Chapter 24

FATIMA AND VASILLA

12th of Sha’baan 1417

(December 23, 1996)

While pregnancy in the slums was not rare, raising the child with the natural mother was rarer. But Fatima wanted to follow through. The maternal dream was possible as the father had a home on the hills. She was turned away from Drakni Drive, though. Shrika had seen her bloatedness, but like other servants he was no exception.

In the shade Fatima finished her daily inspection of her stomach. She sensed Shabbir Hussein would do everything in his power to support her. After dumping some rice into the pot, she heard a loud knock. She expected Shamima. The sun blinded her for a moment. She encountered this towering figure under a halo of sunshine.

“Are you Fatima?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Abbas.”

“I don’t know any Abbas.”

“Yes, well, my name is Abbas. I am here to take you to Drakni Drive.”

“What about Drakni Drive? I haven’t stolen anything.”

“I’m sorry. 116 Drakni Drive.”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I am Abbas Hussein. You know my younger brother, Shabbir?”

“I do. Why hasn’t Shabbir come himself.”

“Shabbir is dead.”

“Dead? What do you mean he’s dead?”

“He died about a month ago.”

“I knew he was very sick. What did he die of?”

“We’re not sure.”

“What will I do?” as tears welled in her eyes.

“Not to worry. That’s why I am here. I’m here to take you to our home. I was given instructions by my brother to take care of you, through the pregnancy and after it. The slums is no place for a pregnant woman. Get your stuff together. I’m getting you out of here.”

“Shabbir has remembered me?”

“He left not a stone unturned. The house is practically yours. I’ll be staying with you.”

“Is there enough room?”

“Enough for you and me.”

“Can I request another person to live with us?”

“I guess so, but it may get crowded.”

“I need Mama Khadija. You’ll love her. She’s a good friend. She will serve as mid wife.”

“What’s a mid wife?”

“To aid in my pregnancy and birth.”

“I see. Sure. Why not? But please, let’s hurry.”

“Is there some sort of rush?”

“I don’t like it down here. Everybody’s so poor.”

“I can’t leave my bags of rice here.”

“Leave them. You will have rice and plenty more.”

“Seriously?”

“We will have three hearty meals a day, but we must hurry.”

“Thanks to Allah above,” she said. “What about these extra bags?”

“I’m not carrying those out of the slums.”

“You look like you can lift a lot. There are only three bags here.”

“Can’t you give them to someone?” asked Vasilla.

“I suppose. I’ll give them to a friend then.”

“It’s your rice. But hurry. People are staring.”

Fatima tied her clothes in a bundle, and they walked along a trail which grew wider with the incline.

“You don’t look anything like your brother,” she said. “I mean there is no similarity at all, not in the face and certainly not in the body ... I’ve never seen someone as big as you. Do you exercise? Huh? You don’t talk much either. The silent type unless you want out of the slums, right? I’m glad to be leaving the slums, but kind of guilty about it ... Where do you come from? Hello? Oh that’s a great place. You were born ‘nowhere.’ If you can’t talk, someone has to, right? You see this tiny area over here? In this one area four people sleep. I’m used to it. The people on the hills have it good. Nice house, nice floors, the kitchen, even enough to overfeed a fish. Yes, they have it good. Can you believe there’s someone lower than I? The area we just passed is known as the poorest, most diseased place, not just in our country, but in the entire world. Think of that. What would it be like living in the poorest place of Earth? Can you believe it’s Lahore? You really don’t talk much ... Or am I babbling? Leaving this place is for the best, the best for my baby. I’ve seen what it’s like on the hill. Cars, money, food. Some people never get a chance to set foot on the hills. They just live in the slums, and there they will die. Sad, isn’t it? Something has to be done. They say it’s growing out of control, and Akbir’s men have moved in. Pretty soon there’ll be a government plot to exterminate us. The hill folk probably pay the government for it, eh? Hey, wait up!”

The dirt and trash turned to clean pavement.

“Wait. I forgot Mama Khadija.”

“We have to go back?” asked Vasilla

“I can pick her up and meet you at Drakni Drive. What’s the number? 115?”

“I think it’s 116. Hurry. If you’re not up there in a half-an hour, I’ll come looking for you.”

“Give us an hour. We’re slow walkers.”

Fatima returned to the slums, which she thought she had lost. She made a break towards the East. A small line had formed at the water pump. Men held empty pails. She praised her bulging stomach for a defense against the cat calls. As the trail grew narrow, stirring with children, naked and dark from the sun, Fatima arrived at Mama Khadija’s small shack.

“Mama Khadija! Mama Khadija!” she yelled.

“Yes, yes, I am here,” she replied.

“Mama Khadija!”

“Ah my child, come to me. Why are you shouting? Is something wrong?”

“The greatest thing has happened. I’ve been invited to live in the hills. Can you believe it?”

“My God, look at you. Your stomach grows each time I see you.”

“Can you believe it? I’ll be living in the hills, and I have great news: You’re coming with me.”

“The hills? I’ve never been there before.”

“Now it’s time. Finally there is proof Allah exists.”

“I’m happy for you. I don’t know how you got this place, but for certain Allah has blessed you. You should go and live there. This is what you wanted all along.”

“Yes, my baby will be free of this place.”

“May Allah bless you. But my child, I cannot go with you.”

“Why not?”

“You are too young to understand.”

“Then explain it to me. I talk of this every time I see you”

“See, I’m old now. I’ve lived here all my life, ever since I could remember. My mother lived here, my grandmother lived here, even my great grandmother lived here. I have no need for the hills. I belong here with my people. You know the difference between the hills and the slums. I don’t. I’ve been living here all my life. I know my way around. I know my neighbors, I have tea and rice...”

“But you lost a son to these damned slums, and Akbir’s men have grown strong.”

“Whatever happened and whatever is happening now is in the hands of Allah.”

“It’s not rational. You know how bad these slums are. It’s a death machine. It eats people up, and the ones who survive run away from it. Eventually it catches up to them. People spend their lives running from its jaws. And in the process all their possessions or even the thought of having possessions is taken away from them. Now I have a chance of living in the hills, and I’m taking it, and I want you to come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand. There is nothing here. Not one thing.”

“This is where I belong. I take care of the children. Everything is here. I am comfortable here, and before long I will die here. The generations before me will have died here. I shall die with dignity. I will end the line. I have a great deal of pride living here.”

“There is nothing dignified about it.”

“Then accept that Allah has meant it to be this way.”

“Allah? You can’t be serious. Are we talking about the same Allah? What is it with you? Allah this, Allah that. I’m sick of hearing that word. You leave everything up to Allah, and then you’re stuck here. I can’t understand that kind of thinking. I may be young, but anyone with a dose of smarts knows that Allah may control all things and all people and all that you dream of becoming, but you have the freedom to determine your own outcome, even when Allah is a cruel heart himself. You can’t rely on Allah. Don’t you think he has better things to do? Allah, fine, once in a while when we have no where to turn, or when we are starving or being shot by one of Akbir’s men. But Allah determining our entire life? This same Allah who has sentenced us to life in these wicked slums? Worship Allah, fine. Praise his name, fine. Like a parent he guides us. Not like some evil despot.

“Whether we agree or disagree is not the point. I’m asking you now, please, you must come with me and try for a better life. No where is it written that you must sacrifice all that you are. If you won’t do this for me, do it for this baby. And if you miss the slums so much, you can visit here any time you like.”

“How have you learned to be so convincing? Allah has been giving you words in your sleep?”

“No. Allah has given us both the opportunity to live the good life. There is nothing left here.”

Their conversation was cut short by the boiling water which spilled over the sides of the pot. They sipped their tea from paper cups.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” said Mama Khadija finally, “but only if you promise I can return after the pregnancy.”

“You’ll do it? You’ll really do it for my baby?”

“Not only for the baby but for you as well.”

When they arrived at Drakni Drive, Fatima noticed for the first time that this Abbas was extremely handsome. His heavy arms and legs bulged with the strength of Arabian steeds. She searched for a security he could provide. Her attraction came on slowly but grew stronger. She thought about letting him know but remembered that she was a slum woman, and a man as handsome and well endowed as he may never want a woman so poor and pregnant. She kept this attraction inside and acted the part of the congenial sister who talked with him after meals.

She cooked the food after he did the grocery shopping during the hot afternoons. He purchased more than needed and made sure she was well fed.

She wanted to reveal her longing. Yet it would destroy the sweet rapport they had built. She tried hard to talk about different things and discovered how this strong man remained quiet and silent around her.