Masks
Ahmed A. Khan – Canada

My name is Kashmira. Of course, it is not my real name. None of the names recounted here are real.

I am from India and I am twenty five. People tell me that I am quite unpretentious, nice, and not bad-looking either. They also say that I am temperamental. Of course, you can’t expect them to be right every time.

The time that I am writing about, I was on the lookout for Mr. Right.

I was an only child of my parents. I had studied medicine and, at the age of twenty-four, I was offered a job in the petroleum-rich country of Kuwait. I was to work there as a doctor in a private hospital. I left for Kuwait. My parents accompanied me.

My first few days in Kuwait were terrible. First, there was the culture shock. Second, there was the language barrier. Third, there was the extreme climate. Kuwait was — and is — one of the hottest countries in the world. It is hot seven to eight months of the year and at its peak, the temperature goes about 55 degrees Celsius in the shade (which is about 131 degrees Fahrenheit). Just imagine what it would be in direct sunlight. Due to these extreme conditions, it is a law that a public holiday be declared on any day when the shade temperature crosses the 50 degrees Celsius mark. However, it is a curious fact that the officially declared temperature never goes beyond 49 degrees on working days.

Another thing that took a bit of adjusting was the fact that the weekend here was Thursday and Friday and not Saturday and Sunday.

With the passing of time, I became acclimatized to the new culture and found that it was an interesting one. Kuwait was a city flanked on one side by the sea and on the other by the desert. Here was a combination of the traditional and modern. Beside a crowded five-star hotel, you could find an equally crowded roadside cafe‚ where people, in their traditional dress, sat drinking qahwa (Turkish coffee, strong, black, and unsweetened) and playing dominoes. A couple of hours' drive in a car would take you out of the city into the desert where sheep and camels could be spotted grazing on the sparse desert plants and grasses.

Being intelligent and articulate, it didn't take me more than six months to pick up enough Arabic to manage a conversation adequately. The problem of the extremely hot weather in the long summer months was solved simply by remaining indoors as often as possible.

Being a normal full-blooded woman, desire for male companionship was never far back from my consciousness, and my innate nature was such that this desire was immediately followed by thoughts of marriage fleeting sweetly through my head. I did not believe in extra-marital sex.

My parents had already started looking for a suitable match for me but fates decreed otherwise. Both of them died in a car crash.

I was shattered. But the seemingly eternal sands of time slowly buried my grief under them. Slowly, life returned to normal.

A year later, the perfumed thoughts of marriage once again began wafting through my brain. And this time, I was on my own. Whatever was to be done about my marriage, had to be done by myself.

More and more frequently, I began picturing myself in a bridal dress. There was one difficulty, though. I didn't know anyone in Kuwait, or in India, whom I could picture as my bridegroom.

But wait. There was one young man who just might have qualified: a man whom I had known since he and I were small kids back in India; a man who people said was open, cheerful, and kind; a man who was well-educated, well-bred, and well-settled. Another great thing was that he was close by. He too lived and worked in Kuwait. His name was Azmi.

There was, however, one small problem. I didn't like Azmi at all. Something about him, some nameless thing, rubbed me the wrong way. Even as kids we had always fought each other on one pretext or another. My match with Azmi was therefore unthinkable.

One day I went shopping for some dresses. There was a discount sale going on at one of the big ready-made garment shops in Al Watan shopping center.

And there I met Samean.

Samean was a ruggedly handsome young man. He was the owner of the garment store. The first time I met him he was dressed in a spotless white dishdasha, the cultural dress of the Arabs. He looked quite dashing in it. We started talking. He complimented me on my dress. (I was wearing a deep sky-blue Punjabi suit and it was one of my favorite dresses.) He invited me to dinner and I accepted.

At dinner we found out a lot about each other. He was twenty-nine years of age. I was impressed that at such a young age he had turned himself out into a successful businessman. I found myself attracted to him in spite of the fact that he seemed to lack a formal education beyond the high school level. But the magnetism of his personality made this lack seem insignificant to me.

Samean overwhelmed me, swept me off my feet, and one day, he proposed to me.

This was what I was waiting for. I accepted, a bit too eagerly, I think.

One evening, as I relaxed in the living room of my apartment, watching TV, the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, Kashmira," said a slightly familiar masculine voice.

"Who is it? Azmi?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes," a short silence. "So, you haven't forgotten my name yet. That is good to know."

"What do you want?"

"I want …" A pause. "Well, I want to warn you."

"What?" I snapped.

"Don't bristle. Just listen to me. I know you do not fall over yourself in taking my advice ever, but I still feel it is my duty to tell you that Samean is not a very good person."

"Mind your own business," I shouted into the mouthpiece and slammed the receiver down on the cradle.

Then one hot summer day, during a picnic at a lonely beach, Samean took me in his arms and kissed me full on the lips. The kiss tantalized me, left me breathless. The force of gravity lost its grip on my senses and I felt I was floating in air, weightless. I was brought down to earth with a jarring impact when I felt Samean's fingers unbuttoning my blouse.

"No." I pulled back. "What are you doing?"

"Relax," Samean said in a cool voice. "We are going to get married anyway, so what's the problem?"

At first, I thought Samean was joking, but finally when I realized that he was not, I tore myself free from his grasp and ran to my car. Samean ran after me but panic seemed to give me wings. I reached the car, started it, and had it moving before he could reach the parking lot.

At home, I wept with self-pity at my poor choice, at the falling of my idol, and at the fact that Azmi had been proven right.

That night, Samean called me on the phone. He told me that if I reported that day's incident to the police or even to my friends, he would kill me. His voice was cold and matter-of-fact when he told me that. And I believed him. I believed that he was capable of doing what he said he would do.

I was so frightened that the whole night I remained awake, shivering in spite of the intense heat in the air. I had never felt so lonely ever before.

A few days later, I met Ameri at a party. Ameri was a suave, sophisticated, smart young man. He was a police officer.

Ameri seemed to be attracted to me. At the party, he invited me to dine with him the next weekend. I refused. Somehow, I felt repelled by him. There was something about him that made me dislike him.

A few days later, at another party, I ran across Ameri again. Despite my unwillingness to talk to him, he managed to attach himself to me. Then, just as I was trying to think of ways to dislodge Ameri from me, I spotted Samean and I suppose my face went pale. Ameri noticed this.

"What's the matter," he asked, his voice full of concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," I managed to mumble.

By then, Samean had spotted me. With an insolent smile on his lips, he sauntered toward me.

"Got yourself a new boyfriend, hmm?" he said. "Who is this wimp?"

"Get lost," said Ameri before I could say anything.

Samean looked disdainfully at him.

"Shut up," he said.

"You know who I am?" asked Ameri calmly.

"Yes, I do," said Samean. "You are stupid."

Ameri put his hand in the pocket of his coat and pulled out one of his visiting cards. He handed it to Samean.

Samean paled. Insulting a police officer is not at all healthy, especially in Kuwait. He turned tail and within moments, had vanished from the party.

I immediately felt my dislike for Ameri lessen. In the next few minutes, I had accepted his dinner invitation.

This had been during the weekend, on Thursday night. The next day being a holiday, I slept till late in the morning. What finally woke me up was a combination of a bad dream and the telephone bell.

I yawned, stretched out my hand, and picked up the receiver that lay on the table beside my bed.

"Hello," I said sleepily.

It was Azmi on the other side. My heart skipped a beat. I felt that Azmi's calls had become some sort of an omen for me.

"What do you want now?" I asked wearily.

"I will not say 'I told you so' about Samean. But at least listen to my advice now. Ameri is no better than Samean. I am sorely disappointed with your choice of male friends."

"What do you do? Spy on me?" I was enraged.

“I have done my duty. Now it is up to you,” he said and disconnected the line without giving me the benefit of a reply. I sat in bed for a few minutes, feeling, for some reason, totally disoriented.

Days passed and my friendship with Ameri seemed to grow. One day, Ameri proposed marriage, but after Samean, I wanted to be extra careful. I told him that I needed time to decide. Ameri took it very well and didn’t push.

A few days later, after sunset, while returning home from the hospital in my car, I spotted a neon-lit board displaying the name of an Indian restaurant. That day I didn't feel like going home and cooking my own food so I pulled my car to the curb, parked it, and entered the dim-lit dining hall of the restaurant.

As I cast my eyes about the place to select an empty table for myself, I spotted Ameri at a table down the hall, half-hidden by some potted plant. Oh good, I thought, I won't have to eat alone now. As I was about to make my way down to Ameri's table, I noticed that he was not alone. There was another man with him and both of them were deeply immersed in conversation.

I was shocked when I recognized the other man with Ameri.

Samean!

With Ameri?

I went and sat unobtrusively at a table near theirs, such that the potted plants formed an effective barrier between us. Then I tuned my ears to their conversation.

"... in Kuwait for quite a few years and has a sizable amount stashed away in her bank account," Samean was saying, "and she is pretty too."

Whom were they talking about?

"You approve of my choice?" Ameri asked, laughing.

"Wholeheartedly."

"And my strategy?"

"Perfect. You have all the makings of a good political leader."

"Listen. I want to wind up this operation fast. The last time I asked her to marry me, she pleaded for time to think it over. I don't want to give her any more time."

WHO IS HE TALKING ABOUT? My mind screamed at me.

"I think it is time you put some more fear into her," continued Ameri, "so that she rushes to me for protection."

"Will do," said Samean nonchalantly.

They ... are ... talking ... about ... me ...

In a flash I understood the intricate politics of the situation. My eyes now perceived the masks that people wore in the world around me.

I felt a shroud of numbness slowly descend upon me and cover me from head to feet.

Many days later:

A winter evening.

I rang the bell at Azmi's apartment.

He opened the door. He was dressed in his pajamas. His mouth fell open when he saw me.

“You?” was all he was able to say.

I entered the apartment without speaking, and went and sat on the sofa in the sitting room. He followed me silently and sat on another sofa facing me. We looked at each other for some time. His apartment was cold. I started shivering in spite of the thick jeans and jacket and the overcoat that I was wearing. He noticed this, got up, went inside, and returned, carrying a blanket that he extended to me. I took the blanket from him and wrapped it around myself.

Once again he went inside. This time, he returned after about ten minutes carrying two cups of tea and another blanket.

Very soon, both of us were wrapped in blankets sitting on sofas facing each other. Both of us had steaming cups of tea in our hands.

"Why don't you turn on the heater?" I asked, sipping my tea slowly.

"A blanket is more fun," Azmi replied with a grin, "but I am sure you didn't come to my place in order to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of a blanket over a heater. What brings you here, Kashmira?"

"Still the same old, blunt Azmi?"

Azmi spread his hands deprecatingly. Silence prevailed in the room for a few minutes.

"Azmi?"

"Yes?"

"What is your opinion of me?"

Azmi stared at me, surprised at my question. Then he laughed.

"You are an addle-brained, quarrelsome, idiotic girl. And your choice of boyfriends is nothing to be proud of, either."

I didn't say anything, only looked at him.

Laughter left his face.

He said, "And I too am an addle-brained idiot because I still like you."

His voice was still light but his face and body language expressed an unusual intensity.

“Do you truly like me?”

“Yes,” he said, simply.

"Do you like me enough to marry me?"

"What?" Tea spilled from Azmi's cup on to his blanket. For several seconds, he stared at me incredulously. Then he carefully put down his cup of tea on the table, and bent forward.

"You are not joking, are you?" His voice was almost pleading.

I lowered my eyes. "No," I said. "I am not joking."

He was silent for a long time.

“The question is,” he began speaking softly, “do you like me enough to marry me?”

Without any reason that I could pinpoint specifically, my eyes filled with tears. I lowered my head. “Yes,” I said — and knew it to be true — and suddenly I started sobbing. Amidst my sobs I heard a sniff. I raised my head to find that tears were flowing from Azmi's eyes too. The sight was so ludicrous that I smiled through my tears.

"I was under the impression that only women are supposed to cry and not men," I said.

"Humbug," said Azmi through his tears. “I am willing to smash the face of anyone who claims that.”

“Let us go back to India,” I said.

“We will,” he said.

Suddenly, both of us wiped off our tears and smiled, and it was like the sun coming out after rains.