The Courthouse
Parveen took Sohail and Maya to Karachi a few days later on the brand-new Pakistan International Airlines flight 010. Rehana watched the plane leave from an airport window made foggy by hair oil and goodbye fingerprints. She waved a small wave, wondering when the world would stop ending. Maya and Sohail, a blue kite and a red kite tucked under their arms, fastened their seat belts and sailed gracefully into the sky, crossing the flooded delta below.
The next day Parveen called to say they had arrived safely, but Rehana could hear very little aside from the crackle of the long-distance line, and the cultivated, genteel laugh that conveyed both confidence and an awkward regret.
In the days that followed, people came to see her. Iqbal’s business acquaintances; old men claiming to be friends of her father; distant relatives with wagging, so-sorry tongues; the gin-rummy ladies; even the lawyer. Grief tourists, Rehana thought, and pretended not to hear them scratching at the door. All but Mrs Chowdhury, who came dragging a sad, tearful daughter. She held Rehana in the rolling fat of her arms and scolded her daughter for sulking.
‘Silvi, it’s not the end of the world. They’ll be back.’ And then she turned to Rehana. ‘At least you had a few good years. My bastard husband left me when I couldn’t give him a son. Took one look at this one and I never saw him again.’
Rehana sat silently and stared into the garden. Mrs Chowdhury finally said, ‘We should let the poor girl rest.’
Silvi idled behind the kitchen door. ‘Nine years old!’ Mrs Chowdhury cried out. ‘Too old to sulk, too young to be heartbroken. What, you think no boy will ever ask to marry you again?’
‘Let her stay,’ Rehana said. ‘We can eat together.’ She tried to imagine what she might feed the child. She hadn’t been shopping. There was just a weak, watery dhal and some bitter gourd.
Silvi shook her head and took a crumpled envelope out of her pocket.
To: Sohail (Earnest) Haque
Karachi, West Pakistan (the Other Side of India)
‘Can you send it?’
Rehana looked at the grey, sickly child. ‘Of course.’
Silvi did not seem satisfied. Rehana thought the child might ask, ‘How could you let them go?’ But instead she said, ‘You didn’t let me play Aunt Augusta.’
‘Aunt Augusta was a cranky old lady,’ Rehana explained. ‘You were much better suited to play Gwendolen.’
‘Aunt Augusta has the best lines. Anyway, I’m oldest.’
‘Next time, Silvi, okay?’
‘If they ever come back. Okay.’
She left. Rehana didn’t see her to the door.