Eat My Shorts!

A Summer's Nightfall

Life always changes dramatically.

I was returning home from a medical conference in St. Louis when my car started wobbling with a flat tire near Exit 22. Fortunately, the barren interstate ran through the ripe farmlands of Arkansas and I could see tiny peaks of a township near the exit. I took it and dragged the car into the parish.

“Well,” said the mechanic, seriously looking at my car, “I checked your spare and it’s deflated, plus one of the back tires has scratches. I’ll say you should have ‘em all changed.”

“No, that’ll take too long,” I said. “I have an important dinner to attend and… just fix the flat please.”

“But Sir, its gettin’ dark n’ rainy and you’d wanna drive home safe,” he explained. “It’ll only be couple of hours. Trust me.”

The graying sky had begun to drip lightly. The summer breeze was actually very refreshing and called for a stroll. So, I left the workshop and decided to follow the moonlight into a cluster of trees a few yards away.

The town was a sweet little setup with huge breathing space that is such a novelty for us city dwellers. It reminded me of my village in Pakistan: of its rich earth and open summer skies pouring gleefully over fields of gold. It brought back the scents of my mother’s kitchen, the gurgle of my father’s hookah, the tranquil shade of the old Neem tree standing proudly in the village center, and the faint memory of a promise I made to love someone forever.

I remembered Nadia.

Everyone in the village called her my shadow because she would follow me everywhere like a lovesick kitten. She was my best friend, and after we came to America, graduated from med school together, shared the best and the worst of our training, I realized I loved her… always had. And now, I wanted to marry her.

But life changes dramatically.

Nadia had a plan I didn’t understand. She wanted to go back to Pakistan.

“No, stay here with me!” I protested. “I promise I’ll love you forever.”

“But the village needs me more,” she replied. She pressed my hand warmly, the honey-gold specks in her eyes shining brightly. “Amir, please, won’t you come home with me?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” I said coldly, “I am home.”

Ten years went by. I made money, friends, bought a big house by the river in one the most coveted Memphian neighborhoods, and became a hero in the world of Pediatrics as every one of my little patients hopped home happily visit after visit.

So, why didn’t my eyes smile anymore?

The breeze was tickling my senses. Suddenly, I smelt a delicious fragrance dancing up my nostrils, clipping the cord of my unhappy thoughts. Somebody was cooking something nearby.

I know that smell…it is chapatti, I thought excitedly.

Childhood memories clicked through my mind like frozen frames from long ago: my mother in her kitchen, rolling out balls of dough into perfect circles, slapping them onto a griddle sitting on a wood stove, toasting them, the aroma of fresh chapatti, filling our home with warmth and peace.

The air wore that familiar perfume now.

I came to a broken wall, covered with moss, soot and age, and there was a woman sitting in its shade, toasting chapattis on a griddle, on a wood stove, just like my mother. She looked up at the crunch of dried leaves under my feet. She was beautiful. She wore a tattered shawl. And she had an ethereal quality about her.