Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
W ith Rizwan back in London and no Emad for Shanzay, we are sadly back to square one in the romance department. I decide to give up my matchmaking, due to the catastrophic result it’s most recently yielded. We begin the new year in low spirits, even after another movie night (period dramas this time, thank God).
January is sullen and filled with snow which is usually magical, but with Shanzay’s anguished mood, it appears more as sleet, and I cannot be happy either.
Fawad and Asif’s parents also come in mid-January which means Naadia is busy with her in-laws. I go over a few times, when Auntie invites me, but it isn't much fun. Fawad is quiet, suspiciously so, and is always in a rush for the lunch or dinner to end. He looks exhausted, not his usual self, but when I mention it to Naadia, she says she hasn’t noticed anything amiss.
By mid-February, after lots of hot chocolate and baked goods, I believe Shanzay is recovering, and the snow has regained some of its magic again, though tinged with something I cannot place.
It is a strange sensation. Do you ever see something so beautiful it makes you sad? Most days, I sit watching the snow fall and there is an ache in my chest.
I think love and grief come from neighboring chambers in the heart, and sometimes they overlap, so you cannot tell which feeling it is that you feel. A mix of both, to become something else entirely, red and blue mingling to create purple.
Though Shanzay is on the mend, she mentions Emad whenever she can, and constantly seeks news of him. He had the common sense not to complain to his mother, so no argument has erupted between Mahum Phuppo and Papa. I have not seen him since that dreadful night, but I know Shanzay secretly hopes her path and his will cross again.
She is very prone to crying, which I do not appreciate, for it is so messy and fussy. It isn’t that I am averse to the act of crying, for I find it very healthy, it is just that I think it should be done in private.
I cry all the time, nearly every day, but I have the good graces not to subject others to awkwardness by doing it in front of them. But she needs me to be a shoulder for her to cry on, so I will be that for her.
Then the very worst thing happens.
We are sitting at home, drinking the very best of my Fortnum and Mason tea. I’ve even ordered a shipment of Pierre Herme macarons from Paris (Laduree can be a bit overdone) to chew on while we play cards. Papa is in his office going over investment stuff with Fawad when he gets a phone call. I think nothing of it until I hear him exclaim.
“What great news!”
Curious, I go to investigate.
“What is it?” I ask. Fawad is as intrigued as I am, as Papa looks very happy indeed. He sets down the phone and grins at us.
“Emad is engaged! To a girl named Yasmine!” he exclaims. My heart drops straight to the floor. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Shanzay is not there, and thankfully, she isn’t.
Fawad and I exchange a worried glance.
“How wonderful,” I respond quickly. “Papa, would you?—”
But it is too late. I hear crying from the other room. Stifled, but still crying. Papa hears it too.
“You girls are too emotional,” he says. Sliding his reading glasses on, his focus is once again on his papers. I feel like crying myself when I go to see Shanzay.
“I-I’m sorry,” she sobs, covering her face. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“It’s alright to cry,” I say, sitting beside her. I put an arm around her shoulders. “There, there.”
I look for the nearest box of tissues and instead see Fawad entering with one in his hands. Wordlessly, he hands it to Shanzay, who sniffles before taking it.
“Th-Thank you,” she sputters gratefully. He nods, then exits just as quickly as he came.
* * *
I meet the dreadful woman in mention a few weeks later, when Papa, Naadia, and I go to say congratulations to Mahum Phuppo, who greets me without her usual affection and instead pushes her new daughter-in-law forward like a prize.
“This is Yasmeen,” Mahum Phuppo says.
“ Jasmine ,” the girl in question says. Jasmine smiles at us, then looks us up and down, raising her brows as she takes in our shalwar kameez and hijabs, her gaze amused. Before we can help it, Naadia and I exchange a quick glance.
Jasmine is wearing garish pink lipstick in a shade I know my phuppos would call “loud,” and worse than that, she is wearing tight skinny jeans and a sleeveless blouse. She is most definitely one of those “modern” types.
It’s all well and good to wear what one pleases outside of the house, but inside of the house, there is a certain dress code. My phuppos are from Pakistan and still uphold a certain level of conservatism, which the rest of the family then upholds out of respect for my phuppos.
There are family-wide rules the other daughters-in-law – and Naadia and I – must abide by, and there is no way Jasmine would not be made aware of them. (One time, my shirt was tucked into my trousers, and my Zaineb Phuppo casually came over and just untucked it!)
I do not know why Yasmine – sorry, Jasmine – would purposefully ignore such mandates unless she simply thinks she is above them.
“It’s nice to meet you, how are you?” I ask, in Urdu, because that is how we always speak to relatives.
“I am doing very well, thanks for asking,” she replies in mangled Urdu. I physically cringe, then stop myself midway. I can see Naadia doing the same. Her Urdu is atrocious in a very purposeful manner I have heard only in Islamabad, from rich girls at Nabila’s Salon in E-7, who think the language is beneath them, and thus make no attempts at speaking it properly.
Jasmine confirms as much herself, when it is just Naadia and I sitting with her.
“English is so much better,” she says. “I don’t get why we even bother with Urdu anymore when we’re in America? But you know the aunties, some of them are too old to learn anything new.”
Naadia and I, versed well in the language of sisters, merely exchange a glance that communicates everything we need to say to one another.
Oh, but it gets better! Just a little while later, she pulls a little tube out of her bra – her bra! – and drinks the clear liquid inside.
Naadia and I cannot stop our jaws from dropping.
“Sorry, I should have asked,” she says, covering her mouth with an acrylic-nailed hand. “I have another one in here somewhere. Do you want?”
First of all, I would rather die of thirst than drink a liquid procured from this woman’s bra. Second of all?—
“Is that ... alcohol?” I ask, still overcoming my shock. She nods, then takes in our expressions. She laughs.
“Don’t tell me,” she says, looking at us as if we are aliens. “You don’t drink?”
I slowly shake my head. I mean, to each their own, of course, but again – stashing location aside – maybe don’t bring alcohol into a house that has never seen it before? Terrible form.
“How sad,” she says, tone pitying.
Things do not improve much with Jasmine, nor do they improve anywhere else, for the rest of the month.
In fact, things seem to get worse. Shanzay’s eyes are constantly puffy, and it pains me to see her so distressed. I try my best to cheer her up, taking her out shopping and for cute lunches, but she is in a terrible funk.
On top of that, Papa seems to be getting clingier. Emad was the last unmarried cousin before me, and I think he’s starting to receive pressure from my phuppos and the aunties to get me married.
Sometimes, I will be sitting in my room, trying to enjoy a book, or in the kitchen, trying to bake, and he will just call my name, as if on instinct, and he will call and call until I come, and then it will be something silly, like handing him the television remote, or getting him a glass of water.
It’s as if he is checking I am still here and needs constant reassurance of it. While ordinarily I would not mind, recently it has begun grating on my nerves. He used to do the same to Mama, from what I recall, and she used to get annoyed, too.
“Your father,” Mama said once with a heavy sigh, pausing dramatically. “Kuch garbar hai; there’s something wrong. I think he’s getting old.”
“Kyun?” I asked in response, genuinely concerned. “What happened?”
Mama sighed again, shaking her head.
“The other day,” she said. “He got upset with me. Because I said I would watch a movie with him, but I fell asleep. He’s getting so ... clingy.”
Me and Naadia exchanged an amused glance.
“Mama,” I said calmly. “You need to see a psychiatrist if you think your husband wanting to spend time with you is a sign of old age.”
Mama was genuinely insulted by this.
“It’s strange!” she said. “He wasn’t like this before!”
“Mama!” Naadia cried, laughing.
“I don’t like it!”
But she was his wife, so she could keep him in check. I cannot scold Papa or it will break his heart.
At least tax season keeps him relatively busy. I have him deal with mine as well. I know I am twenty-three and a verifiable adult and should do my own taxes, but who am I to decline when Papa says he will have the accountant handle it?
It is give and take, after all. If I had to, I am sure I could handle it, just like Papa could make his own coffee, if he had to, but as long as there is mutual respect and care, there is nothing wrong with doing certain tasks for one another, just as long as you are capable of being independent should the need arise.
Unfortunately, it seems Naadia is getting too independent.
“I’m sure you’ll hear it from Papa soon enough, since he just lectured me about it,” Naadia says on the phone one day, “but here it is: I’ve been interviewing at residencies outside of New York.”
“ What ? Why? Papa won’t be able to cope.” I don’t mention that I won’t be able to cope. Even having her in Brooklyn is too far away. Another state would be awful.
“Because there are some great hospitals and opportunities,” she replies, defensive already.
“And there aren’t any in New York?”
“I’ve been in New York my entire life. Maybe I want to spend time elsewhere!”
“What about Asif’s job?”
“He can ... transfer.”
“But ... why? I don’t understand.”
“I want to have options!” she cries into the phone. “I want to feel like I can make choices! It’s suffocating to just be stuck here.”
“You’re not stuck,” I say, defensive now. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a great life, filled with great things, and it’s all because of Papa.”
“I know,” she groans. “I just – I don’t know. Papa will have to deal with it if I go away for a few years.”
“Well, yeah, obviously he’ll have to deal with it,” I say. “You are an adult. But he’ll be upset about it.”
It isn’t fair because the more careless she is, the more caring I must be.
“You can’t live your whole life for Papa and coddle him,” she says, and the words seem harsher because I can’t see her face. “It’s been ten years, and I miss Mama too, but he cannot be dependent on us, or Phuppo either, which is why I’m glad she is married off and happy in her own life. You should live your own life too.”
But what she does not understand is that it makes me happy to care for others, to be needed, to be loved. It costs me nothing to do so. It is difficult, at times, but overall, I would prefer to do more than less.
If I cannot be needed, I cannot be loved.
People love me because I am useful to them, and if I am no longer useful, no one will care for me. It isn’t hatred or dislike, but something far more insidious: indifference.
They won’t notice I am around. And I need all these people in my life to fill it with color or everything will fall to gray, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get out of it if it does. When Mama died, I was severely depressed for months, and it nearly killed me.
Naadia will not understand, for she is not the same. I am quiet on the line, unsure of how to respond, and Naadia sighs.
“I don’t want to put you in the middle,” she says. “Let’s drop it. Did I tell you about the new pediatrician? She’s so Type A. The other day…”
She launches into a story, but I am hardly listening. She doesn’t want to put me in the middle, but I am in the middle anyways, perpetually caught between them. Papa does not help by being surly, so unlike himself as of late. He used to be so happy when Mama was alive.
“Do you want me to bring anything?” he would ask Mama.
“Mmm.” She’d pretend to think. “Just you,” she’d say.
“Vo toh hai-e tumhara.” He’d smile. “That’s already yours.”
It was always teasing and sweet. They were always laughing. I feel Papa has not laughed in quite some time now, and that makes me sad.
I wish I could bring that grin back to Papa.
* * *
In the evening, Fawad comes over. Since his parents have been home, he hasn’t popped by as much, and I find I’ve missed his presence. When it is just the three of us occupying the homes of our street, he visits us nearly every other day, if only for a little while.
Today, he seems tired. Discarding his blazer, he collapses on the sofa beside me, loosening his tie. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. It rather suits him.
“How are your parents?” I ask.
“As they always are,” he replies.
With a sigh, he takes off his glasses and closes his eyes. As he leans his head back, I get a lovely glimpse at his collarbone.
He looks just like I feel. With a sigh of my own, I nestle deeper into the sofa, pulling my legs up.
“They’re leaving in a few days,” he adds. He does not open his eyes.
“Oh,” I say, thinking that is the reason for his mood. “Will you miss them?”
He shakes his head slightly. I frown.
“Are you okay?” I ask, voice soft.
He shakes his head again. I frown. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, and for a moment, it looks as though he is asleep save for the furrow between his brows.
I want to reach out and smooth the crease away, and the impulse startles me. I blink, confused. My fingers go to the pulse in my throat; I press in, steadying my heartbeat.
Before I do something foolish, he opens his eyes and slips his glasses on to look at me, dark eyes perceptive. When he sees my expression, he turns his body toward me, coming a little closer.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low. Something about him asking disarms me. A lump rises in my throat. We must change the topic before I begin to cry. I nod.
“How is work?” I ask. He isn’t fooled.
“Good,” he replies. “How is yours?” I am not fooled either, but it looks like he doesn’t want to talk.
“Boring, I want to quit,” I say, being dramatic.
“Go on a sabbatical,” he offers. “Uncle will surely allow it. Perks of being a nepotism baby.”
I do like my work, and it is good to have something to do, but it is not my life ’s work. I have always imagined I’d quit my job when I marry and have kids. I want to be home for them the way Mama was for us: juggling swimming lessons and tutoring and karate class and tennis lessons and everything in between, making us home-cooked food every day and waking up early to give us breakfast before school.
She was such a presence in our lives. Then, gone.
The memories hurt and heal me both. I am often struck by the duality that exists: the very things that pain me, nourish me. The very people who hurt me, bring me great joy. The things that make me cry, make me laugh and smile.
Why is it so? What can be done? I grow tired of it, which is what makes me afraid.
One day, I will grow too tired of it all, and that will be the end. I will fall asleep, and I won’t wake up.
Shaking my head to clear the thoughts from it, I focus on Fawad.
“How has it been with your parents?” I ask. He lifts and drops a shoulder, not speaking, which is strange behavior from him. He is usually so sure and has an answer ready. I suppose to this question he does not wish to offer empty pleasantries. He never could lie to me. “You don’t want to say?”
He shakes his head. “No, not really.”
“Whatever it is,” I say, voice sure, “you’ll handle it. You can handle anything.”
He smiles, nodding to himself. Some of the dismay on his face fades away, replaced with something else, something I can’t decipher.
“I can handle it,” he says, “but you’re wrong. I can’t handle everything.”
I raise a quizzical brow. He looks at me, just at me, his expression both amused and perplexed that I do not understand what he means. A warm sensation spreads through me. His voice is soft when he speaks.
“I cannot handle you .”