The Lost Pearl (2012), page 1
Author’s Note: All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental. The brief discussions regarding events in recent history are simply meant to provide a backdrop for the novel. The translations of excerpts of poetry by Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Parveen Shakir are not claimed to be exact or authentic, but rather are the author’s own attempt at conveying a small fraction of what was expressed by their timeless words.
Copyright © 2012 lara zuberi
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4774-5374-1
ISBN-13: 9781477453742
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62345-824-9
Dedication
To Mummy and Daddy, for inspiring the opening line of this book;
My husband, Omer, for his unwavering support; and
My son, Aariz, for being the sunshine that illuminates every day of my life.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
It was the perfect childhood—that is until everything changed, of course. It was February 1987, and we were enjoying another mild Karachi winter. We had lived in the same house in Pakistan since my birth, and the most recent addition to it was our family portrait, which had acquired the status of becoming the most outstanding feature of my father’s study. Surrounded by an intricate bronze frame, it had originally been placed in the family room, but Papa insisted on moving it, arguing that he spent a greater fraction of his time at his desk and wanted our picture to be simply a glance away. He had retrieved his hammer and nails from his old toolbox and fixed the portrait to the wall across from his desk despite my mother’s insistence that it remain in the family room. He asked me to confirm that it was centered and straight before finalizing its position on the wall.
It was a lovely photograph taken six months earlier, with my father a handsome man of forty, his wavy hair gelled back, revealing some subtle streaks of gray. He was wearing his thick black glasses, which in my humble opinion were too old-fashioned and in need of replacement by thinner metallic ones. He was dressed in his usual collared shirt, bleached to the brightest shade of white. He wore a diagonally striped blue-and-black silk tie that gave him the look of a truly distinguished gentleman, the silver links of his watch barely emerging from the edge of his starched sleeve. Next to him was my beautiful mother, six months shy of her thirtieth birthday, the epitome of poise and elegance, adorned in a traditional Pakistani dress, a pink kurta shalwar with a delicately embroidered design. Her face beamed with joy, and her stunning eyes shone with pride, a reflection of everything having gone well in her life, perhaps. In her lap was my four-year-old brother, Sahir, dressed in a very proper dark red shirt, mischief unable to escape his chubby face. His straight black hair fell generously on his forehead, nearly covering his eyes. It had taken countless attempts to make him stationary for the pose, superseding the difficulty with which he had agreed to be still for his haircut a month before.
In the center was me, a nine-year-old girl with long black hair brushed neatly into two braids and tied with bright yellow ribbons on either side of a very straight middle parting. They matched the yellow-and-white summer dress I was wearing, which my aunt had thoughtfully sent as a birthday present. Anyone who saw the photograph would be compelled to notice the striking resemblance I bore to my father. I had the appearance of a studious schoolgirl, with dark brown eyes full of innocence bordering on naivety. I wore a smile that was sweet in spite of the silver of newly acquired braces. It was a picture of a child who had everything a girl her age could wish for and more. I truly was “Papa’s little princess,” as my father often liked to call me. Prior to the session, our photographer from Jimmy’s Studio had offered retouching free of cost, to remove any blemishes or red eyes, but none had been required. The portrait was an honest depiction of what our family was: in no need of retouching and truly picture perfect.
Our maid, Sakina, cleaned the portrait every day, wiping the dust off the frame, carefully removing any cobwebs before they formed fully, and scrubbing the glass clean with her dexterous hands. Sakina’s daughter, Zareen, who was only three months younger than I, would accompany her on occasion and assist her mother with the less rigorous house chores, despite my mother’s opposition. She would eye the portrait with admiration and perhaps an iota of envy. When she cleaned it, I looked at her with sympathy, and the sad thought that she had to grow up without her deceased father’s love.
I adored my brother, but like most siblings, we had our share of meaningless conflicts. I remember vividly when he was born and can picture the yellow Winnie-the-Pooh blanket we had bought before bringing him home from the hospital; it remained preserved in a closet of memorabilia for years. I clearly recall the first time he smiled, the first time he recognized me, and the very first time he called me Apa, the word for big sister. His arrival became the icing on the cake of our glorious life. His laughter echoed so loudly through the walls that I wondered sometimes if it would break them. He loved throwing and chasing after his orange ball, running after it fast as a rocket, without contemplating the perils of such an adventure, and playing with the red fire truck Papa had brought him from a trip to Europe.
My father was in the Foreign Service, and we were blessed with affluence that blinded us perhaps, to the struggles of the impoverished. My mother tastefully decorated our house, covering each wall with beautiful paintings and each floor with fancy rugs; every detail was designed to please the artistic eye. Ammi, as I called her, ensured that the house was meticulously clean, which was something of a challenge, considering the layers of dust that accumulated in Karachi houses. She would spend hours in the kitchen supervising the cook, making certain that the salt was just right and the flour the required consistency to be kneaded into roti, the perfectly circular traditional bread. She would often reassess her silverware and send Sakina periodically to have it polished.
She loved to spend time in the garden, talking to her plants, singing to them, and discussing with the gardener the bloom of the spring flowers. The pink bougainvilleas complemented the yellow in the sunflowers, so they were planted near one another. The fern appeared graceful growing up the wall and became the youngest member of the garden. The money plant had been there since my birth and had grown before my eyes, nurtured by a handful of water and few ounces of sunlight, but mostly by gallons of my mother’s care. She would sometimes remove all the weeds from the garden herself, protecting her hands with thick brown gardening gloves. “Weeds spoil what’s good around them,” she would say, carefully and cautiously plucking out each and every one of them.
Her mothering was quite like her gardening. She would nurture us and sing to us, removing the thorns while planting roses in our paths. We were blossoming under her care, as were all the flowers in our lawn. One tight hug from her and all our petty childhood problems would evaporate, becoming absorbed into the hold of her motherly embrace. She would worry about us, like any mother, and would protect us like a bird sheltering the nest of her young. Married at the tender age of nineteen, she was very dependent on my father, which was somewhat of a cultural norm at that time in Pakistan. She did not make any decisions without his approval and seldom went out of the house unless it was to fulfill a social obligation. She was a devoted wife and mother.
She had convinced Sakina to send Zareen to school after much persuasion. Sakina was a widow who was raising her daughter alone, with some support from her deceased husband’s parents. They were against sending Zareen to school, but Ammi saw what a bright girl she was and had convinced Sakina that it was sinful to deny her an education. Ammi said she would pay for it and later laid it as a condition for allowing Sakina to continue working at our home. If Zareen had any questions about her schoolwork, she came to me, and I gladly answered her queries, although she seldom needed assistance.
My father was very involved in our upbringing. He had a side that was humorous and casual and another that was mature and speculative. “These are only things, my dear,” my father once said when I had accidentally broken a crystal candleholder. “Things can always be replaced. Plus, even if they are not replaced, nobody really misses them when they are gone. You must learn to love people—that’s what’s most important.”
Papa loved to pass on his pearls of wisdom to us with every word he spoke and every action he took, setting the perfect example and yet never letting it seem like a lesson, and always sprinkling his golden words with a touch of humor. He made sure we had fun while learning.
“What does rich mean?” my brother once asked me.
“It means to have lots of money and things,” had been my superficial answer.
Papa had interjected, “Let me tell you a story. There was once a scholar who had been travelling in a caravan and was looted by thieves. They said, ‘Give us your money, your watch, that bag you are carrying, and your winter coat. We want everything.’ The scholar proceeded to comply with their wishes and stripped himself of everything but his clothes. He did so without resistance and without b
And the next minute we were playing Carom and card games and guessing in twenty questions. He read books to us and often took us to the library and the toy store. We would frequent the beach for mini picnics. He often became a horse for Sahir, and father and son would run and laugh uncontrollably all over the house. He checked my homework, picked me up from school, and never missed my parent-teacher meetings. If I asked for anything, I always got it, though I did not ask for much.
I once overheard my mother say to my father, “Have you ever thought that we might be spoiling Sana?” referring to me. “She always gets what she wants. She is a good girl, but what if, after she gets married, life isn’t a bed of roses anymore?”
“Rubbish,” my father replied. “Why do you women start thinking about marriage so soon? She is not even ten, plus I think she is already quite mature for her age. She is my little princess and she has a heart of gold. I think you and I are raising her quite well. You should stop worrying.”
To stop worrying was perhaps an unreasonable expectation of a mother. I agreed with my father, though; I did not want to even think about being married. I simply wished my life to continue the same way, the problem-free life of a picture-perfect family. Who knew how my life would change a few days after this conversation took place? Who knew that the princess would fall from her throne, breaking her tiara into a million pieces and letting her heart of gold melt into a sea of sorrow?
February 11 came and it changed my life forever. I had an argument with Sahir, who had torn up the math homework that I had spent more than an hour completing. In a fit of rage, I pushed him, and he hit his mouth against the corner of the center glass table. I immediately regretted what I had done, held his hand, and took him to my mother.
“Ammi, Sahir hurt himself, he’s crying.” By then his upper lip was bleeding profusely, and I noticed it swelling slightly from the middle. My heart was racing, and I was saying a silent prayer: Oh, please make him better, God. Don’t make him have stitches or have any broken teeth.
“Let’s make it better Beta, she said, using the oft used endearing term for child, while disappearing into the kitchen to bring some ice. My father arrived at the scene soon after and kissed Sahir before assuming the role of investigator.
“What happened?” he inquired, looking at me.
My eyes downcast, I replied, “He hit his face on the table, Papa.”
When my brother returned after having his lip treated, my father asked him if he had been jumping from the chair, which had, of late, become one of his favorite passions.
“No, Papa. Apa pushed me so hard I hit my face,” he said with an angry expression, still sobbing. Papa turned to me, and guiltily I confessed to the crime.
“I am disappointed that you pushed him, but I am more disappointed that you lied to me,” he said. “In this house, we only speak the truth.”
Papa never raised his voice, but his words were always more powerful than the verdict of a jury. I felt ashamed. Still trying to defend myself, I argued, “I didn’t lie, Papa,” tears welling up in my eyes. “I just didn’t tell you the whole story.”
“Silence can be golden, but remember silence is as bad as a lie if it is used to hide the truth, OK, Princess?”
“I am sorry, Papa; it will not happen again. I am sorry, Sahir. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
To cheer us up, Papa floated the idea of ice cream at Snoopy’s. My mother resisted it mildly, arguing that it was cold and a school night, but her ice-cream-loving family soon outvoted her. “I want blueberry, or maybe I’ll go with coconut,” I said, before even reaching the destination.
“I’ll have chocolate,” chimed in Sahir, forgetting his injury momentarily.
I wondered what would become of my homework but pushed the thought aside. I remember vividly the taste of that ice cream (eventually I had taken both flavors), the cool wind in my face, and the old Indian song “Bachpan kay din” or “Days of Childhood” playing in the car on the way home, my father softly humming along with the renowned voice of Lata Mangeshkar.
The standing ritual in our home was to say goodnight and “I love you” to Ammi and Papa and thanking God for all his blessings before going to bed. The evening of February 11, I got wrapped up in redoing my homework and waited until late at night before approaching my father. He was in his study preparing for an upcoming meeting. I folded my homework neatly and put it in my bag. I was loving algebra; it all seemed to make perfect sense and was so immediately gratifying. The new version was much neater than the original one, so perhaps it was a blessing that Sahir had torn it up. Also, had he not, we might have missed out on the ice cream. Thankfully Sahir’s lip did not look too bad. At least not bad enough to hurt, and hopefully not bad enough for everyone at school to notice the following morning. I was grateful that he had not torn up my English homework, which was an essay entitled “The Best Day of My Life.” It would have been impossible to reproduce the same words. I had described the day when my father had returned from a long official tour. It had also been the day I had shown him my report card and he had said I made him proud and he knew that one day I would do something that would make him the proudest father of all. “You are meant to do great things,” he had said.
I checked that my red-and-white uniform was pressed and my black shoes neatly polished. I checked my pencil box to make sure it had all the pencils sharpened and the pen filled with ink. We had just started using the fountain pen, and I always had marks on my hands and had to be careful not to get blue blotches on my uniform. I had already wished Ammi and Sahir good night. I still had to hug Papa, so I decided to sneak into his office and wait until after he finished his work before startling him with my hug. He was so engrossed in his papers that he did not notice me discreetly climbing under his mahogany desk.
I wondered what my father did that required him to work so many hours into the night. He often talked about his vision for our country. He once told me how many people had sacrificed their lives to build Pakistan and to finally achieve independence from the British in 1947. But this dreamland had unfortunately been plagued by lack of good leadership. Mohammad Ali Jinnah, who had been the founder of the nation, had died a year after independence was achieved and his successors had struggled to lead this new country amidst the numerous challenges that they faced. In the then-recent history, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s regime had been toppled by Army Chief General Zia-ul-Haq in a bloodless coup. This had occurred in July of 1977, soon after my birth. General Zia had stated that he was “totally committed to reviving democracy, and [planned to] hold fair and free elections.” We do not intend to stay for long, months only, he had said, and here we were, nine years later, and he was still president. Justice must be done, he had said, and even though he denied the allegations of influencing the courts decisions, most believed that he was behind the hanging of Bhutto. My father said General Zia was taking the country in a backward direction, and he was worried about weapons and drugs coming in through the porous Afghanistan border. He had hope for Pakistan but said a lot had to change before we could make global progress.
I changed my hiding place to a more comfortable one behind the curtain, from where I could observe Papa closely. The cool night breeze was coming in through the window adjacent to the desk, which had recently been broken in by a neighbor’s ball and was awaiting repair. A mug bearing the caption “All-Star Dad,” which I had bought for him a year before, sat on his table, filled with tea and he was sipping from it periodically. He had removed his wallet from his pocket, and taken off his wrist -watch, and placed both of them on top of a book titled, Immigration Laws. He must have read three fourths of it, I thought, guessing by the placement of the bookmark that was peeking through it. I was happy to observe that the square silver ashtray, which had previously occupied a corner of the table, had moved. My mother had been working on the project of having him give up his cigars for as long as I could remember. A few days before, she had used the powerful tool of “do you want to live long and be there to see your children graduate from college? And play with your grandchildren?” and it had worked like a charm. The cigars had been thrown away, and the ashtray had been reassigned a new position with other antiques on the shelf.
