Read Online Thinner Than Skin by Uzma Aslam Khan - Free Book Online

I thought I could recognize him from the time I saw him through the glass, approaching the front door. Was it to let me in or to yell at me? Both?
    She was saying, “Dada’s death has made Baba even more unpredictable. You know the history between them, because of my mother. Still,” she swung her arm in mine (not a kiss, but it was something), “though he hasn’t been kind to other boyfriends, I just know he’s going to like you.”
    And she was right. And it was mutual. At least at first. Our conversation bore no trace of the
So what does my daughter see in you
? assessment I’d been dreading. In fact, to Farhana’s dismay, we didn’t talk about her at all. At least at first.
    “For heaven’s sake,” he said, sitting back down after shaking my hand, stretching spindly legs in baggy jeans, “don’t call me Mr. Rahim. Call me Niaz.” I could imagine him saying the same while easing into a chair with the same languorous grace (that had skipped Farhana) in mid-seventies Karachi, outside one of the tea shops in the Saddar area that teemed with poets and revolutionaries. Thirty years later, he still had the air of a Saddar hippie. In fact, he still had the same jeans. They drooped around his waist, the belt tied ludicrously loose, forcing him to yank them up each time he moved. It made him look both comical and vulnerable. Maybe this was why women left their husbands for him.
    Somehow it was perfect that the beer he was drinking was called Moose Drool. And that he had a cup of cappuccino next to it. We ordered coffee.
    He looked at me. “So, where have you been hiding all this time?”
    I looked at Farhana.
    “You know how hard he works,” she replied.
    “I’m unpredictable,” I added. Under the table, Farhana pinched my knee.
    He finished his beer, smiling her smile. She asked after his health. Apparently, he had diabetes. He ordered a second beer. They quibbled about his diet. (He also ordered fries.) He didn’t look diabetic at all. He had the body of a young and lean rapper, a Lil Wayne lookalike, while his face was that of an exceptionally gaunt Kris Kristofferson. I was startled when I put his two halves together and came up with Jesus Christ. So startled that when he asked me a question, I nodded without hearing it.
    When the second beer arrived Farhana pushed it toward me. I glanced at her as if to say, Why aren’t you having it? She ignored me.
    He chewed the end of a pipe while his cappuccino got cold. “So, what are they?”
    “Sorry, what?” I asked, embarrassed.
    He frowned. “I asked if there are religious reasons for your father’s dislike of your work.”
    I shot a glance at Farhana. She had an irritating habit of telling the world that my work was a touchy topic. Of course the world wants to touch that.
    I cleared my throat. “I never thought of it that way.”
    “He must have assumed you would. A good son should think about why the Prophet forbade images of himself, and forbade figurative art in general, no?”
    I opened my mouth for no apparent reason.
    He flashed me a toothy grin. “I was not a good son either.” He took a sip of his cappuccino. “Don’t they make hot drinks hot anymore?” He pushed the cup aside and reached for my—his—pint. “About which I couldn’t be happier. I photographed Farhana’s mother many times before she died. Before I knew she was dying.” He sucked on the unlit pipe in silence.
    I shot another glance at Farhana. It hadn’t occurred to me that the photograph above her bed was taken by her father, nor had the irony struck me till now. She cherished the image, yet she wouldn’t let me cherish enough of hers.
    Farhana moved the beer back toward me. “Let’s sit outside so Baba can smoke.” I chuckled inwardly. He could die of cancer but not diabetes. Carrying my coffee—which was, as usual, too strong—I left the second pint inside.
    We settled around a small table on the sidewalk. There was no milk and I thought it might be rude to go