first place, when their math teacher paired them up to solve a sum, advising: ‘When in doubt, count your fingers.’
‘Let’s talk about the pros and cons, Nini,’ Dia spoke gently. ‘First the cons. One, you don’t know the boy. Two, his father’s just died. Three, he’s an only child. Four, he’s an only child and an only son. Five, he lives in America. Summary: he’s all his mother has, so she’ll be even more possessive of him than the usual mother-in-law. He’s having a blast far from her in America, probably living it up with women there, while a teeny tiny voice in his brain nags him of his duties to his Ami jaan and country. So, when he’s had his fun, to pacify his guilt, he’ll be ultra-protective of Ami jaan (who’ll symbolize the nation), and ultra-conservative with his wife (who’ll symbolize his authority in the nation). But mind you,’ her voice had risen uncontrollably. This was no good but she couldn’t help herself. ‘He’ll want to keep his American self alive too, just for fun. We all need good times, right? Now the pros.’ She paused. ‘You tell me the pros, Nini.’
The answer was sharp: ‘Have you ever used your delightful powers of analysis to find out why you’re so arrogant? You haven’t met him either, Dia, so your assumptions are just as unfounded as mine. Yes, many men are like that. But maybe, just maybe, he’s different. After all, you seem to think you’re different. Face it Dia, you need a man in your life too, and you won’t ever know if the one you pick is better than the one I do.’
Dia was stunned. It was not simply the hateful tone that stung like a physical blow. It was the knowledge that so many women fell into just this trap: arguing, or just plain fretting, about men. On the other hand, there was an unspoken agreement between men: Woman was not a topic worth mentioning, unless she aroused them sexually. But Man was a topic women devoured from every angle. Dia was certain this was the most obvious yet neglected reason for their disparate positions in society: time. Women spent it on men; men spent it on men.
And now here she was, spending close to two hours today, and several hours yesterday, cogitating emptily about one of them. Didn’t Nini see how silly this was? How typical? How dangerous?
She longed to stop the clock right here. ‘Please let’s not fight. You do what you want. I’m just sorry about yesterday.’
Nini waited. But Dia had nothing to add.
Outside, Pakistan took a wicket and Inam Gul stamped his feet. The screen cut to the milk ad again. The woman carried out the tea from the kitchen looking refreshed and jolly. The reason for her bouncing spirits was that she got to use the milk! The guests consumed the tea in record time. The camera focused on her husband who said, ‘Begum, chai?’ So she scurried back to the kitchen in ankle-wrenching stilettos, her gold bangles ringing with jubilation.
Dia thought: Nini should have auditioned for the role.
Then she ached with remorse again.
After a long pause, which Dia was terrified of breaking, Nini spoke. ‘You asked before if there was something you could do. Well, I’ve been thinking. If his mother decides not to revoke her proposal, well, your support still matters to me. So, will you be here when he visits with his mother? You’re still my sister, Dia. Still.’
Dia smacked her forehead in dismay. ‘Of course.’
In a tremulous whisper, Nini cooed, ‘My mother needs me to acquiesce. You’re lucky your mother doesn’t depend on you to give her life meaning.’ She hung up.
Receiver still in hand, Dia muttered, ‘Let’s hope your daughter is lucky like me.’
Moving to the front of the house, Dia bitterly wondered how many parents had shrunk their daughters’ worlds to fill their own. She stooped for her sandals, eager for the oasis that was her farm. While struggling with the buckle, she glanced up at the wall. The face that greeted her was her father’s. It was framed in ornate gold that was as false as the portrait. His painted jowls did not jiggle, his lordly mustache was reduced to a blanched apple peel, and his eyes seemed to have stepped into the wrong room, where a film about his life was in progress. The reel had gotten stuck right when he was being kidnapped so he’d no choice but to see the moment over and over again. His life was in the painter’s hands and every time she stood here, Dia wished to submit the painter to the same torture.
She hadn’t told anyone, not Nini, nor the cook, that the Quran Khwani yesterday had brought back painful memories. For forty days after her own father’s death, she’d sat like a statue in this house, and learned something valuable: some mourners came to grieve, others to collect gory details. Still others arrived to clutch the frozen Dia and shower her with pity, and yet more helplessness. ‘Allah malik hay. God decides.’ That was the message they’d pounded into her. You’ve no control over events. So why bother making anything of your life, little lady?
Yesterday, when she’d apologized to the widow and her son, she’d meant it.
The cook, who’d been snubbed by his favorite of the three children ever since she returned home yesterday, shuffled woefully toward her. ‘Have you forgiven me yet, my child?’ He stood below the portrait.
‘Oh, Inam Gul, it wasn’t your fault.’
He stroked her head. ‘Then come, let’s watch TV.’
‘The mood’s gone.’
His nose tried to smell the air. ‘What does Nissrine Bibi say?’
‘Have you been eavesdropping again?’
‘No!’ He stared in horror.
‘Then how did you know who I was talking to?’ She watched happily while his lips curved around toothless gums. He seemed to miss his teeth most when cornered. ‘Don’t worry. I have very few secrets. But I’ll tell you Nini’s.’ The cook’s eyes popped with anticipation. ‘She wants to marry that boy she took me to see yesterday.’
‘Oh ho, what a clever girl!’ His head bobbed loosely from side to side.
‘She’s a fool, Inam Gul, don’t you forget it.’ He changed his expression likewise. ‘I’m going to the farm now, to forget about people for a while. If anyone calls for me, tell them I’m in my cocoon and won’t come out for weeks.’
‘Toba toba.’ He tugged his earlobes, but knew better than to argue with Dia.
For most of the drive, the land was stripped and parched, dotted with occasional bands of drooping mesquite. The route led straight to the mighty Indus, about 100km east. Riverbeds ought to teem with life, thought Dia, each time she passed through here. Especially a riverbed as old as this. But except for a kingfisher poised regally on a wire, hinting at the proximity to water, there was no evidence of the fabled grandeur of the Indus. Only books and old men like Inam Gul told of princesses like Sassi, dwelling in the glorious lakhy bagh on the banks of the river, surrounded by music, fountains and burnished horses.
Dia herself hadn’t traveled all the way to the river for years. Now its banks teemed not with Sassi’s pavilions, but with some of the nation’s deadliest gangs.
She rode between two armed escorts. Both had greasy pockmarked skin, filthy fingernails and wasp waists. They handled their Kalashnikovs the way nearly all of the city’s convoys did –
