Tanya Tania (7 page)

I hated her and I laughed.

At first she didn't move, she didn't even look at me. It was all stillness except for my laughter that fell around the room in waves, the light suddenly turning dimly golden outside like it does in Karachi without notice.

She swivelled her head and looked at me and I noticed suddenly tiny hairs on her smooth brown cheek, the lightest down, turned golden in the light.

Baji, she said. Baji.

I cannot revive the wonder and the hurt in those words. The way she looked at me as if I had hit her. But looking back, I see that even with that wound she didn't shirk, she didn't shrink, no, not Chhoti Bibi. I hurt her and she turned to look me in the eye, her emotions primary-coloured with no shades in between. Baji hurt me. Look at Baji.

She's such a child. Chhoti Chhoti Bibi.

Her hands fell to her sides and her kurta dropped from where she had been holding it up near her chest. It fell halfway, arrested by the bunching of the salwar and the jeans at her waist. She looked worse than before and I felt as angry as before but also, finally creeping in and deflating the anger, shame.

‘What?' I said defiantly.

‘You don't like the jeans?'

I could not bear the directness of her gaze.

‘Throw away the tissues.' I said turning over on my side. ‘And pick up your bags. Why did you bring them here?'

She must have stood there and waited for me to turn around for a long time because I saw the sun go down over our garden wall. The leaves turned translucent, opaque and then disappeared into darkness. Finally I heard the door shut and turned around and she was gone. The floor was clean. But there were no candles.

Bibi said she cried all night. And yes, I feel bad about it but Tania…I also feel a weird triumph. I can't explain it. How is it? How is this?

Chhoti Bibi hasn't come to my room in ten days now. Is it over?

Yours,

Tanya

September 25, 1991

Bombay

Dear Tanya,

I just want to say that you are meaner than I am. I am mean to people in my school but never to servants. It's not fair.

The thing is, though, I totally get why you felt good about being a bitch. I feel like that all the time. That's why I can't wait to grow up because I think this must be just a hormones thing. I was totally not a bitch when I was a kid but you know, when you're a kid and you can run fast and your house has cool toys and you don't do anything super stupid in school, it's so easy to be popular. It gets a lot harder when you grow older.

I showed your letter to Nusrat because I think she should know that you have this bitchy side. She didn't seem to think it was that bitchy though. She thought it was funny. She also thinks you're a good writer. Whatever.

So Neenee's mom called my mom and complained about me not being nice to Neenee even though I had TOLD her not to say anything at home. I guess she has been crying again, she's so boring. My mother sat down to have a talk with me about being a better person. She put on her ‘I'm a loving parent and my kids can talk to me about anything' face and made me hot chocolate and we sat in the living room (which we never ever do unless there are guests) and she talked to me about being a good friend and a kind person and all this stuff. The whole time I looked at the painting behind her head which is a painting I hate and just swallowed everything I wanted to say because there was a party I wanted to go to that night and I knew that if she felt pleased about being a good mother she would like totally let me go. She's DAMN predictable.

My mom thinks she knows everything but she doesn't even know this about herself. It's pathetic.

But anyway I didn't say any of this because I wanted to go to the party. The lecture lasted thirty five minutes. She didn't even suspect that I wasn't agreeing with her. Thanks stupid, ugly painting I want to burn bit by bit over the kitchen stove.

The party ended up being super lame. Arjun was checking out these eighth standard girls—you know the ones I mean. The ones with the really skinny hips and their boobs just beginning to show.

I'm just so sick of everything. Don't you think there's supposed to be more to life? Than all of this stupid shit? Just more to life. There's got to be more to life. Don't you think?

Love,

Tania

October 5, 1991

Karachi

Dear Tania,

I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. I haven't felt like doing anything really. Not for a few days now.

Things are better with Chhoti Bibi. I've decided to just keep talking to her normally as if nothing has happened. I ask her for advice on things. The other day I asked her to help me rearrange my clothes. I said it out of desperation because I was looking for an excuse to keep her in my room but it was an unexpectedly big hit.

She handles my clothes like they're made of gold. I never thought that t-shirts and jeans and track pants could inspire so much tenderness. She sat in front of my cupboard for hours, stroking and smoothing and folding. I kept up a steady stream of words but then I realized she wasn't even listening.

When she was done and about to leave, I said, ‘Sorry.'

She looked at me as if I had slapped her. Then she wrapped her dupatta around her head and left.

I've noticed that she wraps her dupatta around her head when she is nervous or uncertain. Just like Bibi. They both do it when they go outside the house. What security does a dupatta offer? Yet inside the house, they pull up their salwars so you can see their thick legs with sinewy black hair wet from the hot water mop and bucket.

Have you thought about Nusrat applying to college in America? If she really does have good grades and speaks English well and can do well in the SAT, she has a good chance with her story. And perhaps you can help her and that can be your ticket if you're worried about your grades.

Think about it. I think you should do it.

Love,

Tanya

October 16, 1991

Bombay

Dear Tanya,

You do realize that there is more to life than going to fucking college in fucking America right?

Tania

October 27, 1991

Bombay

Dear Tanya,

I want to tell you about my dancing. I haven't told you about my dancing. I am training to do my arangetram in Bharatnatyam this summer. An arangetram is a dance recital. It's like a final exam except you do it in front of everyone like in a concert. Bharatnatyam is supposed to make you very ladylike. My mother did it when she was my age and she's very graceful. Even when she's having dinner at home and not wearing anything special, she looks beautiful. She curls her fingers around the roti and her little finger stands up straight. She sits on the chair like a queen. She's beautiful.

Arjun stares at my mom a lot. She hasn't said anything to me but I'm sure she's noticed it. He's damn obvious. The weird thing though is that she hasn't like forbidden me from seeing him. Her face gets tight when she comes home and sees that he is here. But she hasn't straight out said no you can't date him. My mom is weird like that. She has very clear rules in her head about how the world should work. This is probably because of a rule about letting your children make their own decisions.

My dad hasn't even guessed about Arjun. He has seen him in the house but he just thinks that Arjun is one of my friends. My dad is adorable.

I'm sorry I was rude in my last letter.

Your friends come for your arangetram. Your close friends I mean. I probably won't tell most kids at school about it. I mean I make it sound like a really difficult and beautiful thing you know. It's best to keep it kind of mysterious. I can't tell if it's beautiful. If you lived in Bombay and weren't a BP, I would have invited you to my arangetram.

Love,

T

November 7, 1991

Karachi

Dear Tania,

I got selected as part of the Prefect Group for next year which means I am still on track to be Head Girl. I am up to date on all the school work (although just barely in Urdu) and I will be the captain when hockey season starts again. The only thing I've really lost because of the knee is a shot at the 300 metre swimming record.

I don't dance. And yes, if you don't throw a tantrum every time something annoys you, I would go to your dance recital.

Things are improving with Chhoti Bibi. We've had a couple of conversations but she is still wary of me. I'm trying to be patient.

But I fundamentally disagree with you. You want me to be normal with her because you want to see us interact as equals.

But we're not. I'm at the head of my class and she dropped out of school when she was eight. My parents went to MIT and Wellesley. Her parents are illiterate. I'm going to be a human rights lawyer who works for the UN. She wants to be a servant. I just don't see the point of pretending.

Call me cold and manipulative. I'm just honest.

I talked to my mother about it again. She nodded and agreed with me but I don't know if she was really listening. I think she has a lot on her mind. If she would tell me, I would help her.