Read Online And the World Changed by Muneeza Shamsie - Free Book Online Page A

outof the car to read road signs, aggravating—and often terrifying—motorists in front, behind, and on either side. Thank God for alert American reflexes: for their chastising, wise, blasphemous tooting.
    I find my way to Mr. Khan’s without getting irremediably lost. It is a large old frame house behind a narrow neglected yard on Harold, between Montrose and the Rothko Chapel.
    Sikander ushers me into the house with elegant formality, uttering phrases in Urdu that translated into English, sound like this: “We’re honored by your visit to our poor house. We can’t treat you in the manner to which you are accustomed. . . .” and presents me to his mother. She is a plump, buttery-fleshed, kind-faced old woman wearing a simple shalwar and shirt and her dark hair, streaked with gray, is covered by a gray nylon chador. She strokes my arm several times and, peering affectionately into my face, saying, “ Mashallah , you’ve grown healthier. You were such a dry little thing,” steers me to sit next to her on the sofa.
    Through my polite, bashful-little-girl’s smile, I search her face. There’s no trace of bitterness. No melancholy. Nothing knowing or hard: just the open, acquiescent, hospitable face of a contented peasant woman who is happy to visit her son. It is difficult to believe this gentle woman was kidnapped, raped, sold.
    The sisters line up opposite to us on an assortment of dining and patio chairs carried in for the party. The living room is typically furnished, Pakistani style: an assortment of small carved tables and tables with brass and ivory inlay, handwoven Pakistani carpets scattered at angles, sofas and chairs showing a lot of carved wood, onyx ashtrays and plastic flowers in brass vases. The atmosphere is permeated with the sterile odor of careful disuse.
    Kishen, his mother, and Suzanne arrive. Suzanne looks langorous and sultry-eyed in a beautiful navy and gold sari. There is a loud exchange of pleasantries. Kishen notices me across the length of the entrance lobby. “You found your way okay?” hecalls from the door, teasing. “Didn’t land up in Mexico or something?”
    â€œNot even once!” I yell back.
    Some faces I recognize from the picnic arrive. A Kashmiri Brahman couple joins us. They are both short, fair, plump, and smug. They talk exclusively to Suzanne (the only white American in the room), Kishen (husband of the status symbol), and Mr. Khan. The sisters, condescended to a couple of times and then ignored, drift to the kitchen and disappear into the remote and mysterious recesses of the large house. I become aware of muted children’s voices, quarrelsome, demanding, and excited. The sisters return, quiet and sullen, and dragging their chairs, huddle about a lamp standing in the corner.
    Dinner is late. We are waiting for Khushwant and Pratab. Mr. Khan says, “We will wait for fifteen minutes more. If they don’t come, we’ll start eating.”
    Hungry guests with growling stomachs, we nevertheless say, “Please don’t worry on our account . . . we are in no hurry.”
    Conversation dwindles. The guest politely inquire after the health of those sitting next to them and the grades of their children. We hear the doorbell ring and Mr. Khan gets up from his chair saying, “I think they’ve come.”
    Instead of dapper Sikhs, I see two huge and hirsute Indian fakirs. Their disheveled hair, parted at the center, bristles about their arms and shoulders and mingles with their spiky black beards. They are wearing white muslin kurtas over the white singlets and their broad shoulders and thick muscles show brown beneath the fine muslin. I can’t be sure from where I sit, but I think they have on loose cotton pajamas. They look indescribably fierce. It is an impression quickly formed, and I have barely glimpsed the visitors, when, abruptly, their knees appear to buckle and they fall forward.
    Mr.