And the World Changed (38 page)

Juana, their older roommate from Mexico, nodded. “Take some time off,
amiga
,” Juana said. “Then come back and finish. We've put in too much time to quit. You only have another year. Once you get out, you can do real work. We can't quit.” She turned the page of her textbook. The fluorescent light flattened her features. “I'm sick of being here, too. My home's on the other side and they want to make walls to push us out. But you know we're going to win, right? We're reproducing at a faster rate than they can throw us out!”

By the end of the conversation, Zahra checked out the website of an organization in Kolkata, City Streets, that provided free healthcare. Rathna had filled her in on the director of the program, an older man, Sohan Roy, who looked like a Bollywood movie star.

“I've heard he's a flirt, but a wonderful host,” Rathna said. “You'll have a great time.”

Rathna's voice resonated in Zahra's ears as she entered the City Streets building. An attendant escorted her to Sandhya Sengupta, a senior woman in a sari, who held out her hand for a shake, but then changed her mind and offered her cheek for a kiss. “It is unusual for us to get a Pakistani intern, but we can certainly use your help,” she said. “You could work on our newsletter and our website. That way, you can learn about what we do, and we can use your technology skills.”

Zahra nodded in agreement. “That sounds fine.”

Sandhya brushed her hands together, as though she were
cleaning away a layer of dust. “Excellent. We'll get you started.” Sandhya led her to a small cubby that would serve as Zahra's office. “Mr. Roy was looking forward to having you as our guest. But he won't be here for a few months. He's teaching a course in England. He told us to take care of you.”

Zahra nodded, feeling like a little girl whose helium balloon had been released into the smoky sky. She shook away her feeling of disappointment and sifted through the small stack of stories to edit. When she finished, she sipped tea and read through City Streets's publicity materials. In the hallway, she heard two men discussing the rise of HIV cases in the city and the outbreak of cholera and typhoid. From what she'd gathered, City Streets hired at least twenty other employees, but Zahra felt too shy to walk out of her cubby and introduce herself. Her day lightened up a little when Amita, another young woman who worked on marketing, joined her in the small room.

One of Zahra's first off-site jobs was a visit to City Streets's mobile nursing station at the Tannery, Kolkata's old leather-processing neighborhood. She got into a van with two nurses and Amita; the nurses were going to do patient checkups, while Zahra and Amita were instructed to collect stories.

Once in Tangra, the City Streets's crew situated itself in a makeshift clinic packed with more than fifty women sitting on benches and on the floor. An arid smell of sweat rose up Zahra's nostrils; flies floated through open doorways. The nurses set up instruments and began to collect blood, take temperatures, and document symptoms. Amita deposited herself on a bench to record stories, while Zahra hesitantly opened the camera case. She fiddled with the aperture. When she was in college in California she had taken a photography class, but had not practiced since. She tested the light. She held the camera in her right palm to test its weight.

To her left, an older woman was sharing her story with Amita: “They closed the factories, and I had a stroke. Now I have no money, and my son is dead. What do I do?” Feeling
her own breath change, Zahra picked up her camera, focused the lens for a close-up of the woman's face and clicked. Turning around, she captured images of another woman, who was talking about her husband's lung cancer and her own miscarriages. “We can't have children here,” she said. “They don't even want to be born.”

Having spent many childhood afternoons at her mother's clinic where women struggled with daily health problems, Zahra had always been committed to making a difference back home in Karachi. But, as she squinted her eyes behind the camera lens, she grappled with how she could return to Chicago where problems seemed simpler, and the solutions presented could not be applied to the world in front of her. Pushing away her thoughts, she stepped into the narrow street and photographed a group of boys and girls splashing in rancid street water.

A week later, Sandhya summoned Zahra to her office. “These are fabulous,” Sandhya said, pointing to a contact sheet with black-and-white photographs. “I didn't know you were a photographer?”

Zahra flushed. “I'm not . . . I mean, I haven't been trained.”

“Maybe you should be.” Sandhya held out a sheet that showed two boys throwing water at each other. “We'll use this in our brochure. Of course, we will give you credit. I'm going to email these to Sohan right now.”

To celebrate Zahra's work, Amita invited her out for a drink at a bar on Park Street. As soon as they slid into their chairs, Amita blurted out: “So why are you doing this internship? You could've read about the work we do. There're no Pakistanis here.” From the rush in her voice, it was clear she'd been wanting to ask the question for some time.

The bar was filled with men and women who had stopped in for drinks after work, and there was laughter in the air. Relaxed, Zahra shared Rathna's stories about City Streets. “I'm kind of disappointed Mr. Roy isn't here. . . .”

Even before Zahra finished her sentence, Amita threw her head back and laughed so hard that the group at the next table turned around to look at her. “Oh, forget him. He's a player,” Amita said.

Zahra joined in Amita's laughter. “You know, I haven't said this to anyone, but I'm not very impressed with Mr. Roy. He gets paid a lot, but he's never here. That's why some NGOs have a bad reputation in Pakistan, too.”

Amita smiled tersely. “We do good work. But we could do better. We need to dedicate more money to treatments for lung cancer, HIV, or just plain healthcare for pregnant women. You've seen how much the city needs.”

Moving on to her second gin and tonic, Amita confessed that she, too, had left her parents' home in Mumbai after hearing about Sohan Roy and the work he did. “But honestly, I'm disillusioned. And I'm only twenty-three. I'm telling you, the best thing about coming to Kolkata is getting to know this city—and living alone.” Amita rented an upstairs flat through a family that lived on the ground floor. “My mother feels better knowing there're older people watching over me. And my landlords don't report on my boyfriend, or how often he comes over. Thank goodness for cell phones and email . . . that way my mother feels she can be connected with me, but she doesn't need to know everything.”

“I wish I could live like that in Karachi,” Zahra said. “Pakistan's a difficult place for single women. When I'm home, I live with my parents.”

By the time the two women exited the bar, Amita had invited Zahra to move out of the hostel—where Zahra had to report in before ten o'clock each night—and, instead, rent the empty room in her apartment.

“My roommate moved out a month ago,” Amita explained. “I've been looking for someone else. You'd be perfect!”

Through Amita, Zahra experienced another Kolkata. One of
the first shows Zahra saw with her new friend was an improvisational comedy performance at a small theater. Even though Zahra couldn't understand Bengali, the performers were strong; she was able to comprehend their jokes through their expressions and body movements. Another night, they listened to rock music in Amita's friend's backyard. As the evening progressed, Zahra learned that the drummer, Manik, who worked as a graphic design artist by day and was a musician at night, was Amita's boyfriend. Once Zahra moved into Amita's, she became accustomed to Manik dropping by at all hours, often armed with beer or vodka. The three stayed up through the night talking.

On one such evening, Zahra told her new friends: “I emailed my ex today in Karachi and told him I don't want anything to do with him. Just because he was the first guy I was with doesn't mean he should be the last. And when I go back to Karachi, I'm going to take a photography class. It's all I want to do.” She took a swig of beer. “I left Karachi for graduate school to get away from the life I was living, but it's not like Chicago's been any better. Cheers to Kolkata.”

The three clinked their beer bottles. Manik strummed his fingers against Amita's calves. “Our government told us to hate you because of what your people did in Bangladesh. I might be drunk but I know you're not the enemy. You didn't support the military. There you are, from the other side of the border . . . and we're not that different.”

Zahra nodded. “At least now more and more people are speaking out about the violence that took place. But they don't teach it in history books. You need to visit Karachi one day. It's strange how we can be neighbors, and still be so distant. Our governments make it hard for us to cross the border, so we fly over each other's countries.”

The three stayed up late making plans about starting up a twin organization in Kolkata and Karachi. “Our organization will give power to street kids,” Amita said. “We'll teach them
photography and filmmaking. And we'll collect money to send them to school.”

Zahra's internship ended as quickly as it began. Her suitcase open, she folded her new stack of saris—pink, bright purple, green, colors she'd never thought she could wear—along with hand-stitched blouses. Another stack was a pile of books by Tagore (in translation), DVDs of Satyajit Ray films, and anthologies, films, and music she'd collected during her stay. She was leaving in a different manner from the way she had arrived three months ago. Her friends were driving her to the airport and her phone book was filled with names of artists, teachers, health workers, and activists that she'd met during her three-month internship.

At the airport, Amita gave Zahra a tight hug. “Take good care of yourself. I know we'll be friends for a long time.”

“I want to come back and start that organization with you,” Zahra replied. Her heart felt heavy, as if her suitcase were strapped against her chest. She had plans to be in Karachi during the summer before she returned to Chicago. She knew that when she wrote a report for her internship, she would be able to record her experiences at City Streets, but there would be no place to write about the education she had gleaned from her friendship with Amita.

On the airplane, a worn-out bead bracelet that Amita gave Zahra snagged against the arm of her airplane seat and broke away. Zahra tucked the beads into her pocket. Feeling tears rise up, she concentrated on staring out the window at the smoky sky and at airport workers who shoved swollen bags into the airplane's belly. She cleaned her nose and noticed that her tissue came away with streaks of soot that she had wiped away every night for the past three months. The thought made her eyes tear up even more.

The air at dawn in Karachi was tepid. Morning rays had touched all edges of the city and, slowly, heat was rising. Undeterred by
city violence, Karachi Airport was brimming with tired mothers and their children from Dubai, England, and the States who poured in for the summer holidays. As Zahra emerged from inside the airport lobby into the shaded waiting area, her eyes fell on her mother and her older brother who pressed against the rail, waiting for her. She hurled herself in her mother's arms and stayed there for some time. Until that moment, Zahra hadn't realized how much she had missed her—not just in Kolkata, but also in Chicago.

Her mother stroked Zahra's hair. “You look more grownup after this trip,” she said. “I want to hear
all
your stories.”

As her brother drove down Shara-e-Faisal toward their house in Defence Housing Society, Zahra's new eyes absorbed the decorated trucks, the putt-putting rickshaws, and the men and women chasing after minibuses. The sky that stretched over Karachi's low landscape seemed whiter and larger than before, and though there was traffic on the road, the city seemed to be almost empty compared to the density that filled Kolkata's streets at all hours.

“There's so much exciting stuff happening in Kolkata,” she said, as she shared stories of Kolkata's theater, community groups, and bars. “We should learn from it.”

Once they pulled up at the house, Zahra inhaled deeply. She stood under the bougainvillea, appreciating its violet shade.

Tired from all the movement and action in Kolkata—and Chicago—where she had to look after herself every minute, Zahra relished being back in Karachi. In her parents' house, she didn't have to take public transportation, or worry about meals and rent. Most of her friends were away for the summer. With time on her hands, Zahra spent much of her time reading and sending emails to her friends in Kolkata and Chicago, regaling them with stories about Karachi's mangoes, her photography class, and her daily walks by the sea.

One morning, three days before her departure—shortly after calling Emirates Airlines to reconfirm her seat back to
Chicago—Zahra set out for Seaview, where she walked every morning. She parked the car, strapped her camera to her side, and began to briskly walk along the seawall. As always, she found herself remembering her morning tea with Amita, their races to the subway station, and their evening walks through Kolkata's Horticultural Gardens. Now that her break from Chicago, a city almost halfway on the other side of the world, was coming to an end, she thought of the long cold nights in the library with Juana and Rathna as they struggled to complete courses that seemed so distant from their respective homes in India, Pakistan, Mexico, and the escape they sought by exploring the city beyond their campus.