Newcomer
by Saba Waheed
My mother asked me to stop by the house to meet the latest arrivals. It was Saturday night and, having recently moved back to the Bay Area, I didn’t have any plans. I got there just as they were sitting down to dinner.
Sohail was sent to us by one of my cousins in Lahore. “I did my graduate studies here,” he told us. “I made some good connections. One of them came through.”
“That’s quite a feat,” said my father. “Not a lot of Pakistanis are getting visas these days.”
“Tell me about it,” Sohail responded. “We feel like we won the lottery.”
I looked over at his wife, Haniya, who hadn’t spoken yet. She wore an embroidered kurta over black pants. Her hair was wavy and reached her shoulders. She barely wore any makeup.
“What kind of work do you do?” I asked her.
“I have a master’s in business and economics from LUMS,” she said.
“One of the best universities in the country,” my mother clarified for me.
“But I can’t work. I’m an H1B wife.” She said this as though it had been branded on her at the airport.
“Maybe we can find you something still,” said my mother.
“I tell her not to worry about work.” Sohail turned towards our conversation. “It could be a good time for us to start a family.”
My mother glanced at him and turned back to Haniya. “Yes, but she can also work.”
Haniya shifted in her chair slightly. “Aunty, if you know of anything…”
“Of course, let me ask around.” My mother was the perpetual connector and networker.
We finished dinner and Haniya joined me in the kitchen to help me clean up. I washed the dishes while she dried. For a while, we were both quiet, only hearing the sounds of water running and plates clinking. Finally, Haniya spoke. “Your mom said you recently moved back.”
“Yeah, I got a job here, and I needed a break from New York.”
“I hope to go to New York one day.”
“Everyone should go there at least once.” I thought of how once I’d ached to get to the city, and now, didn’t want to be anywhere near it. We finished washing and moved to put the plates into the cupboard.
“Your mother is so helpful.”
“She’s been doing this for as long as I can remember. Our house was stop number one after the airport. She showed them the mosque, introduced them to others, pointed out the cheaper grocery stores, and directed them to the halal markets.” I thought about how some rose, jumping leaps and bounds into double-story houses in wealthy suburbs. Others remained in apartments. My family, we stayed in the middle—living in the same tract house in Fremont.
“That’s really nice.”
“As a kid, I loved it. It felt like an endless sleepover. But then, as a teenager, I started to resent giving up my room. I had nothing in common with the people who came. We never asked how long they were staying, so they felt like perpetual squatters. I hated the road trips to the Golden Gate bridge and Fisherman’s Wharf. I’d whine, ‘it’s just a bunch of tourist stores on the water, what’s the big deal?’”
Haniya laughed. “Don’t worry, we won’t ask you to take us there.”
Funny thing is, I wouldn’t mind.
**
When my mother asked me to spend some time with Haniya, I said yes. She and I met in a cafe in the Valley. It was a warehouse building with brewing equipment in the back. Instead of tables, there was a long thin metal railing, just wide enough to place a cup of coffee on. It was Saturday morning and the café was already bustling with people. We ordered and found two stools against the railing. Haniya was wearing black jeans with a white button-down top and a jean jacket.
“This place is cute. It reminds me of Lahore.”
“Cafés in Lahore look like this?”
“Even cooler,” she said as she scanned the room. “When were you there last?”
“It’s been at least 10 years.”
“You wouldn’t recognize it today.” I looked around the space and realized I didn’t know this place either. I’d left for college and came back for visits but had missed the tech boom and all the changes that came with it.
“When did you guys get here?”
“Inauguration Day.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You should be.” She flicked her hair back, revealing more of her face, and smiled. “The things that man said. I begged Sohail to find work somewhere else—Dubai, Singapore, Canada. But he insisted that an opportunity in the U.S. is a once in a lifetime. It is, but do we really want it? Look at this Muslim ban.”
“But did you see all the people that came out to the airports?”
“That was heartening to see,” she said contemplatively. “Honestly, if I was working, it would be better.”
“Anything come of the internship?”
“Not yet. But your mother is trying.”
“What kind of work do you want to do?”
“After college, I got a job working for a financial literacy program for young women. I’d just love to find a cool NGO.”
“That’s awesome. I don’t know much about that stuff, I’m just an architect.” I suddenly felt awkward.
“Well, we need builders in this world.” Her validation made me smile. She was bold and big in a way that I wish I was. “This no-working thing is ridiculous. The other day I found this blog. And there were all these women who were professors and doctors, with years of experience. Smart women stuck at home, waiting for a change in their husband’s status. It’s like we’re back in the last century.”
“I’m sorry it’s been so hard.” I wished I could offer her more than words.
**
The next time I saw Haniya was on Eid. When I stepped out of my apartment, the streets were empty. The morning was overcast and chilly. My heels clicked loudly as I walked down the sidewalk to my car. I got to Fremont and entered the backyard of an old family friend. At barely 8 am, the space was already filled with people who had come from the morning prayers. Men and women both were giving each other shoulder-to-shoulder hugs. I scanned the space for my mother and I saw Memon Aunty. Our eyes met and a smile overtook her entire face.
Her husband was one of the first arrivals. I remember I would ride on his shoulders and ask questions like “Are Memons different from Punjabis?” “We’re all the same here,” he’d responded and then laughed. Memon Uncle came with his brother on a student visa and lived in an apartment with a bunch of other men. One day, his brother was gone. Years later, I asked my mother what happened to him. She said they had both overstayed their visas, and one of them had gotten caught. “And Memon Uncle?” “The amnesty program in the 80s,” my mother said matter-of-factly.
I remember when he showed up with aunty. In the early days, it was mostly young men who came for home-cooked meals while they finished up school. Soon, they were showing up with their wives. Young, beautiful, with heavy make-up common for newlyweds. I remember how Memon Aunty smelled of lilacs and wore bright lipstick. She would put her hand on Uncle’s shoulder when she talked, massaging it slightly—affection I had never seen between my own parents. She immediately called me her niece, asking me endless questions about school and my friends, and gave me full embraces that stayed with me for hours after.
Memon Aunty came over and gave me a warm and deep hug. She was one of the few people who knew the full me and still held me close. We quickly caught up. She squeezed my hand, and whispered, “I heard about the breakup. But your mother is so happy you are back.”
As if hearing her name called, my mother showed up. We gave each other Eid hugs and she walked me through the space as we greeted the hordes of family friends. My mother kept me near her. She knew the space was both familial and uncomfortable. The aunties had their judgment of the unmarried girl heading into her late thirties. But they would never say anything to my mother’s face. People respected her too much.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was Haniya. She wore a white shilwar kameez with a colorful dupatta. The outfit was simple but she made it look so elegant. She greeted my mother who left us to catch up.
“What a nice party,” Haniya said.
“These guys have been throwing it since I was a kid.”
“Such a range!” I looked around and it was true. There were women in traditional afghani wear, women in hijabs that matched the embroidery in their tops, others in sleeveless kurtas. Some had elaborate mehndi on their hands. Smiles and embraces everywhere. A group of teenage girls walked by with stiletto heels and way too much makeup.
“Was that you?” Haniya giggled.
“Definitely not. I was the one with glasses and hair tied back.” We walked over to the buffet. In the distance, I saw Sohail sitting with my father. He was wearing slacks with a blazer and a pink shirt. . He’d grown a beard, nicely manicured, with whites scattered throughout and on part of his head. It gave him a distinguished look. Together they made a handsome couple.
“I think he’s bored,” Haniya said. “Should we save him?” She signaled to him to come over but he motioned that he was okay. We passed through the buffets, filling our plates with chana, halva and puri and an assortment of kebabs. “He’s under a lot of stress. He’s the only son and has to support both his sisters. One is still in high school and the other about to start college.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Yeah, the family invested all their savings on him to study abroad, so now it’s his turn to give back.” We found some chairs in the shade and sat down. “On top of that, he has to prove himself to his company so that they will sponsor him.”
“Does it seem possible?”
“It gets harder every day.”
**
Haniya and I started to meet regularly. Getting coffee and brunch every few weekends. One Sunday, we decided to go to the Fremont theaters and watch the latest Bollywood movie. I hadn’t seen one in years. Afterwards, we walked to a nearby chaat house. “They’re so modern now, kissing on screen,” I said as I blew on my chai.
“You are really behind the times,” Haniya chuckled.
“I’m a bumpkin in the city,” I offered. “I grew up on these films and had no idea what sex was. They never kissed but then they’d get knocked up.”
“Right, you remove the veil on the wedding night and boom, you’re inseminated.”
“I thought all brown people were celibate until they got married.”
“Even here?”
“Especially here! More temptations meant more rules.”
Haniya laughed so hard she spit out a little bit of her chai. “But your mom is so cool.”
“It was less her and more my dad. Some things, my mother could get past him, but dating, dressing, it was all his way. I was so envious of my cousins in Pakistan. They were all going out and here I was sitting in California and my first kiss wasn’t until college.”
“Really?”
“Really. I always questioned who actually has the freedom.”
“I know. I feel so bound here.”
“Not what you expected.”
I saw a shadow settle over Haniya’s face. “It’s just hard.”
“Give it some time.” The words felt so flat.
“The stress, it’s just adding up. And Sohail and I.” She studied me for a long moment. She let out a breath and continued. “I had a boyfriend at LUMS and it was really serious. But his parents wouldn’t allow the marriage. You know, the usual, I wasn’t from the right family, we didn’t have the right amount of wealth. After him, I didn’t really care who I ended up with. Sohail was my brother’s college friend. When he came back from the U.S., he stopped by the house. We chatted for a few minutes and he asked me if I wanted to meet again. I had heard he was trying to move back to the States and I wanted nothing more than to get out of the country. We went out a few times and then he proposed. But I think he’s had this complex that he’s the consolation prize.”
“Egos are fragile things. My ex was jealous about my work. We were both in architecture. That’s how we met but I was moving up much faster. My ex always felt like second place.”
“What happened with him?”
Now it was my turn to hesitate. This was always the moment within the community. To say or not to say. “She dumped me.”
“Oh,” She paused. I sucked in my breath and held it through the silence. I remember when I told my mother about Nia. She didn’t talk to me for weeks. Her absence was devastating. But it must’ve been more so for her because she called me up and said to come home.
“She sounds like a jerk,” Haniya finally said.
My breath fell back into my body. Relieved, I continued. “I kept trying to make it work, thinking she would change or I would change. I’m still mad for not ending it first.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I loved my ex but he was weak. He couldn’t stand up to his family. At least Sohail, he has a backbone. He wanted me and he stood by it. I just wish he could work out his insecurities.”
“You’re still getting to know each other.”
**
Later that evening I came home and tried to do some work on a design project. I put some music on and settled at my computer. Nia and I would argue constantly about the time I would be spending on work or out with friends. She wanted to spend all our evenings and weekends together, never giving me my own space. When the relationship ended, I felt so free and with all this time. But tonight, it felt too quiet, too alone. It felt like I got the change I wanted but now it just hurt in a different way.
Over the next few weeks, I tried to be more social. I made sure to say yes to happy hour with colleagues and searched out old friends that might still be in the Bay Area. I didn’t make it down to the South Bay for a month but then my mother called and told me that Haniya’s father had died suddenly of a heart attack in Lahore. I went that weekend with my mother to offer our condolences. Their apartment was on the first floor next to a courtyard. The living room had very little direct light. There was a coffee table and a sofa, a generic painting on the wall, and some embroidered wall hangings. A simple dining table with chairs stood next to the kitchen. We sat on the sofa and Haniya settled on a floor stool. My mother asked her if she was going to Pakistan and Haniya sobbed quietly saying they didn’t have the money. “I can’t stand being so far away.”
Sohail walked into the room. He wore corduroy pants and an untucked checkered shirt. He bowed his head to my mother and she patted him gently on the back wishing him a long life. He gave me a slight nod and then stood next to Haniya. He tugged her shoulder and then told her to cut it out with the crying. My mother scolded him, “Let her mourn.”
“She’s been like this for days, Aunty,” he said. “Even before the death.”
“He’s right, I haven’t been able to stop crying,” Haniya said in his defense.
“One of the greatest tragedies of our lives here is that we don’t get to hold our parents when they take their last breath.” I looked at my mother and felt a rush of sadness. I remember when her mother died, all the aunties swept into the house to console her. I thought it was the most beautiful thing but my mother just wept and wept about being so far away.
She signaled to Haniya to come to the sofa. “Come here and cry your heart out.”
After, I drove my mother home and we discussed how wrong it was for Haniya not to be able to visit her family. My mother mentioned that she was part of a group. Each member contributed money and each month, someone would get the funds. She could ask for the next pool and offer it to Haniya. But when I checked in with her a week later, she told me that Haniya had rejected it.
I reached out to Haniya and didn’t hear back from her for a few weeks. Finally, she agreed to meet for lunch. As soon as we sat down with our food, I asked her, “Why didn’t you take the money?”
“It was so generous. But we just couldn’t.” Haniya sat across from me but barely made eye contact as she spoke.
“Look, out here, we are family. There’s no credit-debt.”
“I know. But even within family, money is a complicated thing.” Her demeanor was cold and tight.
“How are things with Sohail?”
“Good, fine.”
“Are you sure?” I wondered if I was pushing too hard.
“It’s fine,” she responded. “I’m just having a hard time. I was already depressed and now with my dad…I’m just not that easy to be around.”
“Of course. That totally makes sense.” I softened my tone.
“I just wish we’d never come here.” I nodded and reached out and put my hand on hers. “And did you hear the latest, they’re trying to take away the option of work visas for H1B wives. So even if Sohail gets sponsored, I may still not be able to work.”
“Yeah,” I said uselessly.
“This place,” she said. We sat silently together while the bustle of the restaurant filled the void. “I should get home.”
I drove her back and dropped her off outside. I told her to reach out to me any time but I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks.
**
One night I got a call from Haniya. The next day, we met in a Mediterranean restaurant that was blasting 90s music. We picked a table on the large patio. It was still early and there weren’t a lot of other customers. The waiter wore a shirt with a tuxedo vest image on it. “This is a good spot, right below the lemon tree. But it doesn’t give any lemons. Well, it gives lemons, but only two, only ever two.” He pointed up at the two green ones hanging. He served us water and took our order. Haniya ordered the shakshuka and I chose poached eggs on rice.
“Colorful guy,” Haniya said as he walked away. She turned to me and sighed. “I’m having a hard time. I can’t handle all this time without doing anything.”
“My mother said she found some volunteering work.”
“Even with volunteering, and seeing folks socially, I still have too much time. I don’t want hobbies, I want purpose.”
“What about school?”
“The fees are so high and I’m not considered a resident. We just don’t have that kind of money. And Sohail and I, we’re fighting all the time.” The food arrived and we sat quietly eating. I looked up and searched through the tree, where were all the other lemons?
“Maybe I could talk to him.”
“I don’t think that would help.” Haniya took another bite of her food.
“Yeah, of course.” I tried not to sound hurt.
She put her fork down. “But maybe your mom could.”
**
My mother insisted I come along. Sohail opened the door. He looked haggard but still handsome. Haniya was waiting at a nearby coffee shop. My mother explained that she would talk to each of them separately and then would bring them together to work out a compromise. She sat down on the sofa and Sohail pulled out a dining chair and sat across from her. I sat quietly off to the side.
“What’s going on with you, beta.” My mother’s tone was soft.
Sohail spoke slowly and calmly. Everything he described, I had heard from Haniya. He was under pressure, working too much and worried about supporting his sisters. “I know you’ve helped a lot of people, Aunty, but times have changed. We’re not wanted here anymore. I am working all the time, and Haniya wishes she was and neither one of us have what we want. It’s not what I imagined either but I’m trying to make it work.” Sohail took a deep breath. I felt for him, of course I felt for him. “This would be the ideal time to have a family. She has the time and it would keep her busy. Later on, I’ll get sponsored and she’ll get a work visa. It’s just a different order.”
My mother listened and after they finished, she texted Haniya to join us. She sat them together on the sofa and had each of them speak about their perspectives and their needs. She worked with them until they both came to an agreement. Sohail would pay for her to take classes at the community college and, in return, Haniya committed to starting a family.
**
I was hit by work deadlines and got busy but I stayed in touch with Haniya through text. She sounded good. She had started her classes and things with Sohail had improved.
One night, I was out with some friends when I noticed a few missed calls from Haniya. I stepped outside and called her back. She said that she was at the food mart near her house and asked if I could come get her. I drove down to Sunnyvale and picked her up. Her eyes were swollen and strands of her hair were falling out of her ponytail. She didn’t say anything in the car. I suggested we go to my mom’s place since it was closer. When we got there, my mother let us in. She warmed up some tea and we sat down on the sofa. Haniya still hadn’t said anything. Finally, she pulled off her sweater. She was wearing a short sleeve shirt and her upper arms were covered with bruises.
“He found my birth control pills,” she said as she sobbed quietly. My mother and I looked at each other.
“Is this the first time?” She didn’t respond, her eyes facing downward. My mother moved her arms around Haniya and caressed her gently. “It’s okay.”
“I think it’s just all the pressure. He’s just losing it.”
“There’s no excuse for this,” my mother said softly. She let Haniya cry, sitting close to her, caressing her back. Eventually, she got up and called Sohail and told him that Haniya was staying with us. She didn’t wait for a response and hung up the phone.
“What do you want to do?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to stay with him?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Her voice getting quieter.
“Do you want to go back to Pakistan?” my mother asked.
“With my father gone, I’m not sure what kind of future I have there. My mother is living with my brother. I couldn’t move in with him. But what would I do here? I have no way of working.”
“There’s still school,” I said to her.
“Yes,” she said vaguely. “But I have no money.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time,” my mother interjected.
**
When I got home, I wanted to call someone, have someone hold me so that I could be stronger. My apartment was too silent. I couldn’t sleep. I got up and searched the web. I called my mother’s cell phone. She listened to the information and put the phone on speaker with Haniya.
“We could report him,” I said.
“To who?” Haniya asked.
“The police.”
“No, no, that’s taking it too far.”
“It could help you stay and work,” I said. “There’s a special visa for this.”
“But he could be sent back. He messed up but he’s not a bad person.” She started to sob convulsively.
“No, no police. Not now, not in this country.”
My mother said we could talk more about it later. I put the phone down and started to cry.
**
When I came back the next night after work, Haniya looked exhausted. Over dinner, we made a plan. We would wait until Sohail left for work the next day. My mother and Haniya would go to the apartment and pick up her things. I had to work for a few hours but would join them to load the car. She would stay at my mother’s until we figured out what to do next.
When I arrived, my mother was waiting outside. “She said she wanted some time alone so I went to run some errands. I’ve been ringing the buzzer and texting her but she’s not answering.”
We called her apartment a few more times. Another resident walked out and we used the opportunity to enter the complex. We arrived at her unit and knocked on the door. No response.
“Do you think she stepped out?”
My mother sighed. “Let’s go wait outside.”
We walked across the street and got into the car. We sat silently for a while watching as people came in and out the building. Finally, I spoke. “When things with Nia had gotten bad, I was afraid to tell you.” I sank into the seat thinking about how I almost didn’t leave. “But you…you helped me. You told me I had to leave.” My mother didn’t say anything, she just reached out and touched my hand.
I saw Sohail pull up in his car. My heart slammed against my chest. My mother saw him too. “Some people, when they break inside, they need to break something else.”
My mother waited for someone to enter the building and went again to their apartment. No one answered. She came back and left another voicemail telling Haniya we would wait for her, that we would return, and that she could reach out to us any time.
She went back the next day and the following, and for months after. I would join her sometimes, and we would stand outside her door and knock. One of the last times, as we were leaving the complex, I saw the slight movement of the curtain. I could’ve sworn I saw a hand, a shadow, Haniya. But I don’t know if it was her or my own hope.
Eventually, someone did open the door and it wasn’t her. She changed her number. I felt a gaping hole where our friendship once was. At first my mother and I would talk about her often and then she started to fade. They could have found some other community; it was big enough now that you could hide and not see someone.
“This happens sometimes.” My mother reflected one day. “People who arrive and then just disappear. We have lost a few along the way.”
Saba Waheed’s work has appeared in Water~Stone Review (Fiction Prize winner), The Southeast Review (Pushcart-nominated), Lunch Ticket, Cosmonauts Avenue, Hyphen Magazine, and others. She co-produces the storytelling radio show Re:Work, winner of a Gracies by the Alliance for Women in Media. Saba works as the research director at the UCLA Labor Center using research as a tool to elevate community stories.