Written in the Stars (4 page)

M
y uncle’s house resembles a fortress more than a home and is surrounded by a brick wall with a heavy steel gate. The flat roof makes the gray structure seem like a large concrete box. Many of the houses we passed seemed stuck against one another, much like townhomes. My uncle’s home, in contrast, stands alone facing the dusty road that runs parallel to it.

The concrete walls inside are painted a fresh coat of white, but the gray floor lies stark under my feet in this foyer. My brother walks with Selma’s brother, Sohail, down a corridor discussing video games and consoles.

“Want a tour?” Selma asks. I smile and nod.

“This is our drawing room, where we host guests.” She points to the large room just off the foyer. Three white sofas flank three of the walls, and a large brilliant red rug with gold patchwork lends the otherwise simple room surprising warmth. Just off the drawing room is a large white dining table with matching white chairs and an imposing china cabinet behind it.

“This is the TV room,” Selma says, pausing at the next room. She points to the large television taking up the better part of the far wall. Two brown couches are pressed together on the other side, and green rugs overlap one another, lining the floor.

“How many rooms are there?” I ask when we walk past another large living space just after the television room.

Selma laughs. “Well, this one we call our living room, because we do most of our living here.”

That much is apparent already. Three of my younger cousins sit on the floor in this room whispering to one another while two others are playing carrom board and shrieking loudly with each flick of the game pieces. All four of the plush beige sofas in this room are filled with people, one of them my father. His brother, my chacha, sits to his left; his sister, my phupo, is to his right. Their hands are cupped, their heads lowered. I imagine they are making a silent prayer for their parents, who passed away. Between the shrieks of the children and laughter from other rooms that echo off the walls, it’s difficult to focus on any conversation in particular.

I find my mother in the kitchen, standing next to the stove. She smiles when she sees me. “Selma showing you around?” she asks. “You know, this isn’t just any house. It has been in your father’s family for almost one hundred years. He was born in this house. I lived here myself for a year when we got married.”

“And who would have ever thought that this would be the next time you would return?” her sister, Khala Simki, says. Her eyes glisten with tears. “Twenty years. How did that happen?”

My mother moves to speak, but instead swallows. Her eyes grow moist.

“Now, now.” Selma’s mother, my chachi, puts a hand on my mother’s shoulder. “No tears today. Just happiness. You have had a very long trip. Why don’t you sit and relax while I finish making chai for everyone?”

“I can help,” my mother insists. I watch her remove a wooden serving tray from one cabinet and teacups from another. She arranges the cups on the tray and then grabs a bowl of sugar from a drawer. How does she remember? I wonder. How is it that, after two decades away, it seems like she never left?

Selma and I continue the tour. We pass portraits of grim-faced family members encased in black frames hanging on the walls. She shows me all the bedrooms, until finally we are standing in front of hers.

“How many people live here?” I ask her.

“Well,” she says, “our fathers’ sister, Phupo Hamida, lives with us. She never got married, so where else can she go? Then there’s the four of us: my parents, my brother, and me. We have space in the back room for Bilal, the servant. He’s staying here while your family is here.”

Bilal walks by us now. He is young and thin, and seems to nearly buckle under the weight of my suitcases.

Selma smiles. “You’ll be sharing my room with me while you’re here.”

I step inside. Two beds lie on opposite ends; there’s a small nightstand, a brown dresser, and an armoire on the far wall.

“I’m so glad your family is staying with us,” she says. “Everyone wanted you to stay with them, but my father won. Not that there was ever any doubt. He always gets what he wants.”

“Where does everyone else who is here live? There are at least thirty people.”

“Most of our relatives seem like they live here, but they really don’t,” she says. “Almost all of them live in this village. Only your mother’s family came from out of town. They’ll stay with us too, while your family is here.”

Khala Simki and her husband have five children. Her brother, Mamu Latif, and his wife have four. As though reading my mind, Selma laughs. “You just need a pillow and a blanket, and you can sleep anywhere really,” she says.

“Still.” I look around. Voices echo off the concrete walls outside. “We’ve really crowded you.”

“It’s fun,” she insists. “School got out just yesterday. What’s better than having your whole family all under one roof for the summer?”

As evening falls, everyone settles into the living room. A large pot of milky chai, along with an assortment of sweets, round and yellow, square and green, sits on the coffee table. Despite the sheer lack of space, more relatives, new ones I hadn’t seen at the airport, continue to walk in, hugging me, pinching my cheeks, squeezing into empty spaces, and settling down.

“
No
. I saw you first.” Mamu Latif waves a finger toward my mother. “You were dragging a suitcase—I saw you. You looked so confused!” he says.

“Uff!”
my phupo scoffs at Latif. “I saw them first. I remember you all were scratching your heads wondering if you were at the wrong place when I saw them. Naila looked so bewildered. I thought her eyes would fall out!”

Everyone laughs, and I smile, taking a sip of the sweet, fragrant chai. The conversations around me slowly splinter off. In their photos, so many of my aunts and uncles posed somber-faced, but in person they are grinning, laughing, full to the brim with life.

“Want some tea too?” I ask Selma. She’s sitting next to me.

“No, thanks. I don’t really like tea,” she says. Suddenly, her eyes brighten. “I forgot to show you my favorite part of the house. Do you want to go upstairs to see the rooftop?”

“The rooftop?”

“Yes, it’s nice up there. Sometimes when the electricity goes out through the night, we even sleep up there.” She gets up. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

I follow her to the kitchen and then I see where she’s taking me, to the almost hidden stairs next to the fridge. We walk up the winding staircase, and then we’re on the roof. I’m struck by the silence on the rooftop, its contrast to the laughter and noise downstairs. And the stars. They number more than I ever thought possible. For a moment, I am speechless.

“Since I was born, I’ve heard endless stories about your family,” Selma says. “Nearly every day, our grandmother used to say how much she wanted all of you to come back, at least just once.”

“It was the same back home for us.” I walk to the edge of the rooftop. “My parents always wanted to visit. It was all we ever heard growing up. How nice life is here and how much they wished we could see it.”

“Nice?” Selma snorts. “Really? It’s so boring and ordinary here. I always imagine what it must be like to live in the US. Sometimes I looked for hours at the pictures your family sent us, trying to imagine what it must be like in such an exciting place.”

“No.” I look out at the dusty street below, the mud-thatched homes in the distance. “This is different, but it’s nice too.”

“Just give it a few weeks,” Selma assures me. “You will be so bored, you’ll be dying to go back.”

“We’re only here for a month. I won’t have a chance to get bored.”

T
he sound of children shrieking just outside our bedroom rouses me from sleep.

Selma, too, is getting up. She yawns and rubs her eyes. “Sorry. I can tell them to lower their voices.”

“No, no. I’m up.” My body aches from the long plane ride, but I’m too excited to go back to sleep.

The kitchen is full when I step inside. All the women are fluttering about at full speed, setting out plates, stirring pots on the stove, and rolling out dough.

“Almost done,” my chachi announces. Large ceramic vessels of food are set on a long wooden table in the kitchen. Spiced chickpeas, sweet brown halva, ground keema with green peas, and a towering stack of buttered puris sit next to two large pitchers, one filled with sweet yogurt lassi
and the other with salty-sweet lemonade.

All the tables and sofas are full, so I settle down on a spot on the rug just off the kitchen.

“Can I have a sip?” my five-year-old cousin Lubna asks me. The shyness from yesterday has all but evaporated. I nod and hand her my glass. “Thanks!” She grins and bounds off with it.

“Never trust Lubna,” Selma says. She joins me on the ground. “Khala Simki doesn’t like her having sweet things, so she takes it from others whenever she can.”

Just then I see some children pass by outside, beyond the heavy metal gate. The sunlight shines over the dusty road, beckoning me.

“Could you show me around this village?” I ask her. “Sohail took Imran out yesterday, and I’d love to see what it’s like too.”

“Sure,” she says. “But I’m not sure there is much to see.”

“That’s because you know it inside and out,” I tease her. “And that’s why I want you to give me the tour.”

She laughs. “I can be an excellent tour guide. I better be. I’ve lived here all my life.”

We step outside after breakfast, shielding our eyes from the sun with our hands. I trail behind Selma on the narrow path.

“This is the village market and where we get our fruit and vegetables. Meat is expensive, and they don’t always have it, but it looks like they just got a fresh shipment.” Selma points at a one-story open-air building with red carcasses hanging upside down at the entrance. “And if you like candy or biscuits, you go to Baba Toqeer. Sometimes he even makes pakoras and samosas.” She gestures to a small store with a wooden counter.

“And over here—” Her words are interrupted just then by a high-pitched voice.

“Look who at long last finally arrived!” A spindly woman in a white chador steps out of her house.

“Rubina,” Selma whispers in my ear. “She’s a gossip, so just be careful what you say.”

“Imtiaz’s girl?” she asks. She steps up close to me and squints. “Yes, it sure is. Look at those eyes. I’d know them anywhere. You look like your father’s side of the family, don’t you?”

“I guess so.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and glance at Selma.

“Imtiaz’s daughter?” Another person now approaches us. A man. He wears a brown salwar kamiz. Next to him stands a woman with a gold nose ring, balancing a baby on her hip.

“It’s Naila, right?” the woman with the nose ring asks. I nod, and she smiles.

“How are you?” Selma asks. “Naila, this is Haris bhai and his wife, Sadeya baji. They’re our next-door neighbors. I was just showing Naila around the village.”

“I have to admit I didn’t really believe you were coming when people started saying it again,” Haris bhai says. He glances at his wife. “It’s just we’ve been hearing your family is coming every year since you were born. And now how old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I reply.

“So we’ve been waiting seventeen years,” he says.

“You like it here so far?” Rubina asks. “Feel like home? This is your home, you know. If your family hadn’t just run off, you’d be from here, just like us.”

I stare at her, unsure how to respond to what sounds like an accusation.

“Oh”—she laughs—“don’t make that face! I’m only joking. I’m your phupo’s oldest friend. She’s like my sister, really. She’ll tell you herself not to mind me.”

Selma tugs my elbow and smiles at them. “We have to get going. I promised my mom we’d be home soon.”

“Nice to meet you,” I tell them.

“Sorry,” Selma says as we continue on. “We don’t get a lot of people from out of town.”

We pass a group of children playing cricket in a grassy field to our left. They are shouting and laughing until they see us. Then they stop, their bats lowered, and look over at us.

“Those children”—she nods to them—“they’re Seema’s. She lives three houses down from us.”

“All ten?” I count again.

I wave to the children. A small chubby girl with a red frock takes a step forward, but an older sibling puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

I flash my biggest smile and then they smile back at me; the youngest girl waves as we pass.

We walk past a few nondescript concrete buildings. The front door of one of them is propped open by a metal chair. “We get our clothes stitched here,” Selma tells me. “We don’t buy any fabric from him because the quality of his fabric is poor, but we are lucky to have him in our village, because he stitches very well. He’s going to stitch your clothing too.”

Just then, a melodic sound echoes through the air. I recognize it instantly—it’s the call to prayer.

“The masjid is on the other side of our house, but the loudspeakers help us hear it wherever we are,” Selma says. “My father usually goes, but I can take you there sometime.”

I listen to the familiar words I’ve grown up hearing and smile at the beautiful, lyrical sounds that make me suddenly feel like I am home.

It takes less than ten minutes from there to make it to the last store. A few more people stop to greet us. Some wave from where they sit in front of their homes. I’m aware of others too, eyes peering at us from the windows of homes we pass. It’s a strange feeling to be so interesting to so many people.

Four large trees with thick green leaves surround the last store, and then there is nothing beyond it but an endless expanse of fields.

“This road connects us to other villages. But I’ve never walked farther than this point right here.” Selma looks down at her pink sandals.

I want to ask her why, but something in the way she says it stops me.

As we make our way back to the house, we pass a large stretch of grassy land.

“These are our family’s sugarcane and orange groves,” Selma says, following my gaze.

Thick green stalks gently sway side to side and sparse pockets of orange dot green trees in the fields in the distance.

“It’s so shaded. Can we go there?”

We step through the curtain of sugarcane stalks. They are thick, some so tall they tower over us. The dirt is softer here. My feet sink into it. We walk until we are in the orange groves. I look around. We are enveloped in a canopy of trees filled with lush green leaves.

“It’s cooler here,” I tell her. “Not as hot as when we were out on the road.”

“The canes are juicy in the winter, and the oranges grow so sweet, they taste like sugar. The shade is always nice here. We played here a lot as kids, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been back.”

Later that afternoon, standing on the roof, I take in the roads I walked with Selma, the expanse of my family’s fields, and in the distance, what seem like brick and clay makings of other homes in other villages farther away, perhaps much like the one I now gaze from.

I watch my father in the evening. He hums to himself, a book under his arm. He walks to the kitchen and grabs a cup of tea, on his way to the rooftop. My mother sits, as she has since this morning, with Khala Simki. I haven’t seen them pause even once in their endless stream of conversation.

I watch my mother now as she whispers in Khala Simki’s ear. Suddenly, they both lean away, and their peals of laughter echo off the walls.

I try to remember if I’ve ever seen my mother like this. So carefree and lighthearted.

I can’t.

I see now why she wanted to come here. Florida might be where she lives. But Pakistan is home.

The red phone Saif gave me stays nestled deep inside my satchel. We’ve texted, but I have yet to speak to him. I miss his voice. His touch. But I’ll talk to him soon.

For the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful.