by Nawaaz Ahmed
“Say something, Tahera.”
She remarks, in an offhand manner, “Did you know Fiaz is a homosexual? Is that the sort of American culture you want your grandchildren to be exposed to?”
She doesn’t wait for your reply but turns back to the stove as if she’d simply made an insignificant observation, unrelated to anything.
You don’t have an answer to Tahera’s question. It’s not that you’re dumbfounded by the idea. Various details click immediately into place: Fiaz’s almost effeminate good looks and sense of style, his implied bachelorhood and reticence about his home life, his easy relations with Seema, his love of fine things.
Dully, you begin pondering the implications of Tahera’s revelation. Is Tahera mocking your intentions for Fiaz and Seema? Is that why she brings him up now, to demonstrate how little you know about life in America?
You feel small: how presumptuous, how foolish your advice to her, thinking her incapable of considering her own situation carefully. You will have to ask her forgiveness, as you’d asked Seema’s last night. You had promised yourself that you’d listen, not try to fix what you don’t understand.
“Shall we check on the biryani?” she asks.
A welcome distraction: you brighten with gratitude at this conciliatory gesture on her part. She lifts the lid and pries away the sheets of paper towels covering the mouth of the pressure cooker to absorb the steam.
Ah, there it is! That final elusive note of the aroma! One sniff, one glance at the rice—the grains fuzzy yet distinct—and you know the biryani will be perfect, you don’t even need to taste it.
Tahera gives the pot a final mix, and then samples the biryani straight from the ladle. “One can’t ask more of even Jannat than biryani like this. Seema’s friends are lucky.” There’s an edge to her voice, but at least she’s smiling.
“It’s not only for Seema’s friends,” you say. “It’s for you too.”
The last couplet of the ghazal resonates—Whom you once counted a friend, whom you once considered loyal, I’m still that same smitten one, whether you remember or not—and you wish you could take Tahera in your arms again to remind her of those times. But she’s returned to the chicken, skinning it with a matter-of-fact ferocity, and you fear you’ve squandered some opportunity that’d been granted you this afternoon.
26
Amina is waiting after school for Ismail to pick her up. In Arshad’s absence, she stands by herself, by the main entrance just inside the lobby, which is emptying slowly of its inhabitants. Her friends have all left with their parents.
She wonders what her brother is doing at home. Is he feeling better? She’d remembered to say a dua for him at lunchtime, her hands joined in prayer, right after saying her Bismillah.
But her father is late. She’s not concerned yet, comforting herself instead with an alternate vision: perhaps her mother will pick her up today!
Ammi will arrive and wrap her jilbab around her and drop a kiss on her head. And then they’ll drive home, and Bhaiya will be there, and her Asma doll, and Ammi will give her a cupcake to eat—with frosting and sprinkles!—and chocolate milk to drink.
This catalog of pleasures keeps Amina occupied. She swings her lunch bag, she skips from one end of the doorway to the other, stopping in the middle to peer at the parking lot.
Her backpack begins to feel heavy. She takes it off and presses her face against the glass doors to peer around the corner, farther up the driveway. She’s supposed to stay inside—Abba warned her specifically while dropping her off that morning—but Bhaiya, when he’s with her, usually disregards this injunction and leads her to the playground at the end of the parking lot, claiming they can keep a better watch for their parents from the platform above the slide.
Except, of course, the playground has been spoiled—her face falls at the memory of the burned swing and slide. Nobody was allowed to go near the playground during recess or lunchtime today either.
But where is Abba? As minutes pass, the fear that she’s been forgotten mounts. The teacher on watch is engrossed in her cell phone—Amina pushes open the door quietly and trudges to the end of the front porch, toward the parking lot, dragging her backpack behind her. Here she waits some more, dangerously close to tears, chewing at the corners of her hijab even though she knows she’s not supposed to. But it feels as though everyone has forgotten her—including the teacher on watch—and with a stifled sob, she slips under the yellow tape into the enclosure of the playground.
It’s a desolate and strange new country. In the center of the playground the charred structures tower over her like skeletons of dinosaurs. Huge blobs of deformed plastic are scattered beneath them, blackened animals in various attitudes of agony. The colors she admired—bright reds, greens, blues, yellows—are sooted. The soft white sand she liked to scuff is streaked through with gray ashes and debris. The odor of burning—Amina scrunches her nose—still lingers over everything.
And her favorite slide is no more. Only a tongue remains at the very top, twisted and fierce. Underneath it is a shapeless lump of plastic, which the tongue reaches toward as though it wants to lap it back up. Her stomach knots, like whenever she imagines something happening to Asma doll.
She whimpers: Who would do something like this to her slide?
“Bad men,” Farah Miss had said in class that morning.
Farah Miss is Amina’s favorite teacher. Farah Miss is young, tall, wise, kind, and always pretty in her light-colored hijabs and jilbabs—cream, lavender, rose. Allah will punish the bad men, Farah Miss explained. There are two angels writing down everything a person does, one sitting on the right shoulder, Raqeeb, who writes down all good deeds, and one sitting on the left shoulder, Atheed, who writes down all bad deeds. And one day when everyone is standing in front of Allah, Allah will consult with Raqeeb and Atheed and decide whether to reward or punish. On that day the bad men who had burned the playground will be thrown into the fires of Jahannam.
Farah Miss made the children recite their kalimas, Allah being the only one powerful enough to protect them from the evil work of the Shaitan and his helpers. Farah Miss then made them blow into their palms and down their chests to create an armor around themselves, so the evil Shaitan couldn’t harm them. And Farah Miss went around the room, blowing on the forehead of each child, before starting the day’s lessons.
The prayers work their magic again: standing with her eyes closed in the playground, Amina recites the kalimas—the first few fully, the last couple mumbled where she’s forgotten some words—opening her eyes only after she’s done blowing down her chest. Now all that remains is to walk around and blow over every object here, both fallen and standing.
She blows over the melted slide, the seesaws, the merry-go-round; she blows through the chain links of the melted swing. She blows into the air toward the sky, she blows onto the sand as she slowly spins around, so that her breath can reach every part of the playground.
A glitter in the sand catches her attention: it’s one of two plastic figurines that were attached to a rotating drum mounted on a climbing structure. This figurine is the princess, with yellow hair and rosy cheeks and dressed in a sparkling white gown with a gold tiara on her head. Amina has asked Ammi many times for something similar to the tiara for Asma doll, but Ammi has always refused—tiaras are not for Muslim dolls. Amina picks the figurine up, brushing the sand off it.
The princess is unharmed except for a small fused section of the tiara. The prince is missing—Amina searches futilely in the sand—he must have melted in the fire with the drum. She cradles the princess close to her chest, singing to the princess the song her mother sings to console Amina when she’s hurting.
At first Amina sings softly, whispering the song into the ears of the figurine. But she’s alone here, with nothing around her but the ruins of a place she has spent happy hours in. She begins singing a little louder, as though she wants what’s left of the playground to hear her. And then louder still: to the sand, to th
e air, to the skies.
Her voice is clear and ringing even to her own ears, and she revels in the sensation the song produces in her throat, in her chest, in the upper reaches of her nasal cavities as she strains for the high notes. She’d started the song plaintively, but as it works its way into her body, it transforms into something subtly joyous, the notes a little brighter, the tempo a little quicker, the cadences lilted toward the sky.
In the new universe she’s singing into existence, the princess figurine has been restored to its original condition and united with the prince, the playground has been re-created, her mother has returned, her brother is well again, and she is safe at home, surrounded by everything familiar and dear to her.
When her father calls, she spins around startled, dropping the princess. Her father beckons from the car parked close. She fumbles to pick up the figurine, then sights her backpack, shrugs it on, and races toward the car, almost forgetting to duck under the yellow tape. Beside her father sits Arshad. No mother, but her disappointment lasts only a few seconds. Her brother must be feeling better; she’s pleased he has accompanied their father to collect her.
But why does Bhaiya not get out of the car and help her into her booster seat as he usually does? Is he still sick? It’s Abba who helps her, strangely stern and silent. Bhaiya doesn’t even turn around to look at her.
“Look, Bhaiya, what I found—” She holds out the princess, remembering only belatedly that her father may not approve, but thankfully he’s busy pulling out of the parking lot. Her brother, too, ignores her offering, giving no indication that he’s even heard her.
“Are you still not well, Bhaiya?” Her fears for him, from the morning, return.
“No, he’s not well.” It’s her father who replies. “He will go straight to his room when we get home.”
On his face is a forbidding expression she’s never seen before. There’s none of the concern he’d run up the stairs with, when she’d called him to her brother’s side that morning.
Something has changed, she senses. It’s not a foreboding she can give words to, it’s more an impression that some fire has passed through the world she knows, and everything—the playground, Abba, Bhaiya, perhaps even herself—has been melted and transformed into something dark and strange. She hides away the princess doll under her books in her backpack.
27
Leigh arrives at four o’clock, hours earlier than expected.
Tahera buzzes her up, looking in on Seema to announce her untimely arrival. Tahera appears frazzled, her face shiny with sweat from the heat and steam in the kitchen, her hair plastered to her head. She then retreats to the kitchen, picking up her hijab on the way.
Seema is herself surprised. What could Leigh want? Seema pictures a scene where Leigh races up the stairs and sweeps her into her arms to kiss her, while her mother and sister watch openmouthed. The prospect is both unnerving and exhilarating.
In the early days of their relationship, Leigh often acted in impulsive, unpredictable ways: turning up at Seema’s office with takeout from their favorite Burmese restaurant, slipping into Seema’s apartment to light candles for when they later returned, kidnapping Seema for a day trip to a spa. But lately there have been few such incidents, which Seema is thankful for—Leigh’s spontaneity can be exhausting, and the stunt with the candles was dangerous—though Seema also misses the excitement.
Today Leigh arrives empty-handed. “Don’t mind me,” she tells Nafeesa who has hurriedly washed her hands and come out of the kitchen to greet her. “I knew you’d be busy, I thought I’d take Seema off your hands, perhaps go for a walk?”
Nafeesa hesitates, looking back to Tahera in the kitchen for guidance.
“Ammi, I’m not in labor, don’t worry,” Seema says. “I’m not going to have a baby in the next hour—even the contractions from the morning have stopped. I could use some fresh air, and Leigh will be with me if I need help.”
“What about your backache?”
“I took something for it. It seems to be working.”
Nafeesa gives in. Will they drink tea before they leave? It will be ready by the time Seema has changed.
Leigh follows Seema into the bedroom, ignoring the warning shake of her head, and launches into a rapid patter about upcoming articles and interviews, Raj Goyle, the Indian American running for Congress in Kansas, and Jeremy Lin, the first Chinese American NBA player, clearly intended for Nafeesa’s and Tahera’s ears. As she helps Seema into something more suited to a walk outside, she stoops to cover Seema’s shoulders and belly with swift giggling kisses, which Seema decides, keeping an eye on the open bedroom door, is wiser to yield to than protest.
Back in the living room, cups of chai in their hands, they sit conversing as though they hadn’t just given in to teenage giddiness a few short moments ago, until Leigh puts her cup down and says, with an air of innocence, “Ready?”
They wait till they round the corner to hold hands. And then at the next corner Leigh leads Seema into a cul-de-sac, where they kiss, feverish and long, standing in the entrance of a recessed garage.
Afterward, Leigh sighs: “I needed that.”
“I know, I missed you too.” Seema chooses her words carefully.
At least San Francisco has conspired to give them a perfect October day for walking, for making up. The late afternoon sun is perched high above the hills to the west, skimming the hovering clouds, flooding the Mission with a light that clings to everything with a honeyed sheen—skin, hair, clothes, houses, streets. Above, the sky has yet to lose its limpid blue, and around, the air is humming with a warmed-over buzz, the city everywhere stretching languorously.
Seema tells Leigh about the ad against Prop 8 she’d written for the Harris campaign. They’ve rarely discussed the topic of marriage, both wary of broaching the subject, but this seems a safe step in that direction. Besides, Seema is proud of her work.
“That’s awesome,” Leigh says, with a kiss. “I must treat you to ice cream.”
There’s a line outside their favorite shop. They join it, still holding hands.
“When’s the baby due?” the woman behind the counter asks, as she hands them samples.
“Any time now,” Leigh answers for Seema.
The woman says, “Good luck, enjoy your baby! Is this your first?”
The woman’s glance includes both of them. Leigh looks to Seema as if for confirmation, a hint of expectation in her eyes.
“Yes,” Seema says, “my first.” She adds a smile to involve Leigh in complicity, hoping that would suffice, but Leigh’s shoulders drop. But what else could she have said? They’re not there yet, however much Leigh (or even she) might wish otherwise.
At the bottom of the path, they pause so Seema can rest a little before the climb up. They watch the couples in the tennis courts swinging their rackets and missing their serves with easy laughter. Beyond the tennis court, men battle on an uneven soccer field with animated shouts and grunts. And beyond them, on the slopes of the hill, are the afternoon sunbathers.
Where do they come from—Seema wonders, as she’s done before—the sunbathers and the tennis and soccer players, the people lining up for ice cream, partaking of the afternoon’s store of pleasures with such familiarity? They made happiness seem easy, as though they could sense the universe’s pulse and knew exactly where and when it was ready to offer up its coffers. A customary bitterness: she’s not one of them. Happiness has never come easy to her.
A memory: A Sunday morning in bed, Leigh spooning Seema. They’d fucked already, but Leigh’s hands start moving once again, in spirals, across the swell of her belly, down to the cleft of her thighs. Leigh stops herself. “I wonder what the baby makes of all this.”
“The baby’s happy if the mother’s happy.”
“Is the mother happy?” Leigh’s lips on Seema’s nape.
“Very happy.” Drowsy and content.
They’d eventually gotten out of bed, and then this same walk to Dolores Park. The day
had seemed cozy, like the bedroom they’d left: made to hold just the two of them. But later that same evening came the call from her mother about the diagnosis.
“Leigh,” she says now, “last night I almost told my mother about us.”
“But you didn’t.” Not an accusation, merely a statement, but resigned.
“It wasn’t the right time.” Seema is defensive. Leigh hasn’t had to worry about her parents’ acceptance. “My mother was crying, and I couldn’t comfort her. I felt so bad. I’ll tell her tonight after dinner.”
They climb up the hill in silence to their spot at the top of the park, Seema holding on to Leigh’s hand for support.
But how unlike that other day, when holding hands wasn’t enough and they stopped periodically to touch each other: face, hair, the small of the back. At the Dolores Cafe, while waiting for their coffee, Leigh held her, hands resting on her belly, and they swayed to the sounds of the café and the street, oblivious to the crowd. They raised cups in a toast to perfect Sundays. They ambled up the hill, washed a vivid green by the September sun. Their bench was free, lit by a dazzling beam of sunlight. They took bites of each other’s cupcakes; they fed each other spoons of yogurt.
And sitting there, they’d talked about everything and nothing: Leigh’s dreams of going to grad school for journalism, the upcoming elections, Seema’s work for the Harris campaign, the baby.
“Have you decided on a name yet?”
“I don’t know how to pick. Nothing seems to call out to me.”
“Maybe I can help.” Leigh’s hand on her belly, stroking it.
Raising Leigh’s hand to her lips. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“What are you thinking about?” Leigh asks now. They’re sitting side by side on their bench, the city spread at their feet.