A window salvaged.

  “Art should always be placed at eye level,” she said, straightening the piece she had decided upon.

 “But wouldn’t eye level be different for everyone?” my six-foot-four frame said to her five-foot-three figure.

 “Don’t overthink it,” she responded.

 I thought about that while looking at the handmade, salvaged window with ornate shutters my mother snagged from the old city of Peshawar. She hung it above the archway between the kitchen and the living room, well above anyone’s eye level. She and I happened to be in Pakistan for a family wedding when she acquired it. We had been staying at my aunt’s house in Peshawar for the event. 

 I had taken a liking to one of the many servants even though overt fraternizing with the staff was not particularly approved of. I wanted to him to see what we had just acquired. He took a washcloth and wiped my brow, unbuttoned my shirt and offered me a bottle of cold water. As he wiped the sweat from my face and neck, he gestured to the window and the shutters enclosing it and mentioned that it was from his ancestral home. I laughed thinking he was just bullshitting me. The gravity of his expression made me think twice. He went up to it, first making sure that no one would see him touching it, and pointed out the silver filagree work. “My great-grandfather did that. You can’t find such craftsmanship around anymore. I used to open the shutters every morning but then I’d get yelled at because it allowed the dust in from the streets below.”

 “Hence the shutters,” I said, not sure if I was backtracking, flirting or trying to be funny. He didn’t respond to my comment. Perhaps he didn’t understand. His knowledge of Urdu was basic, of English non-existent. We got by through my rudimentary knowledge of Pashto, facial expressions, and emphatic gestures.

  His long fingers traced the details of the filigree as though he remembered the creation of something he could not have possibly been alive for. A pang of guilt surged though me. Taking antiquities outside the country of origin is frowned upon even when perfectly legal. For him, this was his history. For my mother, it was just a piece of art that would be put up in our home in Chicago.  

 Perhaps it was his insouciance that drew me to him. He was tall, good-looking, and had a runway model’s build. But he wasn’t stunning by any means. At least not until you got to watch him from afar when he thought no one was looking. Even when reprimanded, he took it in stride and the half smile on his face never faded.  

  I didn’t have much experience with Pakistan during the summer but the heat and humidity alone would make you think you were swimming from one room to the next. Adding weddings to the mix kicks the game up to a whole different level. Weddings in Pakistan tend to be weeks long and mostly a feminine affair — with all the jewelry and tailors fussing with final fittings and the makeup. For the men, it’s only about a shower, shave, and putting on freshly starched clothing. In those down times, my eyes would follow him around. On one of the first events of the wedding, I made sure to make my hair immovable and impenetrable from the humidity, which usually hits its peak nearing sundown. Though not my product of choice, I had brought along the strongest ultra-hold hair spray to make sure my hair was in place for the evenings’ events.  

 He had never encountered such a product.

 “Touch it,” I told him mixed intentions..

 His eyes grew wide with wonder. “That’s not hair! It’s plastic!”  

 As an American, I was aware that there were rules as to how the household of an estate interacts with its staff but I did not know the particularities. And given that I was not only in the household category but a guest of the household at the same time, the intricacies were more delicate than usual. At one point, I had entered the kitchen (wrong move #1) and proceeded to boil two cups of water to make tea (wrong move #2). One for myself and for one him (wrong move #3). After preparing it and adding the appropriate sugar and cream, I took it out to the servants’ quarters (wrong move #4). He seemed surprised by my offer but by no means taken aback. His lackadaisical approach to life permeated his every movement. As we sat there drinking the tea on his cot, he told me about his family, his sister who was also to be married, and what he would like his future to hold.  

 The rest of the days went by in a blur. Too many people, too many informal gatherings, too many formal dinners. The only times we got to talk were on the nights he would help me undress after a long evening of festivities. The hum of the air conditioner in the room played its part in hiding the secrecy of our conversations. The days of my departure were fast approaching and as is often the case with visits to Pakistan, one leaves with more than one arrives with. As he was helping me pack, the shuttered window stood in the background. What had once been a great find now seemed to cast shadows well beyond its shutters. I never shied away from making eye contact with him but the window in the corner cast a shadow of guilt over me that made me only concern myself with the task of packing at hand.  

 My eyes wouldn’t meet his. Perhaps he sensed my unease or perhaps he was confused by our lack of touch. “Sir, I’m glad you’re taking my window with you.”

 “I’ve told you not to call me that and it’s not ‘my window,’ apparently it’s yours and I didn’t buy it, my mother did.”

 “I’m still glad it’s going with you to America. All the beauty of old Peshawar is being destroyed by Westernization, unethical commerce, and greed. This window would have ended up in a landfill had your mother not bought it. At least now I know that a piece of me will be well taken care of.” He shrugged while readjusting the placement of the luggage. “Perhaps it’ll make you think of me.” This time his eyes would not meet mine.  

 An entire part of me sank but an unknown hand of mine took him by the should said, “I don’t need a fucking window to remember you by.”  

 “Sir, um, sorry, I don’t know how to address you. I know I don’t know you well and perhaps it’s not my place to say, but since I met you I’ve seen a sadness behind your eyes. And if you see me laughing and carefree with you, it’s because the sadness goes aways many time when we speak. We won’t be able to speak after tomorrow. But if the sadness returns to your eyes, just look up at the window and know that I’m within and behind the shutters.”