Marrying Ameera (6 page)

When we arrived at my uncle’s house, Haider slunk away. I was tired but Aunty Khushida had stayed awake to welcome me. I had to drink chai and eat cake that she’d bought especially. I don’t like cakes, even though I make them, but politeness decreed I had to eat it. She looked gratified at my every bite. Then she brought out a jumper and a shawl.

‘I made this sweater for you, Ameera. It is very cold here this time of year.’

The jumper was lilac and tight-fitting, not unlike what was available at home in winter.

‘Thank you, Aunty ji.’

‘The shawl comes from our shop in the bazaar. You will never find such a warm one in Australia.’

I fingered the wool. Papa had told me he’d sent gifts already to Uncle and Aunty for having me but I still wished I’d had time to buy something for them from Australia.

It was 3 a.m. before I crawled into bed in the same room as my cousin Jamila, but the Azan, the call to
prayer, woke me early. Allahu Akbar, God is Great. That was my cue to get up and pray but I was never good at the pre-dawn prayer. The voice droned on and I must have dozed off, for the next sound I heard was the thump of spices being pounded. The aroma of freshly ground coriander and cumin wafted into my room.

There were other sounds too: a giggling voice outside my door, an annoyed whisper, a knock, more giggling, more telling off. It was so warm under the heavy cotton quilt but I thought it was time I got up and put my younger cousins out of their misery. There was a door from my bedroom into the bathroom. There was a second door inside the bathroom and I guessed it was between the bedrooms. I negotiated the squat toilet, quickly washed and dressed, put on my new jumper and shawl, and braved the cold outside. A veranda with blinds opened into a courtyard and a high wall enclosed the whole area. No one was there. I hugged the shawl around me. There had been damage to the cement work of the house: huge cracks snaked across the tops of the walls.

Then I heard a squeal, which was abruptly cut off, and I saw a girl of about nine peeking at me, her hand over the bottom part of her face. ‘Hello,’ I said, and smiled. She ran back into a room. A boy came out immediately and grinned at me. If I could have squeezed Riaz into a thirteen-year-old’s body he would have looked like this.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, though I knew.

‘Asher.’ He stood up straighter. ‘Are you our Cousin Ameera?’

‘Yes.’

He came closer and shook my hand. This wasn’t something many men did in Pakistan so I knew he was trying to make me feel at home.

‘Do you see many kangaroos?’ he asked, showing off his clipped English.

‘Not really. They’re in the wild.’

‘If you went driving in the countryside you would see one?’

I nodded. ‘Once we saw one jumping across the road at night.’

‘How high do they jump?’

‘High enough to clear a car or a fence.’

He was impressed. ‘Please come. Eat some breakfast. I have been helping. Zeba too.’

I smiled at him. ‘Your sister?’

‘My youngest sister. Then there is Jamila—she is nineteen and has finished college—and Meena, but she’s old and married. She even has a baby now. It cries all the time.’

‘I hope I meet them all soon.’

‘Yes, but Jamila is unhappy. It is to do with the wedding.’ He used the Urdu word: ‘shadi’.

‘Asher!’ My aunt rushed out of a room. ‘There you are and you have found Ameera.’

‘Yes, Ummie ji, and she has seen a kangaroo.’

‘Of course she has, silly boy—she lives in Australia.’

Asher turned and winked at me. He was certainly the opposite of Haider.

‘You look like Meena,’ Asher informed me on the way into a family room furnished with lots of couches.

‘Do I? That sounds like a compliment, thank you.’

Asher gave me a conspiring smile.

‘Ameera, sit here. You are our guest,’ Aunty Khushida said.

She fluttered around me with a pot of chai. Asher had obviously been given the job of being nice to me; he sat by me. Zeba stood apart with her head half-lowered but I knew she was aware of my every move. I smiled in her direction but it did no good. Now that I was awake it seemed her giggles had dried up.

I tried to tell Aunty I could get my own breakfast. ‘Papa said I should think of your family as my own.’

For a moment she frowned. ‘Hahn ji. You are our daughter while you are here, but you must settle first. You can help later on, Inshallah.’

An older girl walked in with a basket of chapattis and a plate of fried eggs. I looked with interest at her—she must be Jamila. The glance she flashed at me and then her mother was one of pure annoyance. My smile faded.

‘This is Ameera,’ Aunty Khushida said unnecessarily.

‘Go and get the plate,’ Jamila said crossly to Zeba.

Zeba ran into the kitchen and returned with a warm plate held in a tea towel. She set it on the table and regarded me openly for the first time. Then she came and sat on the other side of me. I smiled at both of them: Zeba and Asher, the perfect hospitable pair. Pity Jamila and Haider had grown out of being polite.

I ate under the watchful gaze of my two youngest cousins while Aunty and Jamila worked in the kitchen. I scooped up the runny egg with pieces of the flatbread. Asher offered me salt and pepper, but I refused the pepper; there was enough chilli on the eggs already.

Afterwards they took me on a tour of the house.

‘This is the mejalis,’ Asher said. ‘It has a door to the lane and is where Abu meets with his friends. He sleeps here with Haider and me, but sometimes Zeba can sleep with Haider and me too.’

‘Where do you sleep usually?’ I asked Zeba.

She spoke to me for the first time, in Urdu. ‘With Ummie ji. She has a big soft bed.’

‘When Meena was home, she and Jamila slept in the room you are in. If we have many guests Jamila sleeps in the lounge room,’ Asher explained. He took me further around the courtyard and pushed open a door. ‘We had this room but the earthquake made it dangerous. We lost another room too.’

There were blocks of cement jutting out into the space where the ‘lost’ room had been. With the sunken cement, plaster falling off the walls and huge cracks, it looked like a demolition site.

‘We are not allowed to go inside,’ Zeba added when she saw Asher’s foot on the threshold.

‘Is this the only damage you had?’ I asked. ‘You were lucky. You still have a nice house.’

Papa had said his brother was well-off and had a good carpet business in Muzaffarabad, yet their house wasn’t as big as ours in Adelaide.

Asher and Zeba took me into the garden. On that side of the house, the garden wall had fallen away and the earth had slid down an embankment. Yet I heard the sound of running water. We walked through an archway and into a miniature Persian garden, secluded on two sides by walls and a row of cedar trees on the third side.
A water channel ran east to west, and a shorter one from north to south. A fountain circulated the water. Blue tiles at the bottom of the pool around it made the water appear deeper. At one end of the longest channel was a bench with a pavilion over it. I gazed around in awe: somebody was a creative gardener.

‘Ummie lost her roses,’ Zeba said. ‘They just disappeared, goom gea. Along with the wall.’ She flung her hands up in the air as if a bird had flown from her wrist.

‘Truly?’

‘Mmm.’ She nodded solemnly. ‘Now the garden is ruined.’

‘Baba’s hut was destroyed too,’ Asher added. ‘He is the chowkidar. He has to sleep in a tent now, but he gets a good view of any robbers from up there.’

I followed his gaze to the roof and saw a tent near a satellite dish.

‘Doesn’t he get cold?’ I asked.

‘He lights a fire on the roof, but sometimes Abu lets him sleep in the courtyard. It’s just until we can get another hut built.’

‘Baba does the gardening too but he has not found Ummie’s roses,’ Zeba said.

‘Because of the earthquake, Dadi jan sleeps in Ummie’s room now,’ Asher told me.

‘Is Dadi jan your grandmother?’ I caught my breath. This was my father’s mother, the person I was supposed to take after.

‘Yes.’ Asher stared at me as if he had just worked out something important. ‘She’s your grandmother too, is she not?’

I nodded. I had forgotten she would be here too. Perhaps she would be able to help me understand more about Papa, tell me stories of his childhood.

‘Jamila says Dadi jan talks rubbish, but I don’t think so,’ Zeba said. ‘She just sleeps a lot.’

My heart sank. Was my grandmother suffering from dementia?

Just then we heard a clanging sound. It came from the gate that faced onto the gali, the small lane.

‘Come on,’ Asher shouted. ‘That will be Meena.’

‘She has come for chai,’ Zeba said.

I wasn’t sure I was ready for another cup of Aunty’s strong sweet tea so soon, but I was looking forward to seeing my cousin again.

Meena was in the courtyard, under the veranda, sitting on a stringed bed with her sleeping baby in her arms. Someone had put coals in an old oil drum and the blinds had been rolled down to keep the heat in.

‘Ameera.’ She rose, shifted the baby to one arm and hugged me with the other. ‘How you have grown. How was your trip? Tell me everything.’

I stared at Meena in relief. Her welcome almost made me cry, it was such a change from Haider’s and Jamila’s. I sat down next to her, and Asher and Zeba joined us.

‘The plane trip was okay,’ I said. ‘Papa booked me through Singapore—’

‘How about the ride up the hill? Did you survive Abu’s old Suzuki?’

I grinned. ‘I thought I’d die on the mountain. One time Uncle had to back up twice before the car could make the turn.’

Meena laughed. ‘I remember that. I bet it was Pindi Point near Murree.’ Then her tone changed and became almost guarded as she asked, ‘And how was Haider?’

‘He never spoke to me.’

She shook her head. ‘Haider and Jamila.’ She said their names as though they were partners in a childish crime. Then she shrugged off the mood. ‘We must go shopping. It is fortunate that I am living in Muzaffarabad and I can help at this happy time.’

I smiled politely, thinking she was referring to Jamila’s wedding. She searched my face and must have found it lacking for her smile faded. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘We shall have much fun together.’

Zeba spoke up then. ‘Can I go shopping too?’

‘I’m sure you can, sweetie.’ Meena pinched her on the cheek.

‘You were the person I remembered the most,’ I said to Meena. ‘Remember that day you took me for a lassi drink in the bazaar? I loved that.’

‘We can do it again. You were such a sweet child, and you have not changed.’

Jamila came out bearing a tray and set out the inevitable pot of chai and cups on a small table in front of us. Did I imagine it or did she put those cups down with stronger force than necessary? I gave her a tentative smile but either she didn’t see or she ignored it. She put chilli crisps and a plate of cake on the table too.

‘I can help,’ I said and stood up.

Meena pulled me down. ‘Plenty of time to help. Be a guest for a while longer.’

‘Can I hold Gudiya?’ Zeba asked.

‘Of course.’ Meena passed over the baby. She was tightly wrapped and barely stirred as Zeba took her.

It sounded strange, calling a baby a doll. ‘Is Gudiya her name?’

‘Her real name is Fatima,’ Zeba informed me, ‘but I like Gudiya better.’

‘So do we all.’ Meena gave me a wink. ‘My husband’s mother was called Fatima. There wasn’t much I could do about it. Since she died she has become an angel in my husband’s eyes.’

‘But we call Gudiya what we want, don’t we?’ Zeba said in Urdu.

Meena’s gaze rested on her. ‘You can practise your English with Ameera and you will be top of the class.’

All of a sudden Meena started talking about marriage—how good it was for families. Maybe she thought I’d lost my culture in Australia. In an effort to reassure her, I agreed. ‘Marriage is a good thing; arranged marriages too.’ She smiled at me, looking relieved. Then I added, ‘But I want to go to university first, teach for a while, then marry.’

Her smile disappeared and she glared at Aunty Khushida who’d come out with a fresh pot of chai. Aunty kept her head lowered, but I could see her eyebrows furrowed into a frown. She’d obviously heard what I’d said.

‘When you get married, Ameera,’ Zeba said, ‘I want to help with the henna. I can draw good patterns and I won’t mess up the dots.’

‘Are you coming all the way to my wedding in Australia?’ I gave her a playful shake.

Zeba bit her lip. ‘But Haider said—’

I didn’t get to hear what Haider had said for Aunty
Khushida suddenly took the baby from Zeba. ‘Go buy some milk,’ she ordered.

‘But I went this morning.’

Aunty Khushida pushed her with the palm of her hand. ‘Buy some more—we have guests today.’

Zeba knew she was being sent away so the adults could talk, but her turned-down mouth was disappointed rather than sulky. I thought I should go too, let Meena and her mother talk without a guest listening in. I told them I needed to unpack.

As I left the courtyard I heard Meena speaking in Urdu. Her voice was little more than a hiss. ‘Ummie, she doesn’t know. Why hasn’t she been told?’

I wondered what it was that Zeba needed to know.

Jamila was in our room hand-sewing a hem on a dupatta.

‘I’ll need to get some warmer clothes,’ I said to her. ‘I can’t wear yours for the whole time I’m here.’ My effort at a joke fell flat.

She stared at me for a few moments. ‘No, we can go to the bazaar this afternoon. There should be a few shops open.’

I felt a sudden relief. This was an overture of friendship, surely? I was concerned about how I’d get on with Jamila, especially as we were sharing a room. We’d never written to each other personally—just the family cards at Eid—and we’d lived very different lives. Yet our fathers were brothers; surely there’d be some spark
of familial feeling? Maybe this was the first indication of it. I unpacked my backpack; put my passports, ticket and money under my mattress.

‘I could help you choose cloth for your wedding,’ I offered.

There was a long silence. I could have kicked myself. This wasn’t Australia where Muslim girls were more open. Probably Jamila hadn’t even met her husband yet. Yes, that was it, I decided. She looked embarrassed and I resolved not to bring the subject up again.

After lunch—vegetable curry, chapattis, and more strong chai—Meena returned home. She gave me her mobile number before she left. ‘Ring me anytime if you want to talk,’ she said, then glanced at Aunty Khushida. I saw the meaningful look that flew between them, but couldn’t decide what it meant.

Jamila and I walked to the bazaar. Asher and Zeba came too. I followed Jamila’s lead and put my shawl over my head. It was so cold I was glad of its warmth, and glad to be walking. The way Aunty Khushida was feeding me I’d be as big as an elephant by the time I went home. Tariq wouldn’t recognise me. The sudden lurch in my stomach when I thought of him surprised me and my hand found his necklace under my dupatta. When I got home I would start persuading Papa to give me what I wanted most in the world.

We passed a cement honour roll, the height of a triple-storey building, showing the names of men who
had become shaheed, martyred in war. It had been split down the middle.

Asher saw me staring. ‘The earthquake did that. Look.’ He pointed to the bazaar ahead, its new tin roofs winking in the pale sunlight. ‘Most of the bazaar is made of kacha tin shacks; all the real pukka buildings haven’t been rebuilt yet.’

All around I could see rubble, half-built houses, tents where buildings should have been, debris that hadn’t been removed. Muzaffarabad had been a beautiful city, but part of the mountain had fallen into the river. The city didn’t look beautiful now.

‘My school’s just there,’ Zeba said, and drew me over to show me. It was a tent school and looked forlorn, deserted.

‘Not many of the schools have been rebuilt,’ Jamila said. Her tone sounded bitter.

Before I could ask her about it, Zeba danced in front of me.

‘Will you come tomorrow? You could teach English.’

I laughed, but Jamila said, ‘You could teach a few days a week. I do.’

‘Truly?’

She shrugged. ‘So many of the teachers were killed. And twenty thousand children died. Muzaffarabad was called the City of Death.’

‘We were in school when it happened,’ Asher said. ‘At eight minutes to nine. It was Saturday and we were reading. We could hear a noise as loud as a truck driving on the roof except it sounded like it was under the ground.’

‘It was scary,’ Zeba said.

Jamila glanced at Zeba. ‘Zeba didn’t go to school that day.’

‘I felt sick,’ Zeba added.

‘It saved her life,’ Jamila went on. ‘The schools were so badly constructed, they collapsed as soon as the earthquake hit. Just two minutes it took, cement storeys falling onto the next floor below, like houses made from cards. The children did not have a chance.’ She glanced at Asher. ‘But thanks to God, Asher survived.’

‘I was on the top floor as it came down,’ Asher said. ‘Then I crawled out of a window, just before the roof fell. Allah ka shukr hai.’

Tears welled in my eyes and I thanked God too. Papa had told us about the earthquake when he came back but he hadn’t mentioned details like this. I wondered if Asher had nightmares. How long would it take to recover from a trauma like that?

‘Haider helped the militants—they gave out food. Then the army came,’ Asher said. ‘They started digging out the children. They found my friend Saeed. He was still alive.’

He fell quiet and Zeba added, ‘Now Saeed has only one arm and one leg. He does not play soccer any more.’

The bazaar was a rabbit warren of tin shacks, with power lines twisted dangerously together overhead. Even though it was cold, the smell of dust and smoke mingled with sweat and curry. Thin white chickens flew up in their cages as we passed. Spices were piled like pyramids of colour in hessian bags. In front of the meat shop I was accosted by children begging. I still didn’t have any rupees.

‘How come they know I’m the new one?’ I said. I asked Jamila if I could change some money.

‘The banks are shut today, but that man changes small amounts.’ She pointed to a dingy shop.

Asher came with me. I didn’t mind, for even though I may have looked like I belonged there, I knew I didn’t. Everything was too strange. I spoke English but the money-changer couldn’t understand me.

‘Your Australian is faster than our English,’ Asher said. ‘And you use different words. Speak slower.’

I did, but I felt I was treating the poor man like a zombie. I reverted to Urdu, but I didn’t feel as confident discussing money in Urdu. What if I misunderstood? But Asher said the amount I received for twenty dollars was fair.

‘Do you know where to buy phone cards?’ I asked him.

He took me to a small booth facing onto the lane. It sold everything that a deli would: drinks, ice-creams, fruit, and a prepaid Paktel phone card. It cost me six hundred rupees. Now I’d be able to send a message to Tariq.

This time when a beggar asked, I could give a few rupees.

‘Do not give too much,’ Asher advised, ‘or they will tell their friends and you will be swamped.’ He grinned at me. ‘We learned that word “swamped” in English class. Our teacher said that if we use it, we will sound like natives of England.’

Asher was right about the beggars for by the time Jamila and Zeba found us there were more than before,
like ants crawling out of a disturbed nest. ‘Baksheesh, baksheesh,’ they cried and moaned. The way they drew out the word it sounded like a cat being tortured.

‘Baksheesh, gift for Christmas,’ one small boy said in broken Urdu, his hand outstretched.

Then I remembered that it was 25 December—with all the travelling I’d lost track of the date. Most of the bazaar was closed today, but for Qaid-e-Azam’s birthday, not for Christmas. How did that boy know I’d understand the word ‘Christmas’?

‘Ignore them,’ Jamila said. ‘They are just Christian kids. Their parents sweep the streets and clean toilets. If you touch them you will become ill.’

I thought about how different Christmas was at home, the shops gearing up for it months ahead, everyone getting presents, the parties, the lights in the streets. Here there was nothing. A picture of Mum came into my mind, sad at her parents’ house because I wasn’t there. I bent down to the boy and pulled out a ten-rupee note. How much was that? Just fifty cents?

‘Too much,’ Jamila snapped, but I’d already done it. I would give no Christmas gifts this year, but maybe I could give this boy a happier day.