The Sweetness of Tears (28 page)

I closed my eyes. And then opened them to the sight of the woman before me, to the fact of the girl sleeping one room away. Between them, these women were the beginning and the end of my childhood. My mother and my daughter, two poles of a world from which I had been shut out. In response to that exile, I had pretended not to want what I’d lost. Now, I knew. That being a man meant returning to that world—embracing it. I had begun that journey before they’d come. Their presence, together, would help me complete it.

Again, I asked, “You won’t tell me why she’s come?”

“No. Why? Are you worried? That she’s come to make a claim on all of your fabulous wealth?” That my mother was teasing was clear by the light dancing in her eyes.

But this was a subject I took very seriously. Without a smile, I said, “Not at all. Everything that is mine, I have already willed to her. As soon as I learned of her existence.”

“Really? Does she know?”

“No. Of course not. When I met her before, she made it clear. That she wanted nothing to do with me. But I had to do what was right. She is mine. Legitimately. By God’s law, anyway.”

“By God’s law? Forgive me, Sadiq. But I have an aversion to that phrase. Especially when it comes from the mouth of a man. Even if it is my own son.”

“Yes. Her mother and I— it wasn’t merely a casual encounter. We made an intention. Of
mut’a
.”

“Of what?! Oh, Sadiq!”

“What? Would you have preferred it if I had— well— enjoyed Angela’s company, without any sense of responsibility?”

“I would have preferred it if you hadn’t enjoyed her company at all!”

“But I did. And I made a commitment. With a promise to be responsible for any unexpected consequences. I think that’s a good thing.”

“All right, granted—that your perspective is one way of looking at it. When two adults are single, what happens between them is their business. But you were only a child, making commitments which were above your head. And, Sadiq, you know that the institution you’re defending—
mut’a
—is not fair to women. It’s one-sided.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in this case, as I said. Where both you and Angela were not committed to anyone else. But what about married men? Because these so-called laws you’re speaking of allow men to have more than one wife, married men get away with having affairs. All the while wrapping themselves in a mantle of piety. You know this very well. You’ve heard it all. What men do to women in the name of God. It is part of the same problem, the way your grandfather treated me, taking advantage of laws and traditions that don’t apply anymore—laws that were meant to
give
rights to women, and which are now used to take them away. I have thought about this a lot, over the years—it is the subject that I teach, after all. And it’s personal, too. When I think that anyone could have come up with the opinion that the just thing to do, in my case and yours, was to take you away from me—it makes me furious! In another time and place, in societies where women needed the protection of men in order to survive, this issue of custody was a way for a woman not to be burdened. For a man’s family not to abandon the widows of their sons. But to hearken back to the way things used to be as a weapon against women now, that is not God’s law. The only law that means anything—that can have
anything
to do with God—is one that is alive and that strives for justice given the circumstances of the present. Otherwise, the law is merely something dead, a weapon in the hands of those with power. Against those with none.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you. And I’m not advocating
mut’a
for married men. Or polygamy in any form, for that matter. Don’t lump me into the category of hypocrites. I was a boy. Playing a man’s game. In my own way, I was trying to take responsibility for my actions. And I would have. If Angela had let me. Jo is my daughter. I am not ashamed. I wouldn’t have been if Angela had told me back then. She’s mine. And I will treat her the way I would have treated any children I might have had later.”

“Might have had? You’re getting married, Sadiq. You’ll have children with Akeela.
Inshallah
.”

“No. She and I have discussed it. I’ve told her about Jo. She already has two children of her own. And I want no more.”

My mother sighed. “You told Akeela about Jo. You told your grandfather. It seems I am the only one you didn’t tell.”

“I—I’m sorry. This was not something I could say on the phone.”

“So? Who told you to say it on the phone? All these years, Sadiq, and you never even came to visit.”

“Neither did you.”

She didn’t say anything, and neither did I.

Then she broke the silence. “And? What about Akeela and her children? If Jo is to inherit all that you have?”

“She will have her
meher
. It will be more than generous. And I have opened accounts in her daughters’ names. They’ll all be taken care of. If I die.”

My mother shuddered. “God forbid! How did we get onto this morbid topic?”

“You were teasing me. About Jo.”

“Remind me never to tease you again. My God! What a somber man you have become, Sadee. And when are you getting married?”

“After the Muharram season is over.”

“Are the women’s
majlis
es still held here? During the first ten days of Muharram?”

“Not this year. Not since Dadi passed away. Perhaps next year. When there is a woman in the house.”

My mother yawned. “Oh—I am tired, too, now. Suddenly.”

“Go and sleep.”

“Yes. I will.”

I
n the evening, Jaffer came to visit, from across the street, with his wife and children. Also with him were his parents. This was not unusual—they came often, just about every day, to see Dada. That day, I know they must have worked hard to contain themselves, to let the whole day go by without dropping in, curious to see my guests.

“Deena! It’s so good to see you! After soooo many years!” my aunt, Phupijan, declared.

“Asma. It has been a long time,” my mother replied, with a smile that could be described as mildly cautious.

“And this must be—”

“Jo. This is Jo,” I cut Jaffer off, wary at the slight smirk lurking behind the friendly smile he flashed at Jo.

“Ah. Yes. Jo. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Jaffer turned to me and said, in Urdu, “She’s pretty, Sadiq, this secret American daughter of yours. The girl who has turned your life upside down and made you into such lousy company.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Jaffer,” his wife, Haseena, said, also in Urdu. “I keep hoping that the new, reformed Sadiq will have some influence on you.” Turning to face Jo, my cousin’s wife said, “Come, children,” pushing her offspring forward, a boy and a girl, “come and meet your cousin.”

Before my relatives made total asses of themselves, I said, “Jaffer. Haseena. Jo knows Urdu.”

Jaffer’s face was fun to watch, as he reviewed his own words to see if anything he’d said might have caused offense.

Phupijan was sitting next to my mother on the sofa, lifting the fabric of her former sister-in-law’s clothes, saying, “My
dear
Deena! We
must
take you shopping. You’re looking positively dowdy in these old-fashioned clothes. Long
kameez
es are totally
out
. Mini, mini, mini is what everyone is wearing. And your baggy old
shalwar
—no, no. See these.” She pointed to her own pants. “This is the trouser
shalwar
.”

“The what? But, Asma, they’re just regular pants!”

“Exactly!” said Phupijan. “Haseena,” she called her daughter-in-law over, imperiously. “We
must
take Deena shopping. As soon as possible. My daughter-in-law has impeccable taste, Deena. She designs clothes for all the best boutiques. Has done exhibitions, too.”

Her tongue in her cheek, my mother said, “But— it’s still Muharram season, Asma.”

Phupijan waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Deena. Besides, clothes are a necessity.”

My mother said, “What do you say, Jo? You want to go shopping? Tomorrow?”

“I’d love to go shopping,” said Jo.

T
wo days later—after several trips to boutiques and tailors with Phupijan and Haseena, my mother’s clothes now updated and Jo blending into the environment, as if in camouflage, with the new wardrobe my aunt had insisted on buying for her, saying, “It’s my gift, Jo. You’re my grandniece, after all! A daughter of this house!”—I was finally alone with Jo.

My mother was taking a walk around the garden. Jo sat on the armchair in the lounge, at an angle from where I was, on the sofa. Unlike the last time we were together alone, when she had been perched at the edge of her seat, ready to flee at the slightest provocation, she was relaxed, her back resting against the back of the chair, her hands and arms at ease, at her side, not clenched. “So— when did you learn Urdu?” I asked. “And how? And why?”

“When I started college, I was going to study African languages and be a missionary. Like my grandmother. But—right after I met you—
because
I met you, to be honest, I took Urdu instead. And Arabic.”

“Arabic, too? I’m impressed. Your Urdu is very good. My mother—she said—at the airport—that this is not your first time in Pakistan?”

“No.”

“You never tried to contact me.”

“I came for work. I had no time for personal stuff.”

“What kind of work? With the embassy?”

“No.”

She told me, then, what kind of work learning Urdu had led her into. She didn’t share all the details, but those she did were enough. I knew them already—knew, also, what she didn’t say—from a different perspective. I had to check myself, to keep from shrinking away from her words, especially when she told me the story of a man she called Fuzzy—a man cared for by someone named Sharif Muhammad, who he called his uncle. When she was done talking, I put all her words together and realized that if she hadn’t met me, her life would have been different. That whatever distaste I felt at what she had participated in, the fact of it could be traced back to learning Urdu, which, she’d said, she’d studied because of me.

I thought of what my mother had said. About the burden I carried and shared with those I met, with those I loved, and those who loved me. She had known this, what Jo was telling me, when she said it. Had known all of it—had seen the connection, had stepped away from the particulars of my story and Jo’s, and noted the matching color of the threads that ran through both.

It took me a while to recover myself enough to ask her what I had already asked my mother—twice. I asked her why she had come.

“I ran away from you last time. It was just so inconvenient. The whole thing. To find out that I—the story of my life—wasn’t what I thought it was. And I was too lazy to want to figure it all out. But running away didn’t help. Your story—who you are—came back into my life in the weirdest way, through this man, Fuzzy. I mean, even if it turns out—that he’s not—who it seems like he is, I had to come looking for you, to try and fix things that
I’d
broken. Inside of myself. And other people, too. I went to Deena because I couldn’t find you. And through her, I got to know you better—I got to understand what I couldn’t before.”

“So—you are ready, now? To accept it? What you found inconvenient before?”

“More ready than before. I—I just want to be clear. I already
have
a father. Nothing is going to change that. But—I—get it now. That I have to make room in my life. For things that are true. Even when they don’t fit easily into what I want to believe. Am I making sense? Probably not. Because I haven’t figured it all out.”

Instinctively, I said, “There’s more. There’s more you have to tell me.”

She shook her head. “No. Yes. There is. But—I—let’s just get this question answered first. This question about Fuzzy.”

“Yes. Fuzzy. You—you want to meet Sharif Muhammad Chacha?”

“Yes. Deena told me that he lives with his sister now.”

“Yes. They live together. I—I have been to visit them. And they come to visit me, from time to time.” I didn’t reveal what else I knew, for a moment. She’d assumed that my part in the life of the man she spoke of—the boy whose mother I had killed—remained what it had been when she’d come to see me in Chicago. “I’ll take you to see him. You can ask him about all the missing years between my story and his. Those, I know little about. But the main question you’ve come to ask, I can shed light on that. That this man you call Fuzzy—whose name is Fazl—he
is
the same boy from my story.”

“He—? How do you know?”

“Because I’ve met him. Since we last met, the story has progressed, Jo. I have changed. I see things, am able to see things, in a way I couldn’t before. You said that you studied Urdu because you met me. As you spoke, I thought of all the negative consequences of that choice of yours—of how adversely I affected the direction of your life. But the same is not true for me, Jo. It’s the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know that I was engaged to be married when you came to visit?”

“Your mom told me.”

“I was on my way back here, to Pakistan, for the wedding. It was arranged, the girl handpicked by my grandfather. She was young and pretty. Too young for me. I didn’t realize that until I met you. That was a bit of a shock—you were like a midlife crisis come alive, knocking at my door, making me realize that, if I was lucky, nearly half my life was already over. And what had I done with it? Not the surface things. Going to college. Going into business. Making some lucky investments, with money given to me by my grandfather. Tech stuff, in Silicon Valley. And I was fortunate enough to have gotten out before the downturn there. I enjoyed the fruits of my success. I traveled. I met beautiful women. Living the good life, something I could afford because of who my grandfather was. Even my business success could be attributed to his wealth. What had
I
done? What had I
done
?