We were on our way to see Mommy.
The plane ride took most of the day. Padar seemed distant, preoccupied, the whole trip. Zia and I sat behind him, Zulaikha and Laila across the aisle from us. Zia allowed me to have the window so I could watch everything. When the plane finally lifted off the ground, I felt a lightness in my thoughts even as I was gently pushed back into my seat as the big steel machine rose higher and higher into the blue sky. Soon we were skimming along among the clouds, wispy strands of cotton that swirled around us as we sped on our way. I had dreamt of this day. The day we would finally stop being guests in others’ houses or living in hotel rooms, and settle down into a home of our own, like we had had in Kabul, all of us together in one large family. Even as Zia and I played cards and laughed and ate the chicken meal and drank the sodas the very nice attendants set on our seat trays, I couldn’t help but wonder if Mommy would even remember me. Some nights when I closed my eyes, all I saw until I drifted off was the back of her perfectly coiffed head of hair through the rear window of the car as she pulled out of the driveway for her plane ride to India. She had never turned to wave goodbye.
We landed at Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport late in the afternoon. I glimpsed the city of Dhaka in the distance as the plane floated in for a landing. It looked endless, with tall buildings and warrens of streets jammed with cars. They moved like ants, millions of ants.
We deplaned and strolled through the spacious, modern concourse among women in bright saris and shalwar kameez of every color, men in jeans and lungis and bright shirts, and a few in suits. Padar insisted we stop at one of the shops that sold snacks. We loaded up on little pastries, fruit, candy, and soft drinks. The train ride to New Delhi would be long, and we’d have to change trains often, and we wouldn’t always stop to eat. We each stuffed food and drink in our packs and headed down the concourse. Our heels clacked on the shiny tiles of the new terminal, past restaurants and duty-free shops selling everything from clothes to books.
Padar steered us toward the baggage carousels at the far end of the airport. With our luggage in hand, we headed toward passport control. He told us as we gathered around him that the train station was not too far from the airport. Once we were outside, we would catch a bus to the station. My excitement rose as we approached men in uniforms who were checking each passenger’s paperwork as they passed through to the exit. I could see through the glass doors on the other side of them. Outside, where passengers waited for rides. Some boarded buses; others were bundling their things into taxis and vans and autos—everyone was leaving, and we’d be leaving soon too, on our way to India.
At first I didn’t recognize where the voices were coming from, I just knew they grew louder as I watched people streaming out the doors toward their destinations.
“No, no, no, you cannot enter with these,” the guard said to a smiling Padar, who stood, holding the ticket packets out to him. The guard towered over him. With an angry glare, he pushed the packets back hard into Padar’s chest. He acted as if he’d been insulted, the way he glared at Padar and then at us behind him. “Where are your passports? Where are they?” he shouted in Urdu.
The guard’s voice was so agitated that others rushed over. The men spoke among themselves in a language I didn’t understand, with animated hands. Padar interjected once in a while, gesturing to the packets in his hand as if saying these were enough. They all disagreed, shaking their heads; one wagged his finger at Padar as if he were a child and should know better. Another shouted insults in his face in a manner that was clear and precise in any language. Padar, with his normal calmness, in a warm, soothing voice, implored them to take a look at the packets. “Just take the packets, please do us this kindness. This would be best for the children, to let us leave and be on our way. We are simple refugees trying to return to our family,” Padar pleaded.
As nice and pleasant as my father was, it only set the loud, tall guard on fire. With his head shaking, his eyes pulsing with the passion of an injured soul, he began pushing Padar backward, toward us, ranting of all the infamous things he would do to us for trying to break the law. Padar tried to hold his ground, but the big man shoved him out of line, and the other guards took us by the arms. One ugly, gap-toothed, dark-faced border guard gripped my arm as if I were a murderer finally captured after a long hunt. We were dragged out of line; our own shouting, mingled with the angry threats of the guards, created a world of noise and chaos that enveloped us until we landed on the cold floor of a windowless room. Our luggage crashed to the floor beside us. The door slammed, and a latch caught on the other side. The sudden silence and coldness of the dirty tile shot through me all at once. I pushed myself to my knees.
I forced myself not to cry. “What happened?” I asked. “What are they talking about, breaking the law?”
Padar didn’t answer. He brushed off his clothes and straightened his shirt. He helped each of us up and had us crowd together on the small bench. The stench of the dingy room caught up to me as I wiped my face with the sleeve of my dress. The room once had been painted white, but now the walls were scuffed and bruised as if a thousand brawls had taken place here—people bashed against the walls as punishment for what, I couldn’t imagine.
Padar paced the length of the tight room a few times, turning after a few steps, pinching his lips together, as if trying to frame the words to explain to us what had just happened.
He paused, and with one hand on his hip, he faced us. “We have no passports.”
Laila sighed. Zulaikha caught a breath.
“Why didn’t we get them in Karachi?” Zia asked.
Padar only shook his head, as if thinking hard about his question. “It was impossible to get our passports in Pakistan. I tried very hard.” He stared down at the floor. “So many others from Afghanistan had passed through this way, I thought we could too.”
“How are we going to get to India?” Zulaikha asked.
He finally looked up at us. The strain and fatigue began to pass from his face. “Don’t worry. I believe this is the way for us. We will succeed in reaching New Delhi.”
He stood there in front of us with a half smile on his face. This was like a giant game to him, a chess match of international wits. A test of his faith in Allah or the power of poetry to overcome all odds.
He went back to pacing. We sat in silence. Still I shivered at being treated like criminals. Freedom had been so close; I could have reached out to the glass doors that led outside and touched them, but now…
“Is that why we couldn’t fly directly to New Delhi?” Laila asked.
He nodded. “I was told this was the easiest route across the border. Many others have entered India through Dhaka…” He started to say more but fell back into pacing.
We huddled together for warmth while he worked the floor on the other side of the room.
“What’s going to happen to us?” I whispered to Laila. She seemed too shocked to answer. She shook her head; she didn’t know. We sat hunched together for what seemed like hours, until someone fumbled with the latch on the other side of the door. Padar ceased pacing. I froze into a tight band of muscle, ready to fight back if they tried to beat me. Zulaikha, on the other side of me, clutched my arm.