Chapter 4 Asma
Asma
Asma emerged from the underground lecture hall into the late-afternoon sun and the green scent of cut grass.
She inhaled deeply. It was one of her favorite smells and reminded her of being eleven years old and spending long, languid days at the park in Rosebud.
She felt a little nostalgic at the thought of knowing she wouldn’t smell it again until next summer.
It felt like the weekend had already started and she was late to joining.
She made a mental note to never take a late-Friday-afternoon class again.
Salma was coming tonight, and while she was the one who had invited Salma a few weeks before, now that she was on her way, Asma regretted it.
Asma genuinely wanted to do for her sister what no one had done for her—guide her through the labyrinth of life rules outside of their family, rules that others just seemed to just understand. She just didn’t want to do it today.
But even as she thought it, she knew her unsettledness was about more than just her class schedule or Salma coming. Ruby was having a party tonight. A little bird of exuberance fluttered in her chest. Her friend Mary, the makeup artist, was doing makeovers between rehearsal and the party.
Mary had done Asma’s makeup one time, and it had been one of the best nights of her life.
The boys in the group had also gotten made-up, in honor of their hero, David Bowie, and they had all ended up in an old warehouse dancing to house music.
It was entirely opposite to the one frat party she had gone to where the pressure to conform and the silent rules that dictated interactions felt as oppressive as her own culture.
In the dark and thumping industrial space, her friend Ronny, the only person around whom she’d ever felt petite, had offered her a little pink pill.
She looked up at the inky darkness. The room was vast, and she knew there should be a ceiling up there but could discern none.
What would her parents think of her, here, in this room, with these people, wearing an off-the-shoulder shirt with no bra, combat boots, and a miniskirt so short that she couldn’t bend over, dancing in close, sweaty proximity with strange men?
She opened her mouth like a baby bird, and Ronny dropped the pill in with a debauched grin.
The rest of the night had devolved into joy.
She walked jauntily to the bike rack and unlocked her Trusty Steed.
Every time Asma laid eyes on her bike, she said a little thank-you to the Miller boy who had, all those years ago, given her his old bike and taught her how to ride it.
She waved to the groundskeeper mowing the lawn who, in turn, tipped his hat at her.
She loved people, and there were times when a passing interaction like this felt magical.
When Asma was twelve, the Miller boy asked her at the park if she knew how to ride a bike.
By then, most of the kids who had hit puberty were already going to the clubhouse at the creek, a makeshift treehouse and hangout away from the eyes of adults and populated by the predriving crowd.
It was a long walk but a short bike ride down an old dirt road, and among junior high students, it carried a whiff of illicitness.
It was there Asma was given a copy of Forever, the book cover fashioned out of an old paper IGA bag.
It was there that her best friend, Heather, gave Asma her old shorts, miniskirts, and Seventeen magazines, which she smuggled home.
The Miller boy and his father, the local grocer, had appeared at their back door to give Asma and Salma their hand-me-down bike.
Her father had been mortified—they were long past the point of needing help from their community—but Mr. Miller had insisted, saying they had no one to give it to and it was still in great shape.
A few days after that, when her father was away at work, the Miller boy had come over and offered to teach her how to ride.
She grew confident on the bike quickly; the rush of air on her face and the weightlessness of her hair lifting off her back made her feel like she was flying.
Instinctively, she understood that it was best to not put her independence and autonomy on full display.
But over time and bit by bit, she let him see her ride her bike around their driveway, then to the market, until eventually, it lost any potential taboo.
Asma rode the long way back to her dorm, her mind adrift.
Music competed, U2 playing from Harpo’s and AC/DC from Steelmaker, the two bars on the edge of campus.
There was a wildness in the air. Patios were filling up with boys wearing shorts and T-shirts, wholly unconcerned with how they looked, and girls who looked more like they were going to a sorority mixer than a grubby bar.
The sweet funk of weed floated by. She heard catcalls but didn’t turn to see who they were aimed at.
She could easily take Salma to Mary’s, but Asma knew that her sister would be self-conscious and clingy.
She was ashamed at her own thoughts. Salma could lie, gaslight, and distract with an innocent sincerity.
In fact, she possessed an entire set of skills she was unable to deploy for her own use but used unflinchingly on behalf of Asma.
Their relationship was unlike any other sibling relationship she had ever known.
Unlike Americans who had a common cultural understanding, whose lives, histories, influences, and culture borrowed from the same set of blueprints, there were no examples or road maps that taught her and Salma how to navigate the cultural fences they straddled.
How many Pakistani immigrant kids had come to America in the mid-seventies?
How many of them had no extended family or friends with whom they could exchange notes?
How many lived in rural America? They were the sample size, and it bound them together in a way that no amount of a parent telling their child to take care of their sibling could.
Sometimes Asma wished for a little of Salma’s even nature and contentedness, but there were times, like on a warm seventy-degree autumn night with a party to go to and electricity in the air, that she fed on her own restlessness.
She hurtled down the hill, picking up speed, looked to the left to make sure no cars were approaching, and leaned into the turn.
Her scalp tingled as the wind sheared through her short hair and her Trusty Steed felt like a continuation of her body, as much under her control as her own legs.
Asma waved at a passing friend while in mid-turn and felt like she had caught a stray ball with one hand.
The plan was to meet Salma at Mamoo and Aunty’s, have dinner together, and go to Asma’s rehearsal.
And then, of course, the party. Maybe Salma would want to stay the night at Mamoo’s instead of spending the night at her dorm.
She had sincerely meant it when she told Salma to visit her, but now, with this thing for Ruby pulling at her navel, she wasn’t sure she wanted her sister’s eagle eye observing her, and she certainly didn’t want to spend her evening taking care of her.
Asma’s favorite times with Salma involved doing nothing at all.
Watching Tarzan and Land of the Lost on Saturday mornings.
Salma in her bed and Asma on the floor, arguing about a book and their competing interpretations.
Gossiping about girls at school, equal parts judging and jealous about what they were permitted to do.
But there wouldn’t be time for that this weekend.
Even if the schedule allowed, Asma wasn’t much interested in spending her time doing nothing.
College had shown her how much life there was to be lived, and she was busy eating it by the handfuls.
It would be fine, she told herself. Salma could sit in the audience at rehearsal while she ran her lines, and then she would just have to come to the party. It would be good for her.
Asma pulled into her typical spot at Mamoo and Aunty’s and saw her family’s Buick station wagon already parked there.
As she opened the side door into the kitchen, she noticed several things: the tiny witch shaking on the Halloween wreath Aunty had put up, the heady fragrance of lilies that Mamoo brought Aunty each Friday, and her mother’s voice.
Oh God. Asma thought about turning and leaving before anyone saw her, but it was too late. What was she doing here?
“Look who’s here!” Mamoo said, popping a walnut with an ornate silver nutcracker and adding the meat to the small mound in front of him at the table.
Salma sat next to Mamoo at the table looking slightly miserable. Asma nodded to her in acknowledgement and then turned to her mother. “What are you doing here?” Asma said, more a statement than a question.
Her mother said, “Oh, I needed to get a chair.”
Asma rolled her eyes; her mother so frequently made no sense. She was about to say something snarky but caught Mamoo’s look of disappointment and stopped herself.
That chair was a whole thing. She remembered when it had been gifted to them, their first summer in Rosebud.
She and Salma were playing in the front yard late on a Saturday afternoon when a truck, loaded high with furniture, pulled into their driveway.
Two men, wearing worn overalls and baseball caps pulled low, got out from each side of the cab.
They looked familiar. They glanced over at her and Salma and knocked on the frame of the screen door.
When their mother saw two strangers, she pulled her dupatta up higher on her head.
The older man took off his hat and said very slowly and loudly, “Hello, ma’am. I’m Sam, and this is my son Ben. We help deliver things people buy at the flea market. We have some things for you”—he pointed back at the truck—“and we’re just here to drop ’em off.”