Amriika (24 page)

Jamila wore a long white skirt and red T-shirt; the long hair he remembered from Dar — a single ponytail halfway down her back — had only recently been cut she told him. How d’you like it, my new
hair? He didn’t quite care for it, but he said, That’s the fashion, is it? And she said, All you Indian men like us to look traditional …

The girls had been promised the use of an apartment whose occupant was away for the weekend, and they were somewhat stranded, waiting for the person who had the keys. So Ramji said, Why don’t you come stay with me — my roommates won’t mind, one of them is away anyway. They accepted gratefully. Jamila was excited about Cambridge, the intellectual hub, I’d like to meet some real intellectuals while I’m here — sorry for asking, but are you an intellectual? We’ll invite some real intellectuals for brunch tomorrow, Ramji said, how about that? And so next morning there came Sona and Amy, and an Iranian philosopher named Mahmood and a whole bunch of other people, and that evening they had dinner at the Algiers, a popular basement restaurant, which had been described by
Time
magazine in an article on Cambridge. Mahmood pointed out a clamorous group seated two deep in a corner, said, There’s the
PLO
table, and no one was quite sure if he was pulling their leg, Jamila’s in particular.

Two weeks after the girls left, late one night, Jamila phoned. “Hey, thanks for your hospitality, that was very nice, we wrote you a letter, I hope you got it.” He said he had. “Listen, there’s a Ravi Shankar concert in Princeton on Saturday. Would you like to go?”

Ramji demurred: All the way to Princeton for a concert? Then staying the night? Too complicated.

“And you could spend the night in New York …”

Soon he would never be found without his wallet-size train schedule. And he frequently made the trips, long train rides you wished would last forever, carry you in their gently jolting rhythm to the eternity of eternities … and then at the sudden end of it a girl like Jamila, a whirlwind who swept you off your
feet, to concerts, films, record shops, tennis matches, brunches, parties … whatnot. Even wine-tasting.

With her he came to meet a lot of other people, who had also come as students and were beginning to stay on. Among them were Salma, Aziz, and Iqbal.

But if he were to write an account of their life together, he would call it “Not a Love Story.” How about that for recalling old times.

What do you say about a girl who loves Beethoven … whom the Beatles do not quite excite as much, except the odd song that reminds her of Dar … who plays tennis in full gear and with boundless enthusiasm but whose game leaves much to be desired … for whom life is the joy of process —
being
— though that is not how she would put it … and who is guaranteed to sweep you up in her enthusiasms and for that is the envy of all those who know her …

Perhaps he would call his account “Swept Away,” after a film they saw together once …

There was not, between them, a burning fire. There was instead the tepid warmth of smouldering possibility, though, even then, he knew in his heart of hearts that the affection and sympathy they had for each other would never fully ignite into passion and love. But he hoped, yes; and they
were
together so much, after all, every other weekend almost, and all their acquaintances knew about them: Ramji and Jamila, odd couple, yes, but couple nonetheless, and she was drawing him out — and he giving her a certain intellectual respectability?

And sex.
And sex?
He gave an exaggerated shudder. Grotesque, that’s what sex was, could it have been otherwise, coming from where we did?

The first night he spent in her room, she made a sofa up for him, then said, “If you want to sleep in the bed, you can — there’s room.” She was tired, feeling irate that day. But what did she mean? That was hardly an invitation to share an intimacy. He said, “I’m not Mahatma Gandhi.” The Mahatma, after all, could control lust lying down beside a woman, but not he, Ramji. That made her laugh and that was that.

Or was he mistaken. Had she expected him to say yes, was this her way of saying it’s okay, we can do it? With Lyris, a few years before, it had been so easy, spontaneous, a single urge driving them on from day one. With this Cutchi girl, this Shamsi … how impossible. He wanted to do the right thing, not to act like a Westerner with a hit-and-miss attitude to sex. It was also a question of maintaining her respect: if he’d goofed in his decision that night, she might have thought sex was what he was interested in.
Had
he acted wisely? She never let him know. They went on as before, and he spent many nights in her room. Chaste.

One night in Philadelphia, returning from a play, they went to an Indian restaurant in West Philly and, coming out of it, after a few paces in the dark and rather scary streets — not far from where her nephew would be murdered almost twenty years later — they were accosted by two guys. This is it, Ramji thought; not another soul on the street, a pretty Indian girl with me. He was sure, though, that the restaurant owner was watching from inside; perhaps had called the police, perhaps was too scared to do so. In any case, they were robbed of money and her credit cards. Fortunately, the muggers
didn’t molest her — no rape, thank God — but then one of the guys returned, gave a violent push to Ramji, who staggered to the ground against a parked car, and then gave Jamila a long kiss on the lips.

Utter humiliation for the man. And the woman? They went back in silence (to Aziz’s place, where they’d put up and borrowed the car); and all the way he smarted from the barbs of blame in her looks, blushed from the guilt and the shame in himself.

The question of sex hung between them, unresolved. But it also gave her an escape hatch out of the relationship; she remained uncommitted. More and more he desired commitment, but could not get it.

Finally, he decided he would sweep
her
away. He would take the initiative, and the risk that came with it. It was on a weekend when both his roommates were out of town, so she agreed to come visit him, by herself, which she had never done before. He felt confident; there was already a close relationship between them, wasn’t there?

Perhaps she guessed the intent. They’d had a wonderful Italian dinner that evening. No running around this time, he had requested, no movie, no concert afterwards. Just strolling about, talking about this and that, themselves, their families, arms brushing against each other’s, both fully conscious of the moment. Once or twice she threw a look at him and smiled. Oh yes, she knew the intent. That night, with a violin concerto playing in the background, they made the beds, hers a sleeping bag on the floor, as she wanted it. They turned off the lights and got into their beds. And then immediately he got into action, fully aroused, one hand lowered down, playing tenderly with her hair, her hands, which did not fight his but stroked it, such nice shapely hands she had (still had, he’d watched them as she gave him the tea) — and then her
neck and chest, and then her breasts, how soft and small they felt, he squeezed and rubbed harder and harder against the aroused nipples until she protested. Come down, she finally said, in a tremulous voice. That was it, he thought, he’d crossed the Rubicon. He lay on her, full of passion, foreplay, kisses. But she said no to lifting that nightie, go on just like that, up and down and — Oh, fool, Ramji, as he told himself many times later — he had done just that, pleasured her with their clothes fully on. At the end she fell asleep and he felt used.

Was it her Indianness, the tribal sameness of her, that kept him from going all the way somehow, that created a fear that he should not violate her? If she were not so familiar, from the same background, would he have gone further, just taken her? One did not talk of date rape in those days. What did she
think
she was doing, an Indian girl in that situation? … Or did she feel she knew him well enough? Or had he got it wrong all over again!

The next morning she was irritable, as if the previous night had all been his doing, somehow he had taken advantage of her. They had coffee in silence.

“Let’s talk about it,” he said.

“What?”

“About us — last night. Did I do wrong? What —”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to discuss everything in my life with you.”

She refused to eat, pored over the Sunday paper, telephoned friends in several cities, telling him she would pay for the calls; acted as if it was all over between them. Good, he thought, I’ll bear the pain for a few days and finally be free.

They parted on an uncertain note about their relationship. But
the following week she called as before, as if nothing had happened: Rostropovich is conducting
Scheherazade
, I’ve bought tickets. And he said bravely, Aw — I wish you’d called earlier — I’ve agreed to go to Toronto then.…Oh, I’ll ask someone at the office, she replied. And to himself, he said, Well done, Ramji, hold your head high, stand steadfast. But he felt lousy.

A couple of days later she called again: I hope you’re still coming to my midsummer party. Of course, he said, feeling elated, his resolve to keep his distance from her already wilting. It was to be the Fourth of July weekend, two weeks away. It was at that party that he met Nabil, who impressed him as rather a smooth-talking guy with all the right European affectations to impress the women. But the following week Jamila called and told him, “He is the one for me, Ramji, what I’ve been waiting for.…” Ramji could never recall her words exactly. He had hurt so.

T
he next morning at the Henawis’ house, the kitchen was swarming with children itching to burst loose and go outside as soon as they’d had their breakfasts. As Ramji sauntered in, he saw that Jamila and Zuli, apparently having just attended to the kids, had paused at the counter for a breather. Jamila was explaining something to an overly attentive Zuli — Is a friendship in the making, after all? The subject of the lecture seemed to be the kitchen itself, the new jewel in Jamila’s crown — it had been recently, and expensively, renovated. The eating parlour, where the kids had gathered at the table under a skylight, was a new extension and overlooked the backyard lawn through glass sliding doors. The two large and robust plants, a feature of the area, had been somewhat crowded out today, shoved against the walls, and the upright piano, moved here recently when the kids lost interest in it, cried out against its location and current mistreatment. A well-used baseball glove rested casually upon it.

“Dad,” Rahim said to his father, “guess how many kinds of cereals they have — twelve!”

“Ama
zing
!” said Ramji approvingly. “And I bet they have the juice of every known fruit?” He looked at Jamila ruefully: “We’ll have our hands full keeping up with the Henawis when we return home …”

“None of your smart comments now,” she warned with a friendly grin. “You don’t have to live with a Salma in town setting all the standards.”

Her eye rested fleetingly on Zuli watching them.

“Okay kids,” she announced with a clap of her hands, “I see you’re finished, you may leave now … take it easy. And Aisha,” she caught the eye of her eldest, “you are in charge — and remember who the guests are.”

Aisha, long-faced and sloe-eyed, acknowledged her mission with a significant nod at her mother and followed the rest of the kids out to the backyard, and the adults then sat down to a breakfast of scones and croissants, with butter and preserves, and home-roasted coffee, which later they went out to finish on the backyard patio.

Nabil was at work today and so there were only the three of them. He would be in and out all week, Jamila told her guests; they should feel free to do what they wanted, outings with the kids and so on; the evenings, of course, the adults should plan to do things together. Salma was available if they needed her during the day. She would bring the other four kids over in the afternoon.

The morning was bright and clear, though the ground was wet in patches, in the shade, it having rained the previous night. A neighbour, a stout middle-aged woman, waved vigorously, walked to her car, drove away. “She’s a lawyer,” Jamila said. “And further up the road we have an Indian couple, both doctors — you’ll get a chance to meet them.” She and Nabil had moved into
their ranch-style house five years ago. It had been owned before, for thirty years, by a German doctor and was well maintained but small. The attic had now been converted to her two girls’ bedrooms and the back of the house had been extended.

“I do so envy you this house — you must have time, too, for the garden, it looks so well tended,” said Zuli.

“Oh, we’ve contracted out the lawn and plant care,” Jamila said casually.

“Better still,” Zuli said. “We’ve just lost our young maple, the azaleas froze from lack of winter care and the climbing rose died …”

They watched the four kids playing outside, and discussed schools, activities, and expenses, and the individual quirks of their children, always careful not to get too carried away talking about their own. Their kids, they agreed, were still the main focus of their lives, but would not be so for long. What seemed remarkable, watching them, was how much their kids
belonged
, in a way in which none of them ever could, here or anywhere else, despite their ardent protestations when the occasion demanded that they were fully American.