Nobody Knows, But You

Discarded

Aisha

I woke up to the sound and smell of breakfast in the kitchen. My bedroom mirror reflected a girl with tousled hair, and I found that my skin bore the creases from remaining in one position for too long.

Damn, I slept HARD.

Coming out of the bathroom, I said, "I don't even remember waking up for Fajr."

"That's because you didn't," said a voice near the door. Startled, I turned to find a very cheery Zainab. 

"What do you mean? I did!" I retorted, angry—not at Zainab, but at myself. How could I have missed the morning prayer!?

"Right..?" I reluctantly asked for reassurance from her. Zainab smirked and shrugged. "Dunno, move out of the way, would ya? Mom said to get ready."

I gaped. "That is a really cruel joke, you know." I never learn. 

Stepping away from the bathroom, I asked, "Wait, get ready? why?" But it was too late, for I saw the bathroom door slam shut.

"Brat."

Like I said, I never learn.

I found breakfast laid out on the kitchen table. I sat down and took bites from the warm, almost cold khubz dipped in dhal. 

My first breakfast back in Qatar, I thought unconsciously. But it felt much more insignificant than it sounded.

I figured Dad must be at work. I glanced at Mom, lost in her thoughts. "Mom?"

"Hmm," a half-hearted response, and an urge to carry on what I was saying.

"Zainab mentioned going out somewhere?"

"We have a lunch picnic today with Farah. We're headed to the park, you should get ready now." She said flipping a khubz on the pan.

It was hot. I remembered the last June I spent in Qatar. Then I used to wear breezy frocks or some other outfits incorporating knee-length shorts. But I was not a nine-year-old anymore, but rather a very tall 17-year-old who people often mistake for being in my early twenties.

I had a hard time deciding on a modest yet airy outfit. I contemplated wearing an abaya, but that would mean I would have to wear it over another outfit, which would mean I would return home half-cooked. So I decided to go for a long skirt and blouse, which turned out to be very pretty too.

Emerging from the room, I saw Zainab already dressed up in a red and blue getup. A clear contrast to my beige skirt, brown top, and even browner shawl. I felt as if the world was playing a joke of role reversal.

"Oh, Alhamdulillah! I was afraid you were going to wear something red today; thank God for your horrendous taste in colour." Zainab mock-sighed. It was true that, among me and Zainab, I was the colourful sister. 

Zainab Malik is known among the family for her monotonous outfits and sarcastic retorts. But today, it was almost funny for me to picture myself in an all-brown outfit and to see Zainab in blues and reds.

"Isn't that a backhanded compliment? To yourself?" I asked, raising an eybrow and trying to hold back a laugh. "No, it was a backhanded mockery, to myself. My literary intelligence is so advanced that it has a mind of its own. It is frightening." Zainab said with a stern look. I couldn't help but laugh.

Within an hour, dad was back, Hiba was woken up, dressed up, and made to have breakfast, and we all made our way to the metro.

"I thought Farah auntie lived near us." Hiba whined, clinging to dad like a koala to an eucalyptus tree.