Mother

Mother’s eyes are glossy wet with affection and smoke swathing from the moist firewood burning in the clay hearth. Coils of gray smoke sprawl into our eyes unevenly as we sit in the kitchen. We trade glances, making mental notes of the changes we have endured during the long period of separation between us. Mother looks older, her face shriveled with time. Tufts of gray hair peak beneath her head cover. Tenderness and affection reside in the wrinkled pleats of her skin. And I am to blame for this mesh of lines ingrained on her face! I look at her hands as she flattens the dough to bake prathas. Her silver bracelets jingle as her hands move about. Life has not changed for her after all these years. She is habitually slaving in her silver years; attending to the familiar rhythms of domestic chores. I notice that she heaves when stretching her arms to turn over the parathas. With her heaving supplications for mercy and forgiveness mingle with the quiet of the atmosphere. Fear of the day of judgement expresses as a mild reminder in her demeanor. Repeatedly, she asks for God’s mercy. And I hold myself responsible for her supplications!

Mother arranges a stack of crisp, freshly made prathas, a bowl of lamb and bitter gourd curry and wedges of green mango pickle on a wooden tray as I squat on the burlap mat, ready to eat. She pours diluted buttermilk into a tall glass and places it on the tray. No Sierra Mist or Starbucks coffee here! I remind myself.

“Eat”, she demands. “Look at you! You must have been starving in Umreeka!” I smile, savoring the long-forgotten aroma of authentic home-cooked Punjabi food blessed with mother’s touch. Her habitual servitude chokes me with emotion. I fight back tears lest they fall in the food.

“Eat before the throng of your friends arrives to see you.” Mother insists.

“Why wouldn’t you come home earlier? We needed you desperately! There are times when a man is direly needed in the house.” Mother protests without anger. I cannot answer. She watches me as I shovel rolled pieces of bread in “salan” and launch in my mouth. Each time I release the wrap, I wipe oily hands with the tray liner as there is no napkin. I am leaving dark greasy stains on the tray liner as I wipe my oily finger tips.

After the meal we move to the veranda and sit on the wicker chairs lined against the wall. Swarms of flies swirl in the shaded corridor. I hear their buzzing anger. The noise does not bother me. It seems fascinating -- a welcome reminder of the old place!

It is noon now. I feel jet-lagged. The prathas make me drowsy. Gusts of warm wind hit me like a trapeze, rubbing their flanges against my face. The atmosphere hugs me like a blanket, like a warm placenta. I am in the womb of a different time -- being reborn. I close my eyes so mother can look at me freely. Somewhere, someone calls in a faint whisper. I look around. Mother hands me a cup of pink Kashmiri chai. She knows I like it.

“Stay home today. It is your first day here after twenty years”. She implores. I look around, checking out the big and small things that enhance the environment. I look at the old Guava tree with rounded glistening fruit. In winter its leaves used to turn crimson red like the hedge of Burning Bush in my Iowa home. The tree looks old and haggard. At distance the grapevine still covers part of the old storage shed. I used to sit here and listen to the symphony of raindrops falling on the tin roof amidst the fury of much-awaited Indian monsoons. The aroma of thirsty sun-baked soil would rise with the first shower. I look at the place where a huge Jasmine creeper used to bloom in the evening breeze; its clumps drooping over the wall, overlooking Parveen’s house next door.
Mother coughs softly, signaling the end of my daydreaming. I feel beads of sweat breaking out on the arch of my forehead, upper lip and arms. It is hot.

“Don’t go out today. Just stay home and relax”. I know she wants to talk.

“Mother, I am here for two weeks. I need to see old friends”.

“Were you safe in Umreeka?” “I know what happened to American people. Three thousand of them died, in minutes, incinerated. I am sure they had families, children, parents! I can imagine. I have seen it on TV. Were you safe?”

“Mother, where I live it is a bit of inconvenience to be a Muslim--an unspoken apprehension. To be brown and have a beard invites concern. But nothing serious”.

“But those who flew airplanes into the buildings had no respect for life; even their own!”

“Yes, it is too complex to explain”.

“Beta, I have been waiting for you all these years. Life is difficult for households without men to ward off undesirables. Your sister was dragged on the street publicly by hoodlums as she defended herself against their advances.” Her voice cracks with unprocessed grief as though waiting for an outlet.

I hold myself responsible for her diminished honor!

“Every morning when she rides the rickshaw for school, my heart sinks. I wonder if this is the last time I am seeing her. What if she is kidnapped on her way home! She can meet a fatal accident. And, then, I curse myself for these thoughts”.

“After Faakhra was dragged on the street, your uncle broke off her engagement with Akram. She was going to be their bahu, after all. Why didn’t they do anything if they are part of the family? But Beta, the engagement was called off because they were looking for a big dowry. Everyone thinks you are making good in Umreeka. They also want you to marry Akram’s sister in exchange, but I would not approve the barter. If only your Abba was alive things would have been different”.

I feel responsible for her shame.


“Beta! I have saved some money. Take this amount”. She hands me a pouch.
“My jewelry is in this box. I have saved this for Faakhra. It is nice that you are here, finally. Don’t go to Umreeka before she is married off.” Here in this handkerchief, I have some cash for my burial expenses. There are white sheets in the closet for my burial shroud. Are you listening, Saleem? Are you sleeping? I want you to take charge of Faakhra’s wedding. And be responsible for my burial. It is good that you are home. You belong here. I have waited for you for a long time. Are you listening, Saleem?”


“Mother, what are you saying? Why are you saying these words? It is too serious. I just came over last night. Amma, Please don’t! I want to shave and shower. Give me a clean towel, please. I am tired. I want to shower before I go out to meet with friends. We shall talk at an appropriate time, I promise. I cannot handle this conversation now. It is painful and abrupt”.


I leave the house that afternoon to see Iqbal, Hamid, and Ansari. I want to reconnect with the people I grew up with. My childhood buddies. I want to see my school, the neighborhood, the Bara Maidaan, the movie theatres, the street corner where we would stand idly with friends and watch the unregulated traffic gyrate in crazy spurts. I want to walk bare feet on the dirt roads. I want to see Master Ji. I want to find my self and understand my link with the place that haunts me. I have been gone too long. A number of people have died since. I shall visit their graves and pray for them. I shall read the inscriptions on their tombstones and process my unresolved grief for missing their last rites, for dispossessing them, eternally! Let me dump the rancid contents of life--of grief and guilt, the epitome of an empty, marginal life that eats at the core of my being. In the States I have been creeping on margins of life – that mute, menopausal non-existence has driven me back to Pakistan, --to explore my emotional and spiritual context. I need to alleviate myself. I want to find my missing parts and reconstruct myself…


I wander around aimlessly. The more I wander, the more I realize that whatever I am looking for is not here! This place does not resemble what remains petrified in my memory. This place has lost its familiarity. I am amid strangers. Aliens! They do not fit in my cracks. These are shadows lurking in my schizophrenic world. I am a stranger in my own hometown!


I return home late at night. Mother is sleeping. Faakhra is still up. She brings me food. She wants to talk. I do not know how to take her, a child that I knew when I left home or a grown up stranger living at my mother’s house! She is talking about this and that. I eat silently, listening to her chatter. When the food is finished I excuse myself. She leaves.


I gasp and crash on the rickety cot, burying my burning face in the folded pillow. The summer night is thick, humming with its nocturnal cargo of understated sounds erupting in sporadic rhythms as I lay in the veranda. My bones are aching. I am chasing images. I see Parveen’s beloved face etched in silent melancholy. Her wide-eyed gaze is moist, stoic, and calm. And it is my fault. I think of Faakhra and Mother processing their private miseries, hopes, and fears,--not knowing exactly what to expect of me. I lurk in deep emerald forests, splashing through glistening waters. I touch the white wings of doves, the chalky whiteness of their feathers clinging to my fingers. I…


That night mother died in her sleep.