Free Bone and Bread by Saleema Nawaz Page A

thinking about what Mama had said to us, but Sadhana staved off any hesitation.
    â€œShe’s a redhead,” said my sister, shrugging. “What does she know about moustaches?”
    That year Mama gave us each a blank notebook for our birthdays. “Stay in touch with yourselves,” she said, without a trace of wryness, “if not with me.” It was possible that she sensed how our idea of her had started shifting. Each notebook had a bright woven cover and delicate pages the colour of coffee stains.
    Sadhana hugged hers to her chest. “I’m going to use mine to keep a journal,” she said. “And you better not read it.”
    â€œI wouldn’t,” said Mama. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
    â€œI know, Mama. I meant Beena.”
    â€œFine,” I said. “Same goes for mine.” I wrote DIARY on the flyleaf and announced that I was going to hide it in our room, though I thought it seemed like a chore to write about things that had already happened.
    Mama bought one for herself that she was going to keep beside her bed for writing down dreams. Elise, one of her yoga-teacher friends, did dream analysis. Of Mama’s strange recurring dream of brightly coloured parrots tumbling from the sky, Elise had said, “There’s nothing waiting for you in heaven that you don’t already have on Earth.” As she related both the dream and its interpretation, it was clear that Mama was eager to hear what Elise might say next. She left us to rinse the plates from the birthday dinner and bid us an early goodnight, patting her stomach. “A full belly is better for dreaming,” she said, laughing. “Wish me luck.”
    After we could hear Mama’s light snoring, my sister dared me to hide Mama’s turban. Sadhana had wide-open, mischievous eyes that spoke of a post-cake sugar rush.
    â€œNo way,” I said. There were some things Mama could joke about, but that wasn’t one of them.
    But Sadhana wasn’t to be put off. “Chicken,” she said, and while I wondered if I really was, she ran and shoved Mama’s turban into the bottom of the laundry hamper and returned to our bedroom in a fit of giggles. Although Mama had mostly stopped wearing it outside by the time we started school, she still wrapped her head before doing yoga. She said it helped keep the bones of the skull in place and channel positive energy.
    â€œI wear it for all the reasons that your uncle wears it,” she said as she scolded us the next morning. “And why Papa used to. For the reasons all proud Sikhs wear it. It is a very courageous thing to do when so many people around you despise you for it. Or even attack you. Or your business.”
    â€œYour business,” I repeated.
    â€œDo you remember the fire?” said Mama, and we nodded. “Well, that happened because somebody didn’t like seeing Uncle behind the counter in his turban.”
    Sadhana raised her eyebrows. “I thought that was an anti-Jewish thing done by neo-Nazis who were too stupid to realize who was running the bagel shop.”
    â€œReally?” I said. For some reason, my sister and I had never talked about the people who had set the fire. Maybe because we were too afraid.
    Sadhana tucked her feet up under her. “Yeah. I remember Uncle trying to wash off the swastikas.”
    â€œThe swastika isn’t just a symbol against Judaism anymore,” said Mama. “It’s a symbol of intolerance and prejudice against all kinds of people.”
    Sadhana said, “Bagel haters, then. Anti-bagelists.”
    I cracked up, and Mama looked severe.
    â€œDo you think there was anything funny about the fire?”
    I fell silent.
    Mama said that for most people there was a difference between claiming to believe something and actually showing you believed it by changing the way you looked. “It’s different from wearing punk or hippie clothes, which are