withdrew into a seriously astonishing whirlwind called the Internet. There, I could address anyone as
my dear
, even though I was daughter to a society where to address anyone falling in the category of
sound male creature
would be considered as either utterly inconceivable or a brand of prostitution, unless, maybe, it was a male parrot that I was addressing. Out of my roster of friends, my mother knew only each girl’s first name, and only in a quarter of the cases did she refuse my wishes to spend time with them.
My mother had a tendency to pronounce snap judgments that came as a surprise and left no room for lightening them up. Sometimes she would reject my relationship with some friend or other simply because she did not feel comfortable about the girl. When it came to that, I had only my time on the school grounds to help friendships grow instead of remaining subject to her refusal.
I really don’t know: Did the world itself slip out of its old skin and, like me, leave behind the years of harshness, moving on into an open space to which it had never before even seemed headed? Or did my mother age suddenly, so that closely tracking the steps of her children became too fatiguing a task? Or was my freedom among the endowments that always accompany the age of eighteen, but do not show up immediately with one’s birthday and the gifts you receive on that particular date?
On her own accord, Dai moved first to shut off the light switch. I asked her if this was supposed to be a part of my gift. After all, she had tried to coerce me with a thousand-line petition asking if we could put out the lights. She answered me with a diminished smile. I know this mood of Dai’s, when her mental sky is cloudy and there is a cause for it, but she will not tell me what that cause is, no matter how I try to outsmart her. But, contrary to my suspicions, she just came over and turned my face to the wall and lay down with her forehead plastered to my bare back. She began sketching crazy zigzags across my skin with her fingertip and then she burst into sobs. For several minutes I was so bewildered that I could not react. It was the first time she had cried like this in my presence. I made an attempt to turn toward her but she prevented me, keeping her hand firmly on my lower back. When she spoke, she sounded completely overcome by profound fear. Why did you desert me for so long? she asked. All this time?
I was confused. I needed some time.
Some
time! Do you know how many days it was?
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you any pain. And look, I’m here with you now.
You’ll leave me. There’s nothing that keeps you here with me. You will leave me. Even Balqis left.
I conjured up in my mind the roll call of names we shared between us, from our days at secondary school and then university, and at the Hussainiyya, trying to figure out some thin thread of intent in her words. But I didn’t have an inkling of what she meant. I knew nothing that had any connection to this name. Later, in one of our most intensely intimate moments, she would tell me about Balqis, the girl who transformed her into this
maskh
, as she put it. This freak, this deformed creature, this monster.
She began to shiver, her crying a clear sign of the pain she was feeling. She allowed me to turn over and take her in my arms. I’m with you, I said. I’m staying with you. I will not leave you.
Hah
!
This explosive
hah
of hers stands at an uncertain point between sarcasm and suspicious doubt. Like someone waving at me and saying, Please—you may give me that bullet shot known as
I will not stay
instead of the slow-acting and fatal poison,
I will not leave you
. Please, do not give me a hope that has such razor-sharp edges!
She got up out of bed, blurting out a half-hearted joke about her sobbing, sounding like a little girl who has been knocked down by one of the kids down the alley who runs off with her purchases. She walked across the room to turn on the
my dear
, even though I was daughter to a society where to address anyone falling in the category of
sound male creature
would be considered as either utterly inconceivable or a brand of prostitution, unless, maybe, it was a male parrot that I was addressing. Out of my roster of friends, my mother knew only each girl’s first name, and only in a quarter of the cases did she refuse my wishes to spend time with them.
My mother had a tendency to pronounce snap judgments that came as a surprise and left no room for lightening them up. Sometimes she would reject my relationship with some friend or other simply because she did not feel comfortable about the girl. When it came to that, I had only my time on the school grounds to help friendships grow instead of remaining subject to her refusal.
I really don’t know: Did the world itself slip out of its old skin and, like me, leave behind the years of harshness, moving on into an open space to which it had never before even seemed headed? Or did my mother age suddenly, so that closely tracking the steps of her children became too fatiguing a task? Or was my freedom among the endowments that always accompany the age of eighteen, but do not show up immediately with one’s birthday and the gifts you receive on that particular date?
On her own accord, Dai moved first to shut off the light switch. I asked her if this was supposed to be a part of my gift. After all, she had tried to coerce me with a thousand-line petition asking if we could put out the lights. She answered me with a diminished smile. I know this mood of Dai’s, when her mental sky is cloudy and there is a cause for it, but she will not tell me what that cause is, no matter how I try to outsmart her. But, contrary to my suspicions, she just came over and turned my face to the wall and lay down with her forehead plastered to my bare back. She began sketching crazy zigzags across my skin with her fingertip and then she burst into sobs. For several minutes I was so bewildered that I could not react. It was the first time she had cried like this in my presence. I made an attempt to turn toward her but she prevented me, keeping her hand firmly on my lower back. When she spoke, she sounded completely overcome by profound fear. Why did you desert me for so long? she asked. All this time?
I was confused. I needed some time.
Some
time! Do you know how many days it was?
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you any pain. And look, I’m here with you now.
You’ll leave me. There’s nothing that keeps you here with me. You will leave me. Even Balqis left.
I conjured up in my mind the roll call of names we shared between us, from our days at secondary school and then university, and at the Hussainiyya, trying to figure out some thin thread of intent in her words. But I didn’t have an inkling of what she meant. I knew nothing that had any connection to this name. Later, in one of our most intensely intimate moments, she would tell me about Balqis, the girl who transformed her into this
maskh
, as she put it. This freak, this deformed creature, this monster.
She began to shiver, her crying a clear sign of the pain she was feeling. She allowed me to turn over and take her in my arms. I’m with you, I said. I’m staying with you. I will not leave you.
Hah
!
This explosive
hah
of hers stands at an uncertain point between sarcasm and suspicious doubt. Like someone waving at me and saying, Please—you may give me that bullet shot known as
I will not stay
instead of the slow-acting and fatal poison,
I will not leave you
. Please, do not give me a hope that has such razor-sharp edges!
She got up out of bed, blurting out a half-hearted joke about her sobbing, sounding like a little girl who has been knocked down by one of the kids down the alley who runs off with her purchases. She walked across the room to turn on the
Similar Books
