Their Language of Love by Bapsi Sidhwa Read Free Book Online Page A

reconcile the hedonistic shopper, the model swirling girlishly in the kitchen, the enthusiastic tourist and giver of gifts with this aggressive sage frightening him with her doom-booming voice, and a volley of bizarre accusations. ‘Could we talk about this later?’ he mumbled, tripping over the chair as he got to his feet. ‘I’m getting late for classes …’
    ‘Then go!’ Zareen was imperious with scorn. ‘But please do think about the sacrifice you are asking of my daughter.’
    Feroza, who had retreated to her room and was nervously bracing herself for a quarrel, was not prepared for the ferocity of Zareen’s attack—or its dangerous direction—asshe marched into the room saying: ‘You are both selfish: Thinking of no one else … And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to!’
    ‘What am I up to?’ At once on her guard, Feroza adopted a haughty tone.
    ‘Ask your conscience that! We have taught you what is wrong and what is right!’
    ‘If you’re referring to my virginity, you may relax,’ Feroza said attaching umbrage to her haughty voice. ‘I’m perhaps the only nineteen-year-old virgin in all America.’
    ‘You were not in your bed at three o’clock this morning! You expect me to believe you?’
    ‘Believe what you want—since you don’t trust me!’ Feroza said with scathing dignity and stalked out of the room. Zareen followed her furiously. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me! Look me in the eye!’
    They had the house to themselves. In the course of the row, mother and daughter stormed in and out of rooms, raking old quarrels, wrenching open doors and banging them shut. At the end of an hour, Zareen, trembling with rage and exhaustion, raised her hand threateningly: ‘Don’t think you’re too old to get slapped!’
    Feroza moved close to her parent, and caught her hand in a violent gesture of defiance. She stared at Zareen out of savage lynx eyes, her pupils narrowed. Zareen felt she had provoked something dangerous in them both. Tears springing to her eyes she jerked her arm free. She walked to the flimsy entrance door, wrenched it open and stalked out of the house.
    Zareen had barely walked a block up the quiet, deserted street when she heard the angry whirr of wheels as Feroza reversed the Chevette out of the drive. A moment later she whizzed past.
    Having only two legs to stalk out on, instead of the four wheels on which Feroza had swept by to such dramatic effect, Zareen felt drained and defeated. She turned round slowly and went back to the house.
    Zareen sat brooding before the TV, searching her soul. She had acted exactly in a way calculated to push her daughter into the arms of this David. How could she have been so foolish? She was the mother—and yet Feroza had shown more maturity and restraint in her behaviour than she had.
    Late in the evening, lying on her bed, Zareen heard Laura and Shirley enter the house. She heard the garage door click: David had returned. Feroza must be with him. Quickly opening a magazine, she waited breathlessly for Feroza. The moments dragged by and she wondered if Feroza would show up at all. She wanted desperately to effect a reconciliation, wipe away the hurt in both their hearts. Feroza did not come. In fact the house was silent, as if it was empty. Tears sprang to Zareen’s eyes and she put the magazine away.
    Zareen absently heard the phone ring. A little later Shirley knocked on her open door and shyly, as was her way, said: ‘Feroza called. She asked me to tell you she is spending the night with a friend. She will see you after classes tomorrow.’
    She hesitantly stepped into the room. ‘Are you all right? Can I get you anything?’
    ‘I’m all right dear …’ Zareen said, her voice thick. ‘Thanksa lot for asking. I’m just a bit tired … I was waiting for Feroza.’
    ‘You sound as if you’re heading for a cold,’ Shirley said. ‘Let me get you a glass of warm milk.’
    Zareen felt soothed by the attention. She