The Wish Maker (61 page)

“It is nothing,” said Seema.

“It is everything.”

“Well,” said Seema, whose confidence had now peaked, “if it is good for helping others, then so be it.” And she told Daadi about an idea she had been having: there was a family in a village called Barampur, a landed family with ties to a well-known landowning family in Multan. Seema said she had learned that their son had divorced his wife and was now in need of another. “No children from this marriage,” she said, “so there is no problem of that kind.”

They owned four hundred acres in the countryside, and they lived in a big house. The money that came in from the lands was good. The boy’s sisters had been to see Seema, and she had thought at once of Chhoti.

“Many benefits,” said Seema. “And not many worries. They are old money. But they have values: their women cannot go about in the open like this. I think you should think about it.”

Daadi said, “Let me tell the girl.”

And Seema said, “Tell her and then tell me.”

Less than a year after that, Daadi went for the first time to the big house in Barampur. Chhoti was living there now, and had suffered an early miscarriage. Daadi went in the car with her mother. It took them two hours on the road that led onward to Multan. There was a sharp turning in the road they had been asked to follow, and it led them past saffron fields, yellow in daylight, and then past a buffalo pond to the house. They were shown into a high room where all the windows were shut. And the dust was what she would recall: the dust on the tables, the dust that had colored the white sofas, the dust on the frames of the two pictures of flowers against a black background that were on the wall for decoration. She touched one of the frames, and the darkness came away on her fingertip.

Daadi returned the photographs to the oval box and switched off the lamp. It was dawn. She could see the light beyond the curtains, a blue burgeoning, and could hear the birds outside, shrill and panicked. She went across to the TV and switched it on. The
Good Morning India
hosts were setting out their agenda for the day. She switched it off and went outside, walking up and down the driveway, her sandals making the slow and steady smack of someone chewing. There was dew on the grass.

She went back inside and lay on her back on the bed. She watched the ceiling and heard the sounds outside: the car was going; then the van was going. She could sleep. And if she slept now she would still be up before it was dark. She got up once again, drew the curtains, closed the doors and returned to the bed and gave in.

When she awoke it was afternoon. She went to her door and saw that the cars were parked in the brightened driveway. Her eyes were swollen and stung. She rinsed her mouth in the bathroom, then washed her face, her wrists and elbows, her feet and ankles, and returned to her room with the prayer mat. The curtains were still drawn, and to this partial light her eyes were accustomed. She sat on the mat, her legs folding with some difficulty beneath her, and said her prayers to make up for the ones she had missed in the morning.

She folded the prayer mat and went into the kitchen.

Naseem was washing the dishes in the fizzing sink.

“Everyone has eaten?” said Daadi.

“I haven’t,” said Naseem. Her sleeves were rolled up. She was scrubbing a yellow enamel pot with the Scotch-Brite rag.

“Then eat,” said Daadi. “Leave these for later.”

Naseem said, “What about you?”

“I am fine,” said Daadi.

She went back into her room.

In the evening she had a visitor. She was watching the songs on the Indian channel when Barkat came in and said that a woman was waiting at the gate.

“Which woman?” said Daadi.

He said she was in a car.

“For me?”

He said the woman had asked to see the mistress of the house.

“Did she ask for Zakia?”

“For you,” said Barkat.

“Let her in.”

She went to stand in the doorway and watched Barkat open the gate. The car was small, red and dented in places. A driver was driving and the woman was sitting alone at the back.

Daadi kept her hand on the doorknob.

The driver stepped out and held the door open, and the woman reached out a hand, settled it on the edge of her door, brought out her feet and hauled herself up. She was tall, frail, wore glasses and was smiling in preparation.

Daadi squinted.

The woman said, “You haven’t recognized.” She was approaching.

Daadi was squinting and smiling.

The woman said, “Seema.”

Daadi said, “Seema?” Then she clapped her hands and said, “Seema!”

Seema said, “Yes, yes, still the same.”

She came in and they were able to embrace.

“I didn’t even recognize,” said Daadi, leading her into the room. She switched on the lamp, switched on the fan. She was smiling uncertainly.

Seema sat on the sofa and said, “How many years?”

“Oh, who knows!” said Daadi. She was aware of her belated enthusiasm. She turned around and said, “You will have tea, Seema?” Saying her name again and again made her presence real.

Seema looked around the room and said, “Why not, why not.”

Daadi opened the other door and cried, “Naseem? O Naseem!” She returned with her smile to the sofa. “How many years?”

Seema slapped her hands on her thighs and said, “Too many years, too many.”

They laughed and panted.

“Everyone is well?” said Daadi.

“Everyone,” said Seema. Her grin showed her teeth, which had eroded and gleamed wetly.

Daadi held her hand and said, “In Canada?”

Seema closed her eyes and said, “In Canada.”

Daadi said, “The name of the place—”

“Mississauga.”

“That is right,” said Daadi.

“Yes,” said Seema. “Yes.”

“Your children?” said Daadi.

“Very well,” said Seema, and looked away briefly to prepare the order of the details: “Salim is in Toronto. And Rukayya and Rehana are in America. Rukayya is in Maryland. And Rehana is in Boston. I have seven grandchildren now,
mashallah
, so all has turned out quite well.”

Daadi was nodding, and was looking at Seema’s hair, which she had dyed a stark, alarm-raising red. Daadi attributed it mentally to the influence of Canada and said, “Your husband is well?”

Seema said, “The same, the same. He is in a wheelchair now.”

Daadi was sympathetic.

“It is fine,” said Seema. “He watches the snow and curses it.” She laughed sadly. “He has not forgotten Pakistan.” And she had stopped laughing.

Daadi was smiling in compensation. She said, “Yes, but I am sure he is able to visit.”

Seema said, “He doesn’t want to visit.”

Daadi was nodding.

“I come and go. But he says it is too much for him. Old times, you know. How can you forget? He says it is better to be in exile. It is a test, in a way. But our community is strong there. In Canada they have no restrictions.”

Daadi said, “Over here: what is it now?”

“It is not very bad,” said Seema reasonably. “But there are problems for the mosques, and problems for promotions. You cannot be in government. They will promote you to a point and then they will retire you.” She spoke without bitterness, though it had happened to her husband in the same way.

Daadi said, “My daughter-in-law is always writing about these things. You should tell her. She has a magazine now.”

Seema said, “
Mashallah, mashallah
.”

Then Seema said, “And Zaki is well?”

“Very well,” said Daadi. “He is going to the best school.”

“Then all is well,” said Seema, and squeezed Daadi’s hand.

Daadi closed her eyes and allowed the hand to be squeezed. She said, “By the grace of God.”

Naseem came in with tea, stooped above the tray and made their cups according to their requirements. Waiting for the procedure to end, and waiting to perform an act they had consigned now to habit, Daadi found that her enthusiasm, brought on by the sense of renewal, had begun to leave her. Seema’s religious affiliations had eventually sent her out of the country; and Daadi had lost a child, fought with her sister and been living on the one piece of land her husband had left her.

She raised the cup to her lips and said, “So much has changed, Seema.”

And Seema said, “I think nothing has changed.”

They were looking at each other.

Seema said, “The army is back in power.”

Daadi said, “Yet again.”

Seema said, “And where have elections led?”

Daadi said, “To the same place.”

“So what has changed?”

“You are right, you are right.”

They drank their tea abstractedly.

Seema settled her cup on the table and brought her hands into her lap. She said, “Are you speaking to Chhoti?”

Daadi began to look around her. She said, “Yes. We speak. She calls me from there. We talk. She has not visited in some time. But she calls me on the phone.” Daadi was looking at the white silk cushion beneath her arm and was stroking it.

Seema said, “I saw her.”

Daadi said, “Just now?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“In Multan,” said Seema. “I had gone there for a wedding. Many people were there. Singing and dancing, this and that. It has all become so vulgar.”

“Yes,” said Daadi, and gave a sigh. But then she said, “Was Chhoti well?”

“She is well,” said Seema. “She is well.”

“I am glad,” said Daadi. “I am glad.”

Seema took Daadi’s hand and said, “You have to help her.”

“What has happened, Seema? You must tell me, Seema.”

Seema said Chhoti’s husband had married again. The new wife was young, the daughter of a politician. Fazal’s sisters had arranged the marriage. And Chhoti and her daughter were living in two upstairs rooms in a separate section of the house. “The new wife lives in the old house,” said Seema. “And she lives there like it has always been hers. She expects it to be hers very soon. She is expected to provide children.”

Seema said Chhoti had looked ill from afar. When Seema asked after her health she gave no answer. But she had hollows under her eyes, her face was jutting with bones, and there was no one there to take her to a hospital and show her face to a doctor.

“She said to me,” said Seema, “to look for a place for her daughter. I said, ‘Come with me to Lahore. We will go to see your sister, we will find a solution.’ But she said, ‘No, I must stay here, and you must help me, Seema. You must help me.’ After that I stopped trying to persuade her. I sat in my car and I came back. But the look on her face I cannot erase from my mind.”