Trespassing (28 page)

Anu turned back. Passing Khurram’s house on her right, she squinted up at the enormous concoction of green marble columns, pink tile and brass fixtures. Voices approached. The
gate opened. A car reversed onto the road. She moved aside, glancing within. It was the doctor, off to attend a meeting in a dark gray suit and striped tie. He threw her an admonishing look:
Go back to your silly household things.

Blinking, she saw it was in fact Khurram, talking into a cell phone.

Spotting her, Khurram gaped with as much astonishment as she did. She read him thus: realizing he was supposed to be with her son, he ducked to escape her attention, felt foolish for already being noticed, sat up again, hesitated, and as the car drove away, decided to wave.

As humidity levels rose, Dia suffered intense mood swings. The only place to be was the cove, with Daanish, despite Salaamat’s still, ominous presence. So why wasn’t she always there?

Her time was spent listening for the phone to ring (how could she ever have cursed man’s greatest invention?), and when it did, she rushed to answer the gnawing bell that now was dulcet melody. If it was him, she practically pirouetted.

If not, sometimes she called, at others she told herself it was his turn. Then she gazed from the phone to the gray sky, and then to the calendar hanging on the kitchen door. June slipped into July and July into its third week, but this barely registered. Nor did Inam Gul, who trailed her open-mouthed. All that mattered was her next meeting with Daanish.

But within moments, she chided herself for wasting her days in this disgusting expectant haze. How girlish. How
typical.

Next she’d worry. On average, he called twice daily. Did this mean he wasn’t thinking of her in between?

And finally, her heart raced as she repeated every word Daanish had last spoken, beginning with his passionate insistence through the tiny holes in the plastic headset: ‘I must see you. Not tomorrow. Today. Now.’ The memory so excited her she’d freeze, oblivious to where she sat or stood, ate or read, said or had been thinking of doing. It was more essential that she imagine where he stood or sat, what he ate or read, said or had been thinking of doing. She saw the muscle on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee – had it clenched when he leaned to speak into the phone? And the long scratchy neck, the hairless spot on each forearm – when could she circle them again with her nose? Until then, the hours were on hold.

The long drive to the farm was just what was needed: an ideal pretense for nonstop dreaming. She filled the thirsty plains outside her car window with her longings, barely even noticing the guards flanking her. Whether they ogled or shifted too close, she was with Daanish, lolling in the sand between massive boulders, relishing his fresh scent. Listening to the waves crash into their fort of rocks, foam occasionally spilling over, onto their nest. Wiping the salt from his eyes, while he promised, ‘When I’m here next, in the winter holidays, the sea will be perfect for teaching you to swim.’ He refused to accept her fear of water. She refused to accept that in less than a month his college would reopen and he’d be gone. While the car raced through the scorched riverbed, she floated with him, limbs entwined, and always would.

At the farm, yet another cycle had begun. The breeder moths’ seed was scrupulously analyzed for disease and the stainless eggs kept in incubation for ten days. The first to be stored had already hatched into tiny, baby caterpillars that wanted nothing but to eat.

Their greed was like hers.

Today, Dia stood before the trays that held the half-inch-long, newborn larvae. Her thoughts drifted from Daanish to the exam results printed in the paper that morning. She’d failed the retake, obviously. It meant she’d have to repeat the class. All those who’d cheated had passed.

Angrily, she shook the leaves in a tray. The larvae twitched, then champed again. The ones dropped down Nini’s shirt had been several days older. She missed her friend. Never again would she love another woman with such ease. Their trust, impervious for nine years, was gone for ever. It had splintered; she was left examining the sores. Possibly, Nini did the same. Dia considered it her second-greatest loss, after her father. Only this time, contrary to what Daanish insisted, she was responsible.

Or was she?

Since college was out for the summer, neither had run into the other. After the tea, days had passed before Nini finally called. Her abusive rampage had only made it easier for Dia to continue with Daanish. But then a week later, Nini had visited.

She’d looked terrible – bags under her beautiful bright eyes, complexion wan, gait uncertain. How had Dia appeared to her? Glowing?

They sat opposite each other on Dia’s bed, each determined to let the other begin. After ten minutes of steely silence, Nini left without a word. Dia whispered:
Run. Rush into her arms and beg to be forgiven, you fool.
But she sat still. Daanish’s reasoning echoed in her head: There’d been nothing between Nini and him. They weren’t married or engaged or even friends. There was nothing but an interest on their mothers’ part. Nini had become a stranger before Dia had even met Daanish. She let Nini recede down the corridor.

Sara, Inam Gul’s niece, was talking. Dia blinked. ‘Hmm?’

‘I said you look a little tired,’ Sara repeated.

‘I suppose I feel it a bit. Did these hatch today?’ She pointed to the tray being replenished with fresh leaves.

‘Yes. This is the third time I’ve fed them since the morning. Six more to go.’

Dia felt silly gliding along the table in her self-absorbed daze while the women around her toiled. How many around her had time to daydream? Sara looked as though she’d long since stopped trying.

Without greeting the other employees, an agitated Dia left the lab and walked toward the adjoining shack. On her way she met Sumbul, rubbing her fourth baby’s nappy under the tap outside. The child was suffering from diarrhea and Sumbul washed his clothes almost hourly. She squatted, hair in her eyes, worry on her face. The fifth child was beginning to show.

Dia hunkered, nauseated by the sight and smell of the boy’s watery shit. ‘Hopefully by tomorrow this will end,’ she consoled. ‘The medicine will start to work.’

‘Hopefully,’ Sumbul forced a smile. She wrung the cloth and rose, leaving it on a branch to dry.

They entered the shack together. The baby slept on a well-worn sofa, a cushion on his free side preventing him from falling. Sumbul adjusted it and settled beside him. The telephone was in the other room. Dia didn’t want to talk to Daanish in front of Sumbul. Salaamat had obviously been reporting their trysts because Sumbul was growing increasingly inquisitive. She’d even begun insinuating that if Dia’s mother advised staying away from Daanish’s family, she should. As if it was her business!

Pretending to busy herself, Dia picked the top off the pot on the burner – the staff’s lunch. ‘Smells good,’ she muttered foolishly. On the couch, Sumbul wound her hair up and started humming.

Then: ‘Are you going to see him again today?’

Dia blurted, ‘Salaamat at the cove, you here, Inam Gul and
my family at the house. Even the guards. There’s no privacy in this country. Only secrecy. We’re not doing anything wrong. In fact, what could be more right? Yet,
I’m
the transgressor. I’ve become the gunnah gaar.’

Sumbul looked up, hurt. ‘We’re just all worried about you, Dia Baji.’

Couldn’t she see the irony? Sumbul, at exactly Dia’s age, was bogged down by four children, an ill-tempered husband, and a fifth pregnancy. Yet it was Dia, the one in love, whom everyone worried about.

She marched into the next room and shut the door. Sumbul could listen at the keyhole if she wanted. She dialed Daanish’s number.

‘Hi. It’s Dia.’

‘Khurram! What a surprise!’

‘Oh, no. You too? Who’s there, your mother?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Well call me back, will you? I’m at the farm.’

‘That’s a great idea. I’ll come over right away.’

Falling back on the bed, she inhaled deeply.
That was rewarding.

While waiting for his call, she breathed his crisp, ruddy scent. It had lodged deep in her pores. A quiver swept across her cheek and down her neck.

She thought of the other men in her life – brothers, both virtual strangers; the eternal Inam Gul; a father till age fourteen. Then there was romantic love – crushes on gangly boys met at desperate parties. Kisses in strangers’ toilets. Little else. No nudity. No sex. Daanish had made it clear he desired both. Did she trust him? She remembered her own warning to Nini:
He’ll have fun with foreign women but marry a local one to please his mother.

So where did she fit in?

Dia turned on her side. Pride prevented her from asking how many others there’d been. Or still were. Yet the thought
irked her. One moment she flushed at the mere futility of it, the next she concluded it wasn’t futile. It might help determine whether she could trust him. After all, if a man were more experienced than a woman, wouldn’t she always feel like a child? Wasn’t that part of his thrill?

The phone rang. ‘Yes?’

‘Sorry,’ he sounded more relaxed. ‘Anu’s become insufferable.’

‘What happened?’

‘She’s figured out Khurram doesn’t have incisors like yours.’

Dia gasped. ‘She actually asked how it happened?’

‘No. She saw him on the street when he and I were really at the cove, necking.’ Over the receiver, Daanish slobbered and drooled.

Someone was chuckling in the background. ‘Is that him?’ she giggled.

‘Yup. He says this is the most fun he’s had since shopping in Amreeka.’

She laughed again. ‘So now what?’

‘Now,’ answered Daanish, ‘I might as well use our rickety car. I’ll just drive away on my own and if she asks where I’m going – which she will – I’ll think of something else.’

‘No Salaamat,’ she felt a rush of relief.

‘No. Just you and me and
a lot
of space to do as we please.’ He paused. It was the most calculated silence in the world. And the most exciting. Then, ‘Can I pick you up tomorrow?’

They decided on the fast-food joint to rendezvous at. Then he blew her a kiss and they hung up.

When Dia walked back out Sumbul eyed her disapprovingly.

She’d moved to the floor, where it was easier to change the whimpering baby. The dirty linen – a piece of an old kameez of Dia’s – lay bunched beside the boy and the room began
to stink. Sumbul gave him more medicine. ‘One more drop. Shabash, how brave you are!’

She could help Sumbul tend him. But Dia did not want to. And Sumbul wouldn’t speak to her again that day. Her mother, her best friend, and now even her favorite employee; because of Daanish, she was losing all three.

In the car, Dia’s tension grew threefold. She hated deceiving Riffat, feared the rioters, and panicked at the thought of losing herself to a man she wasn’t even sure she knew.

The day before, yet another strike had been called. Streets were desolate and shops closed. Were they mad to be out alone? Both knew that if stopped, they could be in serious danger. Dia half-missed Salaamat. He looked like he could protect her. Daanish didn’t.

Daanish held her hand, steering with his other. ‘You’re very quiet.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘The city looks so sinister. Like a vacated bombsite.’

He nodded. ‘I was thinking the same.’

A bus passed them, flashing messages of love, belching gallons of carbon monoxide. The back featured kohl-rimmed eyes that teased,
Dekh Magar Pyar Se.
Look, But With Love. Swarming around the eyes were pink parrots with heart-shaped flowers in their beaks and limbs of passengers trying desperately to stay on board.

‘Everything’s so complicated.’ Dia rolled up her window against the fumes. ‘What was it like in America, having the freedom to see whomever, whenever?’ She balked at her own nerve.

He was silent, she felt, for two heartbeats too many. Finally, ‘It certainly made things simpler.’

Too casual.
What things?
She let it go.

They heard a slight rumble: lightning further west. ‘Perhaps it’ll rain,’ Daanish mused.

They said little else till the cove, although Daanish never released her hand, even when the road narrowed and steering required both, even when a tanker pushed in front of them and nearly ended everything right there.

At the cove, she bit her lip, recalling reports of beach huts being raided and women raped. This hideout didn’t even offer a hut to duck into. Dia’s mind swam with newspaper accounts of women being killed by their uncles and brothers for doing less than she already had. She looked around with trepidation, she, the product of a country where self-consciousness was basic survival. Where a woman’s reputation was the currency that measured her worth.

Would being discovered here be the end of her? What would her brother Hassan turn into? She barely knew him after all. And did she know her mother? In their last argument, Riffat had toed the party line. She’d told Dia that she too would have to think about these things someday.
You’ve no idea how hostile society gets if you challenge it.
She’d pledged loyalty to Dia and yet, at the last, imposed her own will on her. Nini’s plaint –
my parents’ image is my headache
– tormented Dia now. What if Riffat was the same?

But Daanish began massaging the knot that had been building inside her ever since their first tryst. The pain of lying to those she loved, doubts about Daanish, terror of
becoming the thing Khurram or Salaamat chuckled over with their friends – some of that slowly left her. It was like shedding half her skin. The old half looked quickly around, wondering if they were being watched. She didn’t think she could ever completely slough this layer off.

Or maybe she could. Daanish’s fingers probed expertly. She was twenty years old and ready to be something more than the repository of her family’s honor. She was twenty years old and ready to be loved.