Free The Lost Pearl (2012) by Lara Zuberi Page A

was constantly entertaining us with her collection of memorized blonde jokes. I remember how we all laughed when she told us the one about the blonde and the brunette betting on a newscast: “So a blonde and a brunette were watching the six o’clock news, which included a report of a man threatening to jump off the San Francisco Bridge. The blonde bet her brunette friend hundred dollars that he wouldn’t jump. He jumped, so the blonde gave her friend fifty dollars. The brunette confessed that she had already seen the footage on the five o’clock news, so she really couldn’t take the money. ‘So did I,’ said the blonde. ‘But I didn’t think he would jump again.’”
    Kavita was from Bombay, India. She had dark skin and sharp features, which were complemented by thick black hair that she wore in a bob cut. She was sweet and down-to-earth,and although she had the blessing of both parents, she had lost her eight-year-old sister to typhoid. Tragedy had brought us all together and wrapped us in a tight blanket of friendship, protecting us from the harsh winters of our troubled memories.
    Jennifer and Kavita were both more open than I was and did not have much trouble expressing their feelings. We all knew how to laugh at ourselves, so I would share jokes about Pakistanis, and Kavita would come up with jokes about Indians. Kavita and I would often indulge in Desi talk, much to Jennifer’s chagrin. I would ask Kavita all about the Indian movie stars and the latest Bollywood gossip. We would sing songs often, from the oldies from the sixties, to the latest ones from the nineties, and Jennifer would be amused by our repertoire of memorized lyrics. She was astonished when she heard stories of people having arranged marriages. Kavita was already engaged to her aunt’s husband’s nephew and seemed content with the matrimony planned for a few years later.
    One day Jennifer, after having an argument with her father over the phone, called me to share her pain. I had just spoken to my stepfather and was also feeling down. He had had an appendectomy, and my mother insisted that I inquire after his health.
    “Let’s go out and try to feel better,” Jennifer suggested. When I agreed, she said we should go to the bar for a drink.
    “No, Jennifer. You know I don’t drink, and I won’t let you do it either; I don’t want you to get hurt.”
    “Oh, please. Do you think our parents care? If they don’t, then why should we? Stop preaching and come with me.”
    She kept insisting that I join her and promised it would make me feel better. I told her that I could not do something that was forbidden to me by my religion. I was not very pious—I had missed several prayers and fasts and I had not been an obedient daughter—but I could not consume alcohol. I had no attraction to something that claimed seventy thousand lives each year in this country alone, that changed a person in every way.
    “Even if it makes you happy, how long does that happiness last?” I said, trying to convince her.
    “Well, the happiness after watching a good movie, listening to a good song, reading a good book, or eating a delicious meal doesn’t last either. That’s why we find happiness in small packages and combine them together to create true happiness.”
    “Actually a really good book and a really good song can give you lasting happiness, or at least they can stay with you a long time and help you grow. Music and literature make this world a better place and they certainly do not take your senses away from you. They don’t make you do things you would otherwise never consider doing. They don’t change who you are.”
    We continued to argue until I realized that I was not going to succeed in changing her mind. “If you aren’t going to listen, I’ll come with you, but only to drive you back home. I’ll wait outside.”
    So that was what we did. From that day on, we both accepted that we could not change each other, but that did not mean we