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of her mired in this time of bloodshed and horror. It’s no place for a young girl to be, certainly not a girl of growing age like our precious Rumi.
Enclosed with this letter is a pack of Marie tea biscuits. There are three rolls in the pack, so consume them wisely and do share them with my darling Rumi. Don’t let her have too much chai though. At this age, it will make her complexion dark and I’d much prefer my granddaughter remain fair and lovely (and if you fear it’s happening already, slice a tomato into four wedges and rub the fleshy fruit on her face daily).
My heart is with you, my child. My eyes pine for the sight of my granddaughter. May Allah keep you safe from harm.
that first meeting, I began to draw comparisons be- tween Haider and David, preferred the latter, dismiss- ing the former.
David had copper brown hair and blue eyes. “Ken doll!” Rumana exclaimed, when she first saw him. At twelve, she was struggling to grow out of her Barbie doll obsession. Her collection took up more space than all my linens combined.
He laughed rambunctiously, startling her. She took a step back.
“Sorry,” he said, as he sat down on the new indigo- blue velvet sofa set Haider had bought a week ago af- ter I saw it in Filmfare and remarked on how rich and opulent it looked. “I’m American. We’re loud people.”
“It’s okay,” I stepped in, guiding Rumana out of the liv- ing room, “We are Pakistani. Also very loud.” When
he chuckled at my matter-of-fact tone, I smiled and noticed the contours of his face.
David had Raj Kapoor’s nose: a long and narrow dor- sum with a pointed tip and wide, flaring nostrils.
In addition to thick sideburns, he seemed to have permanent stubble; never once did I see him appear clean-shaved. His hair was side swept, straight and slightly long, a little bit like Vinod Khanna. It kissed
his earlobes. He had deep set, firozi eyes; their color matched my favourite piece of jewelry, a bangle as wide as my palm made of silver and authentic turquoise gem- stones that formed a spiral. The next time David visited, I wore it, cuffing it around my wrist as if it could be—in another life, somewhere else—his hand.
The attraction was instantaneous. Though I was nor- mally adept at small talk—after all, I had thirteen years of experience hosting daawats for a variety of people Haider brought to our home, everyone from politicians of the Muslim League and the film actress Shabnam, to Marwari moneylenders and their ortho- dox wives—it was different with David. With him,
I engaged in indirect conversation, mostly through
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All the love, Ami
~
David
April, 1969
I have some business with the Americans. That was all Haider said to me the very first time he brought David home for dinner twenty-two months ago. It was spring of 1969, and from the gramophone, Lata Mangeshkar crooned O Mere Sanam, the tragic love song from the hit movie Sangam.
The erratic rains of pre-monsoon season had drenched Khulna the night before and the April evening air was less sticky than usual, a light breeze rustling through the leaves of my shishu trees. In the garden, pooled rainwater formed a polka-dot pattern on the lush grass. Aziz cooked daal that wasn’t daal at all but some bland concoction with- out the faintest trace of sabit lal mirch and devoid entirely of the earthy aroma of cumin and mustard seeds. I found it unpalatable but David loved it. Lentil soup he called it, lapping it up with crispy chapatti that Aziz fried in ghee.
Watching him eat was an experience I never forgot. At each bite, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if contem- plating the combination of chapatti-daal, preparing for the mixture of ghee soaked dough and watery le- gume. Haider had the unsavory habit of talking while chewing, but David waited to consume each mouthful before responding to Haider. He seemed thoughtful, courteous, a stark contrast to the brisk brashness of my husband. That’s how quickly it happened; during
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