As I grabbed the photo album from the top shelf, I already knew this was not a good idea.
How could it be?
Going through old pictures from my childhood was like opening a Pandora’s box that could surprise me in several ways. From poignant memories of family holidays to reminders of all the moments that I have lived and never looked back at, this album contained everything that I had fought so hard to hide from myself.
The first photo in the album was that of my father and I cutting a large pineapple cake, with red cherries on top, on my tenth birthday. While my father was beaming at the camera, I was avoiding its eye. I was wearing a silk gown in a fuchsia-pink color that made my complexion look darker than it was.
It was the 4th of July in 2000. I was sitting on the traditional jhoola in my home that my grandmother was given by her father as part of her dowry. She had spent years of her life on that jhoola, cutting vegetables and sewing clothes. This tradition was followed by my mother who also spent the last hours of every evening cutting vegetables while listening to ghazals on the radio sitting in that same jhoola. I, on the other hand, was trying to read my copy of “Harry Potter And The Sorcerer’s Stone” which was part of the entire Harry Potter book collection gifted by my mother on the auspicious occasion of her little girl turning ten. No matter how diligently I tried to concentrate, my thoughts insisted on betraying me. I couldn't stop thinking about the birthday party my dad had organized for me in the evening and the ridiculous silk gown I was supposed to wear for it. I was hoping that at least Baba, my father, would get me a chocolate cake from Bombay Bakery so I could enjoy a slice or a few slices of that heavenly delicacy while reading as the other kids played boring board games at the party. I had also asked him to take me to the bookstore but Baba refused with the excuse that it was impossible to make that arrangement as guests were going to start arriving at 4 pm and I needed to be ready to greet them. No visit to the bookstore was made and I had done exactly as I was told. None of my friends were interested in perusing through my book collection or reading in silence for the rest of the evening as I had anticipated. Hence, I had to accept my mother’s offer of playing “musical chairs” with them in our dining room. What a tedious way of spending one’s birthday!
The more I stared at the picture, the angrier I felt. I quickly turned the page to a family photo of the three of us. My mother, my father and I. In her olive green chiffon saree with intricate gold details of zari all over it, my mother looked so vibrant and alive in the photograph, it was hard to imagine that she had left this world and her body had probably decomposed by now. My father was in his usual attire of a black shalwar kurta that my mother washed and ironed for him every other day because the servants could not be trusted with such a critical task. His expressions were grim as usual but he was holding my hand tightly as if leaving it would result in me running away from the scene. I was standing between my parents as a reflection of the two of them. With my father’s nose and the dusky complexion of my mother, I simply existed as a shadow they carried beyond themselves. I could not recall when this picture was taken but it must have been before my 10th birthday. I knew this with certainty because the day after we celebrated my birthday with all of our relatives, my mother had gone to buy groceries and lost her life in a tragic accident when she got hit by an overspeeding truck. She had asked me to put my father’s shoes away if he arrived home early and offer him a glass of water as soon as he entered the house. I had done none of those things because I was too engulfed in my book to notice my father’s arrival or the time which would have clearly indicated that my mother was definitely too late. It was only when my father came into my room and told me that he had to rush to the hospital for an emergency so I needed to take care of myself until he was back. Before I could ask any more questions, he was gone. But so was my mother.
As I flipped the page again and caught a brief glimpse of my solo picture from a school talent show event, my phone started to ring.
To my surprise, Aunt Zahra’s name popped up on my screen.
“Assalam o alaikum”, I said.
“Walaikum as salam”, she responded in her usual meek voice that sounded nothing like my father’s deep voice, “How are you, Sophia beta?”
“I am fine, how are you?”, even as I mouthed those words, I couldn’t help but wonder how normal it had become for me to claim that I was doing fine when in fact, I couldn’t be more unwell.
“I am good but worried about bhai jaan”, she responded, “When I learned about his deteriorating health, I wanted to come running to Karachi but Alia had her exams so I needed to stay back for her. How is he doing now? Are you taking good care of him?”
“He is not doing so well - the doctors have recommended complete bedrest for now”, I deliberately ignored the second part of the question.
Was I taking care of him?
If she asked Baba, he would probably shake his head but to me, I was doing the best I could.
“Are you at home tomorrow?”, she suddenly asked.
“Uh…I do have a meeting at 10 am but I think I will be home by 12”, I said.
“I am visiting you tomorrow at 2 pm then”, she stated, “I will bring over some food and all three of us can have lunch together. I am leaving for Karachi tonight. I was planning on visiting bhai jaan anyways but now, I think it is best if we meet as soon as possible”
“Okay”
“Okay Khuda Hafiz, see you tomorrow”
I never got the chance to say goodbye as she had already ended the call.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Baba, did you eat anything yet?”, I immediately went to my father’s room after the call to inform him about his sister’s planned visit.
“No, I was waiting for you”, he did not look up from the newspaper he was reading. His eyesight had weakened over time and even with glasses on, he had to squint every time he read the newspaper. I had insisted on taking him to an Eye Care Specialist but even the idea of visiting a doctor angered him.
“Why would you do that?”, I tried my best to hide the annoyance in my tone, “You need to take medicines, and delaying your lunch only disrupts your schedule. I told you at breakfast that I might be busy with work meetings so you should have lunch”
“What did you come here for?”, he asked as if I didn’t visit his room now and then when I was home to ask if he needed something.
“Aunt Zahra is visiting tomorrow”, I responded.
“Close the door behind you when you leave”, he nodded. I was not planning on leaving. I had already canceled a few of my work meetings for the day and had planned to spend the evening with him but it all seemed pointless now.
As I was about to turn, my phone beeped. It was an email notification that stood out to me with its subject, “Interview Results”. My eyes widened with surprise and my mouth slightly curved into a smile as I read through the email.
“What happened?”, my father asked, reading my facial expressions. Suddenly, he had turned all his attention to me.
“I….I applied for this job at a publishing agency in New York and I just got an email that I have been accepted”, I looked up from my phone immediately in anticipation of seeing my father's face light up with pride upon receiving this news.
“Why would you do that?”, he asked.
“I am..”, I immediately realized that I had made a mistake, “I am sorry”
“Your father is dying and you are simply concerned about finding a job and that too, miles away. Is that how much you care about me?”, he placed his teacup back on the side table and tried to get up from his bed.
“I will help you”, I offered my hand but he pushed it away and after a few more failed attempts at getting up without aid, he eventually gave up.
“You may leave my room now, just send Ahmed with my lunch”, he ordered, adjusting his pillow so he could lie down more comfortably, “I will eat lunch with him”
Baba had never eaten with the servants before, at least not when I was home.
“Please come in”, I said as I pulled from a short but suffocatingly tight hug. Aunt Zahra had arrived exactly on time reminding me of my father’s habit of punctuality and discipline which always urged him to reach his destinations early.
“I am so happy to see you”, she settled down on our singular faded mahogany sofa in the living room, “You look so different with the new hair and all those pounds you have lost”“Thank you”, I assumed it was a compliment and her smile at my response confirmed that. My father hated my short hair as he firmly believed that women who cut their hair too short subscribed to absurd notions of freedom that betrayed our traditions and culture.
“You should sit down too”, she pointed to the other side of the soda since there was no other place in the living room to sit. One sofa had always been enough for Baba and I so my father had gotten rid of extra furniture that my mother brought with her in dowry.
“Would you like to drink some water?”, I offered.
“No, I am good”, she shook her head and looked around the room, “I remember that painting so well. Your mother painted it when she was pregnant with you”
I turned my head to look at the small charcoal painting of a sinking ship hanging in the farthest right corner of the room.
“Really? Baba never told me it was painted by her”, I had never paid enough attention to the painting until now but I could faintly recall that this painting did not appear in our living room until years after my mother passed away.
“Oh of course he didn’t”, she replied, “I am surprised he didn’t throw it away. He despised your mother’s artwork”
“I didn’t know Ammi was an artist”, I couldn’t even imagine my mother with a paintbrush and canvas in her hand. I had only seen cooking utensils in those hands.
“She was”, she confirmed, “Your mother had won several awards before marriage. She was so naive, she even brought them with her after marriage to display on the shelves in her room but the moment Akbar caught a glimpse of them, he burned them all in front of her. She was a wonderful woman though. We expected there to be a fight or at least a heated argument but she only collected the ashes and threw them in the bin and pretended that nothing had happened”
“Did she stop painting then?”, I asked.
“Only in front of your father”, she said, “She painted before he arrived home and hid all her paintings in the storeroom. Akbar probably knew about it considering that he often arrived early and even though she immediately hid her supplies, he was an intelligent man. He never mentioned it though. After all, Razia never gave him a reason to complain. From keeping his house tidy to taking care of our mother, she made sure that he was never disappointed in his choice to marry her”
“Why didn’t I know about any of this?”, I tried to remember any instance when my father would have mentioned my mother’s artistic endeavors. He had talked at length about how good her mutton curry was, how well she polished his shoes (which Ahmed could never do), and how much my grandmother loved her. Beyond that, I did not remember much of my mother.
“Oh, it’s not that important”, she casually dismissed my concern, “It was just a hobby after all. She told me once that if she hadn’t gotten married, she would have opened her own art gallery in another country. These are just silly dreams little girls have. I also wanted to become a doctor once but after grade tenth, I was married to a doctor which is still good enough. It’s the same thing after all”
“Do you have any of her other paintings?”, I asked, hoping that they were still preserved.
“No, Akbar probably threw them away”, she responded, “I am surprised he even kept this one”
“Should I set up the table, Sophia baji?”, Ahmed entered the room and asked.
“Yes, that would be great”, Aunt Zahra replied, “I have to be somewhere in an hour so it would be best if we have lunch now”
I nodded.
“This is delicious”, I couldn’t help but notice how flavourful the biryani was. With the perfect balance of spices and meat, it was appetizing at best.
“I made it with Razia’s recipe so that you can enjoy it”, she smiled.
“I love it”
“You know you should take those recipes from me and try making them yourself to keep the family traditions alive”, she suggested.
“Oh, I am not into cooking” I shrugged, “I enjoy eating though”
“You are the last of your family, beta”, she rested her hand on the palm of my left hand, “You need to take care of this house, visit your father’s grave and cook your mother’s recipes. If you don’t do any of this, these traditions will fade away. No one will carry your family name forward”
“Would you like some kheer?”, I passed her the bowl of kheer I had prepared and garnished with dry fruits in an attempt to divert the conversation.
“I will have a few bites”, she added a few spoonfuls of the dessert to her bowl. Before she could start eating, her phone started ringing.
“Hello”, she placed the phone on her right ear, “Yes, yes, just give me a few minutes”
“Everything’s fine?”, I asked.
“Yes, Hassan has come to pick me up as we need to meet his friend for tea”, she quickly replied and took a bite of the kheer, “This is amazing”
“Thank you”, I replied.
“I must go now”, she took a few more bites before grabbing her bag and heading for the door.
“Oh by the way”, I stopped her before she could leave the house, “Can you text me my mother’s recipes please?”
“Of course”, her face lit up with pride, “I am glad you have realized the importance of staying in your home and living a life your father would be proud of…”
“I would love to cook them in New York in my new home”. I added as a confident and sincere smile appeared on my face.
She left without another word as her phone started ringing again.
“Ahmed, please clear the table, I need to go to the embassy so I will be back late”, I exclaimed while searching for my phone so I could call Alaina and update her on this sudden but pleasant resolution of my dilemma.
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