The Lost Pearl (2012)

It was the perfect childhood—that is until everything changed, of course. It was February 1987, and we were enjoying another mild Karachi winter. We had lived in the same house in Pakistan since my birth, and the most recent addition to it was our family portrait, which had acquired the status of becoming the most outstanding feature of my father’s study. Surrounded by an intricate bronze frame, it had originally been placed in the family room, but Papa insisted on moving it, arguing that he spent a greater fraction of his time at his desk and wanted our picture to be simply a glance away. He had retrieved his hammer and nails from his old toolbox and fixed the portrait to the wall across from his desk despite my mother’s insistence that it remain in the family room. He asked me to confirm that it was centered and straight before finalizing its position on the wall.

It was a lovely photograph taken six months earlier, with my father a handsome man of forty, his wavy hair gelled back, revealing some subtle streaks of gray. He was wearing his thick black glasses, which in my humble opinion were too old-fashioned and in need of replacement by thinner metallic ones. He was dressed in his usual collared shirt, bleached to the brightest shade of white. He wore a diagonally striped blue-and-black silk tie that gave him the look of a truly distinguished gentleman, the silver links of his watch barely emerging from the edge of his starched sleeve. Next to him was my beautiful mother, six months shy of her thirtieth birthday, the epitome of poise and elegance, adorned in a traditional Pakistani dress, a pink
kurta shalwar
with a delicately embroidered design. Her face beamed
with joy, and her stunning eyes shone with pride, a reflection of everything having gone well in her life, perhaps. In her lap was my four-year-old brother, Sahir, dressed in a very proper dark red shirt, mischief unable to escape his chubby face. His straight black hair fell generously on his forehead, nearly covering his eyes. It had taken countless attempts to make him stationary for the pose, superseding the difficulty with which he had agreed to be still for his haircut a month before.

In the center was me, a nine-year-old girl with long black hair brushed neatly into two braids and tied with bright yellow ribbons on either side of a very straight middle parting. They matched the yellow-and-white summer dress I was wearing, which my aunt had thoughtfully sent as a birthday present. Anyone who saw the photograph would be compelled to notice the striking resemblance I bore to my father. I had the appearance of a studious schoolgirl, with dark brown eyes full of innocence bordering on naivety. I wore a smile that was sweet in spite of the silver of newly acquired braces. It was a picture of a child who had everything a girl her age could wish for and more. I truly was “Papa’s little princess,” as my father often liked to call me. Prior to the session, our photographer from Jimmy’s Studio had offered retouching free of cost, to remove any blemishes or red eyes, but none had been required. The portrait was an honest depiction of what our family was: in no need of retouching and truly picture perfect.

Our maid, Sakina, cleaned the portrait every day, wiping the dust off the frame, carefully removing any cobwebs before they formed fully, and scrubbing the glass clean with her dexterous hands. Sakina’s daughter, Zareen, who was only three months younger than I, would accompany her on occasion and assist her mother with the less rigorous house chores, despite my mother’s opposition. She would eye the portrait with admiration and perhaps an iota of envy. When she cleaned it, I looked at
her with sympathy, and the sad thought that she had to grow up without her deceased father’s love.

I adored my brother, but like most siblings, we had our share of meaningless conflicts. I remember vividly when he was born and can picture the yellow Winnie-the-Pooh blanket we had bought before bringing him home from the hospital; it remained preserved in a closet of memorabilia for years. I clearly recall the first time he smiled, the first time he recognized me, and the very first time he called me
Apa
, the word for big sister. His arrival became the icing on the cake of our glorious life. His laughter echoed so loudly through the walls that I wondered sometimes if it would break them. He loved throwing and chasing after his orange ball, running after it fast as a rocket, without contemplating the perils of such an adventure, and playing with the red fire truck Papa had brought him from a trip to Europe.

My father was in the Foreign Service, and we were blessed with affluence that blinded us perhaps, to the struggles of the impoverished. My mother tastefully decorated our house, covering each wall with beautiful paintings and each floor with fancy rugs; every detail was designed to please the artistic eye.
Ammi
, as I called her, ensured that the house was meticulously clean, which was something of a challenge, considering the layers of dust that accumulated in Karachi houses. She would spend hours in the kitchen supervising the cook, making certain that the salt was just right and the flour the required consistency to be kneaded into
roti
, the perfectly circular traditional bread. She would often reassess her silverware and send Sakina periodically to have it polished.

She loved to spend time in the garden, talking to her plants, singing to them, and discussing with the gardener the bloom of the spring flowers. The pink bougainvilleas complemented the yellow in the sunflowers, so they were planted near one another. The fern appeared graceful growing up the wall and became the youngest member of the garden. The money plant had been
there since my birth and had grown before my eyes, nurtured by a handful of water and few ounces of sunlight, but mostly by gallons of my mother’s care. She would sometimes remove all the weeds from the garden herself, protecting her hands with thick brown gardening gloves. “Weeds spoil what’s good around them,” she would say, carefully and cautiously plucking out each and every one of them.

Her mothering was quite like her gardening. She would nurture us and sing to us, removing the thorns while planting roses in our paths. We were blossoming under her care, as were all the flowers in our lawn. One tight hug from her and all our petty childhood problems would evaporate, becoming absorbed into the hold of her motherly embrace. She would worry about us, like any mother, and would protect us like a bird sheltering the nest of her young. Married at the tender age of nineteen, she was very dependent on my father, which was somewhat of a cultural norm at that time in Pakistan. She did not make any decisions without his approval and seldom went out of the house unless it was to fulfill a social obligation. She was a devoted wife and mother.

She had convinced Sakina to send Zareen to school after much persuasion. Sakina was a widow who was raising her daughter alone, with some support from her deceased husband’s parents. They were against sending Zareen to school, but Ammi saw what a bright girl she was and had convinced Sakina that it was sinful to deny her an education. Ammi said she would pay for it and later laid it as a condition for allowing Sakina to continue working at our home. If Zareen had any questions about her schoolwork, she came to me, and I gladly answered her queries, although she seldom needed assistance.

My father was very involved in our upbringing. He had a side that was humorous and casual and another that was mature and speculative. “These are only things, my dear,” my father once said when I had accidentally broken a crystal candleholder.
“Things can always be replaced. Plus, even if they are not replaced, nobody really misses them when they are gone. You must learn to love people—that’s what’s most important.”

Papa loved to pass on his pearls of wisdom to us with every word he spoke and every action he took, setting the perfect example and yet never letting it seem like a lesson, and always sprinkling his golden words with a touch of humor. He made sure we had fun while learning.

“What does rich mean?” my brother once asked me.

“It means to have lots of money and things,” had been my superficial answer.

Papa had interjected, “Let me tell you a story. There was once a scholar who had been travelling in a caravan and was looted by thieves. They said, ‘Give us your money, your watch, that bag you are carrying, and your winter coat. We want everything.’ The scholar proceeded to comply with their wishes and stripped himself of everything but his clothes. He did so without resistance and without becoming angry with the thieves. His friend, who was accompanying him, was surprised by his calm attitude and asked why he had agreed to give up everything so readily. ‘They can take everything from me, but they cannot take from me what makes me rich, my most hard-earned and prized possession: my knowledge,’ he said. What makes you rich is your soul, your knowledge; it’s what’s inside a person, not what’s outside for everyone to see,” he had said.

And the next minute we were playing Carom and card games and guessing in twenty questions. He read books to us and often took us to the library and the toy store. We would frequent the beach for mini picnics. He often became a horse for Sahir, and father and son would run and laugh uncontrollably all over the house. He checked my homework, picked me up from school, and never missed my parent-teacher meetings. If I asked for anything, I always got it, though I did not ask for much.

I once overheard my mother say to my father, “Have you ever thought that we might be spoiling Sana?” referring to me. “She always gets what she wants. She is a good girl, but what if, after she gets married, life isn’t a bed of roses anymore?”

“Rubbish,” my father replied. “Why do you women start thinking about marriage so soon? She is not even ten, plus I think she is already quite mature for her age. She is my little princess and she has a heart of gold. I think you and I are raising her quite well. You should stop worrying.”