For those of you who might have lost my story from our last meeting, or those who weren’t able to attend, I’ve posted it here. Sorry for the length and, I don’t mean to badger, really, but please, please, PLEASE, give me some feedback. Yes, real feedback, not just the fluffery. I will be most appreciative. And people, don’t let the website die on us!

The Concert

Tahir watched in the mirror as a bead of sweat emerged from his neck and rolled down the nearly hairless expanse of his chest, curving in its path toward his right nipple, where the heat swallowed it up. He allowed the late afternoon warmth to enshroud his newly washed, naked body, as if it were a woman’s cloak. A slight breeze from the opening of his window was the silk sash of the cloak sliding against his outer thighs. Tahir was 15 and very aware of the urges rising within his lower abdomen, but he didn’t have time to quell them. Instead, he pulled on a pair of jeans, a green and white striped, half-sleeved polo, and his sneakers. Five minutes later, with a swipe of hair gel and a pump of eau du cologne, he was ready to leave for the concert.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Tahir’s mother stood him up against the fridge to interrogate him. She was his only parent, he her only child. Up until a few months ago, all Tahir needed was a look of contempt from his mother or the sound of her tortured voice to root him to the spot, struggling between the desire to help her or hide from her. He knew she’d made many sacrifices for him. Not a day went by when she didn’t remind him of this. When his father walked out on them thirteen years ago, she became a 22-year-old divorcee with no income and no living parents to take care of herself and her baby. With a minimal FA degree from Home Economics College, and some help from her maternal aunt, she managed to get a job teaching Remedial Urdu at Crescent Public, while still taking care of her son.

At first, Tahir had been very close to his mother. He would come home from school and narrate to her the events of his day, as she made fresh phulkas on the stove for lunch. They couldn’t afford too many servants, so Tahir’s mother did all the cooking while a maid came in daily to wipe the floors and wash their clothes. In the evenings, after Tahir and his mother awoke from their respective siestas, he would sit in the family room to do his homework, while she corrected her students’ assignments. There was a comfortable routine to their life.

The trouble started around the time Tahir turned 13. He spent more time holed up in his room, on the phone with his friends, and arguing with his mother over his curfew. One day, Tahir’s mother had come home early from work to see her son lounging lazily on the sofa watching TV.

“Why are you home so early?” she had asked.

“Oh, hi, Ammi,” he said, shocked to see her home so soon. “I didn’t go to school today,” he said, nervously. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“What happened, sweetie?” She walked up to him and raised the palm of her hand to his forehead. Then she flipped it over, re-assessing his temperature with the back of her hand. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I know,” he said, sitting up straight, and smoothing out the wrinkles in his pajama bottoms. “I think I ate something bad at school yesterday. I’ve been going to the bathroom almost every hour.”

“Oh ho. My poor baby,” she said, plopping down onto the sofa next to him, putting her warm cheek against his, and wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Tahir wanted to close his eyes and relax into her grip, but he knew he had other things to worry about.

“Ammi, I haven’t had anything to eat all day,” he said. “I’m feeling so weak.”

“Well, obviously, silly,” she said. “Let me heat up some khichri for you. It’ll be light on your stomach, and you can mix it with yogurt.” She stood and walked towards the kitchen.

“Thanks, Ammi,” he yelled, when she was gone.

Tahir sat for a moment, mapping his house in his mind, identifying the various exits. On his right lay the main entrance to the house, on his left, the kitchen and back door; in front of him stood an adjoining drawing/dining room, and behind him, two sets of staircases, one leading upstairs to his bedroom, the other down below to a storage room which had two rectangular windows on the upper side of one wall, both intended to provide an entryway for sunlight, not an escape route for star-crossed lovers. Tahir stood on shaky legs, ran upstairs, two steps at a time, and pummeled down the hall, thumping loudly on his bedroom door.

“Listen, Raza,” he whispered loudly, through clenched teeth. “Open up.” After a minute, his friend cracked the door an inch.

“What is it?” Raza asked, impatient.

“You and Saleha have to leave,” Tahir said. “Now! My mother is home.”

“Oh shit,” Raza said. “Gimme two minutes.”

When Raza emerged from the room, a petite brunette stood by his side, squirming uncomfortably.

“You guys have to leave now,” Tahir repeated. “My mom’s in the kitchen. She won’t see you.” Tahir led the way downstairs and through the lounge, but just as the trio reached the front door, Tahir’s mother walked out of the kitchen.

“Lunch is ready,” she said. When she saw her son’s friend and a girl at her doorstep, her eyes clouded over in confusion.

“Assalam-u-alaikum, Auntie,” Raza said, with a forced smile. “I just stopped by to see how Tahir was doing. This is my sister, Saleha.”

Saleha greeted Tahir’s mother.

“Won’t you come in and join us for lunch?” Tahir’s mother asked, slightly mocking, as if she were a school principal sarcastically inviting her tardy students to class.

“No, thank you, Auntie,” Raza said. “We have to go. We have Math tuition. We just wanted to see how Tahir was feeling.”
Raza and Saleha quickly said good-bye. Tahir shut the door after they left, and turned around to face his mother.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his face turning pink. “Let’s eat.”

“Don’t insult me,” she said. Seeing the look of fake concern on her son’s face, she folded her arms across her chest and smirked with the air of one who is privy to all of life’s dirty secrets. “What, you think I was never young?”

The arrogant upward tilt at the corner of her lips fell back in shame. She took several steps toward him, until her face was only three inches away from his. “Don’t ever bring your filthy friends and their bimbos over to my house again. Ever.”

She walked up the stairs to her room, and slammed the door behind her. Tahir was left feeling ashamed of what his mother might think of him and humiliated for getting caught. He fell back onto the sofa, forgetting the food she had laid out on the kitchen table for him, wondering what she’d meant when she said she was once young, too.

Tahir’s mother began to worry he was getting involved with the wrong crowd. She wondered if he’d ever brought another girl home in her absence, not for a friend, but for himself. She was determined to bring up a son that was nothing like his promiscuous father. She started to keep a close eye on Tahir, kept reminding him to say his prayers, read the Quran, do his work. Sometimes, in her fervor to mold him, she slapped him, or threw shoes at him, or even barred his access to the outside world. But, by far, the worst punishment she could give Tahir, in his opinion, was collapsing into tears and blaming herself for her son’s flaws.

“I’m a useless mother,” she would cry. “I wasn’t respected by my husband, why should it be any different with my son? After all, I’ve only sacrificed my entire youth so you could go out and have a good time and make a great big tamasha of your life.” At times like this, Tahir was reminded of the fact that Samina was only 35 – much, much younger than any of his friends’ mothers – but acted as if she was an old burhia. He would immediately ask for her forgiveness, no matter how slight his indiscretion, and determine to spend more time making her smile, to ease away the lines in her forehead and the disillusionment in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Ammi,” he had said, the same day she caught Raza and Saleha in their house. He was too embarrassed to explain that he had owed Raza a favor, that Saleha was truly a sweet girl who thought Raza loved her, and they’d just needed a place to spend time together. But he knew, no matter how he phrased it, his mother’s mind would dwell on the antics that had gone on behind closed doors, and she would forever associate that image with him. “I’m really sorry.”

He’d gently pushed open the door to her room, and walked up to her bed, where she lay with her back to him. He sat on the bed, next to her, his face angled towards the back of her head, and placed his arm on her shoulder. Her body froze. He moved his hand from her shoulder to her head, where he began to stroke his fingers through her silky brown hair. Her body slowly relaxed under his rhythmic touch, until she turned around to face him, eyes shut, and he realized she had fallen asleep. He thought about getting up to leave, as he gazed at her innocent sleeping expression. When she slept like this, he thought, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth disappeared, making her look younger, like one of the upperclassmen at his school. Her skin looked as soft as butter, as if his fingers might melt into her, if he touched her. She looked pale, though. Tahir thought she might be cold, so he pulled the blanket lying at the edge of her bed, over her, and tucked it snuggly into the curves of her body. There was still something missing, he thought. She didn’t seem warm enough. He had a sudden image of his father lying next to her, his hairy arm encircling her protectively as she slept. Tahir’s mouth tasted bitter, and he took a sip of water from the glass lying on his mother’s nightstand. He was overcome with a feeling of responsibility, to protect his mother, to make sure she was always happy.

Ever since he’d eavesdropped on his mother, three months ago, talking to someone over the phone – no doubt a man, judging from the lightness of her voice and the way her fingers flirted with the telephone cord – he’d felt even more burdened. He had a pretty good idea who her new friend was: Mr. Rameez Chaudhry. Principal Rameez Chaudhry, her boss. She’d invited him over to dinner last week under the pretense that she wanted to thank him for his generous pay raise. Tahir was initially surprised by this gesture since they didn’t often have guests over. But from the moment Mr. Chaudhry sat down in their living room, Tahir had the uneasy feeling he’d been there before. He moved easily from living room to dining room to bathroom to kitchen, without even asking for directions. He addressed Tahir’s mother as Samina, rather than Mrs. Sikander, a gesture that probably wasn’t as unusual as Tahir made it out to be. But there was something else too. In the presence of Mr. Chaudhry, Tahir’s mother smiled. Genuine smiles. Lots of them. And that was unusual.

It wasn’t that Tahir didn’t like seeing his mother happy. In fact, he’d noticed that since Mr. Chaudhry had come to their house, she’d been more lax with Tahir, allowing him to stay out late with his friends, cooking his favorite meals, and spending time teasing rather than lecturing him. But imagining her with another man, after she had belonged solely to Tahir for more than a decade, made him feel like she’d betrayed him. What was it that she lacked? he thought. Was she no longer happy with just him? He tried, as best he could, to avoid the answers to his own questions.

“Where are you going tonight?” she asked him, arms folded across her chest. For some reason, Tahir observed, she hadn’t been in a good mood all day.

“Out,” he said, indifferent. He poured himself a glass of water from the crinkled plastic liter bottle, and drank it down in steady gulps.

“Don’t ignore me, Tahir,” she said. He noticed that she looked more exhausted than usual.

“Are you feeling all right, Ammi?” he asked. Maybe she was pregnant, he thought, and immediately tried to erase the idea from his mind.

“Forget about me,” she said. “I’m asking about you. I thought you were going to help me fix the flush in my bathroom. You never said you had plans.”

“It must’ve slipped my mind,” he said, grabbing the car keys from a hook on the kitchen wall. “And I already fixed your flush,” he said, abruptly, thinking about the pills he’d found in her bathroom cabinet.

“What’s going on with you these days?” she asked, concerned. “I hardly see you anymore. You never tell me where you’re going or when you’ll be back. Your room stinks of smoke all the time – don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. You’ve just been acting like such a,” she paused, looking into the air for answers. “Like such a stranger.”

“Is that so?” he asked, coolly.

Ever since that dinner last week, Tahir had a hunch that his mother was gearing up to tell him something. He expected the worst, of course. Mr. Chaudhry wanted to marry her. He wanted to adopt Tahir. He wanted to move them into his Modeltown residence, and turn Tahir’s life upside down. None of those images, however, could have explained the pills Tahir saw that morning, in his mother’s bathroom. They were tiny white pills arranged in a circle, inside a flat beige compact, packed inside a box. He’d read quickly through the medical jargon written on the box, worried his mother might be sick and hiding it from him. But he was completely taken aback by what he found out.

“Tahir, meri jaan, don’t do this to me?” his mother said. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m your mother. I love you.” He allowed her to pull him into an embrace, and for a moment, he felt like becoming her sweet little son again, telling her exactly what was bothering him. But then the swell of her breast and the scent of her floral perfume reminded him of her sex. She was a woman, a woman who’d betrayed him, left him for another man, most likely been with that man. Just the thought made him push her away violently.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, incredulous.

“You disgust me,” he said, in a dangerously low voice.

“Tahir, don’t talk to me like that.” She sounded severe, but he could hear the slight falter in her voice when she spoke.

“Or what?” he asked, noticing her hands grip the kitchen counter behind her, one on each side. Those hands, which had once lovingly caressed his face, had ruffled his hair, even tickled his feet. Her grip on the counter was tight and he thought, has she gripped something else too? Has she stroked the length of a man’s hardness and brought him to ecstasy? Just the thought made him spit on the floor.

“Hai Allah, khabees! What kind of devil’s gotten into you?” Looking aghast, she stepped forward to slap him. But he grabbed her arm before she could, then grabbed her other arm and held them tightly at her sides. The gleam in her eyes died down, from bewilderment to a provocative fear. “What are you going to do, you imbecile? Hit me? You’re going to hit your own mother?”

He brought his face close to hers and felt the urges inside him turn savage. Letting go of one of her arms, he gently touched her bottom lip with the tip of his index finger, and glided it from right to left. He did not want to imagine where those lips had been. But, unwillingly, an image filled his head. His mother on her knees. On the floor. With her mouth wrapped loosely around…no! He clenched his eyes shut, trying to erase the image. No, it could never happen, it could never! But he’d seen it himself, in the magazines that his friends had lent him. He’d seen women in all different positions, shameful yet proud of it, desirable yet allowing themselves to be disrespected, both needy and filled with pleasure. But those were white women, black women, Chinese women. Never a Pakistani woman. Never. Never someone like his mother. But she’s only 35, said a voice in his head, a voice that sounded very much like his friend Raza’s, who only a few days ago he thought he’d caught staring at his mother’s backside when she bent down to pick up a dropped sock. She’s only 35, just like Ms. Yaseen, who teaches us English and fills our minds every waking hour with her luscious lips and American accent. Unmarried Ms. Yaseen, about whom we keep thinking, is she a virgin?

Well, is she? Is she?

“I can’t believe you,” Tahir said, his jaw clenched, his grip tight around her wrist. It was painful just to look at her. “You’re disgusting!”

“Tahir,” she said, soothingly, as if trying to calm a person pointing a gun at her head. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I know what you’ve been doing,” he said. “In my absence.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Don’t insult me,” he said, pushing her away. Suddenly a memory sparked in his mind, a memory of his mother uttering those same words to him. “What, you think I’m not a man?”

She gasped, quickly covering her mouth with one hand. Then she slapped him hard. His cheek flushed. She pushed him viciously, pushed him from the kitchen and down the hallway toward the door, pushed him into the outside world, slamming the door in his face. He just stood there, breathless, his eyes watering. He stayed for a few seconds, expecting his mother to open the door and beg for his forgiveness. But she didn’t. Calmly, he turned around and walked towards his car. He was feeling savage tonight.

“Oye, Tahir, watch where you’re going,” Zain said. Zain was sitting in the passenger seat of the white Suzuki, his arms braced in front of him as the car skidded to a stop in front of an old woman crossing the street. “Are you alright, man?”

“I’m fine,” Tahir said, waiting a beat, then replacing his foot onto the accelerator and continuing his drive towards the Alhamra Open Air Stadium where the popular band, Awaz, would be performing in half an hour. “Hey, Raza, you’ve got the tickets, right?”

“Of course, man. How stupid do you think I am?” Raza said from the backseat. He was sitting next to Kamran, whose eyes were gazing out the window at a slim young woman in a bright purple shalwar kameez, her two children standing at either side of her, seemingly waiting for a bus.

“She’s hot, man,” Kamran said, to no one in particular.

“Forget it, yaar,” Zain said. “She’s an auntie! She’s got kids and all. You don’t spare anyone, do you?”

“She’s hot. That’s all I’m saying. Mothers can be hot, too.”

Without realizing it, Tahir pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator, sending them speeding through a red light.

“Yaar, Tahir, slow down,” Raza said. “You’re asking for it today. What are you going to do if the police see you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got my license,” he said.

“Your fake license, you mean,” Kamran said. “Well make sure you have a couple hundred rupees in your pocket, too. You know the police don’t let up easy.”

“Whoa, look at that crowd,” Zain said. “There’s so much rush!”

Tahir had driven into a parking space in front of the stadium, and could make out, easily, hundreds of people outside the gates. Mostly men.

Once they’d walked up to the stadium and pushed their way into the crowd, Tahir glimpsed one of his classmates standing in a better position, closer to the gates. He inched forward slowly, through swarms of sweaty bodies and curse words, until he was right behind the guy.

“Hey, what’s up, yaar?” he asked. “You been here long?”

“Hi, Tahir!” his classmate said. “Good to see you, man. Are you kidding me? I’ve been here for at least an hour. It’s starting to stink.” He pinched his nose with his fingers. “The security tonight is shit, man. There are a couple of policemen standing around the gates, telling us to be patient. They say they’ll be opening the gates soon.”

Tahir turned around, expecting to see his three friends behind him. They’d disappeared. Most likely, he thought, they hadn’t been able to navigate their way through the collision of bodies. When he turned back to his classmate, he noticed a group of girls huddled in a corner, next to a big brick pillar. The one that really caught his attention was Asmara. She was one of the most popular girls in his class. She wasn’t in the same section as Tahir, 10A, but he still knew who she was. He doubted, though, that she knew him. She was beautiful, for one thing, her wavy brown hair usually tied back with a pastel scarf, gold hoops dangling from her ears, and her skin the fleshy color of stripped tree bark. Even though his friends were all in love with her, Asmara was too sacred to talk about, the way they sometimes talked about Hannia, the girl who was reputed to have slept with five guys in their class. Asmara was the type of girl, Tahir thought, who wouldn’t give him a second glance. Just the other day, she had cut in front of him, when he was in line to buy a sandwich from the school canteen, and he’d let her. On another occasion, she‘d surprised him, by waving at him from afar. He waved back, hesitantly, before realizing she had meant it for someone else. Asmara had seen him though, and laughed at him once she caught up with her friend.

“He actually thought I was waving to him,” he heard her say. The two girls had erupted in giggles.

Tahir had never been suave with girls. But tonight was going to be different. The urges within him were rumbling. Why had Asmara talked about him, as if he were ugly and covered in warts? What was so horrifying about the idea that a girl like her could wave to him?

Tahir pushed past his classmate and a host of other people, moving closer to the gate, and thus, nearer to Asmara. He noticed there weren’t many girls at the concert. But the few that were there, stood in a corner, avoiding the heat and stink of the gathering men. Asmara was leaning against the pillar, on her tiptoes, trying to get a better view of the gates, to see when they might open.

He was right in front of her now. Shielding her from the rest of the crowd, but also blocking her path to her friends. It took her a few seconds to avert her gaze from the gates onto him. He could see her trying to register who he was, whether he was someone she knew or not, someone she should worry about. She pushed him back.
“Move,” she said, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he placed his hands on either side of her, against the wide pillar she stood in front of, entrapping her completely.

“What are you doing, you loser? Get out of my way,” she said, her voice full of scorn, her eyes belittling him. He’d never been this close to a girl before. And a popular girl, at that. A pretty, fair-skinned, curvaceous girl. He felt hot just looking at her, but it was something more than petty lust. It was a feeling of power. Because here he was, Tahir Sikander, a nobody, a mama’s boy, looming in front of Asmara Altaf, who was, all of a sudden, completely vulnerable. Subject to his will.

He could see the fear rising in her eyes, and got a kick out of it. It wasn’t like he was going to do anything. He just wanted to scare her, to get back at her. For making him feel so insignificant, as if she could do a hundred times better than him, as if he didn’t deserve her respect. He relaxed his posture, thought about disappearing back into the crowd and finding his friends. But then, all at once, the gates of the stadium opened and a surge of human bodies swept forcefully past him. Tahir almost lost his footing and had to grip the pillar tightly to balance, bringing his body even closer to Asmara’s. He couldn’t help it; the crowd was too strong. They kept pushing him further and further into her. Asmara, he knew, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, looked like she might cry. She was trying to push him away. But they were both trapped here, whether they liked it or not.

Tahir felt her body stiff against his. Her dupatta was pushed high around her neck, so that he could see a sliver of cleavage running into her shirt. He could smell her perfume mixed with her sweat. He thought about the awkwardness of their position, the fact that in a few minutes, he would probably get swept along with the crowd and wouldn’t see her again for the duration of the night. And then, he was certain, he would regret all the things he could’ve done, if it weren’t for his propriety. Propriety? Here was a girl, he thought, trapped under his body, overwhelming him with the desire to touch her, and all he could think about was propriety? He pulled his right hand away from the pillar towards his chest. Then he inched his fingers between their pressed bodies, around the curve of Asmara’s breast, so that his thumb grazed her nipple, before getting a firm grip. He squeezed, feeling the soft skin under her clothes give way to his touch. She was yelling now, pushing him harder and harder away, but no one could hear her with all the ruckus around them. Even Tahir couldn’t hear her, so intent was he on her body. The harder she pushed, the harder he got pushed back onto her. His hand on her breast, his hard-on digging into her, he felt like he might explode here and now. For just a split second, he felt the ecstasy of this near-climax, this building up of all his urges, to a state of carnal combustion. He felt the power of this moment. His power. His power to feel pleasure at her expense. His power to crush her will. His power to dominate. And it felt great.

The concert didn’t start on time because of a lack of security and some technical issues with the band’s equipment. But when it did, the entire stadium vibrated with people screaming, dancing, and singing along. After re-uniting with his friends, Tahir had tried to clear his mind and have a good time. At first, he’d managed to play the part of the raving fan, but soon realized the façade couldn’t go on much longer. There was a huge shame building inside of him. He tried to tell himself he hadn’t done anything any other guy wouldn’t have done in his place. It wasn’t like he attacked her. He just touched her. So what? It happened all the time. Guys on the street whistling at other girls, trying to cop a feel of their butt, or elsewhere. It wasn’t a big deal. What was Asmara thinking anyway, being here? It obviously wasn’t a safe place for girls to be.

He looked at his friends around him. He knew each of them had their own limits, how far they would go with a girl. Zain was, by far, the most tame. He was really quite the gentleman, but acted lewd at times, just to fit in. It didn’t suit him. Raza was more like Tahir, interested in finding out all he could about sex and women, spending 80% of his time just thinking about it. Kamran had no morals whatsoever. But he was also the only guy who’d had any experience, and was thus, invaluable as a friend and a source of information. He’d been to Heera Mandi a couple of times, and was generous enough to outline, in detail, his exploits with the prostitutes. Once, he’d even taken Tahir along, just for the ride. Tahir had sat with him in an old-fashioned drawing room with no furniture, just floor cushions, in one of the tall dingy buildings of the Walled City. He watched girls, some that seemed his age, some his mother’s, whirl around in their frock-like kameezes, which were cinched under their busts, and skin-tight thang pajamas. They were trained to sing and dance, in the ways of the traditional courtesans of Lucknow, who, back then, were respected members of society. But Kamran didn’t have any interest in such things, and so soon after, he was led into an inner area of the house. Tahir was also invited, by an older woman with a tender smile, but refused. He’d thought of his mother, in that moment, and what she would think if she knew about the feelings coursing through his body, tugging him, ineffectually, toward the other woman.

Tahir wondered now if his position on the scale of sexual behavior, ranging from virginal purity to sexual fanaticism, had grown worse? In the past, images of his mother had always kept him in check. She had suffered because of another man and, Tahir thought, he was never going to become that man. For the first time, it occurred to him: maybe his father had a reason? Maybe his mother forced him to leave? Maybe she’d done something inappropriate to incur his displeasure? Tahir knew, immediately, this was impossible. He was mortified, just thinking about what he’d said to his mother earlier that night. How would he ever show his face at home again?

He was certain the things he’d imagined his mother doing could never be true. She was his sweet, selfless, precious mother. The woman who single-handedly brought him up. Who, despite her rough edges, was his voice of reason, the only sacred thing in his life. There had to be another explanation for the pills he’d seen in her bathroom. Because if there wasn’t, he didn’t know what he might do.

“Hey, Tahir,” Kamran said. “I don’t feel like going home just yet.”

The concert was over. Tahir had just dropped Zain and Raza home, and was sitting in his car with Kamran.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Where do you want to go?”

Kamran looked at him with a mischievous smile, and Tahir immediately understood.

“I don’t know, man,” he said. “It’s pretty late.”

“Oh, come on,” Kamran said. “Don’t be such a wimp. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Then why do you want me there?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kamran said. “It’s not safe in the inner city at night? Come on, man, please.”

Tahir sighed dramatically to let his friend know what a huge favor he was doing him. And it was a huge favor because Tahir didn’t feel like he was in the right frame of mind to go. He felt vulnerable, defenseless, much like Asmara had been just hours ago.

When they arrived at Kamran’s usual haunt, a fat, middle-aged woman wearing too much make-up and jewelry, welcomed them in with, what Tahir thought, was a sinister smile.

“Please, sit,” she said, motioning them towards the floor cushions. There was only one other man sitting there. He looked like he could have been Tahir’s servant, with his tattered shalwar kameez , black kohl rimming his lower lash line.

“Can we hurry this up?” Tahir whispered to his friend, uncomfortable.

“Okay, relax,” Kamran said. “Be cool.” He gestured to the fat woman, who seemed to be the proprietor of the place. “Uh, Begum Sajjda. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

She nodded with full understanding, and snapped her fingers. Automatically, a curtain on the far side of the room was pulled aside, and an anorexic looking girl emerged. Begum Sajjda, conversing only with the slight motion of her head, told the girl to take Kamran inside. As soon as they disappeared behind the curtain, another woman emerged, walking towards Tahir. It was the same woman he’d seen last time he was here. She took hold of his hand and pulled him towards the curtain, to the narrow hall and dimly lit rooms that lay beyond. He was about to correct her, pull his hand away, and tell her she was mistaken. He was not here as a customer. But when she glanced back at him briefly and smiled, revealing an endearing smudge of red lipstick on her otherwise clean teeth, he kept quiet. He allowed himself to be led away, down a long hallway, to the last room on the right.

Inside the room, a single bed stood under the depressing glow of a tube light. The woman shut the door behind them, and led Tahir towards the bed, placing her hands on his chest, gently pushing him down. Now that he was closer to her, Tahir thought she looked about ten years older than him. She watched him with perceptive eyes, as if she was trying to judge him, as if she knew this was not something he usually did. She sat on the bed next to him, and was about to speak, when Tahir covered her mouth with his hand. He didn’t think he could bear it if she spoke, and said something ordinary, something to remind him of where exactly he was. He removed his hand from her mouth, and she smiled, as if she understood.

Tahir put his hand on her bare shoulder, close to the curve where her shoulder met her neck. There was so much he wanted to know. Like what her mouth tasted like. Or what her body would feel like under his. This was his chance to find out. But I shouldn’t be here, he thought. This is so wrong. An image flashed before his eyes: his mother with Mr. Chaudhry. That was enough to get his blood boiling. He brought the woman’s face closer to his. He kissed her, and almost instantly, pushed her lips apart with his tongue, roaming the succulent insides of her mouth. He expected her to push him away and act coy, but instead, she returned his kiss, placing her hand on his knee for support, and then slowly moving it up his leg, to rest on the juncture between his hip and thigh. He was shivering, more than he should be, more than his bodily excitement called for. He thought that if he made love to this woman, the naked wounds still left behind from his childhood, from these past few months and today, could heal. He put both his arms around her waist, and pulled her closer. She drew back slightly, slithering off the bed, onto the ground, kneeling before him. She looked up at him with an open face, innocent and wanting to please. Maybe she was new at this, he thought. But that couldn’t be, since he’d seen her here before. Maybe she just liked him.

As soon as she unbuttoned his jeans and zipped them open, Tahir knew something was wrong with this picture. Still, he ignored the nauseous feeling in his stomach, to favor the mounting one in his crotch, as she let her fingers slide into his jeans and tickle him there. He stood up to take off his pants and underwear, and quickly sat down again, letting the more experienced of them take over. Her touch made him gasp and shudder. The sensation of her tongue forced him to lie down, horizontally across the bed, feeling like a storm was raging between his legs, ripping through his abdomen and upper torso, to the tips of his ears, until his whole body was drowning until, finally, his head got sucked under, into the whirlwind, and he experienced the greatest release of his life.

As soon as it was over, he wanted to cry. The woman knelt over him to kiss him on the cheek, but again, he put his hand over her mouth, and asked her to leave. She wasn’t offended, as if she understood this, too. When she was gone, Tahir used a nearby box of tissues to clean himself. What had he done? He felt horrible. He felt lower than low. He’d given in to temptation, thinking it would somehow purge him, but it had only made things worse. He wished he could rewind this night, the concert, and his cruelty to his mother. He didn’t know how far back he wanted to go, just that, he wanted to be a little boy in his mother’s arms. But something told him that wasn’t possible anymore.

When he arrived home, it was one o’clock in the morning. The house was silent, full of shadows. Tahir climbed the stairs to his room and noticed the door to his mother’s bedroom was slightly ajar. As quietly as possible, he pushed the door open further to see his mother sleeping on her left side, her back to him. A faint white light entered the room through a window in front of her. It came from the tube lights that hadn’t been switched off in their downstairs porch. The light enshrouded Samina’s body. Tahir tiptoed towards the window, drawing the curtains shut. Darkness enveloped him. His arms stretched out in front of his body, groping for the railing of his mother’s bed frame, anything to lean on, to lead him cautiously towards the exit. Instead he felt the mattress give way under his touch, and brought himself closer to the side of her bed. He sat on its edge hesitantly, then carefully took off his shoes, and lay beside his mother, draping her sleeping arm over him. He curled his back into the curve of her belly and rested his head against her neck.

He closed his eyes and imagined she was Asmara, only twenty years older. Would Asmara grow up to remember this night? That once upon a time, he clawed at her? Would she tell her husband or son or daughter about it? Or would she keep quiet? He hugged her now, tightening the grip of her arm around him, nestling his right elbow into hers. And he thought about the prostitute, who’d loved him the way he’d never been loved before. And he felt his lungs convulse and his heart constrict, until the sweet release of tears, and an agonized cry erupted from his lower abdomen – not the same place he’d felt the urges, but just above that, a place rooted so deeply inside of him, it almost didn’t exist. He couldn’t stop crying. For the pain he caused Asmara, for the children she’d one day have, for his mother’s betrayals, his father’s negligence, but mostly, for his own fear. The fear of having all that power in his possession. The fear of his responsibilities and desires. And the fear that the woman lying next to him was just as needy as he was.

Without realizing it, he’d awoken his mother, and she hugged him tightly, tightly, smothering him with all her love, as if she wished he could flood her insides with his being, and they could start all over again.

I honestly don’t know what the fuck. I wrote it for a writing exercise. Um, consider it the new year kick off.

*

Grafitti

The seven-kilo heart
walks up to the door and bows;
we don’t want any
but there’s no telling him now.

On another website where I whore myself, I found a very interesting little writing exercise, which I am giving all of us for the coming New Year’s and Eid holidays. It goes like this:

Below is a list of ten words. You must work these ten words in to a) a poem or b) a piece of short fiction. Neither can be longer than 500 words, although most poems are going to be far shorter than that. Each piece must be complete in and of itself, even if it has the ability to become part of something larger later on. It should stand alone.

The words:

tango
distil*
egg
master
blue
ardent*
whore
option
leaf*
death

*these words can be used in any conjugation of the root.

Have at it, writers all.

old piece – i’m quite fond of it for various reasons

DIRECTION

She said one day,
that you have to find direction –
in life, in love, in poetry.

Take the first right she said,
and keep going straight till you find your way home –
in life.

Be careful she said,
don’t falter, or pause to see all the amber turn red –
specially when in love.

I knew she was right
so I collected my thoughts, gathered my stuff
and left her – for poetry.

brand spankin’ new. gifted poem.

- 

The Waters Next

You should fly the waters next -
I’ve laid them out for you like
clothes in the morning. Jump
the window and fly -

                    the delta opens out to
seven-sailing lovers in an archipelago
of silences. What you adore – what we
adore together, the move from land to land -
is freer there. And no passport

                                                opens or closes
the sluice between this-one-a-laughter, this-one-
devoted-to-small-things. You should fly

         because they let you in for the swell
in your breast, your tales and whether
you tell them with your eyes.

          Or what covers the earth is wasted, love.
          And we grew these wings.

This is a monologue masquerading as a short story. I tried using the “upload” feature this time, but the story just disappeared somewhere into the vast and confusing world of this blog site. Bilal, we need your superior organizational skills to save the day (see! the guild is already turning you into a superhero of sorts). Enjoy!

Men

Men. Those self-proclaimed saviors and sons of bitches.

I’m lying in a hospital bed, in a room with puke green walls, in a suburban New York hospital, alone for the first time in days. It was a man that put me here, had me convulsing in pain for twelve hours before I received any medical help. It was a man who operated on me, his hands wrapped in latex, his mouth masked in white tissue, the front half of his body hidden in a green cape with arms – an alien, for all I knew.

Lying on a mechanical bed that I seesaw at will by the press of a button, I’m in this half-conscious, half-paralyzed state. At peace, yes, but the thoughts in my head running, twirling, crashing into each other at random, confused, bruised, picking themselves up only to crash again into the outer walls of my brain, specifically at the spot above my ears and in line with my eyes, the corners of my forehead, my temples. They’re battling each other like male soldiers competing for my attention.

Talal had said my father called from Pakistan to see how I was doing and would try back later. My father fit many labels. A retired professor of English Literature, an immigrant who’d returned to his homeland, a divorcee, a recluse, living in a house too big for him on farmland, growing his own vegetables, spawning his own pond fish, cooking his own meals, and writing – I hope writing – in an Internet-free house because, of course, he refused to have anything to do with that modern day contraption that had taken all the dignity and charm out of writing: the computer. When I was five years old, my father would read Shakespeare to me in lieu of bedtime stories. As I grew up, he would discuss with me his philosophies of life, from everything to American and Pakistani politics, the approaching apocalypse, and the immigrant mentality in South Asian diasporic literature, to how to pick a good apple from a batch that are misshapen, too soft, too hard, pockmarked, riddled with holes, or even, just too damn perfect to be true. He was basically a good man, my father; not quite ambitious enough for my mom, not 21st century compatible enough for this world, and not nearly cool enough for me, with his leather elbow-patched blazers, the large tortoise shell eyeglasses that drowned half his face, and his Clarks loafers, the same ones he’d bought in London during his university days and kept alive for 30 years. I guess I should be grateful though. I was an only child, his son and his daughter, and he placed me on a sacred pedestal, high above, where I could see clearly his bald patch and the disapproving look on my mother’s face because, “You’re going to spoil her. She has to be made of tougher stuff to survive in this world. God knows, I am.” And with those words, and the sound of her heels clicking against the polished wooden floors, she left us. But now I’m getting ahead of myself; my mother left when I was in college, spewing hateful propaganda about the male species just for my benefit, all the while packing her life into the two suitcases allowed on the flight back to Pakistan.

When I was nine years old, I already had a boyfriend, Murtaza. Well, not exactly a boyfriend, more like, a friend who was a boy, but it was all so mixed up at that age. Murtaza was a lanky, brown-haired eleven-year-old, skinnier than me, his voice higher pitched than mine, love of my life that I constantly insulted and ignored unless we were playing Nintendo or pretending to be ghosts in the graveyard behind his house. Of course, I didn’t know I loved him till he was gone. Always at each other’s place, our parents, best friends, so close, laughing and joking all the time, until one of the men started flirting with the other’s wife (specifically his dad and my mom). Their family was conveniently transferred to another country and I never saw my Murtaza again. Afterwards, I’d replay the moment when we shared our last game of “Life” together; he’d asked for my hand and held it, inching it slowly closer to his face before I squealed and pulled it back. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I swear, I won’t hurt you. Just give me your hand.” So I gave it back to him and allowed him to hold it ten centimeters away from his lips before I squealed and pulled it back again. “Oh, forget it, you’re such a scaredy cat.” And I thought later, that could have been my first kiss. Kiss on the hand at least, but it would have been something to tell at slumber parties to my White schoolgirl friends who went to summer camps away from home and were already pretty qualified in the art of mouth-to-mouth. Then again, he might not have been planning to kiss me. Maybe he was going to plant a spider in my palm at the last minute and watch with malicious glee as I jerked around like a possessed spirit being exorcised.

Then came the string of White boys. Jordan, Jason, Jeremy, Jimmy. They were all Jewish, which I knew because they’d often gossip about the goings on at Hebrew School and I’d mentally compare this to the Sunday School lessons I was forced to attend at our local Islamic Center. No gossip there. Just me, squirming in my chair, surrounded by all these Brown kids of various shades and mother tongues, with the occasional White child of course, and the fear developing inside my loins (why my loins, I’d later wonder, during guilt-ridden episodes of “touching myself down there”?). The fear of God, literally. Of His Wrath on the Day of Judgement, of the Hellfire where I’d surely burn for eternity because I spent my time fantasizing about kissing Jewish boys. As the tallest girl in my class however – thanks to an early encounter with Mother Nature that made my stomach cramp and grew hair on my arms and legs – I started to shrink into myself. I spoke up less, I praised others often, I slouched, much to my mother’s chagrin, and just generally did everything in my power not to be noticed as different. The Brown thing had never bothered me before, but this was a whole new life experience I wasn’t prepared for.

Then there was The Teacher. College professor, actually, of creative writing. By that time, I’d learned to speak up just a tiny bit, but he offered me his arms and pulled me out further; he heard everything I said in class and probably all the things I didn’t say, too. I was writing. I was talking. I was happy. I guess, at some point, the adoration in my eyes must have gotten to him. He said to me one day: “You are a blessing.” It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. He was telling me I was a blessing. This man, who was young, passionate, and inspiring. Who was my blessing. That’s when the pedestal came back to haunt me, though, because he placed me so high on top, that the inevitable plummet down was cry-for-two-months painful. Hurtful. One day, he was sincere as can be, favorite teacher of the year, “We’ll stay in touch, right?” and the next, emails, phone calls, no reply. He vanished. He never got back in touch and, with his silence, in effect, he told me: “You hold no significance.” That jackass. I refused to martyr him as an angel who’d worked his magic on me and then, poof, disappeared, like the doctor who’d miraculously cured my mother of a mysterious illness a few months into her marriage and then vanished without a trace when she went to thank him. No, I refused. So when I saw him again after several years, at a literary festival in the city, I hid and stubbornly told myself to ignore him, to pretend like he was nothing more than dust from my past. When he finally saw me and smiled, with the warmth of a man being reunited with his long-lost friend, I forgave him. Just like that. Disappointed with myself for being so easily swayed, I realized I loved him too much to hate him, and felt my face glow in the angelic light of his smile.

My version of dealing with my post-graduation depressive slump was to lock myself in my room and explore the virtual world of online dating. It was meant as a joke at first, a way to make fun of desperate girls on the verge of becoming ‘old maids’ in their last ditch efforts to find husbands, until one day, I realized, I was one of those girls. I’d briefly chatted with the likes of PakiHunk420, LahoriLoverboy, and KashmiriStallion. With Omer, I’d gone to the next level, giving him my phone number and talking to him for hours about our romantic ideals, about God and rock’n’roll, my desire to honeymoon in Greece and become a writer, his determination to leave the corporate world for architecture, and our common loathing of all things fake – me referring to my ex-bestfriend who’d whored her way into a marriage of convenience, him referring to his ex-girlfriend’s sizable breasts. We were soul mates. We were perfectly in sync with each other and already considering what color to paint our bedroom walls once we got married, when we finally decided, it was time for us to meet. So he hopped on a plane from LA to NY and made all the right moves: dinner at a pricey Italian bistro, the most luscious, long-stemmed roses I’d ever seen, a solid gold pendant in the shape of a crab; he was Cancer. He was my soul mate. There was only one problem: I wasn’t attracted to him. I’d seen photographs before, yes, and it wasn’t that he was ugly, but still, nothing to get excited about. I tried, I really did. We kissed and made out, but I came away feeling disheartened, not because I’d indulged in the sin of pre-marital actions-that-might-possibly-lead-to-sex, but because his lips were constantly chapped and rough, his tongue too eager, his teeth crooked, and his body (gasp) flabby. I broke up with him after three days and knew, right then, that I was the lowest person in the world, unworthy of any decent man.

But decent man I still got – Talal, my husband, in whose path my mother pushed me at some random wedding, after whispering in my ear, “Investment banker.” We met several times before approving the match. And it was thus that I joined the ranks of those who turned to the age-old practice of arranged marriages, albeit the modern kind.

Talal and I bought an apartment in the heart of Manhattan; of course, I could afford these things now as the wife of a banker who I only got to see an hour a day. Out went all notions of newlywed romance, just long, lonely days of writing for me, and hurried early morning snatches of sex, or the sleepy languor of making love at midnight. Talal was a mother-in-law’s wet dream: high salaried with a handsome face and polite manners, eager to settle down and lead the typical life of an elite, second generation American family. His biggest challenge to attaining that goal was me. No babies, no peace, only melodrama and mood swings until he fulfilled the faintest whim of a man hopelessly in love. Enter an Exhausted Him presenting me with yellow roses (didn’t he know yellow roses signified friendship, not love?) and serenading me with a tuneless rendition of the love song, “More Than Words”. Picture a Jaded Me, taking all that he had to offer, pulling it close and wrapping myself around it, experiencing physical pleasure and emotional pain at the idea that, somehow, this was the end of my life.

As predicted, I soon became pregnant. I prayed for a girl and found out it was a boy. I vowed never to become one of those over-indulgent mothers who paid more attention to her son than her daughter, who had double standards, allowing her son to stay out late and go to the prom, while her daughter’s every move was restricted, her reputation daily at risk just because of her XX gene factor. I refused to be that woman.

And now. I’m here in this hospital bed, a stitched up whale with elephantine feet and hands, a circus freak after a C-section. They’re handing me a bundle wrapped in blue. This is it. The moment. I must be strong.

But he’s so tiny. I give him my finger; he wraps his reptilian clawlings around it. His eyes are open, awe-struck, gray. He looks just like Talal in his baby pictures. That’s when I realize, this creature, this thing, has bound me to my husband in an irreversible way. I can no longer deny the truth I’d been hiding from, for fear I’d find myself somehow content with life. I was attached to this man, this man with the God-awful obsessive-compulsive need to be clean at all times and live in orderly surroundings, who divided his morning excretory ritual into two parts, one before and one after his daily cup of tea, whose eyes welled up at the end of Indian movies, and who, even now, was looking at me with dewy eyes which held a secret message I could finally decipher: “I am yours. And his. Entirely.” And I knew, against my better judgment, that I was giving him the very same look.

I gazed down again at Faiz, our son, this real person that had erupted from within me like all the beauty and potential and love I’d been holding in all this time. I felt an overwhelming relief. “Thank you, Faiz,” I said. Thank you for saving me, for validating me, for being the love of my life. And the next thing I said was: “Fuck it.” Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it all. I will be the world’s worst mother who will probably fit all Freudian stereotypes and love her son with a ferocity, a purity, a humility and worship unknown to man. This was my son. I placed him before me on a pedestal made of crushed diamonds and gold, and cranked it up as high as it could go, until he could touch the clouds. I lay there beneath him, a boundaryless safety net, so that when he failed, when he realized that clouds were just visions without substance, when he reached too far and fell, I would be there to save him.

This isn’t technically fiction but it’s one of my favourites. It was meant to be a non-traditional obituary actually, written in a moment of extreme grief.

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore. I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur. Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore. I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore. Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.
Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.
But he is gone.
I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.
Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.
I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.
I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.
Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.
I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.
Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.
I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.
From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.
I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher

This was inspired by Gloria Steinmen’s quote: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”.

There was a little fish swimming merrily in the corals. There he saw his best friend, Khaga, jumping up and down with excitement and screaming “Thank you! Thank you!” The little fish’s curiosity was roused. He quickly swam towards Khaga’s house to see what all the fuss was about.
“What’s going on Khaga?” he enquired as he rapidly approached Khaga’s house.
“Look look!” Khaga enthused, “my parents got me a bicycle for coming first in class!”
The little fish was a little bewildered at first but as soon as he saw the shiny new pink bike he also started to feel Khaga’s contagious excitement. It was beautiful, with colourful breaks. Both friends quickly jumped up on top of it and tried to ride it.
“What’s this for?” the little fish asked as he pointed to the pedals.
“This is what will make it work silly,” Khaga replied haughtily, “these are called pedals and the bicycle will move on them.”
So the two fish tried very hard to figure out how they could use their fins to pedal the bicycle. They tried by sitting on the bike and reaching down, but it proved to be very uncomfortable. Khaga was so disappointed that he started wailing. His mother came running out of their corralled house to see what all the fuss was about. When Khaga told her that he couldn’t reach the pedals she promptly went and got her tool kit and shortened the bar so that the pedals could reach Khaga’s fins. “There you go beta,” she said as she kissed him, “now you can ride your bike as much as you like.”
Khaga hastily climbed his bike again. This time his fins did indeed reach the pedals, but when he tried to move them he kept toppling over. The little fish held the bike for him until he got some balance, but he kept toppling over. Khaga was thoroughly disappointed by this point. His face displayed his utter sorrow. Khaga’s father came outside to call the fish in for dinner. He had slaved all evening in order to make some healthy food for his family. When he saw how upset Khaga was he said, “Don’t worry beta, I’m sure we can find someone to teach you”.
When the little fish got home he told his father that he wanted a bicycle. His father scoffed at the idea. “These things are for girls!” he said indignantly, “You need to learn more manly things like cooking, cleaning and taking care of babies!” The little fish got really upset. When his mother came home from work he held on to her and cried until she promised to get him a shiny new bicycle.
The next day the little fish and Khaga went around asking everyone if they knew how to ride a bike. Bicycles were new to the coral, and no one seemed to understand how they worked. The little fish and Khaga asked all their friends, their teachers and anyone else that crossed their path, however they did not succeed. By evening they were ready to give up. By the time Khaga’s mother got home from her job Khaga was on the verge of tears. When she saw how upset he was she promised him that she would figure out a way to make it work.
That weekend Khaga’s mother decided to figure out how the bicycle worked. She discovered that it relied on perfect balance, which was very tricky in the corals. Even a little bit of a gust would overturn the bike. Khaga’s mother finally paved a little area of flat land outside their house. There she helped Khaga learn how to balance himself on the bike. Finally, by the end of the weekend, Khaga was a master bicycler who could move up and down his paved path swiftly.
That Monday Khaga decided to take his bike to school so that he could show off to all his friends. Khaga bicycled to the little fish’s house with great difficulty in the morning. He didn’t realise that the uneven coral path would be so difficult to navigate on a bicycle. Despite the fact that the bike was slowing him down, he insisted upon riding on it. More than once he fell tumbling down and scraped himself. By the time he reached the little fish’s house he was battered and bruised and already late for school. The little fish’s mother, who was on her way to work, hurriedly got them to school without the bicycle and talked to the Principal so that they would not get into trouble. When the Principal saw Khaga’s cuts and scrapes he felt sorry for him and let the two fish go without causing any trouble for them. He also did not want to upset the little fish’s mother as she was the head of security for the coral.
The next morning Khaga decided that he absolutely had to take his bike to school. He was the only fish in the coral who even had a bike, thus he couldn’t resist the urge to show it off. Khaga had to depart from home very early in order to get to school on time. He left one hour before school started. The ride was arduous and vigorous. Khaga kept falling and had difficulty maintaining his balance. Not even half way through he gave up and swam with the bike but just before he reached school he got on it again in order to make his grand appearance.
The other fish gasped at the bike with great admiration. Everyone wanted to touch it and many wanted to ride it. Khaga loved the attention bestowed upon him and his bike, however he was scared that it might get stolen. He had to beg the school custodian to keep an eye on it despite the fact that he had chained it and locked it. The whole day Khaga and little fish took turns to check on the bike. They were both deathly scared that the school bully Raho would try and take it. She was notorious for stealing everyone’s new toys and everyone was wary of her. Even the teachers had a hard time disciplining her since her parents were also bullies. Her mother was known throughout the coral as “the Godmother” and she was the head of the mafia that everyone was deathly afraid of. The school was trying very hard to transfer her to another one, but until then they all lived with a sense of impending doom because of Raho. Luckily for Khaga he was male fish, and although Raho was a bully, she did not pick on the males. She often declared, “I don’t hit boys. They’re too delicate as it is.”
Soon weeks passed and many of the fish in the school had shiny new bikes of their own. Khaga may have been a pioneer but he was now no longer the only one who had a very unique toy. The bicycle craze also caught up with the adult fish, who were seen pedalling around in various different types of bicycles. Most of the adult females and the few adult males that worked bought expensive sport bikes. The females were especially boastful and loudly announced to everyone they met how much money they had spent on their new toy. Most of the adult females also bought their husbands bicycles with baskets so that they could easily bring home the groceries. The father fish took great pride in their bikes and soon one could see babies overflowing in baskets decorated with seaweed parked outside the beauty parlours that the father fish visited so often. And the clown fish bought unicycles of various sizes and colours of course.
As time went by the productivity of the coral deteriorated immensely. The coral government issued an alarm. The bikes were slowing everything down! Instead of ten minutes, fish were now taking half an hour to move around. All that excessive pedalling was also damaging many fins and the hospitals were overflowing with victims of bicycle accidents. Crimes such as thefts, mugging and robberies were also on the rise. The Prime Minister pleaded: “My dear fish. Please give up this ridiculous bicycle craze! These bicycles are causing too much trouble for us.” But no one listened to her and they continued as usual.
Little fish’s mother, who was the head of security, recognized that it was a problem. She banned the use of bicycles for her family members. Her husband became very upset and weepy because of her decision. Little fish was heart broken. She felt bad but she also felt that she was making the right decision. Soon, a few more sensible fish followed suit and also banned bicycles from their homes. Nevertheless the vast majority were still using bikes to get around. Some used excuses such as “my husband already does all the domestic work, the least I can do for him is allow him the use of his bike”. Khaga’s parents didn’t understand what the fuss was all about and they allowed him to continue using his bike.
For the next few weeks the coral police tried to come up with various tactics to deter fish from riding bicycles. They were largely ineffective and thefts and accidents continued to rise.
One night little fish sat near his window brooding. He was still angry at his mother because very few of his friends were made to give up their bikes. He did not understand why she was being cruel to her son, and decided that she was mean to him because he was male. In the distance he saw a lone fish pedalling his bike merrily; staggering and falling like all the other fish who rode bicycles. Soon little fish was screaming so loud his parents came rushing into his room in a panic. What he saw was truly horrifying. A shark was running after the fish on the bicycle. Because the bicycle was slowing the fish down, the shark caught the fish easily and swallowed the bicycle as well.
Within a day the shark had become very clever and had started targeting fish on bicycles. Little fish’s mother issued a security alert and many more fish joined the ranks of those who had banned the bicycle. The few stubborn ones that refused to discard their bikes either got eaten by the shark, or had to abandon their bicycles when the shark attacked them. Even Khaga voluntarily gave up his bike. The following month the entire coral was finally free of the menace of the bicycle. Years later little fish would recall the story of the bicycle mania with great pleasure for his little grand-fish. The era of the bicycle, or “the stupidest mania to ever sweep the coral” as it was known, became a legend that was passed down from generation to generation as a lesson in absurdity. Never again did a bicycle enter the coral and never again did fish ride bicycles.

Nabiha Meher Shaikh

How long a post can we stand, eh? I’m supposedly writing a novel. Since, oh, 2004 at least, perhaps earlier. And this is one part of that. One small part, of about two and a half thousand words. I’m posting it all here because we haven’t sorted out exactly how we will do this.

Every time I reread this bit, it makes me cringe, though usually at different bits every time. And before I write more disclaimers, I’m just going to bloody well post it.

from The Leaving Contract (working title)

Gongloo jumps off the curb and doesn’t look back, and doesn’t think of anything at all as she watches the trees blur by. She idly notices that the traffic has picked up since she started out. The driver of the bus she crosses rubs his eyes and begins to look alert. She runs the red light that turns into her street, dodging a few government school students. Her father is standing at the gate with a cigar in his mouth and his hands on his hips. Gongloo slows down and turns in.
“Where have you been?” he asks belligerently.
“Decided to go for a bike ride.”
“On that thing? It’s broken.”
“Just a little rusty.”
“Should have oiled it at least. I’ve taught you that much.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to be late,” she says before she can think to censor herself.
“Late? Late for what? Did you meet Fantsy there or something? He doesn’t wake up in the morning, I thought.”
“No, I mean later than I’m used to being.”
He eyes her suspiciously. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t like to go for my morning traipse too late. It gets crowded and people get curious. I didn’t want to wait till this time. The bus drivers are waking up already.”
He grunts. “Eat now.”
“Anything special?”
“Special, you want special? For running around early in the morning on broken bicycles?”
“Just wondering, Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me. Nothing special. Eggs. Desi ones. They’re nice. From your uncle. The git who left us that piece of trash. Go eat.”
“Is he here too?”
“He’s coming. That’s why he sent the eggs, the bugger. So he can come eat them. Go make a cake of them or something. So the bastard misses them altogether.”
“Anything else happening, Abu?”
“Eat I said.”
She dumps the bike next to the front steps and walks into the house. That was brilliant, Gongloo, don’t want to be late for you date with Sohrab guy, tell your father that, that’s a good idea. She shakes herself free of the thought and runs to her room. Turns on the shower and steps inside, realizing as the hot water hits her T-shirt that the hot water is hitting her T-shirt and not her skin. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, but doesn’t move. She unties her hair, closes her eyes and stands there in her clothes, feels the water seep through the shirt and the bra, get in under the sweat pants, making splacky noises on the parachute material. Haven’t raced anyone since Fantsy. And that was when I was bigger than him. Long time since I was bigger than Fantsy. Well, anyway. Clothes. I’m wearing clothes.
She strips her wet, heavy clothes off and throw them on the floor, out of the direct stream of water, and pours some shampoo on them. That fixes that, she thinks. Instant laundry. She finishes showering and gets out, stands in front of the mirror. Five minutes go by. She can hear music outside, someone playing Indian songs from a bad sound system. There are dogs barking at each other. And the Walls ice cream truck has just swung into earshot. There’s no noise, she thinks. What’s wrong with me? Someone rings a bicycle bell. She turns and goes to her hanging canvas, takes a black pen and draws a bicycle in lines. She draws another one right next to it. She draws five in a row, all facing the same direction. What’s wrong with this picture? The wheels are wrong, how can the wheels be wrong, they’re just round with spokes in them. Well, at least there’s noise now. What’s wrong with the wheels? Oh. Right. She draws in mud-guards over the top of each wheels. It’s barely more than an arc above another arc, but it makes all the difference. The wheels are huge on Sohrabs, she thinks, they must splash up all kinds of crap. She draws more, all in a line, wheel to wheel, all facing the same direction, until she finds she’s run into the picture of the playground. The bottom of the slide now has a bicycle wheel on it. There’s a bicycle on the slide. In the playground. She keeps drawing, going all the way to the other side of the canvas.
When she comes to the dining room an hour later, her father spots her from the drawing room and yells, “How long does a shower take?”
“I’m a girl, Abu,” she replies distractedly as she tests the various fruits on the table for ripeness. After a moment or two, she becomes aware that her father is staring at her and she blinks a few times, and smiles.
“Don’t give me that,” he says.
“Don’t give you what?”
“You walked down here with a glazed look in your eyes. Like you’ve been smoking up.”
“I haven’t.”
“I know that, you silly twit.”
“I was drawing.”
He looks at her as she sits down across from him and bites into a peach.
“Still. Why are you looking drugged?”
“Maybe the bike ride wore me out.”
“No.”
“Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
She sighs and chews. After staring at nothing for a while, she says, “I met a boy in the park yesterday.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is?”
“Was he nice?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much. Sort of annoying.”
“So, good.”
“Fantsy thinks I should run away.”
“Fantsy’s mother is a mean-spirited hag.”
Gongloo snorts. “Well, Daman is getting married,” she says, as if that explains everything.
“And?”
“I think I should spend more time in playgrounds.”
Her father takes off his glasses. Gongloo focuses on him for the first time. Abu looks old, she thinks to herself. His face, it’s like someone made him carry their luggage on his head. It’s all scrunched and wrinkly. She stares at him as he’s cleaning his glasses and his face disassembles in her imagination, turns into shapes and lines, folds of brown and browner. When he puts them on again, she has to blink several times to find his face again.
“Your mum always took you to playgrounds, I remember. You and Fantsy.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember?”
“In parts.”
“When we were young, when we’d first met, your mother and I used to go to playgrounds together.”
“Yeah. Mum told me.”
“We used to have fights there. A lot of fights.”
“I don’t remember you fighting.”
He smiles. “Not once you came, then we hardly fought at all.” He frowns. “Except about gripe water. That woman had the most unreasonable fear of gripe water.”
Gongloo cackles suddenly. “Gripe water? Really? That’s excellent.”
“She thought it was too desi.”
“But Nani swears by the stuff.”
“That might have something to do with it. She and your Nani used to fight about it too. Their fights were much bigger than ours. Anyway, I used to feed it to you on the sly. Told her it was my soothing voice that quieted you.”
“Abu.”
“What ‘Abu’?”
“Your voice isn’t really soothing.”
“My girl, you may be 23, but I can still crack you one.”
“Sorry, Abu. Anyway, you were talking about Nani.”
He looks up suddenly, straight into her eyes, and she has to look away. “I was talking about your mother.”
“Right.” She goes to fiddle with the curtains.
“And gripe water, for some reason,” says her father, kindly. “Why was I talking about gripe water, Gul?”
“I’m not sure. Fights.” Why do I have to be honest, she thinks idly. “You were talking about fights with Amma. In playgrounds.”
“Hm. Why was I saying that, I wonder.”
“I don’t know. Abu, Sonu Chacha’s going to be here soon. Should we be getting food ready?”
“He’ll have breakfast when he comes. That’s why he sent the eggs, I’m sure of it.”
She grins. “You weren’t kidding?”
“Sonu send eggs from the farm and not waddle up behind them? Gongloo.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Occasionally we fought about Sonu.”
“Really?” She sits down and pays attention for the first time.
“She said I was too mean to him.”
“Nonsense.”
“That’s what I said. I love the bastard, I said. She said I was harsh in my criticism.”
“Was that because of Nani, do you think?” she asks quietly.
He sighs a small sigh. “I think partly. She thought the reason Sonu never became a star was that his family was so verbally abusive.”
“But Sonu Chacha’s where you learned all your swear words.”
“Yes. Bastard. He’s four years younger, you know. Imagine my shame.”
“Abu.”
“All through school, I was so jealous.”
“Sonu Chacha doesn’t seem cowed to me. Not like Amma.”
“Amma wasn’t cowed, Gul.”
“I don’t buy it. Between Nani and Apiya – anyway. I think – I think if Apiya hadn’t been so derisive every time they came over, things would be different.”
He sighs again. “And the Catholicism?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, everyone loves a Mother Theresa.”
“Gul. It’s serious for her. She means it.”
“How can she mean it? How? What could possibly make sense to her about it all?”
“Look, your mother’s penchant for abiding by historical continuity –“
“Bugger Amma’s penchants, Abu! Since when is life a story? Since when did you and I become a dot on a timeline?”
“I’d hope you and I each got our own dot.” He smiles up at her, but she doesn’t smile back. “And your penchant for drama. Look, I know you’ve gone and stood up with flare and hollered for effect, and I understand. And that breathing heavily and glaring thing is good too. But what I’m saying is, your mother needs to do this.”
“No she doesn’t, Abu!” Now I’m really yelling, some internal voice says. “Pakistanis don’t have issues!” I shouldn’t be yelling at my father. “And Fantsy going off to get an epiphany and marrying some bloody expat! I’m sick of these people.”
“Fantsy’s not going to leave, is he?” her father asks, aghast.
“No. I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”
“Did you ask?”
“I’m not going to, Abu. He should have sense enough to say.”
“That pride comes from your mother, too.”
“Yes, well, she’s not all bad.”
“Gul.”
“Yes, well. It’s been a very ‘Gul’-heavy day, Abu. I’ve had it with introspection. Bugger it all. Historical narrative my Alexandrian arse! What do you want for breakfast?”
“What breakfast?”
“I thought we were making him breakfast.”
“Sonu’s not here yet. Let him come and insinuate first.”
“Abu, I didn’t know I was this angry.”
“To be honest, Gongles, I didn’t know either.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
“What else should I be worried about?”
“Never mind. I’ll worry instead. You’re forgiven for yelling. Remember that. Some other Pathan baap would whip you good.”
“Yes, Abu.”
“You don’t buy it?”
“Whatever you say Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
“Okay. What will you –“
“If you ask me what I’m going to worry about, I really will give it to you, Gul.”
“Sorry. Okay. Anyway. Breakfast?”
“Just don’t come home one morning saying you want to be buried in a playground.”
She takes a deep breath. Okay, comic turn. Wind-down time. Good. “It has a romantic feel to it, I have to say.”
“Just what I need. Everyone saying, ‘Rehber Zaman, you know him. Buried his daughter in the park. Under a swing.”
“That does have an interesting ring to it, though. Very, I don’t know, very fairytale.”
“Your mother always thought so.”
Gongloo stares.
He continues, “She wanted to be buried in the park. Under the swings. I was flabbergasted first time I heard it. Then, when I didn’t know much about her or her weird ideas, it used to frighten me into having a shouting match. So we’d sit on the swings and shout. About whether or not she’d be buried under the swings. Can you believe that?”
“But – ” Gongloo has a look of complete horror and disgust on her face. “But everyone would scrape her as they swung!”
“It is a little ghastly.”
“With their feet all over her grave!”
“I know, bachay.”
“But she’s the one who taught me that you don’t walk on graves! That you don’t bury people without solemnity and visit them without a prayer! Every time we went to visit Nana, every time! Dupatta on the head, hands up front. Salam as you enter the gate. Flowers on the graves. Fatiha. People are buried facing Makka, you know that? I knew that when I was four because of Amma.”
Her father remains silent. Somewhere inside, Gongloo’s emergency system is saying, he tricked you. He wanted you to keep talking when you wanted to shut down. That’s why he mentioned the swings. You know that. Walk away. Make eggs.
But that voice is so tiny, she thinks to herself. It’s so tiny now. How?
“And you know, he came here to die,” she continues, pacing around the room now. “Nana came here and he knew he was dying. Amma denies it now, but she knew then. She told me that too. He came here to die, with us. Dragged Nani along and bloody Apiya – ”
“Gongloo!”
“Bloody stupid evil Apiya came along to fuck with all of us. But he didn’t care. He wanted to die here. Because he knew.”
“What did he know, Gongloo?”
She sits down suddenly, exhausted, and looks out the window. “It doesn’t matter.” After a while, she says, “I wish the pansies were growing still. Amma likes pansies.”
“Yes, Fantsy was always a favourite of hers.”
Gongloo guffaws involuntarily. “That’s why his mother’s so mean. Because he’s so floppy.”
“He’s got you to indulge him, though.”
“Epiphanizing bugger,” she mutters.
“True.”
“Someone ought to throw him out of the sky.”
“I’m sure some civic-minded person will someday.”
She stands up briskly and smoothes down the front of her kameez. “Well, if there is a God, then that person will be me.”
“I don’t think so.”
She stares into her father’s eyes for a moment, then says, “Abu, you’ve done enough sage Buddhist psychologist stuff for one morning, okay? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I only do what you let me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Imagine how that horrifies me.”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he says sharply.
“Sorry Abu. But don’t think you’ve deterred me from hanging out in playgrounds with that awful ghoulish story.”
“The day I deter you, the bloody trumpet sounds. Acha, eggs. What about the eggs? Are you making this cake or is he going to come eat them all?”
A voice booms from the doorway, “Listen, you ravisher of donkeys, I can eat whatever the fuck I want in my brother’s house!”
“Hi, Sonu Chacha. How are – ”
“Listen, you blighter,” interrupts her father, “why can’t you use the tried and true, why do you have to get creative with the language?”
“But if I cease and desist,” he says, grinning and winking at Gongloo, “how will the language grow?”
“Which language, ass?”
“Any language? I mean, isn’t this how speech evolves?”
“Spake the slime at the bottom of the gene pool.”
“Lala, how are you?”
“Just dandy till you trundled up. Come to eat my eggs, have you?”
“My eggs. With paratthas, please, Gongloo. And how are you? You’re all flushed. Is it a boy?”
“Is it ever?”
“If you were in the village, you’d be a mother of three by now.”
“Instead, I’ve decided to become a hag. Or a crone. Crone, do you think?”
“Breakfast,” he replies imperiously. “Now.”
As she walks away, she hears her uncle ask, “Why’s she all red in the face?”
“Yelling. Mother.”
“Has she called or something?”
Gongloo rummages loudly in the kitchen. She doesn’t really want to hear the conversation. Fantsy, Fantsy, Fantsy, she thinks to herself. Am I supposed to see him today? No, can’t be, I saw him last night, didn’t I? What am I doing today? It’s only ten. How could it only be ten, it’s already been such a long day. I’d be devastated if Fantsy fell out of the sky. Or got a divorce.

This is one of the shortest pieces I have. I’m wondering how feasible it would be for me to post 15-20 page stories here. Is it better to copy/paste onto this template, or upload? Sorry, I’m kind of new to this whole blogging thing! Anyway, enjoy…or not. But let me know what you think.

My Mother

My mother never stops talking. She doesn’t care if you’ve heard the story before, she’ll tell it a hundred times if she has to. Stories about her childhood, her numerous suitors, the downfall of being married and having in-laws, the thinning hair that comes with having two sons so close together in age, the scandals of middle-aged friends, the wisdom and forgiveness that comes with age, the triumph of finally giving birth to a girl. That would be me – child of her old age, younger but less beautiful, lying at her feet where, most definitely, Paradise lay.

A memory. I am lying at her feet, massaging them on a Saturday morning in her bedroom. My father is there, as are my two older brothers. All the usual suspects. My mother is crying, full of bitterness that turns her blue, a horned monster with boils all over her body. One boil erupts on her foot and burns me. I wriggle onto the floor like a scared caterpillar unable to weave her cocoon, and disappear into the hairy brown carpet below. Did I mention, my mother also tells stories about the Great Depression?

I’m sitting with her, an adult in my own right, married and so, entitled to my own slew of tales about how marriage, indeed, is a disappointment. Except I remain mute as ever, still listening to her. I’m tired; it’s late. “Why don’t you ever talk?” she asks. “You’re so secretive. Tell me something.”

How can I tell her when, for the moment, I have only happy stories and I guard those with my life? Happiness doesn’t make for good storytelling.

I have many memories of stories, though, but can no longer remember who or where I’ve heard them from. Fables, really, in which my mother plays the protagonist and everyone else, in turn, has a shot at playing the villain. The plotlines are usually simple, tragic. Her blaming my brothers for staying out late, causing her to worry, never appreciating all she does for them; her blaming me for not keeping my room clean, clearly a sign that I don’t love her enough; her blaming my father for ensnaring her in the first place, and taking her away from her family to live in isolation, in this most powerful and loneliest of countries. It hurt my ears, all those words of hate. The moral of the story was always the same – love mother till it hurts and only then will you both be happy – but as I grew, I discovered the cracks in even this system.

One Saturday morning, during story time, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands. I pinched the little pinky toe on my mother’s left foot, hoping to distract her or maybe even cause her pain. Suddenly, everyone froze. I was delighted at first because I thought we were all playing a game, but when I realized the clock had stopped ticking too, I was terrified at the prospect of having so much power. I could see words hanging in the air, between my mother’s mouth and my father’s ears. I climbed onto the bed and pushed the “Why?” back into her mouth. I put my two fists around the “hate” and “you”, and crushed them till they were nothing more than powder, shimmering in my hands, absorbed into my bloodstream.

“I don’t have anything to tell, Ma,” I say to her now. “Can we please go to sleep?”

But, suddenly recharged, she’s telling the one about the Big Choice: my father vs. the successful young man she was already engaged to. I know this story well, know it better than my own love story. The thing to note here is not the words coming out of her mouth, but the way her face glows, erasing thirty years off her face, transforming her into a girl with possibilities again, a chance to rewrite her life. I want to hug her now, to love her on my own terms, to embrace this aura of lost youth. But I remain still as ever, just watching her.

I retained the power for a long time, to freeze people at will and eat their words of resentment and inadequacy, my stomach grinding them into broken alphabets that would get carried into my intestines, pushed into a whirlwind, and sucked into an underground dungeon, exactly where they belonged. It was around the time I turned twenty that my powers started weakening, and instead of digesting the words, I’d chew on them a while till they were flying out of my mouth. I didn’t realize the extent of the damage until my better half told me I was turning blue and growing horns, and the boils on my sides were burning him alive.

“No!” I screamed. “This can’t be happening.”

Soon, only half of me remained.

I exiled myself into the dungeon below, full of dirty words, ominously incomplete sentences, and unhappy endings – only endings – where I lay amongst corpses and got stepped all over.

She’s winding down now, her eyelids heaving, her words dragging. I could tell her about my powers now, about how I lost them years ago, and have since found myself becoming more and more like her. She would tell me I’m being melodramatic, letting my imagination run away with me, ungrateful. She would cry, if it weren’t for the pills that, five years ago, had permanently glued shut her tear ducts. She would hurt.

It’s probably better to keep quiet. I don’t want to hurt her. In blue, horned ways, I don’t want to become her either, but, as the laws of nature and nurture have repeatedly proved, I probably will.