Memory shroud

The little boy ran back into the house after spying on a man, standing outside smoking. Being brought up in Chicago but having to spend a few days, every now and then, in Lahore posed quite a dilemma: The rules of the game were surprisingly different here.

“Dad a bald man is smoking a cigarette in the garden!” said the boy, looking scandalized. Smokers were given a really tough time in America, and the boy was raised almost exclusively in the new anti-smoking lifestyle.

“Oye donkey! That is not a bald man; that is Mushtaak Chachoo!” the boy’s father reproached him in case he called Mushtaak ‘bald’ in front of him; the poor man had lost his hair far too early and felt really conscious of his appearance. He picked his son up in his arms and took him out to introduce him to his –as of yet unknown- ‘Chachoo’

Meanwhile, inside the living room, the environment was more sober: Sidra baji had come back from the hospital and sat with her sister, Marwa. Marwa’s three years old daughter kept herself busy in a corner, playing with a half-chewed dinosaur and a fake mobile phone for children; every time she pressed a button, a barely decipherable recording of an Indian song issued from the tiny speaker. Sidra baji spoke in fragments and scarcely meant to be heard. She seemed tired and distant and as she spoke she watched the little girl play in the corner.
“The doctor said everything was fine; that’s what they kept telling me except the last time I went: my blood pressure had shot up...too high." said Sidra baji with much regret. "He said the baby’s heart-beat was down to sixty, said an emergency operation was the only chance.” Sidra baji fell silent, staring at a spot in the air, thinking. Marwa could not really come up with much to say but she knew she did not really have to say anything at all. "What does one do when there is no one to blame?" asked Sidra baji; her question posed more to herself than to Marwa.

“Say Salaam to your Chachoo, boy,” said the father as he stood with his son in his arms, next to the smoking bald man. Mushtaak Chachoo smiled at the little boy but the smile died before it reached his eyes and the boy sensed an odd multiplicity of emotions lurking behind Mushtaak Chachoo’s sad eyes. The boy said ‘hello’ rather awkwardly and then squirmed and struggled to be let go of. His father set him free on his feet and the boy ran away farther into the little garden, jumping around in the grass for a bit before settling down to inspect an Ant’s nest in one of the flower beds.

Mushtaak looked at his friend -who was looking at his son- before he spoke: “Javed, do you remember that time when Gohar Sial’s sister died? Back when we were in school? We used to be such idiots back then. Professor Salim had organized a Quran Khwani in the common room?”

“Yes I remember. It was a sad time then. Gohar was a mess. His sister was very young right?”

“He saw me laughing outside the common room. He looked away when I caught his eye. Yaar…I felt like a complete heel and a traitor.”

“Oh come on, you were a kid back then…” said Javed, trying to comfort his friend.

“Yes…well so was he.” said Mushtaak and lit another cigarette.



The little girl threw the chewed up dinosaur behind a sofa and then climbed into Marwa’s lap.
“She’s a gentle creature isn’t she?” inquired Sidra baji with much fondness.

“Yes…but only when she wants to be; she knows how to torture me very well.” answered Marwa affectionately as she pulled her daughter into a soft embrace.

“How is Abba ji? He was too sad. I could tell. Has he said anything?”

“Yes, yes he’s perfectly fine. You know how it is with him; his sorrow is intense but short lived. He’s fine now…”

“That’s because he becomes too involved; coming up with names, buying diapers…for heaven’s sake! All of that, emotional investment…he didn’t even know the gender…just assumed it would be a boy!”

“He’s ok now.” said Marwa and patted her sister’s hand. The little girl slid out of her mother’s lap and ran out. Stepping, as she ran, on the fake mobile phone and immersing the whole room in a fresh wave of unrecognizable Indian music. Sidra baji’s eyes followed her niece out of the room before she spoke again: “Marwa, it was a girl.”




Mushtaak talked in an almost carefree tone now; in his usual way of talking, but something was not quite the same. “You know, a stillborn child doesn’t require a funeral? No name and no funeral. Sinless you see…so it’s unnecessary. Very lucky souls, they say, that leave this place blameless.”

“Yes, ‘how happy is the blameless vestal’s lot…’”

“'The world forgetting by the world forgot.' indeed. I was thinking of Gohar when I went to the graveyard. It was all very strange. I had my child in my hands; such a small child. Very pretty you know, light hair, very fair and proper fingers and toes." Mushtaak sighed deep, "It felt like so much waste."

“How’s Sidra?”

“Hmmm…? She’s doing fine." he paused for a thought and then continued, "I couldn’t look her in the eyes at first you know? I don’t know why. She was fine initially; I mean, then suddenly they said she’s got really high blood pressure. The baby died before they could operate. So it had to be removed…naturally. I mean she had to give birth to a dead child. No, I couldn’t look her in the eyes at first. It was just too much. It’s ok now but it’s too much. But at the time I felt ashamed…as if I had wronged her.”

“I’m really sorry Mushtaak…”

“I was thinking of Gohar. Professor Salim had asked a couple of naat khwaan to come. They were really good and all. Perhaps more interested in outdoing each other and impressing the ‘audience’ than maintaining a sense of sobriety, befitting the gravity of the situation, but really good. You know how they are...these singers…inside; they don’t really care…just another gig for them to perform at.”

“Well…they were kids too…don’t think too much about such things Mushtaak.”

“Yeah you’re right….I carried my child in my own hands and then watched as they buried it, nameless. I felt rather odd. My mind had been utterly blank and numb before that. On my way back home, for some reason, I thought of Gohar and how he had seen me laughing. I remembered his face, the look in his eyes a millisecond before he looked away. I felt the shame all over again. That was when I stopped the car and wept for the first time, like a mad child.”