I don’t know what possessed me – but I dropped the nearest glass. My mother looked at him with an unmistakable expression in her eyes. He cut himself a piece and walked away.įury surged through me as I saw him walk away coolly. My father as usual stood there rather hapless. Shahid was aghast by this and said, “Kani, you dropped it. She didn’t say anything, but picked up a tissue to clean it. My mother threw me a glance – which I knew too well by now. It fell and splattered on the usually spotless carpet. In my hurry to give him a piece, I knocked the slice out of his hand. I had wanted to offer a piece of cake to Shahid. She took it from my hand, broke off a piece and gave the rest to Shahid. I felt a tinge of guilt mixed with brutal satisfaction and gave her a slice. My father of course knew practically next-to-nothing about me, so by that age I had acquitted him of all blame. I don’t know why she didn’t stop my father from buying it. I detested vanilla – and my mother knew this. I cut the vanilla icing cake out of sheer politeness. Only Khala showed more enthusiasm than my own mother, and bought me my first action-figure – which was something that I craved. This was still a time when my birthday was a cause for celebration – however lukewarm it might be. I think I had several of these “vivid” memories – which I felt were carved into my mind – like drawings etched on a stone which can never be erased.Īnd they would flash in front of my eyes for years. But there will always be that one vivid memory which will always remain with us. My father used to say that we might not remember our earliest memories. I don’t recall him ever coming to meet me on his own – considering we lived next door to each other for sixteen years. Yet – I always felt – he did it out of obligations for Nisha Ma. He encouraged my crazy storytelling, with much interest. He laughed and talked to me, whenever he could. There was never a fault in his behaviour – he seemed like the perfect companion. He would play with me politely because Nisha Ma asked him to. He would spend time with me dutifully-because his mother said so. He was the first person I knew – before my own mother. I don’t know if the same could be said about us. Shahid and I lived exactly opposite to each other.
We lived in the quiet residential apartments of Island Gardens. She always smiled whenever he came out of our flat, clutching chocolate cake, which I would refuse to eat. But his mother was such a calm and gentle soul, she didn’t mind this at all. He would come back from school and run to her, instead of his own mother. She loved Shahid like her own son, and he was devoted to her. I wasn’t imagining it – it became painfully clearer to me as I grew up. My father didn’t tell me after the first time, much to Nisha Ma’s chagrin. I could see that she wished heartily that Shahid was her own, and not me. Everyone was puzzled around me, as to why I called my own birth mother Nisha Ma. Later Shahid would chide me and tell me to call her “Amma”, but I couldn’t. I called her Nisha Ma, because Shahid did. Nisha Ma shook her ahead and went back to rearranging the wilting flowers on the porch. “Slightly.” I gave him a half-smile and went back to making mud pies. “Is it better now, Kani?” I remember him asking me gently. My father then chose to call me Kani, to appease me.
Of course Nisha Ma would talk to a six-year-old like that. “It’s a great problem to get these things changed.” Nisha Ma in her careful collected manner told me that it wasn’t possible, and that’s what my birth certificate said. I told Nisha Ma clearly – that I didn’t like it, and she must change it. It was a drawn out-prolonged name I felt. It was long, lavish and extravagant – and a clear waste.
The moment I could speak or comprehend such matters, I detested it. It was a name, which my grandmother had apparently carefully selected for me. The door’s closed, and I hear a key being turned. I haven’t even left the room when she closes the door. I didn’t quite catch it.”īut Kani returns to her phone. I think she mentioned something about sweets.
She just says coolly, “Nisha Ma was looking for you. She doesn’t even ask me what I’m doing in her room, on her wedding day, four hours before her wedding. I again look at the sari and the jewellery. The good thing is, that she’s laughing again. She’s talking on the phone to someone, and laughing. I recognize her footsteps – that quick pacing walk, she’s had since she was four. Some madness seizes me, and I suddenly look through the necklaces hoping. The bangles are strewn over the table, along with the jewellery boxes. The room swirls in front of my eyes, in a mix of red and gold. I want to lie down once again on the bed, and feel the soft touch of the pillow, but I can’t. I look around the room, feeling lost and suffocated. The sari lies on the chair. It’s a golden colour – a rather ugly golden colour.
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