Read The Lost Pearl (2012) for Free Online

US citizenship, so I did not require a visa. She wrote that it would significantly help her deal with her loss, as she would feel like a part of her brother was with her. That was what I wanted—to be in a place where my father was remembered, where his praises were sung, where his pictures graced the walls, where missing him did not require an apology, and where his name did not top the unspoken list of prohibited words.
    My mother was upset at me for my audacity and at my aunt for supporting my unreasonable demands. They had been close previously, but my mother’s new marriage so soon after my father’s passing had created some understandable resentment between them. My mother was weak, however, and soon gave in to the idea. It seemed that part of her was relieved; she and her new husband had by then started quarrelling rather frequently, and I was the central theme of all their arguments. I often overheard my mother asking him to give me some more time.
    “She will adjust; please give her one more chance. She’s really not usually rude like that, she just…” Her tone was that of someone begging for mercy, knowing that it was unlikely to be granted. Mr. Rehman was a decent man but had a sizable ego, and he could not tolerate my impertinent behavior or my refusal to call him papa or abbu. My mother was struggling to make her marriage work. If things fell apart, she would have nowhere to go. I wished I could take my baby brother with me. After all I was not angry with him—envious maybe, but not angry. He was a child and he did what he was told. If he got along well with my stepfather, then that was probably good for him. I knew deep inside that he could not go with me. I was the one having trouble with everything, not him. Being separated from him was the price I would have to pay for my freedom.
    I asked to go to the beach, where Papa used to take us every weekend. I loved to collect seashells and had collected several of them, which I kept in a jar at home. Papa would often put a large shell to his ear and show us how to hear the sound of the ocean through it. I took a small container with me and filled it with some sand. Papa always used to tell me how people would take the sand of their homeland with them whenever they left so they did not lose the connection with their country. I visited my school, where I had been since kindergarten; it was where I had spent memorable times and made the best of friends, where I had helped paint a wall with a rainbow and plant a tree that wasnow several feet tall, where my biggest worry had been being three minutes late for school and missing the morning assembly, where I had cut my forehead after falling from the swing and had learned to recite the national anthem with fervor. It was where I had spent one rupee each day on a tiny packet of mouthwatering chili chips that burnt the tongue yet had the power of addicting us all. It was where Amna and I had discovered a secret hiding place near a staircase that no one else knew about, and where the red-bearded man we called “Lala” had conscientiously banged the metal drum to signal the ending of every half-hour period.
    I asked to see my old house before leaving, as it was the only home I had ever known, each wall housing a remembrance, every corner telling a story. It was vacant now, filled with hardworking men redoing the paint on the walls. It had a strong smell of fresh paint, but strongest of all was the scent of unfamiliarity. I spent a few moments in my room, reflecting on the last time I had had a restful sleep in my bed. Then I proceeded to the study, where, despite the newspapers lining the floors and the spatter of ivory paint all over, I could still feel my father’s presence. I gazed up at the newly installed window, while saying a silent prayer. I promised Papa that I would always keep his memory alive. I vowed never to forget him or all that he had taught me in the small serving of time he had been given to share