mesmerized by each ritual, engaging the meaning of every movement, every layer of adornment signifying the relinquishing of a daughter and the deliverance of a wife. The summer following the girls’ return from Asia, Nasreen wrote about desperately and insanely seeking love, inscribing it in her letters to Kate. She conflictingly sought a permissible, contractual comittment but also a lustful, passionate love that a teenage girl yearns for at the age of eighteen, before the promise to this man, this family.
On the day of the pre-wedding ceremony, Kate crowded into Nasreen’s bedroom along with Krishna, Sara, Shabana, and Mona, all childhood friends. Shabana was visibly pregnant with her first child. Nasreen sat on the floor in the middle of the room draped in yellow. Only the outline of her cheek was visible, shadowed by the metallic trim of her dupatta.
“Yellow is not my color,” Nasreen whispered to Kate and grinned, causing her visible cheek to fatten.
Laila huddled over her daughter, fiddling with the shapeless material covering Nasreen’s head. Nasreen was to be presented as the unadorned, natural bride. Kate peered at Nasreen’s grin under the mustard-colored cloth.
“Yellow is not particularly your color, but you look naturally beautiful,” she confirmed. “I actually have on more makeup than you tonight,” Kate said with a smile.
Nasreen tilted her head.
“Hold still,” snapped Laila.
Kate felt fashionable, adorned in the gold and rose-salmon paisley salwar kameez, one of the Pakistani wedding outfits she had tailored by Ghani & Sons in India for Rahim’s wedding. The taffeta billowed from beneath the heavy embroidered salwar and rustled with sophistication as she shifted her sitting position. Her many gold bracelets clinked together. Her hair swooped together and hung loosely at the back of her head, showing off her loop earrings. Mona had helped her with makeup and hair, meticulously pinning each copper strand in place.
“Okay, enough, Mom,” Nasreen ordered.
Laila stopped messing with the layers of chiffon. In one last attempt at fussing, she molded the dupatta around Nasreen’s face. The material, burdened by the weight of the silver trim, fell naturally as it was.
“Everyone is here. Go!” Nasreen gently pushed her mother out the bedroom door.
As soon as Laila left, Nasreen pushed back the dupatta, which fell to her shoulders revealing her tired face.
“How awful do I look?” Nasreen pleaded to her friends circled around her on the floor.
Mona spoke first. “You look beautiful. It’s your mayoon ceremony.”
“Yes, you look nothing short of buttered cream. Like us,” Sara joked and huddled against her sister, Shabana.
Both were dressed in light marigold salwar kameezes sans the metallic trim décor. The girls’ smiles lit up their slender faces. Kate had never seen the sisters look anything short of stunning no matter what color they wore.
“Stop,” Nasreen said playfully, enjoying the attention.
Her hands and feet were painted in henna artistry, her black hair highlighted in deep maroon. The yellow glow of her skin was still apparent from yesterday’s henna fight. The girls, in tradition, hurled chunks of the wet henna clay at each other until their skin and clothing, as well as the wall, had a yellow-reddish tint.
“They are all here,” Sameer’s voice came from the hallway.
“Sameer, take our picture. Please.”
“Okay, hurry up.”
Nasreen raised an eyebrow at her twin in warning not to rush her. The girls shuffled around on the floor moving pillows and blankets out of the way to kneel close to Nasreen. Folding chairs were stacked against the pink flowered wallpaper. Handsome gifts were piled in the corner and atop her white desk with mauve trim that matched the dresser drawers and the bed frame; a child’s dreamy slumber room transformed into a bride’s quarters.
Kate sat on one hip, her cushioned shoulder pressing against Nasreen. Sameer snapped the photo.
“Okay, everyone out,” Nasreen ordered, shooing everyone toward the door.
Outside, the party gathered. Cars lined the gutters of Maple Street. Guests spilled out of the cars into the darkened and lazy suburban road. The women each brought a platter, alight by several candles melted in a mold. The men in their traditional white tunics carried toddlers, and the older children chased each other around. The gold in the wives’ outfits sparkled in the candlelight creating a festive parade to the doorstep of the bride’s home.
Kate, Shabana, and Sara lined up at the door, flattening their bodies against the railing to allow the parade of flames and glittering guests to enter. In chant, women and girls flowed upstairs, men downstairs.
On the main floor, the furniture was moved and replaced by blankets and elaborately embroidered cushions for the bride. The women found places on the floor, ready for the rituals of the ceremony to begin.
Kate tiptoed back to Nasreen’s bedroom. In the pink room, preserved by a girl’s tears and dreams, a teenager’s secrets and confessions, and a bride’s hopes and doubts, she found her friend hidden behind the yellow dupatta waiting to be escorted out. The girlfriends surrounded Nasreen, and Kate fell in behind the entourage.
“Kate!” Nasreen paused. She twisted around but was too covered in cloth to see behind her.
Shabana motioned to Kate to step up and stand on the other side of Nasreen.
“Brace her so she doesn’t trip,” she commanded.
The other girls held a corner of the decorative yellow veil like a canopy and paraded down the hallway. Kate quickly tucked a hand on the inside of Nasreen’s elbow. A million times, Kate had walked along this corridor leaving a scuff mark or two on the striped wallpapered wall, and now it seemed the longest walk of her life.
The girls guided Nasreen across the living room, slowly to the cushions. The elders grabbed at Nasreen, pulling her down; Shabana and Kate resisted. Nasreen dangled, half squatting, held up by her childhood friends at each elbow and tugged at her petticoat by the elders—a pendulum between girlhood and cultural calling.
The older women eagerly arranged the dupatta over the subdued face of the bride and began adorning her with jewels. Upon Nasreen’s limp mehendi-painted hand, they placed rings and massaged glass colored bracelets onto her wrists, interleaving them with rhinestone-studded ones un
til her forearms were covered, then decorated her painted feet with anklets and toe rings. Kate watched the transformation of a girl into a woman, a childhood friend into a traditional Muslim bride.
Kate smiled to herself remembering the summer in Pakistan, the flirtatious encounters and secret rendezvous. She recalled the afternoon at Clifton Beach. She and Nasreen had mounted a dung-smelling camel and rode the beast along the stretch of sand, their bodies rocking in rhythm to the camel’s stride and their hair clinging to their gleeful faces. The waves of the Arabian Sea formed silvery peaks in the afternoon sun. They squealed carefree, remiss of small jealousies and misinterpreted affections. They did not have permission to be there unescorted and in mixed company. There was a blank page in Kate’s photo album of that day because Nasreen had snatched her photos and hidden them away lest her mother should see.
Nanima clasped the tikka in Nasreen’s hair so that the strand of uncut pearls lay along her hairline and the jeweled medallion hung on her forehead. Laila followed by clasping bell-shaped earrings that matched the choker and the medallion upon a languorous Nasreen.
Lastly, in a single motion, her grandmother placed the choker of precious stones around Nasreen’s neck, cracked her knuckles above her granddaughter’s head, and pressed the blessing of prosperity and fertility onto the top of her veil and down along her cheeks.
As Kate watched grandmother and granddaughter, their heads bowed together, she knew that despite Nasreen’s unfaltering commitment and passion, as a first-generation Muslim-American, she was a fiercely independent, sagacious woman well aware of her own irradiant beauty and sensuality that no veil could conceal.
Chapter 13
RAin on the Windshield
Chicago 1998
The morning light filtered in through the blinds casting light and dark shadows across the notepaper lying on Kate’s chest. At some point while reading Nasreen’s letters she must have dozed. She heard the grunt and wheezing of a large vehicle pulling to a stop. A few moments later, the buzzer sounded to her apartment. She rose out of bed and parted the faded green curtains. Down below, she could just make out Neil’s white sneakers peeking out from under the awning.
The moving truck was parked in front of her apartment building. She struggled to open the sash. Finally, the window trim unstuck, cracking the paint around the seal, and the sash flew upward, crashing against the top frame. The dawn smelled of approaching rain. The streets were just beginning to sprinkle with cars, driven by students heading to the university in hopes of grabbing a free parking spot within reasonable walking distance to campus.
“Hey!” she yelled down.
Neil looked up and saw her at the window.
“What are you doing?” she called.
“You forgot your jacket.” He held up the navy sweatshirt. “I’m too lazy to mail things. Do you want me to bring it up?”
“Hang on. I will be right down,” she yelled, disappearing from the windowsill.
Kate flung open the dresser drawers, threw a couple pairs of jeans, shirts, a jacket, and undergarments into a duffel bag. She grabbed her backpack and threw in her wallet and a book she had started reading but couldn’t finish. She dressed quickly, grabbed her toiletries, scribbled a note to her roommate, and ran out of the apartment.
Neil was checking the trailer latch when she appeared, looking disheveled with her bag slung over her shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked. “Your eyes are a little puffy.”
“I didn’t sleep well, but I am fine,” she responded firmly. “You need a navigator, right?”
“Yes. Absolutely!” he said, giving Kate a reassuring nod.
With her sweatshirt still in his hand, he hurried over to the passenger side, opened the door, jumped up, and cleared the seat of the clutter. He folded the maps quickly and tucked them next to the seat and threw the rental paperwork into the glove compartment.
“Okay, ready. Just step up there,” he instructed.
Kate lifted her duffel bag and stumbled as her backpack fell off her shoulder.
“Oh, here, I’ll take those,” Neil offered. “There is room behind the seats for luggage.”
Neil walked around to the driver’s side, stashing the bags and sweatshirt in the back part of the cabin before climbing in.
“Okay,” Neil said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got CDs here, lots of snacks in the cooler. Plenty of coffee.” He pointed to the large thermos in the middle console. “Maps are here. I marked the route.” He paused and looked at Kate for a lingering moment as if he thought she might be joking with him and at any time jump out of the truck.
“Do you need to call your dad?” he asked in a serious tone.
“I’ll call on the road.”
Neil bit his lower lip, heaved on the brake, and cranked the gearshift into drive. His arm muscle popped from beneath his faded White Sox T-shirt.
From her high perch, she watched the large maple trees that lined Washington Park pass. The university quad was sprinkled with students trudging wearily to first-period classes on a Monday morning. They drove past the corner bar, The Boathouse, which had quarter pitchers of Long Island iced tea on Tuesdays, and the beatnik coffee shop, which had poetry readings on Wednesdays.
Out on Sheridan Drive, Chicago traffic was in full swing. They passed the aquarium, Navy Pier, and morning joggers beating the paths along Lake Michigan. Somewhere along Interstate 55 to St. Louis, she fell into a deep sleep.
“WAKE UP!”
Neil slapped Kate on the thigh as he turned the keys in the ignition. The revving engine of the U-Haul sputtered, rattled, and died. Neil stretched his foot to the floor engaging the brake.
“Some navigator you are. Pit stop.”
They were somewhere in the cornfields of central Illinois at a truck stop and food mart. Kate’s head ached.
She jumped down on wobbly knees and headed into the food mart for breakfast. Neil was pumping gas into the U-Haul when she returned.
“This is going to burn a hole in my credit card,” he complained.
“You are no longer a struggling graduate student, remember?” Kate said with a smirk. “You have a real job.”
“Good to see a smile on your face. By the way,” Neil said, pointing behind her, “see that pay phone over there?”
Kate turned to see the phone box at the side of the food mart.
“You should use it.”
She looked out across the spans of cornfields momentarily before confronting the calls she needed to make.
She called her dad first and told him she was taking a break and helping a friend move to Austin.
“Call me tomorrow,” he said, sounding more concerned than when he had put her on a plane to India.
Then she called her professor.
“We have group meeting today. You will miss it.”
Kate said nothing. The answer was obvious.
“You should tell me in advance of these things,” he continued.
“It’s a family emergency,” she lied.
“Oh, I hope everything is okay. Can I do anything?” he asked in an apologetic tone that made Kate feel guilty for lying.
“No, I will be back at the end of the week.”
For the first time in days, she felt her chest expand and lower in a deep breath. She imagined her professor sunk in his high-back chair.
“Not a missing person?” Neil asked, glancing up from studying the map laid out across his seat.
“No. But it felt good to be one, if only for a few hours.”
“Sometimes it is good to let the world get along without you temporarily. It will survive. And so will you.”
His direct look stung her like an open wound. She blinked back tears and jumped into the cabin.
When they began driving again, Neil probed. “You got all this open road to clear your head. What’s on your mind?”
She had told him the basics but didn’t know how to talk more about her confrontation with Nasreen and how she sh
ould have known what happened to her best friend. She was overburdened with disbelief and guilt. She didn’t want to speak about how lost Krishna seemed trying to cope with her mother’s death and failing medical school and now abandoning life temporarily to go to India. She definitely couldn’t talk about Tariq or her desire for him. She wished she had been truthful and said she was single. Perhaps it would have made a difference. Instead, she shook her head with reticence at Neil’s invitation for conversation.
“Later,” she said.
She watched the raindrops splatter in random spots across the windshield, falling faster and faster until one splatter merged with the next and the windshield wipers smeared the rain across the windows, creating a blur of water.
They crossed through Missouri traveling on Interstate 44 and moved at a crawl’s pace in traffic. The drone of the rain pounded into her head. The rumble of the truck’s engine rattled through the floor of the cabin and through her numb feet, up her legs, and into the bones in her back.
“I don’t understand what he wants,” Kate fumed about her professor’s maddening behavior. “Nothing is good enough, ever!” she vented. “I think he is really going wacko from the stress of grants and being a perfectionist. Mei defended her thesis almost a year ago, but there was always one more thing, one more thing. He promised to give her a recommendation for another position. It never happened. Then she up and left. Who knows where she is!”
“Mei?” Neil struggled to follow the conversation above the rickety cabin noise.
“Yes. She is gone.”
Mei was a graduate student from Taiwan, and to Kate’s knowledge, their advisor had never signed off on her dissertation, which forced Mei to continue working in the lab to keep her visa status. She was too respectful to challenge him. Last week she disappeared.
“One of the guys in the lab mentioned she had a relative in Boston, so maybe she went there. But she only had two weeks on her visa to find employment before being forced to leave the country. You have to run away to get out,” she snapped. “Maybe I just won’t go back.”
Mehendi Tides Page 13