The Foreigner (standard:drama, 8102 words)
Author: Bobby Zaman	Added: Feb 04 2002	Views/Reads: 3599/2292	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mamun Karim, a student from Bangladesh, moves to the States to study and discovers the important ties of identity and roots.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

passengers to terminals.  Mamun quickly scampered down lest he should 
miss this round and have to wait for the next one, such was his 
anxiousness to "get on with it."  He barely made it into the last bus, 
squeezed his way in between a fat woman, who threw a violent glance at 
him, and a young Marine with two large backpacks hanging from either 
shoulder.  Though movement was limited in his cramped standing room, 
Mamun felt the newness surround him without being smothered by the 
close proximity of so many bodies almost piled on each other, much like 
the pieces of luggage on the baggage carts.  This is it, he thought, 
the land of fresh faces, no more little brown beggars getting in your 
face, ahh, the smell, these people smell different too. 

He did have one obstacle to pass.  A distant cousin of his father's
lived in Chicago, whose obligation Mr. Karim requested in the matter of 
receiving Mamun and delivering him to the University campus.  Mamun 
dreaded the thought of having to look at Bengalis again, but he had no 
choice.  He was a stranger and didn't know where to go, besides a car 
ride wasn't such a huge hurdle to pass, a free car ride.  At the 
check-in desk there was a middle-aged woman with a scowl on her face 
that grew tenser with each foreign passport that she stamped.  There 
were the occasional green card holders who were in a strange, yet 
comfortable limbo, they weren't citizens, nor were they outsiders, so 
all scowl face could do was silently glare at their plastic, credit 
card-shaped passes to the land of the free, and let them pass.  Mamun 
ended up in the line that would lead him to scowl face.  He pulled out 
his passport and handed her the sealed envelope containing his I-20 
papers.  She ripped off the top of the envelope as if it were a chicken 
she just slaughtered and yanked the out the documents like guts.  After 
glancing through them briefly she looked up at Mamun and said, "First 
time in the U.S?" 

"Yes," replied Mamun sporting an eager foreign smile.  It wasn't
reciprocated. 

Scowl-face held Mamun's passport under a laser scanner, it beeped, she
stamped the I-20, and handed everything back.  "Study hard," she said 
as Mamun walked away.  Finding his luggage took another half-hour, 
during which, Mamun couldn't get enough of scouring every inch of his 
new environment, heck, his new home.  Because of his distraction he 
missed his suitcase three times on the belt. 

He had no idea how he was to find his father's cousin.  Following the
crowd out the "Nothing to Declare" passage, he found himself facing an 
ocean of eager faces on the other side of the ropes.  Hopeful wives, 
anxious husbands, praying parents, children sitting on adults' 
shoulders, here and there arms jutting up into the air and palms 
waving, and the distinct cries of union ringing up and down the massive 
terminal. 

Then he saw it, sticking out its white square face with KARIM written in
childlike letters, over the tops of heads, way at the back of the 
hurlyburly.  Mamun made his way through the crowd, pushing his cart 
ahead of him to make his way.  A slick-haired man with a thin moustache 
and even thinner arms and legs was holding the sign.  Seeing Mamun his 
face lit up and he lowered it. 

"Welcome to Chicago, uncle," said the man and extended his hand.  Mamun
shook it, though the familiarity in his greeter's voice was utterly 
disorienting and unpleasant to his ears.  "You are uncle, no?" the man 
continued, "Ha ha, your father and I grew up together."  And yet never 
before having plans to come to Chicago had Mamun ever heard his father 
mention any relations, close or distant, living in Chicago with whom he 
shared childhood memories.  "Come, come, let's go," said the man and 
took the cart from Mamun.  For his stature, barely five feet tall and 
thin as a piece of cloth, he seemed to be an extremely grounded and 
strong man.  The white t-shirt and khaki shorts barely hung on to his 
bony frame.  "I don't know if you know my name, maybe your father say 
to you, maybe not.  Anyway, I'm Rifat Khan, third cousin of your father 
on his mother's side, ha ha." 

Rifat Khan single-handedly loaded Mamun's suitcase and briefcase into
the back of his Plymouth Voyager, refusing to allow his guest any 
physical labor.  Mamun waited in the passenger seat while Rifat Khan 
huffed and puffed and buckled the suitcase into place so it wouldn't 
swing from side to side during the ride.  The vehicle was brand new, 
and the plastic covers were still wrapped around the seats.  How 
typical, thought Mamun, some things never change.  Rifat Khan slid into 
the driver's seat and off they went. 

"Your auntie is waiting at home with food.  You are hungry, no?" 

"Actually, I'd rather go straight to the campus," replied Mamun. 

"Oh no, you can't go on empty stomach, plus auntie will be
disappointed." 

"No, it's alright.  I have to get started on a few things.  It's
Saturday and I start class on Monday." 

"No.  How can I let you go without at least one meal under my roof? Your
father will be disappointed, don't you think." 

My father isn't here you little shit colored obstacle. 

"So, uncle, you know anyone in Chicago?" 

"No." 

"Well, no problem.  Your auntie and I are here.  We can pick you up on
weekends." 

Not a chance bozo! 

"I have a lot of preparing to do before classes," said Mamun. 

"Yes, yes.  But first you eat.  That's the true Bengali way, no? Ha ha."


Frustrated and trapped Mamun didn't prolong the conversation no further
and turned his attention outside.  Building whizzed by, cars veered in 
and out of lanes, the sky overhead was flecked with planes approaching 
the airport from all directions.  Seeing that Mamun had temporarily 
chosen to remain quiet, Rifat Khan turned on the radio and began 
fussing with the dial.  He settled on a station that was blaring some 
sort of hard rock, where the lyrics were a conglomeration of befuddled 
yells and vocal gyrations, and for some reason or other Rifat Khan felt 
the need to turn the volume up a few notches so that it was at a level 
at once irritating and disturbing to Mamun.  "You like American music, 
uncle?" said Rifat Khan and smiled baring two silver teeth.  Mamun 
smiled back reluctantly and recognized the tune on the radio as being 
an AC/DC number. 

Poor bastard.  Trying so hard to be American with his new car and stereo
system.  AC/DC is Australian you little brown imposing pimp. 

But there was no point in getting into a philosophical conversation over
music with someone whom Mamum was trying desperately to say goodbye to, 
in fact delving into a new topic would be a surefire way to seal his 
position at the Khan dinner table in the very near future. 

"So uncle, you are going to University of Chicago?" 

"Yes." 

"Very good university.  It's on South Side of city.  This city has two
major divisions, North Side and South Side.  South Side is mostly black 
people, so you must be a little bit careful where you go.  The campus 
is really nice, but try not to go out at night.  Anyway, you are new, 
so no use for you to go out at night, right?  Ah, here we go.  We are 
just a few minutes from my house." 

"Uncle, please, I need to go to campus," said Mamun,  "I appreciate your
time and offer, but I want to get settle before Monday."  Rifat Khan's 
face darkened at this sudden refusal.  He turned down the volume of the 
radio and looked at Mamun, "But your auntie has cooked for you." 

"I'm sorry."  Nope. 

"Hmm, that is very disappointing," said Rifat Khan shaking his head and
frowning.  "Your auntie went to great lengths to prepare everything." 

Go stuff your own brown face with your wife's food. 

"I know, and please tell her I said thank you, but really I have no time
to waste." 

Rifat Khan nodded his head and pulled out a cell phone from his belt
buckle and dialed a number.  His tone with his wife was as though he 
were giving her news of a death.  He told her of the declined 
invitation.  They got back on the expressway and for the rest of the 
ride Rifat Khan stayed silent and didn't turn up the radio or fuss with 
the dial. 

For the first couple of weeks Mamun's time was consumed primarily by
homework and reading assignments.  Rifat Khan called a few times, and 
each time Mamun cut the conversations abruptly short owing his urgency 
to a quiz for which he was cramming.  The man having his phone number 
was a cause for immense irritation to Mamun, but he knew somehow or 
other if his father called and checked with Rifat Khan, and the dangly 
little Plymouth Voyager owning, wannabe music aficionado told him that 
he had no contact with Mamun, then it would mean a severe 
tongue-lashing, and who knows, being that his father had a temper with 
a resistance no thicker than a piece of onion skin, a forced return to 
Bangladesh.  He bit the bullet, and let Rifat Khan call as often as he 
wanted.  After a few phone calls, though, Rifat Khan probably got a 
message, and stopped. 

Being that he was a complete stranger to the city there wasn't much that
could take his attention away from studies, which ended up being a good 
way to pass the time.  From the beginning he was against having a 
roommate, and by a last minute twist of fate, the boy that was supposed 
to share quarters with Mamun, declined his acceptance to U of C and 
opted for a different school, by which time it was too late to assign 
someone else in his stead.  Mamun gratefully accepted the coincidence. 

To class and back and back to class was Mamun's daily regiment, with the
exception of meals.  He had begun to see faces on a regular basis in 
his classes, faces that recognized him back, but he didn't make efforts 
to initiate any friendships.  Here and there he would see students that 
appeared to be from the Indian subcontinent, and at those faces he 
either frowned, or turned his back.  But in spite of a missing social 
life Mamun felt complete.  There was finally a sense of continuity, 
without the fear of some hoodlum student political league popping a 
firecracker in the middle of the day and rousing a riot, or opposing 
powers being at ideological stalemates and calling strikes to prove 
their moot standpoints.  Having a room all to himself was just the 
added benefit to the scenario.  Back home under strict parental orders 
Mamun was forced to share a room, and a bunk bed, with his younger 
brother, which, especially in the last two years, had begun to feel 
like a prison sentence.  All in all, things were looking good, the Fall 
quarter was in session full swing, the first few quizzes garnered 
excellent scores for Mamun, and loneliness, homesickness, and 
heartbreak was a stone's throw away from showing their faces. 

One month into the quarter Mamun still hadn't made any acquaintances. 
During group study sessions, he said little, wrote a lot, and avoided 
meeting the eyes of his peers.  This behavior was not because Mamun was 
anti-social or suffered from any kind of anxiety disorders, in his 
younger school days in Dhaka he was quite the big man on campus, and a 
known name and face in sporting events.  It wasn't a language barrier 
either, his command on English being more than proficient.  They were 
much smaller matters, magnified a thousand times by the new 
environment, by the confusion of different people that were around him 
at any given time, except in bed at night.  He didn't know who would 
welcome his greeting and who would reject his friendly extended hand.  
He realized he had never had a foreign friend before, let alone an 
American.  In Dhaka, Americans, Brits, Germans, Russians, Poles, 
Scandinavians were clustered mostly around the suburbs of Gulshan, 
Banani, and Baridhara, at least twenty miles from Mamun's home in 
Purana Paltan.  And his dilemma occurred in his personal quest to not 
make Bengali friends.  Then there was the girl. 

Heather McCarthy.  With her long golden tresses flowing behind her,
sparkling blue eyes glistening in the August sunshine, and a voice that 
could make nightingales bow their heads, she was the cause of wild 
palpitations in Mamun's heart every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  
European History: Beginnings to the Renaissance, was one class Mamun 
refused to miss.  He sat three rows back from Heather and his eyes 
stayed glued on her back for fifty minutes straight, sometimes without 
blinking, then on Tuesdays and Thursdays at discussion, he would 
eagerly wait for her to raise her hand to answer a question, just to 
hear her voice. 

In bed he thought about ways to talk to her, scenarios that would lead,
inadvertently, yet unavoidably, to a tête-à -tête between the two.  
At those moments, hit by inspiration, Mamun felt like a god, Dionysis, 
whom no woman could resist no matter what her strength or charm may be. 
 He blushed with love and confidence that the next day would be his 
day, that he would walk right up to her, look into her eyes, and tell 
her…what? Next day, his knees would turn back into jello, his bowels 
turn to ice, and his tongue lose all comprehension.  But sometimes fate 
doth reveal its coy sense of humor. 

One afternoon, two weeks before midterms, Mamun's discussion group was
assigned the task of coming up with study questions, and to make things 
easier the instructor split the class up into pairs of two.  Mamun 
happened to be sitting next to Heather, and voila! she was it.  As soon 
as the instructor's fingers pointed in their direction and she uttered 
the words, "You two work together," Mamun felt light-headed, well giddy 
is more like it, and sneezed three times. 

"Bless you," said Heather and positioned her chair to face Mamun.  "I'm
Heather."  I know, thought Mamun, I know, you bet I know, I've known 
all quarter. 

"Mamun Karim," gurgled Mamun, the mucous still fresh at the back of his
throat.  Oh great, great Mamun, what a charming way to get things 
started.  Dionysis, bah! 

"Hmm.  I like that name," said Heather opening her notebook to a blank
page.  As they leaned over their shared textbook, Mamun was entranced 
by the smell of Heather's hair, said very little, and contributed even 
less, just nodding to every question Heather thought up.  She spoke, 
wrote, and shuffled through pages, while he fell deeper and deeper 
through the caverns of adoration.  He sat back in his chair like a 
stump when the instructor went around the room and asked for two 
questions from each group. 

Class ended and a rock fell on all the dreams Mamun had been having. 
Now she would have no further reason to talk to him, ever again.  
Romancing her was simply out of the question.    Of all the people on 
campus, what could ever possess her to fall for Mamun? And who's to say 
she wasn't spoken for already. 

"Are you alright?" said a familiar voice behind Mamun as he was walking
out the discussion room.  He turned.  "You were so quiet.  Are you 
feeling alright?" 

Ahh, the voice of an angel! 

"Yes.  Thank you," replied Mamun. 

"You look a little pale.  Maybe you should sit down and get a bite to
eat." 

"Yes.  Thank you." 

"I'm going to lunch.  Would you like to join me?" 

Was this a dream? Or was some sick, sadistic, mind-manipulator having a
field day with Mamun's vulnerability? 

"Well?" Heather said. 

"Um- yes.  Thank you." 

That was the beginning of a fall.  Heather McCarthy did what Mamun
dreamed of every night, talked to him, to his face, invited him to 
lunch.  Lunch was surreal.  He ate little to nothing of his sandwich, 
he wanted to whoop and holler, grab her in his arms and thank her for 
making his task so easy for him, he wanted to share all those pathetic 
poems he conjured in his head, because now they made sense, and he 
believed she wouldn't laugh at them.  He looked at her at his hearts 
content, devoured her eyes and her skin, wasted away on her hair, 
filled his ears with her voice, and then she said, writing on a paper 
napkin, "Here's my number.  If you'd like to study for the midterms 
together give me a call."  Mamun lifted the paper and tucked in his 
pocket as if there were hands and fingers all around him waiting to 
snatch it away. 

The next day Heather didn't come to class. 

Mamun toiled all weekend, whether or not to call her.  This was very
new.  Calling people of the fairer sex had not been a practice to which 
his parents strictly traditional Bengali Muslim parents allowed 
indulgence. His mother had started chit-chatting with friends and 
relatives about finding possible mates for Mamun, but his coming away 
to the States had put a halt to those plans, though Mamun knew that it 
was still there at the back of his mother's mind for when he returned. 

Cradling a bashful, throbbing heart in his sweaty bosom, at three
o'clock on Sunday afternoon, Mamun picked up the phone and dialed 
Heather's number. 

"You're sweet," said Heather when Mamun expressed concern over her
absence from class.  She didn't mention what kept her away, nor did 
Mamun feel the need to probe the matter. 

"Well, it's three o'clock now.  Do you want to meet at my apartment,
let's say, five?" Heather proposed. 

"Um- actually, I don't know anything about this city." 

"Really? Are you from out of town?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah, I see.  Well, in that case, I can come pick you up." 

"Are you sure? I mean if it's an inconvenience, then it's ok." 

"It's alright with me, unless you don't want to." 

"Fine." 

She agreed to pick up Mamun in front of the library at four thirty. 

"So where are you from?" Heather asked once they were seated inside her
Beretta. 

"Bangladesh," said Mamun and wished he didn't have to give up his
identity like that.  Here it comes, he thought, the glorious image of 
the shit-hole of the world, as the West sees it, in all its hunger, 
madness, and poverty.  He was waiting for Heather to ask him if he came 
to America on the back of an elephant. 

"Wow," Heather exclaimed, "I've never met a, what would that make you?" 

"Bengali." 

"Huh, leave it to my ignorant American self, I was thinking
Bangladeshian." 

They both laughed, and Heather's humility made her all the more charming
to Mamun's enraptured heart.  Heather lived in what Rifat Khan had 
called the North Side of the city.  The drive from campus to her 
apartment was a long one.  On the way Heather named the neighborhoods 
they were passing through, pointing out the affluent and the ones that 
were declining into slums and ghettos.  For Mamun it was a hard fact to 
fathom, slums in America.  That word drew images for him that was 
enough to induce vomit at the slightest thought.  The bastis of Dhaka, 
where humans and animals fought for the same dwelling ground, gave an 
entirely different definition to slum, a far cry from just a few 
burnt-out buildings and crack houses.  He could show her sights that 
would rip the sparkle off her face like fly-paper..  Mud, garbage, 
waste, excrement, disease, death; these were the definition of slum to 
Mamun.  He cringed at the thought of ever having to give her a tour of 
his native city. 

"How long have you been here, in Chicago?" Heather asked. 

"Since the beginning of the quarter." 

"You speak English so well." 

Another idiosyncrasy that is difficult for Americans to believe.  How
does a person, having lived all their life in, what they think, is a 
non-English speaking country, speak the language so well? Well, that is 
what we have in common, our colonizer.  Besides war, destruction, and 
communal violence, they bestowed upon us the mercy of their education 
system, and the blessing of their world-revered language.  And thus we 
are equipped to mystify the greatest of liberals with our versatility.  
But such were not the thoughts soaring through the mind of Mamun Karim 
as he sat next to his enamored Heather wishing he wouldn't stick out 
like such a soar thumb in her eyes.  He wished he was a regular white 
kid, falling for a white girl, and there were no obstacles in their 
way, and she didn't have to ask him questions as though he were from a 
different galaxy altogether. 

But Heather's curiosity did not spring from malice or condescension. 
She was far from it, she was on the other end.  Her sincerity was all 
over her, in every expression, in every movement, with every inflection 
she was being nothing but honest. 

"Sorry, I must sound like an ignorant idiot with my dumb questions,"
said Heather and blushed.  That took the cake.  Whatever control Mamun 
had had over his heart, flew out of his control and fell to her feet 
begging for mercy. 

Their drive ended in a parking area next to an apartment complex.  The
shores of Lake Michigan were minutes away from where they were. 

"I know this is a far drive from school, but I got a great deal on the
building," said Heather digging in her purse for keys and walking to 
the front entrance.  "My father knows the owner, they're college 
friends, so I get a break on the rent.  And the view, that's pretty 
good too." 

Once upstairs and settled in, they studied for some time, then indulged
in conversation.  Heather, very apologetically, asked Mamun more 
questions about his home. 

"And marriage?" said Heather setting down a fresh cup of tea in front of
Mamun.  "Afe they always arranged?" 

"Not all the time.  It depends on the social and economic background of
the families." 

"What about you?" 

"My family isn't rich." 

In fact I'm draining them of their lifeblood by being here, thank god
I'm an only child. 

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant.  I mean, will you be able to choose
your own bride?  I'm so sorry, please tell me to shut up if I sound 
totally ignorant." 

Mamun had a quick flash of his mother's hopeful and teary-eyed face. 

"My mother was starting to look for girls.  That's when I got on a plane
and escaped to America.  Land of the free, no?" 

Mother would have a heart attack if I brought her a white
daughter-in-law.  Oh, mother, if only you could lay eyes on this angel! 


They laughed and Mamun didn't care what she asked, words were flowing
out of him like a fountain, he was walking on clouds.  All he wanted 
was to talk to the girl of his dreams, to utter a few bashful syllables 
to let her know he exists, and here he was sitting on her living room 
floor, on the softness of one of her myriad Persian and Chinese rugs, 
sipping tea, with no one else in front of him but her to gawk at. 

Afternoon faded into night.  They ordered Thai food and watched TV. 
Heather was laying on the couch dozing in and out of sleep.  Mamun 
wanted to stare at her day and night without food, water, or rest.  She 
looked like a mermaid that had crawled out of her ocean abode to sleep 
peacefully for a while by the sandy shore.  He'd never touched a woman. 
How would that feel? To wrap an arm around Heather's slender waist? To 
touch her shining hair? Her skin and her mouth? 

Beta, said his mother's shrewish older sister placing a curry stained
hand on his shoulder at his going away dinner party, don't fall into a 
white woman's trap.  Allah, save you from their vicious witchery.  They 
do nothing but corrupt our good young boys.  Allah, forbid such 
treachery on you. 

Her fourth husband looked at her from across the table and told her to
shush. 

There was no way all that nonsense could apply to Heather.  She'd shown
nothing but reservation and respect.  And now, look at her, sleeping 
like an innocent child, dreaming, like a princess awaiting her chariot. 
 Mamun turned off the TV and looked out the window.  The lake was calm 
with a few lazy waves lapping at the shore.  He wanted to wake Heather 
and go for a walk, watch the moon glow against her silken hair.  He 
wished to get acquainted with the city immediately, scour every street 
and every alley until their names stuck in his memory like his own.  
His heart throbbed with delight and anticipation.  Just a few months 
ago he was fighting with his parents and his little brother for 
privacy, kicking and punching the walls from having someone always 
breathing down his neck, never knowing the glorious addition of a 
silent moment to everyday life, and now he was a million miles away 
from that madness, with silence when he craved it, and in the presence 
of a woman whose beauty made up for all the frustrations he'd ever 
complained about. 

But there was still an uneasiness that lurked in him.  He turned and
looked at Heather's sleeping form and didn't know what to do.  A short 
while ago she was laughing and talking and serving him tea, and now she 
wouldn't know it if he robbed her and took off.  Still more than that 
it was a discomfort.  Here was so much more than what he wanted, and 
now he wished he were away from it, to admire it from a distance once 
again.  It was the only way he knew.  He had a gnawing urge to go back 
to campus. 

He felt anxious and foolish for not knowing the city well enough to take
himself back to campus, and hated to have to impose on Heather. 

"I hate to bring this up, but I must return to campus now." 

Heather stirred and moaned.  Mamun gently shook her by her shoulder. 

"Please," he said, "I must go back to the campus." 

"You can stay if you like."  Mamun couldn't believe his ears.  If he
were a cartoon he would pinch him arm to wake up with a shriek, but he 
was real, and so was Heather's offer.  She yawned and sat up.  "You're 
more than welcome to stay."  Mamun stared at her in silence. 

"I'm sorry.  Does that make you uncomfortable?" said Heather, concern
and embarrassment streaking her face.  "If you want I can drive you 
back, it's not a problem."  Mamun didn't know how to respond.  It was 
catch 22.  He didn't want to be a nuisance, nor did he know how to 
accept the invitation.  A thought occurred to him.  It was she who 
asked him over in the first place, her own idea that they should meet 
at her place, it wasn't his fault he didn't know the city, he wasn't 
supposed to, he was new. 

"Alright, I'll sleep here on the floor." 

Heather insisted that he at least take the couch.  Mamun said it was
enough that she offered him the luxury of her home, and left it unsaid 
that she was the first woman, with the exception of his mother, with 
whom he would sleep under the same roof.  Heather brought him a blanket 
and two pillows and said goodnight.  Mamun thanked her and, before 
falling asleep, heard the phone ring and Heather's voice answering it. 

In the morning Heather was quiet.  She drifted into the living room to
see if Mamun was awake, heading back to her bedroom without so much as 
a good morning.  Mamun had been awake since five a.m., a customary 
practice he had begun enforcing upon himself since the first day of 
classes.  He was beaming with hope, the thought of starting the day 
with a look at his beloved's face made him shudder with anticipation.  
When Heather walked in Mamun wanted to leap up and embrace her, thank 
her, kiss her, just plain love her.  When she walked away without 
acknowledging his presence, a beat skipped in his heart, his lungs 
welled up, but he didn't think much of it.  He had, after all, the rest 
of the morning to spend with her, from their first class together to a 
possible reconvening of their lunch date.  Yes, there was much to look 
forward to. 

Oh, mother, you couldn't possibly find me someone better. 

Heather was quiet as though she were on a vow of silence on pain of
death.  Voice, sound, speech had fled from her like birds set free from 
a cage.  She said nothing inside the apartment, up to the point where 
she began walking out the door, car keys and purse in hand, and had not 
Mamun followed her out he would be left back, stranded, till she 
decided to return.  She was like a zombie, perfectly aware of her 
actions, yet unaware of why she was making them.  She did lean over and 
unlock the passenger side door for Mamun, and he slid in as noiselessly 
as he could.  On the ride back Heather's silence prevailed and made the 
air in the car so heavy with the burden of stillness that Mamun found 
himself wishing the radio was blaring with AC/DC, at the volume which 
Rifat Khan had had it playing. 

Once on campus, Heather excused herself to go to the bathroom, it was
the first time she had spoken since the night before, told Mamun that 
she'd meet him in class, and to save a seat for her.  Mamun walked in 
to the lecture hall, went to the back and found two seats in a corner.  
The professor walked in and class began.  She started lecturing about 
some conquest or other, maybe it was the Crusades.  Mamun's eyes were 
glued to the doors, his hand hanging feebly over the blank page of the 
open notebook.  Five minutes passed and still no sign of Heather.  Ten, 
twenty, forty-five, and the professor called out the reading 
assignment, class was over.  Heather never made an appearance. 

Mamun walked out of the lecture hall perplexed and curious.  He wanted
to know, immediately, what had happened to her so suddenly, the 
silence, the darkening of her spirit, the total disappearance of her 
inquisitiveness, and what had caused her spirit to ebb so drastically 
like a blown out candle.  There was no way he could get in touch with 
her.  He walked back to his dorm and decided to stay in and call her 
later in the evening, also harboring the infinitesimal hope that she 
would call him first.  The phone didn't ring.  He read what he thought 
he had heard the professor assign none of which made it past him beyond 
a first glance.  Words, words, words, and the agony of love chewing on 
his patience.  The day waned fast. He fell asleep for a few hours, and 
woke up around seven.  He dialed Heather's number, got her machine and 
left a message.  She didn't call back. 

For a whole week, Mamun left messages on Heather's machine, none of
which yielded a reply from her.  She had also stopped coming to class.  
There was no way for him to know or find out anything about her, and 
getting into a cab and asking the driver to take him to some address on 
a hunch and bad photographic memory was out of the question, and 
monetarily impractical. 

Another week passed.  Mamun's urgency receded a little, though from the
bottom of his being he wanted to see her, he wanted to know, even if it 
was for one minute, that she was all right, safe, that nothing had 
happened to her.  The worst thoughts plagued his mind, and the more he 
tried to shun them the stronger they hit back. 

One week before the end of the semester, on a bright November morning,
Mamun was walking to the library.  With him was a foreign student from 
Gambia who went by the name of "Lie," a playful derivative of Abdullah, 
"Because I lie all the time," he would say.  Lie was the first person 
with whom Mamun shared a thought outside of class work.  The two had 
much in common, foremost of all being that Lie was just as new to 
America as was Mamun, this being his first semester as well. 

"This girl you talk about all the time, tell me is she real?" Lie asked.


"Of course she's real.  Will you stop talking like that?" 

"No, sometime I think you have overactive imagination, some mystic
wisdom that make you see things, ha ha."  Lie had that down-to-earth 
kind of feel about his personality, where even the most awkward or 
obnoxious comment could metamorphose into a charming phrase, and 
everything he spoke was topped off with a smile. 

"Well mystic man," said Lie, "I hope you find this princess and whisk
her away to a fantasy island and live happily ever after."  And at that 
moment Lie's words turned into prophecy.  Mamun saw ahead of him the 
long, golden hair, which he could pick out in the deepest crowds.  The 
walk, the slight movements of the arms, yes it was her.  He dropped his 
briefcase and darted off in the direction of the woman.  Lie stood back 
dumbfounded.  Coughing and wheezing Mamun caught up with her, and 
tapped her on her shoulder.  There it was again, that face for which 
his eyes were aching for almost a month, the eyes, the hair, there it 
was within arms reach again. 

"You startled me," said Heather.  Mamun didn't know what to say.  What
he really wanted to do was to curse her out, tell her all the things he 
had pent up inside him, make her feel guilty about abandoning him, 
reproach her for not returning his calls, but he didn't because he had 
no justification, no reason to talk to her the way he wanted to, and 
thankfully for his own sake, he still had enough comprehension left in 
him to realize that. 

"Where have you been?" Mamun asked. 

"I won't be going to school here anymore," Heather said.  The words fell
on Mamun's head like anvils. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't have time right now, I'm sorry I didn't call you back.  I did
get your messages."  At that moment a man's voice called out Heather's 
name.  They looked up.  Approaching them was a man in full army 
uniform, walking firmly, and smiling at Heather, as he got closer. 

"I was getting bored in the car so I thought I'd take a walk," said the
man.  Mamun saw the confidence, the glow in the man's eyes, all of him 
reeking of raw manhood, of knowing all the things that ordinary people 
don't know.  His unusually large hand reached out and rested itself on 
Heather's shoulder.  Mamun wanted to rip it off. 

"This is my fiance, Robert," said Heather.  Robert put out his hand for
Mamun to shake. 

"Well," said Robert, "I just wanted to make sure you were alright.  I
won't rush you.  I'll wait for you in the car.  It was nice to meet 
you."  Robert trotted off, exuding his Apollo-like glow, marching off 
as though he were about to command a platoon into battle. 

Heartbreak is an understatement for what Mamun was feeling at that
precise moment.  Lie had come over and was standing next to Mamun by 
the time of Robert's exit. 

"Robert just came back from the army," said Heather, mechanically. 
"He's served his time, but he wanted to stay longer, make it his 
career, but he came back for me.  We're getting married this Spring.  
I'm sorry if I ever gave you the wrong idea."  She walked away. 

Lie didn't need to be told that this was the woman Mamun talked, slept,
and dreamed about.  He saw the shattered look of defeat in Mamun's 
face, the weakness in his stature, and the utter destruction of his 
world.  He could offer nothing but Mamun's briefcase back to him. 

The semester ended.  Mom and dad called almost everyday to find out when
Mamun would come home for the holidays.  Mamun had no desire to go 
back.  Lie had become a close companion and confidant, and with him 
hours were spent ranting and raving about the pernicious ways of women. 
 Mamun discovered that Lie was once married, that he had stepped into 
holy matrimony at the tender age of eighteen, six months after which he 
walked in on his wife straddling to orgasm his older brother on their 
living room sofa.  Lie's bitterness had apparently dissolved into his 
carefree nature, or he didn't care for the relationship to begin with.  
Whatever the cause may be for his nonchalance, it was far more 
agreeable to the system than was Mamun's constantly vilifying attitude, 
and his altogether hatred toward happiness. 

Well, unfortunately for Mamun, a domino effect applies to the human
condition as well.  His demise commenced in steps, until he stood at 
the threshold of being deported from the country.  The entire second 
semester passed in a dream state.  Lie tried his utmost to get Mamun 
back on track.  "Mystic man, you will flunk out and be sent back.  You 
will have no choice but to go back, and then what, all your dreams, 
whoosh!"  He implored, tried to encourage, even went to class and took 
notes for him at the cost of failing in his own courses, but nothing 
stirred the spurned heart of Mamun Karim. 

By the end of the second semester he was broke.  All the funds he had
brought with him were used up.  He called home to ask for more money.  
His father told him it would be at least another two months before he'd 
be able to send anything, and suggested that he get a job on campus.  
This did not appeal to Mamun.  He sunk lower into the depths of his 
depression.  Lie loaned him what he could.  With that money Mamun took 
up a popular hobby for the helpless, drinking.  At first his mouth and 
throat felt scorched by the heinous strength of hard liquor, but once 
the pain was subdued and the tongue was numbed, it started to go down 
like water.  He began consuming mass amounts of alcohol, beer, scotch, 
rum, vodka, no holds barred.  Nights would wane guzzling an assortment 
of liquor, and morning hours would waste away puking them out.  When 
Lie tried to force him out of his destructive pastime, Mamun berated 
him. 

"Stay away from me.  What do you know about it! You got the woman you
wanted.  Oh, but she got you real good too.  They're all the same." 

"Come on.  You are smarter man than that." 

"You don't know how I am.  Get lost! You trouble me all the time with
your stupid lectures.  Get lost!" 

"This is wrong." 

"So are you.  Get lost, go away! Don't trouble me!" 

Mamun never saw Lie after that day. 

Destitute, desperate, and disillusioned Mamun woke up the next morning
and dialed Rifat Khan's number.  Mrs. Khan answered.  Mamun asked for 
her husband and was told he was unavailable.  He waited out the day and 
called back in the evening.  This time Rifat Khan picked up on the 
other end.  Mamun cut to the chase and asked for money, promising that 
he would pay him back "as soon as Abba sent me my tuition funds."  
Rifat Khan regretted that he was unable to lend him any assistance in 
the matter.  "Uncle," he said, "Your father is a great man, but I'm 
sorry I can't.  Life is very difficult in this country.  I hope you 
will find out and make well." 

Few days into summer break Mamun received a letter from the Dean's
office which informed him that he was placed on academic probation, and 
had one semester to redeem his grades back to passing levels.  
Grudgingly he walked into the counselor's office and sat down glum 
faced and haggard.  His breath reeked of rum and vodka, sweat-stained, 
unkempt clothes hanging on his body like bandages. 

"Mr. Karim, I think you're smart enough to understand your situation. 
All I can say is that if you keep up the way you're going, your status 
may be affected, and that very drastically.  I don't think you can 
afford to jeopardize your living in this country.  I can only suggest 
what to do.  Beyond that it will be up to you."  The counselor's voice 
played in Mamun's ears like static. 

"Will I be thrown out," asked Mamun. 

The young counselor leaned forward.  "Yes.  And then you'll be illegal
in this country." 

The very thought of walking off the airplane, surrounded by jeering
brown faces, shame and scandal stamped all over him made Mamun shudder, 
and despise the counselor, who had nothing to worry about sitting on 
his mighty throne and deciding people's fates. 

"Where would I go?" 

"That choice is entirely yours," the counselor replied and wrote on a
piece of paper. 

Summer school was strongly suggested.  Mamun said nothing during the
meeting.  Afterwards he walked back to his dorm, drank some more, and 
passed out.  Summer school never happened. 

He applied for a job at the library, got the position, but promptly lost
it after showing up inebriated to work and punching out a male student 
that had asked him for assistance with finding a book.  The incident 
hardly aided his already raucous reputation with the hierarchy of the 
university.  Another summons from the Dean's office arrived. 

"You're lucky you're not in jail." 

Once more Mamun was facing the same young counselor. 

"If you need help, just ask for it," said the counselor stirring his
coffee and scrutinizing Mamun with accusing eyes. 

What help could he ask for for a sick and broken heart? 

"I don't need help." 

"I asked the Dean of Foreign Students to review your case, and he did. 
You have one more quarter to straighten up, Mr. Karim.  This is a 
formal warning, which is here in writing.  Read it and sign it please." 


While Mamum half-heartedly scribbled, the counselor went on. 

"You'll be expected to confine yourself to schoolwork only.  Any
attempts you make to seek employment or other extracurricular 
activities will result in immediate expulsion.  Here is a copy of the 
letter for your records."  The counselor's bulky arm fell on the desk 
like a hammer on a gavel. 

Mamun's nights were consumed by nightmares.  Failure, rejection, and
loneliness followed him night and day like scavenging hounds.  Scowl 
face appeared to him in his troubled sleep with raised hand, clutching 
the seal of deportation in her fingers.  "Study hard," she said, "Study 
real hard, boy."  Two days before the beginning of the new school year 
Mamun woke up from uneasy dreams and cried in his bed for an hour.  He 
didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to want.  He felt out of 
place and very close to being out of his mind.  When the tears dried he 
was confronted with the unavoidable pull of homesickness.  He fought 
it, wanted to deny it any place in his thoughts, but it stayed, clung 
to him like a leech, sucked out every ounce of desire and weakened him 
to the point where he was ready to go crawling back to the land of 
beggars, which he loathed so much, and implore it to take him back, and 
fight in his defense against his parents, his new failed home, and 
himself. 


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