Delicious Ambiguity | the rainbow named trust

Chapter 10

N O T E

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I'm not the one to beg for praise, but I deserve a trophy for surviving so many fucked up days.

Dedicated to Madison;

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I have to cross the hall between Zaahid and my room to reach him. I trudge past at a sedate pace like a nutcracker clockwork soldier with short strutting steps. My mind is too focused on the gentle souvenirs that seem to echo throughout the long, plain white and black themed room. It feels like time has come to a standstill. About a hundred different versions of him and I coexist in this hall here with me but all is a hazy blur mostly like our relationship—is it there, is it not, are we happy, can we breathe, am I free?

When Gia first handled my career statistics she had chronologically laid out my timeline in accordance with Thomas' birth. According to her 'stats' he was four, the day I moved in with Zaahid in London, not that it's relevant, but boy can you tell a mother that? I remember that day—seven days after Ultimate Sing Off and three after the Birthday Bash Noori's Threw—with crystal clarity because that day Zaahid taught me, I could be left easy and fast—without reason and without warning. My subconscious smiles a dry laugh, the kind where you realize you didn't read the signs when they were all around you.

It was two in the morning on a wet, stormy day when Zaahid had driven us from Birmingham. He had been pissed off for days at Delnaz and me for awkwardly meeting Harry at the City Hall—insensible rationale, yes. He was furious, what for exactly, I'm still not sure. His anger had poured out in his voice the day we had to leave when he had called out his sister (and indirectly me) for chatting (a bit too friendly) with his bandmate, then. After his sister left, he had slammed me back against the car door and cornered me. It's a crazy brown family backward logic but a woman never wins in an argument against a man. I have since mulled over where I was wrong in that situation but came up with no possible explanations; because they weren't any. He didn't tell me why/if he was angry with me. He just decided I wasn't good enough for him to talk to anymore and left, and that's how it ended.

From the outside, on first glance, Zaahid's abode had looked like someone had traced a house from Architects Today magazine with a Shaka Laka Boom Boom Pencil. Everything was geometric; the built was old-worldly exactly how I'd imagined it. The door was as wide as it was tall; the windows were sleek taking up entire walls. The driveway was bordered with white bloom plant beds and the well-kept gardens were lined with white lights—swoon-worthy to at-least have a chance to be in Big Boss house.

The Moroccan chandelier with mirror arrangements and a single yellow diffuse light bulb which illuminates the entire hall in a faint, calm light was the first thing I'd noticed when we went inside. I eye it today and one of its mirrors project a younger version of Zaahid and me. They—the younger us—are awkwardly greeting a sleepy Mrs Khan. I am gawking at the minimalist yet chic interiors of his house—the floor polished wood, the black and white theme and the zilch amount of clutter of shoes or jackets or clutter of any kind that was common with boys his age. Zaahid is talking in a heavy Birmingham accent I'm not yet used to. He takes off his wet shoes by the door and moves to adjust the temperature of the house. Mrs Khan is in the kitchen boiling tea despite Zaahid telling her not to.

I am moving my bag to the room Zaahid has shown me. He takes off his sheepskin and holds it casually in his hand and walks to the kitchen. I hear them casually arguing in Urdu—the kind that's too common in brown families, the kind where we keep on insisting in doing things for others. "Deejiye main kar deta hoon" "Mujhe karne do Zaahid" "Matt banayie chai, please" "Thand lag jaayegi aap dono ko" "Aap please jaake sojayen" "Garam adrak ki chai fayda karegi" "Kaafi raat ho gayi hai, mere dhyaan se hi utar gaya ki aap jaag rahi hongi, warna main apni chaabi se khol leta darwaza." "Array acha hua, iss bahane chai peelenge sab." I giggle at the familiarity of it all. While I unpack, I am too afraid to sit in case I wrinkle the fabric or stain it—everything is so spotless.