Written in the Stars (8 page)

T
he wind blows overhead in the sugarcane field, whipping through the canes but providing little relief from the heat baking the earth as we walk through them. We’ve spent quite a few days here together, but this time feels different. The stalks, in shades of green with flecks of white, stretch row upon row on either side of us. We’ve never walked so deep into the fields before, and I’ve never felt quite this jittery. I keep glancing over my shoulders, flinching at the rustle of the leaves or the faint sounds of voices in the distance. I’m overwhelmed today by the expanse of my chacha’s farmland. There is no end in sight. How far would I have to run if I tried to escape?

I look at Selma. She nods. Both of us sit down on a patch of open grassy field. I pull out my phone and flip it open, dialing the number.

“Naila. Is it you?”

“Saif.” I open my mouth to say more, but his voice reminds me afresh of what I have to tell him. Selma grips my hand. I take a deep breath, explaining everything for the first time.

“So now”—my voice trembles—“my parents know I want to leave. They caught me trying to get my passport.”

“I’ve been going crazy these past few days. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew something was very wrong. Have they picked someone yet?”

“Someone came yesterday. It might be serious.”

“This can’t be happening. I can’t believe this. Are they planning a . . . wedding?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Maybe an engagement now and a wedding later. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”

“No. They’ve got it all planned out. If you come back, they know you’ll find a way out of it. No, they’re going to make sure you stay. They’re going to make sure they ruin your life well and good while they have you in their grip.”

“I don’t know what to do, Saif.”

He’s silent for a few moments. “I’ll call the US Embassy in Pakistan,” he finally says. “I think they’re in Islamabad. When I tell them you’re being held against your will, I’m sure they’ll have a procedure to get you out of there. Keep your phone on you. I’ll text you as soon as I hear something—and, Naila”—his voice softens—“everything will be okay. Pretend like you’re the happiest person in the world until you hear from me. We’ll get through this.”

* * *

The next morning, I check my phone:
Call ASAP.

“What’s wrong?” Selma sits across from me on the bed.

I show her the text message. She walks to the door and locks it.

“Call him,” she says. “We can’t wait until this afternoon.”

I move to the farthest end of the room and dial his number.

“Naila,” he says in a rushed voice, “you have to go to the embassy. It’s in Islamabad. I told them everything. They said they can help, but you have to go to them.”

Blood rushes to my face. “Saif, how am I supposed to get there?”

“I know. I know. I told them to come get you, that you were trapped, but they said they can’t.” He takes a deep breath. “You have to get to them. You have to.”

“There’s no way for me to get there. Things are different here. It’s not so simple.”

“Talk to Selma. Maybe she can give you some advice. If you don’t go there, they can’t help you, and you have to get out of there. Now.”

I hang up the phone. Back home, this would be less complicated. But here, I may as well plan a trip to the moon.

“What did he say?”

“I have to go to Islamabad. I have to get to the embassy.” The phone rests in my lap. I tuck my knees under me. “It’s just as simple as that, right?”

“My father goes all the time to Islamabad. Most of our fabrics come from there.”

“Your dad has a car. We drove in it here from the airport. I know where he keeps the key. I’m sure I could figure out how to use it.”

“It’s the loudest car ever invented,” she reminds me. “Even if you got it out of the garage unwatched, as soon as you turned the corner, everyone would see you.”

“I’ve seen taxis.”

“Hardly ever,” Selma says. “I wouldn’t know how to track one down. Besides, taxis don’t travel that far—they go from village to village when they do, and they would definitely think twice before taking you anywhere.”

I think of the horse-drawn carriages, the rickshaws belching smoke with each sputter. Desperately I even consider walking, but I know none of these will work, none of these can help me escape.

“What about a bus?” I finally ask.

Selma claps her hands. “Yes! It’s not in this village, but it can’t be too far away. Probably in the next town over. I know people who’ve taken it. I think my mother has a black burka somewhere in her closet. She never wears it, so she won’t even notice it’s missing. It will cover you up from head to toe, and in the dark no one will think you’re anyone except someone’s grandmother. I’m sure one of the buses will take you to Islamabad.”

I feel deflated. “So you don’t know which bus goes to Islamabad?”

“No, but I’m sure we can figure that out.”

“I’ll just have to see if I can find some money to get me there. My parents took all the money I brought with me.”

“Don’t worry about the money.” Selma points to a wooden box on the dresser. “I have been saving all my holiday money, birthdays, my eidi
,
since I was eight years old. I have enough.”

“Listen”—my voice shakes—“when they realize I’m gone and what happened, you need to tell them I stole it from you, okay? They’re going to assume you helped me. If anything happened to you because of me, I would never forgive myself.”

“No one knows about the money. They won’t know I helped you.”

“I don’t care if you have to badmouth me, call me names. Promise me you will make sure they won’t find out you helped me, okay?”

Selma nods. “I promise.”

* * *

I slide on my blue sandals and leave the house with Selma the next morning. “Bring back some tomatoes from the market!” calls my chachi as we unlock the front door. My chachi walks up to Selma and hands her money. “Don’t be home too late. You girls seem to live out there these days.”

Clouds provide no relief on this bright sunny day. Within seconds of stepping onto the road, thick beads of sweat form on my forehead.

Selma holds a hand over her eyes and squints. “Mustafa Sahib will know which bus goes where. Work your magic with him.” She grins. I roll my eyes and laugh.

Mustafa, a short stout man with a thick head of black hair and a thicker mustache, leans on his metal cart under a shaded tree. He perks up as he sees us approach and reaches into his freezer, pulling out two pistachio kulfis.

“Nahin,” protests Mustafa as I hand him money. “Why do you always give me a little more? This isn’t done here, you know.”

“It’s a tip—please take it.”

He smiles, stuffing the extra change into his pocket.

“I noticed most people here don’t have cars. How do you get to the big cities?” It’s a simple question from an Amriki girl. Still, my body tenses, waiting for his eyes to narrow, for his smile to fade.

Mustafa brushes a sticky hand against his shirt. “Most of us aren’t as lucky as your chacha. We can’t afford fancy cars, but we take the bus.”

“The bus. I haven’t seen a station here.”

“Nahin.” He waves his hand. “You just take a rickshaw or tonga over to the next town over—it’s five or six kilometers that way.” He points toward a road. “It’s easy. Fifteen minutes, and I’m at the bus station heading to Islamabad.” He winks at me. “Maybe you can convince your chacha to loan me his car? Would make my life a lot easier.”

I take a bite of the quickly melting kulfi and do my best to appear simply curious and conversational.

“In America, the buses have machines where you just put in your money and your ticket pops out. They even make them with air-conditioning and bathrooms.”

He laughs. “I see your movies from America. I see your trains and your buses. This is not a bus like that. This bus is not for a girl like you! No. It is a big metal thing, and there is not one seat for each person. There are many people on the bus. Sometimes when you’re going town to town, people even sit on the roof. If you want to see the big cities of Pakistan and get out of this boring little village, tell your chacha to take you in his car.”

I
’m OK.

I tuck my phone back into my purse. I hear Imran’s laughter bounce off the walls. My younger cousins run back and forth outside in the hallway, arguing and squealing in the same breath. How many days have Selma and I spent planning and mapping out each aspect of my escape? How can everything still seem so perfectly normal?

I get up. I don’t want to leave the room, but I know I have to act normal. Just then, Selma steps inside—her face is drawn, her eyes downcast.

“They’re coming tomorrow.”

“Again?” I ask. “Can’t they just leave me alone for a little while?”

“I overheard Phupo arguing with my mom.” She swallows. “They want to set the wedding date.”

The wedding date.
My knees threaten to buckle.

“Your parents were there this afternoon. At their house. When they said they were going to visit an old friend for lunch, that’s what they were talking about. Tomorrow those people are bringing a gold set”—her voice breaks—“for your engagement.”

I want to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Phupo is furious no one told you. She’s threatening to do it herself. My mom said your mother will tell you tomorrow, before they come.”

“They’re going to tell me?” My voice rises. I scarcely recognize it. “I can’t do that! I can’t sit there and pretend to go along with it. What am I going to do?”

“What we knew you would have to do sooner or later. You have to go.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. I never really thought you would leave me until today. I guess I secretly hoped things would get better, but now we know that’s not going to happen. It’s best to leave tonight. When it’s safest.”

I embrace Selma. My heart feels heavy. I think of Imran. I will hug him tonight. He’ll roll his eyes and laugh at me while I blink back tears. Will I ever see him again? I have no choice. I have to do this.

Selma goes to her dresser and pulls out a thick envelope. She sits next to me and turns it onto the bed. Clumps of colorful money fall out. After counting it, she hands it to me.

“There should be enough for the bus ride and, hopefully, for some food and a taxi.”

I look at the money in my hands.

I will pay the money back one day, tenfold.
But I know I can never really repay her.

Not for the grave risk she is taking for me.

I
watch my father reclining on the sofa; his hands rest on his stomach. He’s talking to my chacha, who sits across from him. My mother sits on patterned cushions in the corner of the living room with my aunts. Imran rests his elbow on the coffee table. He’s playing carrom board with Sohail. They flick the pieces on the tray back and forth, boasting about who will win.

Will this be the last time I see them all?
I look at my mother’s profile. Tonight is the last night she will look at me as her daughter. The moment I leave tonight, I will lose all of this, but what other choice do I have? My throat constricts. I stand up.

“Where are you going?” my mother asks.

“I’m tired. I’m going to lie down.”

“It’s not even ten yet.” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night. The kids woke me up early.”

“Your cousins cannot get enough of you, but they really should let you rest. Go ahead, then. I want to take you shopping tomorrow morning.”

I walk away quickly so she can’t see my expression.

* * *

I lie in bed, waiting. Slowly the noises in the distance grow soft, then faint. I hear my chachi’s footsteps. She is shutting off lights and closing doors. Then, nothing.

Selma gets up first. She heads to the closet and pulls out an empty, worn book bag. I pull out the bottom drawer of Selma’s dresser and remove the dried dates, fruit, and small containers of water I pilfered through the course of the day.

Mustafa’s directions were abstract, but I’m certain if I keep following the road he showed me, it will eventually take me there. Slipping out of my clothes, I fling them on the bed and pull on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I grab the folded burka and put it on.

“Remember, walk calmly and quietly. No one can see you in the dark, but if they notice you before you leave this village, they’ll know something is up.”

I adjust the book bag under my burka. “Is it time? Should I go now?” The plan seemed so concrete in my mind, but now I’m starting to panic. I push out the images of my parents, their expressions when they discover I’m gone.

“It’s time.”

I pull her to me and hold on tight, fighting tears. She hugs me back. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing more to say.

I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. One of my cousins is sleeping on a charpay in the family room. I hear sheets rustle and freeze. He shifts sides and, in a few seconds, resumes snoring.

I walk to the front door, its hand-carved designs obscured in the night. I graze my hand against it, feeling for the lock, and then press. My heart pounds loudly, drumming in my ears.
I practiced opening and unlocking this door for days. It opens now, quickly and silently.

The courtyard looks so inviting during the day, but now the potted plants seem ominous, their shadows leering at me. I make my way to the brick wall and pull the latch to the metal gate; it opens with a creak. I look back at the house, a large gray brick building blending into the night. I turn and slip through the gate.

I feel the familiar road under my feet as I try making sense of my surroundings. I’ve seen this road so many times before, but right now in the dark, deserted, the storefronts covered with large sheets of metal, everything seems unfamiliar. I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. My chacha’s fields to the left, which normally seem inviting, a cool place for reprieve in the unyielding summer, are ominous in the night. There is no one in sight, and yet I feel watched with each step I take, as if things are hiding, crouching alongside the road.

I pick up my pace. The air in the burka grows warmer, but I don’t stop. It doesn’t matter if my feet begin to ache or bleed; turning back is no longer an option.

Once I make it to the bus station and board the bus, I will be safe.