And the World Changed (50 page)

       
Doe-eyed

       
Girl forever true,

       
Too green to know the worth of a good thing,

       
The punishments of indecision.

       
It Takes Practice

       
“what you doing?”

       
“taking it easy.”

       
“how, exactly?”

       
(that's for me to know and you to ponder

       
very, very slowly, in candlelight, well after midnight . . .)

       
I smile a little

       
“see you tomorrow?”

       
“maybe . . .”

       
(the boy next door just turned into a possibility)

       
Unravel this

He fumbles with clasps and even though it slows down the proceedings just a fraction, it's infinitely endearing. The last candidate could undo the tiniest, trickiest piece of metal and simultaneously smoke a cigarette, answer the phone, do a few push-ups. It was disconcerting; made me wonder how many times that player had been around the block.

This one is sweet.

This one is promising.

“This one will bring out the prose in me,” she thought,
looking at herself full length in the mirror and examining the details. Two eyes, two ears, a nose, passable lips, all in place (a growing double chin). She's complete as she stands.

What does she see in him?

(A vulnerability that seeps through his fingers and floats toward her outstretched palms, across the table that marks the safe distance between them.)

       
Your lips lengthen my spine,

       
catching the salt between my thighs,

       
spoiling me in the best possible way.

       
Don't Say It Out Loud

       
How do I break it down further?

       
You have the potential for becoming air;

       
as still, as necessary, just there.

       
Not a casual coming together of two

       
but the sweat which spells unspoken togetherness,

       
a contentment in the blood.

       
Another time

       
Another place

       
I might have looked you in the face,

       
dragged you by the hair to the nearest cave

       
and kept you a week, a month, a year . . .

       
but if touch hardly lasts, why ask silly questions?

Later she finds an old lover's letters tucked in the corner of her bedside drawer. There is no urge to read them but she holds them just the same; feels their weight press into her palm, the vision of off-white squares of paper torn from a lined notebook makes her smile. She remembers that time well, and now the prospect of a scrawled script winking at her in mirror fashion defines an image of him frozen in time, forever twenty-one, full of a self-assured loving, an unhurried laughter.

In spite of this nostalgia she realizes she does not have any “real” memento of him, even though he has been the possibility
tugging at her insides all this while. Now as they become more jaded, thicker at the waistline, she wonders about him in silence, in a way more meaningful than common interests and surprise tokens of affection.

Contact as a cure for insomnia:

The right amount of pressure applied consistently across the shoulder and chest by a reasonably strong, willing, reassuring arm that materializes just behind your curled frame has been known to produce a soporific effect.

Better than counting sheep, cocoa cups, grinding teeth . . .

If she held herself any tighter, she'd choke the air supply.

SCAR

Aamina Ahmad

Aamina Ahmad (1975– ) grew up in London and earned degrees in London from University College and Goldsmith's College. She worked for the BBC World Service before becoming a television script editor. Her credits include a number of primetime shows in Britain including
Eastenders
,
The Bill
, and
Hustle
. She now lives in San Francisco.

“Scar” is an examination of Pakistan's class system and the
relationship between Kaakee, the daughter of a maidservant, and Aaliya, her employer's daughter. As is quite common, these two characters were playmates as children, which allowed Kaakee to grow up with an imagined sense of equality. This gradually changes as the two grow older and their worlds diverge, but Kaakee still believes she is privileged within the household, despite the drudgery of her daily life. With great sensitivity, Ahmad describes how readily the family Kaakee has served and even her relatives assume that Kaakee is guilty of theft.

• • •

“Kaakee!

“
Kaakee-ee.
”

Kaakee could hear Baji calling her as she watched the water from the tap flow across the floor of the bathroom toward her feet. Crouching, she rubbed at the cracked skin, letting the cool wetness collect between her toes. She turned off the tap and the water shrank back, reluctantly, toward the drain. Kaakee began sweeping the floor with her
jharoo
; the scratching sound slow and methodical. She stopped for a second, expecting to hear Baji call out to her again, but it was quiet.

She looked around the dark bathroom, murky except for the hazy sunshine coming in from the skylight above. How refreshing to bathe in this dank room on a hot day, to feel your feet squelching in rubber Bata
chappals
. Kaakee looked at the dry wooden
chowki
sitting on the floor, covered by a film of water. It didn't seem right; she filled the plastic mug with water from the bucket under the tap anticipating the “clappp” of the water smacking the wood—

“
Kaakee!
”

Kaakee stopped and turned to see Baji standing in the doorway, holding up her
shalwar
so her feet wouldn't get wet; her skinny ankles pointing outward.

“I've been calling you. Didn't you hear me?”

Kaakee said nothing; it wasn't a question.

“Thomas says something's wrong with the Suzuki again. Be a good girl for me and collect Aalia from college.”

As Baji turned Kaakee straightened up and emptied the mug of water on the
chowki
; although it turned a satisfyingly deep woody red she didn't notice. A sudden sense of anxiety seemed to grip her. Her eyes moved to the clock just above the white tube light that ran along the side of one wall like a flash of lightning. It was already one; she would have to hurry if she didn't want to be late for Aalia.

Outside the tall college gates drivers stood in sweatless
shalwar kameezes
next to their sleek cars, while Kaakee hovered uneasily by a fuming blue rickshaw and its driver—the engine firecracking, ready to spring off as though it couldn't bear to be stationary for more than a few moments. She had crisp new notes that Baji had given her to pay for the rickshaw, and strict orders to make sure they drank a Pepsi before coming home. As she waited for Aalia a young driver noticed her. Although she ignored his gaze she found herself standing a little straighter and tucking her hair behind her ear though it needed no tucking. These were the kind of
rishtas
her mother hoped for: cleanlooking men with six-weekly haircuts, a profession and Rs 2000 a month. She and Aalia didn't talk as they once used to so she couldn't mention the driver's unwavering attention, but perhaps Aalia would walk past him and notice that his eyes hadn't shifted from Kaakee's direction, perhaps she would mention it. They might discuss it, pore over it, even. Perhaps. She looked ahead, waiting for Aalia with some excitement.

Kaakee spotted Aalia emerging with her friends by her side, and waved. The surprise on Aalia's face, the thin smile, made Kaakee lower her hand uneasily. Aalia gestured to the group of girls that Kaakee was here to collect her today. Her friends looked over. Kaakee, suddenly self-conscious, tugged at her
kameez
, wiped the sweat from her upper lip with the edge of her
dupatta
. Aalia approached with a friend by her side, Kaakee looked on, a rising sense of tension. She swallowed as Aaalia
introduced Maheen, and both girls stepped into the rickshaw. Kaakee squeezed in between them, suddenly aware of the thick smell of her own sweat; she held her arms tightly against her sides, asked politely after Aalia's day and then shyly relayed Baji's message about the Pepsi. Maheen wasn't bothered and Aalia looked unsure. Kaakee was aware that Aalia glanced at her before deciding that they should stop for a drink.

At the main market Aalia told Kaakee to get a drink for herself as well. She stood outside in the shade with her bottle while the girls sat inside the rickshaw with theirs. Kaakee sucked on the straw bobbing in the bottle; sloop, sloop, sloop and the dusty dark liquid was gone. She waited for the girls to finish. As they chatted Kaakee heard Aalia mention the name of her fiancé, but there was little else she could make out. She thought of the young driver, what it would be like to sit with Aalia and Maheen whispering and giggling about him. The hum of their voices continued. She looked away feeling bad, not wanting to eavesdrop.

Aalia handed her two half-drunk bottles to give back to the drinks stand.

“That was a good idea. I needed that,
hehna
?”

Kaakee saw Aalia glance at her empty bottle; she felt a surge of embarrassment as she turned toward the drinks stand. Kaakee wondered if that was why Aalia had agreed to stop, because she thought Kaakee wanted a bottle at their expense? Perhaps she thought Kaakee had suggested it for herself and not because Baji had told her to. Kaakee felt wounded—she handed over the money Baji had given her and discreetly pulled out two rupees of her own from her bra to contribute to the cost of the drink she'd consumed. She got back inside the rickshaw, perching on the seat to make more room for the girls. They sat close, engrossed in conversation. Kaakee could hear nothing but the loud buzzing of the rickshaw on her talk-less journey home.

Kaakee dipped the clothes deep inside the metal bucket; the
water surged up around the fabric against her wrists and hands. It was like being pulled by strong arms. The washed clothes, heavy with water, landed on the line with a thwack. Thwack—thwack; a tune. From somewhere, a melody came into her head, a Nayyara Noor
ghazal
. Without thinking she began to whisper the words to herself. Awkward, unused to the sound of her own voice, it felt strange to move her lips. In her head the tabla's beat zipped along and Nayyara's voice trilled firmly, confidently and, somehow, her own voice got a little louder. Suddenly Kaakee realized how good it felt stretching her face muscles, her tongue moving in her mouth. There was a change in tone; Nayyara was heading for a high note. Kaakee singing with her, felt ready, ready to hit the note that she and Nayyara were approaching when the clanging of a door silenced her.