The Lost Pearl (2012) (5 page)

I asked to go to the beach, where Papa used to take us every weekend. I loved to collect seashells and had collected several of them, which I kept in a jar at home. Papa would often put a large shell to his ear and show us how to hear the sound of the ocean through it. I took a small container with me and filled it with some sand. Papa always used to tell me how people would take the sand of their homeland with them whenever they left so they did not lose the connection with their country. I visited my school, where I had been since kindergarten; it was where I had spent memorable times and made the best of friends, where I had helped paint a wall with a rainbow and plant a tree that was
now several feet tall, where my biggest worry had been being three minutes late for school and missing the morning assembly, where I had cut my forehead after falling from the swing and had learned to recite the national anthem with fervor. It was where I had spent one rupee each day on a tiny packet of mouthwatering chili chips that burnt the tongue yet had the power of addicting us all. It was where Amna and I had discovered a secret hiding place near a staircase that no one else knew about, and where the red-bearded man we called “Lala” had conscientiously banged the metal drum to signal the ending of every half-hour period.

I asked to see my old house before leaving, as it was the only home I had ever known, each wall housing a remembrance, every corner telling a story. It was vacant now, filled with hardworking men redoing the paint on the walls. It had a strong smell of fresh paint, but strongest of all was the scent of unfamiliarity. I spent a few moments in my room, reflecting on the last time I had had a restful sleep in my bed. Then I proceeded to the study, where, despite the newspapers lining the floors and the spatter of ivory paint all over, I could still feel my father’s presence. I gazed up at the newly installed window, while saying a silent prayer. I promised Papa that I would always keep his memory alive. I vowed never to forget him or all that he had taught me in the small serving of time he had been given to share with me.

On the way back, we passed the bookstore where I had spent time with my father and had sought his advice about which book to read next. We also went by the bakery where Sahir and I had munched on countless lemon pastries and hundreds of cookies made of toasted coconut. I did not realize then that I would miss it all: the speed breakers that punctuated the road, the vendors selling fresh guavas accompanied by the traditional
masala
, the heavily decorated buses weaving through the chaotic traffic.

After returning to my mother’s new house, I glanced at the painting that we had moved from our old house and remembered with fondness the comparison Papa had drawn to it with our
family. My father was the mountain that stood tall and protected us from the harshness of the world beyond, while cementing us together. My mother was the tree providing us with cool shade, shielding us from the scorching sun. My brother was the many flowers, bright and colorful, bringing life and spreading joy. I was the lake beneath, tranquil and content. Little had he known that I would become the lone bird flying away far into the distance.

Ammi helped me pack my things with tears in her eyes; it seemed she did not quite know what to say. She insisted I take several sets of the traditional
shalwar kameez
, many of which she had asked the tailor to stitch for me in a hurry immediately after my plans had been finalized. She wanted to make sure I did not forget my roots. She also slipped in a
janamaz
, or prayer rug, and a book with some verses from the Quran and quotations of Prophet Muhammad.

“Don’t forget how to speak Urdu,” she said. I was surprised she could even contemplate the thought of me forgetting my mother tongue. She had forgotten her loving husband so quickly and had made all traces of him disappear with such ease, yet she was worried about my severed ties with my country and my language. The way she was bidding me farewell made it seem as though I was going for good. That is what I had asked for, so why did her farewell advice make me so despondent? I realized now that a part of me had wanted her to stop me. I probably would have declined, but the heaviness in my heart may have been lightened a bit. I had had a dream a few nights before my flight that I was leaving and my mother stood at the door, begging me not to go. But it was just a dream, and this time it was a dream I did not ask to wake up from. After all, I was the weed that had to be plucked out, carefully and cautiously, or I would ruin the good around me in my mother’s new garden.

I did not care about which clothes or shoes I would leave behind; I just asked for the “All-Star Dad” mug and the family
portrait, which was now devoid of the protective glass that had covered it but retained the bronze frame bordering it. It was a depiction of what my family had been, the embodiment of happiness and unsurpassable harmony, all of us fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. All of us posing for a picture, under direction of a professional photographer, the smiles on celluloid a precise translation of the joy within.

The portrait was now merely a glimpse of what my life had been, simply a memory I was packing in my suitcase next to all my other tangible belongings: my hairbrush, my books and my pair of faded blue jeans.

I arrived in Freemont after what seemed like an endless flight. I had tried not to think about the horror of my recent past, the unpredictability of my future, or whether or not I was making wise choices for myself. I drowned myself in
Jane Eyre
, which I had shoved at the last minute into my carry-on luggage. Within minutes of landing, I immediately sensed a warm welcome and felt reassured that I had made the right decision. Asma Phuppo and Phuppa beamed with delight as they saw me emerge from the crowd at San Francisco Airport.

In their house, my room had been arranged with considerable care. One wall was lined with a wooden shelf filled with books for me to read, while another had a stereo set up for me to enjoy songs of my choice. The room was painted an apple green, my favorite color, and a light but cozy comforter with green and purple flowers covered the bed. Everything was new and fresh, and more importantly, it had all been prepared especially for me. This was my new abode, my escape from my past life. I loved my aunt and uncle, and they did the best they could to fill the void within me. I had had a terrible thing happen to me, but it seemed that my childhood would bear no resemblance to that of Jane Eyre’s.

I embraced my new home, as I did my new family. I resembled my aunt more than I did my mother, and that helped make the transition smoother. Phuppo worked part time and had rearranged her schedule to fit in with my school hours. She was motherly and affectionate, showering all the love that she had saved up inside her. The only thing she needed to work on was
ensuring that my braids were even and symmetric, and that my parting was straight enough to match my mother’s skilful hand. My uncle seemed pleased with my presence, regularly bringing home my favorite chocolates and borrowing books from the library after thoroughly researching what I liked, but it took him several months to assume the parental role. It gave me enough time to ease into my new surroundings, to gain the confidence of opening the refrigerator as I pleased, and use the telephone for long distance calls as I wished. Everything seemed very quiet at first. My aunt and uncle were accustomed to the silence, having suffered through the pain of childlessness for a decade. They had accepted this life for themselves and had welcomed me as the bloom of an unseen spring in their empty garden.

There were hardly ever any guests, especially not uninvited ones. Neighbors did not randomly knock on one another’s doors, although everyone was very cordial and rather meticulous about waving hello. One did not wake up to the sacred sound of the
Fajr Azaan
, the call for prayer signaling the break of dawn. One could not hear the loud water tankers barging in through the gates at early hours of the morning, as I had been used to, or the doorbell ringing for the newspaper man, followed shortly by the milkman, who was regularly admonished for the declining quality of the milk he delivered. One could not hear the sound of crows that invariably found their way onto the grill-covered windowpanes or the soft singing of the
koyal
, which dominated the skies in the mango season, arriving promptly in the middle of every May. The night did not end with the shrill whistle of the street watchman reassuring all of his presence and wakefulness. Most of all, there was no Sahir to chase after, argue with, or laugh uncontrollably with. I regretted all the times I had yelled at him for being too loud and not letting me complete my homework, watch my favorite television show, or simply have some peace and quiet.

The weather was not too different from that in Karachi; it was mostly hot and sunny, except for the evenings, which were several degrees cooler. Also, indoors one seldom felt the wrath of the heat, owing to air-conditioning that was both effective and ubiquitous. My aunt would always ensure that I took my jacket along or an extra layer of clothing, as well as an umbrella, to protect myself from the unpredictable cold and rainfall. We were often invited to dinners on weekends, mostly at the houses of Pakistani families, where the socializing was pleasant but more extensive and formal than what I was accustomed to.

On weekdays, everything was dead quiet. I was hesitant to walk to and from the restroom at night, afraid that the creaking of the wooden floors would wake my uncle from his restful sleep. In the mornings, I welcomed the rhythmic rumble of the dishwasher and the sound of Michael mowing his lawn next door. They were both effective at overpowering the incessant ticking of the wall clocks that served as reminders of the overly scheduled life I was living. The aroma of freshly cooked
roti
off the
tawa
had been replaced by the scent of lemony cleaners and lavender fabric softeners. I liked America, I enjoyed school, and I spent a great amount of time reading and trying to put the past behind me. But it seemed that no matter how fast I tried to run from it, it always caught up with me.

The thought of the lethal bullet that took my father’s life followed me like a tall, dark shadow. Once, on my way back from school in the bus, I was immersed in my usual deep thoughts of that haunting night and missed my stop. I was sitting in a corner at the back, and no one realized that I had forgotten to get off. Phuppo was frantic with worry, crying inconsolably when my school principal informed her that I was all right and that I had gone back to school. When she came to pick me up, she gave me a tight hug and held on to me for several minutes, as though she had found a lost treasure. I felt guilty for putting her through such unnecessary agony, but she responded with something she
often said: “All’s well that ends well.” From that day, I made a conscious effort to free myself from being consumed by the demon of my terrifying memories.

I acutely felt some of the cultural differences, which required some adjustment but made me understand that there were many kinds of individuals in this world. Meeting people from various countries and religious backgrounds made me realize that despite the differences, fundamentally everyone was the same: at the end of the day, we were all human beings who needed love and craved peace.

I tried to hold on to my roots while allowing my branches to spread far and high into the sky. I met many people who were foreign to this land, like myself, and had faced the greater challenge of having to learn English, which fortunately for us had been the medium of teaching in many schools. This had been the minuscule compensation for having endured the British regime for decades prior to achieving independence in August of 1947. Our ancestors had made sacrifices to earn their rights, and thanks to their efforts, we had been born free in a nation where learning English was encouraged. Like all foreigners, I struggled to blend in while preserving my core ingredients, hoping to create an amalgam that was both flavorful and genuine. I struggled to protect my conservative values from undergoing an unconscious fermentation while trying to adapt all the virtues of the modernized, western world. I quickly became familiar with the term “ABCD,” an abbreviation for American-Born Confused Desi, which referred to Indian and Pakistani children who were being raised in America. I met a myriad of people in school who had stepparents and broken homes. I empathized with them, and they with me. In Pakistan I had felt like no one could understand what I had gone through, as second marriages there were rare even after untimely deaths and divorces were almost nonexistent. It was a time when mothers told their daughters that they had to “burn their boats” so there was no possibility of returning
back to their parents once they were married. Things were changing there too, gradually, of course.

Nevertheless, I had somehow not known of any child my age having to endure what I had. In America I had met girls and boys in worse situations, children with parents who divorced because after a few years they had simply started hating each other or they had decided they loved another person or that they had married the wrong person. They were shuffled from mother to father and stepmother to stepfather, becoming characters in courtroom dramas and pawns in ugly custody battles. They had their lives put on schedules for every weekend and every holiday. I heard their stories, shared their pain, and lent them my shoulder to cry on. I told them my story, carefully editing the circumstances surrounding my father’s death. None of the accounts were the same—they each had a different beginning and a unique conclusion—but they all had the common theme of the abandoned child who was being punished for the decisions of his or her parents.