Tunnel Vision (19 page)

‘
It
'
s all right.
'

‘
Your father?
'

‘
I don
'
t want to talk about him.
'

‘
Why not?
'

‘
I just don
'
t, okay?
'
The answer was almost wrenched from me, escaping through clenched teeth.

‘
If you don
'
t want to talk about him just yet, that
'
s okay,
'
there was a pregnant pause,
‘
I can wait.We have all the time in the world.
'

‘
It might not be time enough.
'

‘
Yes it will.
'

‘
You sound like my mother.
'

‘
Yes,
'
the sparkly voice laughed,
‘
you do sound like your mother sometimes.
'

‘
I don
'
t want to think about my mother.
'

‘
Why don
'
t you think about your mother laughing?
'

My mother laughing. My mother used to laugh a lot: in the morning getting out of bed, in the kitchen making aloo ka parathas, on evening scooter rides as the wind played with her hair, at the table ladling food to her brood. She had a laugh that tinkled, pealed, reverberated, depending on the occasion. I remember her beaming face gazing down at me when I was a child in bed. I remember looking through my bedroom door left slightly ajar so the hallway light would comfort me and watching Abba corner her in the doorway and gently brush her hair behind her ears. Her eyes suffused with the glow of a thousand moons, she had laughed softly.

My mother laughing like a lively, loving woman. When did the placid lake turn to white water?

My mother laughing at the faces I was pulling while she braided my hair in the morning before school. She wielded the comb deftly, parting, separating, and plaiting all in a continuous motion. Abba appeared in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

‘
Hurry up Jahan,
'
he said brusquely,
‘
isn
'
t the girl ready yet?
'

‘
Nearly done, nearly done. What
'
s your hurry? It isn
'
t time yet.
'

‘
I have to be at work early. Important meeting. Which reminds me, we expect it to go on late, so don
'
t wait for me for dinner, okay?
'

‘
That
'
s the third time this week?
'
she protested, pulling a rubber band over one braid.

‘
Is it? I don
'
t have time to count such unimportant things.
'

‘
Of course not. You
'
re such a busy man after all,
'
there had been no hint of irony in her voice,
‘
but thank you for telling me.
'

‘
No problem. I just didn
'
t want you worrying about where I was, that
'
s all.
'

‘
Why would I worry about that?
'
She finished the other braid, patted my shoulder in the signal to get up, and rose to face Abba in the doorway,
‘
I know work is the only thing that would keep you away from us.
'

‘
Well, not the only thing,
'
Abba grinned,
‘
there
'
s cricket too.
'

‘
The Pakistani man
'
s best friend. Well don
'
t get too friendly with the cricket, sir, because I don
'
t think I can compete with two other mistresses.
'

‘
What are you talking about? I only said cricket,
'
Abba seemed flustered.
'
Look at the time, got to go,
'
he mumbled and rushed off.

‘
Listen!
'
Ammi followed him to the door to yell.

‘
What?
'

‘
Don
'
t forget your daughter,
'
she pecked me on the cheek

and sent me after him. As I looked back before Ammi closed the front door she was gazing after us, not laughing any more.

PAPPU AUR MUNNI KI GADI

BACK OF RICKSHAW

~

‘A
lways be pleasant when parting,
'
she used to tell me repeatedly when I was a little girl,
‘
smile, because that might be the last time you see the person you
'
re taking leave of.
'

‘
Because they might have to move suddenly,
'
my mind did the math,
‘
or because I could die?
'

‘
Don
'
t be morbid child,
'
she kissed me goodnight.

My mother used to kiss me a lot. Later of course, it seemed my skin was acid to her.

We were a social family when there was just the three of us, going out at least once a week, driving along briskly on Abba
'
s scooter. Ammi sidesaddle in her sari, a fresh flower in her hair, and me tucked safely between Abba
'
s legs in front, a smaller flower in mine. The Queen of the Night and her sidekick, my father would laugh a lot as he would watch us getting ready. Actually it was more Ammi getting ready and my mimicking her by her side, a small but determined mirror image.

We were regulars at the annual mushairas at one of Karachi
'
s landmark parks. I would be dragged along because there was no one
‘
reliable
'
to leave me with; the two Mamus, it was decided, really wouldn
'
t know what to do with a little girl. I didn
'
t mind, the late return usually meant I was allowed to skip school in the morning, the culture I was held to have soaked up the night before more than compensating for a temporary lack of arithmetic or grammar. Besides, even to a six-year-old, the mushairas at the Park were awe-inspiring spectacles.

A tide of humanity would sweep across the grounds and lap gently at the edges of the stage, where eminent poets, poetesses and writers would vie, always politely, for the audience
'
s affections. It was a fight, even I understood that, albeit a civilized one, and verse was their weapon. The audience sat in thrall to their delivery of ghazals, couplets, satire, etc. and
‘
wahs
'
and
‘
bahut-khubs
'
would often erupt simultaneously from many, sounding like a collective polite cleaning of throats, or the honking of a flock of cultured geese.

While all eyes were inevitably glued to the stage or closed when someone recited, my mother would draw many admiring (and resentful) glances in between. There were women as attractive, even prettier, but it was the way she held herself. Her confidence made her stand out in any crowd, whether she was dressed in a Banarasi sari with jasmine in her hair or a hideous butterfly shalwar with a spot on her kameez.

Forced to sit still, reminded of the invisible ball and chain of propriety by a hand in the small of my back, I would begin the evening sitting in front of my parents on the sheets spread on the ground and end it lolling back on Ammi
'
s lap, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of words I mostly didn
'
t understand. Sometimes Ammi and Abba would take my closed eyes as evidence of sleep and talk to each other in a manner unfamiliar and bewitching to me.

‘
You
'
re radiant tonight, Jahan. I can
'
t remember the last time I saw you glow like this.
'

‘
It
'
s just the light from that spotlight reflected in the oil of my skin.
'

‘
You look even prettier when you smile like that. Almost irresistible.
'

‘
Why almost?
'

‘
We are in a public place.
'

‘
Surrounded by other couples as a woman speaks of love.
'

‘
You
'
re right. The present company would probably empathize.
'

I heard a rustle as he covered Ammi
'
s hand with his. She sighed happily.

‘
What
'
s the matter?
'

‘
Nothing, I
'
m just so happy I thought I
'
d explode if I didn
'
t let some of it out.
'

‘
All that simply by my holding your hand?
'

‘
I guess I
'
m not the only irresistible one here.
'

‘
You
'
re right. There
'
s Ayesha.
'

They both laughed softly. I heard another rustle a moment later, then the familiar aroma of burning tobacco filled my nostrils, Abba had removed his hand and lit a cigarette. Ammi
'
s other hand, entwined in my hair as my head rested on her lap, begin to tug insistently at it till I thought some would be pulled out by its roots. I whimpered in pain but kept my eyes closed, not wanting them to know I was awake.

‘
What
'
s the matter with the child?
'
Abba asked.

‘
Bad dream probably,
'
Ammi removed her hands from my hair and patted my cheek gently.
‘
Let
'
s go home?
'
There was a question in there, a plaintive, pleading tone.

‘
I thought you wanted to hear Tehmina Bano?
'

‘
I did, but I feel tired suddenly.
'

‘
Okay. We
'
ll leave in a little while. I like the next one.
'

On the stage, a woman spoke of love being bondage, lamenting the heartlessness of the indifferent other. I fell asleep eventually and dreamt of being chased by a crowd of angry pajamas.

MAIN BARA HO KAR COROLLA BANOONGA

BACK OF RICKSHAW.

~

S
he wasn
'
t afraid of anything once, my now cowardly mother who ran from buses and only assaulted the comatose. She would tackle anyone or anything if she felt those she loved were endangered, and sometimes just for the
‘
principle of the thing
'
. What she detested most, right up there with bad manners and sloppy kitchens, was a bully.

One Eid she sent me out to play with the other kids in the street as she tackled the vermicelli. It was a particularly exciting time to be out, because the iron-boat man would be doing his annual round. The iron boat was exactly that. An iron swing in the shape of a boat, with seating for eight and wheels, pushed around by an old taciturn man who was eloquent about correct change but concerned with little else. The boat appeared around the corner as it usually did, but this time a younger man was pushing it.

‘
Where
'
s the Baba?
'
one of the bigger kids went and asked.

‘
He won
'
t be coming anymore.
'

‘
Why not?
'

‘
Because he
'
s too old and weak to be pushing this thing and dealing with nosy kids like you.
'

‘
Are you going to charge the same?
'
The boy was unfazed.

‘
How much did he charge you?
'

‘
How much will you charge us?
'

‘
Take the first ride and find out. You
'
ll understand why it
'
s worth more when I
'
m pushing.
'

I was one of the first to clamber aboard, making sure to raise the back of my yellow silk kurta before sitting down so it wouldn
'
t get soiled.Then the man began pushing and all thoughts of kurtas tumbled from my head.

The old man had been a gentle captain, never pushing too hard so that, even in such a rickety contraption, we felt safe as we glided back and forth over the same patch of street without a safety net of any sort. The new owner obviously couldn
'
t be bothered with safety, and by the fourth push when he had real momentum going, the prow of the boat reared above the frame on each upswing, and everyone aboard was screaming. Another girl started yelling to be let off, but he ignored her. It wasn
'
t until I puked and physics hurled my breakfast all over the back of the boat, and the kids in it, that he stopped.