Written in the Stars (11 page)

M
y sister is coming in a few hours,” Nasim says over lunch the next day. “Can you put something decent on before she arrives? There are at least ten outfits pressed and hanging in your closet. It shouldn’t be too difficult to pick one.” She stops and regards Feiza. “I remember when you first arrived, every day a new outfit and a new gold set. A proper bride.”

Feiza fidgets in her chair and casts a glance in my direction. I feel Nasim’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look back at her.

“She just has a good attitude,” Saba says. “Usman is away more than he is home, thanks to the military always stationing him as far away as they can, but have you ever seen her complain? She has a good temperament. Not everyone is gifted with that.”

The chair scrapes as I abruptly get up and make my way to the bedroom and shut the door. I lean against it and take a deep breath.

“Who would have known what a spell she would cast over my brother?” I freeze at the voice bouncing off the tiles. “I told you this match was a mistake, didn’t I?”

“Saba.” Nasim’s voice hardens. “This marriage just may be the best decision I ever made for this family. How else do you think you’re getting to America? Your engagement broke three years ago. God knows there isn’t any hope for you to marry here. What other chance will you get to start your life over again? I suggest you keep your opinions on my decisions to yourself.”

I press my hands to my forehead.
I’m their ticket to America.

“She’s stubborn, but she’ll adjust. It’s just the other thing. Feiza, stop looking at me like that—we’re all women here. I need you to talk to her.”

“Ami,” I hear Feiza protest, “how can you be sure?”

“I saw with my own eyes. Don’t look at me that way! I never meant to spy on them,” Nasim snaps. “I just wanted to bring them some breakfast, so I used the spare key to unlock the door and let myself in, and there they are, my son asleep on the old sofa and the new bride
sleeping on the bed. I check every day—same thing.”

“Why don’t you say anything?” asks Saba.

“How can I? I can’t bring it up to my son, but something has to be done.”

I sink to the floor. A strange emotion passes over me, one I haven’t felt in weeks. Not since my chacha snatched me from the bus. But now? Now it feels like pinpricks in my chest. Something has snapped. For the first time in a long time, I am angry.

The doorbell chimes in the distance. I hear laughter. Conversation fills the house. I tie my hair back and turn to the mirror to look at myself in the drab gray outfit before stepping out. Everyone is sitting around a broad-shouldered woman in a green salwar kamiz.

“Ah, the new bride!” she exclaims upon seeing me. She runs her eyes from my head down to my bare feet. Her eyes grow large and then a slow smirk spreads across her face.

“Good choice, Nasim,” she tells her sister.

I watch Nasim’s face pale as she takes in my cotton salwar kamiz, my unkempt hair, my face devoid of makeup.

I walk back to the bedroom. The door rattles when I slam it shut. This changes nothing, but maybe it sends a message, however small.

* * *

“Are you awake?” Amin asks the next morning.

I sit up in the darkened room. He slips on his shoes and ties his black laces.

“I’d rather be home. I hope you know that.” He rests his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t had a chance to spend much time with you, but hopefully I can make up for that soon.” He smiles at me. I try my best to smile back.

Once he’s gone, I lie back in bed and close my eyes. A few moments later, I hear the sound of his car as it pulls out of the driveway. Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the morning after Amin is long gone, I stare out the dark curtained window from where I lie in the bed, pretending the sky behind it rises over my own home, over my own bed. Sometimes I can almost believe for a few moments that I imagined all of this and that I am safe from any danger at all.

My thoughts drift to Selma. And then—Saif. I take a deep breath. I can’t go there. I just can’t. Not yet.

Just then, the bedroom door swings open.

It’s Nasim. She storms up to the window and yanks the curtains apart. Harsh daylight streams into the room, invading every corner and crevice.

I struggle to adjust my eyes against the glaring brightness when I realize she is standing over me.

“It is ten o’clock. Everyone in this house gets up well before eight o’clock. What makes you think you are any different? We’ve played nice with you long enough. You are not a little princess sitting upon your throne. You are not better than us just because you are from America. And you do not get to insult me in front of my sister. It’s clear no one taught you how to be a wife. Your husband may have patience for you. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he needs to do. But don’t worry. I will teach you.” She yanks off my sheets. “Get up. You’re going to learn how a proper day is supposed to be.”

A strange sense of calm fills me. I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I’ve been expecting her veneer to crack. I’ve been waiting for this moment. How kind could anyone be who participated in my forced marriage? Purchasing me like a piece of fabric at the store?

I stand in front of the sink and lift my white toothbrush. “What are you waiting for?” Nasim snaps. “Put the toothpaste on the toothbrush and brush your teeth.”

I stare at the toothpaste. I want to fling it at her. I want to ask her to try to make me do anything, but
what if she won’t let me return to see my parents? Then I’ll never escape.
I swallow and lift the toothbrush, pressing it against my teeth.

“Now.” Nasim folds her arms. “You will go to the closet and pick an outfit to wear. A
proper
outfit, not one of those wrinkled things you can’t seem to get enough of. Once you’re ready, come outside. I will show you some chores you will be responsible for.” She places a hand on her hip and turns to me. “It would be nice if you wore something we gave you. We spent a good deal of money on your clothes.”

Was it half as much as you spent on purchasing me?
I think.

The servants hover near the kitchen, watching us with amused expressions. Nasim leads me to the outdoor courtyard and instructs me to hang the hand-washed damp clothing in the open air to dry. They stifle laughter later that afternoon when they watch me knead dough and dust frames.

Strangely, these chores are not as bad as I thought they would be. They give me a sense of reprieve from my reality. As I pump water from the outdoor hand pump and polish the tiles, I feel invigorated. My mind, turned off for so long, feels stimulated again.

Nasim, on the other hand, isn’t happy with my work. My pots are never scrubbed properly; they drip too much water, are dried too quickly. Still, her words have not affected me save once after dinner.

“You will keep doing these dishes until they are perfect, and you will keep doing them again and again for the rest of your life until you learn how to do it right.” Only then did a tear slide down my face.

The thought of having to live here the rest of my life cracked open a part of my heart that can’t hide, no matter how hard I try, how desperately I want to leave.

N
o one is yet awake when I step into the kitchen today. I open the cabinet by the stove and pull out the bag of flour. Pouring some into a large metal bowl, I glance around. I’m alone. I set down the flour and make my way to the living room and to the telephone resting on the side table. I lift the receiver to my ear and dial the country code and his number. The phone rings, but immediately, the tin voice of an Urdu-speaking operator informs me the line does not have long-distance service. I place the phone back into its cradle. I’ve opened every drawer and cabinet searching for calling cards. I knew this last-ditch effort would lead to nowhere, and yet I swallow back my disappointment. By now Saif must know I didn’t make it to the embassy.

He must know exactly what happened.

I walk back to the kitchen and sprinkle water into the flour and begin kneading the sticky mixture. Saba has a computer. I managed to sneak into her bedroom yesterday, but her password proved impossible to guess. I know I’ll be at my uncle’s home soon, but it’s not coming quickly enough. Just then, Amin walks into the kitchen.

“You woke up early today.” He stretches his arms and yawns.

“I’m just getting the flour ready for
parathas,” I tell him.

He stands straighter. “I’m sorry, Naila. I will talk to her.”

“It’s okay. It keeps me busy.”

“It’s not okay. She promised she would back off, but it looks like she hasn’t.” He moves closer and lowers his voice. “It’s not you. She’s in a bad mood lately. My brother Usman just got reassigned to the Northwest Frontier for another two years. It’s been difficult for her. She’ll get better, but I’ll tell her again to take it easy.”

“Amin.” Nasim rushes into the kitchen. She brushes past me. “I thought I heard your voice. You’re not leaving yet, are you? I haven’t started making breakfast yet.”

He smiles at his mother and looks at me. “I’m about to get ready, but I can’t stay for breakfast. I’m going to try to get home early so we can go for an outing.”

“What a wonderful idea, I’ve been wanting to—”

“Just me and Naila. How about it, Naila?”

As quickly as Nasim’s eyes sparkled a moment earlier, they extinguish, though her mouth still remains turned up in a smile. “That’s an even better idea,” she says. “This is the newlywed time, after all; it might do her some good.”

* * *

I sit in the passenger seat that afternoon and look out the window. Seeing people milling about on the streets, children playing cricket on the grassy fields, hurts. I remember Seema’s children playing barefoot in the field across from my uncle’s home. Selma, my brother, so many memories linked together, pop out from locked compartments in my mind. I don’t want to remember that life continues to move on, that time has not stood still, as it so often feels these days.

The car jerks as it drives over bumpy roads. I close my eyes. My head throbs.

“Here we are.” Amin pulls the car onto the side of the road. He points at a stand just ahead. A wiry vendor with a blue hat and faded blue jeans stands next to a white cart. “See the stand over there? It’s small and dingy looking, but they have the best kulfi I’ve ever tasted. I pass it every day when I go to work, and when it’s very hot, I stop and buy one. I’d bring you some, but it would melt before I could get it home to you.”

He steps out of the car and opens my door.

I step out and follow him. He hands me a kulfi.

I take a bite. “It’s good.”

“I’m glad you like it.” His shoulders relax. “You know, I’ve wanted to apologize to you.” He takes a bite of his kulfi and glances at me. “I know why you are so quiet, so sad.”

My heart skips a beat. I look at him.

“You’re disappointed,” he says. “I know. I wanted to do a proper honeymoon, but I just started this job, and vacation is hard to come by right now. And, well, I know it must get a bit boring day in and day out. We’ll go out more. Maybe get some dinner, just you and me. We also need to get you a computer for the house. Saba won’t let anyone use hers. I have one at work, so I haven’t needed to have one at home, but I know you probably need one.”

I stare at him. He continues talking, but I can’t seem to focus. The way he looks at me, tries to make me feel comfortable, shows me he has no clue about what I am feeling. He just thinks I’m shy. Homesick. He has no idea what is going on. I hear his voice in the background now, his promise to let me choose our vacation spot, his efforts to come home earlier from now on to spend time with me.

Should I tell him?
I wonder.
He would be horrified if he knew the truth. Maybe he’d even help me figure this out
. But no, I know I can’t do that. I can’t trust what he will do if he finds out about Saif, not when I’m so close to seeing my parents and Selma.

We finish our kulfis and walk back to the car. He tries to meet my gaze, but I’m too busy trying to make sense of this new feeling emerging—not anger but, instead, pity.

He’s not a bad man,
I think to myself, but his being not bad doesn’t mean I want to know him further.

M
y hair clings to my neck. Sweat drips down my face as I sweep the verandah under the morning sun. Another blackout has come without warning.

Feiza and Nasim are sitting under a shaded tree in the garden a short distance away. Zaina tosses a green plastic ball to Nasim. I watch Nasim laugh and walk over to Zaina, scooping her up into an embrace, smothering her in kisses. Zaina’s squeals of delight peal through the morning air.

I pause to take them all in. Feiza, Nasim, Zaina—they’re all . . . happy. Watching them, I remember yet again what an outsider I am here. Maybe this could have been a perfectly nice life for someone.

Just not me.

Right then, Nasim looks at me. Our eyes lock. Her relaxed demeanor evaporates. Standing up, she walks over to me.

“My son is a good man.” Her voice shakes. “He has been nothing but the best son any child could ever be. He didn’t deserve
this.
”
Her cheeks redden. “I don’t want to treat you this way, but until you learn to be respectful, until you learn to be a proper
wife—
and you know what I’m talking about.” She stares at me. “Things will remain exactly as they are when you return.”

I watch her stalk back into the house. Any goodwill I felt toward her fades.
I’m not coming back,
I want to shout. This is the only thought that keeps me going. In two days, I’ll be back at my uncle’s home. When I go back, I’ll find a way out. Selma will get me a calling card. She’ll find a way to get me money, to find a different bus. She’ll help me think of something. Anything. I don’t know how, but I know I’ll find a way out. I have to.

I wipe my forehead. I couldn’t care less how angry Nasim gets. I am thankful. I’ve still been spared.

I step into the house; the lights are back on. I take a deep breath of the cool air-conditioned air.

“Can you believe how much time has already passed?” I look up. Feiza is standing by the fridge, watching me tentatively. “We spend our entire lives waiting to get married, and then it just comes and goes in an instant.”

I look at my hands, still deep orange with wedding henna.

“Usman, you met him the first time we came to see you at your chacha’s home, remember? He had to leave the morning after our wedding. You’re lucky that Amin bhai is not going anywhere. I’ve seen my husband perhaps three full months in our three years of marriage.”

“You don’t go with him?” I ask her.

“Ah, so you can speak!” She laughs but quickly stops. “I’m only teasing.” She glances down the hallway and then lowers her voice. “I wanted to go with him. Usman wanted me to join him as well, but I got pregnant.” She blushes. “And they didn’t think it was a good idea for me to travel in my condition. I always meant to join him, but somehow I’m still here.” She shrugs. “I don’t mind so much. It’s nice to have help.” She pauses. “It’s good to accept what is. I try not to dwell on what I don’t have. When you get married, things change. I’ve learned over time to accept this.”

Maybe you learned to accept this,
I want to tell her.
But I won’t ever accept this as my life.
Of course, I say nothing. I bite my tongue and walk away. Soon enough, everyone will know exactly how I feel.