The Lost Pearl (2012) (7 page)

The balm that time was said to be had slowly begun to heal my sorrow. I missed my father. I missed my homeland. I was in a bigger, cleaner, more opportune, more organized, more scenic part of the world, yet I still missed my country. In the beginning I could not quite define what I missed about Pakistan. Over the years I came to understand that it was a little of everything: our neighbor knocking on the door because she had run out of tomatoes; the fresh guavas sold on the street, the vendors not allowing their enthusiasm to be vanquished by the heat; the Hasina Moin drama that aired from a single channel at eight o’clock at night, mesmerizing the city. I missed the
dhobi
or washman who arrived late each week with all the clothes starched stiff and a towel or two missing from the final count, the grand weddings that were five-day affairs, the
pakoras
fried at the onset of every monsoon, friends chatting and singing to the rhythm of the rain in the balconies of their homes, and most of all, the house full of people and full of voices.

What I missed was a little of everything but a lot of belongingness.

In keeping with the promise I had made to my mother, I spent all my summer vacations in Karachi. Part of me looked forward to it because I craved to feel a connection and I wished for my brother and half-sister to think of me as their older sibling. The person I did not wish to see at all was my stepfather. Time had not healed the wounds or cleared our differences, and my rage remained undiluted. Sara was my dear sister, and I loved her beyond expression. I did feel a pinch when my mother held her close, as it reminded me how her embrace had loosened from around me that dreaded night and had never returned. How I craved a hug, a look of reassurance, and a sense of security from her. It was still difficult to comprehend how the woman who had tended to and nurtured me just as she had her garden had become so alienated from me in such a short time. She had broken my heart by not confiding in me and had put salt on my wounds by replacing my father with a man I could never accept. How she had left her ferns and bougainvilleas in the hands of others in whose care they had failed to thrive. I hoped she would never hurt Sara that way. I was protective of her and loved her with all my heart.

When I left for my summer vacation to Pakistan, I packed everything in a hurry, topping my luggage off with a schoolbag for Zareen, a Nintendo game for Sahir, and a giggling Elmo for Sara. I could not wait to see my baby sister. I knew she would come running to me, and she did. She looked adorable with her hair braided and tied in pink ribbons and her cheeks as rosy as ever. Sahir had glasses and looked leaner than before. Sara was four by then, and had started asking questions which were honest and simple, yet very difficult to answer.

“Why don’t you live with us, Apa?” she would ask, her brown eyes wide open. I told her that I was studying in America and maybe when she was older, she could go there as well. I
often read to her at night,
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
being her favorite, and she asked me to read it to her over and over again. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us all?” she would say along with me.

I sang her lullabies until she dozed off to sleep. We named her dolls, braided their hair, and built their imaginary homes. On one occasion we invited all the children from the neighborhood to celebrate a pretend wedding, with the doll wearing fancy clothes that my mother had stitched for her. Sara always looked up to me, searching for the light, trying to imbibe some wisdom; little did she know that the light was actually within her and it was I who wished to absorb the innocence from her. The innocence that had once defined me and had now escaped me, replaced by a coldness that felt numb, yet still painful, like an anesthetic that had not been effective.

One night at the dinner table, she naively remarked, “Abbu, I am going to America with Apa.” He looked at her quizzically and shot a harsh glance toward my mother and then toward me. It felt like an accusing arrow piercing through. After Sara was asleep, he came to me and said, “What is this nonsense about Sara going to America?”

Becoming immediately defensive, I replied, “I am sorry if you are offended or threatened, but your daughter asked me why I don’t live here and I had to tell her something, so I said it was for my education and she could join me in America if she wished.”

“Why should I be threatened? She is not going anywhere. You should have told her the truth—that you don’t live here because you ran away and because you were ungrateful.”

“Then I would have to tell her why I ran away. It was because of you, and I don’t want to spoil your image in her eyes. I would never want a daughter to think badly of her father. She thinks you are perfect.”

We went on in this fashion, arguing over nothing, our deep-rooted hatred for each other surfacing in a variety of ways, ruining the peaceful world around us.

“The fact is, I am not perfect, Sana. Nobody is,” he said. “But even if I were, for you I would always be the bad guy, the person who took your father’s place. You had decided before you even met me that you were going to hate me from the core of your heart. I have come to accept that now, but I think you need to be more considerate of your mother’s feelings.”

“You don’t need to tell me how to handle my mother’s feelings; that’s between her and me. As for Sara, I love her to death, and if she comes to stay with me for a while, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Sahir comes too.”

“Sahir has an aunt there. Sara does not. I don’t know why we are having this pointless discussion. You don’t know how much grief your leaving has caused your mother. Please don’t make things more difficult for her.”

“My leaving suited you, though. I was the only one talking about my father. When I left, his name left. That’s why you never tried to stop me. I am the one who lost everything. For you everything turned out quite well, did it not?”

He looked at me with a disdain I had never seen in his eyes before. As soon as those toxic words escaped my quivering lips, I regretted having said them. But it was too late; the poison had already spread, and the harm had already been done. The damage was unlikely to be reversed by the antidote of an insincere apology. At that instant, I felt the delicate string of the bond between us, loose as it was, break completely.

My stepfather was fuming. I thought he would yell, but instead he crunched his teeth, struggling to control his rage. “I am not going to talk to you anymore. I don’t want to say anything that I regret, and I don’t want things between your mother and me to become sour. So I will go finish some chores I have pending.”

His punishment would come in a discreet and cruel manner. Had he screamed at me, complained to Ammi about me, or beat me with a belt, I would not have felt so much anguish. Instead he tried to keep me away from Sara, taking her with him to the grocery store, finding excuses to put her to bed early. This was my punishment, and in his mind it also benefitted Sara, for he truly believed that I was bad influence on her, which I probably was. She was cute and innocent, and I was stubborn and rebellious. My stepfather had not seen me before the tragedy that had transformed me. I had been just like Sara, more innocent than an unborn child, sweeter than the sweetest sugar. Now I was bitter like the coffee that had been forgotten on the stove and brewed for too long. The worst part was that I did not think I could ever change. By then the well of tears was dry, but the stagnant waters had formed a layer of rust within my soul.

My mother seemed aloof, and I assumed that he had told her something, although I was unable to assess whether he had told her a milder or an exaggerated version of what had taken place. I still did not know him well enough to predict what he would do. I tried my best to avoid all conversation with him, and he did the same. It crossed my mind several times to apologize for my impertinence, but I let my ego kill that thought before acting on it.

I had been told upon my arrival that the schoolbag I had brought for Zareen could be kept in a closet or given away because Sakina had taken her out of school. She was engaged to be married to her cousin, and the boy’s family did not want her to be educated beyond eighth grade. I looked sorrowfully at her books, which she had left in a corner of my room, arranged in a neat pile. Perhaps she had not had the courage to throw them away or pack them in her suitcase filled with the dowry her mother had made after taking countless loans from every person she knew.

I spent time with Ammi in the kitchen, which was mostly where she was, engrossed in cooking delicious food and experimenting with new recipes, besides naturally fulfilling her motherly duties with her two other children. I enjoyed watching over Sahir and Sara when the grown-ups were gone and helping Sahir with his homework, although he seldom required it. He aspired to be a doctor, he told me. He said it with a resolve and confidence that was well beyond his nine years. It was pleasant to see glimpses of what a good brother he was to Sara; he played with her, mended all her broken toys, and helped her memorize nursery rhymes. I once heard him singing the
Barney and Friends
theme song to her: “I love you. You love me. We’re a happy family.”

They were a happy family indeed, but I was not a part of it. I was more like a cousin with a foreign accent from a distant land, living in a different time zone, disconnected with the ups and downs of their everyday lives.

Sahir was a good son to both my mother and stepfather, and I was certain that he did not miss Papa at all. I could not blame him, since he had been too young when the tragedy had occurred. He was growing up with a person he identified as a father figure and was fortunate not to have that piece missing from his life. I realized I had to be happy for him and his situation. Sometimes I felt like telling him everything so he would understand all the reasons behind my departure, but I could not bring myself to break the promise I had made to my mother. Sahir had accepted that Papa was gone for good and that was why Ammi had married the man he called Abbu. Considering how nice he was to Sahir, I sometimes questioned whether my stepfather was as hateful as I believed. But I realized that while Papa continued to live through my memory of him, he was nothing but a hazy childhood dream to Sahir, which was no threat to my stepfather.

I graduated from high school in 1995. I had been well cared for by my aunt and uncle. They were wonderful parents to me, raising me cautiously and loving me wholeheartedly. I was certain they were more lenient than they would have been if I were their biological child. I attributed that difference to their belief that they had earned all the rights to love me but none to reprimand me. They had given me the best education and life I could have wished for. They were more liberal than my own parents would have been, in that I was permitted to go out with my friends often and make independent decisions. I never stayed out late or did anything to disappoint them, which was my way of expressing my deep gratitude for what they had done for me.

I had always had a passion for writing, and my teachers encouraged me to steer my interests in that direction. I enjoyed reading the newspaper like my dad and spent a considerable amount of time watching CNN. I had decided during my school years that I wanted to become a journalist; I thought it was an occupation that would have made my father proud. The truth had always been so important to him, and a truth seeker is what I wished to be. I shared my thoughts with my aunt, and she agreed that it was definitely a goal worth pursuing, so I diligently set out on that path, never looking back.

I wrote a few articles for the local newspapers and was ecstatic when they were accepted for publication. I had done well in school and had earned a partial scholarship at Stanford. It was an honorable institution that had the advantage of being close to Freemont. Going there was a decision I never regretted. I decided
to stay on campus and commuted by the Bart train to my aunt’s almost every weekend. Phuppo settled me into an apartment, apprehensive at first about allowing me to live on my own. She discussed the situation at length with my mother over the phone. I knew Phuppo supported me, and I felt deeply obliged. My mother had accepted that I became independent the day I left my abode, and this was not the time to tighten the reigns. Perhaps she was saving that for when the time came for me to get married. When it was all settled, my aunt gave me some cooking lessons and made me promise I would eat well and not allow my books to outweigh me.

“Please don’t live off of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches or macaroni and cheese,” she said. “The trick with any curry is that you know it’s done when the oil comes up above it. If you don’t have time to cook chicken curry for yourself, at least boil some lentils and have them with rice.”

She packed some pots and pans in a box, along with some spices and recipes. She topped it off with some Nice Biscuits that she had bought from the desi store. She advised me never to run out of salt, sugar, teabags, or turmeric. “You should have some Tylenol in your bedside drawer in case you get sick, and please use sunscreen every day,” she added.