Night of Power, page 11
“When can we take her home?” Layla asked.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Visram.” The nurse reached for the baby. “I have to take her now.”
“Please, I want to take her home.”
The nurse tried again. Layla slapped her hand away. “No! She’s mine.”
“Please don’t,” Mansoor said to the nurse.
The nurse stepped aside.
“Layla, please,” Mansoor said. “Give her to me.”
“She needs a name!” Layla wept. “She can’t be nameless. How else will Allah know who she is?” Her daughter had not been baptized. No one would baptize a dead child. She would not have an Ismaili burial. She was not Ismaili. This fact alone shattered Layla.
“What name do you like?” he asked.
“Maryam. I like Maryam.”
“Okay.” He took the baby from her. “Let me take care of our little Maryam.”
When Mansoor came back, he told Layla he had taken care of everything. Their Maryam was at peace. He made sure of it. He also closed the gas station and made arrangements for Ashif’s care. He stayed with Layla all day and insisted she eat when she refused. “You need your strength. Please—” he inched forward the bowl of soup on her food tray “—we all want you home.”
“When are you coming back?” she asked. “We all want you home, too.” It had been over four months since he had moved for the gas station.
“Soon. Very soon.”
For a moment, her mind flashed to the camp in London. The endless agony of waiting for him. She wanted her husband at home by her side, by Ashif’s side.
“I promise.” He then handed her a soup spoon and she took it. “Listen, Layla. There’s no disputing the science. The doctor showed me the graphs. It happens in eight-point-one percent of births.”
But she refused to accept it. She had done something to deserve this fate. She was sure of it. God isn’t unjust. He does not just dole out rewards and punishments randomly. Who would believe in a creator this cruel? There was a reason for everything. God is always watching and she must have made an error. She’d done something to anger him. But what? What had she done wrong?
Before Layla checked out of the hospital, the nurse gave her instructions on how to avoid mastitis. Don’t express or use warm compresses. Never stand in a hot shower, no matter how painful her breasts were. It would only make things worse. The best way to stop her milk was cold compresses. Ice packs were a good option. So were iced cabbage leaves.
“You just have to be patient with yourself, dear,” the nurse said as she helped Layla into her winter coat. “Our bodies just need a little time to understand.”
For weeks after, Layla spent her days in bed with the curtains drawn. Shamma and Almas arrived with care packages of food. They visited daily, just as they would have if she had come home with a baby. Almas combed her hair; Shamma gave her manicures and pedicures. They took away the box of baby clothes Layla had knit and the toys people had gifted her, replacing them with games and books for Ashif. They played with him, took him out for ice cream. Anything to keep him occupied for Layla’s sake, as well as his. He was eleven years old and they, like Layla, wanted to protect him from the news.
“Are you sick, Mummy?” Ashif asked when he came home from school and found her in bed with a bag of ice on each breast.
“My heart hurts, bheta,” she said, pushing herself to sitting.
“’Cause of the baby?” Ashif asked, twisting the edge of his T-shirt around a finger.
“Yes.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry.”
“Come, bheta,” she said, patting the edge of the bed.
He went to her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “Mummy’s okay.”
He nodded, but she could sense he didn’t believe her. He knew, like she knew, that she would never be okay again.
“You want to stay in my room?” she asked. “Until Pappa comes back home.” If he was close to her, it would, she hoped, help alleviate his worry. Alleviate some of her sadness, too.
“But my toys are in my room.”
“We can move into your room then, okay?”
He nodded.
She pulled him to her and wrapped her arms around his small body. “You are such a good boy. What would Mummy do without you?”
It was Shamma and Almas who suggested she enter the Silver Jubilee chicken samosa competition. “Everyone is doing it, Layla Bai,” Shamma said. “Who doesn’t want a chance to cook for the Imam?”
“It will give you some peace of mind,” Almas added. Layla did not answer but she knew right away she would do it. This was her chance to reverse her fate, to clear her good name with the Almighty.
A new energy surged through her. Her days became singularly focused: making samosas. She refused visitors, reorganized her pantry, banned Ashif from the kitchen. She tested recipe after recipe. More garlic. Less clove. Chicken from Iqbal’s. Better. She tried different methods for rolling the dough: water on the rolling pin, ghee on the rolling pin, roll in not out. She experimented for weeks, remembering the small tweaks and changes by heart. The smell of fried samosas settled into the house like a permanent guest.
She cried for days when she received the news. First place! She even cried while she made the samosas, an endless stream of tears dripping into the dough. She tried to stop herself but she just couldn’t do it. It was only later that she realized that her tears were part of his great blessings: the Imam, as always, eats all our sorrows. This thought brought her so much relief she broke out into fits of laughter. She laughed so hard she cried. All praise is due to Allah! It was then that she made her vow. “I will never make my chicken samosas for anyone but the Imam.” A secret pact. She promised Khudavind to hold the recipe for him, and him alone. In return, she asked him to please protect her son. Make sure no harm comes to the only child she and Mansoor would ever have.
* * *
Dr. Poole stands in the doorway of the family room, scanning the crowd of faces. He has several large brown envelopes tucked under his arm. “Mrs. Visram,” he says, spotting Layla. “Can you come with me, please?”
Layla glances, yet again, at the clock. The fear she feels at the sight of the doctor quells with the thought of Ashif. He will be by her side soon.
Chapter 18
MANSOOR‘S CAR IS PLUGGED into a low post, a tangle of extension cords, like the reins of a horse, heaped under the front bumper. When weighing all the options, the Chevy Impala always comes out on top.
He unplugs his car from the post and retrieves a snow brush from the back seat. He circles the car, occasionally patting it with a gloved hand as he brushes off the snow. Inside the car, he pulls out an organizer from the glove compartment. It folds open like a wallet. From one of the pockets, he removes a small black notebook with grid-lined paper. He flips on the light, checks the odometer reading, and scribbles the number under today’s date. Not only was this a good way to monitor gas consumption and costs, he also used it as a formal record for tax writeoffs.
He reaches for the CD organizer on the passenger side floor and pulls a disc out. He holds it to the soft glow of the dashboard. Kenny Rogers & Dolly Parton, Greatest Hits. Mansoor enjoys all country music but this is one of his favourites. He loves Kenny’s deep voice, his rhythm, his lyrics, many of which provide apt advice, not only on love, but on business, too. Kenny is a man’s man. The best part of Kenny, of course, is that he often pairs himself with Dolly Parton. What a beauty! Mansoor knows all of her lyrics, too, from her earlier songs like “I Will Always Love You” to more recent hits like “Yellow Roses.” Dolly moves like a doll on stage, a ballerina in a box, perfectly balancing her gorgeously imbalanced body. Her mass of golden hair, her rhinestone-tasseled blouses, her studded jackets. Mansoor can watch her for hours, in country music specials like From Nashville with Love and The Queens of Country. Dolly is, as far as he’s concerned, the perfect woman. She gives you the feeling that you can hold her in your palm, like a bird, but she won’t fly away over the smallest of difficulties. So much like Layla when he first met her. Whatever happened to that woman?
* * *
Mansoor had his choice of any woman he wanted. Not only did he come from one of Kampala’s top families, but his father, unlike most fathers, gave him free rein to choose his bride rather than submit to a match. His only criteria was that the girl had to be from Africa—not India.
Applications started pouring in as soon as people heard. Parents sent their daughters’ photographs along with a portfolio of personal qualities and skills. He made a short list of ten. Layla was one of them.
Mansoor crossed Lake Victoria by ferry, from Kampala to Kisumu, to meet her. Her family lived in a small two-room bungalow in the bustling city centre. It was clear they did not have much money, but he admired how well-kept the house was. Layla was even prettier than her pictures with her stunning ivory skin and high cheekbones. She was also, as promised, a superb cook. She had made a lunch of chicken kalyo, a creamy curry flavoured with saffron, that she served with hot chapattis and rice. He had three helpings. After lunch, he was allowed to accompany her on a walk along the beach, but only with an escort, her young cousin, Hanif.
They ambled along the crowded boardwalk until Layla suggested they try the beach. She clutched her dress each time a wave rolled in. Little Hanif trailed behind them, tossing stones into the waves. A large wave rolled in. Layla’s feet sank into the sand, toppling her.
“Careful!” Mansoor reached down and pulled her up from her knees, but her dress was soaked, her makeup ruined.
“Let’s go back,” Mansoor offered.
“Why? Just give me your jacket.”
He slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
From her shell-shaped purse, she removed a compact mirror and some tissue. She snapped open the mirror and dabbed her eyes to remove the dripping lines of mascara. She reapplied her lipstick and adjusted a few bobby pins. All of that, right in front of him. Most girls (and he knew so many) would have insisted on going home or else they may have thrown a tantrum. Not Layla. She adjusted calmly to a change in circumstances. No fuss at all. That’s a sign of a grown woman. He wanted to kiss her, run his hands over the curves of her body. But he knew he couldn’t. Not with a woman like Layla. There were rules he had to follow and he would. That afternoon, he asked her father for her hand, and to his delight, he agreed. Three months later, on their wedding night, he was finally allowed to touch her.
* * *
A tingling sensation radiates through Mansoor’s legs and groin. But the feeling leaves as quickly as it arrives. It has been years since Layla had shared a bed with him or for that matter, even touched him. Since anyone had touched him. He pushes the CD into its socket and presses play. He shifts the car into drive and begins his long journey home.
On McKnight Boulevard, Mansoor glimpses the mountain-shaped minarets of Headquarters Jamatkhana. It’s only now he remembers that it’s the Night of Power. Layla won’t be home, damn it. She’ll be at the prayer hall all night. It’s her duty she tells him—every momin‘s duty—to attend jamatkhana on a daily basis, especially on such an auspicious night. But what about her duty to him as his wife?
He doesn’t want to return to an empty house, especially not tonight. He should have stayed at the store, as he often does, folding open the cot, and watching TV, or else trying to finish the endless paperwork, until he’s certain that Layla is home. Not that Mansoor eats dinner with her—she has always eaten much earlier—or that he and Layla have much to say to each other. But at least when she is home, the house is filled with the everyday sounds of a house—a tap running, dishes being cleared away, the kettle whistling—and these sounds comfort him, especially after a long day at work.
He does not want to celebrate alone. But where can he go? “Should have come to jamatkhana with me,” he can hear Layla say. “It will give you peace of mind.” But does prayer put food on the table? Does it improve your business? Does prayer make your life easy? No, no, and no. There had been a time when he made an effort to go to jamatkhana—to make Layla happy. But he never found any solace at the prayer hall, just a deep sense of loneliness among the rows of men sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. Nothing bonded him to them. These men had simpler lives, he imagined. They had a God to praise when things went well, a God to blame when they didn’t. Things were always out of their hands, and this kind of thinking he would never accept. Not that he would ever say it out loud. Of course not! Who wants to be ex-communicated? There were some things, his father wisely advised, that must be kept private. First and foremost, religion and politics. Safety in numbers.
If this were Uganda, he could have shown up at any number of establishments to find a friend and, more likely, a group of friends. No need to call ahead to make an appointment. He could have gone to City Bar, a smoke-filled café in the downtown core of Kampala, for a game of cards and a whisky, and if not there, then he would have gone to the local gymkhana to play badminton or to swim, followed by dinner and drinks at the Hilton, sometimes not getting home until the family was either fast asleep or just waking up in the morning. Back then, a man could find reprieve from the pressures of everyday life, from family and obligation. Men could be men, they could relax, drink, smoke, play cards without the nagging interference of a woman. Mansoor could have told any one of these men his news and they would have helped him celebrate.
His closest friends are now scattered around the world like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Tariq was in England; Fateh in Sweden; Kamru in Mozambique; Mohammed in Texas. Men he’d spent his life with, gone. Holes in his history like a book riddled with paper punches. He spoke to Mohammed now and then. But it was too costly to call often. Sometimes they wrote to each other. But it was never satisfying. You only got the broad strokes. There was no way to have a real conversation, to share the news of the day. Instead, you trailed behind each other’s lives, learning what happened months earlier. Might as well be reading a history book. But maybe with the Internet, things will be different. Only recently, Mansoor read about something called search engines. Like having a worldwide encyclopedia at your fingertips. Imagine the possibilities! Maybe now he will be able to find his friends and connect with them on a regular basis. He hopes so.
He had hardly spoken to his sisters, either. But for different reasons. He had never been close to them. Not just because they were girls and so much younger than him, but also because he never considered them his real sisters. He had no interest in their company. Maybe if they lived here instead, he would have felt differently. Maybe then he would have joined forces with his brothers-in-law. But they had settled in Birmingham. Their fortunes from Uganda hadn’t amounted to much, but enough to start a business. A movie rental store, which was now one of the biggest in the city.
A few blocks from home, Mansoor catches a green sign with a flashing beer mug. HARRY’S SPORTS BAR. It’s not the kind of place he would normally go to, not that he really goes out. He would rather be in Canyon Creek, near his store, or any other professional neighbourhood than this one. You can’t walk a bloody block here without seeing a sari or a turban. But he’s too tired to drive all the way back to Canyon Creek. Not at this hour. Not when he’s this close to home. He pulls his car in front of the sports bar, gathers his winter coat and briefcase, and steps out into the cold.
Chapter 19
AT THE ICU NURSING station, Ashif lays his briefcase on the counter and asks for his father’s room. A nurse with black cat-eye glasses directs him to the family room. “Just down the hall, love,” she says, pointing her pencil down a corridor. “They’ve been waiting for you.”
Ashif stands at the entrance of the brightly lit family room and scans the crowd for his mother. He expected her to be alone, but the room and the one connected to it are both crowded with people from the community, rocking back and forth in unison, prayer beads in hand. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.
“He’s here!” a woman shouts, the first to spot him.
Eyes pop open, people turn toward him. A few let out extended sighs. “Thank God!”
“There she is, son.” A man points to Layla, who is surrounded by a circle of women, including one he recognizes as Arzeen. She hasn’t changed at all. She’s still perfectly put together, her hair straight and coloured caramel-blonde.
Ashif smiles and waves. The crowd parts for him. When he reaches his mother, he sets his briefcase and suit carrier down and takes her in his arms.
Layla hands Arzeen her handbag. She wraps her hands around Ashif’s arms and pulls herself to standing. She smells like rosewater.
“There’s no need to cry anymore.” He takes his mother in his arms. “I’m here now.”
But she doesn’t stop crying. She clutches onto Ashif. “We have to keep praying,” she mumbles into his chest. “Set him free.”
“Of course we’re going to pray.” He gently pushes her back. Her eyes are red and swollen: she must have been crying for hours. “Let’s go and see him first, okay?”
“We can’t,” Layla says, her words barely audible. “He’s gone.”
“Where?” Ashif asks. “Another hospital?”
It’s Arzeen who finally takes Ashif to the quiet room and tells him. His father passed away this morning. He was dead on arrival.
“What do you mean, dead on arrival?” He understands the term, but his mind deflects the idea, like a shield.
“We’re not sure of the exact time of death, but we now know that he was already dead when the paramedics got to him.”
“That makes no sense!” he says, practically shouting. “He was alive this morning.” He is sure Arzeen is speaking about another patient. She’s mixed up.
“Your father was on life support, Ash, so yes, he was alive in a sense. But neurologically, he was dead.” She squeezes his hand.
