Phases

Sania carried two plates glistening with grease to the sink and placed them in it for Rani to wash.

“Thank you, beta,” Rani smiled at Sania, soap suds dancing on her hands, her wispy, peppered hair slicked back with oil.

Sania returned Rani’s smile with a smaller one of her own, “Not a problem, Khaala.”

As she turned away Rani shook her head slightly at the notably smaller ring of grease on Sania’s plate. Her concern almost slipped through her lips, but she bit down and she returned to her work, quietly reminding herself that she was not the mother of the troubled young woman.

Just as Sania held a place in Rani’s lonely heart, Sania’s affection for the old woman matched her love for her parents. Sania’s father had brought Rani home from his village to offer her protection from a brother-in-law intent on marrying his brother’s widow. In the absence of any siblings, Sania found a friend in Rani and, for the latter, Sania became the distraction she needed from the horrors of her past.

Though unaware of the worry Rani felt regarding her, Sania knew that her love for Rani was matched by her aged companion, the safe haven Rani had provided Sania after her father’s untimely death a year ago was an unspoken witness of it.

The reminder of the loss of her father unconsciously brought Sania’s arms up and she folded them tightly across her chest. A glance at her mother seated at the kitchen table, a mug placed between her hands with steam clouding her face, made Sania tighten her grip on her arms.

With the images of her father’s death flashing through her mind, Sania was reminded of the darkest memories she held of her mother following his demise. And even as a year trudged by Sania found herself unable to allow Naveera a glimpse at the shattered image of her daughter her husband had left behind. The apprehension she felt at being judged by Naveera was enough for Sania to keep her struggle away from the weight her widowed mother already carried upon her shoulders.

Her fingers tightened around her arms, forcing the emotions burning through her veins to dissolve in her blood. Her eyes were still resting on her mother; Sania took a tentative step towards the table, and compelled her arms to fall to her sides.

Naveera looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, her eyebrows raised as Sania stopped a few steps away from her. Sania offered her a small smile and went to sit across from her mother. There were a few moments of comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of Rani washing dishes, and the slight whine of the fan.

But as Naveera sat silent before her now, her earlier words echoed in Sania’s ears, the beast inside the walls she had built within herself leering as it struggled to claw out.

Looking up from her hands resting in front of her, her nails bitten down, the hair on her knuckles standing on end, Sania wondered how her mother could not see how her daughter, the girl who kept herself adorned with make-up, was no longer the same, that she was shrouded in a veil of grey that had melded with her skin.

Tears burned at her eyes as Sania felt the words thrumming in her blood, scorching her body from within, fighting to break onto her lips.

Yet she swallowed her sorrow with her tears, instead saying softly, “Mama tomorrow…”

Her mother’s head snapped up, and she spoke in a hoarse voice, “I know Sania, I know what day it is tomorrow, I don’t need a reminder.”

Naveera looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, her eyebrows raised as Sania stopped a few steps away from her. Sania offered her a small smile and went to sit across from her mother. There were a few moments of comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of Rani washing dishes, and the slight whine of the fan.

Though Sania never felt doubt about her mother’s love for her, her abrasive manner often wounded her. The demise of her father had marred their family, the loss of her love yanking Naveera away from her daughter for weeks, as she struggled to stitch together a broken fragment of a future she was now destined to spend alone.

In the departure of one parent, Sania mourned the absence of both, striving to understand her mother’s pain through a haze of her own.

As Naveera had emerged from the isolation she had chosen, Sania had felt her mother harden, her love for her daughter still burning bright, despite having wavered. And with fear of extinguishing it or sending her mother reeling back into the chasm she had pulled herself out of, Sania found consolation with Rani and in journals stained with tears.

And unsaid words etched themselves on her skin in a blossom of physical turmoil, the flow of blood easing the burden upon her bruised heart.

Sania stuttered, trying to form a coherent sentence, to reassure her mother of her unwillingness to inflict suffering upon her, as she pulled her arms around each other tightly.

But Naveera sighed, “Sania…” she paused, “He was, is, your father, and I know you miss him, I do too, but it’s not right to grieve for so long, and I know you might feel hurt but we can’t change the past. It’ll be a year tomorrow, and next year it’ll be two. Our lives can’t stop. You’ve grown up, in a couple of months you’ll be in university, I meant what I said before, and yes he should’ve been here to say it to you, but he isn’t, and both of us have to accept that.”

She took a breath, “We’ll have a dua at home tomorrow, but we need to move past mourning him, that’s just how life has to be.”

Sania kept her eyes trained on her mother, looking past the image she had painted of her over the past year to realize in that moment that Naveera wasn’t hardened, she had just managed to staunch her flow of pain while Sania had failed. She had mended her heart the best she could, while Sania tore her own apart every day.

Words flew upon her next breath, but dissolved in the lump lodged in her throat. A wave of despair broke against her, imperceptible to Naveera as it tore into her body and crashed against Sania’s heart.

Sania could feel her nails through her sweater, tearing at her skin, and the pain allowed a small breath to snake through her chapped lips, freeing her from the cold stupor her mother’s words had put her in.

But just as she parted her lips to tell her mother that what she carried with her was no longer grief, but a colossus she could not rid her mind of, Naveera stood up, patting Sania on the shoulder, saying, “Try to go to sleep a little early today, I’ll need your help tomorrow.”

As if watching from behind a wall of mist, Sania watched her mother walk up the stairs, disappearing from sight, as she remained frozen in place. A hand placed on her shoulder broke her out of her reverie. Sania looked up, her unfocused gaze resettling on Rani, eyebrows knitted close together, staring at her carefully.

Rani had watched as the color had slowly drained form Sania’s face with each word that her mother had said, yet her position in the household forced her to remain merely an unwilling spectator.

But now she asked Sania softly, “You okay, beta?”

Sania swayed and for a moment, release seemed to be within reach, she just needed to grasp it. But she felt a wetness under her nails as her skin broke under the fierce torture she imposed upon it, and with an intake of breath, balance was restored.

Sania spoke softly, ““I’m okay, Khaala, Just a little tired. Please, you go sleep. Don’t worry about me,” she said and smiled quickly, her facial muscles tightening as they pulled against the anguish that had enshrouded her mind.

For a moment Rani looked down at Sania, eyebrows furrowed before smoothening out and, offering Sania a small smile of her own, she patted her on the head, and walked away.

As Rani retired to her room, Sania remained seated, blinking rapidly as she glanced around. She was alone. And then her walls crumbled. She jumped to her feet, hurrying up the stairs, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble, and her hair flying behind her. Reaching her room, she hurried to the bathroom, fumbling with the lock, and managing to secure it to sink back into her cold cocoon.

She leaned against the closed door, finally letting tears slip down her cheeks, murmuring softly, “He would not be proud, he’d be ashamed.”

And the woman in the mirror broke again.

By Naima Memon