Tunnel Vision (37 page)

‘
Oh no, no. You mustn
'
t. It
'
s my work after all, so I should do it.
'

He kept silent.

‘
Can
'
t go shirking my wifely duties. That would just be wrong. Marry the man, bear his children, raise his children, keep him happy. That
'
s the deal, isn
'
t it? Cook his food, clean his house, iron his clothes, it
'
s all part of the package. Don
'
t want anyone saying I didn
'
t keep my end of the bargain.
'

Why did she sound so cheerful?

‘
Jahan,
'
he tried again but couldn
'
t seem to get past her name, as if it was stuck in his throat like a half-chewed chicken neck.

‘
Don
'
t you have to get ready? Aren
'
t you going to work? Isn
'
t work important? Shouldn
'
t you do it well so you can take care of us all?
'

He went. They didn
'
t say another word to each other. Not for a long time. They didn
'
t say much to me either. Or Adil. Of course, it made little difference to his life, but to me it was like living in a vacuum. No one would speak. If I spoke no one would reply. Or if they did, they were always monosyllabic. Abba took to coming home as late as possible and sleeping on the sofa. Once I asked him if he wanted to come and sleep on my floor like Nasreen used to do and he burst into tears. Frightened, I ran for Ammi but she only came to the door and looked at him before pulling me back in with her and getting me to help her change Adil. I was doing that more and more, helping with Adil, and she was sinking into a languid torpor.

She stopped cleaning all the time and a fine layer of dust settled over everything. When I got bored with writing my name on all the dust-covered surfaces in the house, I took a duster and cleaned them all. No one noticed. I began to do it every day. Ammi said
‘
thank you
'
brusquely once and never picked up a duster again. She began to avoid cooking again. One meal would be stretched into three till I got sick of eating the same thing three times in a row and taught myself how to make some simple food. I began adding to the evening meal she cooked. Again there was no acknowledgement.

I was also doing my schoolwork, hoping they cared how I did even if they weren
'
t showing it at that point in time. The maasi who came in to sweep and mop the kitchen and wash clothes (outside work only), no other woman had entered the house proper since Nasreen left, was coaxed by Abba into ironing and washing the dishes as well.

‘
You have so much to do already,
'
he said when I objected, saying I wanted to do it,
‘
till Ammi gets better, focus on your schoolwork.
'

‘
Yes Ayesha,
'
Ammi joined in, her first words in hours,
‘
focus on your schoolwork. It
'
s very important because if you
'
re well educated, bad things will never happen to you.
'

The next week Adil fell sick. The paediatrician said he was weak and thin and wasn
'
t getting enough nourishment. Adil was put on formula as well as Ammi
'
s milk. He guzzled umpteen bottles a day and grew as soft as a frog
'
s underbelly. Ammi didn
'
t seem to notice, she
'
d button him into clothes that were now a size too small. Details seemed beyond her comprehension, as did conversation. Adil took to crying as he lay in her arms, she was a study in limpness, he was bored and cranky, I began taking him out of her arms and putting him on a mat close by, playing with him in between homework and mad dashes to the kitchen. Abba made an SOS call one day, and Chotay Mamu appeared to broach the subject of getting a new maid with Ammi.

‘
Jahan Apa …,
'
Mamu cleared his throat to get her attention but she wouldn
'
t even look at him. She was staring at Adil on the rug, chuckling and kicking his legs as I dangled a paper bird on a string above him.

‘
Apa,
'
Mamu still got zero response so he barged right into it,
‘
for Ayesha
'
s sake you should get another maid, the girl
'
s schoolwork is suffering.
'

‘
It doesn
'
t matter,
'
she said lazily, her eyes still on Adil.

‘
What doesn
'
t matter?
'

‘
Her schoolwork.
'

‘
What do you mean?
'

‘
What is she going to do with her education when she grows up?
'
Ammi
'
s tone was so casual, so unconcerned, it seemed she was talking about the difference between cauliflower and cabbage. The words themselves were strange, hard to understand, falling as they did from the lips of one who said education was the best present you could give a girl, far better than jewellery or clothes at any rate.

‘
Now Apa, I don
'
t want to debate this with you,
'
Mamu knew he couldn
'
t even if he wanted to. She had always been the articulate one, he the bumbling fool to her rapier wit, at least that
'
s the way it had been before,
‘
you are not yourself. I know you don
'
t mean it.
'

She didn
'
t bother replying this time.

‘
You and Ayesha need some help right now so maybe a daytime maid, just someone to help around the house and with the baby till Aslam comes home. I can arrange one if you agree.
'

‘
What does it matter whether I agree or disagree?
'

‘
Fine. I
'
ll arrange one then.
'

‘
Why don
'
t you ask my husband to arrange one? He did last time, you know. Very capable girl. Took very good care of all of us.
'

There was an awkward silence. Mamu started staring at the bird too. Did he know?

‘
What was her name?
'
Ammi mused aloud,
‘
Do you know her name Najam?
'

Mamu mumbled a
‘
no
'
and began shuffling his feet. If he had been lying on his back on the rug, he and Adil would have made quite a pair.

‘
What was her name Ayesha?
'

‘
Nasreen, Ammi, her name was Nasreen.
'

‘
What an ordinary name,
'
Ammi didn
'
t say anything for the rest of the day, just lay on the sofa. She might have been crying, but it was hard to tell with Ammi, she had become one of those stealth weepers, tears would trundle down the concourse of her cheeks without sound.

Mamu left shortly afterwards. I waited next to her till Abba got home and I could get him to watch Adil before running to my room. I had wanted to go to the bathroom for hours, but it didn
'
t feel right to leave Ammi.

KABHI HUM KHOOBSURAT THAY, KITABON
MAIN BASI KHUSBOO KAI MANIND

LYRICS OF GHAZAL BY AHMED SHAMIM

~

T
wo days later we had a new maid and I got some time to breathe. Bua was old, practically a crone from a fairytale, but she seemed to know what she was doing. She did the cooking for the day in the early morning so she was free to spend the rest of the time looking after Adil and tending to Ammi, who seemed to have become a docile, three-year-old child. She changed when fresh clothes were laid out for her, ate when food was put in front of her, I began to wonder how she took a bath. Did Bua bathe her? I didn
'
t know, because Bua began to shoo me out of the house whenever I had some free time.

‘
Go,
'
she would practically push me out the door,
‘
be a child.
'

‘
But I want to stay with Ammi.
'

‘
There
'
ll be time enough for that later! Why do you want to be a grandmother at your age? Go and play with other children.
'

I went reluctantly but soon I was fully re-assimilated into the group of kids I used to play with, and after a while the outside world again became more seductive than the inside.

Once there was some distance between Ammi and I, I began to realize how different she was from other mothers. She had always been different, true, but it had been a good kind of different, prettier, taller, smarter, funnier, braver. Now she was nothing at all, a dead battery. She could animate nothing, not even herself. What was happening to my mother?

I asked Abba more than once when she was going to get better, what was wrong with her in the first place, etc., but he didn
'
t know either. I asked Mamu during one of his increasingly frequent visits and he just hemmed and hawed, but he insisted Abba accompany him to the gate that night. The next day Abba came home early, Mamu stayed with Adil and I, and Ammi was taken to the doctor.

When they got home Ammi was crying. Her eyes were red and swollen like she had been crying for a while. She hobbled into her room and immediately lay down on the bed. Mamu put Adil next to her but she turned away from him. Abba rushed to prepare another bottle for the now squalling baby, and Mamu told me gently but firmly that it was time for me to go to bed. I went, but didn
'
t sleep. I left my door slightly ajar, and later when both Ammi and Adil had fallen silent, and Abba and Mamu whispered to each other outside her door, I was listening.

‘
What did the doctor say?
'

‘
He said she was fine.
'

‘
Fine? She can hardly walk.
'

‘
He examined her thoroughly and he said physically there was nothing wrong with her. She was healthier than most women, in fact.
'

‘
But there
'
s obviously something wrong with her!
'

‘
I told him what she was like at home but he said there was no medical reason for it. He asked me if we were having any problems of any sort that would make her upset.
'

‘
What did you say?
'

‘
I said no, we didn
'
t have any problems,
'
there was an underlying hint of aggression in Abba
'
s tone, as if daring Mamu to respond.

‘
And is that true?
'

‘
What are you suggesting?
'

‘
I
'
m not suggesting anything. I
'
m asking you if what you said to the doctor about not having any problems was true, that
'
s all,
'
Mamu
'
s voice was trembling slightly, but he stood firm.

‘
Look Najam, don
'
t interfere in our life.
'

‘
She
'
s my sister.
'

‘
And she
'
s my wife. I care about her as much as you do. I would never do anything to hurt her.
'

‘
All right, all right. Then what did the doctor say?
'

‘
He asked if that was true too.
'

‘
Did she agree?
'

‘
She nodded. She didn
'
t really say much the entire time. So he said if there was no physical reason and no mental reason for her inertia, then all he could say was that sometimes we all wished we didn
'
t have responsibilities but we did. Jahan had to pull herself together for the sake of her children, if nothing else.
'

‘
Did she say anything then?
'

‘
No, she started crying so we had to leave.
'

‘
I see.
'

‘
But the doctor told me if she didn
'
t get better in a week or so, I should take her to another doctor. He gave me a name,
'
Abba dug out a piece of paper and showed it to Mamu.

‘
What kind of a doctor is he?
'

‘
A psychologist.
'

‘
Oh God!
'
Mamu seemed horrified,
‘
I wish my mother was alive. Or that we had sisters. Or cousins, or grandmothers.
'

‘
Why? God knows there are enough crazy women in the world,
'
Abba chuckled. I didn
'
t like it.