- Apostrophes For People in a Hurry
We, women needed no books to make our tareeka, our dhang, our way global, we did it by word of mouth. But in case I am not around to teach you the difference between your intution and your anxiety and your impulses act against you in your girlhood and womanhood, I leave the experiences of women in my life in your care. Use them as required and add your observations. This is not a textbook, think of it as a research paper or like a documentation of sufferings and accomplishments we have in common. The women in this book had to figure out things all by themselves and I hope this helps you avoid our blunders and improve on our methods.
I have been sitting at my desk with incomplete drafts when Mrs. Sensitive decided to call me on my bullshit. “In the past decade we have known each other, I have not seen you complete one book. You asked me to share my feelings with you and you said you will write it down. So now, you must, you have to send me drafts containing what we talked about at the end of the day or I will not be sharing them with you...”
I have never broken any promise I made to Mrs. Sensitive except one and we both are suffering the consequences of it.
If you had access to the thoughts of your ancestors, wouldn't it make it so much easier to know yourself.
So you, Sarah, a spoiled but free version of me and you, Mahira, a rebellious version of your mother, I am here to tell you both more about yourself.
Chapter 1
In my experience men empowered by law and women informed by trauma have made decisions for me. As an adult, I still suffer the consequences of the same. My best and so far the most effective tool has been my imagination.
The morning, our mother, the Doctor left my biological father, the Master, I roamed around naked screaming the national anthem as I was only five and the Doctor was not around to stop me. I was free, I never had to wear clothes again but I was overcome with the fear that now, the Master will make my fashion choices and he had no idea how to dress me. I remembered the comfort the Doctor had prescribed to me before going to bed every night. “Once my exams and your exams are over, I am coming back for you. Don't worry.”
After she left, she did not call home, whenever she missed us she called the neighbour, it was as if she was Soviet Union and we went over to our neighbour's to get our mission for the week to dismantle USA. I was her trusted spy, “Dad was calling some woman darling on the phone today.” “Dad yelled at me because I asked him to sharpen my pencils with grandpa's sharpner.” “The boats I made in the gutter sank... I threw dad's cigs in the daldal behind our house.” “I told the koyal that comes every morning to come to you and sing you a song I made up. Did she come?” “I saw a frog and I touched it. It was yucky.”
The Doctor listened but every time she asked one question, “Wo tum log ko maarta waarta toh nahi hain na?” She was a doctor who spent nine years mending to her own wounds whenever she did not treat Master's ego right.
He did not hesistate before raising his voice and that is when I knew, a man who raises his voice will raise his hand. That is of course not the standardised test as silent men can be deadly too but this lesson has never been proven wrong in my lifetime.
As if returning to the comfort of the womb, Doctor sought refuge at her mother's, the Grand Postman's house. Postman did not take a moment to hesitate before she delivered, “I told you so,” in more frequent doses than what is prescribed when one is grieiving. Never ever tell someone you told them so. If you are important enough they will remember and themselves confess you were right. But if they are in denial and tyou are not important to them then you will be seen as nothing but making everything about yourself. Postman was right about Master being an inadequate match for her daughter. She did not trust him and found him to be a con. I tell you now Sarah, one must never marry a person their mother disapporves of because she has learnt enough from her own experience with your father.
Doctor fell in love with a voice on the phone challenging her, comforting her and eventually becoming her soundboard. The man inside her head when she finally met him was different from the man she was in love with. Not only that he pretended to be someone else when he came to her house to meet her. Doctor wanted peace, a way out of the issues she was subjected to that were not normal for her age, so she decided to make-do with the tall, greasy, loud man who wooed her by quoting famous lines from movies, quotes, books and speeches. She had stories about factories burning, a father dying and how she raised five siblings who owe her their childhood.
Despite what anybody says Postman did not care how rich Master claimed he was, she had bigger plans for her daughter. Postman told me once, Doctor had the power to change the world but before we change it we have to heal it and that is why she wanted her daughter to become walking-talking Shifa. Doctor was raised on traditional values, four brothers, yet she was the one who was equipped with this responsibility.
To deter the Doctor from leaving, Postman used to lock Doctor in her room every day as she went on her errands. Aunt Na was a teenager who could not bear to see her sister, her second mother be imprisoned by her first so she stole the key and opened the door one day. She made sure postman had extra items on her grocery list so there is enough time to escape. Doctor left the house barefoot, first to the PCO then to the house of her step mother, Has Been, who encouraged our twenty-two year old mother to elope. Has Been was the first wife of Doctor's step dad, Postman was the second. Mothers who take their anger out on other mothers by manupilating the children can make you do one thing that will cause ripples in your life until you die, I hope you understand that. You are the daughter of second wife, Sarah. You know about the waswasa of the djinns, don't you? The waswasa of humans are worse because once you hear them you can't undo their voice etching in your brain. You won't be able to recognise when their words become your belief.
Doctor made a decision influenced by the expectations of society piling on her since she was a child, the worth of a woman being defined by her ability to find a good man to settle with and on paper yes, he was a single man with no family, he lived alone in a flat in a place like Santacruz, he had three factories he inherited from his father and she had to only deal with one man and not a family suffering from PTSD. My father came in with his own baggage but like every woman our mother thought they could provide each other the comfort and the sense of belonging, not found in their childhood. She pitied him and she also desired him. Never dear girls feel obligated to marry someone because you desire them or have sex with them.
I wish I could recall the love my father always claimed he had for my mother but I do not. Only once have I come across a photograph attesting his claim. In my father's factory, surrounded by machines that made plastic, their love appeared to be real. My fair-skinned curly hair four feet nine inch mother was blushing, as my dark-skinned, six-feet tall curly haired father seated behind her embraced her sides and was guiding her how to use a machine. Their gazes focused, distant, not realizing, they were being observed. I do not know much about what they were doing, I never asked, I did not want them to ruin it by dismissing what I saw. What is it like... to know... two people who created you, claim they love you, love each other? I would like to answer that with the picture I found.
Their marriage was a game, my father an impulsive player and our mother a sentimental one. They were not playing to win, they were playing to defeat each other, that is how their opponents saw it. He could not make her his slave and she could not convince him to get help for his ailments. He tried an open palm, a closed fist and anything he could hold to hook her in. Abuse followed by comfort from the abuser is something we learn from our parents which translates into our relationships in future. Doctor recognised the history repeating itself, she was stuck with a manchild who could not take care of her and she was his retirement plan. She was able to put this together when he said, “You are your mother's early retirement plan.”
How hard is it for a person with potential to find someone who loves them just because they are lovable and not because they can do something for you? Doctor has always been loved because of how resourceful she is never because of who she was and she is so easy to love.
All my mother wanted was to have a family, a home and a place where she can truly express her capacity to nurture and lead. She was punished for it. She wanted things from others what she could give herself but society did not let her.
Today, as women we are in a place where we can build a better lives for ourselves than our grandmothers. So, never want from others what you cannot give yourself. Because people learn how to treat you from the way you treat yourself and if they see you treating yourself like crap they will join in.
My mother worked hard to get us out that house, I remember the call, when she asked us to come to the entrance of Pokar Complex. I put the news on and every footstep towards her that day felt like walking on a tightrope tied from the past to the future hoping not to fall in the hands of present. The first stop after that was the police station, we sat in the car with her friend. He did not answer any question I asked and distracted me with jokes. My brother maintained his gaze outside the window, waiting for Doctor to come out in the rain.
Living with my mother for four years while she had criminal charges full of lies against her, I saw her put hardwork in the case she was fighting and winning the custody of her children. I saw her process betrayal and pure cruelty from her friends and family who come for free checkups to our house now. I remember people liked us for three months up tops after that we became a burden. My mom was backpacking across the thin line between love and tolerance. We had Christian neighbours who were the kindest among all the people we visited. Mr. and Mrs, Manners.
Mrs. Manner had helped Mr. Manners cope with his schizophrenia, which is an affliction Master suffered from too. Mr. Manners was the closest thing I had to a father. He bribed me with hot chocolate, head massages, jelly and fried bhindi masala. We observed his cats together, he thought to me how to do the dishes and change lightbulbs. I was the only six year old on the block with these skills. They had cats who were trained to recognise if someone was not following table manners. They would meow us out of the dinng area. I remember them every time I kept my elbows on the dining table while eating. I do not remember why we stopped living there. Mrs. Manners mother, Nana would come strolling on her wheelchair and ask us to stop watching Pokemon and go outside to play with kids our age. But we did not have friends. My only friend was my brother, Chid Chid.
My childhood is a series of memories where I was part of the neferious plans my brother and his friends made.. I managed to make one girl my friend and she stopped talking to me. As a child I did not understand why but as an adult I think I have an idea. I was an odd kid, my manerisms, my inattentiveness, my imaginery worlds and especially my behaviour that were signs of dual sensory impairment made children make cruel remarks. I did not know I could not see as a child. I adapted to my surroundings I sat close to the TV. My buldgy nose could be found between pages of a book inspecting words and pronouncing them with a stutter. I often came very close to a person's face to see the colour of their eyes. When I was finally tested my power was -7. It is too high for six year old. I also creeped people out by my ability to stop paying attention and become so engrossed I would not listen to anybody calling me. The ENT concluded I do not pay attention, at the age of twnety-two it was discovered I have been hard of hearing all my life and it would be a lot less worse if I had been given hearing aids as a child. We lived in a Bunglow and if I was in one room I would not be able to hear someone calling me from the next room. I often misheard things and when I confirmed with them if this is what they were saying, whatever I said made everybody laugh.
The title, Apostrophe's for People in a Hurry is inspired from a time I misheard a friend. I asked him what he was reading and I heard him say the title of this book. Eager to see what the book was about I snatched it out of his hands and it said Physics for People in a Hurry. I decided that day, it was not something I misheard but the inspiration from the divine to name the first book I write after the title.
I won a prize in school and while I was on the stage with a red satin sasche around me labelling my existence as The Best Girl, I waved at strangers when Doctor was calling out to me. My family's instance reaction was, “Ye andhi hain kya?” Master was in Mecca performing Hajj. Doctor took this opportunity to cut my hair and bestow me with vision. Truth be told, the first time I saw clearly, I was disappointed. The blur made everything submerge in itself, reality had sharp edges that I needed to pay attention to now.
I felt the weight of vision when I saw the blueprint of my father's palm on my mother's milkwhite cheek, it was a structure on which their marriage was built, abuse. So when, we left, I was glad I did not have see that anymore. We were out and about without much help. A woman in her 20s with two children is a liability.
At Postman's house, Uncle Brat hit my brother because he was unable to finish his meal. I do not remember much except the evenings where we sat as a family and Aunt Na and uncle Brat enaged in typical sibling rivalry fighting over who gets to use the bathroom first, who gets the Mango gultis and who could make their mother frown. We did not have TV but they were an entertaning duo. Aunt Na worked in bank and Uncle Brat was studying. I think the experience of abusing my brother exposed his bitter soul of a comedian, he understood he could deliver much hurt from his ability to laugh at anything than his ability to be violent. He has been laughing in defence ever since, somehow always acquiring the last laugh. He is the one who took over most of the property that Postman left behind. She got it from her second husband. He was a lawyer but he hardly went to court, he always had people come to the house ith bag suitcases that was Postman said. Her first husband who she thought would become a doctor ended up becoming a drunkard. Uncle Brat may have channeled that side of genetics and unleashed hell on his siblings.
Sometimes I think when his siblings got busy with their lives, he did the acquisition of the property to get attention from his siblings. What suprises us is how he took over the Bandra property, the smallest house in the slums of Naupada where Postman had built her community and lived, while Postman was alive.
While this was happening, Master accused the Doctor with an accusation that no mother can bear. He claimed she tried selling us to him during court trials where she increased the amount of settlement every time he said yes to the amount. Doctor claims this was a strategy she used hoping he would disagree and I believe her because even when Master claimed he would give up everything, she refused. She did not trust him, she was worried about our safety. And she was not wrong.
At Postman's sister's house, Khaala was a clean freak, she hated us because she felt we were destroying Doctor's life. As a child I did not understand that, I thought we were on vacation so I found a function in my environment and I stuck to it. I managed to secure our stay with my ability to do dishes, and spread gossip. As a seven year old, I played an important role of transmitting information about Uncle Haraam Police and his wife to Khaala in exchange of kulfis. In the corner of Old Vasai Gao or as I like to call it, the land of Jaamun, Postman's siblings and Doctor's cousins gathered around bonfires, bioling potatoes, staring at the stars during power cuts. Jammu Maama is a true artist who never failed to pull punchlines out of sleeves to difuse a situation. He never raised his voice at his father as far I knew and that is what he taught me. But I learnt how to clean my nails better from him than keeping myself calm. My complexation was a subject to light bullying but Jammu Maama never made fun of my complexation, he was the same colour after all. He thought me a song, hum kaale hua toh kya hua, dil waale hain. I internalized that song. It became my motto.
Khaala could not tolerate us anymore and she decided to kick us out. Now, you see her crash in our house all the time, after Postman died. Why is she here? She had her own house that she did not let us live in... Our mother still lives in a rented house with a circus around her and she still made room for this woman. I despise her. Yet I cannot bring myself to unkind to her, the way she was towards me.
We left her house and ended up in Panchgani, seperated from our mother for a whole year in Happy Hours School. I do not remember many happy hours there. Every child has that threshold where they stop being obediant and start becoming a rebel. I reached mine at a very young age... The way you get in fights at the age, I did too but I have my father's pettiness and my mother's wit, I was both of their's crazy, the combination that made my name infamous in the hostel. I once bit a girl's thigh because she would not stop tickling me, her thigh turned green, the same colour that I did when I saw how beloved she was by the warden. She was a bully who liked me but I did. I bit her once and she never bullied anybody again.
I loved the different sweaters and the beanies that the weather of Panchgani had to offer. I wrapped myself up like a burrito way before I knew what a burrito was and slept, hoping I do not wet the bed like our brother. People made fun of him and used his inability to control his bladder an insult to piss me off. Once a boy said he did not feel pain and he was not a weakling like my brother. So I asked him to put his hand out and I stared at the lines on his palm, pretending to be a fortune teller, and in a matter of few seconds I stabbed him with a compus.I stared at zaid and tilted my head with raised eyebrows, “Dard hua?” He held his tongue, did not make a noise and took a fist dripping with blood all the way to the Nurse's office. That is the day nobody spoke to me.
I once cut open a girl's bed with a cutter and peed in it. I turned the bed over and waited for her to be bothered by it for the rest of the semester. She made fun of me for wetting the bed once or twice. I was determined not to and I was able to beat the issue with sheer determination and dehydration. I was loved by the older girls who went to the same school and they visited me in the dorm with snacks that teens were allowed to eat but not children my age. Each one of us had a metal box, it was quite like the ones you store flour in at home. We could only access the snacks during weekends and we had packaged food while everybody else had homemade delicacies from all over India. It was one of the moments I felt I was not from a normal household. It was the time when homsickness would make me stay up at night. I once saw the dance of fireflies outside my foggy window. It is my fondest memory as I believed they were here to comfort me. I never blamed my mother or my father. For some reason I thought it was my fault that I was here. Children who were naughty were sent here. I did not act out at home but here I saw what I was capable of... I understood the power of being feared and since then I have strived to be feared with a tad bit of myself wanting to be loved at the same time.
Postman told me about the concept of taqwa where you are afraid of upsetting the one you love so you act or refrain from acting out. She believed that it was needed to get in heaven. But I wanted people to have taqwa in me. Not sure if it was something I picked from all the stories Postman told me about Prophets or it was something I picked from my dad... I did not yet understand I was a gender that was not allowed to attain the power of divine. I still believed that I did and that if I wished I could part the sea.
Have you ever experienced an earthquake? I did when I was eight, sleeping at home. It is also the day I was assaulted by Abuser. I believed I caused it. Bhiwandi is the not known for earthquakes.
I find words that sound the same mean different things in different languages to be like road signs that warn us or inform us. His name not only rhyme but it was spelt as Abuser with a Z. This was a road sign my mother ignored when she was groomed by him. 11 years older and he had two wives. Postman could not stop the Doctor from making the same mistake agan, trusting a man. My mother got a khula and married Abuser.
Despite my anger towards him, I remember fond moments with him where he was somewhat a father. In boarding school, the news of my mother getting married the second time spread and the children did not hold back. “Tere toh do do baap hain.” I spent three days crying. I did not know why it hurt. There was a suprise visit from Doctor and Abuser. He told me, “Tell them, mujhe do do baap ka pyaar milta hain.” He had the best comebacks.
He bought me an airplane toy when I turned three... I was a tall child and he told me I could be a pilot. He also smelt nice and understood I needed a soundboard for everything.
I also recall him leaving my hand in the middle of a crowded train station in Mumbai. I, could not even see up it was that crowded. So the moment his hand left mine, I grabbed the nearest hand and headed forward into the crowd, pushing and pinching just like Postman thought me. I was talking non-stop too about how Abuser should not fight with Doctor because she loves him. When we arrived at the end, I realized the hand I was holding wasn't that of Abuser but a random old man who was smiling down at me. Doctor asked me where Abuser was and I said I do not know. I started crying as my mother cursed at Abuser while thanking the old man. If you wonder why I insist on holding your hand, despite you hating my sweaty palms. I was more equipped than you, I could travel alone in the bus at your page but you cannot even go to school.
The day we came back home, I named all the mountains on the way home. I told my brother, they were ours to move. Doctor put us in the best school of the country, she got me a purple keyboard on which I learnt how to channel my anxiety. Postman tied my hands and made me write Hindi. She taught me urdu and she was the first one to figure out my default setting is happy, I only ever react to situations with anger when I was hungry or sleepy. I never complained, I adapted to my settings. My brother cribbed for a TV but I taught him how to enjoy old songs on the radio. There was a collection of tapes full to kavelis, ghazals and stories that kept me company before TV arrived and soap operas became our dinner time entertainment. Hatim being the favourite show of the entire neighbourhood children, a fandom gathered outside the gate we were not allowed to open. It was a story about a warrior who had to defeat dajjal through completing seven trials. This is the first time I was introduced to fantasy on TV, the second was with Harry Potter. Postman believed Harry Potter was a way to start a cult for black magic, I believed her and stayed away from the books. But then to defy my grandma, Master gave us Harry Potter DVDs which my mother allowed us to watch. I did not understand much except that there were group projects and Herminie did everything while Harry got the credit. I genuinely thought their adventures were school projects until movie number five.
We were also gifted the poster from the movie Don because Chid Chid was a big fan of Shah Rukh Khan. I was confused as to why he was alive because he died in the previous movie which I think was Kal Ho Na. I am not sure but I found the idea of acting upsetting. I could never act, pretend to be someone I am not. I could only pretend or lie when I was protecting somebody. It is something I learnt from Islam, a muslim can be anything but a liar. There were three exceptions where lies were allowed and one of them was protecting believers. In my head everybody was believer because they believe in something so I could protect them.
I learnt how to tell stories but they were just possibilities I wished were true. I never learnt how to lie despite being surrounded by liars. Master was a master at lying. You know how you have reflexes, lying was one of his when his ego was exposed to the light of truth. His head was in the clouds, looking for God to blame for what he did and who he was... His head was big enough to fit in delusion after delusion that he was a good man, a good father, and a good husband. He claimed to be an orphan who was adopted but it was a lie. His father had and his mother had a child outside marriage who they gave up for adoption but then ended up adopting him. I do not know if is story of origin was real or made up. I never met my grandparents to confirm that but Postman never trusted anything he said and I followed her path. He knew his daughter was a spy, so when he decided to abduct us when the court case was going on, he told me we were going for Umrah in Saudi and that he had the permission of the court. I should have figured it out because the day we were leaving, every item in the house was being packed. I asked, why are we taking the house with us? I was lied to and said we were afraid of it being stolen.
Did you know Chid Chid knew about the whole plan? Apparently Chid Chid had a gun pointed to him when he made the decision on my behalf and said, take the Poet as well, we cannot leave her here. I am not sure if I would be safe with Abuser and Doctor but I was definitely not safe with Master.
When the plane took off, Master happily claimed, “You never have to see your mother again.” I ended up pushing for a phonecall through Chid Chid. And when I heard, my family on the other side say things, “Accha hua tum log chale gaye. Abhi teri maa azaad hain.” “Waapas mat aanaa, apne baap ke saat hi raho.”
Like Hajar ran from the moutains of Safa and Marwa, the echo of the footsteps of our mother from the prayer mat to the court can be heard in heaven.
The five years of capitivity in my developing years has given me Shell Shock. I refuse to call it PTSD as it diminishes the impact of the damage done to me. Not only to me but to my existence here on this planet.
Take this for example, I had an opportunity to go to UK and perform for BBC but I could not because I did not have a passport. Thanks to Master who made fake passports and made us live under a fake name for five years in capitivity. I did not want to go to a government office and have them find out there exists a version of me so vulnerable and nobody could ever save her. He made us lie regarding the existence of our mother to gain sympathy. I could not bring myself to ever say she was dead because I did not want it to become true. I waited all my life for an opportunity to prove to everybody once and for all, I was the best they ever had. You know it feels to have the dream you are dreaming right in front of you but not being able to hold it? It feels like a fly beating his body against a glass door or wall or window trying to get in but kept out by thin veil of discrimination.
_Imagine if Alice had been asked for a passport before she entered Wonderland The same white rabbit who didn't do much except be white to be able to come to my land without identification Imagine if Peter Pan had asked children to show their birth certificate before they were allowed to fly Imagine if Cinderella left her degree behind instead of a glass shoe, the prince would have never come looking Imagine if Matilda had no library card and no Miss Honey Imagine if Harry Potter had magic but no letter to Hogwarts, no money left behind by his parents Imagine if Doctor Who couldn't roam around in his Tardis without a driver's license issued by the Time Lords
Imagine me with a birthmark on my arm and a teenmark/mole on my forehead declaring me Hindu belonging to Hindustan Imagine me as Kohinoor stolen from my mother and kept in captivity for five years by my father Now, imagine me leaving the museum
Imagine me as Cleopetra being overqualified to be married to Ceaser but not enough to be Queen of Egypt Imagine me as Musa unable to speak the language of the Jews Imagine me as Isa, a carpenter who died not on a cross but because he became allergic to wood
Imagine my dreams stuck in a dreamcatcher unable to decide whether they are nightmares or dreams Imagine my hopes standing in a queue at the cliff waiting for their turn to jump out of existence Imagine my turns on an unknown road when I take a right, I'm still wrong
Why does a socialist government need reminding I am its citizen Why do you make me pay for your salary? Why does it need reminding that I have lived here all my life And I plan to die here Why does it need me to prove who I am and what I have done again and again Shouldn't you already know? You gave me away to white rabbits with white collars and their machines can predict when I bleed
Imagine me, crying in my room, humming, the land of make believe doesn't believe in me._
Chapter 2
Sarah, I do not want to write this part as much as you want to read it. We try not to talk about our time in captivity around you. You ask too many questions that we have not asked ourselves. We stopped asking questions when we learnt we were not ready for the answer or that the real answer is unknown to the person answering.
I rue the day I have to explain existence on earth to you. You are smart, the moment I try the religious angle that Postman took, you would in a heartbeat figure out Adam and Eve were exiles of heaven. Their crime? Each other. Earth is a prison. The prisoners do not know their warden. We are serving a sentence that is not ours. Sometimes I think if trading heaven for a planet where they could hold each other was worth it? I wonder at that point that Adam and Eve stopped fighting and started living.
Imagine a game show. Two people who do not know each other are randomly picked up and left on an island. Who would you pick? I would pick God and Death. Maybe that is the case.
I distract.
I am afraid to write about what happened as it is, in my head you will always be a baby who fit in my arms and would not let go. I have been told past when hurts is better when blanketed with metaphors and what not. It should be like delievering hope in the postbox of your mind.
I tire dear sister of pretending it does not affect me.
You know how you pretend food is not in front of you so you do not have to eat it and then mom gets fed up and takes the plate away. I thought that is what would happen in my head if I pretended it did not affect me.
I wish my life was like the stories Doctor remixed and narrated during bedtime. She had the skill of connecting fairy tales of Snow White and Cinderalla to Panchatantra. I still get the best ideas when I am about to fall asleep.
Do you know, Master married four more times but never has any one of them told me bedtime stories? The night before we left Master disclosed he had divorced Mehnaaz and married his big sister instead. She was great with Chid Chid but I observed her with the same scrutiny you do with a day old bread, she smelt fishy to me. I liked her because she once tried bonding with me by gifting me a doll pn whom I performed an exorcism, brain surgery, and amputation. I pulled her voice box out because she sang and it sounded like a dog struck by a moving car. She never gave me anything again. Chid Chid was happy. He wanted a submersive mother, the one who spoiled him and soothed his ego. Doctor was not like that, as much as she loved her first born, she did not let him fall behind in school or chores. To be honest unlike Chid Chid, in my head, I was still my mother's spy waiting for her to come and find me. He gave into his circumstances and made peace with the fact that this was his life now. I, on the other hand felt I will be reunited with her.
When I was at the airport about to leave on the basis of a lie, I remember Master pacing, calling people, there was an issue I was too young to understand but I believe when the security asked me my name I shouldn't have said baby and spelt out my real name so they could take me back to mom but I was a fool who did not understand the truth and did not know how to lie.
When we landed in Saudi, at baggage, I ended up falling behind and the airport security towered over me and asked, “Where is your mehram?” in Arabic. And I took a deep breath in and screamed, “Bhai Bhai Bhai Bhai Bhai,” until they stepped back afraid of upsetting a little girl and my brother slid across the waxed floor toards me. I watched too many actions movies where the bad guys spoke Arabic and had long beards.
The few things I recall from that trip was five times the city came to a halt, the cars stopped, the shops closed, people stopped eating and they charged towards the Masajid. Why wouldn't they, the sky was filled with a message, you have a direct line to God, would you like me to put you through? At the time of Fajr, I stood with the women from all over the world, you are supposed to stand next to each shoulder to shoulder, making a row but I was short, I reached their waists or arms. If you came before the prayer started, you would meet women who could talk to the moon. In my head that is what they were doing when they were looking up. I believed God was not in the clouds because Prophet Ibrahim already looked. The true way to truly reach God is to be so humbled by the existence of a Higher Power that they fall to their knees and put their forehead to the ground.
I walked Safa and Marwa, they flatened the mountains. I was upset. They did not flatten the Mount Uhud where fifty soldiers from Battle of Uhud disobeyed direct command from their General, Prophet Muhammad and charged the battlefield despite them being told not to move from there. That brings us shame, why do people visit that and climb up but the mountains of Safa and Marwa. I understand it helps the elderly but still.
I am not sure if anybody has told you the story of Hajar. She was the second wife of Abraham. She and their newborn son were left in the desert because Abraham had a dream that he were to do so as per God's instruction. After his departure, resources became scarce, the food and water ran out, the milk in her chest became dry. Hajar, in despair started running between Safa and Marwa, looking for a possibility of a few drops of water. Her footsteps echoed in heaven and a spring of water from the feet of Ismail, She out her hands above the flowing water and said Zam Zam, Stop Stop. It is as if the sky was beneath Ismail's feet and water from heaven was poured out by the Hoors. If she had not instructed it to stop, it would have been worse than Noah's flood.
Around water, nomads gathered and for the very first time settled and started a civilisation, we know its people today as Arabs. How far have they come, building tall buildings on artificial islands. Do you know it was prophesised that the people of the desert will compete with each other by building tall buildings?
I saw the hadith come true before I heard it.
Master's latest addition to his wives was known as the Marble Maker. The big sister of his previous exploits. He had a type, he liked women he thought he could save and the women turned out to be grown up individuals. In Saudi, in the Holy Land, he made her brown face, red. It surpirsed me as a child that someone would disrespect a land that fought for the rights of girls to not be buried alive. The first few ayaats revealed were about how the buried girls on the day of judgement will bear witness against the fathers. They will ask, “Why did you bury me?” I knew this at that age thanks to Postman who said I should be lucky I was born.
I did something I had never done before, i asked for forgiveness for him. I asked him to apologise to Marble. I had a big mouth and I could cry at a moment's notice so I did that and played at my ability to be the lil girl who people cannot say no to... It did not last for very long.
I smiled at Marble as I walked out and Marble immediately pointed out that I was 'doing drama.' To be honest, I smiled at her because I was happy I was able to make them sit in a room and talk it out.
I roamed in the hotel on my own, nobody asked me where my mehram was... In the lift, I met a man his 30s I presume who asked me what my name was and how old was I and where I was from... I was an innocent so I answered. He altered the name I gave him Irham to Iram which means heaven. He told me a city that once was named Iram. They had lofty pillars, the likes of whom which had never been created in the lands. How the people of Ad were buried alive under the sand due to a sandstorm that swallowed after eight days. The King too built tall gold towers and palaces.
Since then I told people my name was Iram, master did not notice as he was always busy pacing and delivering monologues. A quiet moment was found by eight year old moment near the dining table but it was soon interrupted by round men with beards that could touch the floor, screaming BEBSI, BEBSI. Arabs do not use the letter P. The women were covered in white, brown and blue abayas that made them look like they would pull out wings and start flying any moment.
They thought I was part of their circus and asked me to freak out with them. I was the 11th one on a table for ten. They laughed more than they ate. They were not even drunk, they were happy. The group cheered whenever the oldest woman at the table with her wrinkled hand smacked her palm on her forehead or rolled her eyes or said what I am assuming was smarky.
It reminded me of the bonfire nights in Old Vasai Gao. I craved for the family I was snatched from... Going round the Kabba for the next few days, Master gave me the permission to pray for Doctor. I was praying for his demise until then...
We drank camel's milk the day we went to visit Mount Uhud named after the second battle that Muslims fought. The guide speaks in arabic then transates the story himself. The sun is almost the touching the desert horizon. “It is quite a story. Before the Battle of Uhud starts, the Prophet makes a prophecy that he will be betrayed by his people and he tells his people the same. They almost win. The fifty soldiers who were told not to leave their position leave thinking they won but General Khalid comes from behind and defeats the Muslim. He later himself becomes a Muslim...”
He rambled on for another fifteen minutes and the large orange sun disappeared in the sand. The sky turned blue and by the time we were back it turned black.
During our visit to Medina, people pushed each other to see the grave of the prophet. I was not interested. But I was forced to come away, in the female section, there was no interest in seeing a slab over a slab.
The dead are gone they cannot hear us. I heard people make prayers. They said if you say Salaam he can hear it. I was baffled as I remembered the ayaat that said the dead do not have connection with this world. I did not want to have a connection, it is still creepy.
I was disappointed as there were no trees but the Arabs made their infrastructure as if they were trying to compensate for something. The sky every night after the smoke from pollution cleared, would host different constellations. Master pointed out to Orion and told me a story about it that I have forgotten or was not paying attention to anyway.
We completed Umrah and headed for a land that was part of the Indian Continent. Let me just tell you on thing now itself, India was never meant to be a country, it was a contintent that was reduced to a nation so it could be recognised. If were recognised as a contintent we would eb able to sue for reparations in the international court, we'd be the most powerful continent in the world. We were forced with borders ad what not. Today, we could have all our neigbouring countries to recognise itself as a continent and set up a whole different Global South that did not serve the Global North.
Paaksan. It was the mirror of our country, the currency, the traffic, the heat, the caste and the class system. I was a child so I cannot account for sexism. I can account for a neighbour we met there, Maullana Bollywood. His beard hid the buttons on his kurta and his hair hid under a round fluffy but stiff cap, embrioded with different purple flowers. I often amused myself by pulling his glasses whenever he knelt down to talk to me and I knocked his cap off. It was too loud for me.
He said I was too loud for him. I thought him slang words I heard from construction workers when we stayed at Doctor's and they spoke to us through the window when we were left home alone. Yes, it is the same building Chid Chid and I pointed the laser with ghost projections at, during the blackout and the women almost a filed a police complaint against us.
No wonder I could not forget the dialuges from Munna Bhai, Sholey, Bobby and other films Master thought were appropriate for kids to watch at that age. He claims when we were younger, he would put down the newspaper on the floor and Chid Chid crawled on the paper, pointed at the movie he wanted to watch and that is what they would watch that weekend. After I was born, I did that. I do not remember going to the theatre as a child so this story could easily be untrue and one of the things Master said to make us think he was a good father.
At first we stayed at guest quarters of a Master's broker. He had a family in Paaksan and they gave us their room in the attic. We finally got our own place where we met Mr. Bollywood who soon became the moral compas of Master. Marbler settled in the role of homemaker but something was odd.
I saw it the day, Master beat Chid Chid to pulp because we broke the remote. I think he slapped me just once but Chid Chid got a few kicks. He was not really angry that we broke the remote he said, he was angry that we were fighting and Chid Chid hit me. In reality he was scared in a new country, running from the law and realizing it is very hard to hard to live here.
Marbler one day slapped me for trying to wake her up. Her teeth were out and I may have decided to paint them after the slap. The verdict is not out yet.
She left me locked me the house that day. My brother was out with my father. There was no electricity. So I decided to sit at the window, waiting. While she went and got an injection, for God knows what. I am assuming it was an abortion as they kept it hush hush. I do not exactly recall this part but Marbler and Master were always yelling at each other, it was incomprehensible. Whenever you see people fight and it does not concern you do not interfere so I did not.
She got sick there, apparently the injection was reused and she contracted Hepathesis B. I do not usually call women ugly but she was and she got uglier. I grew up with Doctor's face and it was pleasant to look at unlike hers. She had two crooked teeth front teeth that made her look like a brown bunny. She put too much colonge and I hated it when she petted me with her rough man-hands. I was judgemental and I made sure she knew that. She never asked me how she looked because she knew I'd say ugly. I was not known for being anything but honest.
We were in the hospital and most of the time, I saw her sleeping. It was one of the expensive suits in Karachi's finest hospital. There was a mini fridge. We ate pizza the night was admitted and the night she was discarged. It was much better than her cooking. Again, Doctor is the best cook in my world, period.
Returning to a place that Master called home, I had a “enough is enough” moment and I wanted to leave. But the next morning when I saw Master pacing, he