The Sweetness of Tears (21 page)

Have you ever felt that way, Jo? Have you ever been looked at with such soulful longing that you are transformed, the object and the subject of Love, capital L? You look frightened, as if you didn’t know what I was talking about and were afraid of it somehow.

There was nothing I could say in response to the look in Umar’s eyes. I put my hand up, as if to ward off words that he had not uttered.

His eyes fell away from mine, severing the connection between us, but not the power of its effect. “I am going away,” he said. “I— I cannot ask you to wait. I cannot ask you for anything.”

My father came up the stairs. Umar stood up. He didn’t say good-bye before he left. And what he left behind made me wish that he hadn’t come at all—feeling, at the same time, a profound sense of gratitude for what I now knew. That every moment of life is as significant as that one was for me. The only difference is in knowing it. We squander the moments of our lives away, without realizing their worth. Oh, the tragedy of it. Truly, it is the human tragedy—to let ourselves be the victims of our own sense of irrelevance.

Jo

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face . . .

W. B. Yeats, “When You Are Old”

D
eena’s words stopped. Silence swayed over us, making me suddenly aware of what she was saying about the worth of every moment, as this one, here, now, rose up and made itself felt. I took a deep breath and remembered what she’d said a few seconds before. That I looked frightened. When she asked me that question:
“Have you ever been looked at with such soulful longing that you are transformed, the object and the subject of Love, capital L?”
That was because of the answer that came to mind—the image that rose immediately out of my recent memory. No. Dan had never looked at me like that. But I knew what it must feel like, from having experienced its opposite. I’d been looked at with such deep, soulful revulsion that I was transformed—the object and subject of Hatred, capital H. A little time in Deena’s company was enough for me to know that she deserved the look
she’d
gotten. What made me afraid was knowing that the look I’d gotten was also deserved. Her question reminded me of why I’d come here, to her house, something I’d forgotten in the act of listening.

Then the suspended silence between us was broken as the grinding noise of a garage door opening jolted us both out of the moment.

Deena looked at the clock on the mantel and exclaimed, “Oh, my! Is that the time? That’s Umar. Home from work. And I haven’t even begun to prepare the
ifthar
!”

As she spoke, I heard the door of a car slamming shut, the opening and closing of another door, leading into the house, followed by footsteps. I sat up straighter, eager to see the face of the man who had looked at Deena with such longing. He came into the room, stopping short when he saw me sitting on the couch across from his wife.

Deena stood and turned, repeating, for his sake, “Oh, Umar! I have not even begun to prepare
ifthar
. See? I had an unexpected guest. Umar, this is Jo. You remember Angela? Connie’s stepdaughter? She was my fr—no—Sadiq’s friend,” she finished, on a bit of a broken note. Then said, “Well, Jo is Angela’s daughter. She came. And I’ve been talking and talking.”

Umar smiled and finished his way into the room. “Oh. Yes,” he said, putting his hand out, taking mine in a firm hold. Shaking it. “Connie and Deena are very good friends.”

He turned to Deena. “Don’t worry. There’s another half hour until
ifthar
. I’ll get it ready.”

“No! Together. We’ll do it together.”

That’s when it hit me. What they were talking about. “It’s Ramadan? Are you—are you fasting, Deena?” I thought about the tea she’d served when I got there. The cookies she’d brought out at some point. That was why she hadn’t had any herself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to intrude. I should go.”

“Sorry? Go? No! Why? There’s no reason for you to go. Stay! Come. We’ll just move into the kitchen. You’ll stay for dinner. You won’t mind watching us get everything ready? Come, come.” Deena was already leading the way, guiding me along with her, her hand on my shoulder. She sat me down on a chair in the kitchen, washed her hands, and started moving, gathering plates and dishes, collecting food out of the fridge, getting out a cutting board and knife. Umar was working right alongside her, their movements so fast and so coordinated with each other’s that I didn’t even offer to help—not wanting to get in the middle of the wordless rhythm that flowed between them, like the steps of a dance they had practiced many times before. I thought of warning Deena—that I spoke and understood Urdu, just in case she decided to speak it to Umar while I was there. But I didn’t have to. She was too polite to try to speak over and around me.

I enjoyed watching them together in the kitchen, imagining both of them in the story that Deena had told me so far. Childhood sweethearts. Sadiq hadn’t told me that. He probably didn’t know. I was glad to accept Deena’s invitation to stay, couldn’t bear the thought of leaving now, completely hooked into the story of her life. There were twists coming, I knew. Because Sadiq—who was Deena’s older son—was the son of another man, not Umar.

After a few moments of silence, Deena said, “At this time, in the last moments before breaking the fast, in Pakistan, the kitchen would be filled with the crackling sounds and salty, hot fumes of frying.
Pakora
s, samosas,
kabab
s. Umar and I avoid all of that. We prefer to keep things simple, now. We have to watch our cholesterol. And all that fried stuff is murder on the digestion. Especially at our age, eh, Umar?”

“Speak for yourself, old woman,” he teased. “I wouldn’t mind a
pakora
or two.” He put his hand on her cheek, on his way to the sink, a quick, tender gesture, delivered with the flash of a smile on his face that lit hers up, too.

“Where is your mother, Jo? Tell me.”

“In San Diego.”

“So she went home? When she left here?”

“Yes.”

“And—?”

“She got married. My father is Jake. He used to work for Todd Rogers.”

Deena turned to look at me for a long moment. Then she nodded, turning back to the cutting board in front of her, slicing fruit—apples and bananas—which she laid out on a plate, along with something else, something pruney and brown. “She was young. To be married. She’s happy?”

“Yes.”

“You have younger brothers and sisters?”

“One brother. Chris.” I didn’t say anything else, wondering if she could hear what I heard in my voice. I was less sure of my right to silence on the subject of Chris than I had been with Sadiq. Whatever she heard, Deena didn’t ask any more questions.

Within an amazingly short amount of time, the table was set, laden with food. The fruit she had cut. Meat sandwiches, made with finely sliced tomatoes and spread with some kind of green paste—a mint chutney, Deena explained—cut neatly into triangles with the crusts trimmed off, the way Mom used to do for Chris, who is a fussy eater. There was some kind of bean salad—Deena said it was called
chola
. And rice and curry.

When it was all ready, Deena and Umar looked at the clock. “It’s time,” she said. And then turned to me. “Excuse us for a moment, Jo. It’s time to open the fast. Umar and I like to say our prayers first. Afterwards, we feel too lazy and full. Make yourself at home. Don’t wait for us to start, if you’re hungry. We’ll be right back.”

They went upstairs and stayed there for some time. I made my way back into the living room, taking a look at the pictures on the mantel. There was one of Sadiq, grown up, the somber expression one I remembered. A couple of him, I think it was him, when he was a little boy—smiling, laughing. In one, he stood against a wall, the branches of a tree with small, dark, plum-colored fruit hanging low, within his reach. There were also pictures of a girl—Deena’s daughter, obviously—a series of them, randomly scattered, charting her progress from child into woman. A laughing woman, happy, her eyes crinkled with mirth, very different from Sadiq. I stood in silence, listening for sounds of prayer upstairs. There were none. I knew the movements of the prayers that Deena and Umar must be offering. Remembering, I thought again of the reason I was here and considered, again, the implausibility of what I suspected. And yet, here I was. Acting on instinct, wondering what it would mean if it turned out that I was right.

Umar came back downstairs first. Deena, a few minutes later. We sat down at the table. Deena picked up the plate of fruit and offered it to me and then to Umar. He took one of the pruney things.

As she took one for herself, she said, “It’s traditional. To open the fast with dates.” She pointed to the brown fruit. “These are my favorite. Locally grown, here in California. As sweet as chocolate. But be careful. They have pits.”

I watched both of them hold their dates up to their mouths, whispering for a few seconds before taking their first bite. Very solemnly, they took sips of water. Then we ate in silence. Passing the food around. Neither one of them ate nearly as much as I did. After a while, Deena pushed herself back from the table and said to Umar, “Could you bear to go to the grocery store for me?”

“Of course,” Umar said.

“You’ll regret saying yes. The list is very long. I made the menu for the day after tomorrow.”

Umar nodded, smiling. “Did you speak with Sabah today?”

Deena also smiled. “Yes.”

“And? Did she tell you the name of the one she’s bringing this year?”

Deena shook her head. “No. She’s being very mysterious.”

“Hmm. How were classes today? Anyone show up for the eight a.m. class?”

“Yes, surprisingly.” Deena turned to me, explaining, “I teach at UCLA. I got dragged into academia through Umar, going back to school when Sabah started high school. I got my bachelor’s and kept going. Now, I teach in the Women’s Studies Department. Classes on South Asian women’s issues. And Islamic culture and law.” She turned back to her husband. “How was your day?”

“The usual. Papers were due and now I have a stack of them to grade. After class, I held court, hearing the usual excuses for those who needed an extension. They’re getting more and more creative as the years go on.”

Deena laughed and, again, explained, “Umar is a professor. Full-fledged, not merely a lecturer like me. His focus is Russian literature.”

Umar pointed accusingly at his wife. “All her fault. I came here, to the States, to study engineering, like all good Pakistani students who came in the late 1960s. Her taste in literature, which she bludgeoned me with when we were neighbors, as children—” I nodded. “—led me down a different path. Less lucrative. But far more satisfying.” Umar popped another date into his mouth, pushed himself away from the table, and started to collect plates and dishes.

Deena put her hand out to stop him. “No. You go. I’ll take care of this. Jo will help me.”

I stood up eagerly, taking plates to the sink, scraping them free of debris before putting them into the dishwasher.

Deena bustled around behind me, sealing up food, leaving some of it on the table. “Umar and I will nibble on this for the rest of the evening. In Pakistan,
ifthar
is followed by another complete dinner later. But Umar and I prefer to graze.”

When we were done in the kitchen, Deena made another pot of tea. She served herself some as well as me this time. Then led me back into the living room. I couldn’t wait for her to resume her story, thinking she’d sent Umar out shopping in order to give herself space and time to tell me the rest.

After a few moments, Deena asked, “Does Angela’s husband know the truth? About you?”

“My father,” I said, surprised at the defiance in my voice. “Yes. My mom says he knew right from the beginning. But I’ve never spoken with him about it.”

“He was older than her.”

I nodded.

“He’s been a good father?”

“A very good father.”

“And your mother told you the truth? When you were little?”

The defiance in my voice dwindled into defense. “No. I—I kind of figured it out. Partly. By the color of my eyes.”

“The color of your eyes?”

“Yes.” I explained to her. About Mendel. About asking Mom the truth right before I left home for college.

“So. If it weren’t for the color of your eyes, you would not have known that Sadiq is your real father.”

I winced at her choice of words.

She must have noticed, using a different phrase to refer to him in her next question. “How long ago did you meet him? My son?”

“It was 1998.”

Deena frowned. “He was in Chicago?”

I nodded.

“You said he was leaving?”

“Yes. His apartment was all boxed up. And he told me he was going away.”

“Nineteen ninety-eight? Yes. He was going to Pakistan. To be married. He invited me to the wedding. And I was planning to go—after many, many years away. With Sabah. And Umar. But Sadiq broke off the engagement when he got there. Before we even left America to attend the wedding. With no explanation.”

“Oh.”

After a few moments of silence, Deena said, “So. You want to hear more? You’re not bored?”

“How could I be bored?” Then I noticed how tired she looked. “But— I don’t want to impose. I mean, more than I have already. If you’re tired? I—I could come back another day?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. Stay.” She was sitting closer to me than she had been before. Now, she reached out and put her hand on my cheek. I didn’t mind. She asked, “Do you know what I was thinking before you came? When you rang the doorbell?”

I shook my head.

She laughed to herself. “Never mind. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Now. Where was I?”

I said, “Umar left for America.”

“Yes. He left.” Deena paused, taking a few sips of her tea. Then she picked up where she left off, drawing me back into the story of her life.

Deena

It’s a heart, after all, not a stone or brick,

Why shouldn’t it fill up with pain?

When we cry, as we will—a thousand times!

Why should anyone bother us?

Ghalib

S
ix months after Umar left for America, my father died, suddenly, of a massive heart attack.

Ma was devastated—the ritual confinement of a widow’s mourning was no effort for her. She could barely get herself out of bed.

All I remember of that time was darkness. There was hardly any money. I stopped going to college, a year shy of completion, and took over the care of the house. The second servant had to be let go. Only Macee stayed—though there were months, in the beginning, when we didn’t have enough to pay her.

I know that this sounds strange—to complain of having only one servant instead of two. The idea of servants is so foreign here, to most people anyway. But life was harder in Pakistan at that time—as it still is, for most. Laundry was now my job—there was no machine to do it for me. Many of the spices needed in the kitchen were hand-processed. The things I can get in the Indian grocery stores now are amazing. Garlic and ginger paste. Ground spices. Macee and I did this all by hand. With a mortar and pestle, mind you. We had no blender. And what we take for granted from the supermarkets here! Lovely food, packaged and ready to eat. Back home, we set our own yogurt and pasteurized our own milk. We had “meatless” days in Pakistan, days when no meat was sold in the markets, when all were supposed to abstain—because meat had to be prepared fresh, the day it was purchased. Though we had a refrigerator, our freezer was small and, like most people, we were still in the habit of buying meat daily, so that “meatless” days really were meatless. Unless you were rich enough to afford chicken or fish instead.

Now, here, we are many degrees removed from the labor involved in living. Even when I use machines, I think of who made the parts for them. I think of where everything I use came from. Before I bought it. It is easy to forget. That someone picked the fruit and vegetables. That someone slaughtered the animals we eat—even if it was with the help of machines. That someone sewed the clothes. I used to do that, too, for a time. We had an old Singer, the kind with a pedal and a wheel. It would probably be worth money today. As something strange and antique.

Still, our lives were not deprived, by most standards. We had electricity. We had running water, a roof over our heads, and soft beds to sleep in. We managed to get food on the table—less of it, to be sure, and strictly budgeted. But I had no right to complain. Because the labor I engaged in was for myself and my family. Macee and the girl who had worked for us labored for others, which must have been unimaginably hard—something I had given no thought to before.

I remember, one day, watching from the terrace as a little girl and a little boy walked down the street. The boy could not have been more than two. The girl, older, wore a red tunic and baggy trousers,
shalwar kameez,
so drab and faded that the color that remained seemed a dusty ghost of its original. The boy wore a ragged shirt, but no pants. He paused behind his sister for a moment, to squat and shit in the street, then ran a few steps to catch up to her. They made their way to the empty plot on the corner that served as a garbage heap. I watched them as they picked through the garbage for food and things they might barter, both of them golden-haired, a sign of beauty when it wasn’t one of malnutrition. These kinds of scenes were so commonplace that to remark on them feels strange. In Pakistan—in many parts of the world, I suppose—no matter how bad life gets, there is always evidence of how much worse things can be.

Abbas Uncle used to come and visit to see how we got on, though less often than before. He was the one who took Abu’s accounts in hand, the one who told us that Abu’s debts far outnumbered any assets that remained.

“The man who worked for him—like the men before—was robbing him blind, Rukaiya Bhabi. I am doing what I can to track him down and hold him to account. But I don’t have high hopes.” Abbas Uncle began to loan us money, monthly, to tide things over, and we were able to resume Macee’s salary—though to call this support a loan was ridiculous in light of the fact that there was no way to repay him. “I don’t want you to worry yourselves. You and Deena,” Abbas Uncle told my mother. “I am here. Iqbal was like my brother. Taking care of you both is my duty and my honor.”

But my mother was uneasy. She said, shaking her head, after his visits, “Nothing comes without a price.”

Now, sometimes, when Abbas Uncle visited, his wife, Sajida Auntie, came with him, though she hadn’t before. One day, their son came, too, Akram the
chakram,
all grown up and home from his studies abroad.

The very next afternoon, Abbas Uncle sent someone—a friend of his family and ours—with a proposal of marriage for me to be his son’s wife. It was unsuitable for me to be present, so I was sent out of the room before the message was delivered. But the nervous manner of our visitor was enough to make me pause outside of it, out of sight, able to see the way my mother’s lips pursed in response. I knew why, of course. Why she looked frightened rather than flattered on my behalf. This was a proposal that could not be refused.

Akram had stared at me at first, when he came—with handsome, hungry eyes that hinted at the sizing-up purpose of the visit before the official proposal arrived. I had observed him through the veil of my lashes carefully. His long, straight nose—a beautiful nose!—was nothing like his sister’s. What features they did share, Asma and Akram, lived more harmoniously on his face than they did on hers. In the brother’s features, too, unlike the sister’s, there was
namak
—salt—which flavored his expressions with a spark that livened his face and shone out of his eyes, especially when he spoke, directly to me, for much of the visit. While there was nothing improper about that—we were more than adequately chaperoned—there was something daring about the way he addressed me so openly, which added to the favorable impression he made.

Abbas Uncle’s messenger began his task with an acknowledgment, “Abbas Sahab is aware, naturally, that—in light of the loss of your husband, his friend, so recent—this matter may appear to be too hasty in timing. But the boy is ready for marriage. The girl, if she is willing, is of age as well. And, he believes, there is no reason to delay future happiness in the shadow of past grief.” When he added, “Of course, the boy and girl must meet each other. So that Deena can decide. Say the word, and Akram will come and visit,” my mother’s lips relaxed in agreement, easing the strain that had taken root in the lines around her eyes since Abu’s death.

When the guest finally left, I reentered the room and sat, in silence, waiting for her to speak. I could sense her happiness. But also her worry. I knew the quandary she was in. We were under Abbas Uncle’s
ehsaan
—under his obligation, the weight of it carried on our shoulders as a burden of debt, heavier than normal because it was a debt incurred through the favor of friendship, the interest for which is incalculable, according to the computations of honor.

I waited for a long while, but my mother said nothing for the next few hours. In silence, she retreated to her prayer rug and raised her hands in a plea for guidance. That is where she was when the knock came at the door. “Who could it be at this time?” Ma roused herself from her prayers to ask. “Macee! Please go and see who’s at the door,” she called.

A few moments later, Macee came in the room, bringing Abbas Uncle with her. I stood quickly to leave the room again, wondering, as my mother’s face told me she was, at this breach of etiquette—a proposal was not to be forwarded by the family of the boy, should not even be referred to by them, in the usual course of things.

Abbas Uncle’s first words told us that he was well aware of his break from protocol. “Forgive me. I realize that I have come out of turn. But there are things I must say.” He put his hand out to stop me from leaving. “No, Deena, don’t leave the room. Try to put aside the modesty that this occasion would normally require of you. Listen to what I have to say to your mother.”

At Ma’s indication, he sat on the armchair that had been my father’s favorite. Ma sat on the sofa, while I remained standing, off to the side. Abbas Uncle never looked in my direction, making it easier for me to bear the embarrassment of having to go against convention, to be present in the room with the man who sought to be my father-in-law during the process of that seeking.

“Rest easy, Rukaiya Bhabi. I have come not as Akram’s father, to plead and persuade on his behalf. Rather, I have come as Iqbal’s friend—the friend of your late husband, the friend of Deena’s father. I understand the dilemma that your earlier visitor must have caused. There are questions to be asked and answered, as there always are when the matter of a boy and girl’s marriage is at stake. But . . . there are things that must be said in this case, things which are not—well, easy—for me to say.” Abbas Uncle fell silent. And remained so for quite a long time, looking relieved when Macee came into the room with cups of tea rattling on a tray. The sound drew his attention, so that he turned to Macee and uncharacteristically asked, “How are you, Macee?”

Macee flushed. “
Alhamdulillah,
Abbas Sayt. I am well, thank you.”

“Your brother—? Sharif Muhammad? He is expected back soon? It is difficult to get on without him, you know.”

“You know that better than I do, Sayt. It is the first time he’s gone home in ten years. To see his wife and our family left behind.”

“And you? Will you be joining him? To visit your family in Bombay?”

“Not now, Abbas Sayt. I could not leave my mistress at this time,” Macee said, handing Abbas Uncle his tea, and then my mother hers.

When Macee left the room, the awkward silence she’d interrupted descended again.

Until my mother said, “You were saying something, Abbas Bhai? Something difficult you wished to share with us?”

Abbas Uncle looked at Ma as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then he opened his mouth and licked his lips, but still said nothing. Finally, he spoke. “Yes. What I was saying. That the situation here is unique—the relationship already established between your family and mine is one which I realize might cause you unease. But I hope that you will put those matters aside. And treat this proposal as you would any other.

“Akram’s mother has been very impressed with Deena, has watched her carefully, especially last Muharram, and speaks very highly of her beauty, and the grace and modesty with which she reads
noha
s. She wanted Akram to see Deena, convinced that she is exactly—uh, suited—that they will do well together, and insisted that he come with us on our visit yesterday. And Akram was even more impressed than his mother.”

Abbas Uncle had been stirring his tea as he spoke. Now, he paused again. Then raised his eyes to my mother’s as if to get to the point. “I have to say that I agree with Sajida—there is nothing so valuable as the love of a good woman. I have watched Deena grow up, have observed the liveliness of her mind, the fairness and strength of her temperament, develop right before my eyes. I know how much her father loved her. And I know how difficult your position is. I want you to understand that your answer will in no way affect any other ties between us. I will remain your friend. I will continue to look after your interests and those of Deena as if they were my own. I am the boy’s father. But I valued my friendship with Iqbal too much to ever dishonor it by allowing you to be moved by unimportant and insignificant matters of status and means. I am the friend of Deena’s father. That is why I have come today. As the guardian of her well-being as well as my son’s. If— in the case that what Akram desires comes to pass— she will not merely be the wife of my son. She will have the love and protection of a father under my roof. This, I promise.”

Ma said, “Thank you, Abbas Bhai. For all that you have done for us. Out of friendship, as you say. And since you have come as the friend of Deena’s father, I have a question for you.”

Abbas Uncle inclined his head, as if at my mother’s service. “Please. Don’t hesitate.”

“You know Deena better than I know Akram. Are they truly suited in temperament? If you were in my place, knowing all that you do about both children, would
you
say that they will do well for each other?”

Abbas Uncle’s only answer was to close his eyes for a long moment. To take a ragged breath. When he opened his eyes again, he put his palms up in supplication and said merely,
“Inshallah.”
It took a few more moments of silence before my mother realized that this would be his only answer.

She said, “Thank you, Abbas Bhai. Again. For being such a good friend to us.”

“There is nothing to thank me for, Rukaiya Bhabi. If you have no other questions, I—I will take my leave.
Khudahafiz.
”

Abbas Uncle saw himself out.

After a few moments, Ma said, “That was a strange visit. Why did he come?”

I didn’t answer, because Ma seemed to be talking more to herself than to me.

She looked up then, and asked, “Did you not get the impression, Deena—as I did—that what your Abbas Uncle came to say and what he actually said were not the same thing?”

I frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ma.”

“No? Never mind, then. It was just a feeling I had.”

“You—you’re unhappy, Ma?”

“Unhappy? No. Why should I be? The boy seems like a good boy. He is handsome. Young.”

“And rich.”

Ma’s eyes on me were sharp for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes. And rich. From a good family, known to us. Known to everyone. There is no home in the whole community that would not welcome and celebrate a proposal like this one, Deena. No family of sense and practicality.”

“Yes. But you seem unhappy, Ma.”

“Not unhappy. Uneasy. I wish your father were here. Practicality is not the only thing to consider. You must be careful, Deena. When you meet the boy. You must be sure. We are—we are not in a strong position. You must not allow yourself to feel pressured. You must realize that this is not some fairy tale out of a book. That marrying this boy will determine your whole future, the reality of your life.”