The Lost Pearl (2012) (8 page)

We bought some basic furniture and plants and made the apartment look like a place worth coming home to. It was exciting to choose my own furniture and set up everything just as I wanted. The apartment had a small sitting area, a decent-sized bedroom that was large enough to fit in a twin bed and a writing table, and a small but newly finished kitchen. I had chosen it mainly because of the large windows that allowed plenty of sunshine to pour in, creating a bright ambience. It was on the second floor, overlooking a group of towering redwood trees, which appeared fresh despite their senescence. I hung several pictures on the walls and placed a striped brown and beige rug diagonally to give it a contemporary touch.

A part of me looked forward to the independence and the space, but another part of me was frightened of being on my own for the very first time. I knew I was better prepared for an independent college life than I would have been had I been raised back home. I was used to picking up after myself and doing my own laundry. I had at last become accustomed to the quiet and the scarcity of visitors at the door. Nonetheless, I had lived in a very protective environment, had seldom stayed out beyond sunset, and had socialized within a very limited radius. I had been a good student, but now my peers would be among the most competitive, and that added another layer of stress to what I was already feeling. I was skilled at written projects, but oral presentations were my weakness and scared me immensely.

I took the train every weekend and enjoyed the luxury of spending time at what had become my home with those who had become my family. Phuppa was very different from my father; he was less communicative but he was undoubtedly the possessor of a caring heart and was the closest thing I had to a father figure in my life. One day my aunt told me how I had changed him: “He had become so withdrawn over the years. Not having children was hard on me, but it was also hard on him. We had so much love to impart, but no children to give it to. And then you came along like an unexpected parcel at our doorstep and changed everything. You brought back laughter into our lives, Sana.”

That was the moment that I realized that even though I had done it subconsciously and unintentionally, without any effort or sacrifice on my part, I had given back a little. Her words helped lift the weight of obligation that I had felt on my shoulders. I also realized that by making a seemingly ridiculous decision at such a young age, I had become the cement holding a marriage together. Had I stayed in Pakistan, I might have become the catalyst tearing a marriage apart.

I was enchanted by Stanford’s beauty. Situated in the heart of Palo Alto, it was an architectural masterpiece. I enjoyed walking through the long corridors and letting the warmth of the sunshine touch my face through the intricately designed arches. It was always hot, but the picturesque palm trees that bordered the premises provided a generous shade. Beautiful red and white flowers created a large
S
in the center of the quad. A multitude of students walked and bicycled between classes, and large libraries provided an optimal reading environment. Oak trees that quilted the campus were a reliable cover for unexpected rain. We were told on our orientation day that Stanford’s rarely used full name was Leland Stanford Jr. University. It had been named after the Stanfords’ teenage son, who had died tragically. I was always intrigued and impressed by people who had the ability to turn grief into something beautiful and honorable, rather than allowing themselves to dissolve in despair.

As I admired the crisp, assiduously cleaned floors, which were a mosaic of gray, white, and brown squares, I sometimes thought of the poor children of Pakistan who sat on the dusty ground, starving and sweating in the heat, fervently memorizing their lessons. I wondered how many of them never went to school, and questioned how many, like Zareen, had their education interrupted suddenly because their parents did not have the means or the will to let them pursue their dreams. A large number of them were possibly so bright, they could outshine the best graduate of Stanford. I was blessed to be studying what I wanted to at one of the world’s most prestigious schools. I had worked hard to be where I was but had also been very fortunate.

Many of my earlier courses focused on language and literature, and my assignments often involved reading and reviewing books, which had been my long-standing passion. I always tried to remember Professor Davis’s words, “When you write, make the product unforgettable. If you have had any setbacks in life, remember that they are your greatest assets. If you have sadness
inside you, write with your tears. If you have anger raging in you, use it as your weapon.”

I loved to write but continued to dread presentations. For days beforehand, I would pray that my anxiety would not show through and that my voice would remain steady as I spoke. I always lost points on my speeches and struggled to maintain a satisfactory grade point average. I once had to give a talk on the assigned topic of “The Pleasures and Perils of Technology,” which I spent weeks preparing for. I edited it several times after the first draft and rehearsed it countless times before the day of the presentation, placing extra teabags in my mug to help me stay awake through the night. I shook as I walked toward the podium, and by the time I reached it, I forgot all the words. I looked at the paper copy I had in my hand, took a deep breath, and started,

“Here at Stanford, we are amidst the best technological minds in the world. I believe that technology begins with an idea, which is its birth, and then advances over time with better ideas and innovations, which are not its death, but its reincarnation.”

I struggled to continue, but my voice shook and I felt lightheaded. Suddenly my mouth became so dry that I started coughing and nearly choked. A thoughtful colleague quickly brought me a glass of water. After thanking her, I attempted to resume my speech, but time was running out, and I did not know which parts to skip and which to include in my disastrous speech.

“…Paradox of lost communication between people by devices meant for improving communication…”

I was stuttering and could not stop my hands from shaking uncontrollably. I suddenly lost my train of thought and stopped in the midst of a sentence, unable to find my voice. Embarrassed, I stepped down, mumbling a general apology and wondering if I would have to repeat the semester. I was tearful, miserable, and felt defeated beyond expression. My professors were of the opinion that this degree of stage fright and lack of confidence
was sure to hinder my success and suggested that I meet with a counselor. They were willing to work with me and give me some time, and I was eternally grateful for that.

That evening I talked to my aunt, narrating to her an abridged version of my disastrous afternoon. She consoled me, as she always did, and offered encouragement. For the remainder of the evening, I curled up on my couch, trying in vain to cheer myself up with an episode of
Everybody Loves Raymond
while devouring the leftover Halloween candy from the month before.

Despite my struggles with confidence, I soon became well integrated and adjusted in Stanford’s congenial environment. I had two good friends: Jennifer, who had been with me since middle school, and Kavita, whom I had met in college. Jennifer was a student of architecture, and Kavita was majoring in psychology. Jennifer’s parents had been divorced since we had been in school, and she had grown up without her father, who had remarried and relocated to Michigan soon after the divorce. She frequently used her good sense of humor to dilute her problems, and it often helped me put mine on the back burner as well. She had blue eyes and long, blonde hair and was constantly entertaining us with her collection of memorized blonde jokes. I remember how we all laughed when she told us the one about the blonde and the brunette betting on a newscast: “So a blonde and a brunette were watching the six o’clock news, which included a report of a man threatening to jump off the San Francisco Bridge. The blonde bet her brunette friend hundred dollars that he wouldn’t jump. He jumped, so the blonde gave her friend fifty dollars. The brunette confessed that she had already seen the footage on the five o’clock news, so she really couldn’t take the money. ‘So did I,’ said the blonde. ‘But I didn’t think he would jump again.’”

Kavita was from Bombay, India. She had dark skin and sharp features, which were complemented by thick black hair that she wore in a bob cut. She was sweet and down-to-earth,
and although she had the blessing of both parents, she had lost her eight-year-old sister to typhoid. Tragedy had brought us all together and wrapped us in a tight blanket of friendship, protecting us from the harsh winters of our troubled memories.

Jennifer and Kavita were both more open than I was and did not have much trouble expressing their feelings. We all knew how to laugh at ourselves, so I would share jokes about Pakistanis, and Kavita would come up with jokes about Indians. Kavita and I would often indulge in Desi talk, much to Jennifer’s chagrin. I would ask Kavita all about the Indian movie stars and the latest Bollywood gossip. We would sing songs often, from the oldies from the sixties, to the latest ones from the nineties, and Jennifer would be amused by our repertoire of memorized lyrics. She was astonished when she heard stories of people having arranged marriages. Kavita was already engaged to her aunt’s husband’s nephew and seemed content with the matrimony planned for a few years later.

One day Jennifer, after having an argument with her father over the phone, called me to share her pain. I had just spoken to my stepfather and was also feeling down. He had had an appendectomy, and my mother insisted that I inquire after his health.

“Let’s go out and try to feel better,” Jennifer suggested. When I agreed, she said we should go to the bar for a drink.

“No, Jennifer. You know I don’t drink, and I won’t let you do it either; I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh, please. Do you think our parents care? If they don’t, then why should we? Stop preaching and come with me.”

She kept insisting that I join her and promised it would make me feel better. I told her that I could not do something that was forbidden to me by my religion. I was not very pious—I had missed several prayers and fasts and I had not been an obedient daughter—but I could not consume alcohol. I had no attraction to something that claimed seventy thousand lives each year in this country alone, that changed a person in every way.

“Even if it makes you happy, how long does that happiness last?” I said, trying to convince her.

“Well, the happiness after watching a good movie, listening to a good song, reading a good book, or eating a delicious meal doesn’t last either. That’s why we find happiness in small packages and combine them together to create true happiness.”

“Actually a really good book and a really good song can give you lasting happiness, or at least they can stay with you a long time and help you grow. Music and literature make this world a better place and they certainly do not take your senses away from you. They don’t make you do things you would otherwise never consider doing. They don’t change who you are.”

We continued to argue until I realized that I was not going to succeed in changing her mind. “If you aren’t going to listen, I’ll come with you, but only to drive you back home. I’ll wait outside.”

So that was what we did. From that day on, we both accepted that we could not change each other, but that did not mean we could not still be friends. I had perhaps always been overly judgmental with Jennifer, not realizing that I was subconsciously terrified of outside influences swaying me from who I was. By then I was older and past my unsure teenage years. My vision had become sharper, and I realized that differences between our religion, culture, and upbringing would not cease to exist or stop coloring the disparate decisions we made in our lives. But rather than perceiving these differences as barriers, I started looking at them as photographs of the same building taken from different angles, each capturing a unique beauty and, when put side by side, each complementing the other, adding a third dimension to an otherwise two-dimensional composition.

My father had been taken from me because of his death. My mother and brother had been taken from me because of my mother’s marriage, which I still had not accepted. Sahir would come to visit during holidays, and I would go in the summers, but there was still a cold war between my stepfather and me, partly to be blamed on his ego, and perhaps equally to be blamed on my obstinacy. Ammi tried to be part of my life, but I did not make much of an effort to include her. I had not been able to forgive her yet. I could not attach any blame to my brother, and whenever I looked at him, I wondered how wonderful it would have been to share my life with my only full sibling. At every visit, I felt the gap between us becoming more and more substantial. The separation between my family and I, as well as my country and I.

I felt my motherland’s embrace loosen from around me, as I had my mother’s nine years earlier. When I visited, I became less tolerant of the power outages and mosquito bites that I had grown up with. It saddened me deeply to see young children begging on the streets or being used for cheap labor. The large, extravagant weddings in a country riddled with poverty seemed surreal. Distance had given me perspective, the ability to judge as an outsider, but it had robbed me of the unconditional element of the love I had previously felt.