T
hat night Jameel went to his room at Number 5 Anwar Road. Apart from napping on the airplane, he had not slept since two nights before in San Francisco. His grandfather was still alive the last time he went to sleep, he thought with a jolt. He wondered whether this would keep happeningâif every time he thought a new thought, it would be in the realization that life was going on without Baba in the world.
Jameel changed into his pajamas and sat down at the desk in the corner of the room. He took Baba's letter out and reread it. He was almost surprised that it said the same thing as when he'd first read it. He crumpled it and hurled it to the floor, then thought better and picked it up, smoothed it out, refolded it, and placed it back in the desk drawer.
He took a tablet of blue vellum paper from the desk and began a letter to Chloe. She deserved at least an explanation of what had happened, why she would never see him again. He wrote the date, then sat with the pen poised for several
minutes and realized he'd never be able to make her understand. He put the paper and pen away and sat with his forehead resting on his hands.
There was a light tap at the door, and Uncle Omar stuck his head in.
“I saw your light was still on,” he said. “May I?”
“Please,” said Jameel, “come in.” He stood and motioned to the easy chair in the corner beside his desk, but Omar didn't sit.
“I know this can't be easy for you,” said Omar.
“When were you going to tell Mumtaz and me?” asked Jameel. “Or were you going to kidnap us andâ”
“Please don't be so bitter,” said Omar. “Jameel, you and Mumtaz will be good for each other. You've known each other all your lives, and you've always been close.”
“Didn't it ever occur to anyone that we both had our own ideas about how we'd live our lives?” Jameel asked. The tears were very close to spilling out of his eyes, and perhaps he'd never be able to think of how they'd tricked Mumtaz and him without being angry.
“You know I understand,” said Omar. “The same happened to me when I came back from America.”
“So just because the same thing happened to you, does that make it right that I should never see my friends again, never go to college and study to be an engineer, andâ”
“Who says you can't go to university?” said Omar. “There's no reason you and Mumtaz can't go to university together after you're married. We all thought Baba would live for a long time. He wanted you to go to Stanford just as he did. You always
wanted to go to Stanford. You can both finish school here and go back to California if that's still what you want.”
Jameel didn't answer. He tried to imagine himself and Muti married and going together back to California. How would his friends accept Mumtazâas his wife? Even at eighteen, when they would be on their way to college? And sex. He couldn't go there yet. The conversation with his father would come soon enough.
But the idea of going together back to the United States to university certainly was not his image of how things were done in Pakistan. In his time-travel fantasies he thought of his familyâparticularly his grandfatherâas being purely in the realm of the past. Baba had gone to Stanford University in California, but he came straight back to Lahore. He was already married to Grandmotherâan arranged marriage when he was fifteenâand he ran the family farms until Uncle Rahim died, when he became tribal leader.
“But I never wanted to be tribal leader. Why did they skip your generation? It's not fair! I should have more time.”
Omar paced, listening carefully to Jameel.
“Something happened that changed me,” said Omar. “I fell in love. It was not someone I could ever marry. She was already married. I was about to be marriedâit was hopeless and completely out of the question. I knew it was the kind of love that ends only in tragedy, like Shah Jahan and Anarkali. It was a matter of life and death. And then she died. I knew I would never be happy. I would never love anyone in that way again. So I honored my father's wishes and married your Auntie Leyla.”
“But you never became tribal leader! It should be your responsibility, not mine!”
“Jameel, the woman I loved died because of the same tradition of vendetta and family honor that killed her husband. I didn't want any part of it. It was the only time I ever refused my father or my duty. I promised to do anything else to help himâbut I couldn't carry on that tradition.”
“And now you want me to?” asked Jameel.
“You and Mumtaz are a new generation,” Omar said. “Things must change if Pakistan is to survive. You must be educated and wise. It was what Baba wanted. It's just that things happened more quickly than we anticipated.”
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Jameel climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over himself after Omar left. He'd never thought of his uncle as someone who would fall in love so deeply. He was a cheerful man, someone who liked things to run smoothly and peacefully. Jameel would never have guessed he had suffered such a terrible tragedy as the loss of his one true love.
Jameel closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. Scenes kept appearing in his head like flash cards: his face twisted in mute anger as he washed his grandfather's body in preparation for the funeral; Uncle Nazir flying from his feet like a puppet yanked from a stage; Mumtaz lying on the ground with blood pouring from her mouth; the golden halo of Chloe's hair as she sailed from the ramp on her skateboard.
T
he servants cleaned shattered crystal from the front hallway for days. Auntie Leyla was nowhere to be seen. Jameel's mother was looking after things. Jameel was glad not to have to see Leyla after what she'd done.
Jameel grew restless, and his father told him he must stay at Number 5 Anwar Road. He swam in the morning, and wanted to go to the haveli to see Mumtaz.
“She's in purdah,” said his mother.
Jameel opened his mouth to speak, but didn't. Purdah. He was quick to anger since the accident, even though he tried to understand the need for doing things the Pakistani wayâthe old way. He was fighting so hard against the familiar feeling of being stuck between times and places. If he felt stuck in San Francisco, he realized, at least he could get unstuckâit was just a feeling in California. But here in Lahore the stuck-ness was a reality.
Or was it? He thought of Mumtaz as smart, having a right to speak her mind and to act on her wishes. Their relationship could be that wayâwho was to say it couldn't? Perhaps he could learn to see purdahâwomen being kept separate from menâas just a formality, a reminder of the good things of the past, when it served to protect privacy and dignity. In California he'd always felt uncomfortable with the exposed navels and more. Was purdah so bad by comparison?
His mother's voice jolted him out of his thoughts.
“I know, Beta,” said Nargis, holding up her hand. “It's a very old custom. But when you've been living here for a while you'll be surprised at how normal it will feel. You have to take the good with the bad, and there is a lot more good in the old ways than you might be willing to admit right now. The Amirzai people will expect these customs to be observed.”
“I want to see how Mumtaz is,” said Jameel.
“She's fine, Beta. Your father is tending to her twice a day. Like you, she needs to rest, to recover from the concussion. But she is already up and about.”
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In the days that followed, wedding preparations began. Nargis bustled about, calling for flowers and food and extra servants, shamiana, thousands of little white lights, all of the accoutrements of a wedding. Furniture was rearranged. A new chandelier was brought from Karachi and hung in the front hall. The house was cleaned in every corner.
Jameel watched the preparations as if he were watching a television show. He thought of Chloe. He wanted to call her, at least to tell her what was about to happen. But he knew it would be incomprehensible to her. He grieved. He'd never again wonder at her golden hair and blue eyes. He'd never be Jimmy again. He wanted to see Mumtaz. He wondered whether she felt as trapped as he did.
Jameel's father made him sit in the front parlor with Uncle Omar each afternoon to receive tribesmen, to hear their complaints and solve their problems concerning land, crops, or family issues, as Grandfather had done, and his brother and father and grandfather before him. The tribesmen had heard about the coming wedding and came to pay their respects.
Jameel listened as one man presented a petition to get back a piece of land his cousin had seized. Uncle Omar signed a paper ordering the cousin to tear down the fences he'd built and give back the land.
A shepherd came to complain that a neighbor had stolen his sheep. Omar ordered the two men to appear together and sorted out why the neighbor was stealing the sheep. It turned out the neighbor had felt wronged when the other had dammed his irrigation canal.
One man said he'd paid a bride price and the woman married a man from the next village. Omar ordered the woman to repay the bride price.
Jameel wondered how his uncle knew who to believe and what was the best way of solving these problems.
Maulvi Inayatullah came to dinner one evening, and afterward
Omar asked the maulvi and Jameel and his father to come into the study. Jameel thought perhaps Omar was going to tell him more about the plans that lay ahead. But instead the maulvi spoke.
“I know you think we imams are old-fashioned and backward,” said Inayatullah, “but please listen.” The old man spoke softly but urgently, and Jameel remembered the animated conversations Inayatullah and his grandfather had in this same study, one minute outshouting each other and the next dissolving into laughter. “You have only one family,” Inayatullah went on. “If you were to turn your back on your people, you would cut yourself off from them. It will be as if you have no family at all. You can never replace them. That is a serious matter.”
The maulvi paused, as if waiting for a response. Jameel said nothing, and he continued. “The second thing is that
mahabbat
here is very different from
love
in America. Here the word has to do with tradition, piety, duty, and family. When we talk of romance and passion, immediately we think of sadness or even tragedy.
Mahabbat
is a serious word.”
“I don't care about cultural difference,” said Jameel. “I want my life back.”
“Maybe it was wrong that we didn't tell you before,” said his father. “Your grandfather has always wanted you to be the tribal leader, since before you were born, even when Uncle Rahim was leader. Once your grandfather became leader he had the power to name his successor. Only he can change that determination. And he's no longer here to do that.”
Jameel felt his anger rise again, and he was helpless to stop it.
“Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me think I'd be like everyone else? That I'd grow up and make decisions for myself like other people do?” He felt the time warp engulf him again, as if he were stuck in medieval times.
“Your grandfather was strong and healthy, and we all thought he'd live to be a very old man. We wanted you to live like a normal boy for as long as possible.”
“When will this marriage take place?” Jameel asked.
“It must be very soon,” said Omar. “As we have already seen, trouble is inevitable when there is a void in leadership. After Mumtaz has recovered, you and she will marry. Perhaps within the week.”
Three days passed as if he'd dreamed them. And then one afternoon Jameel found himself alone in the house. Even his mother had gone out to pick up the new waistcoat Omar had ordered for Jaffar.
He went to the intersection of Anwar and Canal Bank Road and hailed a motor rickshaw, ordering it to the walled city. He made his way to the haveli and pounded on the front gate.
Samiya and Shabanu were both on the other side of the gate when it swung open. They looked astonished to see him.
“I must see Mumtaz!” said Jameel. “I know we're not supposed to talk until the wedding, but I must!” Shabanu looked at him closely for a moment before nodding.
“Come with me,” she said. They went up the back stairway
to the rooftop, and Shabanu left him outside the pavilion. Mumtaz sat inside on the floor amid a pile of bolsters, still wearing white in honor of Baba's death.
Jameel felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. She looked lovely with her head bent over a piece of embroidery in her lap. Her long fingers were working over pale blue yarn on white cloth, and her graceful neck was arched as she concentrated. When Jameel saw the embroidery he grinned. It looked as if a small child had taken her first stitches, so long and uneven the pattern they made was unrecognizable. Muti looked up and saw his smirk.
“Hah!” she said. “You try it. I mean it. Come here and try doing this. You need six more hands!” Jameel went in and sat down beside her. He picked up the embroidery and tried. She was right: it was hard to hold and he stuck his finger with the first stitch. But even his first few stitches looked more respectable than hers.
Muti sniffed and sat back against a bolster, folding her arms.
“How's your tongue?” he asked.
“It's okay,” she said. “Want to see?” She stuck out her tongue, which was still red and swollen.
“Eeuuw!” he said, and they both laughed.
“You do a better job than I do,” said Mumtaz, nodding toward the piece of embroidery.
“Well, you know,” said Jameel, “it just occurred to me: do you know we'll be wealthy after we marry? We can pay someone to do our embroidery and mending.” Mumtaz smiled a small, sad smile.
“Uma says I can still go to Cholistan with her,” Mumtaz said. “If you really don't want to get married, then I don't want to marry you, either. I don't want to lose you, Jameel. You've been my best friend all my life, and I don't want that to change.”
Unexpectedly, a large lump formed in Jameel's throat. He nodded, and felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. “It won't,” he said hoarsely. Then, for fear his tears would spill over, he stood and said, “I really have to get back. I just wanted to see how you are. My mother is watching over me like a hawk.”
“Jameel,” Muti said, and stood, too, “please just tell me. I'll go to Cholistan. They'll find someone more suitable for you to marry.”
“Don't go to Cholistan,” he said, his voice sounding more like a strange old man's voice. “I have to go.” He turned and walked quickly out of the pavilion, down the stairs, through the courtyard, and out through the front gate.
He wished he had stayed. He wanted to talk to Muti more and to assure her. But what could he say? That he'd be a good husband? She knew how much he'd liked Chloe, and he didn't want to say anything that would sound false to Muti. He was still angry, but gradually he was growing used to the idea that he and Muti would marry. He simply had not untangled his feelings about it.
The next night he went to sleep thinking it was the last night he'd sleep alone. Tomorrow, he thought, and every night until he died he would share a bed with Muti, his wife. It didn't seem real.
In the middle of the night he awoke to see a flame hovering over his bed. It was so bright he could not see beyond it.
“Who's there?” he asked. His heart hammered, and he blinked to be sure his eyes were open. The light sped around the room, as if in search of something. “What do you want?” he asked. The light stood still when he spoke. He wasn't scared. He wished Muti was there, and wondered what she'd say to make the djinni go away.
Jameel reached across the bed for his nightlight and switched it on. The floating light disappeared. He remembered the maulvi said that the light shone brightest in the darkest darkness. He got out of bed, and on the table below where the light had hovered was a faded color photograph of a man and woman sitting side by side. Jameel examined it under the lampshade. It looked like a photograph of him and Mumtaz. He turned it over, and the date, August 27, 1958, was stamped on the back. “Jameel's wedding” was scrawled in faded ink under the date. He looked at the photo again. It was his grandparents' wedding. The date was fifty years ago tomorrow, when his grandfather was fifteen, exactly Jameel's age.
Jameel got back into bed and switched off the light. He lay uncovered on the warm sheets, staring into the darkness. In his grandfather's day, cousins married to keep property in the family. But the maulvi was right. The American ideal of romantic love had become a part of him and he didn't know how to rearrange his thinking.
He thought of Mumtaz and realized for the first time how
much he valued her intelligence, her inability to be anything but honest. He thought of her sense of fun, her curiosity, the clearness of her eyes, and suddenly skateboarding seemed like something he did when he was a child. His parents and Uncle Omar knew how important the things were that he valued in Mumtaz.
“You and Mumtaz are a good match,” said a voice beside the head of Jameel's bed. He turned to see Baba sitting beside the table. A faint white light and a sweetish whiff of betel nut emanated from him. Jameel raised himself to his elbows. “I felt the same way you're feeling before I married your grandmother,” Grandfather went on. “And yet your grandmother and I were very happy until her death.”
“Baba,” Jameel said, “I had so many things planned ⦔
“And you needn't give them all up,” said Grandfather. “Your Uncle Omar can handle things here while you and Mumtaz are at university. The experience of living in America will be good for her. It will be good for the two of you to live there together.”
“But, Grandfather, in America ⦔
“You are not an American, Jameel,” he said. “You may have a U.S. passport, but you have the blood of many generations of Amirzai leadership in your veins. You belong here.”
“What do I have to offer?” Jameel asked miserably, and his grandfather laughed.
“Just what we need right now is what you offer,” said his grandfather. “You honor Islam and you can help make Pakistan
a more modern country. You and Mumtaz are strong and clever. You are ancient souls with modern eyes.” Grandfather's form began to fade.
“Wait!” said Jameel. “I want you to tell meâabout the djinn. And I want to know what it's like where you are. Wait!” There was no answer as his grandfather's form faded to an almost invisible outline. “Please, Baba,” he said, “I haven't even said goodbye!” But the figure disappeared completely. Jameel stared into the darkness, and he knew that the djinni had done its job. His grandfather was right. This was his place, and he knew now what to tell Mumtaz.