It was while she was eating that she felt a strong urge to visit her home. It had been what? Three weeks? Four?
“Tastes like your mom’s recipe.”
Yousuf had learnt to say things that she wanted to hear. But this time she couldn't agree with him more. She had followed her mother’s recipe from the book she had maintained. It was the only book she had brought to her married home alongside, of course, the Holy Quran. She finished eating, pushed her plate aside and announced her decision.
*
“Fi Amanillah.”
She closed the door behind her and remembered how, earlier, Yousuf would come all the way down to her cab, punctuating his sentences with miss-yous. Then his sendoffs were shortened till the building lift and then to the door of their house. Today, he said Allah Hafiz from his room. She chuckled.
On her way to the cab, a cat crossed her path. A memory occurred. If her mother were here, she would have made her take seven steps back and stopped her from touching the cat. She smiled.
*
No. No. Not now, please. Her answers to the three questions she knew her mother would ask her the moment she stepped inside the house.
On every visit to her house after her marriage, she would invariably look for changes, much like the game of spot the difference that she had enjoyed as a child.
She glanced up at the slightly tilted seven-floor-tall Neelam Park building with cracked walls and leaking pipes. Inside the cramped space of the building premises, there was a security guard’s booth, upturned garbage bins and many parked bikes – some of which didn't even belong to the residents – as well as cycles that outnumbered the children in the building. Even then, a game of box cricket and badminton was in progress. She entered the main gate. There were toddlers crawling on all fours while their grannies sat on (aha) the lone marble-top bench with tasbihs. She knew they wouldn't pause their game to let her pass. She was part of the same herd. She hurried to the lift, cautious of not just the ball and racket swings but also the water spillage from the kitchen windows above which was common and safer than the occasional toys, tops, marbles and slippers that fell from there.
She reached the lift and pressed the button repeatedly. She wanted to avoid familiar faces and small talk, unless it was Fareeda khala, who lived in the flat below theirs. Her conversations with Fareeda khala were mostly filled with silences, silences that didn’t pressure her to fill them with words.
She rang the bell twice and dug inside her handbag for the keys. The door opened. Her mother’s face lit up only for a moment. Her hair was unkempt, eyes were droopy and posture was slightly stooped. She looked much older than her age.
“What’s wrong?”
“Assalamualaikum.”
“Walaikumassalam, what happened?”
“Little fever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s mild.”
“You should have informed.”
“It’s mild, baba. Leave all that. Yousuf didn’t come?”
There you go.
“Did you both fight?”
Two-all.
“What happened?”
Yay!
*
She had visited Dr Khaled’s clinic. It was near Laxmi Park, a bustling market area. She had gone there twice. Once, when she ran out of nachani aata, and another time when she wanted to make paya.
“What what? Only Saleem sells the freshest paya in the whole Mira Road.”
“Why didn’t you go to Bhakti Hospital?”
“For fever?”
“What if it’s dengue?”
“It's not, baba. It’s just a mild fever. Go wash your hands. I’m hungry.”
*
Reached, she typed to Yousuf before deleting the message and putting away her phone. She quickly took some dal and bheja fry onto her plate, grabbed a roti and took her first bite. Her eyes closed, her mouth chewing slowly like a cow. She opened her eyes to put a spoonful of mango pickle on the side of her plate. She took her second bite, this time adding a hint of pickle.
“How’s it?”
She opened her eyes and nodded approvingly.
“Isn’t it? Shaeeda made it.”
“Shaeeda?”
“New tenet, 402. She came here in fajr and made all this.”“In our house?”
“In our kitchen.”
“When did she come here?”
“Hunh? Just told you. Fajr.”
“No–”
“This must be why you both fight. Because you don’t listen only.”
“No, ammi. I mean, when did she come here in the building? And no. We don’t fight.”
“You do. Silently. You fight and suffer silently, I know.”
“Rubbish.”
“Listen, if he is doing anything wrong, just say it–”
“Ammi, please–”
“I’ll fight with–”
“Please stop, ammi. Let’s talk about Zubeda please. And not me.”
“Shaeeda.”
“Whatever.”
Her mother finished the last of her roti and served herself some rice.
“Last month she came here.”
“Hmm. And you’re already friends?”
She nods with a smile.
“I think I’m her only friend. Pass some dal. She is like me…”
“Annoying?”
“Not like you, baba. Like me. Alone. She has a brother who stays in Flower Valley with his family. And she stays here.”
“Is she married?”
“Was.”
“Husband’s dead?”
She shook her head and said, “Divorce can save lives.”
They smiled but for different reasons.
“Why did her husband leave her?”
Again, she shook her head and said, “Told you she is like me.”
*
She remembered the day her father had left. She remembered her last moment with him. She also remembered him telling her something. That’s about it. She didn’t remember what he said, where in the house he sat or stood, what he was wearing, which emotions showed on his face or carried in his voice. She remembered she was alone with him, and her mother was in the other room or maybe in the kitchen. She didn’t remember whether he said Allah Hafiz while leaving. She remembered her mother stepping out the moment the door had closed. Perhaps she hugged her, but she wasn’t sure. She remembered her mother holding her little face straight before hers. She remembered her mother’s face. There were no tears, nor any smile. It was like the face of a sparrow that used to come to their balcony to steal a lemongrass leaf. That she remembered. And the fact that the next day when her mother dropped her to the school, her Ruby teacher saw her homework, patted gently on her head and said, “It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
Years later, when that moment became a memory and came back to her, she asked her mother the whys and whats and hows. Her mother answered her every question in carefully chosen words. Some of the answers were the missing details of her memory, but she chose not to mix her mother’s memory with hers. When her mother asked her why she was suddenly asking about that day, she told her the truth. She said that she didn’t know whether he said goodbye before leaving. She chose not to tell the whole truth. Her mother tried to make sense of her daughter’s response and kept from probing her further. The fact that bothered her the most about that memory were not his actions alone but her response, too. Did she say Allah Hafiz or Fi Amanillah as was taught to her? Every time that memory resurfaced, this was the detail that troubled her like a wound on a dog's back where its tongue cannot reach. She convinced herself that she hadn’t said anything because she would have chosen not to.
*
After much thought, she decided to book an appointment for her mother at Bhakti hospital. She was certain her mother wouldn’t go, but she did it anyway. Perhaps in protest. Perhaps to use this against her in an argument she would have in her head.
When would you be back?
Yousuf texted her when she was making an appointment through her phone. She smiled. She knew what he would message next. It would be an answer to the question. He had done this before. She wondered if he thought she was an idiot and wouldn’t get it. Or maybe he knew that she knew, and he was just trying not to be disrespectful?
Off to pune for two days
Client visit
Come after that
Pune? That was new, she thought. Earlier it was only a one-night stay at a colleague’s house whenever she was away at her mother’s place. With time the distance had increased. She gave a thumbs-up to the last text.
*
“Hello?”
“Hello. Ya. Hi, ma’am. I’m calling from Furry Humans NGO. This is regarding the cat you rescued and brought to us some two-three weeks ago?”
“Oh, yes, yes…”
“We just wanted to give you a quick update on her health. She has responded wonderfully well to the treatment. When you brought her in, she was underweight and had a severe injury on her hind legs. Thankfully, there were no fractures. Reason why she recovered earlier than expected. Now she walks around without any limp and has gained a good amount of weight. She is still a tiny bit cautious around people, but that’s normal. Hopefully, by the end of next month, we will put her up for adoption.”
“Will she find a home? I mean, given the history of abuse.”
“Yes, some people are a bit hesitant about rescued animals. But ma’am, you know what they say about cats. You don’t adopt a cat, a cat adopts you.”
“Ya, that’s true.”
“So, don’t worry, ma’am. She will find a home.”
*
She poked holes in the boiled eggs. It was her mother’s touch in the egg curry recipe. She opened the drawer of spices. In many Kissan jam jars were her mother’s special spices brought all the way from the Lalbaug Masala Lane.
Her mom entered the kitchen. She made her taste the hot egg curry masala. Her mom reacted as if she had eaten a pani puri after a long time. It made her smile.
“First class. What did you do differently?”
“Nothing, everything's the same.”
“It tastes lovely.”
Her mom took the ladle from her and started to swirl the curry masala while pausing in between to take the whiff of the same.
The doorbell rang. Her mother went to answer the door. She heard the door being opened. Her mother’s cheerful voice invited somebody in. Who could that be? Fareeda khala? The other voice wasn’t familiar to her. She heard her name being called by her mother. She stepped out. A lady in white chikan salwar kameez was sitting on that end of the sofa which was closer to the window. Perhaps it was the whiteness of her dress or something to do with the sunlight that at first glance she seemed to be glowing. Add to that her radiant smile. For a split second, she looked like an angel to her. She had her head covered with a dupatta and looked the same age as her mother.
“She is Shaeeda. 402?” Her mother looked at Shaeeda, “And that’s my daughter.”
“Assalamualaikum.”
“Walaikumassalam. Heard she made you cancel the doctor’s appointment?”
Before she could reply, her mother cut in.
“I’m fine, Shaeeda. Look at me–”
“Parveen, don’t say a single word–”
“Am I not looking better?”
“What’s the harm in keeping the appointment?”
“But why go to a doctor when everything’s fine?”
“Nobody can win against your ammi, beti.”
“I’m better, Shaeeda.”“Stop it, Parveen.”
It was like listening to chirping birds. They spoke over each other without losing track of the conversation. They also involved her, but they spoke too quickly for her to keep up. Her part in the conversation was reduced to only forced smiles and chuckles. Whenever she heard them call her beti, she widened her existing smile a little. After one point, she stopped caring what they were talking about. All she registered from their conversation was Shaeeda this and Parveen that, each addressing the other by first name alone. They weren’t aapa or didi to each other. They were simply themselves.
Again, that same urge arose in her. She excused herself, went to the kitchen and turned off the gas. She then went to her room, took her handbag and left the house, telling her mother that she needed some stuff for the egg curry from the market and that she would be back in a minute.
*
She pulled out her phone and called Yousuf. She put the phone to her ear, wondering who else she could call?
The number you have dialled is busy.
*
She stuffed her mouth with the second pani puri when the tears rushed out from her eyes. The man making the pani puri asked her whether he should sweeten the next one. She denied. Towards the end, her face was smeared with nonstop tears and a runny nose. The man offered her some tissues, she declined and asked for a repeat.
*
On her way home, she met Ruby teacher. Another reason why she was her favourite teacher was the distance between their houses and the school. It was almost like an equilateral triangle, a triangle made from three acute angles.
After the initial greetings and how-are-yous, she was unsure whether her teacher had recognised her.
“What do you do now?”
“I’m married.”
“Okay. But what do you do?”
She wondered what to lie.
“You should do something, no? You were such a bright child. You always listened to your teachers and did as was told except when there were choices. You know, I tell my students about my past students. About you and others. I tell them that they all have grown up and become doctors and engineers and work in big, big glass buildings and towers and travel to all kinds of places around the world…”
Among the blaring horns and shouting hawkers, she listened to her teacher’s every word like an obedient student with a smile on her face.
Before parting, her teacher said, “How’s Shirin, your mom?”
She thought about correcting her but decided against it. “Tell her I was asking, han?”
“Sure, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Bye.”
“Bye, ma’am.”
*
At home, she ate in her room. She felt that the food wasn’t spicy enough and lacked crunchiness. She thought that perhaps a bit of steam-fried veggies on the sides would have made a difference. She finished her food, washed her plate and packed her stuff. When her mother realised what she was doing, she asked her what she was doing.
“Have to go.”
“Why? What happened?”
She didn’t answer. She kept her eyes on her phone, at a little toy car on a map approaching her location. ETA: 6 mins.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
When she didn’t react, her mother took her face in her palms and said, “Anything.”
She nodded and smiled. Convinced, her mother let go of her face. She looked at her phone. Four minutes to leave.
“Ammi, do you remember at the time of my custody proceedings I was asked to choose between you and him? You remember, I looked at you? Each and every time I was asked, I looked at you. Everybody thought I chose you. That’s wrong. It wasn’t me choosing you. It was me looking at you out of habit. As I had always done then whenever I had to make a choice. Out of fear of making a wrong choice and making us both suffer for the same, I always looked at you to make a choice for me. Of course, I would have chosen you. You know that, too. But…but I wanted to choose, wanted to hear and see myself make a choice.”
Her phone had been ringing. She declined it and stood up to leave. Seated on the sofa, her mother turned her head towards the window. She went close to her and held her mother’s face in her hands.
“I was afraid. What if he got upset? And it’s still there.” She managed a smile. “Pray that we fight, ammi. We must do at least one thing together, right?”
Her mother locked her arms around her tightly, as if unwilling to let her go, while she gently ran her hand on her mother’s head, as if caressing her own belly.
“It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
Mohammad Sabbir is a copywriter. He lives in Mumbai but, when asked, he tells everyone he is from Bombay. He likes to think, read, and write funny stories. When he is not reading a book or writing a story, he is busy creating nonsense content for his website, The Kingdom of Smiles. A couple of his crime comedies have been published on Kitaab.org.