Homeland Elegies(99)

To my surprise, Sultan didn’t refuse the glass Father offered him when he showed up in the kitchen after his prayers—though it was just to taste. He brought the wide-rimmed glass to his lips and sipped. “Too much vermouth,” he said with a frown.

“Just what’s in the recipe,” Father said.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the vermouth.”

Father took the glass and sipped. “I like it,” he said. “But I’ll make you another if you want…”

“Enjoy it, Sikander. Even in the unlikely instance you can get it right, which I doubt, I’m not interested.” Sultan turned to me: “Come on, beta. Let’s give you your present.”

Upstairs in the guest room, he pulled a gift-wrapped book from his Vuitton duffel and handed it to me.

“Pretty big,” I said, weighing it in my hands.

“I hope you don’t have it already.”

I tore off the wrapping. It was an old edition of Rumi’s Mathnawi.

“I don’t. I’ve always thought I needed to read it.”

“That’s what I thought when I saw your play. You know, they did it in Omaha.”

“You thought I needed to read Mathnawi?”

“You’re making fun of him at one moment in the play, and I just thought, ‘He doesn’t know Rumi, because if he did, he wouldn’t want to make fun…’”

“I don’t make fun of Rumi. I make fun of the guy who thinks he knows something about Islam because he’s reading Rumi.”

“But anyone who reads Rumi does know something about Islam, beta. Something good, something important. For me, that book is my Quran.” He’d started emptying his bag, removing socks and underwear, his shaving kit. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked your play. It was wonderful. Funny and sharp. But here and there, a little shrill. You know what I mean?”

“Shrill?”

“Everybody has flaws—we’re no exception. But we’re under attack in this country now. We have to stick together. It was clear to me that audience of Nebraskans had no idea what you’re writing about. They were thinking, ‘He’s Muslim. He’s saying Islam is bad. He must know. He’s on the inside.’”

“—Which is, of course, not what I’m saying.”

“And I know that. But they don’t. In this time, you have to be careful. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a wonderful play. You’re a wonderful writer. Just wonderful.”

“Thanks, Uncle.”

He stepped over to the dresser and pulled open a drawer to stow his things.

Of course, it hurt to hear him speak about my work this way. I didn’t think he was right, but the kindness with which he offered his criticisms—which, I knew, were evidence of his having somehow been hurt by the work—left me feeling there was no point in arguing. “Uncle, thank you for coming. He needs the support. It’s been complicated…”

“I know, beta. We talk.” He turned back to his bag for more things: “You’re a good son to be taking on this chaos he’s putting himself through. I mean, to lose all that money. He’s so lucky to have you. I could never expect the same from my kids—but then again, they’re not you.”

“What money, Uncle?”

Sultan looked up at me. “He hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Hmm. I see…I know he was going to tell you. He told me that.”

“Tell me what, Uncle?”

“I don’t think it’s my place.”

“It sounds pretty serious. You’ve got me worried.”

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll encourage him to tell you now.”

“Uncle—”

“And if he doesn’t, I will. I promise.”

*



Father suggested tandoori for dinner, and I knew it was to get under Sultan’s skin. Sultan was thinking of shutting down Trunk Road, the restaurant in Omaha he’d left his practice to open. Like Father, Sultan was a fanatic for the Lahori style of North Indian cuisine, and according to him, his restaurant was the only place in Nebraska (or neighboring Kansas, for that matter) where you could get a proper Lahori meal. Since the recent clampdown on immigrant visas, staffing the kitchen with a cook who really knew how to make the food properly—and part of the whole point for Sultan had been to have a place where he could get his beloved Lahori paaya and lamb chops!—was now increasingly complicated. The few such cooks still legally in the country had jobs in the bigger cities, and for around a year now, the food at Trunk Road had suffered. It wasn’t just work visas for the cooks that were the problem; dealing with patrons was harder and harder, with everyone so quick to anger over the smallest things. Worst of all, no one seemed to have the money (or time) to be eating out anymore—at least not at the sort of place like Trunk Road, neither particularly cheap nor particularly expensive. Less and less place left in America, he said, for the middle class of things.

Predictably, Sultan complained about Trump over our seekh kebabs and sabzi masalas. We listened as he laid out just how unreasoned and self-defeating the administration’s anti-immigrant logic was to him: “It’s not just that they won’t let anyone come here now. They’re trying to make it so no one wants to come. Graduates like us? If we’re young, coming out of medical school, why would we want the headache? We’ll try somewhere else. And do they think that will be good for the country? At least fifty percent of the best doctors in America were not born in America. At least fifty percent. That’s just a fact. I mean, correct me if you don’t agree, Sikander.”