The partition project, p.1
The Partition Project, page 1
Dedication
To my dadi.
Thank you for being my safe haven.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Books by Saadia Faruqi
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
It’s official: the universe hates me.
I’m standing in the passenger arrival area of Houston Airport, trying not to let my irritation show. Face, blank. Eyes, wide. Smile, frozen.
I’m pretty sure it’s not working. My older brother, Talha, nudges me with his elbow. It’s the arm that’s holding a giant golden box of chocolates like in a cheesy movie.
“Stop pouting, Maha,” he whispers.
Easy for him to say. My arms are full of roses that make my nose itch. Still, I flip my ponytail and say, “I’m not pouting.”
“You definitely are,” he replies. “Like the whole world is against you.”
Not the whole world. Just my family. The Raheems have been a perfect unit of four until today. Two parents, two kids. The model all-American family (even if we’re technically Pakistani American). But in a few minutes, all that’s about to change. The plane from Lahore has landed, and soon we’ll be adding a fifth person into the mix: Dadi, my grandmother. That’s Abba’s mom, who adopted him when he was a baby. Who’s lived in Pakistan all her life, until today.
I can already predict it’s going to be terrible.
As a future journalist, I should find this fascinating. Journalism is all about recording changes in the world around you, and then telling people about them. But as a twelve-year-old kid whose life is about to turn upside down? Oh yeah, I’m definitely pouting.
“Shut up,” I whisper to Talha.
“You shut up,” he shoots back, then shakes his head like he’s regretting it. Ha! It’s fun when I can get a rise out of him, make him forget he’s fifteen.
“Kids, don’t argue, please,” Abba says sternly. He’s wearing his best suit and a nervous expression on his face. I guess it makes sense. His mother is about to walk through the sliding doors in front of us and change our lives forever.
“We want to welcome Dadi with happy faces,” Ammi adds. “Make her feel like she’s part of the family from day one.”
That’s a joke, because Ammi’s looking even more nervous than Abba. She’s only met Dadi a few times since my parents got married twenty years ago. I bet she’s thinking of all the bossy and demanding mothers-in-law in Pakistani dramas. On Friday evenings, Ammi relaxes in the living room, watching shows on YouTube and eating cheesecake or brownies. I often join her, even though the Urdu is hard to follow. The dramas are boring, but spending time with Ammi is super important to me, because she’s busy the rest of the time.
The sliding doors open and a wave of people pushing giant trolleys full of luggage comes through. It’s mostly families with kids. The noise level of the crowd waiting outside rises sky-high. Everyone’s waving; many are hugging each other. There are a lot of balloons and flower exchanges happening around us.
What wouldn’t I give to be holding a balloon or two instead of this giant bouquet of roses?
I look at the faces around me, trying to see if Dadi’s one of them, even though I’m not sure if I’ll recognize her. I mean, I’ve seen pictures, but Abba mostly video chats with her during his lunch break at the hospital. All I know is she’s got white hair in a bun and more wrinkles than I’ve ever seen on one person’s skin.
Ammi leans forward to peer at the crowd. “She’s not here yet.”
“Her flight landed half an hour ago,” Abba mutters, checking the time on his phone. “She still has to go through immigration and customs.”
“And then she’s got to find her luggage,” Talha adds.
“How will she do all that by herself?” I can’t help but ask. Not that I care, but still. I’m curious. Everyone knows curiosity is the best quality a true journalist can have.
Well, that and mad writing skills.
“Don’t worry, Maha, she’s got a wheelchair assist,” Ammi explains, putting an arm around me.
“Well, how much longer?” I ask, trying not to whine.
Abba gives me a stern look. The one he’s famous for, only it’s usually directed toward a patient who’s not following orders. “Mahnoor,” he bites out.
Oops. He’s using my full name, which means he’s very serious.
I swallow. “Yes, Abba?”
“Your grandmother is coming from eight thousand miles away. Sitting on a plane for close to twenty hours. With a host of ailments like arthritis and high blood pressure. The least we can do is stand here for a few more minutes to give her a warm, loving welcome.”
I nod quickly and try my frozen face one more time. “Yes, of course.”
Talha nudges me again. He doesn’t say anything, but his smirk is super annoying. Then Abba turns to him and snaps, “Stop bothering your sister.”
Talha loses the smirk and stands straight. “You’re right, I’m sorry. No more arguing.”
Abba shakes his head and goes back to his phone. I’m guessing he’s checking emails, because he took the day off from the hospital to be here today. That’s basically a sign of the end times or something. I can’t remember when he last took a day off.
Ammi likes to laugh and say the hospital can’t run without him. She should know, because they work together, although in different departments. Abba’s frown whenever she says this tells me it’s not really a compliment.
Then Ammi pats his shoulder and says she’s just kidding.
But is she really?
That’s why I like journalism so much. It’s all about facts. News. Information. I don’t know how to deal with people and their weird secret opinions. Saying one thing and meaning another—it’s all totally stupid.
Talha calls it subtext. I have no clue what that means, but it seems awful. I’m all about the text. No subtext allowed, thank you very much.
The airport sounds swell like a wave around me. High, then low. Loud, then soft. The walls are gray, and the carpet is a dull brown color that should be outlawed. Metal chairs nailed to the floor are scattered around in a geometrical pattern. There’s a snack kiosk in the corner, and another kiosk selling flowers just like the ones I’m clutching in a death grip.
My phone pings with a notification. I shift my roses into one hand and reach into my pocket with the other. It’s a message from my best friend, Kim Hoang.
Kim: Is yr grandma here yet?
I edge backward until I reach a wall and slide down to the floor.
Me: Not yet plz help me I’m dyinggg
Okay, no self-respecting journalist would forget about spelling or punctuation, but I’m too tired and stressed out to care. Plus, it’s just Kim. We understand each other.
Ammi turns to me. “Maha!” she gasps like I’ve committed a crime. “Get up! That floor is probably disgusting.”
“My legs are hurting,” I reply without looking up. I’m wondering if I should retype my text message with a comma or two.
“You should’ve eaten that banana before we left, like I told you to,” Ammi tells me with a sniff. “It’s got potassium and vitamin B6 to boost your energy.”
I ignore her. I wish she’d stop being a dietician when she comes home from work, but it’s like she just can’t switch it off. I know more about vitamins and antioxidants and other diet info than any kid my age. If I’d wanted to be a food writer when I grew up, I’d be golden.
Just then the sliding doors open again. Another crowd of passengers erupts from the airport like prisoners getting free. A few people waiting outside shriek “Salaam!” and one person starts crying very loudly.
Yikes. These airport reunions are off-the-charts weird.
My phone pings.
Kim: When will she arrive? Can’t wait 2 meet her
Me: Why??? It’s gonna be awful. I have to give up my room & my freedom & my position as the queen of the Raheem family!
Kim: Dramatic much?
Me: You have no idea
Kim’s grandparents all live in Vietnam. She visits them every summer, but they’ve never come to the United States. I think she’s hoping Dadi will be the American grandmother she’s been dying for.
Nope, not happening.
There’s another commotion up front. “Finally,” Ammi says. I look up. Right in the front of the lates t crowd of passengers is a wheelchair, pushed by a man in a uniform.
Me: Gotta go she’s here
I get up from the floor and frantically dust my butt. The roses almost fall, but I tighten my suddenly sweaty hands around them.
“That’s her!” Abba shouts and rushes forward.
My mouth gapes open. I’ve never seen my father rush toward anything. He’s so calm and steady. Ammi follows at a slower speed, and Talha and I bring up the rear. We’re like a procession, bogged down by flowers and chocolates and nervous relatives.
We reach the wheelchair and stop. I’m the shortest, so I have to peek between Ammi and Talha to get my first look at the newest addition to our family.
2
The first thing she says is, “What stinks so bad?”
If I wasn’t so against her living with us, I’d be a big fan of her sassy attitude. But since her presence means everything will change, I’m not sure I like the grumpiness.
“Oh, it’s probably just the airport smells,” Ammi titters. Ugh, I’ve literally never seen my mother act like this. She’s switching her weight from one foot to the other and wringing her hands.
“I don’t smell anything,” I say loudly.
Everyone’s attention shifts to me. Oops.
Talha moves stealthily to his left. He’s almost six inches taller than me, so I’m basically hidden behind him. Rude! I push back until he moves again.
Abba leans forward and hugs his mother. “Salaam alaikum, Ma,” he says in Urdu. “How was your flight?”
She pats him on the back and gives a deep sigh. “Very bad.”
We all wait for more information. Very bad? What does that mean? I stare at her, trying to see if she’s not well. That high blood pressure and arthritis combo must be pretty painful. She’s small and very wrinkled—as I remembered, ha!—and wears a gray cotton shalwar kameez with a red dupatta. Her hair is white, but the bun is absent. Instead, she’s got her hair in one thin braid that peeks from behind her shoulder.
“What was bad about it?” I ask in English. I can’t help it—I’m dying to know. You can’t just give a little bit of information without details. That should be against the law or something.
Dadi narrows her eyes at me like she’s looking deep into my soul. I gulp. No way am I letting anyone into my soul, thanks very much. She crooks her finger at me. “You, come here,” she says in Urdu.
I gulp again. Then I realize I can finally get rid of the roses I’m holding. I slide between Ammi and Talha, and reach Dadi’s wheelchair. “These are for you,” I say, offering the bouquet with another frozen smile.
She looks at the roses like she has no idea what they are. “Shukriya,” she finally says, and I’m one hundred percent sure she doesn’t mean it.
Ammi gently takes the roses from my hand. “I’ll hold these,” she murmurs.
Dadi pulls me toward her with a thin, wrinkled hand. Her fingers are cold and softer than crushed silk. “You’re Mahnoor, yes?” she demands, glaring at me.
I’m not sure what her problem is, but I nod. “Jee.”
“How old are you?”
I stand as tall as I can. I have no clue about numbers in Urdu, so I tell her in English: “Twelve.”
Dadi turns her glare to Abba. “This little girl is my babysitter?” She says most of the sentence in Urdu, except for the last word.
Wait, what? “What’s she talking about?” I ask Abba. I’m hoping it’s something lost in translation, like maybe babysitter in Urdu means beautiful grandchild or something.
Abba smiles uncomfortably. “Yes, she’ll be great at it.”
I grit my teeth. “What is going on?” I ask loudly.
“I’ll explain everything when we get home,” Ammi says, pulling me away. “Talha, get the bags.”
It’s a long ride home. We live in Sugar Land, a city just outside Houston. Most of the journey is on the Sam Houston Tollway, which is wide and full of traffic. After forty-five minutes, Abba takes the exit and the roads become narrow. The buildings are hidden behind trees, with small signs for shops and gas stations.
“Have you brought me into a jungle?” Dadi asks in Urdu. She’s sitting in the front passenger seat, while Ammi, Talha, and I are crowded into the back.
“No jungle, Ma,” Abba promises. Then he switches to English. “The trees make everything look prettier.”
She grunts, but doesn’t say anything.
We pass Bethune Middle School, where Kim and I go, then Walnut Ridge High School, where Talha is a sophomore. Abba points them out to Dadi. “That big building with the dome is the stadium,” he says proudly. “Talha plays basketball there. He’s on the school team.”
“Here we go,” I groan in a low voice.
Talha knocks his knee into mine. “You’re just jealous I’m the star of the team.”
“Puh-lease! It’s only junior varsity, so chill,” I tell him.
“I’m so chill, ice cubes are jealous of me,” he shoots back.
“Ha!” I say. “You won two games this year, and lost three. That’s a pretty mediocre average.”
“Maha!” Ammi warns.
“What? This is perfectly true information.”
Talha smirks. “Like I said, star of the team,” he whispers into my ear before slumping back into his seat.
I fume, but he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. We reach home a few minutes later. I know we’re close because the car passes over train tracks, and a sign saying “Welcome to Fort Bend County” glows in the dark.
“I should have come by train,” Dadi grumbles. “The airport is too far away.”
“They’re not actual trains,” Ammi says hastily. “Just a local tram that takes tourists around the city.”
“Moneymaking gimmick, that’s what it is,” Abba adds, not for the first time.
The security guard at the entrance to our gated community salutes Abba and says, “Welcome back, Dr. Raheem.”
Abba nods, pleased. He’s always happy when people call him Doctor. I roll my eyes a little, but mostly I’m used to everyone treating my dad like he’s a minor deity. I guess performing heart surgery and saving lives makes you a hero or something.
Talha brings in the suitcases, while Ammi and Abba help Dadi inside. She pushes their hands away. “I can walk by myself!”
“What about your wheelchair?” I ask.
She waves her hand and switches to English. “That’s only for long distances. I can walk around the house on my own feet. I’m not that old.”
She’s way older than any grandmother I know, but that’s because she adopted Abba in her forties, and then Ammi and Abba waited a while to have kids after they got married. But I don’t think she wants to discuss her age. “You speak English,” I say as we enter the house through the mudroom. “I thought you—”
She turns to look straight at me. “What? That I’m uneducated just because I’m from Pakistan?”
Wow, did she just read my mind? I wince a little and say, “No, not really.” Okay fine, I basically lie, which is totally against my journalistic code, but these are very stressful times.
She takes off her shoes in the mudroom and shuffles into the living room. “Go get me some water,” she commands.
I rush to the kitchen area to get her some water from the fridge. The entire space is one huge room, divided into the living and kitchen spaces. It’s all white and marble, like a magazine spread. Sometimes I want to throw all my stuff around, just to get some color into this place. Even a rug or two would be great. Too bad Ammi would have a fit.
Behind me, I can hear my mother protesting, “You don’t need to take your shoes off. We don’t do that here.”
“You should!” Dadi grumbles as she sinks down on a leather couch. “Who knows what dirt and germs you bring into the house from outside?”
“Er, well . . .”
“And you call yourselves doctors.”
My eyes widen. Technically, only Abba is a doctor, but Ammi knows enough about medicine to almost be one. “Um,” Ammi says weakly. “I’m going to heat up dinner.”
I get Dadi a glass of water and sit down next to her. “How do you know English?” I prompt. I need all the information I can get about her. Know your enemy and all that.
She takes a sip. “I was a mathematics teacher in a convent school for thirty-five years. All the staff had to be fluent in English. All the students too.”
“I like math,” I tell her slowly. I’m trying to connect the dots between this white-haired, grumpy woman and a math teacher in an English-speaking school thousands of miles away. It doesn’t add up. My journalist spidey-sense is tingling.
