Read Online And the World Changed by Muneeza Shamsie - Free Book Online
Authors: Muneeza Shamsie
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: Sheâs one of us. Then we wonât mind.â
Suzanne takes it, as she accepts the smaller hazards of her marriage to Kishen, in her twinkle-toed and sari-clad stride. She told me about a year back, when we were just becoming friends, that she felt content and secure in her extended Indian family. She tried to describe to me her feeling of being firmly embedded in lifeâin the business and purpose of livingâthat she, as an only child, had never experienced. Suzanne comes from a small town in New England. Her father teaches history at a university. I havenât met her family but I gather they are unpretentious and gentle folk.
It is the Sunday of the picnic. Kishen and Suzanne give me a ride to Galveston beach. It is a massive affair. Innumerable kin have been added to the group that met for dinner at Kishenâs. Mr. Khan, in long white pants and a blue T-shirt, staggers across the hot sand with a stack of parathas wrapped in a metallic gray garbage bag. Khushwant Singh and Pratab have brought the food from a Pakistani restaurant on Hillcroft.
Later in the sultry afternoon, exhiliarated from our splashing in the ocean and the sudden shelter of an overcast sky, we converge on the dhurries spread on the sand. Mrs. Khan and her three sisters flop like exotic beetles on a striped dhurrie, their wet satin shalwars and kameezes clinging to them in rich blobs of solid color.
The parathas are delicious. Sikander heaps his plate with haleem and mutton curry and, crossing his legs like an inept yogi, sits down by me. I broach the subject that has been obsessing me: I would like to use his familyâs experience during the Partition in my novel.
As we eat, sucking on our fingers, drinking Coke out of cans, I ask Sikander about the attack on the village: trying, with whatever wiles I can, to penetrate the mystery surrounding Ammijee.
I gathered from the remarks Mrs. Khan let slip on the night of the party that Ammijee was kidnapped. But I want to knowwhat Mrs. Khan was about to say when she checked herself. I feel the missing information will unravel the full magnitude of the tragedy to my understanding and, more importantly, to my imagination. Instinctively I chose Sikander Khan, and not Mrs. Khan, to provide the knowledge. His emotions and perceptions will, I feel, charge my writing with the detail, emotion, and veracity I am striving for.
Sikanderâs replies to my questions are candid, recalled in remarkable detail, but he balks at any question of Ammijee.
I donât remember now the question that unexpectedly penetrated his reserve; but Sikander planted in my mind a fearsome seed that waxed into an ugly tree of hideous possibility, when, in a voice that was indescribably harsh, he said: âAmmijee heard street vendors cry: â Zenana for sale! Zenana for sale!â as if they were selling vegetables and fish. They were selling women for 50, 20, and even 10 rupees!â
Later that evening, idling on our dhurries as we watch the spectacular crimson streaks on the horizon fade, I ask Sikander how he could be close friends with Khushwant and Pratab. In his place I would not even want to meet their eye! Isnât he furious with the Sikhs for what they did? Do the cousins know what happened in his village?
âIâm sure they know . . . everybody I meet seems to know. Why quarrel with Khushwant and Pratab? They werenât even born. . . .â And, his voice again taking on the hard, harsh edge he says, âWe Muslims were no better . . . we did the same . . . Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, we were all evil bastards!â
Mr. Khan calls. His mother has arrived from Pakistan. He has asked a few friends to dinner to meet her on Saturday. Can I dine with them? Ammijee remembers me as a little girl!
I get into the usual state of panic and I put off looking at the map till the last hour. It is a major traumaâthis business of finding my way from place to placeâmissing exits, getting
Suzanne takes it, as she accepts the smaller hazards of her marriage to Kishen, in her twinkle-toed and sari-clad stride. She told me about a year back, when we were just becoming friends, that she felt content and secure in her extended Indian family. She tried to describe to me her feeling of being firmly embedded in lifeâin the business and purpose of livingâthat she, as an only child, had never experienced. Suzanne comes from a small town in New England. Her father teaches history at a university. I havenât met her family but I gather they are unpretentious and gentle folk.
It is the Sunday of the picnic. Kishen and Suzanne give me a ride to Galveston beach. It is a massive affair. Innumerable kin have been added to the group that met for dinner at Kishenâs. Mr. Khan, in long white pants and a blue T-shirt, staggers across the hot sand with a stack of parathas wrapped in a metallic gray garbage bag. Khushwant Singh and Pratab have brought the food from a Pakistani restaurant on Hillcroft.
Later in the sultry afternoon, exhiliarated from our splashing in the ocean and the sudden shelter of an overcast sky, we converge on the dhurries spread on the sand. Mrs. Khan and her three sisters flop like exotic beetles on a striped dhurrie, their wet satin shalwars and kameezes clinging to them in rich blobs of solid color.
The parathas are delicious. Sikander heaps his plate with haleem and mutton curry and, crossing his legs like an inept yogi, sits down by me. I broach the subject that has been obsessing me: I would like to use his familyâs experience during the Partition in my novel.
As we eat, sucking on our fingers, drinking Coke out of cans, I ask Sikander about the attack on the village: trying, with whatever wiles I can, to penetrate the mystery surrounding Ammijee.
I gathered from the remarks Mrs. Khan let slip on the night of the party that Ammijee was kidnapped. But I want to knowwhat Mrs. Khan was about to say when she checked herself. I feel the missing information will unravel the full magnitude of the tragedy to my understanding and, more importantly, to my imagination. Instinctively I chose Sikander Khan, and not Mrs. Khan, to provide the knowledge. His emotions and perceptions will, I feel, charge my writing with the detail, emotion, and veracity I am striving for.
Sikanderâs replies to my questions are candid, recalled in remarkable detail, but he balks at any question of Ammijee.
I donât remember now the question that unexpectedly penetrated his reserve; but Sikander planted in my mind a fearsome seed that waxed into an ugly tree of hideous possibility, when, in a voice that was indescribably harsh, he said: âAmmijee heard street vendors cry: â Zenana for sale! Zenana for sale!â as if they were selling vegetables and fish. They were selling women for 50, 20, and even 10 rupees!â
Later that evening, idling on our dhurries as we watch the spectacular crimson streaks on the horizon fade, I ask Sikander how he could be close friends with Khushwant and Pratab. In his place I would not even want to meet their eye! Isnât he furious with the Sikhs for what they did? Do the cousins know what happened in his village?
âIâm sure they know . . . everybody I meet seems to know. Why quarrel with Khushwant and Pratab? They werenât even born. . . .â And, his voice again taking on the hard, harsh edge he says, âWe Muslims were no better . . . we did the same . . . Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, we were all evil bastards!â
Mr. Khan calls. His mother has arrived from Pakistan. He has asked a few friends to dinner to meet her on Saturday. Can I dine with them? Ammijee remembers me as a little girl!
I get into the usual state of panic and I put off looking at the map till the last hour. It is a major traumaâthis business of finding my way from place to placeâmissing exits, getting
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