Trespassing

DIA (#ulink_67252030-8c76-54ec-a728-abd879089b0c)

1 More Apologies (#ulink_3205cfd9-d754-501d-a885-13daadfe9a37)

‘Look. I said I was sorry.’ Dia leaned into the wall of the dining room, popping mulberries with one hand, holding the phone with the other. The cook was in the next room, watching cricket. No, watching ads. Dia tilted her head and saw the TV: two women were waiting to be interviewed for an airhostess’s job. Cut to the next scene. The one who got it revealed her secret to the loser: a tube of skin-whitening cream. Now she could fly!

Nini’s voice on the receiver was weak from crying. Dia chewed nervously. They’d been on the phone an hour, but her friend had unwavering stamina.

It hadn’t gone the way she’d expected at all. The caterpillars were meant to tweak Nini, not cause such a scene. At the thought of the widow, Dia’s stomach ached. She listened to Nini and it ached even more.

The two had put themselves in many ludicrous situations before, often without the other one’s consent, but it had never caused such a rift. She wondered if this was what happened to women on the verge of twenty.

Desperate, Dia popped three spongy berries at once. She exhaled loudly. The hair framing her forehead fluttered. ‘Listen, Nini. Let’s not make the mistake of falling out because of a man. How many times have we seen that, huhn? And yes, it was rather extravagant of me to put not just one but three dozing silkworms down your kameez but you have to admit you only started screaming when I told you what they were. But forget that now. Just say what you want me to do. I said I was sorry. I’ve said it a thousand times. And I mean it.’

‘How did you come up with such a hideous prank, Dia? You know I hate bugs.’ Nissrine blew her nose loudly.

‘Elephant,’ Dia hissed under her breath. Out loud she said, ‘Yes, I know you hate them. And Inam Gul knows too. When you won’t be my partner in crime, he’s always there for me.’

‘Tell him from me: Grow up.’

Dia popped another berry. It was the sweetest of the lot. She chewed loudly, secretly rather proud of the cook for coming through with yet another wicked plot. If Nini had blown it out of proportion, it wasn’t his fault.

In the other room, a milk commercial was in progress, featuring a heavily made-up woman only too delighted to have her day interrupted by a slew of visitors. This way, she got to make them tea!

‘You don’t understand.’ Nini blew her nose again.

‘What don’t I understand? What? You keep saying that but you won’t bloody-well explain what.’

The whimpering subsided into stifled chokes. Finally, Nini cleared her throat and said in a cool, decisive tone: ‘That boy’s mother sent a proposal for me.’

There was silence. Then: ‘God.’

‘Don’t have a heart attack for me.’

Dia shook her head. Then for who else?

‘My mother asked me. I thought about it. And I decided, well, why not?’

Dia spat the pink fruity mass out and screamed, ‘Why not? Why not? Is that all you can say? Nini, who are you?’

Nissrine clicked her tongue. ‘I knew I’d get a lecture from you. That’s why I kept it to myself.’ She sighed and her voice softened. ‘I want more from life, Dia. I’m sick of being stuck in this house doing what I’ve always done. I want something different.’

‘Oh, Nini. Is any change better than none? What makes you think marrying a stranger will give you the kind you need?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she answered bitterly. ‘After what happened yesterday, his mother will probably rescind.’

‘I would never have gone if I’d known.’

‘I know. That’s another reason I didn’t tell you. I wanted you to see him, Dia. I wanted us to gossip. I knew we wouldn’t if you knew.’ She added dreamily, ‘Even after our marriage. If …’ Her voice trailed.

Dia paced, disgusted. Nini needed to be shaken back into her old skin. But it was as Nini said: now that Dia knew her intentions, she’d no idea what to do. Walk around Nini gingerly? How? They’d never been cautious around each other, ever.

Nini waited. Dia decided to use the strategy that had brought them together in the 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.