Marrying Ameera (7 page)

Aunty Khushida was busy in the kitchen when we returned. I showed her the shalwar qameez Jamila had bought for me. I had offered to pay but Jamila had insisted. ‘The money came from your father, do not fuss.’ I wondered why they didn’t give me Papa’s money to spend for myself. Perhaps it was something to do with good hospitality.

Aunty liked the fabric. ‘Smart, but warm. Accha, that is good. And a chaddar to match?’

I took out the shawl. It wasn’t the dearest pashmina, but good enough for wearing out. Jamila had taken me to the family carpet and shawl shop to buy it. Inside the shop, we’d been able to relax and let our shawls drop to our shoulders. Uncle Rasheed was there, entertaining some men and haggling over prices. Papa had told me that buying a rug could take days in Pakistan. Haider was given the job of serving us and he didn’t look enthralled. He hardly said a word to me at first and was short with Jamila. I’d seen through to a room behind the shop where boys were seated at a loom. ‘So you make
carpets here too?’ I asked Jamila. ‘Do the boys do it after school?’

Jamila glanced at Haider and he shut the door to the back room, then began pulling shawls off shelves for me to see. ‘Our shawls are made from pashmina combed from the Changra mountain goat,’ he told me, suddenly finding his voice. ‘The Gujjars herd them. It is like silk, dekho, see.’ He spoke in Urdu. ‘The Moghuls used this in their carpets.’ He showed me another shawl. ‘This one is made from shahtoosh. It is the king of wool and comes from the hair of the antelope from Tibet. From here.’ He pointed to his chest and grinned at me. It didn’t seem like a cousinly smile and I looked away. He shoved the shawl under my nose. ‘You could hatch a pigeon egg in this.’ Jamila had said it was too expensive and directed me to the pashmina ones.

Now my aunt nodded her approval and turned back to the bench.

‘Can I help?’ I tried to look unmoveable as I packed my new outfit back into its brown paper bag.

Aunty sighed. ‘Very well. You can chop the onions.’

I stripped off the skins and started chopping on the wooden bench. Aunty Khushida was soon breathing over my shoulder. ‘Finer than that, child. The curry will stick in their throats.’

Maybe that was why our curries were never as good as Mrs Yusuf’s, I thought. Aunty went back to shaping chapatti dough into rounds with her palms and flapping them back and forth in the air.

‘So how is your mother? Such a sweet girl.’ She sounded dismissive.

I thought of Mum at the mosque, sitting by herself. She was so out of the loop in the community at home, and I was beginning to feel like that here.

‘She’s fine.’ I remembered the frightened look on her face as Papa pulled me away to join the boarding queue and corrected myself. ‘She’s well.’

‘She was happy about you coming to us?’

The chapatti bashing had ceased and I looked up to find Aunty holding a piece of dough in midair. She was also watching me intently. I tried not to show how unnerved I felt: her eyes were pinning me to the wall.

‘Yes. She wished she could come too,’ I said. I hoped Papa hadn’t told them why he’d sent me here. But if he had, that could account for Jamila’s coolness towards me and all these questions.

Aunty Khushida seemed satisfied. ‘Accha. Can you speak Urdu?’

‘Of course. Papa taught me. I don’t catch the meaning of jokes though, or understand deep discussions.’

Aunty nodded and pressed out another piece of dough with her fingers. Then she glanced at the onions I’d finished. ‘So you do not cook Pakistani food at home?’

‘We do, but I’m sure it’s not as tasty as yours will be tonight.’

She smiled at me, the nicest one she’d given so far though it still seemed forced. ‘We had better get you started quick-smart. Here, take this dough and slap it from side to side like this.’

I’d seen Raniya’s mother and Mrs Yusuf making chapattis but Mum had never mastered the skill. She said
you had to be born with a lump of chapatti dough in your hands.

‘Not like that, like this.’ Aunty showed me again. ‘It is in the wrist. Relax your wrist.’

For the next half-hour I was harangued in the nicest way about my lack of culinary skills. Aunty didn’t say it but I could tell she was thinking that even a child could do this, why couldn’t I? With a prickling behind my eyes I realised I was probably the only seventeen-year-old girl in Pakistan who couldn’t make the staple food.

‘At home we buy naan from the local tandoor restaurant,’ I said.

‘We cannot do that here. What an expense.’

It was strange to talk about naan as an expense when she was putting real saffron in the rice. The pinch she used would have cost Mum ten dollars.

I tried again. ‘I can cook Australian food. I can treat you to that anytime you want.’

Aunty looked unconvinced, and on second thoughts, after looking around the kitchen, so was I. The oven was used for storage. This was definitely a curry kitchen.

‘I can make cakes,’ I added lamely, my eye on the cereal boxes in the oven.

‘We can buy them at the local bakery.’ Then Aunty smiled. ‘Come on, child, see if you can cook this chapatti. Place it on the tava like this—use the tea towel to press it here, and here. It must not burn. Haider does not like his bread burnt.’

Haider could go to hell for all I cared, but I did my best with Aunty Khushida hovering close by. Encouragement was not her forte.

Just then Jamila came in carrying folded tea towels. ‘What is she doing?’ she said quickly in Urdu. Whether she meant to or not, she effectively cut me out of their conversation.

‘What does it look like?’ Aunty Khushida gave her a sharp look.

Jamila came closer to inspect my work. ‘We can’t serve this one. Abu will think Zeba did it.’

‘Even Zeba has to learn,’ Aunty reminded her.

Jamila stared at me as if I had a disability. Her gaze gave me a sinking feeling in my stomach and I wondered why my cooking skills mattered so much. I was only a visitor who had offered to help.

I heard the gate open and realised the men had arrived home. Jamila prepared a tray of food for the men’s room. She picked out the best chapattis that Aunty had made, with a glance at me that could have scorched them, and added covered bowls of chicken curry, orange-coloured saffron rice, raita and a little dish of mango chutney.

‘The chicken curry is because it is the birthday of Qaid-e-Azam,’ Aunty said. ‘Remember he is the founder of Pakistan?’

I nodded, thinking about who else’s birthday it was and what Mum would be doing today.

Jamila took the tray to the mejalis and Asher carried the plates and cutlery. He was old enough to eat with his father and Haider. Maybe if I wasn’t there, the family would have eaten together. By the look on Jamila’s face, this was one more job she had to do because of me.

We women sat around a tablecloth on the floor in the lounge. ‘I like eating this way,’ Zeba said.

The treat for me at dinner was to meet Dadi jan, my grandmother. She must have been asleep all afternoon for she shuffled out of her room with Jamila’s help and sank onto the couch. She looked too old to still be alive, so wrinkled and tiny like a bird, with black-rimmed glasses. Everyone said I looked like her but I couldn’t see any resemblance. She looked eighty; not like my other grandmother who still taught pottery and had exhibitions.

Jamila put a small tray on her lap holding a bowl of curry and rice and a spoon, then said in an undertone to me, ‘Not everything she says makes sense so if you do not understand just nod.’

When Dadi jan was settled she beckoned me over. I went to kneel in front of her and touched her feet the way Papa had shown me; she laid her hand on my head in blessing. ‘You are Ameera,’ she said, as if she was telling me something new. ‘It is a beautiful name—it means “leader”.’

Papa had said it meant princess but I supposed that was the same. I smiled at her.

‘You have grown into your name very well,’ she said after scrutinising my face. I wondered what she meant; I didn’t have any leadership qualities. No one at school did anything because I did it first. But Dadi jan was nodding at something she hadn’t said. ‘Ah, beti, you have such a look of my family. How is your father?’ She spoke in Urdu and mostly I understood her.

‘He is well, Dadi jan.’ I spoke in Urdu too. ‘The carpet business is good. He is…’ I stopped; I couldn’t say what Papa had been like the last year. ‘He’s fine.’ It seemed I was destined to make lame, untrue statements whenever anyone asked about my life in Australia.

Dadi jan’s birdlike eyes watched me for a moment and I thought Jamila’s judgement of our grandmother’s mental capabilities was wrong. She looked very alert to me despite those clumsy-looking glasses. She even seemed like someone I might be able to confide in. Then her next words killed that hope.

‘So you have come all the way from Australia to live with us now. We are blessed indeed. I have never been so happy, not since before your father left. Now he has sent a part of himself to me. He is a good son.’

I glanced at Jamila, who was putting plates and cutlery on the tablecloth. She raised her eyebrows at me as if to say, ‘I told you.’

Aunty Khushida said, ‘Now, Mother, do not bore Ameera.’

Dadi jan looked annoyed; I saw the flash in her eyes before she quickly disguised it. I smiled, showing I wasn’t bored. Then Zeba brought over a picture.

‘Dadi jan, look. I have made you a drawing.’

‘Hahn ji, child, it is very pretty.’ She spoke lucidly to Zeba; she could tell it was a picture of me. ‘Hassan should have come with you, Ameera. Such an important time and he has left it all to Rasheed.’

She dug her spoon into her curry while I wondered what she meant. I guessed this was one of Jamila’s nodding moments and I smiled again.

‘And your mother? She is well?’ Dadi jan asked.

‘Yes. She works as an English teacher. She teaches people who come from other countries.’ I was annoyed I couldn’t remember the word for ‘migrants’.

‘And Riaz? Is he behaving himself?’

I paused. It sounded as though my grandmother knew everything about our family.

‘He is fine, but he doesn’t go to Friday prayers much.’ That was a safer response than the truth; that he didn’t go at all and drank in nightclubs instead.

She leaned forward. ‘Are you happy here, child?’

I hesitated slightly, then nodded. ‘I am happy to be here for a holiday, Dadi jan.’

She stared at me while she chewed. ‘Are you now?’ she finally said.

‘Yes.’

‘You must come and talk to me one afternoon. I get lonely sitting by myself when Zeba is at school.’

Jamila said, ‘Ameera may help me at Zeba’s school, Dadi jan.’

‘Very well, come when you can, Inshallah.’ My grandmother leaned across her tray and took my face in her hands. It felt as if she was searching more than my features. ‘Talk to me one day.’ Her voice was low and I had to strain to hear her over Zeba’s chattering to Aunty behind me.

Aunty called to me. ‘Ameera, come eat, the food will be cold.’

After dinner Uncle Rasheed came in. ‘How was your first day with us, beti?’

‘Good, thank you, Uncle ji.’

Actually I didn’t think I could remember a longer day. I was surprised I hadn’t fallen asleep into my curry; Aunty’s chai must have kept me awake.
At this rate,
I thought,
the month will feel like a year.
I had a sudden burst of longing for Mum. Was she thinking of me? At least Uncle Rasheed reminded me of Papa and that helped.

‘If there is anything you need, then you must ask me or your aunt,’ he told me. There was no talk of giving me money of my own and I didn’t know how to broach the subject.

‘Would you like to ring your father?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’ Then I looked at my watch: 9 p.m. ‘Won’t it be too late there?’

He laughed. ‘Not too late for Hassan. I often ring him after dinner. Try and see.’

Uncle Rasheed, Aunty Khushida, Zeba and Asher all listened while I dialled the number to Australia. Jamila stopped washing the dishes and came to hover in the doorway once I had connected. After ten rings Papa answered.

‘Papa, I’m sorry to wake you, but Uncle Rasheed said it would be fine to let you know I arrived safely.’

‘Accha, beti. It is good to hear your voice.’

No wonder my relatives were hanging around: they had a conference speaker on the phone. Papa’s voice boomed into the lounge room. ‘Are you having a good time?’

‘Yes.’ What else could I say? ‘Jamila and I went to the bazaar and bought an outfit.’

‘I hope you enjoy your stay. It will make me happy.’

‘Papa, is Mum awake?’

He hesitated. ‘No, she went to bed hours ago.’

‘Could you wake her?’

I had an irrational urge to hear her voice; that if I didn’t, something terrible would happen.

‘That’s not very thoughtful, beti. Ring in the morning.’

Mum wouldn’t have minded being woken to speak to me, but I couldn’t argue with all the rellies listening. ‘Is she okay?’ I said instead.

‘Of course, why shouldn’t she be?’

‘Can you say—’ I stopped. I’d been about to say ‘Happy Christmas’ but that wouldn’t go down well in the present company. ‘Could you tell her I was thinking about her today?’ I wanted to know if she’d found the gift I’d left under her pillow.

‘Zarur, of course, beti.’ Papa was using more Urdu words than usual; I guessed he knew about the conference speaker.

Uncle Rasheed took the receiver from me and told Papa about some tribal rugs he had seen. I waited for him to finish, and then he hung up.

‘I hadn’t said goodbye, Uncle.’

‘I thought you had, sorry, beti. There will be other times.’

A glance passed between him and my aunt, and suddenly I felt so tired I couldn’t think a straight sentence,
let alone speak one. I was horrified to find my eyes filling with tears.

‘Best you go to bed now.’ It was Aunty Khushida who tucked me in and when she left I hadn’t even the energy to message Tariq.

The next morning I slept in again after being woken before dawn by the Azan. My tiredness must have been jetlag, and fortunately Aunty Khushida seemed to understand for no one dragged me out of bed. The children had already gone to school when I got up, but Jamila was still in the house: I could hear the thump of the mortar and pestle. I took my mobile and the Paktel card into the bathroom, inserted the card, then rang the prescribed number and followed the prompts. I rang home first, but Mum must have gone out: the phone rang through to the message bank. I blinked, forcing the tears back, and left a message for her and Papa. I hoped my voice sounded steady.

Now for Tariq. I keyed in a message that I had arrived safely and missed him; then pressed the send button. The screen went blank and the word ‘Error’ flashed. I tried again, and again. How would I contact him if the mobile never worked? Maybe the card was only for land lines. I couldn’t ring him on the family phone, and if I went to a shop to ring it could get back
to Uncle Rasheed. It was too risky. I washed myself and went back to my room to pray.

When I emerged Aunty seemed relieved to see me. ‘Accha,’ she said. ‘Did you sleep well?’ She hardly waited for my nod. ‘There is much to do. Your father’s sister, Bibi, and your Uncle Iqbal are coming for dinner tonight. We shall eat together and use the table. Meena will come too.’

‘Will any of Aunt Bibi’s children come?’ I was looking forward to seeing more of my cousins if they were like Meena.

Aunty Khushida’s face puckered in annoyance. I never seemed to say the right thing. ‘Of course not.’

Dadi jan was sitting on a low stool peeling garlic. ‘Come here, child,’ she said. I kneeled in front of her and she laid her hand on my head. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Dadi jan. I had a good sleep.’

I thought I heard a snort from Jamila. She was picking stones out of a tray of rice—another thing we didn’t have to do in Australia. Aunty was rolling chapatti dough; I wasn’t asked to help her this time. Then I noticed the oven was open and everything had been taken out.

Aunty saw me staring. ‘This would be a good time for you to be making an Australian cake.’

‘Why?’

She stopped rolling and frowned at me.

‘I mean, I’d love to make one. You think Uncle Iqbal and Aunty Bibi would like one? That’s great,’ I babbled, afraid I was sounding unhelpful.

Aunty put a bowl on the bench. ‘Tell me what you need. If we are missing an item, Baba ji can get it.’

‘Flour, baking powder, eggs, milk, sugar. What flavour would you like?’

‘They like spice ones best,’ she said after a moment’s thought.

‘Then ground cinnamon, cloves, a little ginger and nutmeg.’

Aunty’s face cleared. ‘Ji, we have all that. You can start now.’

Once the cake was in the oven I was given the split peas to take outside and clean. This involved picking out little stones and bits of grass and dirt. It was out in the courtyard that Haider found me. He started talking straightaway. I half-smiled at him; he was my cousin, after all, even though the family practised segregation.

‘So, Cousin Ameera.’ He sat next to me, quite close. Was he supposed to do that? ‘You are a good actress.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I know what you Australian girls are like. You might be able to fool my parents, but you can’t fool me.’

My smile faded. Papa must have told them why I’d been sent here after all. ‘What do you mean?’

He put his hand on my arm; I shook it off. ‘How dare you,’ I said. ‘I’m a guest in your home. I’m your sister while I’m here.’

His eyes sparked at the word ‘sister’, then his gaze swept from my shoes back up to my eyes. That look made me draw my shawl closer around me. ‘You,’ he
paused for emphasis, ‘are not my sister. Your father never said how beautiful you are.’

His voice had a tone I didn’t like and I stood abruptly. The tray of peas slid to the ground.

‘Take care,’ he went on. ‘Your beauty is razor sharp, but I don’t cut easily.’

He used the Urdu word for sharp, ‘tez’, and I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘How dare you talk to me about beauty? Don’t you care that I am Muslim? Where is your respect?’

He smiled slowly. ‘But you’re not pukki, are you? You’re half-Christian and we all know what Christian girls are like. You girls do just what you want.’

Pure Maryam sprang to my mind. ‘Christian girls are not like you are insinuating,’ I said. ‘Where did you get such a disgusting idea?’

‘I see the DVDs from your country. If what they allow actresses to do is anything to go by, imagine what you all must be like in real life—like mangoes on a tree, ripe for picking.’

‘I’m not like that and if you talk to me like this again, I’ll tell your father.’

Haider laughed. ‘And who do you think he will believe? A half-cooked Christian girl or his pride and heir?’ He looked at me through his long eyelashes. ‘Why have you come here alone?’

I wished Riaz or Tariq were there. Or even Papa.

‘You’re my cousin.’ I said ‘cousin’ in the same way I’d say ‘brother’, hoping he’d leave me alone.

He smirked: ‘Yes, cousin, but this isn’t Australia. In Pakistan, cousins marry. You know that, don’t you?’

Yes, I knew, but Mum didn’t like the custom of cousins marrying. She thought it was incestuous and her family thought so too.

‘Tell my father,’ Haider went on. ‘The most honourable thing for me to do would be to marry you.’

‘Marry you?’ Surely he didn’t think I’d want to marry him.

I searched for a way to leave the courtyard without any more of a scene. I hoped none of this exchange had been overheard. I was about to pick up the tray of split peas and salvage what I could when his tone gentled.

‘You can be coy if you like, but you can’t tell me you don’t know why you’re here.’ Then he stared at me as though some realisation had just come to him. ‘So, you really do think you are here for a holiday?’ He licked his lips. ‘Remember this then: you could have me. Or you might wish you had.’

It was as if he knew all about me and Tariq. But if he did, surely he wouldn’t pass up the chance to throw it in my face?

I’d had enough. I kneeled to pick up the split peas, and when I stood up he had gone.