After graduating from King’s College London, Kuhl’s mother tried to get work in theater production. She actually secured two or three meetings with Hanif Kureishi, for the purpose of presenting her ideas. She believed he would help her, because, she said, “All of those in London with Pakistani roots must help each other out, of course they must.” That’s what she had heard her father say repeatedly. But Kuhl’s mother stumbled, with her expectations of help as well as her understanding of theater itself. She tried to make up for this by frequently attending plays and cocktail parties hosted by former classmates for whom the stage curtains had graciously parted more than they had for her. She had her special soiree attire, black and bare-backed, with her black hair left loose and flowing. She took great care to never appear fatigued even after hours in high heels, resembling—unconsciously—one character or another in a Hanif Kureishi play.
At one such party she met a very gallant and good-looking man, who was in London to wed some serious money to works of art. Unlike her, he was not a Londoner. He lived in Karachi, where he ran Pakistan’s leading bank. This attractive young woman had already let go of her theatrical ambitions by then, and she was ready to accept his offer of marriage, on condition that he buy her a flat in London where she could spend the summers. Her other condition was that he would not force her to have children. The banker complied, and two weddings were held: one in London in a white gown, and one in Karachi in red Punjabi.
After three happy and carefree years, however, the still-young bride realized that the only way she would ever strengthen her position in her husband’s family would be through the sanctified status of mother. And so she planned it all out, following the prescriptions that were supposed to guarantee that she would have a male child and heir. But when the child came, it was a girl. And three years later, when she tried again, another girl. If she didn’t stop now, she thought, this stream would become a torrent and the undercurrent would submerge her. It could destroy her figure and demolish her freedom, and it might even put an end to her husband’s affectionate coddling. Suroor and Kuhl were enough, she decided. She would make do with them.
The older Kuhl got, the more her mother’s disappointment with the fruits of her own motherhood grew. Who would ever believe that this daughter, with her brittle, frail hair and irregular features and rather too full body, was her daughter? Her daughter! She for whom marriage and childbearing had only enhanced her bewitching magic, her elegance, her shine! Kuhl’s mother dismissed her daughter’s intelligence and success, and preferred Kuhl’s younger sister, Suroor—so pretty, so subdued, so perfect! Their mother made her preference obvious in so many ways.
The envy and anger that could have erupted so easily between the sisters did not appear. Kuhl withdrew into her own world, creating a place for herself. Suroor showed her respect and affection, but mixed with strong sentiments of guilt, as though she had to atone for being regarded as prettier and more delicate and perhaps more refined. And for having a bigger piece of her mother’s heart, which could not expand to embrace someone so unlike herself.
My mother? She never preferred one of us over another. But maybe she never liked any of us very much. My grandmother Bint Aamir was the one who cared. She was the one who handled everything we needed, and she was sternly equal in her attentions. Or maybe, perhaps, did she love Sufyan best? I don’t remember. Anyway, the difference in our ages, the six years between us, erased any threat of jealousy. Instead, my eyes were glued to the wall, where Sumayya eternally hung suspended in time.