Written in the Stars (5 page)

I
follow Selma down the dirt path that connects our home to my chacha’s orange fields. It’s where Selma and I spend most of our afternoons now. The days are flying by faster than I could have imagined. I can’t believe how long we’ve been here. I love sitting here hidden in the orange groves, just me and Selma, drinking soda and exchanging stories about our lives.

Every story, except the one I most want to share.

I sit down on a grassy patch and tilt my head back, finishing the last of the soda.

“You know I’m just happy to spend time with you, but I don’t know why you like to do this, sitting out here when it’s so hot.” Selma lifts an arm and shades her eyes from the sun poking through the leaves.

“The sun starts to feel nice after a little bit. Kind of a toasty feeling.”

“Maybe, if you’re a roti on the stove.” She scrutinizes me for a moment. “Are you maybe part roti, Naila? That would explain everything.”

“Oh, stop.” I laugh and swat her shoulder. “It’s hot in Florida too. I guess I’m just used to it.”

“Well, it’s nice to be away from all the noise in the house.” She leans back, her elbows propping her up. “And to talk without getting constantly interrupted by twenty little ones.”

I cross my legs and look at her. “Speaking of talking,” I say, “we’ve talked about everything under the sun except what every girl talks about the most. You now know all about the food I like, the way I decorated my bedroom, and what I wear to school, but we’ve never talked about other stuff.”

“What other stuff?” She tilts her head toward me.

“Boys. Do you like anyone?”

At this Selma straightens up; her smile vanishes. “No. I don’t like anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” I rush. “It’s just, you know, you’re like a sister to me, and, well, back home, girls talk about things like that.”

She studies her hands but says nothing.

I open my mouth to apologize again. We’ve had such an easy rapport, but I can tell by the way she looks away that I’ve made her uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry.” She studies the leaves in the distance for a moment before looking at me. She gives me a tentative smile. “It’s just my parents. If they ever heard me talking about something like that, they’d be so angry . . .” Her voice trails off.

“No, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

* * *

That evening, I step into the bedroom and close the door. Reaching into my purse, I take out my cell phone. I sift through the texts from just this morning.

Let’s talk tonight, your time.

I’ll try.

I’ll be waiting.

My fingers rest on the digits. I’m tempted to dial his number. Just to hear him on the other end, even if I cannot speak.

I hear my small cousins run past the bedroom door, their bare feet smacking against the tiles. Their voices are loud, and their laughter echoes off the walls.

I can’t.

I can’t take the risk.

I hold down the red button until the screen goes black.

N
aila.” There’s a knock on the door.

Selma and I look up with a start. We’re lying on her twin bed, a stack of magazines between us. Some are mine from the plane ride, but most are Pakistani magazines that belong to Selma. We’re leafing through Selma’s right now, inspecting and picking out our favorites among the array of high-end saris, lenghas, and the latest salwar kamizes.

My mother opens the door and steps inside. “What are you both doing holed up in here?”

“Sorry.” I look at the clock on the wall. “I didn’t realize it was almost lunchtime. Do you need help?”

“We have some guests coming over for chai in a little over an hour. You need to get ready.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Family friends.” My mother walks up to the armoire and rifles through the hanging clothes. “You’d think with how much we’re paying him, the tailor would have gotten your clothes done by now,” she murmurs. “Selma, you don’t mind if Naila wears one of your outfits again, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulls out a lavender silk salwar kamiz. “Thank God you and Selma are the same size. This will do.”

“That? Kind of fancy, isn’t it?”

“We’re guests, Naila.” My mother looks at me. “We dress up when people come over. Now, hurry up and iron this, and then I need your help with the chai.”

I watch her go. Her words leave me subdued. They remind me that while she may be happier here, she is still not happy with me.

“What are you going to wear?” I ask Selma.

She shrugs. “They’re not coming to see me.”

“Want me to pick out an outfit for you?”

“I’m just going to stay in the kitchen.”

“They’re not my friends,” I tell her. “You have to sit with me. Who else am I going to talk to?”

I wait for her to say something more. Instead, to my surprise, she gets up and walks out.

I iron the clothes and brush my hair. When I hear the knock on the door, I step into the hallway.

“Good.” My chachi approaches me. “Just in time. Selma’s in the kitchen. Help her with the chai.”

“Sure.” I walk toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To greet the guests.”

“No”—she shakes her head—“we need you to help with the tea first.”

“They’re my parents’ friends. They’ll be offended if I don’t greet them.”

“They’ll be offended if the chai is not ready in time. Please, Naila.”

Her mouth is pressed into a smile, but I see the apprehension in her eyes.

“Okay,” I finally say.

I walk into the kitchen. Selma is standing over the stove drizzling a stream of milk into a boiling dark vat of steeped tea. Khala Simki opens and shuts cupboards, finally pulling out a silver tin of biscuits.

“So is this a ‘world’s fastest tea’ competition?” I ask Selma.

Selma laughs at this and whispers, “Quiet. You know they can hear us. These walls don’t hold secrets.”

“But seriously”—I lower my voice—“the doorbell rang two minutes ago, and we’re working like they’re starving in the other room.”

“Can you help arrange the tray, Naila?” Khala Simki shoots me a look.

I look back at Selma, but she is now focused on the task at hand. The laughter has vanished.

“Good.” Khala Simki nods when she sees the teacups I’ve arranged. Selma pours the tea into a ceramic teapot and rests it in the center of the wooden tray. “Now take this out and go meet the guests.”

I stare at the tray. “Selma would be better at it. I’ve never done it before.”

“Nonsense.” Khala Simki smiles. “Why do they want to see Selma? They can see her anytime.”

I look up at Selma. The remark lands like the slap I thought it was. Her cheeks grow crimson.

Before I can respond, Khala Simki ushers me on. “Go now.”

I pick up the tray and try to keep it steady. The teacups clink together loudly. I make my way down the hallway into the drawing room, where the guests are seated. The room is filled with subdued chatter that ceases once I enter.

I place the tray on the coffee table. An older woman with an elaborate peacock pendant sits next to two younger women. One, her hair cut in a severe bob, is looking down at her feet; the other woman cradles a little girl in her arms. The other two men, I imagine their husbands, sit across from them. The younger one with curly brown hair smiles at me. He reminds me a little of Imran. I smile back at him and move to greet them when my mother interrupts me.

“Naila,” she says. I turn to her. She motions to the empty seat next to her. I walk over and sit down.

I look out toward the hallway to see who else will join us, but no one does.

* * *

“Well, that was weird,” I tell my mother after the guests leave. “They barely talked the whole time we were there.”

“You shouldn’t call people weird,” my mother says. “You’re in a different place, and things are done differently here.”

“But still,” I insist. “That was strange.”

“It was nice of them to come,” she says. She looks at my outfit. “We are going to a dinner tonight. You should change out of this so it doesn’t get dirty before we go. And be careful because if the tailor isn’t done with your clothes, you may have to wear it to the lunch we’re going to tomorrow as well.”

“Wow.” I stare at her. “That’s a lot of parties.”

“We’re not here for long, so everybody wants to host us. We can’t refuse.”

“So it will be dinners and teas for the rest of the week until we leave?”

“Well, actually,” she says, “your father looked into it, and we can extend our trip for an extra week.”

“We’re not going back on Wednesday?”

“It was last-minute, but it’s nice, isn’t it? Aren’t you having a good time here? After twenty years, one month just started feeling too short.”

One extra week might actually be nice. I’ll still get back to school in time for my orientation.

But I do need to figure out how to tell Saif.

T
he next afternoon, I step into the courtyard with Selma and Imran. The electricity is out again. These blackouts come and go without warning, but today the breeze outside helps ease the discomfort. Phupo is sitting alone. She’s holding a felt pipe connected to an odd-looking cylindrical pot resting on a low-seated stool next to her. Her silver hair, uncovered today, is wrapped in a loose braid.

“What’s that?” Imran asks.

She looks up at us, startled. “I didn’t see you all there.” She pauses for a moment. “It’s a hookah,” she finally says. I watch her inhale from the pipe and blow out a plume of smoke.

“Can I try?” Imran asks. “Or is it too complicated?”

“If you know how to breathe, you know how to use a hookah,” Selma says.

“Come on over and try it,” Phupo tells him.

Imran sits down next to her.

“Imran,” I tell him, “if our parents catch us doing this, you’re going to be dead.”

At this Phupo scoffs. “Your father is the one who taught me how to smoke it. Let him try to get mad.” She takes a puff and exhales, sending a large circle of smoke spiraling into the air. I watch my brother eagerly take the pipe. He takes a puff—and then falls to his side, overcome by a fit of coughing.

“Don’t feel bad!” Selma says. “That happened to me too the first and last time I tried it.”

“I bet I can do it.” Sitting next to Imran, I take the pipe from him. I take a puff and release a faint stream of gray smoke. “Look! I’m a natural!” I take another puff, and then—my throat burns, my eyes water, and I lean forward, coughing.

“Take it easy.” Phupo starts laughing, and soon we’re all laughing, unable to stop, tears streaming down our faces.

“Well, at least I have a cool story about my cool aunt to tell when I go back home,” I say when I recover. I look at the hookah pipe in my hands and turn to my aunt. “Phupo, did my father really smoke this?”

“This very one,” she says. “We spent countless nights, all of us, watching the stars above, smoking hookah, and talking about the dreams we had for our lives.”

“I know he wanted to be a doctor,” I tell her. “That’s why he’s so supportive of me.”

She looks at me, but I notice her smile falters. Does talking about my father’s unfulfilled dreams remind her of her own unfulfilled hopes? I’m sure she hadn’t dreamed of living here with her younger brother and no family of her own. She says nothing for a moment.

“Your parents are too hard on you,” she finally says. “You’re a good kid.”

For a minute, I don’t understand, and then my face flushes. Did my father confide in her his disappointment in me?

“That thing is lethal,” Imran interrupts. “But I want to try it again. Practice makes perfect.”

He is reaching for the hookah pipe in my hand when we hear my mother’s voice.

“Naila!”

I turn around. My mother and Khala Simki approach us. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Naila?” my mother says. “I have been looking all over for you, and this is where you are? Smoking hookah?”

“Mehnaz,” Phupo interrupts, “we’re just having a little fun, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Imran says. “If you’re going to get mad at her, you have to get mad at me too. I was doing it first.”

My mother steps closer to me. “Now you smell like smoke.” She sighs. “Let’s go get ready. We’re running late.”

“Again?” I ask. “That’s the second time today.”

“How about Naila stays back just this once?” Imran asks. “It’s not like they’re going to miss her. They want to see you guys.”

Selma looks at my disappointed expression and chimes in. “Baba Toqeer has fresh pakoras today. We were talking about going to get some. Maybe just this once?”

“What a thing to say!” Khala Simki exclaims. “You all can get pakoras together anytime. I’ll make you some tomorrow.”

We hear the whirring sound of a fan coming back to life.

“Perfect.” Khala Simki turns to look at the house. “The lights are back on. Now, go get ready. I already have your outfit hanging in your room.”

I want to push a little more and point out how Imran is yet again not required to go. How he’s been to only a few of these gatherings. But I bite my lip. I know that’s an argument I won’t win. It’s an argument that predates my time here.

I
step into the bedroom and press my back against the door. Reaching into my purse, I take out my cell phone. Since arriving, I still have only been able to text Saif. But I need to talk to him. A text will not suffice to tell him about the delay.

Just then, there is a knock. I quickly stuff the phone back into my purse and open the door.

“Sorry,” Selma says. “Your khala wants me to get ready too.”

“My parents have a lot of friends.” I shake my head. “A lot of boring friends.”

“What can you do?” she responds.

My mother smiles at me when I step outside. Her frustration from moments ago seems to have vanished. I wonder how much of her smile is her slowly forgiving me and how much is her not wanting everyone to know how unhappy with me she remains.

“Do you think maybe we could go sightseeing one day?” I ask her. “We go to so many dinners and teas, but maybe it would be nice to see a little more of Pakistan.” I adjust the maroon bangles on my arms. “We hardly eat a meal at home anymore.”

“We’ll go soon,” my mother says. “It’s just been so long since we’ve been back. Everyone wants to see us or have us over. We can’t refuse them.”

“Is this what you’re wearing?” Khala Simki walks up to me. “Didn’t you see the outfit I had hanging for you? Never mind—I know an even better one.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” I run my hands over my maroon georgette salwar kamiz. “Ami thought it looked nice.”

“Naila.” Khala Simki clucks her tongue. “It is nice, but the tailor just finished making you so many beautiful clothes. There’s no need to wear these outdated ones from Selma’s closet.”

“But it’s nice,” I protest.

Khala Simki takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom. “It’s fine for being at home, but at the home of someone who is not family, you must be a bit more careful.”

She sifts through the white plastic bags of clothing fresh from the family tailor. “Here!” she pulls out a yellow salwar kamiz with gold embroidery on the cuffs. “It doesn’t even need ironing!” Her eyes glance over my purse. “If you wanted to leave that thing behind just this once, I’m sure no one will steal it.”

“I know. I’d just rather take it with me.” I watch her leave. My purse is large and orange with big black flowers. I can fit everything I need to inside it, most importantly the cell phone hidden deep within. That aspect of my wardrobe, they have now learned, is nonnegotiable.

“Remember,” Khala Simki says in the car that afternoon, “we don’t talk too loudly or too much. You can do enough of that at home.” She casts a sharp look at Selma. Selma’s smile fades before she looks out the window.

* * *

We step into a modest home much like the townhomes we saw dotting the landscape when we first arrived.

I watch the men walk toward the back door. My father’s friend opens the door and leads them onto the verandah.

“Please come sit,” the hostess, a petite woman with a crooked nose in a purple salwar kamiz and matching headscarf, tells us, ushering us into the drawing room.

The hostess carries in a tray of glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola. I take one and look at my mother. She’s holding a glass in her hands. My aunts talk quietly among themselves.

We just arrived,
I think.
Already it feels endless.

“Can you cook rice?” the hostess asks.

I look at her for a second. A spoonful of rice hovers over my plate. “What? Oh, uh, yes, I can cook rice.”

“Boiled, or with tarka?” She scratches her ear.

I glance at my mother. What kind of crazy friends are these? I hear my father’s voice in the distance, the sound of faint laughter. My aunts wear strained expressions, waiting for my response. The hostess looks at me with an equally expectant expression.

“I can make both,” I finally tell her.

The hostess breaks into a large smile. “What a surprise! Your mother raised you well.”

That afternoon I climb into the car, squeezing in next to Selma. “What was that about?” I mutter. “Why don’t they ask you any questions?”

Selma shrugs. “You’re the one from America. I guess I’m not as interesting as you.”

I stare at her. She frowns and twists her dupatta with her fingers. I’ve noticed that anytime we go to a party, she sulks and our comfortable rapport completely vanishes. And then it hits me. All the questions about my life back home, the food I eat, the clothes I wear, and now, all the attention doted on me, everyone wanting to talk to me. The hosts at these parties act as if Selma is not even in the room. Selma has been my dearest friend since I’ve come to Pakistan, but—

She’s jealous,
I realize.

I look at the back of her head while she gazes out the car window. Maybe I’d feel the same if the situation were reversed. It can’t be easy for her to see everyone giving me so much attention. I want to give her a hug and tell her she has nothing to feel jealous about. That she has no idea how annoying it is to be gawked at like a roadside carnival exhibit just because you’re not from around here.

But will that really change her feelings? I lean back into my seat. We won’t be here much longer. Only a few more days until it’s time to go home. Then Selma can go back to the life she had.