A Girl Like That(27)

Calling Abdullah didn’t seem like the smart thing to do either. For one, Masi would kill me if she knew I was seeing a boy. And, more important, I was pretty sure that Abdullah wouldn’t come running for me if I was in trouble. Swapping spit and the occasional cigarette with a girl for a month and a half did not make her the love of your life.

I did what I could under the circumstances: heart in throat, in silence, eased open the wooden door made heavy by the extra locks and latches Masi had installed the year before after someone broke into an apartment in the building next to ours. A small foyer led right into the living room, which consisted of a navy-blue sofa laminated with plastic (Masi was nearly as phobic of germs as she was of me marrying a gangster like my father), a bamboo armchair pushed up against the wall, a walnut coffee table, a glass showcase with a crystal bust of the prophet Zoroaster, and a nineteen-inch flat-screen TV that Masa had won in a lucky draw at the academy fair a couple of years before.

In the space between the TV and the showcase lay Masi, her arms and legs sprawled over the carpet, breathing hard, her nightgown stuck to her chest. Halima was crouched beside her, sprinkling water over her face from a glass. “It’s okay, Khorshed. It’s okay. Halima’s here now.”

My mind registered the absence of danger before my body did, taking in the scene before me. My hand slowly fell back to its side.

What you’d find if you ever peeked into Rustom and Khorshed Wadia’s living room: a complete mess.

Which wasn’t really as surprising as the embarrassment that unfurled in my belly and flooded my face when Halima finally registered my presence and turned around to greet me, her chubby cheeks sleek with perspiration, her smile strained and extra wide.

Halima was one of the newer tenants of our building, having moved in next door a couple of years ago. From the very beginning, she’d tried to ingratiate herself with Masi, bringing a CorningWare bowl of fava bean stew and fresh lemons one Friday after moving in. She’d stood at our threshold, holding out the bowl wrapped with aluminum foil, and grinned at Masi. “I’m Halima. Your new neighbor.”

Then she shoved her way into the apartment, past my speechless aunt, and made herself comfortable on the living room sofa, making stilted conversation with Masi for about fifteen minutes: “What’s your name?” “Do you work?” “Your daughter is pretty, Masha’Allah.” “Oh, she’s not your daughter? Then, what a pretty niece.” “Where does your husband work?” “How much does he make?”

The final question, which took even me by surprise, had Masi immediately making an excuse about “guests coming over” and unceremoniously escorting Halima to the door. Not that this seemed to bother our new neighbor.

“I’ll be back,” Halima had promised. And she was. Time and time again.

Before long, Masi began finding ways and means to avoid Halima, pretending to be sleeping or showering whenever the other woman came knocking at her door.

I wasn’t sure if this was the universe’s way of giving Masi exactly what she’d asked for a few years before in the way of friendly neighbors. Unlike the other Arab tenants in our building, Halima spoke perfect English and was twice as nosy as Masi herself. I could never look at Halima with a straight face after our first interaction, my lips automatically curving up into a grin when I saw her. Halima seemed oblivious to the mocking nature of my smile, greeting me each time with a smile and a “Hello, little Zarin.”

“As’salamu alaykum, Halima,” I would say in response. The greeting always seemed to make her happy. After the first few times, I even managed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

I never knew what Halima saw in Masi or why she always went out of her way to be friendly in spite of my aunt’s coldness. But that afternoon I was grateful that it was Halima who was inside our house and not a burglar wielding a crowbar.

“What happened?” I allowed my bag to slide to the floor and closed the door with a click.

“I heard Khorshed screaming. I didn’t know if she was in trouble. The door wasn’t locked, so I came here with that.” Halima pointed at a rolling pin lying on the sofa.

I stared at my aunt’s pallid face, which was slowly filling with color, and wondered if she’d forgotten to take her pills again. Our family physician continued to prescribe them at my uncle’s insistence, even though they seemed to make little difference in Masi’s temperament or mood, only knocking her out cold for a few hours when she took them.

“There is nothing wrong with Khorshed,” Masa told Dr. Rensil Thomas when he suggested psychiatric referral. “She’s okay when she has enough sleep.”

But I knew that what Masa was really afraid of was having people treat Masi the way they treated old Freny Bharucha in Cama colony. Cracked Freny, they used to call her in the years before she was finally diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, laughing at how she forgot the simplest of things or lost her way within the compound where she lived. So, to a degree, I saw Masa’s point. People in Mumbai—and especially at the colony—weren’t exactly sensitive when it came to mental health issues. Masa’s colleagues in Jeddah weren’t any better. Just a year earlier, I’d heard one of them casually disparage a common friend whose wife had depression, and seen the way Masa’s smile had frozen on his face.

Halima pointed at me and then at the phone. “Should I tell your uncle? Call him home?”