Uzma Khan - Trespassing

Annam seemed unperturbed by Nini’s modest home and offered no explanation for her shabby appearance: she wore gold, yes, but her outfit was of nylon and her sandals torn. And her son was in jeans and a T-shirt. But then, boys always wore what they wanted.

Dia had submitted to Nini’s wishes. She’d dressed as her mother would have, in the latest style: long, loose kameez over a shalwar that flared like a lampshade at her ankles. It was unspeakably stupid. Her hair was brushed; there was even a semblance of a parting. But she refused any make-up. When Riffat asked where she was going Dia had had to lie after all: ‘A birthday party.’ She’d kissed her goodbye before Riffat could ask whose. In the car her stomach pounded with fists again. Few mothers would let their daughters go wherever they wanted. Riffat did, and in return Dia was betraying her. But, Dia reasoned irritably, her mother should have explained herself.

Nini’s two sisters sat politely on cushions on the carpet, whispering to each other. Her father was absent.

Of the six in the room, she and the boy were the only ones without anyone to talk to. She wished he’d stop the thumb-twiddling. And then, though she’d vowed not to, Dia scrutinized him.

He was tall and though slender, his T-shirt gave away a slight paunch. He was about her complexion, much darker than Nini, and very hairy: his arms and eyebrows would make useful breeding grounds for vermin. Hair short, puffy. Not silky like Nini’s, a delight to run fingers through. Lips chapped and frequently licked. Nose — more breeding grounds no doubt. He looked impatient, indifferent. He hadn’t made one attempt to engage what could be his in-laws in conversation. Tasleem kept trying.

‘You’re a gifted student, your mother tells me?’

‘Um.’

‘You’re doing so well in your studies, mahshallah.’

Annam interceded. ‘He’s very modest.’ She blessed him.

Nini’s sisters giggled.

Annam: ‘He’s very interested in the news. Just like his father.’

Tasleem: ‘May Allah rest him in peace.’

Nini’s sisters shifted.

The boy twiddled his thumbs.

The mothers smiled awkwardly. If it weren’t for that lovely sea breeze, they’d all choke.

Tasleem decided to give the boy a rest. Conversation now veered to all her contacts. ‘You do know them? The owners of Sheraton? Just yesterday I was invited to lunch at their house.’ Her list went on.

At last, Nini entered.

She skimmed into the room like a swan, eyes down, feathers preened into a smooth bun (courtesy of Palpitations). Involuntarily, Dia looked away. She’d rather never have known her than witness Nini metamorphose into a tea-tray-wielding, lash-batting, one-foot-perfectly-before-the-other-walking nineteen-year-old who seemed thoroughly committed to clinching first prize in the Miss World Proposal Pageant. Had Daanish’s mother attended other events? How many girls had she appraised? Suddenly, Dia was caught between despising Nini and feeling so vehemently loyal that she couldn’t bear to see her lose. No one could outshine Nini.

She set the tray down on a side-table. Then, carefully avoiding Daanish’s end of the couch, approached his mother. ‘Asalaam-o-alaikum, Annam Aunty,’ she smiled.

‘Waalai-kum-asalaam, beti,’ Annam smiled back, patting Nini’s head.

She did not even glance at the boy.

Her sisters giggled.

She wore a long-sleeved pale pink silk outfit from Riffat’s mill. The silver-embroidered dupatta was modestly draped across her chest. The same shade of pink highlighted her eyelids, lips, toenails and fingernails. Dia blushed again for her friend: if it weren’t for Nini’s innate poise, she’d resemble a gumdrop.

As she moved back toward the tray, Annam too studied her closely. Everyone did — except the boy. She arranged four quarter plates with napkins and forks, offered the first to Annam, second to her mother, third to Daanish (still no eye contact), and fourth to Dia.

‘Thanks,’ said Dia. ‘And hi.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Nini purred. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘She loves to bake,’ said Tasleem to Annam. ‘Though she eats so little herself. It’s always, “Eat, Ama,” or “Have more, Aba.” She’s such a joy to us.’

Nini began serving the items on the tray: a chocolate cake, rus malai, kebabs, chicken sandwiches, halwa. As she bent over Annam, her dupatta slipped from her shoulders and into the cake.

The boy smiled to himself.

Her sisters giggled.

Nini quickly set the tray down and went to wash the chocolate off.

Tasleem cleared her throat. ‘The halwa is from that new bakery you must have heard about. The owner is my sister-in-law’s niece. Her husband is the president of UBL. You must try it.’ She placed a hefty spoonful on Annam’s plate. ‘And you Daanish? Seema, get up and serve him,’ she snapped at one of the giggling sisters.

But Daanish rose and helped himself to each item on the tray.

‘He’s very considerate,’ piped Annam. ‘Even at home, he always wants to get things himself. He never troubles his mother.’ She sighed. She blessed him.

Daanish sat on the end of the couch next to Dia’s sofa. There was now a gaping space between him and his mother. Conversation between the mothers ceased. Dia flushed.

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something,’ he said to her.

She blinked. What are you doing?

‘I fed the caterpillars. You told me to find out what they eat. I did.’ His face grew animated, and she heard the American lilt in his voice. It was warm, amicable. He took a large bite of a sandwich.

She stared, stupefied. Get back next to your mother.

‘It was thoroughly fascinating. They spun cocoons. I’d never paid any attention to insects, you know? Unless, of course, it was to crush them.’ He grinned, then started on the cake. ‘Great snacks.’

Dia’s forehead prickled. The sides of her neck burned. She thought she’d faint. Why had Nini begged her to come? She glanced quickly at Tasleem. The daggers there pierced her chest. She didn’t dare look at Annam.

Nini’s sisters giggled.

Tasleem cleared her throat again. ‘Tell us more about Amreeka, Daanish.’

He hadn’t told them anything about Amreeka. Ask him something intelligent, for heaven’s sake. Get him away from me.

Annam smiled at her son. It looked like she was biting tacks. ‘Tasleem Aunty is talking to you, jaan.’

He shrugged. ‘Everybody’s asked me that question. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m quite sick of it.’ He smiled, not insincerely, but without any of the warmth with which he’d spoken to Dia.

Annam smiled apologetically. ‘He’s still a bit shaken, you know.’

The boy considered, then decided to let the comment go.

Tasleem: ‘He seems to like the cake. Seema, get up and serve him.’

Daanish still had half a slice left. When Seema offered him a second there was no space on the plate to pile it. She giggled, quickly putting the cake down on the table and running back to her sister.

‘Oh you silly child!’ cried Tasleem.

‘I’m still working on this,’ said Daanish, his mouth full.

But Tasleem rose and put the second slice on the rus malai and Daanish puffed his cheeks in exasperation.

The sisters giggled.

Tasleem turned to Annam. ‘What do we do with girls these days? Our mothers never had to train us. We just learned.’

‘That’s exactly what I see,’ Annam commiserated.

‘This is interesting,’ said Daanish to Dia. ‘Cocoa mixed with rus malai.’

The sisters doubled over.

Tasleem: ‘Stop it you two!’

Daanish to Dia: ‘So where was I? Mulberry leaves, eh? I like puzzles.’

The mothers fell silent again.