Uzma Khan - Trespassing

The electricity had gone again. He looked at the ceiling fan, waiting for the miracle rattle.

In Anu’s lap was a bowl of lentils, soaking in less water than she liked to use. He sat quietly beside her as she washed them, remembering a day like this twelve, maybe thirteen years ago. The doctor and he were watching a television show about a prospector. He tried to remember the year. Somewhere in the late seventies. The doctor was handsome, trim. A torrential spirit full of stories to share. So it was not a day like this. There were hardly any houses on the street — Khurram’s had definitely not been there. The Soviets hadn’t yet, or maybe just, invaded Afghanistan. Pakistan was a useful US ally. Aid had somersaulted into his country as rapidly as guns did now.

The prospector had held a pan with chunks of black rock. He spent his life waiting for the odd nugget, reminding Daanish of his grandfather: shriveled and somewhat bad-tempered, but unflinchingly determined. Willing to put up with rubbish for the rare bit of truth. Writing and fighting, yet never speaking of his own pain. Stubborn as lichen. Did he not have a drop of that feisty man’s blood in his own veins?

Had the doctor too been thinking of his father as he sat beside his son, watching the crotchety prospector? Did he wish he were more like him, as he flew from place to place, bringing back gifts for Daanish and a wife who’d rather he spent on the house?

Anu probably had no recollection of that day. She’d been in the kitchen. She hardly ever watched television with them. Yes, it definitely wasn’t a day like this.

He rose to turn on the TV, forgetting there was no electricity. Anu went into the kitchen. He could hear her put the lentils on the stove. She returned with two oranges and a salt shaker. She peeled the first orange, sprinkled each wedge with salt to cut the tartness, and offered the pieces to him. ‘It’s been in the fridge. Still cold.’

He smiled. The fresh, cool citrus after his ordeal at the water office was unspeakably delightful. He sat with both hands by his side, doing nothing besides parting his lips and piercing the skin of the orange lightly with his teeth.

Seeing how it revived him, Anu peeled the second one. ‘You mustn’t let yourself get dehydrated. The salt is also good for you.’ Then she told him her brother would pick them up in the evening so they could go to his house and get cleaned up. ‘A shower after all these days will do wonders for your appetite.’

There was a rattle, and then a click. The fan started turning and the TV lit up: Pakistan vs Australia. Daanish sank into the couch, relishing the gust of air on his face; the sweet tangerine; the leisurely pace of cricket.

After losing two wickets in succession, Australia finally smashed a six. Australian fans cheered. In amongst the bouncing crowd were two women in skimpy T-shirts. The screen quickly switched to a cigarette ad.

Daanish laughed, ‘Smoking is better than skin!’

Anu pursed her lips.

‘I bet the Censor Board had a good look.’

She slapped his leg. ‘Just what your father would have said.’

‘The men are too busy ogling to notice the slogan is highly inappropriate.’ The slogan read: For the taste alone.

‘You were so innocent once!’

It was too bad, really, because one of them had had boobs like Becky’s. Anu had probably seen those boobs in the photos she’d stolen. He could embarrass her by asking whose were bigger. They’d play their own little censorship game: she hiding Becky, he hiding his liaison with her. She hiding that she’d hidden Becky, he hiding his knowledge of it all.

It was just a matter of time before she started on Nissrine. First she’d be of genteel birth, what with all that Ghaznavid blood coursing through her veins. (Just how many distant cousins of this regal clan did he have? Daanish couldn’t remember any.) Then she’d be just his type: slim and educated. Finally, he got to say he liked her, without having to name her.

The game came on again but the cameraman was still focused on the women so it was back to Gold Leaf.

‘I wonder if the water office and Censor Board are run by the same people? They both get paid to object.’

She looked at him. Ah, there was the preparatory look! The pleading eyes, tilting head, the words clustering on the tip of her tongue. Marry Nissrine … Marry Nissrine … the girl with the fair, fresh complexion. Just like her grandchildren should have.

Before she could say it, Wasim and Waqar were back in action, baffling the batsmen with reverse swing. ‘We might win the series, don’t you think? A nice follow-up to our World Cup victory.’

She bit her tongue. Not yet.

But when the game was over, and when they’d returned home after a rejuvenating wash at his uncle’s, with five pots full of water to last, hopefully, till Sunday, she did say it. And once again, he implied he had no objection.

He called her at last after a week. ‘When can I see you?’

‘Where have you been?’ She was panting, but her voice was different.

He felt a constriction around his neck. ‘I’ve been trying to get a tanker to the house. Long story. When …’

‘I’ve called so many times,’ she pressed.

He paused. ‘I’m sorry. When I’m home Anu’s around me a lot.’

‘Well, you could have at least tried.’

His irritation mounted. Finally: ‘Let’s figure out how to meet. My car’s still broken …’

‘I’m going to have to call you back. I don’t like you right now.’ She hung up.

What was he going to do with himself now?

Anu’s brother had taken her to the water office. He had the whole house to himself but Dia had to make a fuss.

He walked out into the lawn and onto the street, winding around the unfinished house. Had the contractor been fired? Work still hadn’t resumed.

He thought of the choices he could offer her, when she eventually called. He could find a mechanic. But the thought itself was draining. It would take days before a mechanic kept his promise and came to the house, and in any case, the car would only break down again. He couldn’t bring himself to chase both a tanker and a mechanic, even though Anu chased the former now.

Dia’s car, like Khurram’s, only came with the driver so that was out.

They couldn’t take a bus because the cove was outside its range.

They could take a taxi, though that too wouldn’t go all the way. It would involve walking the distance, in this heat, as Dia had had to do the day his car broke down. It had meant more men like Salaamat leering at Dia.

So what was left?

As he walked through the partitions, he wondered, Right here? It might be quite cozy, cuddling in one of these half-built chambers. He could simply tell Anu he was going to find a mechanic. It was too obvious to suspect.

The only problem he foresaw was Salaamat, if it was he who occasionally lurked in the crevices. But when no other options arose, he suggested the house when she finally called.

Days later, in a cavity furthest from the street, she sulked, ‘Oh what a place to meet!’

‘But aren’t you glad to see me? This is probably going to be a guest bedroom or something. We’re the first guests!’

‘This is absurd. There are puddles everywhere. We’re barely out of the sun, and most of all, we’re sandwiched between your mother’s house and Khurram’s house, where Salaamat knows us too! It’s like we’re having to create our own village just to be together, only the village is in their lap.’

He sat her down. ‘Let’s talk about your lap.’ He tried to rest his head in it.

But she remained aloof, looking about the empty room with the half-raised, unpainted walls, and above them, a gray and bloated sky. The ground was muddy and uneven. The arm he touched soon covered in sweat.