06 | Turmoil
Everyone is unreal.
None of the people feel real, they all look like silhouettes; like the shapes of entities, a reassurance of company, but not even close to real. They look like they're there, but it doesn't feel like it.
It feels like I'm surrounded by people, yet they're far, far away from me.
I'd been writing all my life, and when I wrote, it felt like I was doing something. It felt like a task, only one I enjoyed; I had to sit down and make things up.
But when I wrote this book, it felt strangely different. It felt like I was emptying my feelings onto the limitless blank sheet of digital paper. Writing this book, it felt better than writing ever had.
I had started, and now I couldn't stop, and I was glad for it.
Honestly, this depression subplot, it hadn't been a part of the initial planning of the book. Well, there hadn't exactly been a planning in the first place, I just began venting out as soon as I registered that I could start writing.
But anyway, I did not really want to write about a sad character, it was different from what I'd always written, plus I just did not want to write a sad story. I had just wanted to write something sweet.
Yet I found myself doing it, and with great hard work. For unexplained reasons, the writer in me wanted to do it extremely well, and so ridiculously urgently, that it didn't even want to wait and plan things out, like I was used to doing.
I had no idea what I was up to, and I couldn't stop.
And I enjoyed it.
It was the best part of the entire day that I sat all dolled up in my room - to sit on that desk, the curtains drawn, focused on the nonexistent things that surrounded my head instead of the overwhelmingly real ones that actually surrounded me.
Hafsa would come to me and talk about herself, and ask me about me, and tell me things about Hasan. Ruqya Bhabi also came with her, and she didn't speak much, but seemed to enjoy being their when Hafsa talked to me.
One of the many things we chatted about, over kebabs and sharbats, was literature.
Ruqya Bhabi hadn't spoken a word since she returned my Salam when she entered my room, but when, after her constant prodding, I admitted to Hafsa that I wrote sometimes, she spoke. And with considerable enthusiasm.
"What do you write? And in which language?"
Her voice gave it away. I sensed she was interested in literature, and I smiled when I told her a little more about my writing.
"When I was younger," she said, in a tone which made her sound way older than she was, "I wrote, too. I wrote urdu poems, though."
"Really?!" I exclaimed, my eyes wide. I truly was amazed, because poetry was way more difficult to compose than fiction was, at least for me.
"Yes. But I don't anymore. And because of all the time that has passed, I don't think I can do it half as well as I'd once been doing."
"Oh," I said, and now I was filled with rage where I'd just been I inflated with delight a few seconds ago.
Again the unusual topic brought a gloomy silence we both didn't know how to end, and Hafsa came to our rescue with a rather silly question.
"Why does a person write? Tell me, my two writers, tell me why you write, or wrote. Why not just watch TV when there's free time? Or better yet, why not just nap!"
Obviously enough, the two of us sighed and spent what felt like an eternity telling Hafsa why creative writing is therapeutic, and how it has in the past and will in the future save our nation and the world.
If you ask any author the personal reason they write, they'll be happy to give you a long essay on it. But some of the answers will be the same in every case, and one of them is - to explore.
We write to experience things we know we never will. We write to be people that we aren't, and meet people who aren't real just get to make up what it would be like to really meet them.
We write to live other lives than the ones we're forced to lead.
Hence every one of the characters I had ever made up essentially had a part of me. A quality, a wish, personal trait, anything. And every single one of them experienced something I never had and never would.
My new main character was not Muslim. That was what was unique in her, a lifetime of misbelief, something I had never even come close to experiencing. And my main character did not like her life, which was what she got from me.
Before I wrote her story, though, I sat down with a mug of coffee and vividly sketched out how I was going to kill her.
There is no sense denying that the ultimate answer to all questions a sad person can ever raise is death. If you were depressed, or had been in the past, you know what I mean by that. If not, there is just no way you can ever truly understand.
I will try to depict it, though.
It is, imagine, a long, very long, dark tunnel. And you're going on and on walking through it, with no way out than going straight ahead, in complete blackness, your feet threatening to give up, your head light, your heart racing.
Oh, and the tunnel's full of, say, large wild dogs that attack you out of nowhere.
Yes, that describes it, somewhat.
I remember I read something ridiculous somewhere once. I read that a person connected strongly enough to his Creator can be momentarily sad, but never be depressed, because depression is a long term of unhappiness, which can't coexist with the light of Faith.
Now, if we go back to my tunnel and my dogs, where does God fit in there?
Let me enlighten you.
For the non-believer, the tunnel is very, very dark. Nothing is visible, and that fact itself boosts fear and periodic panic. But what about the believer?
For the believer, surprisingly or not, it's every bit the same.
Except.
Except for a tiny white dot of light in front; just a dot, but enough to assure you that light exists, and that it's waiting for you to reach it. Just enough not to let you crumble down and give up.
Allah is that small dot of light.
Allah does not defeat the dogs for you. Allah doesn't light the way. Allah only makes your heart stronger, and promises the Rewards for going on despite the darkness, despite the helplessness. Because if He took away the difficulties because they terrified you so much, what would that do to your Test?
A depressed person of faith would not kill themselves because their problems are too many, or too big. But when you don't see that white dot, and believe me, I know what I'm saying, it is not easy to not give into the dogs, fall loose and let the darkness take you forever just because the goddamned light wouldn't.
The longer the fight lasts, the easier it is to raise the white flag and collapse.
Every year, hundreds of thousands of people around the globe take their own lives, a result of the lack of that light in their tunnels.
And just because I saw it in mine did not mean I couldn't write what it would be like if I didn't.
I was writing about a girl who lived a life similar to mine, or should we say was forced to lead a life like that, and some of the times, in the descriptions, I wrote things which surprised me myself.
He knows something is up, and he tries to help, but what he does is never enough. It doesn't do anything to make my empty heart whole again.
He tries, but it's not enough, because he doesn't know how much effort he needs to put. And that, he never, ever should know.
Of course, now that I had something to do with my endless Bride Hours inside my room, Hasan would want to be around. It was a blessing he never wanted to know what I was up to behind my laptop, but it miffed me that he was there all the time. I'd been used to having my room all to myself all my life, and it was a great toll to have to sniff men's perfume with the all that flowery stench 24/7 when I wanted neither, ever.
But who even was going to ask me what I wanted. I was in his room, not the other way round.
Yet I said Alhamdulillah for what I had, because that desk was installed near the window now, and that was the haven I'd needed and prayed for all this while.
Hasan now tried more to talk to me when I wasn't busy with studies or my laptop, and most times I tried to talk properly, answering best I could when he asked me things about myself to know me more.
Although my brain was acting insane.
I went into a weird kind of trance almost each time I looked at him now. I didn't like it.
The thing was, I couldn't stop thinking about how easily he'd stated that there'd be another desk in the room because I needed one . . . and the next day itself it had happened. And I couldn't stop replaying in my head the stern look he gave me when he said he'd give me all of the rights that Islam gives me as a wife.
It was causing a huge turmoil inside of me.
One part of me wanted to accept him as the genuinely sweet and caring person he seemed, and to get along with my life accepting my fate as it came to me . . . whereas the other just wouldn't let it. Because that part of me was very difficult to sate - it didn't like being a woman, period.
I accepted it explicitly : I didn't like that I was in this body that deserved all the respect in the world, by Islam, but didn't possess enough power to claim it.
So whenever the aspect of my personality that wanted to love Hasan for the sake of his apparent goodness fought with the one that sweared that would never be a good idea, and I looked at him, I forgot to turn away.
I was in such a trance while Hasan did something in his wardrobe, and suddenly, he turned.
"Do you have any talents, Adinah?"
I did not know what that question meant.
He'd asked me things before, he did it often now. What kind of books did I like? How many friends did I have? What kind of food did I like?
He'd never asked me a question of this sort before.
Did I do anything particularly well? I didn't know what to tell him. Telling him about my writing was not an option; not even something I was going to consider.
"I'll give you time to think and answer, is that fair?"
What was on his mind?
Please do share your thoughts and vote :)
"I am going for work today, for the first time after the wedding," he said, and I wondered why he was telling me that.
I didn't have to wonder for long, though. He pulled out a coat hanger out and handed it to me. "Uh, can you please iron this while I shower?"
Could I? Yeah. Did I want to? No.
Did I have a choice? Also no.
I was still holding the coat hanger as he gave me a small smile, took a towel from his wardrobe and went to the washroom without another word.
He'd asked me if I could iron his shirt, but it was an order nonetheless.
I just shrugged. I'd expected to be told to do things like this for him. Not this early, but, well.
I was just done ironing that shirt when I heard someone call me.
I ran out of the room, covering my head with my dupatta, and found Aunty Husna standing outside my room.
"Assalaam Alaikum," I said, and she smiled.
"Walekum Assalaam beta," she said. "I came here to tell you that Rahima is leaving tomorrow, and although she hasn't said it openly to me, I know she wants to know if you cook as well as her daughter-in-law does. Of course Ruqya cooks very finely, masha Allah! But I'm sure the magic of your hands is not in the least bit inferior."
By now, I knew that I'd have to give my mother a call as soon as Aunty Husna left.
"I was thinking about a feast tonight, I hope a biryani and a mutton curry aren't too much for you?"
They were, actually. I despised cooking.
I didn't tell her that.
She continued. "Dinner will be at eight. Hafsa will help you with the rotis and pulav, and I'm sure Ruqya wouldn't mind doing the sweets and salads; in the state that she is, she must not work too hard, you know?"
In the state that she is, I thought, she shouldn't have been this far from the comfort of her home, much less work.
I didn't say that out loud either.
"I hope it won't be too much for you, beta," Aunty Husna said, and I just smiled at her again, because what more could I say? "Make a better curry than Ruqya insha Allah!"
"I'll do my best," I said. I was still smiling.
Internally, I was screeching.
I was assuring her I'd make mutton curry? Better than Ruqya Bhabi, who's I had never tasted and hence could be a hundred times better than mine? And I undertook a biryani?! I had not prepared it even once in my life!
I felt more screwed than I'd ever felt, and that feeling was not very rare for me.
Just then Hasan called me from the bedroom, and I ran in with more speed than I'd ran out of it with.
"I'm leaving," he said, "but I wanted to talk to you once."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay. Um. So, uh, I was wondering if you need anything? I mean, like, after I return we could go somewhere, you know, to the mall or something?"
"I can't," I said quickly. "I have to cook today."
"Cook? Already?! It's been less than a week since the wedding!"
"Rahima Khala is leaving tomorrow, Aunty Husna asked me to cook once before she goes."
"Oh. So you're preparing the whole meal?"
"No, just biryani and a curry."
"Hmm. Okay, then some other time," he said, and he didn't look happy with the reason I discarded his plan for.
"Assalaam Alaikum," he said, and I returned the greeting.
Just before leaving he gave me a smile, the first of his many smiles which I actually returned.
"Not the one you always make, mamma," I spoke loudly, my phone on speaker as I checked ingredients in the kitchen. "It's certainly good, but I need to make the best. Try to recall that brown gravy one we made together last Eid. The one Amaan didn't like. He had cereal for dinner that Eid, don't you remember?"
Behind me, I heard Hafsa laugh. It made me laugh, too.
"Oh, I remember now! That was the one I put less turmeric in, Adinah, and more garlic. And the key was yoghurt. It was a bit sour, wasn't it?"
"Yes, and as far as I remember it didn't have coriander. Right?"
"Yes. Apart from that, it required my usual mutton marinade and stewing process, which must not be difficult for you."
"Thank you mamma, you're a lifesaver," I called out, opening the fridge for yoghurt. "What would I do if it wasn't for you?"
"Use the Internet for a recipe, perhaps," Hafsa said, and laughed again. "You really are very special, Bhabi!"
"Say Alhamdulillah for getting such an awesome Bhabi," I winked, and laughed.
I hanged up, still laughing. Whenever I was around Hafsa, I always felt lighter.
I'd never had a sister. And because of my not-that-lively personality, I didn't run in the same circles in school and college as cheerful people like Hafsa. All of my friends were serious, like me, and I didn't even have that many. Having Hafsa around really felt like a pleasant change.
She had wanted to go to a different city for university, which Hasan's dad hadn't allowed, and was hence studying a different field than the one she wanted to, resulting in an absolute obliteration of any career she actually wanted to pursue.
But even as she told me this sad tale of her life, she was laughing. Hafsa smiled for no visible reason and laughed at things which were scarcely funny. You would look at her and see a very happy girl living a very happy life.
But the truth was, she wasn't half as happy as she seemed.
And I couldn't determine what hurt me more - the way Ruqya's suffering removed almost all her emotional characteristics from her physical appearance, or how hard Hafsa tried not to let hers reflect on her charisma.
"I think we should make date halwa together for dessert, right, Bhabi? It won't take long, everyone will like it, and Ruqya Bhabi won't have to come to labour in this heat."
"Yes, that's a good idea," I said. "As soon as I'm done with marinating this, I'll start that," I said.
"Have you ever tried almond halwa, Bhabi? That tastes amazing, too! It's my favourite. We will make that also, soon, okay? You know, it always reminds me of the time mamma made almond halwa and Hasan Bhai gobbled it so fast he choked on a big piece of almond we'd garnished it with!"
Again Hafsa was laughing. The hearty way that she laughed, it made me laugh, too.
But soon her tale was over, and in the silence before she remembered another, we worked, and my hands rebelled. Wrist-deep in marinade, they yearned to set free the words that weren't allowed to reach my story, their home, until after the dinner was over.
Ruqya Bhabi joined us shortly, regardless of our disapproval, and we talked and worked together all afternoon, until everything was prepared.
When we were all having tea together and Hafsa mentioned how quickly we were done with the food, I remembered Hasan.
"Hafsa, I'll be back in a minute," I said, because I knew it wouldn't take longer.
And for the first time ever, I dialed his number.
He picked on the fourth ring. "Assalaam Alaikum."
"Walekum Assalaam, it's me," I said, my voice small.
"Oh. Oh. Adinah, oh," he said. He didn't know what to say to me.
"I called because . . . "
Why did I call him?
I took a breath. "I called just to let you know that the food is ready, and it's still almost two hours before dinner."
"Oh. That's great." He paused for a minute. "We can go somewhere then, right?"
"Yes."
I didn't want to go with him. But now was the time to get used to it. Last time when we went for ice cream with Isra, everyone came. Hafsa, Fareha, her brother, Ayesha, her brother, Sadaf, Ruqya Bhabi and Fahim Bhai. It was like a huge party except we were all sitting in the car with the ice creams, because the small parlour didn't have the seating for all of us to fit.
I had always been in a nuclear family, and this mess of family and small children and noise, it was fun. A change from my dark mood.
Hasan wanted to go out, so I'd decided that we must, as soon as it would be possible. And a time when others could join us was best.
"Be ready, then! I'll be there in ten."
"Assalaam Alaikum," I said, and proceeded to call Hafsa and the others.
To my grief, though, Ruqya Bhabi politely declined, because they had to pack up for their journey.
I put on a sequined, flowy maxi dress with a Bismillaah, hoping I wouldn't trip and die, and a hijab to match.
When I unlocked my bedroom door, ready to leave, Hafsa and Sadaf stood there, the latter looking sad. And when I asked her if she was ready, they told me they'd been forbidden to go by her mother.
"Mami didn't want us thirdwheeling," Hafsa laughed, but I knew she was sad, too. "We can go some other time, Bhabi, it's no problem. And yes, mamma told us to tell you that you must return before dinner."
Just then the doorbell rang, and within seconds Hasan was standing with us.
"Did something happen?"
"No," I said, looking at him straight in the eye. "But I don't think we should go."
"Why?"
"Because we don't have long before dinner," I said.
"So what, we can still go. You seem dressed to go, come on! We'll return soon."
"I don't want to go anywhere anymore," I said, my voice going firm. "Let's go tomorrow."
And I turned away from him and went into my room again, without even seeing his reaction.
The way he behaved around me afterwards . . . it made me wish I hadn't refused to go.