Ticket to India Read online

  It was the clang at the front gate that made the decision for her. Not wanting to bother her grandmother, she slipped out the door and ran upstairs. The chowkidar, or guard, was letting in her aunt, Syeda Khala, who’d arrived from Chicago.

  • • •

  “Hey, Maya!” chorused the twins, Zaki and Ali, as they barreled through the dining room later.

  “Hey,” said Maya, putting down the butter knife to receive their exuberant hugs.

  The boys had turned four a week before and were full of energy, since they’d slept most of the journey from Chicago.

  Syeda Khala, on the other hand, looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Maya jaan,” she said, giving her a kiss on her head. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Maya, watching her pour a cup of steaming tea.

  “Where’s Zara?” asked her aunt.

  “Sleeping,” replied Maya. “She always has a hard time with the jet lag. It takes her a day to adjust.”

  “Syeda!” cried Maya’s mother, entering the dining room.

  “Oh, Dalia,” wept Syeda Khala, her eyes spilling over with tears as she clutched her older sister. “I still can’t believe Abbu is really gone.”

  “I know,” said Dalia. “It was so unexpected—he was in such good health. It was Ammi I was more worried about, with her high blood pressure.”

  Realizing that her mother and aunt needed some privacy, Maya grabbed a stack of toast along with a jar of jam. “C’mon, guys,” she said to her cousins. “We’ll have a picnic and watch cartoons.”

  • • •

  After breakfast, as mourners paraded through the house, Maya’s youngest aunt, Sofia Khala, finally arrived from Little Rock, Arkansas, with her husband, Uncle Jad. Zara and Maya were tasked with keeping the boys busy upstairs in the television lounge while the adults ­huddled over stacks of papers and made phone calls. Zara had finally stumbled downstairs at noon and now sat nursing a cup of milky tea, laboriously taking notes from a thick biology book to keep up with classwork.

  “I’m hungry,” complained Ali, looking up from his coloring book.

  “Me too,” Zaki chimed in.

  “Can you get them something?” mumbled Zara, waving her pen in Maya’s direction.

  Maya’s nose flared at her sister’s bossiness, but she held her tongue. She was kind of thirsty herself. Shutting her journal with a snap, she rose.

  “Oh, I’ll come down too,” said Zara, taking her cup. “I need more sugar in my tea.”

  As they approached the kitchen door, the echo of strained voices floated toward them. Zara slowed, grabbing Maya’s arm.

  “What?” grumbled Maya in irritation, as her sister put her finger to her lips.

  Zara stepped into the kitchen and pulled Maya into a hiding spot beside the bulky refrigerator.

  “Alia Bhabi,” said Great-Uncle Ahmed to ­Naniamma, his voice gravelly, “I know it’s hard, but you must sell the house and take care of financial matters before your daughters leave.”

  “But this is all too soon,” said Naniamma. “There is so much to do. . . .”

  “Ammi,” said Maya’s mom soothingly, “we’ll help you sort everything out. If things are left, Uncle Ahmed will take care of it.”

  “It’s overwhelming for all of us,” whispered Sofia Khala, “but you and Abbu had already started planning your move to the United States to retire. ­Unfortunately, we just have to speed things up.”

  Maya crouched down to peer around the metal edge of the fridge and saw Uncle Jad gently patting his mother-in-law on the back.

  “There was a fair offer on the villa from one of the neighbors,” said Great-Uncle Ahmed, running a weary hand over his balding head. “Alia Bhabi, you should take it.”

  “He’s right,” said Sofia Khala. “Once news is out that Abbu is gone, crooks are going to come out of the woodwork to try and swindle you out of your home and possessions. The lawlessness in Karachi is increasing day by day and the political situation is very unstable, especially with elections around the corner.”

  “Yes,” echoed Syeda Khala. “The cars will be easily sold, and we’ll all help you get packed up.”

  “But what about our trip to India?” said Naniamma, out of the blue. “We were all going together in December, in less than three months.”

  A hush fell over the kitchen table. “Ammi, I don’t think we can go,” said Dalia.

  “But you don’t understand,” said Naniamma, her voice strained. “I must go to India.”

  Maya stared at her grandmother, surprised that she still wanted to go to India, so soon after her grand­father’s death.

  “We’ve been trying to go to India for over forty years but the Indian government wouldn’t give us visas!” cried Naniamma. “You know how difficult they make things for Pakistanis, especially those who’ve served in the military, like your father. We had to file special papers to get the right approvals and clearances. Finally we got our visas, and only after that could we purchase our tickets.”

  “Yes, Ammi, we know all the trouble he went through,” said Sofia Khala, her voice breaking. “And we know what the trip means to you, but this is not a time to go looking for—”

  “Ammi, they’re right,” interrupted Dalia. “We all got our passports stamped with Indian visas and bought our tickets too, but it’s just not possible to go now. We have to leave for San Francisco in a week—Abbu needs to be buried. Already we are breaking tradition by not burying him within twenty-four hours of his death.”

  What does Naniamma want to look for in India? Maya wondered as her grandmother continued.

  “Your father promised me. . . . It’s been my dream since I was a little girl,” insisted Naniamma, sadness settling over her fine features as Syeda Khala tried to dab her tearstained cheeks with a crumpled tissue. “Once my visa expires, you know it will be impos­sible to get another one.”

  Hearing the desperation in her grandmother’s voice, Maya felt her heart grow heavy. This trip is really, really important to her.

  “I know, Ammi,” said Dalia. “We were all looking forward to going, but we’ll find another way to go, I promise.”

  At that moment, the cook came in from the market through the side door where the grown-ups sat, ­carrying a plastic bag from the butcher. With so many people in the house, he had been cooking nonstop. As he crossed the room, a line of blood trickled down along the tiled floor. Glimpsing the crimson puddle, Naniamma paled. She rose abruptly and turned to leave.

  “Ammi,” called out Sofia Khala, about to go after her, but Maya’s mom grabbed her arm.

  “This has all been a lot for her. Let her be.”

  Zara emerged from the hiding spot beside the fridge, about to say something, but their grandmother hurried past. Shoulders slumped, Zara joined the adults, but Maya inched toward the kitchen door, watching Naniamma grab her purse and head toward the garden. Gray clouds were building in the distance, a signal of an approaching monsoon shower.

  Where is she going? Maya wondered. She followed, pausing at the door and watching as ­Naniamma rounded the fountain and hurried deeper into the garden, which was a riot of colorful blooms. All shades of the rainbow except for red, Maya thought. Once she’d disappeared behind the jasmine bushes, Maya slipped out the door and traced her footsteps, pausing on the opposite side of the foliage, breathing in the heady scent of the small white flowers. Through the foliage, she heard her grandmother unzip her purse and rummage inside. Maya’s toes sank into the warm, moist soil as she leaned forward, catching a glimpse of ­silver—a cell phone.

  “Muhi, it’s me, Alia Auntie,” said Naniamma, her voice tight with urgency. “I need you to do something for me . . . but please keep it strictly between us. . . .”

  2

  Secrets and Lies

  AS THE FAMILY GATHERED around the table for lunch, Maya sat bet
ween the twins, watching her grandmother remove a white pill from one of her medicine bottles and swallow it with a sip of water. Their grandmother’s health had been deteriorating these past few years—that was one of the reasons she and Nanabba had decided to leave Karachi. Instead of reaching for the rice, chicken stew, or her favorite, sweet and sour potatoes, Naniamma plucked a guava from the fruit bowl. As she sliced through its green skin, revealing pink flesh studded with tiny seeds, she kept glancing at the clock on the wall.

  At the other end of the table, Maya’s mother and aunts huddled over a long list of things that needed to be done. Maya glanced from them to Zara, who gave her a knowing look. Maya ducked her head, staring at the untouched mound of rice on her plate. She didn’t like eating chicken with bones in it, much to her mother’s dismay. But she couldn’t help it. Bones gave her the creeps.

  • • •

  The moment she’d overheard Naniamma’s secret, she’d realized she couldn’t keep the knowledge to herself. With great reluctance she’d sought out her sister, who was slouching in the television lounge reviewing ­biology notes.

  “Zara,” said Maya, her voice barely audible.

  “Uh-huh?” responded Zara, not bothering to look up.

  “I need to talk to you. I think it’s important. . . . It’s about Naniamma,” whispered Maya.

  “What about her?” asked Zara, looking up, eyebrow raised.

  “Well . . . ,” said Maya, looking behind her to make sure no one was there. “I followed her into the garden after she left the kitchen. She got on the phone and spoke to someone named Muhi. She asked him to come over—with a ticket to India.”

  Understanding dawned on Zara’s features. “She’s sneaking off!”

  Maya nodded. “It’s been her dream to go, ever since she was a little girl.”

  “She was born there,” said Zara with a knowing look.

  “Really?” asked Maya, surprised. “I didn’t know that. How did she end up here in Pakistan?”

  “I don’t really know all the details,” said Zara, frowning. “I heard Mom and Syeda Khala talking about it once, and when I asked them, they never quite answered my question. Anyway, all I know is that she came to Pakistan and ended up in an orphanage. One of the teachers there noticed how smart she was and helped get her a scholarship to attend college. She was a senior, studying math, when Nanabba met her.”

  “Yeah, I know that part of the story,” said Maya. “He saw her having an argument with the peanut vendor, who had tried to cheat her.”

  “Yeah,” Zara said with a sad smile. “That’s when he decided that this was the girl he was going to marry.”

  “He’s the one who promised to take her to India,” whispered Maya. “And now he’s gone.”

  “We have to stop her,” said Zara, sitting up. ­“People do all sorts of crazy things when they’re grieving.”

  “Should we tell Mom?” asked Maya.

  “No, no.” Zara shook her head with authority. “Mom has enough to worry about.”

  • • •

  So now here they were, at the lunch table. Zara glanced up at the clock. Unusually quiet, she picked up her plate and snuck away to the kitchen. This was the signal. Maya stood, legs quivering. She slipped into the kitchen and spotted her sister standing impatiently at the back door.

  “Move it, slowpoke,” whispered Zara, pushing open the screen door.

  “Coming,” responded Maya. She wondered if what they were doing was the right thing. But Zara would go with or without her, and this was her secret and she had to see it through.

  Zara exited the kitchen, nearly colliding with the planters filled with fresh herbs that sat outside the door. She sprinted across the driveway, Maya at her heels. They stopped beside the garage that loomed across from the front gate, and ducked between two parked cars. Five minutes later, Naniamma exited the main house and strode purposefully to the gate. Maya and Zara saw her hand the chowkidar a hundred rupees and heard her murmur something about picking up groceries at the corner store. He set off on his errand, and a few moments later, a portly figure sputtered up on a sky-blue Vespa.

  “Salaam Alaikum, Alia Auntie,” wheezed the young man, patting down his goatee, eyes sorrowful.

  “Walaikum Salaam, Muhi,” said Naniamma, glancing nervously over her shoulder. The girls crouched lower behind Nanabba’s old jeep.

  “We heard about Malik Sahib,” said Muhi. “My mother sends her condolences and promises to come by soon.”

  “Thank you, Muhi. It will be good to see her,” said Naniamma, eyes darting down the road. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes,” he said, pulling out an envelope from his leather satchel. “But are you sure you want to do this?”

  Maya and Zara shared anxious looks.

  “Young man,” said Naniamma in her stern schoolteacher voice, “I will be fine.”

  “But, Alia Auntie,” said Muhi, wringing his hands. “It’s not safe. . . . Things have been tense between India and Pakistan since the bombings in Mumbai last year.”

  “But relations have improved,” replied Naniamma. “Our president was just in India, business between the countries has picked up, tourists are visiting, and India is even hosting a cricket match for the Pakistani national team—there’s one taking place in a few days in Agra.”

  “True . . . ,” muttered Muhi, “but it’s still dangerous for a woman traveling alone.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Naniamma, exasperated. “I’m not naive.”

  Muhi’s cheeks reddened. “It’s my duty to tell you the dangers, Alia Auntie. My mother will never forgive me if something terrible happens to you.”

  Maya’s heart raced as she absorbed the travel agent’s words. She hadn’t known there was so much animosity between the two countries.

  “I’ve made up my mind, Muhi,” said Naniamma, her voice unwavering. “My husband promised me we would go—he planned it for years. And now, well . . . I must go.”

  “We have to stop her,” whispered Maya, tugging on her sister’s arm. “Say something. . . . Make her stop!”

  “But this trip really does mean a lot to her.” Zara’s face revealed conflicting emotions.

  Maya’s stomach sank as she saw a familiar look ­settle over her sister’s face. Their father called it Zara’s ­bullheaded-rhino look—the one she got whenever she had an idea from which she wouldn’t budge.

  “But she can’t go alone . . . ,” added Zara, shifting from one foot to another.

  Before Maya could even think to stop her, Zara had jumped up from behind the jeep. “Naniamma!” she cried.

  Muhi and her grandmother froze, but only for an instant. “Zara,” scolded her grandmother. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Naniamma, I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have been snooping,” stammered Zara. “But I couldn’t help it. . . . I know what you’re going to do.”

  “Jaan,” said Naniamma, clearing her throat. “I don’t know what you heard, but I think you are confused. . . .”

  “No,” said Zara. “You’re going to India.”

  Maya huddled beside the jeep, surprised by her sister’s brazenness. That was not the way you spoke to your elders.

  “Go back to the house and forget what you heard,” ordered their grandmother. “This is not something you need to involve yourself with.”

  Maya took in her grandmother’s drooping shoulders and exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. She just can’t go on such a difficult trip by herself, she thought.

  “I have a better idea,” said Zara. “How about I come with you?”

  Maya stared openmouthed in shock. Go with her? They were supposed to stop her from going at all.

  Muhi looked from Zara to Naniamma as if watching a tennis match.

  Naniamma blinked, then said firmly, “Absolutely not.”

  “I won’t be i
n the way, I promise,” pleaded Zara.

  Naniamma blinked again, as if considering the idea. “No, you cannot come with me, child.”

  Zara played her trump card. “If you don’t let me go, I’m going to tell my mother what you’re doing.”

  Naniamma went white, her lips compressed.

  Slowly, legs shaking, Maya rose from her hiding spot, furious that her sister was getting her way again—and using her secret to get her way. Surprising even herself, she shouted, “If you’re going, I’m going too!”

  3

  Grand Adventure

  “WE’RE GOING TO MISS our flight,” muttered ­Naniamma, glancing over at the clock, glowing 4:46 in the early morning darkness. They’d been just about to sneak out when Syeda Khala had stumbled out of her room and wandered downstairs.

  “Ow,” muttered Maya, elbowing Zara, who had stepped on Maya’s foot to peek around the door into the hallway.

  After what seemed like an hour, Syeda Khala came back upstairs with a glass of water and disappeared into her room.

  “Go quietly,” instructed Naniamma, gingerly creeping down the stairs.

  On the bottom step, Zara tripped. She would have tumbled into a glass cabinet if she hadn’t grabbed on to the banister. “Sorry,” she muttered, earning a disapproving glance from Naniamma, who had paused to prop up a note on the hall table. Without mincing words, she’d written that they’d gone to India and would be back in a few days.

  Maya glanced at the crisp white envelope and shivered. Guilt settled over her like a heavy blanket as she followed Zara onto the front porch. The house was going to erupt in chaos the moment the letter was opened. Shrugging off the feeling of unease, she gulped in the cool night air and tiptoed across the driveway. Gently unlocking the squeaky metal gate, Naniamma ushered them onto the street of the affluent suburb where she lived. Maya scanned the street, holding her breath, expecting someone to come barging out after them, but the pale house stood silent, windows dark and shuttered.