The Lost Pearl (2012) (6 page)

I tried to block out the dreaded night from my mind. The dreams continued, however, and each time waking me with a jolt, a cruel reminder of the past that often crept into the present. My aunt insisted that I seek counseling to help the night terrors dissipate, but I adamantly refused, not wanting to discuss what I had seen. Phuppo never pushed too hard for anything, resigning often to my defiance but reassuring me that she was always there to help me.

I avoided thinking about my mother or her new union. Part of me loved her for being the wonderful mother she had been, and part of me hated her for callously stepping off that pedestal. I could not forgive her for tearing my family apart or for asking me to call a stranger my father. I could not forget that she had forced me to change my name and lose my identity.

I missed Sahir terribly and often thought of him and the sound of his giggles, the fuss he made over finishing his glass
of milk, and our petty arguments. I remembered how angry I became when anyone else bothered him, how I always took on the big sister role and fought for him. And now I had come to the other side of the world, leaving him to fight for himself. I shared my feelings with Phuppo, and she and I agreed that we would have Sahir come visit every winter. I could go in the summers, and he could come in the winters; this way, we could spend our holidays together. Tickets were expensive, and travelling was tedious, but somehow, we would have to make it work.

Six months went by and I became more settled in my new environment. The strangeness of a different home in a new country had transformed into somewhat of an acquaintanceship. I knew that 2 percent milk and orange juice were situated at the periphery of large grocery stores, and I could finally remember how to differentiate between a dime and a nickel. I had discovered how to open a can of evaporated milk and was able to pour it onto my tea without spilling it all over the kitchen counter. I had developed a taste for peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and had become much more self-sufficient than I would have been in Pakistan. I began watching a few basketball games with Phuppa who patiently explained the rules. He was a loyal Lakers fan, and insisted that I did not have much of a choice in the matter, except to become one as well. I still missed the cricket matches, but becoming a Laker’s fan was a small sacrifice to win my uncle’s confidence.

One morning the phone rang, and it was my mother on the line. She told me that Nana had died in his sleep. I listened to her in shock; he had seemed fine when I had last met him.

“It was his heart,” she said, softly.

I had not yet recovered from the loss of my father, and the terrible news of my grandfather’s demise was another tragedy I would be mourning for a long time. I felt helpless that I could not hug my mother to get the comfort from her that I needed or give
her the reassurance that she needed from me. In a span of three years, she had lost both her parents and her husband.

I was crying, and Phuppo came with a box of tissues and asked me what had happened. She took the phone from me and after offering condolences to my mother, hugged me tightly.

“I loved him so much, Phuppo. I was so mean to him. I didn’t even say good-bye properly before I left. I know I hurt him. I was upset with Ammi, really, but I said all my angry words to him instead. And now he’s gone. There is nothing I can do to fix what I said.”

Phuppo told me that grandparents loved even more than parents did, and they had a special forgiving power. “He is in a great corner of heaven, I’m sure, and looking down at you with pride and joy,” she said.

A few months later, Ammi called again. I knew something was different simply by her tone of voice. She did not sound sad, but hesitant, like she had been when she had disclosed her intention to remarry. I wondered what lightening was about to strike me this time. She was telling me about the burglary that happened in the neighborhood and Sahir’s new teacher, but I could sense an anxiety in her voice. Finally I asked her, “Why did you call so early in the morning? Is there something important you want to say?”

“Yes, there is,
Beta
. You are going to have another baby brother or sister. I wanted to tell you this great news.”

I knew I was supposed to be happy—it would be my brother or sister, after all. But somehow I felt sad and hurt, the idea of my mother moving on with her life, first having a new husband, and now a whole new family. “Congratulations,” I muttered, putting the phone down. Would it be my brother or sister? Not really. We would share a mother, but that was all. We had very different fathers. We would not be raised in the same home. Was I really expected to celebrate? Distribute sweets to my relatives on the occasion of this birth? If this were indeed good news for me, my
mother would not have hesitated before telling me. She probably knew that it would be another block in the series of hurts that were building inside me, cementing me into an unhappy, angry individual. It would be another crack in our already-crumbling relationship. I could never love that baby. He or she would be my stepfather’s child, and that man was my permanent enemy.

The baby was expected on June fourteenth, conveniently during the summer vacation, setting forth the obligation of my presence. I wondered if I would hate the baby as I did my stepfather. Hatred was an emotion I had become adept at feeling; it had taken on the role of the extra layer of clothing, a slightly uncomfortable but required companion.

When I greeted my mother, I hugged her and cried, mourning the loss of my grandfather. It was a few days before her due date, and she looked worn out, yet still maintained her elegance. I had taken along some yellow baby clothes that my aunt had helped me pick out. I was not sure which of us had been the more reluctant shopper. Phuppo said that whatever happened, I had to embrace this reality and impart love to my sibling, because, after all, he or she would be innocent and not deserving of anything less.

She was born, a gorgeous baby girl, and we brought her home from the hospital in a light pink dress with white daisies embroidered on it. She was named Sara, in keeping with the tradition of
S
names. She was astonishingly beautiful, with pink rosy cheeks and big brown eyes, a true replica of my mother. She would grow up to look just like Ammi, I thought, with strangers being able to decipher their relationship in a crowd. Her room had been decorated in pink and white, and her father seemed like the happiest man in the world. He was not one to smile often, especially not in my presence, and now he was simply glowing with pride. He talked to her as if she could hear and comprehend every word. To him, she was nothing less than a princess, an angel who had transformed his home into a heaven. I was
convinced that now that he had his child and his very own family, we would be reduced to nothing. I worried immensely about Sahir’s future.

I was surprised by the warmth I felt toward Sara. Her angelic face immediately melted the resentment I had vowed to feel toward her. I adored her, just like I adored Sahir. I enjoyed helping my mother care for her. I held her and walked the floor at night for hours, singing her softly to sleep. I kept the gripe water handy in case she had a spell of colic. I ran to make her bottle of milk so she would never be hungry. I swaddled her carefully in her blanket so she would always feel warm. She was my only sister and my love for her remained unadulterated by my hatred for her father.

I felt sad when it was time to go back, but I had adjusted to my new life and had no intention of remaining in Pakistan. Everyone including myself had accepted that I was always going to be a visitor in my own home.

On August 17, 1988, the day I was leaving for California, Mr. Rehman summoned everyone to the lounge where the television was on. He said that there was going to be an important announcement. Soon, Ghulam Ishaq Khan was addressing the nation, appearing rather solemn. He announced that the plane carrying President Zia-ul-Haq had crashed. Soon news came that General Zia had indeed died, along with several other passengers, after a ten-year term. Despite the nature of his regime, it was unsettling news, perhaps because he was all that I had known of Pakistan’s presidency. It remained unclear what the circumstances of the crash were, and my stepfather was convinced that it was all part of an international conspiracy.

Soon the dormant political parties reemerged with fervor. Bhutto’s daughter, Benazir, seemed to be a promising new leader. She was Oxford-educated, dynamic, and an effective speaker, much like her father. She was now the leader of Pakistan People’s Party and a candidate for upcoming elections. The
other major party was Muslim League, headed by Mian Nawaz Sharif, who also seemed to have a large number of followers. The Muhajir Qaumi Movement, which later came to be known as the Muttahida Qaumi Movement, led by Altaf Hussain, had gained popularity as an important local party in Karachi. It was the voice of the suppressed Muhajirs, the Urdu-speaking community who had migrated from India during the partition days. There appeared to be hope for a new beginning, but that hope was soon dashed when Benazir was elected prime minister and allegations of corruption emerged. I was greatly disappointed, because I had felt a connection with her; she too had lost her father in an extremely tragic way.

Back in California, I talked to Ammi more often to inquire about the baby’s progress and what new things she was doing. She had completely stolen everyone’s heart, and it seemed as though she had been the missing piece in this now perfect and complete new family. Mr. Rehman had replaced Papa, and Sara had replaced me. Ammi called me less frequently, perhaps because she was consumed by the baby’s needs, but to me it felt as though she had a new daughter and no longer needed me in her life.

One night when I was feeling terribly lonely, I called home. Sakina answered and said that everyone had gone out. I stayed up late waiting for a call back, but it never came; perhaps Sakina, who seemed to be getting quite forgetful lately, failed to convey the message. Maybe the twelve-hour time difference had come in to play; it was possible that when they returned they assumed I would be sleeping. To me, however, the most likely explanation was that they had not deemed it necessary to return my call.

Feeling dejected, I went quietly to my aunt’s classic music collection, pulled out Barbra Streisand’s song “Papa Can You Hear Me,” and placed the cassette in my Walkman. I took out some old photographs from my drawer. I had kept them safely with me, but had not had the courage to look at them before.
But now I wanted to make sure that Papa’s memory stayed fresh in my mind—the outline of his face, the varying expressions in his eyes. My fear of remembering was being replaced by a newer fear—the fear of forgetting. Would I start forgetting the small details? Was forgetting a part of healing? If it was, then I did not want to heal. I slowly took out the pictures and did not fight the tears that escaped. There was a photograph of my parents’ wedding; it was still beautiful, despite having acquired a reddish hue. My mother was dressed in a gorgeous red
gharaara
, appearing like a royal princess, her downcast eyes reflecting her shy demeanor. My father sat beside her in a traditional white
sherwani;
he gazed at her with admiration and with what seemed like a promise to care for her always. Both wore several garlands of fresh red roses.

The next photograph was of the day Sahir had come into this world. Ammi was in a white hospital gown with dark circles under her eyes and an expression of unparalleled joy. I was in the center, my smile showing off a missing tooth, holding Sahir with an ounce of hesitation. Papa had his arms around all of us and looked perfectly content.

There was a picture of all four of us at my ninth birthday: me cutting the black forest cake, Papa helping me blow out the candles, and Ammi holding Sahir. Amna peaking in barely making it into the edge of the photograph. I could not recall what wish I had made that day before extinguishing the candles. Maybe I asked to be first in my class in the upcoming exams. Perhaps I asked for a house for my Barbie doll or a set of mystery Nancy Drew books.

“These are just things,” my father had always said. I wished I had asked for my father’s long life. I wished I had asked for the well-being and togetherness of my family. I wished I had asked for the preservation of what had been captured in that photograph.

I munched on some chocolate my uncle had bought for me, brushed my teeth, which had been recently freed from braces, and went to bed. I kept replaying the song and fell asleep feeling terribly lonely, with the Walkman in my ears and the words reverberating through my soul:

Papa are you near me?

Papa can you hear me?

The night is so much darker and

The wind is so much colder

The world I see is so much bigger

Now that I’m alone
.

The next four years passed by uneventfully. In 1992, Pakistan brought home the cricket world cup trophy, and the nation found a reason to be proud. The captain, Imran Khan, sounded victorious as he accepted the trophy and announced his plans of opening a high-quality cancer hospital in Lahore in honor of his deceased mother. The win was celebrated across the nation, and a holiday was announced to celebrate. Sahir sounded jubilant on the phone. He told me how he had snuck a radio into school so he and his friends could follow every ball of the nail-biting match.