Trespassing (22 page)

At a paan shop she bought herself a paan with mounds of sweetened coconut, and chewed contentedly. An odd thing
happened. When she ceased moving and hung around a building, fewer men stared and those that did looked away sooner. Their eyes penetrated more deeply when she was a body in motion than at rest. Being here was partly allowed. Getting here without cover was not.

Advancing once more, again she felt the stares. Then she got in line to buy a kilo of yogurt for Inam Gul, and every man made way for her to progress to the front. The shopkeeper took her five rupees and smiled endearingly. If she’d been walking, how would he have dealt with her?

The purchase in hand, she passed a row of steaming cauldrons stirred by young men periodically adding color. Cloth of every shade hung from hooks. There were women here now, leaving their cars and entering the maze of cloth and dye shops. They were welcome, as was she. And in the shoe shops, perfumeries, and flower stands. But when she crossed the street and moved on, boundaries were immediately drawn again. The chatter dropped, air tightened, eyes narrowed.

She kept meticulous track of the quickest way back to the car. Knowing its place and that it was ready to shield her all the way back to a beautiful house, despite the riots, strikes, and toppling governments, was what saved her from panic. No matter where she strayed, the thread linking her back home was there.

Or was it?

What had happened to her father?

Had he trespassed?

Did he think, when he left the house after that night in the tree, that he was safe behind the steering wheel, that as long as he knew the miles between him and his home, and the way to get there, he was linked? Was that his mistake? Was she repeating it?

What if this was a detour and she never found her way back?

Why weren’t questions like these in her exam?

Trying to keep her gaze forward she again saw her naked self walking. There was the pale flatness of her stomach. The bottom with the ugly stretch marks. The scarred knees.

Up ahead, someone blocked her path. When she brushed by him, his crotch rubbed into that jiggling bottom. She felt him, thin and stiff, and gasped, walking faster, kicking over a block of wood mounted with shoe polish. The car was down the street, first right, first right again.

It would have been easier if Nini had called her early. That way, Dia wouldn’t be sitting stiffly in the drawing room with the guests, waiting for Nini’s grand entrance. She could be lingering with her in the bedroom, postponing this.

When she’d called earlier in the day to suggest meeting before five o’clock, Nini had briskly disagreed. ‘In fact,’ she’d said, ‘they’ll probably show up late so make it five-thirty.’ It was her most overt attempt at distancing Dia from her.

Then why did she want her here at all? Dia sulked, sitting with arms crossed on a love seat in the three-bedroom apartment Nini shared with her sisters, parents, and ailing grandfather. The drawing room looked out on the carports of other units in the apartment complex. A child was riding his tricycle, pedaling like a demon, while a maid kept watch. Dogs barked, and in the distance, a couple crossed the street. She lost sight of them but knew they were headed for the embankment, from where they could watch the ocean tear up the rocks at their feet.

On the couch sat the boy and his mother. He called her Anu but she and Nini were to say Annam Aunty. On seeing Dia her shock was visible, and Nini’s mother, Tasleem, had been less than pleased. Dia would have to show them she’d not brought any pranks this time. Once again she quietly cursed Nini.

The boy twiddled his thumbs and looked out of the window too. Tasleem engaged Annam in a discussion of the lovely sea breeze they got every evening at about this time.

‘People ask me, “Don’t you miss having a garden?” I tell them, “Not at all! Who wants to waste money on a gardener? And we have a garden, a great big one. It gives us this lovely breeze. We don’t even need an air conditioner!”’

Dia blushed for Nini. Maybe she was prudent in taking her time about the entrance. Tasleem had already begun defending her slouching fiscal status. The family had had to sell their five-bedroom house and move here, a fact Annam was probably aware of. To make up for lacking an air conditioner, Tasleem’s hair had been set at Palpitations (she let this information slide in when the lovely breeze came a bit too close), and was dressed in a designer shalwar kameez, worth in the range of two to three thousand rupees. Around her neck were three gold strings and on her left arm clinked six slim gold bangles. She waved this arm a lot while speaking.

Annam seemed unperturbed by Nini’s modest home and offered no explanation for her shabby appearance: she wore gold, yes, but her outfit was of nylon and her sandals torn. And her son was in jeans and a T-shirt. But then, boys always wore what they wanted.

Dia had submitted to Nini’s wishes. She’d dressed as her mother would have, in the latest style: long, loose kameez over a shalwar that flared like a lampshade at her ankles. It was unspeakably stupid. Her hair was brushed; there was even a semblance of a parting. But she refused any make-up. When Riffat asked where she was going Dia had had to lie
after all: ‘A birthday party.’ She’d kissed her goodbye before Riffat could ask whose. In the car her stomach pounded with fists again. Few mothers would let their daughters go wherever they wanted. Riffat did, and in return Dia was betraying her. But, Dia reasoned irritably, her mother should have explained herself.

Nini’s two sisters sat politely on cushions on the carpet, whispering to each other. Her father was absent.

Of the six in the room, she and the boy were the only ones without anyone to talk to. She wished he’d stop the thumb-twiddling. And then, though she’d vowed not to, Dia scrutinized him.

He was tall and though slender, his T-shirt gave away a slight paunch. He was about her complexion, much darker than Nini, and very hairy: his arms and eyebrows would make useful breeding grounds for vermin. Hair short, puffy. Not silky like Nini’s, a delight to run fingers through. Lips chapped and frequently licked. Nose – more breeding grounds no doubt. He looked impatient, indifferent. He hadn’t made one attempt to engage what could be his in-laws in conversation. Tasleem kept trying.

‘You’re a gifted student, your mother tells me?’

‘Um.’

‘You’re doing so well in your studies, mahshallah.’

Annam interceded. ‘He’s very modest.’ She blessed him.

Nini’s sisters giggled.

Annam: ‘He’s very interested in the news. Just like his father.’

Tasleem: ‘May Allah rest him in peace.’

Nini’s sisters shifted.

The boy twiddled his thumbs.

The mothers smiled awkwardly. If it weren’t for that lovely sea breeze, they’d all choke.

Tasleem decided to give the boy a rest. Conversation now veered to all her contacts. ‘You do know them? The owners of
Sheraton? Just yesterday I was invited to lunch at their house.’ Her list went on.

At last, Nini entered.

She skimmed into the room like a swan, eyes down, feathers preened into a smooth bun (courtesy of Palpitations). Involuntarily, Dia looked away. She’d rather never have known her than witness Nini metamorphose into a tea-tray-wielding, lash-batting, one-foot-perfectly-before-the-other-walking nineteen-year-old who seemed thoroughly committed to clinching first prize in the Miss World Proposal Pageant. Had Daanish’s mother attended other events? How many girls had she appraised? Suddenly, Dia was caught between despising Nini and feeling so vehemently loyal that she couldn’t bear to see her lose. No one could outshine Nini.

She set the tray down on a side-table. Then, carefully avoiding Daanish’s end of the couch, approached his mother. ‘Asalaam-o-alaikum, Annam Aunty,’ she smiled.

‘Waalai-kum-asalaam, beti,’ Annam smiled back, patting Nini’s head.

She did not even glance at the boy.

Her sisters giggled.

She wore a long-sleeved pale pink silk outfit from Riffat’s mill. The silver-embroidered dupatta was modestly draped across her chest. The same shade of pink highlighted her eyelids, lips, toenails and fingernails. Dia blushed again for her friend: if it weren’t for Nini’s innate poise, she’d resemble a gumdrop.

As she moved back toward the tray, Annam too studied her closely. Everyone did – except the boy. She arranged four quarter plates with napkins and forks, offered the first to Annam, second to her mother, third to Daanish (still no eye contact), and fourth to Dia.

‘Thanks,’ said Dia. ‘And hi.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Nini purred. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘She loves to bake,’ said Tasleem to Annam. ‘Though she
eats so little herself. It’s always, “Eat, Ama,” or “Have more, Aba.” She’s such a joy to us.’

Nini began serving the items on the tray: a chocolate cake, rus malai, kebabs, chicken sandwiches, halwa. As she bent over Annam, her dupatta slipped from her shoulders and into the cake.

The boy smiled to himself.

Her sisters giggled.

Nini quickly set the tray down and went to wash the chocolate off.

Tasleem cleared her throat. ‘The halwa is from that new bakery you must have heard about. The owner is my sister-in-law’s niece. Her husband is the president of UBL. You must try it.’ She placed a hefty spoonful on Annam’s plate. ‘And you Daanish? Seema, get up and serve him,’ she snapped at one of the giggling sisters.

But Daanish rose and helped himself to each item on the tray.

‘He’s very considerate,’ piped Annam. ‘Even at home, he always wants to get things himself. He never troubles his mother.’ She sighed. She blessed him.

Daanish sat on the end of the couch next to Dia’s sofa. There was now a gaping space between him and his mother. Conversation between the mothers ceased. Dia flushed.

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something,’ he said to her.

She blinked. What are you doing?

‘I fed the caterpillars. You told me to find out what they eat. I did.’ His face grew animated, and she heard the American lilt in his voice. It was warm, amicable. He took a large bite of a sandwich.

She stared, stupefied. Get back next to your mother.

‘It was thoroughly fascinating. They spun cocoons. I’d never paid any attention to insects, you know? Unless, of course, it was to crush them.’ He grinned, then started on the cake. ‘Great snacks.’

Dia’s forehead prickled. The sides of her neck burned. She thought she’d faint. Why had Nini begged her to come? She glanced quickly at Tasleem. The daggers there pierced her chest. She didn’t dare look at Annam.

Nini’s sisters giggled.

Tasleem cleared her throat again. ‘Tell us more about Amreeka, Daanish.’

He hadn’t told them anything about Amreeka. Ask him something intelligent, for heaven’s sake. Get him away from me.

Annam smiled at her son. It looked like she was biting tacks. ‘Tasleem Aunty is talking to you, jaan.’

He shrugged. ‘Everybody’s asked me that question. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m quite sick of it.’ He smiled, not insincerely, but without any of the warmth with which he’d spoken to Dia.

Annam smiled apologetically. ‘He’s still a bit shaken, you know.’

The boy considered, then decided to let the comment go.

Tasleem: ‘He seems to like the cake. Seema, get up and serve him.’

Daanish still had half a slice left. When Seema offered him a second there was no space on the plate to pile it. She giggled, quickly putting the cake down on the table and running back to her sister.

‘Oh you silly child!’ cried Tasleem.

‘I’m still working on this,’ said Daanish, his mouth full.

But Tasleem rose and put the second slice on the rus malai and Daanish puffed his cheeks in exasperation.

The sisters giggled.

Tasleem turned to Annam. ‘What do we do with girls these days? Our mothers never had to train us. We just learned.’

‘That’s exactly what I see,’ Annam commiserated.

‘This is interesting,’ said Daanish to Dia. ‘Cocoa mixed with rus malai.’

The sisters doubled over.

Tasleem: ‘Stop it you two!’

Daanish to Dia: ‘So where was I? Mulberry leaves, eh? I like puzzles.’

The mothers fell silent again.

With one hand, a nervous Dia fanned herself. Then she stopped abruptly, feeling guiltier than ever. Fanning is what the lovely breeze was meant to do.

Nini re-entered. Her dupatta was damp at one edge. Swiftly, she took in the seating change and cut Dia a peppery look.

But then she quickly composed herself. ‘Annam Aunty, you must have more.’ She lifted the tray again.

The sisters doubled over again.

Nini eyed them sternly, deftly making sure her dupatta, now pinned to her shoulders, had kept its place. It had. She scowled at her sisters.

Tasleem: ‘One more sound from you two and you can leave.’

At last, the young girls lowered their heads in shame.

Tasleem to Annam: ‘I thought it would be good for them to see how it is, you know, for when their time comes.’ She stared at them hard, adding, ‘But obviously that won’t be for a long, long time.’

They looked about to cry. Dia could have hugged them for diverting attention from her. Or rather, from the attention lavished on her from the center of the women’s attention.

Tasleem tried again. ‘Well, will you tell us what you missed most in the three years you were away? It must have been so hard at first.’

Please answer her.
And then, before she knew what she was doing, Dia whispered it. ‘Please answer her.’

The boy looked her full in the face. His eyes were large, amber-hued, beautiful. The irises dilated.

Please.

He swiveled so his knees pointed toward the center of the
room again. He smiled at Tasleem. ‘Well, I sure missed the food. This is all delicious.’

Instant rejuvenation. Annam practically leaped with joy. ‘His appetite is mahshallah very healthy. I was worried the first week. He wouldn’t eat a thing. But then,’ she sighed, ‘time takes care of everything.’

‘It must be so hard for a mother, not being able to cook for her son,’ Tasleem added. ‘How you must have worried about his diet when he left. But then, there, of course, everything is so fresh and wholesome. Most of our children gain weight.’ She then proceeded to relate all the stories of thriving Pakistani children in America. Wajiha’s son at Stanford. Munoo’s at MIT. Goldy’s somewhere in, where was it … Texas?