Truth: Sometimes, in real life, the bad guys win. But being a good guy means you keep fighting, anyway.
On a bright afternoon, when I was seven, maybe eight, I was reading at the table by the window in my parents’ store. I loved sitting there on sunny weekends while my parents worked; sometimes my nose was buried in a book, sometimes I colored. Sometimes I did both. There was always this cheery din of customers, the old-fashioned bell ringing as they came in and went out. My parents chatting with them in Hindi or Urdu or English. Sometimes my mom would even bust out her rusty Telugu or Bangla. Every weekend there would also be someone new, a family or maybe a couple, who would come in, really excited, thrilled that they found a local desi grocery store. They would ask, almost breathlessly, Do you carry Patak’s mango pickle, extra spicy? Or Lamsa chocolate tea? Or A cast-iron tawa like my nani used to make parathas? I especially loved listening to my dad respond to them: My dear madam, our store has the answer to your dreams. I always giggled when I heard him talk like that.
My mom would check in on me, and when my parents were having afternoon chai, she would bring me a very milky version in my own small mug. My parents never drank chai out of foam cups or coffee tumblers. They were snobs for actual mugs, even in the store. And if there were customers around, my mom always asked if they wanted chai, too, and then would disappear into the back, re-emerging with a steaming cup. I couldn’t remember how many afternoons I’d spent like that.
But one old, forgotten afternoon finally floated back to me. I heard a loud voice outside: a man, with a face full of hate, teeth bared, yelling at an auntie in hijab and her little boy. My dad rushed out of the store; my mom was in the back making tea. My dad urged them into the store for safety. The auntie had an accent, but it wasn’t Indian; I wasn’t sure what it was. She was crying. The wavy-haired little boy with light-tan skin was clutching his mom’s hand.
When my mom heard my dad calling her, she rushed out. I couldn’t hear everything the adults were saying to each other. I remembered turning back to my book because when I made eye contact with my mom, she gave me one of those reassuring mom smiles, telling me everything was okay. I always believed her because she told the truth. Because little kids believe the things adults tell them, until at some point they grow out of it. I went back to my book—a fantasy. I loved reading fantasy when I was little. I loved how the worlds drew you in. How sometimes things got scary, but there was a hero my age, a kid, who could change the world. And the bad guys always lost.
I was so engrossed in the story, I didn’t notice the little boy who was standing by my table until I heard his sobs. They weren’t loud, but they were deep. Fat tears slowly rolled down his cheeks. I remember feeling bad for him. He looked like he was in nursery school. I handed him a napkin. I asked him his name. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, wiping tears away. Rubbing his eyes. I waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. Maybe he was too scared. Maybe we didn’t speak the same language.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “You’re okay now. It’s safe in here.” I don’t think he believed me because when I said those things it made him cry again. And then, I don’t know what made me do this but I reached into my little purse—I used to carry that butterfly purse everywhere—and pulled out my hand of Fatima key chain. An aunt in India had given it to me, right before we got on the airplane to leave, last time we were there. It will keep you safe, she’d said as she pressed it into my hand. Keep it with you always, for protection. It was a tiny silver hand with a blue and white bead in the middle. I’d tucked it away in a small pocket inside my purse and pretty much forgotten it was even there until I saw that scared little boy, crying. He needed it more than I did, so I reached into my purse, dug it out, and handed it to him, showed him how to hook it onto the belt loop of his jeans. I echoed the words my aunt had told me: It will keep you safe.
He looked up at me and smiled. One of those giant grins that take up most of a little kid’s face. Then he sat with me at the table and colored until his mom called to him and they left. I waved as they stepped out of the store.
I’d forgotten about that moment.
Until I saw that key chain attached to Jawad’s belt loop as they lifted his body onto the stretcher. He’d kept it this whole time. That broke my heart.
It’s weird how memory works. How it’s impossible to know what you’ve forgotten until a cobwebby string of the past gets plucked. It will keep you safe, I’d said.
I was only a little kid myself, but I knew how to make someone feel better. I repeated things adults told me when I was sad. What if all I’d sold him was a lie? But sitting there, body bruised, heart shattered, I knew I couldn’t change the past no matter how badly I wanted to. Richard and Nate murdered Jawad. They stole his whole life. I couldn’t wish that truth away. What I had to do was make sure Jawad was remembered as more than a victim. What I could do was remember him, always.