Sea of Shadows

Wiping her tears, Mea decided to go for a walk — nothing like sub-zero winds to purge the mind! She walked past her mother’s room to get her coat.

“Mea! Come here.” The voice came from her mother’s room at the far end of the hall. The rose-wood bed faced the door and, as she entered, Mea saw an old, carved wooden box in the center. Nazish sat beside the box, her eyes vacant, the emptiness she felt inside a constant inner state.

With a motion of her hand she asked Mea to sit down beside her, “Your Aunt Nighat and I found this box among Naano’s things, after she had passed away. We had never seen it before and neither did she ever mention it. At first, both Nighat and I decided to burn its contents without reading them. However, I have not been able to bring myself to burn it. Somehow I feel you should have it, that’s what she would have wanted.”

Nazish carefully brushed aside a stray tear by the wave of her hand and got up. Mea looked at the box and then at her mother, unable to articulate the feeling of absolute joy. Hardly able to contain her excitement, she picked up the box and made for the door, oblivious to her mother standing in the corner of the room, pretending to iron the laundry.

Nazish had always wondered at her ability to be invisible. No one had ever seen her; she was a ghost among these bright and vibrant beings. She was the means to an end and nothing more, a necessary stepping stone to help others reach their destination. Mired in her thoughts, Nazish did not even feel the iron scorching the back of her hand; looking down she casually thought of many other such marks, carefully hidden.

Once in her room, Mea set the box on her study table. The afternoon sun had washed her small room in tones of gold. Her bed faced the window which over-looked the peach garden. Winters had stripped the trees bare of leaves and they stood exposed on an equally stark ground. With a beating heart Mea opened the lid of the box. Inside was an old leather notebook, its dark maroon color turned a shade of brown having gathered decades of dust. Mea paused and lovingly ran her fingers on the thick smooth covers, drawing two faint lines.

As she picked up the notebook, she realized that most of the pages from the beginning and the end had been torn. The first surviving entry was a continuation of a thought, beautifully curated letters of Urdu telling the tale of another woman and another time.

With a beating heart Mea opened the lid of the box. Inside was an old leather notebook, its dark maroon color turned a shade of brown having gathered decades of dust.

Mehr-un-nisa

June 1954, Karachi.

It has been two months since we moved from Lahore. Doctor Sahib, is busy with his new job at the hospital, there is at least is no change in his routine. The Government banglow allotted to us is spacious and compared to Lahore, the weather here is humid and windy. Nazish turned three last month; she is busy now with the new baby. Nazoo was always such a well behaved child, Bay Jee once said she reminded her of Ammi Jee, only to bite her lip after receiving a glare from Abbu Jan.

I know I shouldn’t, but I wish I had a son this time. The Dai was quite sure throughout the pregnancy that it was a boy. Doctor Sahib didn’t say much but I know he was looking forward to a son. The only saving grace is that Niggo is extremely pretty, even Choti Ammi said so. God knows a kind word doesn’t escape that woman’s lips! How I have heard her spew venom, ever since Bay Jee forced Abbu, her only son, to marry her after my mother’s death. I sometimes wonder at God’s logic, blessing such a vindictive woman with not one but three sons and such brats! How they teased me endlessly about my mother.

Ammi jee!

I have tried to imagine my mother’s face for as long as I can remember. I would gather the best features and dress them up in my finest – in my head Ammi Jee was perfection. The more I was teased the more I believed she was a fairy and watched over me always.

But there were days when I was angry with her, like when Choti Ammi would feed Amir, Shehzad, and Anjum with her own hands and I would eat alone or the time when I got typhoid and burned with fever, how I wanted her to come and comfort me!

No one ever spoke openly about Ammi Jee and the events surrounding her death, it was forbidden. When I used to ask Abbu Jee where she was he would just get up and leave. I remember the night I over-heard Bay Jee use words like Haram Moat (unsanctioned death), Dozakh (Hell), and Pagal (mad) to describe my mother.

It was later, much later that I found how my precious Ammi Jee died — hanging by her dupatta from the ceiling fan in her bedroom.

By Mahvish Yasin