Newly penned, part of the rewrite process. Let's see where this goes...
Yesterday…
Samiha sat on her
musallah lost in thought. Her children were asleep and Farouk was with his
second wife tonight. She felt cocooned by the silence. A warm pool of it. She would sit like this for hours, allowing the
sounds that were part of this old house to wash over her. Often she’d fell
asleep on the carpet. The sleep of the untroubled. Just as she and Farouk
seemed to tiptoe around one another during their disjointed daytime
interactions, so too, did they sleep around one another. It was exhausting.
Having her arm land on him at night was enough to rouse her from the deepest of
sleeps. Lately, she had caught herself asking more and more often whether it
was really worth it. Whether he was worth it.
In the kitchen next
door Mrs Patel hacked away at the phlegm in her chest. A bed creaked noisily.
No farting. She smiled an acidic smile. She’d always known it was Munira. I
wonder how she’s dealing with the gas now, her inner bitch taunted.
Prop it closed with a ball
of dough?
She wanted to laugh
out loud.
Shshsh, she said this aloud. You’re
acting all crazy, you know. They’ll hear you next door. And they’ll tell HER. And she’ll know she won.
Her voice raised an octave.
She pressed a finger to her lips and giggled drunkenly.
Just look! You’re losing your mind. Talking to yourself like a pagli.
She cleared her throat
and took a deep, sobering breath.
She put on her best
Redi Thlabi voice: Men cheat because
they’re bastards. Not because you didn’t cook nice enough meals. Or because you
didn’t give him what he wanted in bed.
She nodded her head
vigorously in agreement. Continued with her Redi-style soliloquy.
So what if having children ruined your figure?
SO what? You’re still the same woman inside. No woman should blame herself!
She nodded some more.
And then she collapsed
on the carpet, sobbing.
What a way to live!
But what were her choices?
Look for a job?
Deep down she knew she
still loved him. Disgusted though she was by that realisation.
She was fighting a
losing battle. Acceptance. That’s what she needed.
The path of least
resistance.
For the children, she
told herself. For the children.
****************************
Today…
Grey
Grass dormant, in
death like sleep
crunchy beneath her weakened
feet
as she drags her tired
shadow
on the path that grows
ever narrow
each day the same,
effete
a lurid picture,
ghostly grey
the colour of each
remaining day
was there a time when
they were …more?
bright, alive, burning
with possibility
a blank canvas to be
filled with
tastes, textures and
living
yes living…. would
that she could
yet she filled it with
regret
and more regret again
sorrow about what was
anger at what was not
she filled it with
hate and greed
jealousy and simple
misery
the colours that
spilled
were reds, only reds –
like blood
the blood of hate, and
anger
her trees have long
since borne fruit
her fruit have thorns,
she cannot bear them
thorns that are
children with loud voices
children who trample
on her brown grass
the reds have faded -
green at first
growing more grey with
each passing day
her canvas is ruined –
the work of her own hand
her shadow, like her
soul – tired, worn, grey
The words stung.
Mostly because she saw herself in every one of them,
Her daughter would be
more likeable had she been less honest, she carped. Did the child really think
that words on a blog were anonymous?
Everyone read them.
And everyone who knew Samiha would know these words were written about her.
The bitter old woman
living in the museum of a house, scolding her grandchildren at every turn. Well
it wasn’t her fault that they were so damned irritating. And she’d be darned if
she’d be guilted into feeling any remorse.
They were naughty.
This entire generation was a total waste! SO what if the boys rarely visited
because they were too scared of the noise their wives would make about Samiha
scolding their flower-breaking, couch hopping brood?! She managed just fine.
Besides, Safiyya still
checked up on her. Her face broke into a smile. Safiyya was definitely the best
of Farouk’s spawn. Plus she liked to write. Like Samiha once had. Who knew.
Maybe someday she’d write something special.
As for Asma, she was
married to some weirdo she’d met online. She lived in America and called her
mum twice a month, more out of a sense of duty than love.
Samiha sighed. Where
had the years gone?
She hobbled over to a
pot plant and pulled a weed from its loamy soil. She looked at her hand. The
lines. The spots. Seemed like just yesterday these very hands had held Farouk’s
bleeding body, cradled his head one last time.
Thoughts of Farouk
evoked thoughts of Munira. She scowled. Munira hadn’t remarried either after
his death. She’d moved back in with her mother and brother.
Samiha had moved out
of Lambat Street by the time Mrs Patel had finally scoffed her last paan. She
choked on it, incidentally. That’s how she’d met her end.
By the latest
accounts, Munira and Farouk had moved out of Dadaville and were living
somewhere in the city.
And Dadaville had
succumbed fully to the decay. She couldn’t say she was sad to see Lambat Street
fall apart. It held so many bitter memories for her…
**********************************
Tomorrow
Samiha sat on the
couch, her eyes, whitened by cataracts, fixed on Safiyya’s face. She was
incredulous. Surely her hearing wasn’t going too!
“Mummy, I thought I’d
come and tell you that Saleem is getting married this weekend. She’s a young
girl from Roshnee. She was his secretary. They will be having a small waleema.
I’m throwing it for them. You’ll come?”
Is this girl crazy?
Her husband is marrying a spring chicken when she has daughters of marriageable
age in her house and she will be throwing a waleema for him. Sort of saying to
the bastard: Goodie! You finally shagged the slut!
He was probably messing around with the little
runt while he was married! Stupid girl! Hasn’t she learnt anything from my
life? Samiha seethed.
“No, I won’t come, you
want to know why?” Her words were clipped.
“Not really Mummy.
Don’t say anything.” Safiyya’s eyes were glassy.
“Well, I’ll tell you.
It’s because you are being stupid enough to allow that man, like every other
man, whose brains are lodged firmly between his thighs, to ruin your life! Are
you mad?”
Her voice was low,
unwavering. “But mummy, if I don’t then I will ruin my own life. Don’t you see
it? Even now…” Silent tears trickled towards her chin, splashed onto her lap.
Samiha sat there,
watching the tear blossoms form.
“I’m going now mummy.
I’ll call tomorrow.”
Samiha heard the front
door click shut. Hear the roar of Safiyya’s car engine grow more feint as she
sped off.
And still, she sat.
Finally, she stood up, leaning heavily on her cane. Hobbled over to the window.
The big old magnolia had just begun to flower. Giant pink flowers wound their
way along naked branches.
They forgave, she
whispered.
Forgave winter its frost. Refused to succumb to its biting cold. Defiantly brought forth flowers. Not mingy tiny buds. But huge, showy fragrant flowers.
Forgave winter its frost. Refused to succumb to its biting cold. Defiantly brought forth flowers. Not mingy tiny buds. But huge, showy fragrant flowers.
Surely, after all
these years, she could forgive Farouk his winter that took from her everything.
Left her naked. Surely, even now, she could bloom. She felt an intense urge to
pray. She crumpled to the ground (she’d have hell getting up again, but so
what?!). She struggled into sujood.
Help me bloom, my
Lord. Help me bloom. Lightness filled her heart. She knew she’d grace the
waleema with her presence. And this time she’d do it purely for herself…
