I have seen from the newspapers that you are living far away, in a foreign land, alone, doing something that has contravened our culture and your upbringing. While it would be easy for me to judge such actions, I have stopped myself from doing so, as I have not been present these past two decades to understand what has motivated you to take such a drastic step for your life, what has compelled you to leave home and expose yourself to the world the way you have.
Knowing your grandfather as I did, I am certain that his disappointment in you must be so profound that he is not even speaking to you anymore. Therefore, I wonder if this letter will ever reach you, as he and I are no longer in touch either. It would be an act of Allah indeed if we three split souls can, through this one letter, come together for the briefest of moments. That is my prayer.
But in the assumption that this note, and the accompanying taveez, finds its way to you, there are a few things I need you to know.
You might have been led to believe that I was a ruthless and heartless man, abandoning your mother so soon after our marriage, at the start of your blossoming in her belly. In the first place, and contrary to what she may have told you, I did not even know that she was with child until after you were born. And by then, I was too ashamed to step forward and think of claiming you.
But of equal importance is my need for you to know the truth about my marriage to your mother. I did not leave her. She left me.
I know this might shock you. It shocked me. After all, despite my disappointment when your mother lifted up her veil on our wedding day, when she was not-as I was led to believe-the bearer of the kind of beauty that the Shah family is known for, I had made a vow in Allah’s presence to honor my union with her, and I was committed to doing so. I will not lie; our marriage was not a happy one. I felt duped by your family. Your grandfather needed to marry your mother off, and chose to hide the truth about her until it was too late.
But still, I stayed with it. I was not the most even-tempered or good-natured of husbands, I will confess. But I told her that we would do our best. In the end, you must understand, it was not I that hated your mother. It was she who hated herself. I tried to make her feel comfortable, if not loved. I tried to make her feel that despite everything, she still had a place in the world.
But nothing worked. And one day, after morning prayers, she packed her bags and left.
I have been motivated to write to you now because my brother died recently of cancer. He was only two years older than I, and in seemingly good health until the cancer attacked his liver. He was gone within three months. I realized then that death can come upon us at any time, and I did not want to leave this earth without you knowing the truth, that I could have been a father to you had I been given the chance, and that maybe if I was, you would not have felt the need to leave your life and seek out another just as your mother did.
You may do with this information what you will. My address is above should you like to write to me, and please know that I would be very happy to hear from you. I never remarried, have had no other children. Your name, I will say in closing, is lovely and appropriate, redolent of more than beauty. Your grandfather raised you indeed as a child of his.
Salaam Alaykum, my dear Tanaya. May peace be with you.
Yours,
Hassan Bhatt
It was all too much. Losing the love of my grandfather, gaining knowledge of my father, letting myself slip into love with the man I had once used as an exit from my life.
During the two days that Tariq was in Pakistan visiting his own nana, I barely left my hotel room. Nilu came to visit a few times, and we had lunch in the hotel café, she still enamored of my ability to sign my name on a piece of paper and have it be charged to a room for which I, and I alone, would ultimately pay.
My aunt Gaura also stopped by, bringing me chunks of goat simmered in tomatoes, coriander, and cilantro, and pliant wheat chapattis-everything kept warm in the confines of a stainless steel tiffin. She said she was concerned about me, thought I might starve, not quite realizing that I had the ability to feed myself.
“How is he?” I asked her during one of her visits.
“Actually, I think a little better. Perhaps seeing you has helped him. I hope you will come back again, now you know that he doesn’t hate you.”
“And Mamma? How is she?”
“Still angry. Still sad. But I suspect it has nothing to do with anything you’ve done. I suspect that, instead, she sees you as the woman she never was.”
I showed her the letter from my father, and the look of astonishment that appeared on her face as she read it mirrored my own.
“We never knew,” she said, putting the pages down when she had finished. “Your mother always made it sound like it was his fault, like it was he who wanted her to get out. She couldn’t tell the truth, even to us.”
Tariq’s plane was touching down close to midnight. I had taken a hotel car and was waiting for him outside the airport.
I saw his handsome head bobbing through the crowds, an overnight bag weighing down his right shoulder, his laptop computer bag in his other hand. He was gazing straight ahead, not expecting me. I buoyed myself for the great welcome, a surprise airport reception for the man I loved. I smoothed down my hair, licked my lips, and made my way to the far end of the railings, where I could almost collide with him. I couldn’t wait for him to scoop me up, a bright beaming smile on his face, maybe twirling me around in his arms like they did in all the Hindi films. I couldn’t wait to smell his aftershave, to feel the strength of his warm hands pressing into my back. I couldn’t wait to start a life with him, away from all this.
He looked at me, and the expression of surprise on his face stayed just the way it was, for a little longer than it should have. There was no bright, shining, “I’m so thrilled to see you” smile. There was no enveloping hug. Just a stony face, quiet and contained.
“Tanaya, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, of course. I really missed you.” I caressed his arm with my hand. He moved it away.
“Tariq, what happened? What’s the matter?” Dread was growing in me.
“This is no place to talk,” he said, glancing at the chaos around him. “Come.”
The Sun ’n’ Sand never looked more forlorn. In the dead of night, the palm trees were quiet, the food hawkers, usually parked on the street outside, now long gone.
We made our way back to the pool, attracting looks from the staff at the reception desk and the bellhop. I didn’t care who saw us, or what they thought. Tariq was still silent, as he had been on the ride over, ignoring my impassioned pleas to speak with me, glancing at our car driver as if he were from the FBI and Tariq were an internationally wanted criminal.
We sat down on the same chairs we had used a few nights before, the night we had kissed.
“OK,” Tariq said. He was wringing his hands. “Here’s the thing.”
I drew a sharp intake of breath, promising myself I wouldn’t let it out fully until Tariq had spoken his mind, until whatever lumbered in the ether between us was gone.
“You know, I really think you’re fabulous,” he said, his eyes cast downward on his hands. “You’re gorgeous and sweet and kind. The other night, after what happened between us, I was certain that I was falling in love with you.”
He was looking straight at me.
“But,” he said. The rest of the words tumbled out. I heard them, but couldn’t take them in. He talked for a full five minutes, pressing his hands together, then biting a fingernail, looking up at me and then down at his shoes again. As he talked, I felt my heart breaking. There were tiny fissures at first, deepening into cracks, finally forcing my soul open.