AIF I LET YOU GO

 

I hope it’s your last birthday.

She heaved a sigh and uncapped the pen. The roller ball tip started drifting up and down against the card, emitting trails of purple glitter gel.

 

“Dear Hamza,

Many happy returns of the day.”

 

Below the printed birthday wishes, cursive strokes flowed out swiftly, in a straight line.

 

“You are the best brother in the world.

From,

Your loving sister.”

 

After signing her name, twelve-year-old Ujala leaned back on the dining chair. She bit her nails while her eyes darted across the room. Hanging from the ceiling fan was a bunch of blue and silver balloons which explained the unusual commotion in the house today. Badshah Khan had received strict instructions from Mother to blow them first thing in the morning. A multi-colored “Happy birthday” string banner was taped on the ivory wall in front of her.

 

She pushed the chair back and strode across the dining room. She placed the card on the Chinioti console table in a corridor which led to the TV lounge. Her fingertips glided over its wooden surface. Tracing the intricately engraved patterns of paisleys and vines, they halted in front of a photo frame. The golden frame had remained on display at the very same spot, for the past two years.

 

Ujala scanning the close up of her only sibling: an eight-year-old boy, clad in a denim jacket over a red cardigan. A pair of hazel eyes beneath a fringe of brown hair stared at the camera lens. A thin, white elastic band stapled to the red birthday hat on his head, pressed hard against his chubby, fair face.

Ujala’s eyes narrowed in contempt. His royal highness, Hamza. Huh!

 

Her eyes darted across the corridor. The sound of clanking dishes and running water were the only audible sound in the house. With a swift hand movement, she flipped the photo frame down on the table.

 

A faint smile replaced the smirk on her face as she picked up a silver photo frame. This picture of hers was taken two years ago, when she had won the Interschool debating competition. Clad in a pristine white shalwar kameez and a pair of shining black Bata shoes, she stood beaming on the auditorium stage, holding a shiny silver trophy. An emerald cotton sash ran across her chest from the left shoulder, and her thick braid rested on her right shoulder.

 

“I wish my mother was as involved in my academics and extracurricular activities as yours”, the words of her best friend rang in her ears.

Ujala’s smile widened as she replied, “You know what, Mama was the president of debating society in her university.”

 

As Ujala stood in front of the console table, basking in the precious old memories, phone bell in the TV lounge started ringing.

 

“Ujala bibi”, called out Badshah Khan. “Your friend, Hina bibi is on phone”.

 

“Cccc-coming!”

She placed the photo frame back hurriedly and strode towards the TV lounge.

***

 

The cavernous eyes of Ujala’s mother scanned rows of various condiments and spices. The Urdu newspaper which lined the spice cabinets had turned pale and crisp. She pulled out an air-tight jar of turmeric powder from the matte grey cabinet. Next, she jerked open the lower drawer and started rummaging through it.

Spatula, beater, slicer, ladles…… the peeler, however, was out of sight.

 

“Where is the peeler, Badshah Khan? I can’t find it?” she asked curtly, craning her neck towards her servant.

 

Badshah Khan, the cook was busy rinsing soapy mugs and glasses. Closing the running tap hastily, he wiped off his wet hands from the corner of a white apron. Approaching the drawer, he conjured the silver peeler in an instant.

 

“There you go, Baji!”, he exclaimed, with an amused smile from under his hefty moustaches.

 

She snatched the peeler out of his hand and retorted, “How many times have I told you not to clutter the kitchen cabinets”.

 

Badshah Khan’s face flushed, and he hung his head down. Few moments later, Mother called out in an irritable voice, “Now, where have you placed the cardamom packet?”

 

“Oh Baji, it’s in the top left cabinet”.

 

From the corner of his crow feet eyes, he caught sight of Ujala standing in the kitchen door. She was wearing an orange cardigan over a black shalwar kameez. A yellow rubber band held her short, black hair in a ponytail. Attempting to dissipate the tension in the air, he called out to her with an affectionate smile. “Come, come Ujala bibi, your favorite Dum pukht is on the menu today”.

 

Even on a frigid December morning, he is comfortable in a sleeveless sweater, Ujala thought eyeing the fifty-two-year-old man’s mustard hand-knitted sweater.

 

Smiling, she stepped forward to take a peek into the steaming pot. Badshah Khan hastily lifted its lid to give her a glimpse. Chunks of lamb were simmering with dices of fat amid bits of onions and baby potatoes. Faint smell of infused garlic and lamb dissipated in the warm and cozy kitchen. Ujala’s gaze travelled to the door of the refrigerator which stood in the corner, mounted on a wooden frame. One of Hamza’s artwork was pinned on its white door with a magnet. Magenta words “I love my Mama” were painted across the white A4 sheet. The sheet of paper however, had turned pale due to long exposure to sunlight and grease in the kitchen.

 

“Mmm-mama”, she turned to her mother, who was slicing lemons on the grey marble counter.

 

“When will Pppp-papa return from the mm-military exercise?”

 

“Today. At noon, perhaps”.

 

“Great”, Ujala brightened up at the prospect of her father’s arrival. His presence had always been a source of comfort for her, especially on days like this one.

 

“I hope you wrote your little brother’s card in your best handwriting?”

 

“Yes Mm-mama. It’s ooo-on the console table.”

 

“Good”.

 

The fog descending from the steel sky had further lowered Peshawar’s temperature. Her mother was wearing a beige colored, woolen sweater with cables running across the front. A beige shawl draped around her head, its Balochi mirror work shimmering in the kitchen’s tube light. A thin gold chain glistened around her ivory collar bone, making Ujala wonder when was the last time her mother had worn jewelry?

 

Mother’s gold bangles clanked as she whisked spices in a bowl of yogurt. Ujala wondered why this jingle sounded as soothing as a lullaby. With rapt attention, she watched her mother add garlic to the spicy yogurt mixture and smother it over a big fat chicken with her thin fingers. Next, she stuffed diced potatoes into the chicken belly and tied its legs together with a thread; leaving it on the stove to simmer inside a wok with its spicy juices.

 

Ujala leaned back against the ivory wall of the spacious kitchen. Arms folded; she studied her mother’s face intently. Under a thick layer of concealer, her dark circles had completely vanished. In fact, she had accentuated her hazel eyes behind the silver-rim glasses with Kajal today. Burgundy lipstick on her chapped lips matched the color of her Shalwar kameez.

It was a rare sight and Ujala wanted to take it all in.

 

***

 

“Here Badshah Khan, handwash this uniform”, mother ordered. She held out a folded white shirt, grey trousers and a green sweater in a stack.

 

Badshah Khan was scrubbing a stubborn stain on the rim of an aluminum pot with a scourer. His hands stopped midway and his eyebrows furrowed. Slowly, he closed the tap and dabbed his hands on the white, stained cotton apron tied across his waist. Mother shifted her weight from one moccasin to another and rolled her eyes, “Come on, I don’t have all day. Hamza will be back from school in an hour.”

 

Reluctantly, the cook stepped forward, extending his burly hands. His fingers lingered on the School emblem embroidered with a golden thread, on the dark green sweater.

“Army Public School. I shall rise and shine.”

 

He lifted up his glazed eyes and cleared his throat, “Baji, does the sweater also need washing?”

 

“Of course,” she snapped back.

 

***

 

The table spread caught Ujala’s attention as she walked across the corridor. Four dinner plates were laid out with tall fancy glasses and silver shining cutlery. A crystal cake plate stood in the center of a crimson silk table runner; the one Mother reserved for special occasions.

 

What can be more special for Mama than her favorite child’s birthday? she rolled her eyes and advanced towards her bedroom.

 

***

 

Sound of the rumbling clouds woke Ujala up. She glanced at the Batman clock mounted on the front wall.

Quarter past four? Oh! I slept too long. Papa must be back by now.

 

She threw the lilac quilt off and walked over to the window. Heavy rain was lashing against the windowpane, its peach-colored jacquard curtains fully drawn to the sides. Dark clouds had descended in the murky sky. Bare branches of Mulberry trees which lined the front white wall, were swaying in the wind. Water droplets pelted against the rustling leaves of Sweet lime and Japanese plum trees. She hastily finger-combed the disheveled hair on her shoulders, zipped up an orange hoodie over her sweater and scurried out of the room.

 

Faint aroma of Dumpukht still lingered in the dark living room. The foggy sky and beige curtains drawn over the window had made the lounge chilly. Ujala treaded across the floor which was carpeted with a hand-weaved Afghani rug and switched on the crystal chandelier. The room was occupied by a huge L-shaped beige sofa set and a center table. As she turned past the corner table, the Kashmiri Samovar grabbed her attention.

Mother had decorated this table with various copper and brass antiques from Bara market. Ujala stared at the thin layer of dust on their surfaces.

They shone bright as new as long as Mama polished them herself, she brooded.

 

 

Following the direction of the muffled male voice, she crossed the tiled corridor and halted at a doorway. A tall brass lamp dimly lit the dining room. Mother sat on a chair; her head resting on her arms folded on the table, her hair wound loosely, in a messy bun. Ujala’s father; a tall, muscular man in khaki military uniform was standing behind her chair. Shoulders slumped and head hung low, his hands rested on her bony shoulders.

 

The eight-seater table was laid with food. A pot of dumpukht, plate of chicken patties, bowl of rice pudding garnished with grated coconut and pepperoni pizza were arranged on the crimson table runner. In an oval dish, rows of thinly sliced cucumber and tomatoes surrounded a golden roasted chicken, its legs still tied with a thread. On a crystal plate, in the middle of the table, was a chocolate cake topped with Cadbury chunks and chocolate shavings.

 

Hamza’s favorite cake.

Ujala’s thumb found its way to her mouth and she started biting its cuticles. She didn’t like chocolate cakes. Papa always ordered fresh pineapple cake for her birthdays. She noticed a birthday hat with a Bat man logo, laying on the table’s further end. Next to it was a parcel wrapped in a batman-theme gift wrapper. She wondered what was inside. Its rectangular shape and size suggested a remote-control car. Hamza was obsessed with cars. His huge collection of hot wheels occupied an entire bookshelf in their room.

 

The clouds roared again. Her mother’s head shot up, revealing a pair of puffy, red eyes smeared with Kajal. Ujala gasped.

 

“The storm is getting worse and Hamza is still not back from school” Mother uttered, glancing at the window which overlooked the back garden. Its olive brocade curtains were drawn to sides and tied up with silky tassel tie backs. Ujala’s father heaved a sigh. Knitting his bushy eyebrows, the clean-shaved Colonel sank down on a chair. A familiar aroma wafted up his nose. The delectable menu laid before him suggested that his wife had finally stepped into the kitchen after a whole year.

 

“My love, please try to understand”. Ujala watched him speak in a quivering voice, oblivious to his daughter’s presence in the doorway.

 

“They killed him. They shot my Hamza with a gun”. Her eyes spat fire as she yelled. All the color had drained out of her face.

 

Thunder boomed, flashing an eerie bright light in the room. Ujala caught sight of the Sword of honor mounted on the front wall and her eyes welled up. Papa was the strongest and bravest man she knew, and there he was, hunched on a chair like an old man. Broken. Shattered.

 

A shudder went down Ujala’s spine. A gas heater radiated in the corner of the room, emitting a hallow amber light but the room still felt chilly. She watched her father pull mother’s hands closer, imparting warmth to the clammy ice-cold fingers. He was peering into her eyes, desperate for eye contact.

 

“Hina, look at me. For God’s sake, please try to understand”, he pleaded while stroking her hand. “It has been two years since Hamza passed away ……and he is never going to come back to us” his voice trailed off.

 

A lump started forming in Ujala’s throat.

 

“Hina, please pull yourself together”, he said, blinking back his tears. “You know that our son was not the only one. You and me… we are not the only grieving parents…. a hundred and thirty-two kids were shot dead at school that day.”

 

Ujala buried her face in her hands and broke into sobs. The trembling sky joined her in her mourning. The only audible sound was that of rain lashing against the windowpanes.

 

If only, the car had broken down on its way to school that day.

only if Hamza had fallen ill and stayed back home.

If only, she could wake up from this nightmare….

Alas, If only she could bring Hamza back…. her baby brother, her partner in crime.

 

Suddenly she became aware of the silence reigning the room. She wiped the beads of sorrow with a tissue and lifted up her head. Two pairs of eyes were staring at her.

 

Father’s grave voice pierced through the haunting silence in the room. “Hina, just look at her”, he motioned towards Ujala.

“You are so deeply plunged in Hamza’s grief, that Ujala’s presence means nothing to you. Do you realize, that the day Ujala lost her brother, she also lost her mother?” his voice choked. “Two years, Hina!” he resumed after a pause. “It has been two whole years since our daughter is craving for the warmth of your hug”. He grew silent and buried his face in his hands.

 

Hina’s lower lip started trembling as she transfixed her gaze on his quivering broad shoulders. The echo of his words was finally seeping into her ears, softly knocking on the rusty-hinged door of her mind. A shadow crossed her face as she looked towards her daughter.

 

Their misty eyes locked, and for an instant, Ujala recognized a faint hint of warmth in her mother’s eyes.

***THE END***