My Innocence

I have been born to serve and I have served diligently. I have lived with a family for three decades now and know them as well as the back of my hand. A horrendous twist has however left me shattered at this old age. As I hobble towards the dingy cellar window I reminisce about the good old days and a tear oozes out of my eyes and cascades down my cheek. A child, not my own, was murdered a few days back and I was held responsible for the murder.  Pray tell, how could an old man be capable of such atrocities? A shudder runs through me as I think of the cold blooded murder. I had lived with Maria since she was a baby and I took care of her as I would take care of my own little girl. What motive could an enfeebled man have for such a dreadful deed? I was a chauffeur and did not even have access to the house. It’s not cynical to believe that an old man like me will get no justice; it’s just the stark reality. I am disfavored and frail, someone who has already given up on life. Will I spend the rest of my days here? I wonder desolately.

Other servants did not like Maria because she wasn’t of a genial disposition and was a tad bit rebellious. She really liked me though. I think I was her mentor; a father she never had. How could I murder someone I was so fond of? The police are still investigating and I am plagued by the thoughts of who the real murderer could be. Could it be the neighborhood guy, who always seemed to be stalking Maria?  Nobody even considered him a suspect. Why only me? Was I an easy target? A scrape goat maybe.  Marias sister is a little dove and a free spirit. Maria was younger than her sister and they both loved each other dearly. Maybe she will free me if I ask her to. Would she go against her family though?

So many questions. Yet no answers.

Marias mother was a sympathetic woman and might come to my rescue but the aunt will surely not let her do so. The cursed woman has always accused us servants for almost everything that has ever occurred in that household. It was almost as if she was trying to cover up something else. Something big. The father was a nefarious man and will probably make sure I rot behind these bars forever. How could he not feel even an ounce of guilt? They all know I was nowhere near the house when Maria was killed yet I am being castigated.  I hear an echoing clang of metal doors. Suddenly guards arrive accompanied by another woman. Marias mother. I stand rooted to the spot, staring at her. Could this be a mistake? They lock her up in a neighboring cell and I eavesdrop on their conversation. Marias mother was bipolar and had actually murdered her own daughter.  My Maria. My heart creeps up my throat and I hit the grubby floor.

Two Barks of the Same Tree

I stare out of the window sullenly. I can’t believe that I will have to endure this car ride. Yet again. Going to Karachi every alternative week with my sister seemed like a punishment to me and the views that seemed to stretch for miles intrigued me no longer. The thought of meeting my parents, once an eternal source of joy, also held no charm for me. I never really liked traveling and my sister and I both have the tendency to sleep while driving. She was behind the wheel and so I feared for our safety. This trip might be a chance for us to bond or it might become another bad memory. I expect the latter. When you argue about even the most trivial issues with your sister it becomes hard not to expect the worse. Some arguments leave me boiling with rage and a sense of hurt; others make me feel ashamed. The stormy relationship that we shared still continues though. I fidget with the hem of my shirt as I measure my words carefully so as to avoid conflict. As I look towards my sister to talk to her I realize that she has drifted off to sleep. I nudge her angrily and she is jerked awake. She casts a furtive glance at me and I cross my arms and shoot venomous glares at her. She could have gotten me killed I think furiously. I obviously point this out to her and listen to no justifications. I caution her and advise her to place strands of her hair in the sunroof. She looks at me baffled and I tell her how it keeps one awake while they are driving. She agrees even though she feels ridiculous. I enjoy her discomfort and snigger discreetly but she hears me. I wait for a reprimand but surprisingly she starts snorting uncontrollably and our laughter drowns out the music. 

While I sit with her in the dusty old Toyota I feel infinite.

Dearth

Every breath I take seems to be forced out of me. Choking. Suffocating. I look around me. I do not see you. I feel lost.  Stumped. I come home from school and run into your room.  Empty.  Another person would not realize that this room has been vacant. I do. I do not hear the blaring music. I do not hear the chatter. I do not hear the ‘tip’ ‘tip’ of the water running in the sink. I do not hear the creak of the bed. I do not hear u call out to me. I do not see clothes strewn around. I do not see empty pizza boxes in the bin. I do not see that ‘shangrila’ ketchup pack on your table. I do not see the mess of tangled wires by your bedside. The ones I untangled before you completely messed them up.

Wanting some help. Wanting some advice. I do not know who to turn to. Walk absent mindedly around your room. I realize that there is no harry potter novel in the loo. Yet it still seems to stun me. Still can’t get used to it. Used to the fact that you aren’t here. I miss you way too much... The pain gets worse every day. They tell me this would get easier over time; it only seems to get harder to go on without you. It startles me more than anything.

I feel frighteningly hollow. I miss our disputes and our fights over food (which I won by licking food first and grossing you out). Such petty issues. Me making fun of your silly little ways. Like taking hours to draw even a rough diagram just so it could be perfect.  Meticulous. To be honest it totally freaked me out.  You always making the same joke: oooh a donkey….see Shamaim there goes your brother. Then realizing how that joke was on you now. I miss our impertinent ‘bongra’ jokes.  I miss our childish slap games. How you always got to slap me because of your fast reflexes and how I would sometimes be lucky and would be able to slap you back. The look on your face when I did was priceless. I miss it all. If I think about it, even for a second, it ruins my entire day.