Free An American Brat by Bapsi Sidhwa Page A

turn!”
    The slight, sunny-haired youth’s sneakers squeaked as he came to an astonished halt.
    Feroza realized how strange and rude she must sound. She caught hold of the cart handle. “I don’t know how to get this,” she explained, half apologetic, half appealing for help. “Can you show me?”
    The young man bent his sunny head to catch her breathy rush of words.
    Feroza delved into her purse and fetched up a small wad of dollar bills of different denominations. She held them out for his inspection.
    The lean young man’s smoky gray eyes were appraising her with the kind of interest and candor that would have fetched hima bullet from any self-respecting Pakistani father.
    Feroza lowered her lids in confusion and unwittingly acquired a haughty air. He was half a foot taller than her five feet four inches. He appeared to her a great deal taller.
    Teasingly attempting to look into her eyes, aware of her embarrassment, the youth leaned closer. He smiled flirtatiously, warmly, and, talking in an accent she found difficult to follow but pleasing, showed her how to insert the dollar bill.
    Feroza loaded her suitcases and hand luggage on the cart. Her mind was now filled with images of the slender young American and his candid, admiring eyes. How easily he had talked to her, his gestures open, confident. She wished she could have responded to his readiness to be friends, but she was too self-conscious.
    That was it: the word she was seeking to define her new experience. He was unselfconscious. And, busy with their own concerns, none of the people moving about them had even bothered to glance their way or stare at her, as they would have in Pakistan.
    Her wide-open eyes soaking in the new impressions as she pushed the cart, a strange awareness seeped into Feroza: She knew no one, and no one knew her! It was a heady feeling to be suddenly so free — for the moment, at least — of the thousand constraints that governed her life.

    The two panels of a heavy exit door at the far end opened to allow a stack of crates to pass, and, suddenly, Feroza saw Manek leaning against the demarcation railing just outside the exit. One ankle comfortably crossed over the other, arms patiently folded, Manek had peered into the abruptly revealed interior also.
    After an initial start, and without the slightest change in his laid-back posture, he at once contorted his features to display a gamut of scatty emotions — surprise, confusion, helplessness — to reflect Feroza’s presumed condition. At the same time, he raised a languid forearm from the elbow and waved his handfrom side to side like a mechanical paw.
    Feroza squealed and waved her whole arm and, with a huge grin on her face, steered the cart towards him. She was so excited, and also relieved, to see him. Even from the distance, his skin looked lighter, his face fuller. He had grown a mustache. Knowing him as she did, his deliberate insouciance and the regal wave of the mechanical paw filled her with delight. He hadn’t changed as much as her mother had imagined. He was the same old Manek, except he was really glad to see her. Three years of separation have a mellowing effect, make remembered ways dearer. Feroza’s heart filled with affection for her former tormentor. Having no brothers, she hadn’t realized how much she missed him.
    A woman in a blue uniform, stationed at a counter to the left of Feroza’s path, checked her. “Hey! You can’t leave the terminal. Your passport, please.” She held out her hand.
    The woman read the white slip inserted in the passport. She looked sternly at Feroza. “You must go for secondary inspection.” Again the cryptic instruction.
    The woman said something to a man in a white shirt and navy pants standing by her. She showed him the slip and gave him Feroza’s passport.
    Feroza noticed the “Immigration” badge pinned to the man’s shirt. He motioned to