Free Dead: A Ghost Story by Mina Khan Page B

wonderful tales of
America with its shiny buildings stretching to the sky; clean,
air-conditioned shops that had more things than could be imagined,
like sweaters for dogs and socks with bells; and underground trains
that carried millions of people. He laughed and spoke of being a
lucky man. He’d won the American visa lottery, after
all.
    Her friends were envious,
she was going abroad, to the land of plenty where no one went
hungry or wore threadbare saris. Every one of them had heard
stories of America from a lucky relative who’d made it to that
distant land. One of them noticed her sadness and remarked, “Eeesh!
I don’t know why you’re pretending such sadness? My sister’s
husband’s cousin’s son says anything is possible in America. You
should see his car, tomato red and shiny, with no roof. Brand new!
I saw a photograph he sent back.”
    But when two fat tears
rolled down Nasreen’s face, the other girl had softened. “Don’t
worry so much,” she’d said. “With a new husband, and a new home
--you won’t have time to miss this old place.”
    Matin and Nasreen married
within a month. Her father used most of his savings to buy three
sets of gold jewelry as her wedding present.
    “ I wish I could do more,”
the professor told Nasreen. “But at least now the Chowdhuries will
know they are getting a girl from a respectable family.”
     
    Nasreen floats in front of
the framed wedding picture, prominently displayed on the fireplace
mantle in the living room. Matin is wearing a long white groom’s
coat with gold embroidery and loose pants. A pink, silk turban sits
on his head and a thick flower garland hangs on his neck. She is
dressed in a red and gold benarasi sari, a matching flower garland and almost all her
gold jewelry, standing next to him.
    Or rather, she’s almost
hidden by his bulk. His thick lips are split in a
self-congratulatory smile as he clutches her hand, while she stares
at the camera in wide-eyed panic.
    “ I don’t like that
picture,” Maria says, startling Nasreen out of her
thoughts.
    Matin laughs. It sounds
coarse and rude. “Why? Are you jealous?”
    “ No,” she says, barely
suppressing a shiver. “But your wife seems to be staring at me,
watching me.”
    Her words, feathered with
fear, make Nasreen smile. A small flare of petty pleasure launches
through her. Part of her feels guilty. But then some days that was
the only kind of pleasure to be had.
    “ Don’t be silly,” Matin
says, stomping away. “Make us some lunch. I’ll be in the front
office for a bit.”
    He leaves Maria sitting on
the lumpy brown couch still looking at the picture. After a while,
she shrugs her soft, round shoulders and pushes to her feet. She
walks from room to room whistling a tune.
    Nasreen follows, close
enough that if she were breathing Maria would have felt the puffs
of air on her neck. She watches the woman rifle through closets and
drawers, peek under the mattress and bed, and even search inside
Matin’s shoes. Nerves prickle through her.
    Maria pulls out some cash
from an old dress shoe in the back of the closet, counts it and
carefully puts it back. Nasreen’s right hand flies to her mouth.
Why had she never thought of doing this? God, she’d been nothing
more than a placid cow until led to slaughter.
    Impatience builds inside
like steam from a boiling kettle as Maria also finds Matin’s locked
safe in the bedroom closet; and his bankbook on an overhead shelf.
She opens the bathroom cabinet and studies all the medicines and
tonics stored there. Nasreen looks over her shoulder and laughs at
Matin’s hair coloring kit. So little hair, so much
vanity.
    At noon, Maria hurries
into the kitchen and grabs tomatoes, a cucumber, cheese and lunch
meat from the fridge.
    Nasreen surges forward,
right into Maria’s face. “Don’t stop! There’s more to find. You
still haven’t found me!”
    Maria stills and cocks her
head to one side. Her breath comes hard and fast as her gaze