Everything about this evening, this family, was perfect.
ALIA
Fifteen years ago
What struck me that first time I met Javed Uncle was the way he spoke, not just to Noor and Faraz, but to all of us: his attention to the minutiae, his knack for making us feel like adults with important things to say. I remember how he zipped through dinner asking questions, knowing so much about me already. On the rare occasions that he could be bothered to tear himself away from the ambassador’s family to sit down with his own, my father had barely taken the time to ask me how school was. Yet here was a cabinet minister, a man who moved amidst a swirl of staff, and he was actually interested.
As I sat there, talking about my parents, and the life I’d left behind in London, I felt an intense longing; grief for a relationship that I’d never even known could exist.
‘Have you decided where you want to go to university?’ Javed Uncle asked me, as he passed the bowl of salad to Faraz.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I said.
‘You still have plenty of time,’ Fatima Aunty said.
‘I’m going to Oxford,’ Sabah said. Like that was something you could just decide.
I turned to Faraz. ‘Are you at uni?’ I asked him, even though I knew the answer already.
‘We call it college here,’ he smiled. ‘I’m at St Stephen’s, second year.’
‘Faraz got into Oxford, Columbia and Yale, but he decided to stay here so he could get a head start on his career,’ Javed Uncle explained, barely concealed pride punctuating his words. ‘He’s running for Student Union president next year.’
I could see then why Noor had it in for her brother. He was clearly the golden child in the Qureshi house, the one destined to carry the legacy.
‘Wow. So you’re going to go into politics?’ I asked Faraz.
‘What else?’ he shrugged, strands of entitlement rippling beneath his modesty.
‘Faraz was the Head Boy the year before last,’ Sabah said from across the table.
‘Which was actually quite dull but it made college applications a breeze,’ he said. ‘Are you still aiming for Head Girl?’
‘Of course,’ Sabah said, her lips pressed into a tight smile. ‘Though I want to do things a little differently. It’s not going to be dull.’
I smiled. Her excitement was contagious.
‘Don’t we know it,’ Faraz laughed.
‘We were all forced into attending your blood donation camp,’ Javed Uncle said, holding up his arm to show off the plaster he still had on from that afternoon. ‘What did it come to in the end?’
‘Eighty litres, in total.’
He smiled, visibly impressed. ‘Well, I can’t imagine anyone better suited for Head Girl. Especially,’ he said, looking at Noor, ‘with Noor supporting you as a prefect.’
‘Next year is going to be so much fun,’ Sabah nodded, delighted.
‘Jaan,’ Javed Uncle said, looking at Noor, ‘how are you getting on with your essay for the committee?’
‘Fine,’ Noor said. ‘I’m almost done.’
‘Do you need my help?’ Sabah asked, putting her fork down and turning to Noor with a look on her face that I couldn’t quite decipher.
‘I’m pretty sure I can manage an essay on my own, Sabah,’ Noor shot back.
‘I’m sure Sabah didn’t mean—’ Javed Uncle started before Noor interrupted him.
‘Of course she didn’t. But it wouldn’t be right to ask Sabah for help.’ Noor paused, lifting her glass of water to her lips and taking a long sip. She set the glass down lightly, the sound of the clinking ice reverberating across the table. She waited till she had everyone’s attention and then said, ‘I’m running for Head Girl as well.’
‘Really?’ Faraz asked at the same time as Sabah said, ‘What?’
‘Yeah,’ Noor smiled, tilting her plate so she could spoon the last of her biryani. ‘It’s going to be so much fun.’
ALIA
I flick through the folder Omar left on the dining table while I sip my morning coffee – drafts for proposals, letters to sign, documents to approve – homework from the night before that I neglected to do. I work through the papers methodically, pausing when I get to a copy of the press release Faraz’s office issued after the ceremony. I flag it up to discuss with Omar later. If he’s snuck this into my briefing folder, it means he’s worried about the alliance as well.
I’m looking at the longlist for the sexual assault com-mittee when Arjun comes in and switches on the news.
‘Chai,’ he calls out into the kitchen. ‘Morning,’ he smiles as I tilt my face up for a kiss.
I swing the folder shut and help myself to some more coffee from the cafetière. These twenty minutes are precious. Most days, this is the only time Arjun and I get with each other before my staff trickles in and the relentless rhythm of our jobs consumes us both.
‘Last night was fun,’ I say as Arjun sits down across from me.
‘Saurav was pleased. He thinks John will sign with us within the week.’
Us? It finally hits me why Arjun invited Niv to the dinner and I chide myself for feeling wrong-footed. Arjun doesn’t tell me about every deal he works on, just like I don’t tell him about every campaign strategy or political move.
‘This is horrific,’ Arjun says, eyes glued to the TV. I shift my attention to the screen. We watch silently as the news reporter updates us on the Delhi University rape case that’s been all over the news for the past week.
Last month, a seventeen-year-old girl was gang-raped in her hostel bedroom by her boyfriend and two of his friends. When she went to the warden to request permission to go to the police station – it was past the hostel’s curfew – the warden dismissed her, accusing her of using rape as an excuse to go out after hours. The next morning she went to the police station. After questioning her for more than twelve hours, the police superintendent refused to lodge the complaint or even administer a rape kit. She had been at a birthday party on the night in question. Her own birthday party. She’d had a few drinks, which naturally made her a liar and a tease and a waste of police time. Next, she went to the university’s internal complaints committee, who had much the same response. Two weeks later, she was found dead in her bathroom, naked with the word ‘slut’ written across her breasts. The police ruled it a suicide. Because of course she would undress and declare herself a slut before hanging herself. It came as no surprise when a few days ago, a leaked document disclosed that two of the accused came from influential families and the third was the son of a junior minister.
The news reporter cuts to a clip of the parents and I look away. The anguish in their eyes is all too familiar, the grief wrapped up in their words too raw. I reach for the remote and put the TV on mute.
‘Those boys need to be arrested,’ Arjun says, as the maid comes in and places a cup of tea and some digestive biscuits in front of him.
‘Didi, nashta?’ the maid asks and I nod my agreement.
‘This is exactly why we need the independent sexual assault committee,’ I mutter.
Arjun blows on his tea and takes a sip. ‘The problem is bigger than that, though, isn’t it?’
I don’t trust myself to respond. I have learned to keep my Guardian-reading, leftist opinions under wraps – there is no room for naive idealism in politics – but Arjun’s right. No matter how many victim support groups and committees I set up, nothing is going to change until the police realize they can’t turn victims away irrespective of how wealthy or powerful the perpetrators are. And yet, it riles me that there’s little I can do to effect that change.
I’m not usually one to get swayed by the news – maintaining a degree of objectivity is crucial in my line of work – but this case is under my skin. Everything about it – the refusal to believe that she was raped, the implication that she had it coming, the general sense that anyone with money and power is above the law – all of it makes me want to scream, but perhaps it is the sense of my own powerl
essness that troubles me the most. I’d called the police commissioner when the news first broke, urging him to take action, but all that had achieved was an extremely uncomfortable, and ultimately pointless conversation. I went into politics to fight exactly this kind of thing, and yet the longer I am ‘in power’, the more I realize how meaningless that phrase is.
‘How are things going with the Barclays deal?’ I ask instead as our breakfast is laid out and Arjun and I help ourselves to our usual porridge, heaping fruits and seeds on top.
If he is surprised by the sudden change of topic, he doesn’t show it. Arjun has had a front row seat to my struggles within the party for years.
‘Good, so far. I’m reviewing the draft MoU this afternoon, but it’s looking promising.’
Arjun had set up his own business when he was just twenty-five, fresh out of graduate school. As the heir to the country’s largest consumer goods business, he could easily have cruised along – his father’s business pretty much ran itself by now and there was enough money there to keep him – us – comfortable in our eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton and Siberian duck down cocoon – but Arjun had always been keen to strike out on his own. It would be childish to call him a self-made man when his name alone was enough to open doors that weren’t even visible to most start-up entrepreneurs. But silver spoon notwithstanding, Arjun had worked tirelessly to set up the country’s first large-scale sustainable energy business at a time when the concept of renewable energy was limited to the solar cookers that overambitious children hatched up for science fairs. The Barclays deal, if it came through, would be one of the largest energy replacement projects in Asia and the first step towards making Agro Tech a global business.
‘Is Niv handling the paperwork?’
‘She’s been a godsend,’ he says, barely looking up from his phone, a reminder that at ten minutes to eight, his workday has already started.
I glance at the TV. The reporter covering the rape is back on air, this time live from the university, where more than 300 students have gathered in a silent protest. I watch for a minute before turning it off, the specifics of the case spinning through my brain.
Maybe if even one of the people she’d begged for help had listened to her, stood by her instead of looking the other way, she would still be alive.
I push my coffee away, nausea churning through my stomach.
I scroll through the contacts on my phone, hovering over Omar’s name before scrolling further.
Javed Uncle had always said that in politics, you can achieve a lot more behind the scenes than in public view. He said that the best way to get things done was through compromise.
But sometimes the only way to handle an issue is to take a stand. Shout about it.
I type out a message and press send before I can change my mind.
It’s time I stepped out of the shadows.
It’s time to speak up.
ALIA
Fifteen years ago
My granddad dropped me off at the school gates early on Saturday morning. I strolled in, trying to exude a confidence that despite my brand-new shorts and vest top, I did not feel. I adjusted the gym bag slung over my shoulder, making sure the Nike logo on the handles was visible. The school felt eerie without the din of a few thousand students whispering in the halls and I hurried to the sports block where I could see a few girls milling about.
Try-outs for the senior girls’ track and field, cricket and diving teams were being held in the morning. Boys’ try-outs would follow later in the afternoon. For what was considered to be a liberal co-ed school, Wescott went to great lengths to keep the boys and the girls separate outside of class.
I still had an hour to go before my slot so I sat down on the bleachers by the open-air swimming pool, enjoying the sun hitting my face. Even though I’d been in India for a few months now, and it was never anything but sunny, I still hadn’t had enough. After years of living in a damp flat, perhaps I never would.
I topped up my sunscreen and leaned back on the hot concrete steps. I stretched my legs out in front of me, admiring the way the Nike swoosh sparkled every time I moved my feet.
The burst of activity in front of me made me sit up. Seven girls dressed in swimsuits were lined up in front of the open showers, ready to jump into the pool. The coach was looking at the girls, checking they had their caps on and goggles ready. I recognized Niv, and leaned forward. The flash of white on her wrists stood out, a stark contrast to her bright blue swimsuit, cut dangerously low at the back.
‘Nivedita, what’s with the bandages?’ the coach asked when she got to her.
‘Skating accident, ma’am.’
That was the same story I’d heard she’d given to the other teachers. I couldn’t work out whether the teachers here were stupid enough to believe her, or if they knew she was lying but just didn’t care, the effort of trying to work out why a seventeen-year-old would slash her wrists out of their contracted duties.
The coach stepped closer to her and said something that I couldn’t quite make out. I watched what seemed like a heated exchange before Niv stormed off into the changing rooms.
I couldn’t help it. I followed her in.
She was rummaging through her locker when I burst in.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’
‘The bitch won’t let me into the pool with these bandages. I need to find some plasters.’
She pulled her bag out and turned it upside down on the bench, combing through the contents.
‘Damn it,’ she muttered.
I unzipped my bag and felt around for my kit.
‘Here,’ I said, holding out a four-pack of plasters. ‘Will these do?’
Niv examined them. ‘They aren’t waterproof but better than nothing, I suppose. Thank you,’ she said, already getting to work on loosening the bandage on her left wrist.
I turned to leave, the awkwardness of the situation too much for me to handle. Noor and Sabah didn’t like Niv so I didn’t like Niv, no matter how bad I felt for her.
‘You don’t have scissors, do you?’ she called out after me.
‘No, sorry.’ I cursed myself as I turned around, walking back through the towers of lockers to sit down next to her. ‘But I can try to help.’
‘There are loads of knots on this,’ I said after a minute as I loosened the first knot. There were at least a dozen more to go. The bandage was all wet and soggy from her shower, which was making it even harder to manoeuvre.
‘I know.’ Niv sighed. She looked at my outfit. ‘Track and field?’
‘Yeah. I got here too early.’
She nodded. ‘Don’t worry about your speed on the initial laps, focus on keeping your stamina up – Coach likes to do that to tire the girls out before the hundred-metre race. That is all she’s going to judge you on. And try and get a spot on the far left. The ground has a slight angle so that’s the shortest side.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, surprised at this show of support.
She shrugged it off, bony shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of unexpected generosity.
‘There,’ I said as I got the last knot out and unfurled the bandage. ‘All—’
‘Thanks,’ Niv interrupted, clamping her free hand down on her wrist but not before the gauzy fabric slipped off, giving me a glimpse of the skin underneath.
I gasped. ‘Niv, I—’
‘Thanks,’ Niv repeated, the friendliness from earlier disappearing, ‘I’ve got it from here.’
I went back outside and sat down on the bleachers.
I watched as Niv demonstrated one perfect dive after another, her sylphlike body slicing through the water without as much as a ripple on the surface.
All weekend, I couldn’t get that image out of my head. The gauzy bandage. Niv’s expression when she realized I had seen. It was heartbreaking. I wasn’t sure what to do or how to help her so when I saw Sabah and Noor on Monday, I told them.
Sabah looked suitably shocked.
&n
bsp; Noor, however, just smiled a sad smile. ‘We should invite her to the party,’ she said.
‘Sure, just go ahead and help yourself,’ Sabah muttered as Noor plucked a piece of the samosa Sabah had just bought.
‘Stop being such a bitch,’ Noor said.
We were sitting on the steps by the football ground: Noor, Sabah and me.
‘Look who’s talking,’ Sabah bit back.
I looked at my apple like it held all the secrets to the universe.
They had been building up to an argument for days now and I had no intention of getting caught in the crossfire.
‘You know what, Sabah,’ Noor sighed, ‘I’ve had enough of the snide comments. If you have something to say, just say it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on. We both know you’re sulking because you’re worried about the Head Girl thing. I get that you hate losing, but you really do need to stop acting like such a baby.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Look, I’m not trying to take anything away from you, but—’
I had to look up at that.
‘Because it’s yours to take if you want it?’
The shock on Sabah’s face said everything. I had only known them for a few weeks, but even I understood one thing: Sabah worked for everything she wanted and Noor just waltzed in and assumed things would go her way. It could be infuriating, when you weren’t benefiting from it directly.
‘I just meant . . . Look, just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I should have to sit things out. It’s not my fault that you’re so insecure.’
‘And I’m sure it’s not your fault that you’re so arrogant.’
My eyes darted from Noor to Sabah. I had the strange feeling that I was eavesdropping, even though they could both see me sitting right there. I thought about getting up and leaving but that felt too dramatic. A few junior boys were playing football at the far end of the field. I fixed my eyes on them.
Can You See Me Now? Page 6