Princess Bari (17 page)

I went up first and sat down to wait for my groom. Ali was downstairs in the yard, greeting all the guests. His sisters and friends placed flower garlands around the necks of Ali's parents and Grandfather Abdul. They placed another one around Ali's neck as he was coming up the stairs. When he was finally next to me, we greeted the guests, who gave me gifts of money. We signed the marriage contract, which was officiated by an
imam
. Luna and a friend of Ali's sister who lived in Bradford served as my witnesses. Two of Ali's friends who'd gone to school with him in Leeds were his witnesses. Then we took dozens of photos, went downstairs to greet the guests from the neighbourhood as bride and groom and were given more wedding gifts of cash. We spent the next day resting in the comfort of close family. Then Grandfather Abdul, Luna, Ali and I returned to London. I was in a daze for the next few days from all that sensory overload.

Ali used the money that his father and grandfather had given him to purchase a used Volkswagen estate car that wasn't too old. He signed a contract with the minicab company as an official driver and car owner. Now he only had to pay call fees to the company, but was his own boss otherwise.

Uncle Lou and Uncle Tan had spent a lot of money on our wedding. Uncle Tan not only gave us three hundred pounds as a wedding gift, he'd also given me a thousand-pound advance on my wages. Uncle Lou had gifted us two hundred pounds.

But he gave me an even bigger gift besides that.

A few days after the wedding, he came to the store and told me that my smuggling debt was nearly paid in full, and as I was now married to a British citizen, wouldn't I like to apply for a real passport and obtain a residence visa? The passport I'd been given when I was smuggled into the country had been bought by the snakeheads from a forger, and would be detected immediately by immigration officials. Uncle Lou said he could get me the passport of a recently deceased Chinese woman who'd had a legal residency visa. He'd joked with me once that no matter how many people in Europe's Chinatowns get sick and die or pass away of old age, the populations never get any smaller. When I thought about being able to register my marriage officially and receive a work permit, I decided it didn't matter how much it would take to purchase the dead woman's passport. It would probably cost me at least five thousand pounds, but Ali and I could find a way to earn money and pay down the debt.

I thought about the deal Princess Bari made with the totem pole in my grandmother's stories:
three by three is nine
– nine years spent giving him a son and caring for his home in exchange for passage, firewood and water.

I realized that life means waiting, enduring the passage of time. Nothing ever quite meets our expectations, yet as long as we are alive, time flows on, and everything eventually comes to pass.

A
li and I moved into the flat the Nigerian couple had lived in, but we decided to use his grandfather's kitchen upstairs to cook. That way, the three of us could eat together as a family. As soon as I got home from work in the evenings, I cooked dinner using whatever Grandfather Abdul had picked up at the market that afternoon based on the note that we'd left for him, but it was often just Grandfather Abdul and me. As the weekends kept Ali busy, he usually took a couple of days in the middle of the week to rest during the day and work the late shift after dinner.

With so much time for just the two of us, Grandfather Abdul and I talked much more often than we used to. He told me all about his family and his ancestors, about the One and Only God, Allah, and stories of the Prophet Muhammad. I couldn't read the Qur'an, but I ended up memorizing the first verse of the Islamic creed:
“La ilaha illallah, Muhammad rasulullah”
(“There is no god but God, Muhammad is the Messenger of God”). But this wasn't surprising to me: ever since I was little, Grandmother used to say there was a Lord in Heaven who presided over all of Creation. Whenever my father caught her talking that way, he would browbeat her and say it was just superstition. To me there wasn't much difference between the being my grandmother had talked about and the being Grandfather Abdul described. I guess you could say it was like the difference between them eating
naan
and
chapatti
, and us eating rice.

Sometimes I talked about my grandmother. Grandfather Abdul said that because she was a good person, she would now be an angel in a Paradise filled with flowing rivers and flowers in full bloom. I pictured her mingling with the other good people somewhere in a field of flowers beyond the rainbow bridge that I saw in my visions.

I also told him about the other people in my life: Uncle Tan was a Buddhist, and Uncle Lou used his breaks from filling orders in the kitchen to recite endless prayers that sounded like magic spells. Many of the people who lived in Chinatown went to a Taoist temple to burn incense and pray. Luna was Bangladeshi and Auntie Sarah Sri Lankan, but as they were both born in Britain, they went to church and believed in Jesus. Nevertheless, they each skilfully balanced the etiquette and rules of their religion with their own cultural heritage. Grandfather Abdul smiled with satisfaction at my descriptions of everyone.

“Child, just as our clothes and food are a little different from each other's, our lifestyles are also different. But that's all. Providence converges into one.”

Though I knew nearly nothing about Islam, Ali's family's customs were not all that difficult for me. Later, Ramadan was a little tough to get through, but once the period of fasting was over, I realized anew the preciousness of family and daily meals. When I told Grandfather Abdul the story of Princess Bari and how I got my name, he smiled brightly and nodded.

“If your destiny is the same as the Bari of legend, then I guess it's time for you to start looking for the life-giving water.”

“I don't know, Grandfather. All my grandmother told me was that the water would find
me
.”

The days passed, tranquil and untroubled. Ali worked hard at his taxi job, and I continued giving foot massages at the salon. Five times a day, Grandfather Abdul spread out his prayer rug and bowed in the direction of Mecca, and on Fridays Ali joined him at the mosque. In the privacy of our flat, I learned how to pray by copying Ali.

One day, I was working at Tongking when my afternoon client arrived.

“America is at war!” she exclaimed the moment she came in. “I just saw it on TV. The whole world is going mad!”

There were shocked whispers all over the salon. Uncle Tan brought the television out of the break room and plugged it in. Sure enough, every single channel was broadcasting the news about what had happened in New York. They kept showing the same footage over and over, of a passenger plane flying into a building and exploding, and then another plane following suit. We held our breaths at first, as if we were watching an action movie. But when the building collapsed all at once, we screamed. People running down streets covered in broken glass and dust and smoke; the horrified faces and torn clothes of the wounded, who had barely made it out alive; paper and debris blowing around in the wind.

By the time I got home that night, it seemed the whole world had lost its mind over the events in New York. I went upstairs to find Grandfather Abdul kneeling on his rug, about to pray. I waited just outside the door for him to finish. He stood, bowed once more and turned around.

“You saw the news?” he asked. My face fell. I nodded.

“I called Ali,” he said. “I told him to come home early tonight.”

I understood what he was implying. Grandfather Abdul kept peering out the window until Ali was back. He did return much earlier than usual, but Grandfather Abdul still looked angry when he came in.

“What took you so long? I told you to come home early.”

“Someone called asking me to take them to the airport. I was on my way back.”

“Stay home in the evening from now on. If you have to work late, only do it on the weekend.”

Ali glanced at me and then spread his arms wide and asked: “What are you so worried about?”

“The world is different now! Even before this happened, Muslims were not looked at kindly.”

“Grandfather, that's America. We're British.”

“Legally, yes. But now they'll be more open about criticizing our religion, and our way of life.”

Ali looked frustrated. “The terrorists are extremists!” he shouted. “They have nothing to do with Muslims like us!”

Grandfather Abdul sighed. “But they're still Muslim. Terrible things are going to happen. This has given them an excuse.”

I prepared dinner quietly and didn't interrupt them. We ate in silence.

Grandfather Abdul's predictions weren't far off: a rock was thrown through the window of the mosque; women wearing
hijabs
were cursed at; and graffiti was spray-painted on the homes of Muslims.

More than two months later, it was Ramadan. Ali would awaken at dawn to eat a little soup or rice porridge, then touch nothing else until nightfall except the occasional sip of water. I didn't feel right enjoying my lunch with the other studio employees, so I just had juice or something else to drink. As my shift didn't end until after dark, I could go ahead and eat as soon as I got home; but I ate more lightly than usual, and avoided anything too fatty. Mostly it was porridge, vegetables or fruit. By that point, I was halfway to living a Muslim lifestyle and observing the customs.

One night, Ali received a phone call. From his voice, I figured it was his father. When he hung up, he looked grim.

“What's wrong?”

“Usman has disappeared.”

“Doesn't he work at a factory?”

“He does. But he said he was taking time off to travel with friends.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Ali shook his head.

“They found the receipt for the plane ticket in his room. That idiot has gone to Pakistan.”

There was a knock at the door. Grandfather Abdul stepped inside.

“Your father just called. I take it you spoke to him, too, about Usman going to Pakistan?”

They both fell silent. Grandfather Abdul looked deep in thought.

“You better go to Leeds yourself to try to find out what happened,” he said to Ali. “Young people mistake friendship for not telling their elders what their friends are doing. Your brother's friends aren't going to tell your parents the truth.”

Ali nodded and said: “I know Usman's friends. They'll know what's going on.”

I interrupted them: “I don't understand what all the fuss is about. So your brother went back home? I'm sure he'll be back in a few days, smiling about the nice vacation he had.”

Grandfather Abdul shook his head slowly from side to side.

“It's not like that. The United States and Britain have declared war on Afghanistan, which means that calls for support and solidarity have been going out to young Muslim men in other countries.”

Ali left for Leeds the next day. Grandfather Abdul and I waited and didn't eat until he returned, late that night. His long arms looked like they were sagging all the way to his knees, no doubt from worry and fatigue. As soon as Ali collapsed onto Grandfather Abdul's soft couch, Grandfather Abdul started pressing him for information.

“What did you find out?”

“He's in Pakistan. He's already been there for over three weeks. He went with four guys from his youth group.”

“Did you find out where exactly he went?”

“Peshawar. One of the guys, Saeed, is from there.”

“Did you get Saeed's address?”

“Yes, from Saeed's mother. She asked me to go find him and bring him back.”

It was all but certain that they were headed for Afghanistan, as Peshawar was right on the border, a few hours from Kabul.

Now that Ali knew his younger brother's whereabouts, there was nothing I could do to stop him; his purpose in going there was to prevent something terrible from happening to his family. I had not yet told Ali, but I was almost three months pregnant at the time. Everyone was anxious to find Usman, so Ali left for Pakistan just a couple of days later. None of us knew it would be a long farewell.

By the following summer, Ali still had not returned; nor had there been any word from him. I gave birth without him, to a baby girl with dark skin and big eyes just like her father's. I had just turned nineteen.

A new government had been installed in Afghanistan since the beginning of the year, but the news continued to broadcast reports stating that military operations to root out insurgents in the mountains were ongoing. Every day, the television showed refugee camps, torn-up streets and starving children.

I spent two days in the hospital. Grandfather Abdul took Ali's place and ran around buying baby clothes, baby bottles, diapers and other supplies. He named the baby “Hurriyah”.

“What does
hurriyah
mean?” I asked him.

“It means
freedom
.”

I murmured the Korean word for freedom under my breath:
jayu
. Words need objects to attach to if they're to be remembered. I thought about the names of the wildflowers that used to brighten the hills at the foot of Mount Baekdu as well as the banks of the Tumen River, where a bleak wind used to blow: purple, yellow and white
nancho
; childlike
dongja
; starry-eyed
wangbyeol
; delicate
jebi
, named after a bird;
eunbangul
, which resembled little silver bells;
jaunyeong
, the tips of their petals dipped in magenta; bristly
jilgyeongi
, on thick green stems; china-pink
paeraengi
; dark purple
norugwi
;
babpul
, which looked like they held little grains of rice; and the cute yellow buttercups we called
minari ajaebi
. The list was endless. I pictured myself running through fields of them with my sisters, and looked down at the baby asleep next to me with her eyes gently closed. To the name Hurriyah, I added the Korean name that signified
girl
: Suni. I murmured under my breath again:
Hurriyah Suni
.

Luna dropped by after work each night to fix me some food and help look after the baby. Ali's parents also came to visit once, with Ali's younger sisters. At the same time that they were thrilled the baby looked so much like her father, they couldn't hide their tears. Before they left, Ali's father hugged me and whispered in my ear:

“Ali's older brother is going to Pakistan to look for him this summer. He'll send us good news.”

I just smiled and didn't say anything; I knew Ali was still alive.

I didn't go back to work at the salon until the baby was over a hundred days old, but I continued going to Lady Emily's once a week. Most of the time she only wanted a massage, but some days she would tell me about her dreams instead, or confide in me about her communication with her deceased nanny, Becky. She had several psychic friends, and they all took turns meeting at each other's houses. Lady Emily had offered to introduce me to the group, but I always found an excuse to decline. One day I arrived at Lady Emily's house in Holland Park at our scheduled time, only to find Auntie Sarah looking grim.

“Madam is out. She's gone to Brighton,” she said.

“Did something bad happen?” I asked.

Auntie Sarah lowered her voice: “Her husband's dead. Shot.”

“What? How …?”

“That little bitch shot him three times.”

Auntie Sarah stopped there and wouldn't elaborate. I was so shocked that I forgot all about my own worries, and felt bad for Lady Emily. I'd figured her preoccupation with psychics was because of her separation from her husband.

Luna, the baby and I were spending the evening together that night when Grandfather Abdul came downstairs. He stroked Hurriyah Suni's tiny feet and rubbed his beard against her soft-as-water cheek.

“I need to tell you something,” he began.

“I'll give you two some privacy,” Luna said. She got up and started to head for the door, but Grandfather Abdul gestured for her to stay.

“It's okay,” he said. “You two tell each other everything anyway. Ali's older brother just got back from Pakistan.”

Luna and I exchanged a glance, and both looked expectantly at Grandfather Abdul.

“He confirmed that Ali went from Peshawar to Kabul in search of his brother. Also, Saeed's uncle, who lives in Peshawar, said that Usman and his friends stayed with him for five days before leaving for Kabul. We know this much because Ali made one phone call from Kabul. But like his younger brother, he hasn't been heard from since. According to reports, Jalalabad, which is near Kabul, and northern Kunduz were bombed by the Northern Alliance, and a lot of people died or were taken away. I can only hope that they're still safe somehow.”