A Thousand Questions Read online

  She pauses at the kitchen table to drink some water and rest. “Wonder what the Americans will bring for us,” she says, grinning. Her front tooth is missing, and she annoys me with her constant chattering.

  I shrug. “I don’t think they’ll bring anything for you,” I tell her. She’s older than me, possibly as old as Amma, or at least close. But she has no common sense.

  “Why not?” she retorts. “Begum Sahiba’s guests always give us some money when they leave.”

  “You’re being greedy,” I grumble, turning away to my tasks. “Just go do your job, otherwise Begum Sahiba is going to fire you. That’s what she did to the last maid who spent too much time chatting.”

  A look of alarm crosses Tahira’s face, and she leaves her water on the table to run out.

  “You shouldn’t have scared her, my dear,” Abba tells me, but he’s smiling. I smile back. He knows how much Tahira gets on my nerves.

  I’m searching for an answer when he coughs slightly, giving me a warning glance. The next second, Begum Sahiba glides into the kitchen. She’s tall and very thin. She’s wearing a light green silk sari with white peacocks on the border. Her hair is in a bun at the nape of her neck. “Ejaz,” she says, and her voice cracks like a whip. “You’re finally here! Why must you always be late?”

  Abba hangs his head. I want to shout that we are right on time, but that’s unthinkable. Servants have been dismissed for lesser sins. We both wash our hands at the sink—I marvel at the water running out of the tap in gushes—and get to work. I take out pots and pans from the cabinets under the stove and oil canisters from the pantry, and line up the spices. Abba is the head cook, and I’m his assistant. Still, it’s Begum Sahiba who decides the menu.

  We wait for today’s orders. She’s got a list as long as her bony, gold-bangled arm. Biryani. Shami kabab. Chicken karahi. And nuggets.

  I’m guessing that last is for the American girl.

  3

  Mimi

  The Mansion and Its Royalty

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting when the buzzer sounds sharply, and the gate swings open smooth as syrup. I peer inside, one hand holding my backpack tightly. The taxi driver has gone, leaving our luggage on the street under a scraggly tree.

  We drag the suitcases inside, and the gate swings shut behind us with a clang that makes me jump. On my left is a big garden, with clipped grass and potted plants along the sides. A few white cane chairs are arranged on the far side, waiting to be sat on. I eye them, wondering if Mom ever sat on them, reading or just enjoying the breeze. Wondering everything about Mom right now. I never dreamed she grew up in a house like this.

  Behind the gate stands a thin old man with white hair and a long white beard. “Samia Ji! Welcome!” he cries in Urdu, his face creasing into a smile.

  Mom smiles, too, and nods. “Malik, I can’t believe you’re still here!” She turns to me. “Malik was my parents’ driver since I was a little girl. He used to drive me everywhere. To school, then to college, and to my friends’ houses. Everywhere!”

  Malik is still smiling. “Everywhere,” he echoes. “I’d have picked you up from the airport if I’d known the time.”

  Mom waves and continues toward the house. “Getting a taxi was no trouble at all. I’m just so happy to see you again!”

  She’s already walking up the long driveway to the house, a suitcase in her right hand, long strides as if she owns the place. Wait, does she? I pick up the second suitcase and follow quickly, not wanting to be left behind. Malik follows us, saying “Alhamdolillah” over and over. There are a few steps, and then a porch, and by the time we reach the front door with our things, the door opens by itself. I sneak a hand into Mom’s, and she squeezes it in a way that makes me think that perhaps, unexpectedly, she’s nervous as well.

  A woman stands behind the door and motions us in. When she smiles I see a tooth missing. I’m ready to smile back and offer my standard Urdu greeting, meager as it is—Salaam. Kya haal hai?—but Mom walks inside without even glancing in her direction, so I bow my head and follow. Is that a relative? A servant? There are no answers to all the questions buzzing in my head like the pesky flies in the airport.

  But there are no flies in here, only an echoing silence that feels claustrophobic. We walk through a hallway with marbled floors and faded tapestries on the walls, then through double doors into what looks like a highly formal living room. A cool air envelops me, making me groan with happiness. Air-conditioning, the chilly kind that comes from a unit, and not the central air in Houston.

  I look around with interest. There are petite armchairs covered in lush red velvet, small round side tables with unusual items like a white chessboard and a collection of glass figurines. An elegant golden chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling. I feel my eyes rounding until they’re stretched like golf balls, and my mouth is probably open, although I’m too shocked to care. Can this really be my mom’s childhood house?

  Mom is looking around as well, but with obvious distaste. “Flaunting their wealth as usual,” she mutters as she flings our bags on the floor dangerously close to the table with the glass figurines. I want to shout, to ask why we’ve been living in a one-bedroom apartment in Houston for so many years if there was all . . . this . . . here, but she doesn’t look like she’s in a mood to talk just now. I gingerly put down my backpack and smooth my hair with my hands. Anyone living in this mansion is sure to be super elegant and not smelling like airports.

  I step over our bags and walk around to the far side of the room. A small glass case contains beautifully dressed dolls standing in a variety of poses. They have such exquisite faces, and their clothes make them look like fashionistas. Or brides. I squat on the floor and press my face against the glass to stare at them.

  “Samia! At last!” A movement makes me turn my head, and for a moment I think I’m staring at Mom’s laptop screen during a late-night Skype session. A woman glides through the doors of the room as if she’s the queen of the castle. Her graying hair is tied in a bun, and glasses dangle on her neck with a pearl string. Her green sari dazzles and shimmers. Behind her is a man in a crisp brown suit. I blink. Is there a party? I cross my arms over my poop emoji and smooth my hair again. I hope that smell isn’t coming from me. When did I last take a shower? I can’t remember.

  “Ammi,” Mom says, very politely. “Assalamu alaikum.”

  The lady reaches forward, and they hug. It’s awkward even from a distance, as if they’re both made from prickly cactus. The man stands by, fidgeting. I bet his suit is too tight for him. It looks brand-new and totally uncomfortable. I suddenly have an urge to giggle, and I bite my lip. Call it intuition, but my grandmother doesn’t look like she has a sense of humor.

  “You’re late,” she says accusingly in perfect English. “You didn’t get caught in one of those election processions, did you? They are crawling all over the city these days, drumming up votes, making lots of noise.” She wrinkles her nose as if she can smell something stinky.

  “Election? What election?” Mom straightens up and turns to her father. Their hug is less awkward, more genuine.

  “We’re going to elect our next prime minister in six weeks, my dear. It’s all very exciting.” He holds her at arms’ length and smiles gently. “Thank God, you finally came to visit!”

  “Well, you two wouldn’t stop insisting,” Mom answers dryly. “Plus your offer to pay for our tickets was . . . very generous.”

  “Nonsense. It was our pleasure!” He has a faraway look in his eyes. “How long has it been? Ten years?”

  “Twelve,” Mom corrects, and her voice is rough. She clears her throat and continues, “Mimi is eleven now, remember?”

  “Where is Mimi, anyway?” my grandmother grunts, looking around.

  I stand up and clear my throat. They all turn to me with startled eyes. “Maryam, darling!” The lady holds out her thin arms in an imperious command. Her voice is so fake, it’s dripping sweet.

  My feet refus
e to move. Mom waves to me, making faces to tell me I’ll get in trouble if I don’t move immediately, into the open arms of the grandmother I haven’t really known until now. Then the man walks over and envelops me in a hug. “Maryam, my dear, how big you’ve grown!” he says, smiling. “Your mother hardly ever sends us pictures of you.”

  “She doesn’t sit still long enough to take pictures” is Mom’s hasty reply, and I’m shocked because this is not exactly true. I spend hours in my room, reading. I stare at her, and she grins back sheepishly, acknowledging the lie.

  I decide to forgive her. We’re a team, she always says. I hug the man—his suit is super itchy—and smile at the lady. “Assalamu alaikum, Nana and Nani!” I say brightly, in my best Urdu accent.

  She loses her saccharine smile. “Nani? I’m too young to be called Nani!”

  Nana chuckles. “Well, this is your granddaughter right here, so that makes you a Nani, dear wife!”

  She’s not happy, I can tell. I bite my lip again to stop myself from laughing. She looks as if she’s eaten a rotten egg. Mom’s biting her lip, too, trying to keep still and serious. “Fine. Call me whatever you like,” Nani grumbles, frowning darkly. She reaches out to a little golden bell on the table and rings it; the sound makes me jump a little. “Sakina, where are you?” she barks in Urdu. “Take these two to their rooms. They’ll want to freshen up and change before lunch.”

  Nana gives me another hug. “I need to change too,” he whispers with a wink. “This suit your nani forced me to wear to welcome you is as tight as a noose.”

  4

  Sakina

  The Americans

  I lead the guests upstairs to the second floor, where the bedrooms are. It’s the first time since I started working here that these rooms have been used. Begum Sahiba and Sahib Ji sleep downstairs in a bedroom that’s almost as big as my entire house. The upstairs is usually dark and empty, the curtains drawn tightly over the windows, the doors closed firmly.

  Not anymore. The woman—Samia Ji—is rushing up the staircase with her arms wide open, her mouth stretched into a smile. “Oh, this place is still the same!” she gushes, pointing. “Here’s my room, and that one right there was my brother’s, and to the left was our library where we read books and did our homework!”

  I try to imagine a room full of books, dedicated to studying. In my house, there’s one bedroom where my entire family huddles together at night, a verandah where Amma cooks and washes clothes while Jammy plays, and a little cupboard for a toilet. Oh, to have a room with a door I could close on the rest of the world and read. Maybe that would improve my English.

  I look up and find the American girl watching me with eyes that are so light brown they seem almost transparent. Her hair is a lighter shade than mine, shoulder length and held back with a sparkly headband. She’s tall, although Abba’s told me she’s my age. “American children grow taller and bigger,” he once said. “They eat better food and have fewer worries than us Pakistani folk.” I can’t believe that this could be true. We eat and drink just fine, thank you very much.

  “What’s your name?” the American girl asks in English. We’re at the top of the stairs, and her mother has disappeared into one of the bedrooms to investigate her childhood memories. We stand awkwardly together, me in my stained shalwar kameez, she in her T-shirt and jeans.

  I freeze. People don’t usually talk to me in Begum Sahiba’s house. They just look right through me as if I don’t even exist. Even Abba seems to forget I’m there until I accidentally drop a pan on the floor and he jerks around to give me a look of annoyance. When he’s cooking, he likes to have complete silence in the kitchen.

  “Um, Sakina,” I answer, my voice low. I hope she’s not going to start talking to me, because I can’t speak too much English without making a fool of myself.

  Too late. She opens her mouth and a string of words flow out like the Indus River: smooth on top, but rocky and dangerous underneath. Normally, I can understand English quite well, but her accent is strange. She opens her mouth too wide for o and a and softens her t for no reason. It’s the accent I’ve heard on Sahib Ji’s television when he watches movies in the afternoon. Movies filled with guns and buildings that blow up unexpectedly.

  I focus on her mouth to try to understand her. “. . . short for Maryam.”

  I nod. “Salaam, Maryam.”

  She frowns. “No, call me Mimi. Nobody calls me Maryam. It’s so . . .” and then I lose her. She’s still talking when her mother walks up to us and snaps her fingers.

  “Come on, Mimi, let’s get settled in. You can talk to your new friend later.”

  They walk away toward the first bedroom, the one that used to be Samia Ji’s childhood room. I watch them leave and shut the door firmly, my mouth open. I’m not her friend, I want to say, but there’s nobody to hear me.

  At lunchtime, I set the table with Tahira’s help. On normal weekday afternoons, there’s hardly a dish or two on this table. Begum Sahiba and Sahib Ji eat in silence, sharing one meat dish and a side vegetable or daal with roti. Today is special, of course. All the food Abba and I have been cooking since morning is spread out like a king’s feast. There are also bottles of mineral water and Coke and apple juice—the last probably for Mimi.

  “Where’s the roti?” Begum Sahiba snaps in Urdu.

  I hasten back from the kitchen with fresh roti. “Here!” I say, hoping she’s not angry. The last time roti was late to the table, she screamed like a banshee.

  Mimi’s mother takes one, then turns to me and smiles. “It’s so light and fresh,” she marvels. “Who made it?”

  I blink at her. Why does she care who cooked the food? Her business is only in eating it. “I did,” I finally admit.

  “That’s amazing! My daughter can’t cook to save her life!” She casts a teasing look at Mimi, who sticks her tongue out at her mother.

  The horror! I wait with a sick fascination for Mimi’s mother to shout, or even smack her. Nothing. What sort of people are these Americans? Sticking your tongue out at an elder is the height of rudeness.

  Begum Sahiba obviously thinks the same thing. “Don’t be rude, child,” she tells Mimi with a frown.

  Sahib Ji pats her hand. “Let them be, dear. It’s only teasing. They don’t consider it a big deal, and neither should you.”

  I can see an argument brewing. Careful not to meet Begum Sahiba’s eye, I push the biryani toward Mimi’s mother. “Here, try this. My abba made all this food.”

  Mimi’s mother looks suitably impressed. “Did he?”

  I nod proudly. “Yes, ma’am. He’s been working here as the cook for almost five years.”

  “Okay, Sakina, no need to talk so much,” Begum Sahiba interrupts. “Go check on the kitchen; start washing the dishes or something. Don’t just go in and sit idly.”

  I grit my teeth. Abba and I haven’t eaten yet. After a moment, I slink away, trying not to notice that Mimi is watching me.

  “So,” I hear Mimi’s mom say as I leave, “tell me more about this election. Who are the candidates this year?”

  In the kitchen, I find Abba putting the final touches on the kheer, the rice pudding the family will be served as dessert. He ladles it out in a shallow crystal bowl shaped like a flower and sprinkles sliced almonds and pistachios on top. “Abba, eat first,” I tell him as I take out our tiffin from the cupboard. “They’re talking politics. They won’t ask for dessert for at least half an hour.”

  Abba is diabetic, so he can’t eat most of the food he so lovingly cooks for the family. That’s why I cook in the morning before we leave the house and bring our food with us. Abba’s worked in houses where the owners allowed him to cook and eat in their kitchen, but Begum Sahiba is a dragon, and a selfish one at that. She wants not a grain of rice or a sprinkle of flour to go to any of her servants. She keeps count of everything in the pantry, in the storeroom, in the attic, and in the garage outside.

  So I prefer our own way. Who needs to be beholden to a rich woman,
anyway? I keep a little bag of our own things in the cabinet under the sink: a sack of flour, some oil, and a bag of sunflower seeds for afternoon snacking.

  Today I’ve made spinach curry with a few pieces of turnip. I’m nowhere as good a cook as Abba, but I’m learning. There are two extra roti I cooked a few minutes ago, still steaming hot. We sit on the kitchen floor and eat, father and daughter, as we’ve been doing for years. He smiles at me as he eats. “Delicious as usual,” he says, even though I’m not the best cook. Still, we are together, and that is enough to make me smile back.

  5

  Mimi

  Move Some Chess Pieces on the Board

  I’m woken by the sound of quarreling outside my open balcony. At first I think I’m back in my apartment, where the next door neighbor Mrs. Peabody always shouts at her grandson to eat his breakfast. You’re so skinny, you’re going to fall down from exhaustion one day! Eat some eggs and bacon, for God’s sake! The grandson is twenty–something and works downtown. I find it hilarious to imagine ancient Mrs. Peabody trying to jam bacon and eggs down his throat as he gets ready to go to work.

  I snuggle in my bed, listening, slowly realizing that things are not the same. The feel of the fabric over me is different—less scratchy than in Houston, fluffier and more luxurious. There are crows outside, cawing in angry tones. My street in Houston has nothing but little robins and sparrows, tweeting happy little good mornings to each other. The quarreling is also different. Mrs. Peabody never sounded so . . . furious.

  Then it strikes me. I’m in Pakistan, far away from robins and sparrows and cranky old Mrs. Peabody.

  I struggle to sit up, my eyes only half open. The clock on the wall says 11:05 a.m., but I’m pretty sure that’s not accurate. I feel like there’s a ton of bricks on my head, like it’s the middle of the night and I just can’t wake up.