American Dervish: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

something lively in our otherwise relentlessly somber home. But I had no chance to respond. Mother leaped in, answering for me: “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What matters is what you think.”
    Just then, Imran, Mina’s four-year-old, lumbered groggily into the room from the toilet, his feet inexplicably wet, his shuffling steps leaving a trail of faint, darker prints along the harlequin green shade. He looked up, his eyes widening. His face broke into a sudden smile. He stepped over to the wall, stretched his arms, and pressed himself against Daffy Duck.
    Mother and Mina traded looks.
    “Or we could just leave it like it is,” Mina said.
    Mother nodded. “Now, maybe that would be best.”
     
    Mina and Imran were jet-lagged. They went to bed that afternoon and slept through much of the next two days. It wasn’t until midweek that we all had our first meal together. I got home from school that afternoon to find the house filled with the smells of the Lahori-style lamb chops, homemade naan s, and bhindi bhuna. Sitting at the kitchen table with my homework, I watched Mina and Mother cook into the evening, trading tales in Punjabi—which I understood, but didn’t speak—laughing as they went. Mother was so happy. And there was Mina, living and breathing and hovering about at the very fridge where I’d spent almost two years staring at her photograph. There really was something miraculous about it all.
    That night, the splendid feast succeeded at putting even Father in a sentimental mood. At the end of the meal, he leaned back in his seat, a soft, satiated light in his eyes. He lifted his glass of lassi toward Mina and her son. “It’s good to have you here,” he said.
    Mina held his gaze, the same sly, enticing smile on her face that I recognized from the photograph. “Thank you, Naveed,” she said. “You’re a very generous man.”
    Father smarted. “Nonsense,” he demurred. “Anyway, I’m not the one you should thank. It’s Muneer. She would have broken my legs if I didn’t agree to it…But I have to say, I’m glad I did.”
    “So now we know,” Mother joked, “the way to your heart is through your stomach.”
    He flashed her a mischievous smile. “Among other things,” he said.
    Mother blushed, looking away.
    Mina looked away, too, over at her son. “Say thank you to your Muneer-auntie and Naveed-uncle.”
    “Thank you, Auntie. Thank you, Uncle,” Imran murmured.
    “You’re welcome,” Mother caroled.
    Father gazed warmly at the boy. “You’re welcome, kurban, ” he said.
    I looked at Father, confused. Hearing him use that word for Imran stung, like an insect bite on my heart.
    “What?” he asked.
    “ ‘Kurban’? ”I blurted out. “That’s what you call me.”
    “What does it mean?” Imran asked, dully.
    “It means the most important thing we have to give,” Mina said, turning to me with a smile. “The sacrifice of our hearts.” She reached out to brush the hair away from my eyes. “You’re my kurban, too,” she intoned, lovingly.
     
    A few weeks into Mina’s stay, I had my first experience of her deeper sense of things, what most called her intelligence, but which I think was actually something closer to a spiritual gift.
    She was sitting at the dining table, reading, a shaft of afternoon sunlight draped across her body like a brilliant shawl. I had a clear view of her from my place in the living room adjacent, where I was sitting and brooding over another ice cream social that was about to begin without me.
    Each year, on the Thursday of the last week of school, the Lutheran church next door to Mason Elementary—where I was attending fifth grade—transformed its adjoining lawn into a mini-fairground for what it called its annual ice cream social. There were booth games, a merry-go-round, and more than a few ice cream stands. They served turtle sundaes and banana splits and—everyone’s favorite—soft serve in a cone. Mason opened up the gym as well, where,