The Lost Pearl (2012) (9 page)

In Karachi, when I was in the car, I felt as if the trucks and buses were within millimeters of me and I marveled at the courage of all the drivers who managed to reach their destination without incident. I coughed each time I breathed in the smoke escaping
the yellow mini buses, as if my lungs had lost the strength to inhale this previously familiar air. I enjoyed the fragrance carried by the evening breeze, of the fresh roses and the white
chamelis
being sold at the roadside, yet I would brace myself for the stench of fish emanating from the trucks that followed. I never stopped enjoying the tasty meals, yet I would always get ill with gastroenteritis, as if the same food and water I had consumed for years had become alien to me, less forgiving because I had left. I had changed from player to spectator, from actor to an inattentive member of the audience, from a tree of the soil to a plant that was growing in another garden and no longer belonged to that same part of the Earth. Like the immune system rejecting a donated organ or an expression of poetry lost in translation: this was my redefined relationship with my homeland as well as with my family.

During one of my visits, Sara sat down next to me after we had all finished taking down the decorations for her eighth birthday party. “What was your father like?” she asked. It was a simple, straightforward question, but it was completely unexpected. The answer could have been given in volumes. What my father was like was the thought that had consumed my life—what he had been like and what he would have been like had fate not snatched him away from me. My father had been a personification of honesty and integrity. He had been a symbol of humility. He had been the foundation on which our family had stood, the glue that had kept us all together. He had been funny and lively and forever putting others before himself. But I did not know what to say to Sara just then. I had never discussed with her that she was not my real sister, and Ammi and Sahir had not prepared me for this confrontation.

My strained relationship with my stepfather had undoubtedly raised questions in her intelligent mind, and she had asked them in a manner that was both simple and forthright, Sahir later told me. She was old enough and mature enough to understand
and accept that Sahir and myself were her half siblings and that her parents had been married to other people before. She was perturbed for a day or two but then gracefully accepted that new revelation as a minor wrinkle in her otherwise well-ironed life.

“He was the best father in the world,” I finally said, summing up all my thoughts and at last finding the strength to verbalize them.

“Tell me more about him,” she said,

“I suppose it’s strange to talk to Ammi about him, and Abbu never met him, and Sahir doesn’t remember much.”

In my home where my brother and mother never mentioned his name, my half sister was asking me about him; my half sister, who had no relationship with him and who would not have come into this world had he been alive.

“Would you like to see a picture?” I said, and she nodded. I pulled out the wallet-size version of the family portrait from my purse. She paused for a moment and then said, “Wow, you look just like him.” I asked her if she would like to keep it, and she said she would. I wrote her name on the back of it and made her promise to keep it in a secret place where her father would not be able to find it.

We chatted into the early hours of the morning about my father, her father, and the complexities of human relationships. We talked about our maternal grandparents, whom she had never seen.

“You got your nose from Nana, as well as your love for cookies,” I said. “And I inherited his love for chocolate, as well as his passion for reading.” My mother and stepfather were exhausted from having hosted the party, so they had gone to bed early, and Sahir took his leave to devote himself to his books. He was constantly studying, even during vacations. He had vowed to ace all his exams in order to fulfill his dream of going to medical school.

Sara told me that she loved me just the same, and it did not matter to her that we had different fathers. She told me she had never really believed the fallacy that I had left for a better education. It did bother her that I had left and that I did not get along with her father. Mature as she was, however, she said that if she were in my shoes, she would probably react in the same way. I was proud of my thoughtful sister, who, even at that tender age, had the ability to be so nonjudgmental.

Even though my stepfather had kept me away from Sara and had never encouraged her to call me on her own or spend too much individual time with me, it was comforting to know that he had at least not attempted to influence her opinion of me or sabotage our sisterhood. For the first time in my life, in my heart, I gave him some credit.

I had barely returned from my summer vacation, when, on September 20, 1996, Sahir called and said there had been terrible shooting close to where our home was. He said it was loud and had gone on for several hours. The next morning news came that the shooting had been at Bilawal House and Benazir’s brother, Murtaza Bhutto, who had also been politically inclined, had been killed. Apparently there had been almost one hundred policemen hiding around the house and inside the trees, and they had shot Murtaza along with his friend. He had been left to bleed for forty-five minutes and had died there. All the while his wife and daughter had been inside the house, listening to the shooting. That murder joined the unfortunately long list of crimes that had gone unpunished. Years later, Murtaza’s daughter Fatima Bhutto shared her conviction that this execution did not occur without the knowledge of her father’s sister Benazir, and Benazir’s husband Asif Ali Zardari. Zardari had by then acquired fame as “Mr. Ten Percent,” a nickname that alluded to the unlawful profits he had made on several national and international deals. Regardless of what the reason was behind this assassination,
my heart went out to Fatima Bhutto, who had lost her father to murder at the age of fourteen.

Sahir visited the following winter. He had turned out a fine young boy who would have made our papa proud. He had started looking a lot like him and had the same kind voice, generous smile, and confident stride.

“I think you should give our stepfather another chance, Apa,” he said. “He is really a nice person. I wish you could have known him better. He has given me as much love as he has given Sara. He would have given it to you too, if only you had let him.”

“So tell me about the pretty girls in your school,” I said, changing the subject. “Will Maryam graduate with you? Does she want to go into medicine too? She was so cute as a little girl; she must have grown up to be really beautiful.”

“Come on, Apa,” he said shyly, exasperated at my resolve to avoid all conversation about my stepfather. “I know you keep avoiding this subject, but your defiance has created a lot of problems. You are my older sister, so I have never been able to tell you this, but I cannot stand it that you don’t have a relationship with our father. It really bothers me, and you never try.”

“Sahir, firstly he is not our father; our father died many years ago. Secondly, I cannot understand why you always side with him, when I’m the one who’s your flesh and blood,” I said, my tone revealing my irritation.

“For me, he is as good a father as I could have. He is the one who taught me how to ride a bike; he is the one who bandaged my knee when I fell off that same bike, when my sister, my flesh and blood, could have done all of that but wasn’t there. I wanted to be able to cherish memories of Papa, and you don’t know how hard it has been for me to have everything so vague in my memory. You were the only one who could have helped me remember, but before I knew it, you were gone.”

Sahir had never complained to me in this way, and I was angry that my baby brother, whom I had taught how to speak, was now talking back to me. Unable to keep my voice down any longer, I said, “How could you? You think I was happy to leave?”

“Maybe you weren’t happy, but no one forced you. It was your own idea, your own choice. Life is full of choices, Apa. Papa’s passing was not your choice, but your leaving was.”

I was hurt, angry, and helpless. If I told him everything, maybe he would understand the extent of my devastation and forgive me for having left him. “You don’t know how it was for me,” I said, sitting back and forcing myself to appear calm while deciding against continuing the story.

That night I pulled out a slab of chocolate that had been sitting in the refrigerator and bit on it slowly, hoping that it would obliterate the bad taste in my mouth. I was surprised that Sahir had harbored all these emotions for so long. While his words wounded me, I was relieved to think that at least I had been missed, even if it meant that I had been blamed.

It was February 11, 1997, ten years exactly since the worst day of my life. Professor Reynolds’s creative writing class had been cancelled because he had called in sick. I was doing well in college, despite the oral presentations and was consumed by papers to submit and assignments to complete. Exams that always seemed too close. Time that never seemed enough.

My higher education had given me a new focus. I carried with me the burden of my past, but I thought of college as a fresh, interesting, and partially read chapter in the story of my life. I enjoyed spending time with Jennifer and Kavita, and I was content—not happy, but content. Happiness still seemed like an unattainable goal, an unreachable star in a vast sky. I laughed with my friends and counted my blessings every day, but my father’s death and the daunting image of his ruthless killer were always on my mind. I thought of seeking counseling on campus but always managed to find excuses not to.

Disappointed that my favorite class had been cancelled and unable to ignore the date, I walked slowly toward an unknown destination. I felt as though I was walking with a visible robe of gloom draped across my shoulders. I considered returning to my apartment for a few hours, but that would have meant having to rush back for the next class. I had already spoken to my mother, brother, and Phuppo earlier that morning. Kavita was in India, and Jennifer was completely immersed in her project of drawing the Twin Towers from four different angles. I began walking toward the library, thinking I would complete my character sketch of
Elizabeth Bennett
from
Pride and Prejudice
, but then I
decided to simply sit in the peaceful courtyard beside the chapel and remember Papa for a while.

For the last ten years, I had made it a point to spend some time in silence on the anniversary of his death. It had been so long, but the pain still felt excruciating, like a wound that was fresh and eons away from healing. It was a reminder of the loss, a preparation for another year without Papa’s presence. I was sitting quietly on one of the benches and reminiscing when I noticed a young man seated on the bench across from me. He was strikingly handsome and seemed immersed in deep thought. He was holding a thick brown book, but it was obvious that he was not reading it. From his appearance, I guessed he was Desi.

I was never one to initiate a conversation but somehow that day I mustered the courage to speak. I did not want to appear too forward and I certainly did not wish to trespass on his reverie. Perhaps he had a test and was memorizing something in this peaceful corner or was revising a presentation in his head. It might be unpleasant and inappropriate to disturb him. Yet I could not shake off the deep inclination to talk to him. I was intrigued by his complete obliviousness to my presence and presumed he was thinking about a serious subject.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a bright orange butterfly pause for a few seconds before soaring into the sky above.

“Are you missing somebody?” I asked, shocked to hear myself say the words.

Startled, he looked up, and his thoughtful face softened into an endearing smile. “Yes. In fact, I was. You are quite a mind reader. Now that I have answered your question, may I inquire whether you are enjoying
Pride and Prejudice?
”

“Yes. I’m doing a book review project on it.”

“What did you learn about Pride and what did you learn about Prejudice?” He maintained a serious yet inquisitive expression while posing the question. I thought for a moment and answered,

“I guess that pride takes away one’s ability to speak, and prejudice deprives one of the ability to see.”

Feeling a sudden surge of sadness creep over me, I looked down at the ground. I had just realized that the time I had spent without my father had become greater than the time I had spent with him. “I was missing somebody too,” I said, not sure if our conversation should end there. He had come a little closer, and I could see the silhouette of our shadows on the ground. “But it’s not what you think,” I continued. “I’m not upset about a broken relationship, the common theme for sorrow among college students.” The bright rays of the sun made me squint, and I was grateful to find an excuse to look at the ground once again.

“No, I didn’t assume that at all,” he replied reassuringly. “I try to stay away from pride as well as prejudice. I just hope that whoever you are missing can come back.”