THE DEGREE OF HAPPINESS

13

"I was disappointed in your result,  though," she said,  softly.

"Same. I am disappointed too but... " I shook my head and slumped further back into my seat.

My mom was a good woman. She had always supported me when we were abroad. She never told me off for the one time I got fifth when I was in third grade,  even though I was shaking,  with my result sheet. It was only when we came back that she began to get disappointed with my results unless I was first. And that too,  in front of Ammaty,  which meant....

Crap! I hadn't noticed this pattern before! All this time,  I got angry with my mom, cut myself because I thought my mom had high expectations in me and I was desperate not to ruin them because I loved her so much when in reality......

Did she even love me? Or was her helplessness in front of Ammaty even stronger?

"You know, mom.... " I began but her door was barged open. Ammaty entered, with a furious look in her eye.

Under different circumstances,  I would have applauded her detective skill but at that moment,  I was horrified.

"How dare you?" she said. She grabbed me by the collar and in her style,  slapped me.

"Ammaty..."

"How could you accuse my friend's son like that? How can I face him now,  after this? Do you know how,  as a social elite,  every connection matters? That boy is the son of Minister Zulfiqar Omar! Do you know who he is?"

"I know who he is,  Ammaty! Very well! He is the cultural minister!"

"Exactly! And do you know what you did?"

"I slapped his son and gave him cultural education!"

"No,  you probably ruined a good relationship between us and the cultural Minister by accusing him of this blasphemous act!"

She slapped me again and again.

Good relation, my foot! What about me,  her blood relation?

"Ammaty,  if he is the son of a minister,  then why doesn't he stay home and learn from there? Why come here? And what makes you think that he is not wrong! Don't you trust your niece?"

"You dare question things!

"Ammaty,  if you..." I glanced at my mom,  who shook her head.

I swallowed and let her slap me again, "You insolent girl! If I knew that you were like this, then I never would have helped you, even if you were my dead brother's daughter!"

My mom flinched. Her hands were raised,  as though she wanted to help me but was unable too.

"You will go to that tutoring center tomorrow. And you will apologize to the minister's son. I managed to get him to keep his mouth shut. He agreed to do that if you said sorry. So,  you will say sorry. Do you understand?"

"Ammaty,  he really did touch me. I'm serious," I said,  trying my best not to let the tears slip.

"Really? How can you be so sure?" she seethed.

"Because..."

"Do you have proof?" she asked, "Do you have a witness? Does anyone no of this?"

"No..."

"Then,  I don't believe you."

"Isn't my word enough?" I asked,  "Why would I lie about this?"

"Because you lied about your results. Because you lied about that boy!"

"HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? THERE IS NO BOY INVOLVED?"

Ammaty didn't slap me,  even though I used the F word. She looked at me silently,  fuming. Her eyes were wider than tennis balls.

"My daughter said the same thing," she said,  "Both of them. That no boy was involved. My and your father's older sister,  also said that there was no boy involved. Well,  guess what,  Elizha Hashmi? With you girls,  there is always a boy involved. And you would do anything for that boy. Even destroy your family."

"I am not like your daughters. I am not like big Ammaty. I am me! I am Elizha Hashmi and I have never looked twice at a boy's face with that intention since puberty. So,  don't you dare,  impose your experiences on me because I am not..."

She slapped me again. "All girls are the same."

"Oh,  really?"

"Your mother is an example!" she said and I flinched.

"Don't bring my mother into this!"

"Elizha!" My mother exclaimed,  "Don't talk back to your aunt! Listen to what she says!"

"This is your fault,  Faiza! You can't raise a daughter! She is just like you.

"Elizha," My mother said, pleading, "Apologize to your aunt. She is doing it all for your own good."

I would have argued with Ammaty Aafreen. I would have told her even more hurtful things. I wouldn't have stayed silent like I always did. Back then,  I was dumb and respectful but now,  I knew better. I understood better what exactly was going on in the politics of my life.

But I didn't say anything.

I lowered my head and apologized, "I am sorry,  Ammaty. You are right. Girls really all are the same. Do whatever you feel fit with me. I won't say anything."

I never hated my mom so intensely the way I did at that moment.

And I never would stop hating her.