Free The Sweetness of Tears by Nafisa Haji Page A

those he belongs to. We’ll do what we can for him.” Dada resumed his pacing, already moving on from the matter of the boy.
    Sharif Muhammad, too, switched gears. “And what about Sadiq Baba?”
    My grandfather frowned again, unhappy with his servant’s tone of voice—a tone I had never heard him use before with his employer. Defiant. Interrogative. Peremptory.
    “It seems you have an opinion you wish to express, Sharif Muhammad.”
    Sharif Muhammad took a step forward. He took his skull cap off his head and crumpled it in his hands. “Yes, Mubarak Sayt. I have something more to say.” He stopped, as if to line up words he had amassed in an arsenal he had long waited to deploy.
    “Then say it, Sharif Muhammad. Say what you will.” Dada’s voice was menacingly stern, belying the invitation he offered.
    “It is time, Sayt. To reckon with the dirty deed you sent me to do for you more than nine years ago. This is something I should have said then, but I didn’t. You have been a good master. Fair and just. I have not forgotten any of your generosities over the years. I carry them with me, always, in a heart that is grateful. You took care of my sister, found her employment when Deena Bibi left for Amreeka . But what you made me a party to, when you took Sadiq Baba away from his mother, was not right.”
    “Sharif Muhammad. The matter is none of your concern.” Dada’s voice was final. I thought he would stop there. Sharif Muhammad didn’t budge. He stood, silently, forcing Dada to utter more. “I was in my rights. The boy belonged here. You are a religious man. You know that what I say is true. Ask any mullah. Your Sunni ones will tell you the same, I am sure.”
    “I don’t care what any mullah says,” Sharif Muhammad said. “I have a mind. And I know how piety and religion can mask the truth of what justice calls for. You took that boy away from his mother. That was wrong. You caused his mother grief—a good woman, who did nothing to deserve what life handed her. And now kismat has played out its retribution. Your grandson is the reason another boy’s mother has been taken from him.”
    “These are matters you don’t understand, Sharif Muhammad. The law was on my side. The law of the nation and the law of God.”
    “The law of the nation? What is that? Nothing but a plaything of big people. The law of God? When law is separated from justice, Sayt, that is not the law of any god I worship. That is when the true test of faith and wisdom comes—that is our opportunity to shine the light of humanity and compassion on the misfortunes we inflict on one another. There are no laws you can quote me that will change the way I see it. And what have you done with the boy? By separating him from the love of his mother? If heaven, for him, lies under her feet—as the Prophet, peace be upon him, said—then you have kept him far away from heaven, casting him on the path to hell. Send him to her, Sayt. He is out of control. Even Asma Bibi, your own daughter, will not let her son spend time with him anymore. The tragedy he has caused today is only the beginning—this, I promise. The boy needs his mother. Has needed her all these years. Send him back to her, I beg you. It may be too late already to undo the damage. But give him a chance at least. All your wealth and possessions have done and will do nothing for him. He is a coward. He ran over a mother and ran away from what he did. He will always run away.”
    “Enough, Sharif Muhammad! You are a good man. You have always served me well. For this, I will forgive you today’s impudence. Leave me now!” Dada roared.
    But what Sharif Muhammad said must have had an effect. Two weeks later, Dada put me on a plane to America. At the airport in Los Angeles, I saw my mother for the first time in six years. She was with her husband, the crocodile, and her daughter, Sabah. When she hugged me—her stiff-backed stranger of a son—her face was wet with tears. She took my