Chapter Six

Shazia was to spend another two weeks in Paris tending to her mother before heading back to Los Angeles. But after the evening that she dropped me off at Zoe’s, I didn’t see much of her. She had called a couple of days later, telling me that her mother’s health had worsened and that she would be spending more time with her. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t like being left alone like this, but based on what she appeared to be going through in her own family travails, thought it selfish to burden her further.

So I spent my first few days as Zoe’s flatmate-cum-housekeeper in a subtle state of shock, still numb from being disowned by the only family I had ever known, unable to feel any joy at this so-called freedom I was experiencing. I was still waiting for Allah to smite me at every turn.

Zoe taught English at a nearby school, so was gone for most of the day. As she whizzed out the door every morning, a thermos of coffee in one hand and a paper bag containing a buttery croissant in the other, I cleaned up after her. She had told me that her ex-husband used to call her “Hurricane Zoe,” and I could see why. When she was busy, she always seemed to do everything at breakneck speed. That left little time for picking up after herself, so, given the tacit agreement between her and Shazia, I stepped into that role. I washed her pajamas and towels after she had tossed them on the floor, made her bed, cleaned her kitchen. I didn’t mind it, as the routine of it was at least something familiar, something that connected me to what my mornings used to be back in Mahim. And it wasn’t like I had much else to do. The apartment was so small that I was done cleaning by noon, and then I would turn on the television and listen to the flurry of French words until I came across something I could recognize: “demain,” or “peut-être” or “il y a,” fully cognizant that being able to only say “tomorrow,” “maybe,” or “there is” would get me almost nowhere in Paris.

I always dreaded Zoe coming home, not for any other reason except that I would have to make some weak-hearted attempt to have a conversation with her. As pleasant as she was to me, I was painfully aware that she was only allowing me to stay here as a favor to an old friend, and I was certain that she often looked at me and wondered when I would leave, returning her living-room couch to her.

“So, like Shazia, you’re Muslim too, right?” she asked me one evening as we ate a dinner of pasta and steamed vegetables in front of the television.

“Yes. But not the terrorist kind,” I said without really thinking, then realizing how stupid that sounded.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said, startled at my response. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” I replied sheepishly, slurping an oily strand into my mouth. “It’s just… you know how it is these days. You say ‘Muslim,’ and everyone imagines long beards and bombs. Most of us are not like that. I don’t think I know anyone who would be prepared to strap dynamite on himself.”

Although Zoe didn’t ask, I told her about the religious diversity of our apartment complex, how our neighbors were Christian, Hindu, Sikh, Parsee, even Jewish.

“What about the killings-religious tension and all that stuff?” she asked. “Don’t Hindus and Muslims hate each other?”

“They’re not the best of friends, but we try and live peacefully together-not always successfully.” I realized I was speaking like an outsider already, like somebody no longer a part of that world. “Nilu, my best friend, is Hindu.” I suddenly missed her. By now, I figured, given the speedy manner in which news both significant and trivial was passed down our street, she would have heard about my absconding. Knowing Nilu, though, she would probably have been proud of me.

“I’ve always wanted to visit that part of the world,” Zoe said, setting down her plate and turning to look at me. “But I was a student for the longest time, then got married, then had the baby, and somehow never got around to it. Now that I’m free again though, I should look into it.”

Zoe’s random admission, that she had had a child, stunned me for a moment-and not just because I could hardly imagine a fetus being housed in that skinny belly or passing through those sinewy hips. There were no indications in the apartment that this woman had ever encountered motherhood-no photographs of a smiling, swaddled child, no crayon sketches pinned to the refrigerator door, not even a stuffed animal lying around.

“She’s five now,” Zoe said. “Lives with her father. I haven’t seen her since she was three months old, and that’s fine by me.” Her gaze suddenly shifted off my face, moved past my ear, and landed somewhere on the metal window frame behind me. “You know how most mothers say, ‘I can’t imagine life without my child’? Well, I could. And I did, all the time. I felt no connection to her whatsoever, and didn’t want my life to change because she was all of a sudden in it. So when my husband and I split, and he wanted custody of her, I told him he could have it. Best decision I ever made.”

She stood up to take the plates into the kitchen while I sat quietly and digested this new information. I wondered, for a minute, if my mother had wanted to give me up too, if she had felt any connection to me when I was born. I wondered if maybe the reason she kept me around was because she had no ex-husband to pass me off to.

“What was her name?” I called out to Zoe, who was still in the kitchen.

“Who?”

“Your daughter. What was her name?”

“Oh,” she replied, pausing for a second. “Emily.”

It sounded like she had forgotten, as if she hadn’t thought of her child since the day she gave her away.

Chapter Seven

My father, Hassan Bhatt, was the youngest of five sons and a member of a prominent family in Lahore. He was tall enough, rich enough, and of decent enough character-all of which seemed to qualify him as the perfect candidate for the job of my mother’s husband, a position that many other men were supposedly vying for based on our family’s legacy of exceptional beauty in our women.

Only, as was the way things were done back then, Hassan Bhatt never saw my mother until the wedding ceremony was about to begin. He had never thought to assume that she would be anything less than stunning, because no woman in my family ever had been. He admitted later that he might have heard someone comment, as the engagement was being announced, that my mother was “not quite as lovely as the other sisters, but not bad.” For Hassan Bhatt, “not bad” was good enough, and surely would still be divine. Perhaps he should have been tipped off by my mother’s name. Where her sisters were given appellations that spoke of loveliness, my mother had been christened Ayesha-named after the wife of the prophet Muhammad, the founder of Islam. It was a noble name, no doubt. But Hassan Bhatt, as it turned out, was not in the least bit interested in nobility.

Aunt Sohalia told me years later of the look that appeared on Hassan Bhatt’s face when the red chiffon bridal scarf that covered my mother’s head was first lifted. She described the look as one of “severe disappointment,” but nobody said a word, not even the bridegroom. And in my grandfather’s mind, there wasn’t even an inkling of a notion that this sudden and rather unseemly revelation should be an impediment to my mother’s marital happiness, given that, after all, Hassan Bhatt was far too decent a man, and from far too upstanding a family, to abandon a marriage simply because he didn’t like the way his wife looked.

For one of the few times in his life, Nana was wrong.