The Geometry of God, page 4
-When are we going to go?
I notice his hesitation. Mehwish has fallen asleep against his chest. He looks at her and smiles at her, then he looks at me and smiles at me. Then I understand that my practical intelligence must stay at home.
Maybe because he feels bad about having to tell me that I won't be able to go with him, Nana gives me her old microscope. It is the first false eye I look through. I go out into the garden and pick up half a dozen tadpoles from the pond below the gum tree. I know what they really are because I've read about it in Nana's science books: sperm. I tell Ama that from now on I will observe reality that way.
-Sperm? She murmurs, horrified. Then he rests his head on the arm of the sofa where he lives.
I shove a grain of rice into the meandering sperm circle to see if they like it. They do not like it. They stop moving.
I review the notes from my first experiment, in which I tried to wake Mehwish first with a candle, then a flashlight, and turning on all the lights, until Nana explained to me about the watch in her. Mehwish talks to the sun. Know the different times of the day. It has an observatory on its head as dark as the one in Samarkand and it is not much cleaner than a baby fly. On the back I pasted the drawing of Mehwish carrying the sun inside her, which I went over again, squeezing the pencil hard so that she could run her fingers through the lines and see it. I still consider it a successful experiment as I was able to observe Mehwish long enough to prove it.
I only had one thing to aim for regarding tadpoles, my second experiment: Failed sex = death.
With the microscope I explore other things: the silt of the pond, the sweat and especially the saliva. I say, "Thuko here." She understands me. She is not deaf. He spits and I put his saliva on the glass rectangle and rest it on the base under the lens.
On another occasion, in which I find myself sliding one of his fingers into the slot of the microscope to observe a mosquito bite magnified, I suddenly hear a familiar voice on the other side of the door of our room.
"Apa Farzana," I tell Mehwish.
Two years ago he would have said, "Goo!" or "Ap-ap-ap-ap". Now he says "Poi bido!" and "Kiss me!"
-Beshomesh.
-Kiss Me!
Next to us is a small bowl of raisins. I put one on her tongue and she sucks on it like it's candy.
Apa Farzana lives in Lahore, but whenever he travels to Islamabad he comes to visit Ama. They recite the Koran together, which Ama always keeps near her sofa. If they call me, I pretend I can't hear them and immediately start bathing Mehwish. They usually recite the surah Yasin. Apa Farzana says that the name of that chapter comes from the mysterious letter symbols, no longer, and that the purpose of the chapter is to help us say goodbye to the dead. But no one in my family has died for three years now, when Ama lost the unborn baby. And Mehwish is alive.
They recite together, then Apa Farzana translates what they have read and explains it to them. The only two people I know who understand Arabic and never need anything translated for them are Nana and Junayd.
Apa Farzana: Glory to Allah, Who created in pairs all the things that the earth produces, as well as the like of these and other things of which they are not aware.
"Do you stop?" I say, thinking out loud.
"Pari!" Mehwish rests his little hand on my cheek.
Apa Farzana begins to explain to Ama that you stop is a delicate reference to sex.
"It's all written, do you understand?" What intelligent people say that they have discovered today has always been known, that all things have to have sex, things that we do not know and that we do not have to know, because He does not want us to know them and we must accept them, as this says verse, you understand?
Loves: «That is very true. We don't have to know.
I think of my tadpoles. They were not in pairs but in groups.
Apa Farzana: "There has to be no sex outside of opposites."
The tadpoles look identical. What is the opposite of a tadpole?
Apa Farzana: «There cannot be a society without opposites. However, your eldest daughter is not quite the opposite that she should be, do you understand?
"That woman says I'm not quite the opposite that I should be," I tell Mehwish, who lets out the giggle she's been holding on like it's pee. What is the opposite of a tadpole? What is the opposite of me?
"I want a bathroom!"
-Bathroom.
—With shabón and sampú.
Apa Farzana turns the pages until she reaches Sura Tariq, the morning star, who is, according to her and like Sura Yasin, a consolation for people plunged into deep and dark despair. But I have heard Nana and Junayd interpret it differently, and for once they both agree: the star is a visitor knocking on the door in the wee hours of the morning. He is not going to comfort those in the house but to wake them up.
But, according to Apa Farzana, the visitor consoles them by discussing the opposites. She reads the translation:Now let man think where he was created from! It has been created from jets of fluid that arise from the area between the spine and the ribs.
Explain: «It is all written, you understand? The spine is the source of male strength, his sperm stream. The woman is the opposite. The spine of the woman is weak, to be able to receive and bend. That's how it is written and we have to show it to your daughter, okay?
Ama: "It has always been like this." Then he calls me. «Amal! I know you are hearing me! "
I put Mehwish in the bathtub. Luckily the bathroom is what he likes the most in the world and he doesn't scream. Start playing with the taps. He notices the different temperatures before I do. He tells me that his cold hand is colder if he has not put it under the hot water before and repeats the experiment with each foot. It also recognizes colors by smell.
"I want new sampu, not green mime."
-Green.
He bows his head and I wet his strands of thick, straight hair. She has a fluff along her spine, which is not sunken like Ama's and mine. Her skin is rough despite the fact that I rub it with lotion every day. I sprinkle new shampoo on the crown of the head until it forms a puddle.
-Turquoise.
"Your quesa." Unholy, ”he sniffs the air.
-Turquoise. Cleansed.
"I don't wear like you see."
-Fatty. It is from seaweed. Seaweed is like lettuce. When you eat lettuce even your poop smells clean.
She is delighted and then says her almost perfect first sentence:
"My poop smells like wicked," and she immediately corrects herself, "clean!"
-Smells. And you're supposed to say poop.
-Cleansed!
"Very good," I lather her back as I think of the fluid jets and the spinal columns. Apa Farzana says that we are the opposite of tadpoles.
Put a damp finger on the wall and tear off a bit of paint. A bit of the chipping remains on her nail and she squeezes her finger; it looks like a bit of a bitten nail.
-Do not do that. You are going to get hurt.
"Low on my back."
Another almost perfect phrase. I write words on his back. She tries to spell them out loud. She knows how to differentiate the letters separately, but she cannot form words by herself.
Sometimes I write the alphabet for him on a piece of paper, pressing the pencil well so that he can identify the lines. Then I flip the paper over and Mehwish touches the raised letters. Other times we use toothpicks and pieces of broken flower pots, with which we have both cut our fingers. She learns much faster than me if she had to learn the dots within the little squares, what is called braille.
While he's in the bathtub, I write on his back: MAR.
Only after the third attempt does he manage to say the letters correctly, then I tell him what the word is. The next thing I write to you is: WHALE. Get solved on the fifth try. I draw him a whale-dog and a whale whale. She likes it so much that she begins to fall asleep.
"That became this due to evolution."
"Did what?" He asks, turning to me with a sleepy smile.
"To evolution." When that becomes this.
—Lavo ludión.
I always take care not to get soap or shampoo in his eyes, although I would like to know if they would sting like normal eyes. When I rinse her hair, she throws her head back, and I put my hand on her forehead like the brim of a cap.
That's what I'm doing right now, but Mehwish takes advantage of the fact that I'm with both hands full and surprises me by turning suddenly and shoving a little hand under my blouse. First he rubs my back the same way I have done his. Then he pauses for a moment on my new chest, which now is always very sensitive and already seems too big to me. He rubs it with soap and I feel my ears burn with blush. Mehwish smiles. I slap her hand away and pull my blouse down, even though she can't see it.
He starts to whimper and squeezes the shampoo bottle, spilling the entire contents into the bathtub.
"Stop it, Mehwish!" I take the shampoo from her hand.
It scratches my face. I give him another slap. He starts screaming.
Ama opens the door.
-What's happening here? He takes Mehwish's hand, the paint chip is so deep under the nail that it has made a small cut in the skin. A trickle of blood runs down the middle of his finger.
"It's okay," I say, and I start washing her nail.
"You have become very daring, young lady." Didn't you hear that he was calling you? Apa Farzana has been here.
It was Mehwish who saved me, uttering her perfect first sentence:
"You stink of orange!"
Ama's jaw drops.
"Pray that your father is transferred to Lahore," he finally manages to say. That way we will be closer to Apa Farzana. ”Then he leaves and closes the door softly.
Already in our room I seen Mehwish while listening to songs from old movies, like Mehbooba Mehbooba, and a more recent one, Laila, oh Laila.
"Lala laa laa," Mehwish hums, following the music. She moves so much that I drop my comb twice before I can hold her hair down. When I finish with all the ritual of dressing her and combing her she is so happy that she starts dancing with happiness. He has never seen a movie and yet he moves exactly like the actresses.
I come to the conclusion that, like the sun, he also carries that within.
Noman
During my first week at university I come home one day and find Aba very happy. As you enter the fifth year of the war in Afghanistan, your party has received another injection of American aid, and I suppose that is why you smile so much.
"Noman!" He calls me in a spirited tone I haven't heard in years. You're so good at solving mathematical equations and everything that today I'm going to ask you to solve a dilemma for me. ”He grins. I sit next to him. What kind of state did Jinnah want?
I get nervous. One of Jinnah's most famous speeches shows that what she wanted was a secular state. But if I say that, Aba will berate me for accusing the founder of being an infidel, although that is precisely what many members of his Creation Party, who opposed Jinnah in the fight to create the state in the first place, have done. I decide that this is a tricky question anyway, and I shouldn't take long to answer it either.
-Islamic.
"Prove it," he hands me the famous speech, the one that proves otherwise.
We are beginning an era in which there will be no discrimination, there will be no distinctions between one community and another, no differences between one caste and another, or between one creed and another. We begin a new era starting from the fundamental principle that we are all citizens: equal citizens within a single State.
"I want you to prove it to me from this." Aba taps the sheet.
-And how? I ask in a whisper. I feel a chill go up my neck that is nothing more than the certainty of a task doomed to failure.
He pulls out another sheet, as if it were a consolation prize, and hands it to me.
"With this," he says.
I am convinced that our salvation lies in complying with the golden rules of conduct set by our highest legislator, the Prophet of Islam. Let us lay the foundations of our democracy on the basis of authentic Islamic principles and ideals.
"I want you to show that this doesn't exist," says Aba, tapping the first sheet again, "and that this…" Now she taps the second, "yes." That there is only one speech.
"But the one everyone knows is the other one!" I say, pointing to the first sheet.
-That other? He asks, then breaks it into little pieces.
I remain speechless, staring at nothing.
I reread the second page: the authentic Islamic principles and ideals….
—Here it does not say that these principles are only Islamic, it can be interpreted that what it means is ...
"Interpret yourself?" There is only one reading. "Aba gets up and leaves, but not before adding something else." One day I will need you to help me demonstrate other important things. But first you have to stop imagining what is unimportant.
Amal
Two years later, my mother's dream comes true. We moved to Lahore.
Nana takes me for one last walk in the Margalla hills. Her feet are still encased in her soft leather slippers. They are already very worn and cause some discomfort in the varicose veins when walking.
"There are no forests like that in Lahore," he begins.
It's cold for the beginning of November. It is as if the year has skipped this month and moved on to the next. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater as we walk toward our pond.
Mehwish is at home with my mother, two of his cousins, and two friends. I call them the CB: the Brotherhood of the Begums. Their conversation couldn't be more different from the ones Nana has with me or with her friends. The CB conversations go something like this:
-Aur?
("Women are so sensitive.")
-Aur?
("Women worry too much.")
-Aur?
("My daughter-in-law does not know what it is to suffer.")
-Aur?
("My son has abandoned me!")
Poor Mehwish! I still don't know what my opposite is, but I know I want it to be the Book of Affliction.
I take a deep breath of fresh forest air.
Nana continues:
"There are beautiful parks." A zoo I'll take you to. A once great university. But the new Lahore is full of potholes, rickshaws, pollution. He has a village heart and a head that aspires to fulfill a stupid dream: Dubai. Lahore is a small town that once saw a skyscraper and wants to become that. So he cut down the trees that gave him a certain height. It's like wanting to change our traditional soda, lassi, for Pepsi.
A lot of people who work at the university where Nana is a professor are furious with him. The truth is that he criticizes what others prefer to ignore. As the Soviets continue to bomb Afghanistan for the seventh year in a row, Pakistan's television no longer broadcasts weather forecasts because predicting rain is now synonymous with witchcraft. The science and history books are being rewritten. The teaching of evolution is forbidden. Nana says that learning is looking for what is not written or rewritten. He has become a dangerous man.
Keep talking for a bit more:
"Lahore has a past, but no future." It has heritage, but not open-mindedness. All that old feudal money… Children just sit around waiting to inherit and inherit!
Only once had she seen him this upset and that was when everyone said that Mehwish had gone blind by divine design.
"Lahore has withdrawn into herself." They say it sets the pulse of the nation, but its arteries are clogged! You have fallen into an old trap: once you have been the heart of an empire, you no longer know how to be humble — go fast. He adds one more sentence, "Many of those who want to kick me out are in Lahore."
He didn't know he could lose his job.
The water in the pond must be freezing, so I don't take off my shoes or socks. I perch on the same limestone rock where I have always sat.
"You haven't checked for snakes," Nana scolds me sweetly, sitting down next to me before continuing with her speech. In Lahore everything is property, meat and staying up late!
At some distance from where we are there is a mother peeling oranges while a father chases a child around an acacia tree. The boy is wearing the latest fashion trend of the decade: wristbands and a sweatband for the forehead. He hits an imaginary ball, but does not know where to run. His parents cheer him on by raising their fists in joy. Everybody wants to be a star, but nobody gets a pitch.
"What are you going to do if you lose your job?"
Does not hear me.
"They call me Westerner." As if a scientist's discoveries belonged to the West! Will we have to forget that Omar Jayyam bequeathed us a much more exact calendar than the current one? What about antiseptics? Who remembers Abulcasis? The war is giving this Government the power to separate the East from the West and, furthermore, to do so in the name of God!
At home, Aba asks Ama all the time what Nana is, in short. "Is he at least a believer?" Ama insists that he is, adding that, with Apa Farzana's help, all souls will be saved, including mine.
For me it is very simple: whatever Nana is, she will only tell us when they stop asking her.
That is why you are talking to me. And the reason why I talk to him.
—Apa Farzana says I'm not quite the opposite that I should be.
Nana looks at me puzzled.
-Who? Ah. This.
"He says I'm not the complete opposite of a… tadpole." I mean, a man.
I expected my grandfather to laugh, but no. Instead what he does is look away, uncomfortable; he turns to take a quick look behind us, around us; he looks at my knees. I know what happens. They are my breasts. Suddenly they have started to make men uncomfortable.
I also look away.
Finally he says, looking at my neck:
"Yes, well, yes." I mean, no. It's possible.
We were quiet for a while.
The child wipes the imaginary sweat from his head with one of the wristbands. His mother wraps her shawl around him. The child makes him cut it with an imaginary racket. The father eats a sandwich.
