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288 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 16, 2022
“[W]e talked incessantly about the gap between here and there. With each articulated difference, we flattened ourselves and let American define us. We were only ever what it was not.”
“The newness of America beckoned. Kelly and Amy appeared crisp, like newly tailored clothes, the fact of them being strangers suddenly inviting. Abbu’s tyranny, Ammi’s coldness, Faisal’s petty concerns— I would leave them all behind. Because I was sixteen, and I thought one did that, could do that— leave anything behind.”
"There's a strain of story this could fall into. The foreigner trying to fit in, hindered by accent and Fahrenheit and the Imperial system. The intelligent immigrant turned hapless by America. The outsider on the periphery of America. The entranced documenter of America.
The truth—I was bloody bored."
"As always, Abbu was using her as his khalifa to dictate what I wore just the way he had told her, the year I turned ten, that I should start wearing a dupatta over my chest. And as always, I would forgive him much sooner than I forgave her.... He was a father. She was a mother. His errors and cruelties I would forget, or at least learn not to hold against him. His acts of love—the jasmine buds he collected in a porcelain plate on spring mornings, the omelet he made one lazy Sunday, the times he took us to the doctor in a dusty '96 Corolla—were vividly imprinted on my mind as the events that they were. Hers—the lonely vigil over the cot, kettles of heated water for our baths, corrected homework assignments, matching socks—were the constant offices of love, invisible and uncounted."
"What else did I do in those arid weeks leading to departure, when everything—friends, habits, the curves of the mattress—threatened to soon become memory? For months and years after, I would try to grasp at that—what it looked like, the thing that was lost. I would chase after the texture of that time and place, zeroing in on that summer, when I knew only one home, had parents who had seen everything that had ever happened to me ... All these prelapsarian significances came later, though, because life is lived in one direction and understood in the other. In those days of summer dew ... it was just life happening the way it always had. It was the furniture of days."
"I didn't know this back then, but no one in the world would ever be as much like me as Rabia and the other girls I was leaving behind. No matter what we did or where we fled to, whether we had babies at twenty or became surgeons at thirty, we were all shaped by the dawn and dusk of the Potohar, its parched gullies and ridges, the tyranny of Pindi winters, chaat samosay, naan kabab, the gravel of the morning assembly loudspeaker, the acridity of the chemistry lab, but above all the knowledge that we were all in it together—that giddy, intractable project of not being an adult."
"I was missing a moment that had not yet passed, and knew, as one sometimes does, that I would clung forever to that scene beneath the tree.... What of tomorrow? Perhaps if you imagine a moment long enough, it begins to exist outside of time. The Chai is always pouring. The tree never dies. It is raining forever."
"Let me tell you one of my most dearly held orthodoxies—for anyone who leaves home, that becomes the most interesting story of their life."
"Women are penalized for all the noticing we do. Something about us makes it very hard to forgive us."
"Condolence is the last frontier of language."
"I wish to remain unmoving, still and static, as continents shift and rearrange themselves around me, as everything changes and nothing does."