split lives, part II

trying this out to see if something comes of it - z

if you want to know the exact moment when her life split into two paths, follow amber's father to the embassy, where he has applied for a visa to work in the united states...
the official is looking over his application for the 20th time, fine-tuning all the elements, putting names to faces, asking obnoxious and unnecessary questions. history lesson: in the 80's, the taliban were still the finest patriots to the cause of anti-communism outside of america. celebrities wanted their pictures taken with those brave, bearded men. ties between the u.s. and pakistan had never been stronger. it was not as difficult to obtain visas for the u.s. as it is today - immigration officials, however, have remained just as sadistic.

the man is chewing on betel leaf and tobacco, the juices filling his mouth as he chomps (loudly) and scratches the dusty shirt of his shalwar kameez, pulled taut over his (grotesquely large) belly. after an absurdly long and awkward pause, he scribbles something on the applications for aamir mehmon, his wife naveed, and their baby daughter, 5 months old.

"habib sahib will talk to you about this," he grunt-mumbles, in a tone of voice that suggests mr. mehmon hasn't a snowball's chance in hell. or at the very least, that a very large bribe is about to be involved (besides the one already paid, which has been invested in betel leaves and tobacco).

mr. mehmon is not a large man- he is thin and wiry, with glasses and a sensitive face that belies his age, even the ten years that separate him from his wife. but when he gets aggravated, his anger is unmistakable, his comments nasty, his demeanor determined. a vein on the upper right hand side of his temple has only recently begun to throb at the slightest aggravation, and will continue to pulsate throughout the rest of his life at the slightest hint of frustration.

he grabs the papers and waits in a large open waiting room. the weather in karachi is the same as it always is - muggy and polluted, mixed with sunshine seen through dust and splashed with patches of air bent by the heat and shimmering, as if the entire world seen through it is a mirage. it is a sweltering 110 degrees farenheit, not so much the dry heat they experienced in lahore, but with gusts of wind rising and falling from the indian ocean a few miles away. the wind comes with a price - the rotting stench of fish from the harbor (which hits whenever mr. mehmon packs his small family into his equally tiny datsun for a trip to clifton beach, for the irresistible peshawri ice cream that sticks to the roof of mrs. mehmon's mouth, so that later, he can still taste its creaminess when he kisses her in the modesty of darkest night) and an endless supply of mosquitoes, bloated with the blood of karachians from all over the city. mosquitoes do not discern between the lowly urchins that litter the streets and the fatted cows of the societal upper echelons. blood is blood.

the room is packed, the creaking old fan above is doing nothing more than pushing down hot air from above. after an hour, mr. habib calls aamir mehmon into his office.

mr. mehmon does not know it yet, but in his meeting with mr. habib, he has lucked out. rana habib is most probably the only honest man in the entire embassy. he wears a toupee and a nehru collar (though in pakistan, where nehru is reviled as a snake, the collar is called a sherwani), has a wife and 5 children to feed, and does not demand bribes (though he takes the ones certain people simply assume they have to give him - people who know nothing of his character and live in a world where everyone can be bought. with those people, he finds, it is best not to argue). he likes to sit on the beach and dig his fingers unobtrusively in the sand next to him, watching families play and lovers cautiously hold hands in the sultry haze that is sunset in this city. never mind the smell of fish. his importance to this story may be fleeting, but pay close attention to the sleight of hand he is about to perform...

"mr. mehmon, your papers are in order," says habib sahib, after the men shake hands (tersely) and take seats (mr. mehmon warily, mr. habib wearily). "i see no problem in issuing the visa, and since your brother has already applied for your greencard, things should move along smoothly once you get there.

just one thing sir...your daughter? amber?"

mr. mehmon tenses after letting himself become temporarily relieved. he knew things couldn't be that simple. the vein in his temple pulses slightly.

mr. habib sees his reaction and leans back in the chair, waving his hands in front of him in protest, to sweep the doubts aside with his long brown fingers.

"no no, nothing big. it's just---people in amrika, they will say your daughter's name wrong if it is spelled this way. they will draw it out...AH-mber, they will say, not UH-mber, the way we do. perhaps if you had the spelling changed, it would make things easier in the long run? she is after all still a baby. what difference could it possibly make?"
onomastics, or onomatology, is the study of names. certain people have devoted their whole lives to finding not only the meanings of names around the world, but also the character traits that associate themselves with certain names. in south asia for example, the belief is rampant that names have positive and negative connotations for the future character of the person thusly named. for example, if a child named "a" throws tantrums and is out of control, his parents will change his name to something calmer like "b", usually at a young age, and the child becomes a well-behaved cherub. this belief of course does not take into account that child "a" might have been teased about his name at school, causing him to act up, and as soon as the "b" change, kids stopped picking on him. in other words, extraneous circumstances are largely ignored in a region so heavily steeped in superstition.

did the umber mehmon, who moved to the united states at the tender age of 10 months become a largely different person from the amber mehmon who stayed in karachi, oblivious to the world? and if so, was it because of mr. habib's name change (one that he forgot as soon as he went home, when the smell of homemade naan bread and curry chicken wafted directly to his protesting stomach, when he picked his 4 year old daughter up in his arms, and swung her high up into the air, eliciting childish giggles) after all?