Entry 5

Word Count: 1292

Ujala was sitting in the wide veranda on the top floor of her mother’s house. There was a lot of noise and activity, but it all seemed somehow diminished. Her mother was moving a large wide-toothed comb through her long, brown hair. “Never cut your hair, Ujala. Such beautiful hair you have,” said her mother.

“Don’t worry, Maa. I will never cut it,” said Ujala.

Her sister walked in and laid her head in Ujala’s lap. “Apa, don’t worry. Everything will be all right,” she said and began to cry.

“Don’t cry, Sahar, it’s all right. Shh,” said Ujala stroking her hand over her sister’s cheek. From the corner of her eye she saw the figure of a tall man approaching. She began to sob and held on to her mother’s hand. “Don’t send me away, Maa. Don’t send me away. I hate him. I hate him,” she cried.

Ujala felt herself being pulled out of her dream. She opened her eyes and a cold sweat had broken over her body. There were tear stains on her pillow, remnants of another dream. There was light outside. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was 6:30 a.m. in Hercules, California, the city she had moved to with her husband a month ago. This meant that it was 6:30 p.m. in Pakistan. She felt a strong urge to call home.

She pushed the covers away and walked out of the room. She could hear Ammar’s shower running in his room. She dialed her home phone number in Pakistan from the downstairs phone extension. Her father answered the phone.

“Hello, Abba,” she said. She still could not have a conversation with her family without crying. She tried to overcome her emotions and started talking about her new life. He had listened to that account so many times, and yet he insisted on hearing everything all over again. She was living in a big enough house. She had every possible thing she could wish for. There was a pool outside that she used to sit by and read poetry in the evenings before Ammar came home. And then she told a lie. Every time she called them she told a lie. “Ammar takes care of me. He is a very loving husband. We are very happy.”

She had made her peace with her living arrangement more or less. She had vowed to herself, not to worry her family back home. There was no use. They would never understand her peril and would insist that she make an effort and smooth things over with Ammar. So she sighed and lied to them. She had decided that once she went back to Pakistan, she would not return. The day Ammar packed his bags to visit his parents was the day that would mark her freedom from this non-relationship. She would go home and file for divorce.

She knew people there. Once she saw her family, she would explain everything and they would understand. She would make them understand. All she did in this big house in America was the job of a housekeeper. She cleaned and cooked. That was not much for her. Strangely, in America, houses seldom got dirty. There was no film of dust everyday, covering the furniture. If she cooked once, the leftovers stayed in the fridge for days before she threw them away out of pure disgust. All she had were her books and her membership at the public library.

She had discovered the library on the first day that she had ventured out of the house. She had worn a thin sweater over her Shalwar Qameez and locked the door behind her. She walked a few blocks and passed by several convenience stores, a cheap movie rental store, and she turned a corner and there it was. A small brick building, which had opened so many new doors for her. Now her days were filled with her old passions. Yeats whispered in her ears, Shakespeare’s tragedies cried out to her, Wordsworth’s words made her smile, Sylvia Plath’s anger mirrored her own. She absorbed herself in poetry books and plays and novels and slowly she began to hum old Lata Mangeshkar songs and began to smile to herself after reading a particularly good line.

She started watching TV and breezed through the video collection that Ammar had in the lower drawer of the entertainment center. She watched the Back to the Future movies, and she developed a liking for the main character. He was always lost like she was; only she didn’t have Doc to guide her. She fell in love with Dead Poet’s Society and wrote in her journal “a movie of epic standards.”

She cooked everyday. Somehow she felt like it was her duty to cook. Sometimes Ammar ate with her, sometimes she ate alone, leaning against the kitchen counter or by the sink, looking at the pool from the window. Sometimes she carried her food to the balcony and sat there for hours and read a book until the sun went down.

She befriended an Indian woman who ran the convenience store around the corner with her husband. She went there and exchanged stories about home. She borrowed spices from her and traded recipes. Often, the lady, Jeya, packed her some mango pickles or homemade cheese that she could enjoy when she went back home.

The worst part of her day was invariably when Ammar came home. They exchanged a few words, sometimes none at all. She started becoming comfortable in his presence. In the beginning, when she heard his key in the lock, she used to turn off the TV and walk upstairs to her room. Now, she just sat there and greeted him unceremoniously, and continued watching the shows that she had come to like.

She heard the shower being turned off upstairs and hurried into the kitchen. She took four eggs out and started whisking them for an omelet. She cut some onions and bell peppers and took out a few spoonfuls of mozzarella cheese to thaw from the freezer. She had discovered the wonderful taste of mozzarella and added it to almost everything. She had also picked up pepperjack and provolone at the store and loved making cheese sandwiches for lunch.

Ammar walked downstairs and came into the kitchen. He filled a glass of water and drank it in a hurry. “I won’t be eating breakfast today. I have a breakfast date. I mean meeting. Breakfast meeting,” he said quickly.

“You can call it a date. See if I care,” she muttered sullenly. She drained the egg batter in the sink and rinsed the bowl. She hated herself for wasting the food, but also felt angry at Ammar’s insensitivity. She made the effort to cook for him and he dismissed it like it was nothing. She moved around the kitchen, packing the chopped vegetables into small sandwich bags and putting them in the fridge. Ammar stood in one corner, looking at her.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

“No, I’m not very hungry. I’ll probably have some cereal,” she replied.

There was a small amused smile on Ammar’s face as he looked at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re turning into an American,” he said.

“Please, I would appreciate it if you keep your musings and observations to yourself. I am not turning into anything,” she said and walked out of the kitchen.

She heard the front door slamming shut as she climbed into bed again. There was nothing to do. She decided to lie down and read a book. She reached over the nightstand and grabbed a copy of The Tempest and as the city woke up around her, she began to read.