American Brat , livre ebook

BAPSI SIDHWA
An American Brat
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
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
Glossary
Author s Note
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
AN AMERICAN BRAT
Distinguished international writer Bapsi Sidhwa lives in America but travels frequently to the Indian subcontinent. She has published four novels: An American Brat, The Pakistani Bride, The Crow-Eaters and Ice-Candy Man , and has been translated into German, French, Italian and Russian.
Among her many honours Sidhwa received the Lila Wallace-Reader s Digest Writer s Award in 1994, the U.S. National Endowment for the Arts grant in 1994, the Sitara-i-Imtiaz , Pakistan s national honour in the arts, and the LiBeraturepreis in Germany. Ms Sidhwa has also held the prestigious Bunting Fellowship at Radcliffe/Harvard.
Sidhwa, who was on the advisory committee to Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto on Women s Development, has taught at Columbia University, University of Houston and Mount Holyoke College, and currently holds the Fanny Hurst position at Brandeis University.
Also by Bapsi Sidhwa
The Pakistani Bride
Ice-Candy Man
The Crow Eaters
For Noshir Minoo Feroze (alias Fred) And in memory of Laurie Colwin.
Chapter 1
Zareen Ginwalla hurried into the hall when the bell rang, waved the cook who had popped out back into the kitchen, and opened the portals of their home to her husband. Zareen never thought of the entrance as a mere ingress. The ancient door, grooved by the centuries and touched by vestiges of faded dyes, was too resplendent to allow for that.
But as Zareen stretched to her toes to kiss Cyrus, the usual lift to her spirits that the antique conferred was missing. She dutifully helped her husband out of his navy blue blazer and, as she handed him his cardigan, gave vent to the emotion that had been agitating her all afternoon.
I m really worried about Feroza.
Cyrus, whose canny instincts had registered the clouds lurking behind his wife s abstracted welcome, at once grew wary. In any event it was not customary for Zareen to greet him at the door, cardigan in hand.
Guarding his eyes Cyrus raised his chin - ostensibly to loosen his tie - and wondered if their daughter had told Zareen what had happened a few evenings back, when he d been constrained to put his fatherly foot down. If so, he d better watch out. His shoulders stiffened; it was purely reflexive, accustomed as he was to attack before his wife got him on the defensive. On the other hand, if Feroza had said nothing, which it occurred to him was more likely, he d better be circumspect.
What s wrong? Cyrus inquired cautiously, his voice conveying just the right tinge of mild concern.
She s becoming more and more backward every day.
Set in tight-lipped censure, Zareen s face betrayed the hours spent in solitary brooding and the dark anxieties her brooding had spawned. Cyrus, who thought his daughter was if anything too forward, maintained his guard. He examined his fingernails cursorily, made a discreet sound in the back of his throat, and raised his eyebrows a fraction.
She won t even answer the phone anymore! What if it s someone I don t know? Zareen mimicked her daughter in English. I told her - don t be silly. No one s going to jump out of the phone to bite you!
Her high-heeled slippers clicking determinedly beneath the hem of the printed silk caftan she usually wore in the house, Zareen followed her husband into the bedroom. She always wore high heels, to measure up to my husband, and removed them only when she got into bed or stepped into her bath.
It had been a typically gorgeous winter s day, bracing, bright, and windless - except for an occasional breeze that sighed through the chrysanthemums in their neighborhood and masked the reek of exhaust fumes from the buses and rickshaws on the road. Even though the sun was about to set and most of the gas heaters were off, Zareen did not feel the need of a shawl.
Cyrus sat on the bed to remove his shoes, avoiding contact with the film of Lahore s ubiquitous dust that veiled their polish, and Zareen fetched his pajamas and slippers from the dressing room.
She continued: I went to bring Feroza from school today. I was chatting with Mother Superior on the veranda - she was out enjoying the sun - and I had removed my cardigan. Feroza pretended she didn t know me.
In the car she said: Mummy, please don t come to school dressed like that. She objected to my sleeveless sari-blouse! Really, this narrow-minded attitude touted by General Zia is infecting her, too. I told her: Look, we re Parsee, everybody knows we dress differently.
When I was her age, I wore frocks and cycled to Kinnaird College. And that was in 59 and 60 - fifteen years after Partition! Can she wear frocks? No. Women mustn t show their legs, women shouldn t dress like this, and women shouldn t act like that. Girls mustn t play hockey or sing or dance! If everything corrupts their pious little minds so easily, then the mullahs should wear burqas and stay within the four walls of their houses!
When alone, Zareen and Cyrus conversed mostly in Gujrati, interspersed with odd snatches in English. That their most trivial conversations often took a political turn was not surprising. In Pakistan, politics, with its special brew of martial law and religion, influenced every aspect of day-to-day living.
Cyrus had stretched his lank, pajamaed frame on the bed and locked his hands behind his head. Zareen fretted about the room, plumping pillows, shifting magazines, talking as she unnecessarily tidied the immaculately ordered room.
It s absurd how things have changed. I was really hopeful when Bhutto was elected. For the first time I felt it didn t matter that I was not a Muslim, or that I was a woman. You remember when he told the women in Peshawar to sit with the men? That took guts!
They had watched the rally on television. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, riding the crest of his popularity, had dared to fault the gender segregation practiced by his volatile tribal supporters in Northwest Frontier.
Even Ayah and the sweeper s wife asked, What are these women s rights ? Our women s committees were making real progress. He was open-minded - didn t force religion down everybody s throat. Now it is as if none of that happened.
Could you imagine Feroza cycling to school now? She d be a freak! Those goondas would make vulgar noises and bump into her, and the mullahs would tell her to cover her head. Instead of moving forward, we are moving backward. What I could do in 59 and 60, my daughter can t do in 1978! Our Parsee children in Lahore won t know how to mix with Parsee kids in Karachi or Bombay.
Don t worry, Cyrus said. When the time comes, they ll learn in two minutes. Everybody s feeling frustrated, not only women. Your Bhutto also let us down, asking the army to control law and order! Didn t he know he was inviting martial law? Nationalizing even the cotton gins, ruining the economy.
Cyrus spoke bitterly, reflecting the sense of betrayal that straddled the country. Bottled up for thirteen years of martial law, their dreams had soared like genii with Bhutto s electoral victory. The return to democracy had made Pakistanis feel proud again, a part of the modern world community.
And the idiot prohibited drinking in clubs! Cyrus said, as if this measure capped all offenses. Lately political discussions with Cyrus took this turn.
What do you mean my Bhutto; he was as much yours then! He was forced to by the fundos , Zareen retorted. You know what he said when they accused him of drinking: Yes, I drink! Yes, I drink whiskey: not the blood of poor people! Zareen sounded absurdly theatrical even to herself.
Cyrus struck his forehead and groaned. If you repeat that once more, you ll turn into a green parrot and fly away - or I ll commit suicide.
Surprisingly, the enforcement of prohibition was also a sore point with the wives in their intimate circle of affluent Muslim friends. Unable to congregate over drinks at the Punjab and Gymkhana clubs, the men drank instead at each others homes. Since the men didn t drink after dinner, the food was served late - around midnight. The resentful wives sustained themselves on juices, sodas, and soup until then. Like Zareen, they felt they were forced to chaperone their men on an endless round of evening binges.
It might do you all good to drink less, Zareen said, pursuing this train of association to its conclusion.
I thought we were talking about Feroza, Cyrus said mildly, directing his wife to less hazardous ground. Let s stick to that. I think Feroza is confused by these sudden switches in attitude. She probably feels she has to conform, be like her Muslim friends. There are hardly any Parsee girls her age. She wants you to be like her friends mothers, that s all.
I ll tell you one thing, though. Cyrus twisted his neck to follow Zareen s restless passage across the room. Zia or no Zia, I d much prefer she stay narrow-minded and decently dressed than go romping about looking fast and loose.
What d you mean? demanded Zareen, turning from straightening the portrait of Zarathustra to glower threateningly at her recumbent spouse.
Cyrus lay back and shut his eyes.
It s okay for you to run around getting drunk every evening, but I must stop wearing sleeveless blouses. Zareen s voice sawed like an infuriated bee s. She would have much preferred to shout, but she was conscious of the servants in the kitchen. I know you think my sari-blouses are short, but they re not half as short as your sister s cholis . At least I don t run around flashing my belly button.