* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Faraz Sarwat is a Toronto writer. His work has appeared in numerous websites and newspapers including the Montreal Gazette. He recently completed his first novel.
It was a beautiful coat hanger. Rukhsana didn’t think they made them like that anymore. It was thick and had a bright, candy-cane red and white cloth over it. It stung much less than anything else her mother had ever beaten her with. “But Mummy’s like that,” she thought, “She never would have used a regular one.” That coat hanger was Rukhsana’s enduring memory of the 1970s, and the first time she met her cousin Shamim who came with her parents to visit them in Toronto. It was fifteen years ago; they were both in kindergarten. She counted the years, no, it was over twenty years ago.
Rukhsana hardly ever saw her cousin who was miles away in Pakistan, but she still considered Shamim to be her best friend. When was the last time they met? “Must be like ten years ago,” said Rukhsana out loud, while curled up on her bed, on a rainy Friday evening. She hadn’t thought that hearing about Shamim’s coming wedding would depress her so much or cause her to relive her earliest memories. She tucked the invitation back in the envelope and looked at the rest of her mail, which like the card had already been opened for her. There was only a lonely credit card bill. She went downstairs to help her mother with dinner. .
She found her father in a corner of the kitchen, his eyes blankly focussed over a newspaper that Rukhsana knew he must have been reading over and over again, all day long. Since retiring, there wasn’t too much for him to do. His wife had never allowed him to take up any hobbies. If he wasn’t reading the newspaper, he would be in the spare bedroom reading the Quran or praying. Rukhsana had never bothered to wonder what he prayed for. .
Her mother had all four burners going on the stove and juggled them with a deftness that would make any chef proud. She was like many Pakistani and Indian women in her sixties, short in height, round in shape and narrow of mind. .
“What have you been doing for the last hour upstairs?” she demanded. “Sorry Mummy. I was just reading Shamim’s wedding invitation.” “That took you one hour? You’ve been home since quarter past four. It’s almost five-thirty now . . .” “I’m sorry Mummy. Here, let me do that . . .” “No. It’s all done now. Just set the table.” .
After dinner, Rukhsana went back to her room, with nothing to do but to re-read her cousin’s card and imagine what her husband would look like. She wondered if she herself would ever get married now. It was still a few hours before bedtime. She went to the spare room and unfolded a prayer rug. .
It was past one in the morning and Rukhsana had still not fallen asleep. It was unlike her to be up past eleven. Her mother had always allowed her to up her bedtime by an hour or two, as her studies had demanded in high school and later, university. Mummy had organized her life for her and she often wondered how other girls did things themselves. She reasoned that other parents were not as devoted to their children and didn’t quite care what they were up to. That’s why there’s drug use and teen pregnancies, she thought. Guys don’t care about anything; they always want to do it, especially if parents aren’t around. .
It had been four years since Rukhsana had graduated, hitting the maximum waking hour of midnight, half a decade ago. Now as a working woman, a professional, if she was up past one, she was reasonably sure her mother could not object. When it was past two, Rukhsana began to panic. She knew she would be tired in the morning and might not be able to wake up on time. But she comforted herself. Tomorrow was Saturday. Breakfast wouldn’t be on the table until 9.30. She could even be up by 9.15, rush and get dressed and be downstairs by the time her two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster. She knew if she was quick enough she might even be able to pour the tea, before Mummy asked her to. She felt better and relaxed into her pillow. She thought of George Michael, the same man she had tried to dream of every night since she was 14 years old. Even then she had known she could never have him. He wasn’t Muslim. Mummy would never go for it. .
Saturday morning went as it had gone for as long as Rukhsana could remember. Breakfast, dishes and then Mummy, Father and her would pile into the car and drive to the super-market. Then to the Indo-Pak store for whatever was needed: spices, pickles, naan, halal meat, and basmati rice. Out of habit, the weekly Pakistani community newspaper was also picked up, but never read. It was all as it had always been. She had never enjoyed it or detested it, but this Saturday she wanted to just stay in her room. That’s all she could think of while filling the shopping cart. That’s all she could think of while her father drove home and her mother instructed him when to change lanes and when to brake and which driveway to park in. .
Rukhsana told her mother that she was ill, knowing that the instructions would be to take two aspirins and go to her room. Rukhsana took the pills, flushed them down the toilet and then went to her room, gently closing the door and debating for half a second whether locking it might be an option. She pulled out the invitation again. She wondered how it all started. Shamim hadn’t told her anything. Rukhsana didn’t know if her cousin had met the guy on her own or if the parents had arranged the marriage. Tears welled in her eyes. No, it wasn’t jealousy. What was it then? Anger, maybe. Anger at how her cousin had not shared something so important until it was a done deal. Rukhsana had always written to her cousin when a proposal came that she was excited about, or when Mummy rejected the idea . . . more than a done deal. Even those people who get invitations know that they are going to be getting invitations, except for those who are not close, or those who are an after thought. Shamim was her best friend, her only true friend, not just a cousin. That’s why this stung. And that’s the only reason, Rukhsana said to herself. Her mind whirling, she fell asleep, thinking how cute Andy the new guy at work was . . . what did he do? Computer something . . . no couldn’t be, he was too cute for that. .
Monday morning Rukhsana got ready for work with more care than usual. She looked at herself closely in the mirror. She knew she was not bad looking. Like most young Pakistani women, she was slim and delicate. She had blemish free skin and long, silky hair, that today she paid extra attention to, gently brushing it and applying a generous amount of moues. More than her dark brown eyes, she knew that the length of her lashes garnered her positive attention. People often asked her if they were fake. It always made her laugh. That reminded her to practice smiling in the mirror. Not bad. Today she knew she would have to look her best. Nothing in her wardrobe could be classified as risqué, for she would never want to wear anything revealing and even if she ever would, where would Mummy have ever let her wear it? In any case she knew she needed something eye catching today, so she wore her sole tight blouse, which was usually covered under a cardigan. She would leave the house like that, but once at the office, she could take off the cardigan. Yes, that would work. .
After getting dressed, Rukhsana went downstairs, had her two pieces of toast, took her brown paper lunch bag from her mother and casually mentioned that she would be late coming home that evening. Why, Mummy wanted to know. Because of a meeting, an important meeting with people from out of town. From Montreal. Oh yes, there’s still an office in Montreal. .
Leaving her purse at her desk, Rukhsana walked straight to
the back stairs of the building where she knew Andy would be just outside, smoking
his morning cigarette. She was half way down the stairs when she realized that
she hadn’t taken off her cardigan. She could pull it off and hold it in
her arms, but that would look awkward. She could go back to her desk to drop
it off, but then she would arouse suspicion rushing back and forth like that.
She could lay it down in a corner of the stairwell and retrieve it on her way
back, but then someone could see it and besides it would get dirty. She decided
to leave it on. She made her way down the stairs and out the back door. She
had a gut feeling that he might not even be there this morning. But she was
wrong. He was there, smoking, and he was by himself. This must be a sign she
thought, as she walked up to him, feeling the light morning drizzle flatten
her hair.
“Hi Andy.”
“Hi, Roxanna, right?”
“Rukhsana, but that’s okay.”
“You want a smoke?”
“No. I need to ask you a favour, but you have to promise that whatever
your answer is, you won’t tell anyone about this. I mean, you can say
no to the favour. You don’t have to do it, but please just don’t
say anything, that I asked you or that I . . . ”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I want you to do it with me. I know you probably have a girl friend,
or you love somebody, but I just need . . . I mean that I won’t ever say
anything about it and I won’t bug you to date me, I mean go steady with
me, or anything like that. I just need you to . . . and, I didn’t mention
this, but I want you to do this today, this evening after work. I know guys
like this kind of no strings, kind of . . . sorry, I’m blabbering, just
nervous. Can you do this, it won’t, I mean these things don’t take
too long do they? Can you do this?” .
On her way home that evening Rukhsana felt her mood fluctuate from stoic calm to sheer terror. Mummy would be crushed if she ever found out. Poor Father, she would never be able to look him in the eye again. But unless she said something, Mummy would not find out, it just wasn’t possible. But she would know that something was amiss. They had rushed and she was still coming home past eight. She had told Andy she didn’t need to have dinner before, but he was hungry and he insisted. He said something about needing his energy. Rukhsana knew that her mother would want to know why she hadn’t phoned to say that she would be home past six. Mummy would want to know why the meeting lasted so long. There had been no time to come up with believable excuses. .
The light drizzle had persisted all day. When Rukhsana walked into the house, her hair tousled and shining with droplets from the mist, she was surprised to see Mummy’s umbrella leaning in a corner by the door, sweating bullets of fear.
“Where were you?” The meeting, of course. Mummy picked up the shaking umbrella and struck Rukhsana with such force that the door, the wall and both mother and daughter were soaked. The sound was of such volume that Father, deep in prayer in the room upstairs, flinched and lost his concentration for a moment. .
Turns out that when Rukhsana was not home by 7 pm, Mummy became worried. She called Rukhsana at work, knowing that finding her at her desk would be unlikely. She then called the main line but a recorded message announced the office was closed. Mummy waited until a quarter past 7, and then, umbrella in tow, had Father drive her to the office. In the parking lot there were only a handful of cars, one of them was Rukhsana’s. Mummy went over to it. Then she went to the main door. There was no sign of life inside. She stood there, worried. Some time later a security guard came by. She recognized him from previous occasions when she had come to pick up Rukhsana. A black man, a nice fellow she remembered Rukhsana saying. Mummy asked him if he knew where Rukhsana was. He told her that he saw her drive off after work with a man from the office. He said there was no after hours meeting taking place that evening. .
Mummy said some things that could not be repeated, swung the umbrella around a few times and dragged Rukhsana into her room by her hair. Mummy said it was her own fault. She had failed as a mother. She had done her best, but had failed. Comforting her, Rukhsana said that she was a good mother and that the man from work would never be seen again. She knew that she and her mother would never discuss the issue again and if anything Mummy might re-double her efforts to find a suitable match for her. Rukhsana even dared to imagine that she would now have a say in the matter. .
Rukhsana was in bed by 11 that night. She was bruised and aching all over. It had been the strangest day of her life, she had felt a myriad of emotions and now she was just numb. She thought of how many days she would have to take off work to be able to attend Shamim’s wedding. It would be fun. Her tears now dry, she smiled and drifted off to sleep. .