The Lost Pearl (2012) (4 page)

Her voice was shaking slightly when she started. “
Beta
,” she said, “this has all been very difficult for all of us, especially you and me: being without your dad, the way it happened, being alone. Being alone is very hard, and in our society it is very tough for a woman without a husband. Nana has decided what’s best for all of us.”

She paused, all the while nervously biting her nails and avoiding looking at me directly. So what had my grandfather decided? Papa had made the decisions, and now Nana was making the decisions.

“He thinks I should remarry.”

And there it was, plain and simple. This was the grown-up stuff I was supposed to understand, gulp it down like a sip of bitter medicine. My life was turning in many unexpected directions, full of uneven gravel and a multitude of speed bumps; but now it seemed to have reached a dead end.

“He is a nice man, educated and kind, and he has agreed to marry me and to adopt both of you and raise you as his children. He was previously married, but things didn’t work out. There are not many men in our culture who would agree to take on such a big responsibility.”

I looked at her with disbelief, trying to find the right words. “But why, Ammi? You won’t be alone if I am with you and Sahir is with you. And Nana can live with us. Why do you need to get married? Papa has barely been in his grave; it hasn’t even been six months. How can you do this? Sakina’s husband died five years ago and she has not remarried. Why do you have to…” my voice trailed off as I realized how pointless my questions were. I was not being asked, I was being told. The decision had been made, and the date of the wedding had been agreed upon and printed on an invitation card. It was the date that Papa would be replaced by a stranger and the date that I would lose the only thing I had left of my father: his name.

“Anyway we had to leave the house. It was a government-allotted house through your father’s job. They will take it away, along with the car and the domestic staff.”

I glanced over at the two sunflowers that seemed to have survived the storm in our lives and envied the bird that still sung her song. So my mother had brought me here to gently tell me that my life was over. “Where will we go?” I asked in a tone of resignation.

“To your new papa’s home,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It’s not as big or as luxurious, but it is a decent-sized new home not far from here.”

Now I understood the boxes and my prolonged visit to my aunt’s. I couldn’t believe my mother was talking to me about the size of our new house as if it mattered to me. Had the new residence been Buckingham Palace, I would not have wanted to leave my home; it was all I had left of my father’s memories. This was where my childhood was, where Sahir had been born, where laughter had once echoed through the walls, where Papa had taken his last breath. Where Zareen had been given the gift of education. Where happiness had prevailed. And the car was going too. It was the car in which I had gone places with my father, where we had listened to our favorite songs and eaten delicious ice cream. The front seat still had the scent of his cologne.

So Ammi was going to marry someone else. How could she? How could she forget Papa so soon? How could she replace him with someone else? “Your new papa,” she had said with such ease. I could not bear it. I went to my room, buried my face in the pillow, and wept until the early hours of dawn.

I did not wish to speak to my mother or my grandfather, who I held partly responsible for planning the wedding behind my back. I had been close to Nana and I failed to comprehend how he could have made a decision that was so deeply hurtful to me in every possible way. He had taught me so much about life, reading stories to me and explaining the morals behind each of them, that his actions seemed hypocritical and unfair.

“It’s all for the better,” Nana said, putting his arm around me. He placed his teacup with its saucer back on the glass table, and insisted I take some cookies he had kept aside for me. I refused the sugar-sprinkled Nice Biscuits with a wave of my hand. He was going home for a few days to take care of household matters after having stayed with my mother for all these months. “I know you are upset now, but you will see many years later, when you are old enough to understand things, that this really is the best thing for everyone involved. You need to have a father figure, a man of the house. And he is a nice person; he will treat you all well. If you are nice to him, he will be good to you too. He will be just like your real father.”

“No one can be like my real father,” I replied, my voice raised and my tone harsh.

“My father is in heaven. You just said that this man would be nice to us if we were nice to him. Papa was nice to us even if we were disobedient. He loved us on all the days, even when we were rascals. That’s why a stepfather is a stepfather. And many years later,
you
will see that.” I could not believe I had been so defiant in my tone to my grandfather, and deep inside I started
to develop a dislike for my new self. This was not me, the well-mannered girl my parents had been raising me to be. But it was as if he did not have any idea of the emotional turmoil he was causing. I left him standing alone at the door with his cane, without assisting him down the three stairs that led to the outside. I could not help noticing how frail he had become, how he had to pause between words to catch his breath, and how the wrinkles on his face seemed to have become suddenly darker and deeper, and how there seemed to be so much effort hiding behind his smile. His daughter’s widowhood had been an unthinkable tragedy that had befallen him at this difficult age when arthritis had settled in his knees and impaired his walking somewhat, when vision was not as clear, and hearing not as sharp as his younger days. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, realizing that he too was a victim of this misfortune that had come into our lives. That emotion was strong enough to overcome the anger I felt for the devastating decision he had taken for me.

My mother had not talked much to me since the day she had broken this news to me. I was angry with her but had not had a chance to express it to her. She had purposely been hiding behind the shield of wedding preparations to avoid an unpleasant confrontation with me. Sure, my grandfather had a major part in this, but as my father had always said, everyone is responsible for his or her own actions. He was not forcing my mother to remarry; ultimately it was her saying the three-letter affirmative that was about to change all our lives.

The wedding was a simple affair. My mother wore a solemn expression yet somehow looked beautiful again. My stepfather was in real estate, and everyone called him Mr. Rehman. He was tall and somewhat stocky with a carefully trimmed black moustache; he had the appearance of a rather proper gentleman. However, even if he had he been the greatest humanitarian with the most generous heart, I could not have done anything except despise him. My hatred for my stepfather was nearly as intense
as that for Papa’s killer with the cold green eyes. No one in this world could replace my father—not in the family portrait, not in my home, and certainly not in my heart.

“For the official adoption, your names will now be Sana and Sahir Rehman,” my mother had informed me as if it were part of a newscast. Not Sana Asad Shah, but Sana Rehman: the new me. I felt like my identity was slowly disintegrating, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Sahir, on the other hand, seemed to be adjusting quite well to the new situation. He was bonding with our new papa and they seemed to easily form a father-son relationship. He even managed to bring a smile to the very serious Mr. Rehman’s face on occasion. I saw Sahir playing cricket with him, laughing and chatting, not noticing me at all, not seeming to feel Papa’s absence at all, and I realized an important reality: I was alone.

Whenever my mother was with my stepfather, I would turn away; I could not bear to see Ammi with anyone other than Papa. I had not yet come to terms with my father having passed away and already had to deal with a new man in her life. She had always been a people pleaser, but I had never thought this trait would become a drawback and take her further away from me. She was forever trying to please her new husband, making us do everything in accordance with his house rules. It seemed as though he had done us all a favor by marrying my widowed mother and assuming responsibility of her two children.

I struggled to adjust. Every few days I would think of my father’s killer and how he had ruined my entire life. I imagined visiting him in prison and telling him what he had done. I tried to get a hold of the newspaper, but somehow everyone managed to hide it from me. I had read the obituary announcing my father’s death, but I was sheltered from all subsequent news updates. I overheard my grandfather say “life imprisonment” and wondered why they would not execute a person who had committed such an unforgivable crime. Perhaps it was better this way; if he
died now, he would not suffer. I wanted him to suffer, to never see the breaking of dawn or the fall of dusk. I wanted him to never taste the freshness of a home-cooked meal, never enjoy the smell of grass, and never feel the miraculous touch of a raindrop. I wanted him to pine for the sound of music, and be deafened by the sound of silence. I wished for him to feel nothing but the nagging pain of loneliness. I wanted him to forever remain behind those metal bars, separated permanently from those he loved, to only dream of a freedom that would never be attainable, and to live every moment of a long life in repentance.

I was not allowed to talk about my father or even put a picture of him in my room, as it might upset my new papa. My father was gone, but I would not let his memories be buried with him. I thought of running away but realized that was irrational. I was a child; where would I go? Nana would not be able to take care of me, plus he had been behind all of this to begin with. Maybe I could go live with Amna. After all, she seemed like my only ally and she was my best friend. We were in the same class, so we could come and go to school together without too much inconvenience to anybody. I floated the idea in school, and she was overwhelmed with excitement; she said of course I could live with her, why not? But her parents were my mother’s friends and would never agree to anything that would upset her. Plus going off and living at a friend’s house while your own home was two streets down would be crossing social boundaries. Even as a child, cultural norms and expectations had seeped into my psyche.

Still, I knew I simply had to leave, to go to a place where I did not have to see my stepfather next to my mother, where I did not have to put up with his presence every morning of every day. A thought came to mind, and I decided to write a letter to Phuppo.

“Dear Phuppo
,

Salam. Hope you are well. Ever since we returned from California, things have been horrible. You know how much I loved Papa, I can’t bear to see my mother married again. I tried, I really tried, because Nana asked me to, and Ammi begged me to, but my stepfather is mean and I am pretty sure he hates me. I told him that I wouldn’t call him Papa or Abbu, and he got so angry, he started yelling at me and Ammi. I can’t even talk about Papa. The pictures I have of him are in my drawer. I don’t even know where our family picture is hidden. No one mentions Papa, it’s as if he never existed. I cannot live like this. I loved Papa and I love you, you are just like him. I think you are the only one who is still on my side. Can I please move to California? Can I please live with you? Ammi doesn’t know that I am writing you this letter. Please write soon
.

Love
,

Your niece, Sana.”

I asked Sakina to have it mailed so no one would become suspicious; it was the most conniving thing I had ever done. Mail in those days was slow and unreliable, so I waited for a few weeks patiently hoping and praying. I was sure she would want me to live with her, but I was not sure about Phuppa. The letter came in a big white envelope and I rushed to tear it open. She wrote that she would be more than happy to take me in, that she had discussed it with Phuppa, and that I would be like the daughter they had never had. I had US citizenship, so I did not require a visa. She wrote that it would significantly help her deal with her loss, as she would feel like a part of her brother was with her. That was what I wanted—to be in a place where my father was remembered, where his praises were sung, where his pictures graced the walls, where missing him did not require an apology, and where his name did not top the unspoken list of prohibited words.

My mother was upset at me for my audacity and at my aunt for supporting my unreasonable demands. They had been close previously, but my mother’s new marriage so soon after my father’s passing had created some understandable resentment between them. My mother was weak, however, and soon gave in to the idea. It seemed that part of her was relieved; she and her new husband had by then started quarrelling rather frequently, and I was the central theme of all their arguments. I often overheard my mother asking him to give me some more time.

“She will adjust; please give her one more chance. She’s really not usually rude like that, she just…” Her tone was that of someone begging for mercy, knowing that it was unlikely to be granted. Mr. Rehman was a decent man but had a sizable ego, and he could not tolerate my impertinent behavior or my refusal to call him papa or abbu. My mother was struggling to make her marriage work. If things fell apart, she would have nowhere to go. I wished I could take my baby brother with me. After all I was not angry with him—envious maybe, but not angry. He was a child and he did what he was told. If he got along well with my stepfather, then that was probably good for him. I knew deep inside that he could not go with me. I was the one having trouble with everything, not him. Being separated from him was the price I would have to pay for my freedom.