"Courage is grace under pressure." ~ Ernest Hemingway
The weather forecast had predicted rain in all parts of Pakistan but by now everyone knew that Karachi never even counted as part of the country when it came to precipitation. The sun beat down as mercilessly as ever and the land seemed to shrivel up on itself, soaking up any water there was on the ground up with it. I watched the weather forecast with distaste. Their predictions of rain were always so off they might as well have conjured up the prediction with a crystal ball. No science could be as inaccurate as the Pak Met Office had proved theirs was, yet they pressed on with the same forecast everyday without shame.
My father 'tsk'ed at the forecast like he did everyday, folding up the newspaper that he read just for the sake of it (television was always so much more easier for keeping up with current affairs) and neatly placing it on the coffee table in front of him. The coffee table screamed for a much needed polishing. It had little rings peppered all over its surface from where someone would keep placing cold glasses of water and disregarded the need for a coaster. My father had dismissed the idea of re-polishing it after some quick calculations in his head- the money could be better used elsewhere. We weren't poor, I told myself. Just...economical.
I found the coo of the Asian Koel rather irritating. The sound of the front gate intruded on it's steady melody and heavy footsteps on the concrete patio outside created it's own rhythm as if in defiance of nature. The rhythm found itself in the living room in front of me and waited. What my brother was waiting for, I couldn't tell. But if the last few times my older brother swayed in drunk was anything to go by, then at least I knew he would be dealt my father's judgement. I didn't say anything, but my brother decided it was a good time to flash me a wink and put his fingers to his lips. I cringed, because he reeked of both alcohol and stupidity. If he was too drunk to even see how drunk he was, then it left little to our imaginations. He had definitely spent all night drinking till he was truly and utterly wasted.
Life's director gave my father his cue and he strode obliviously into the room, buttoning up his sleeves and adjusting his tie. His gaze caught that of his son's and their eyes locked, silently fighting in a battle of wills.
"You've been out all night." All those who heard it knew it wasn't a question.
"I slept over at a friend's."
"Then I suppose your friend has no shame."
"I don't understand."
"Don't play innocent, Omar. I can smell your breath from a mile away. What are you trying to show your sister?"
His words had steadily risen to a near-shout. I could sense a shouting match would ensue and I would be caught in the cross-fire.
Omar spread his arms wide. "I'm teaching her how to live."
"You're teaching her how to be a coward."
"I daresay this is anything but cowardice. I lead hundreds- I'm a king."
I kept quiet, because whenever I interrupted it never ended well for me. So even though I had been asking for about two years what Omar meant when he said he lead hundreds, I had never received even a close-to-satisfactory answer. So I simply chose to save my breath.
"And then you drink yourself to oblivion because I suppose that's what a leader does."
"Please enlighten me. How does this have anything to do with being a coward?"
"Because courage is grace under pressure, and you have just about the grace of a teaspoon."
"Oh, dear. You must be disappointed in me."
"No." My father took a breath. "Not in you." He swept past my brother and exited the house.
It hadn't been as torrential as I had expected, but had come quite close.
___
For a moment, no one spoke. Omar broke the silence with a chuckle that slowly transformed into a loud guffaw. His laughter echoed through the house like faraway thunder. Only my brother could make a laugh sound so dangerous.
"I seriously don't understand how you find this funny."
He shook his head, still chuckling out loud, then proceeded to ruffle the wild nest on my head that I called hair. (If my hair had been brown rather than black, I daresay a bird would have mistaken my hair for its nest.)
"You just gotta see the humor in it, Tasha."
I shook my head in dismay. "There is no humor in it! You hurt Father so much. You've broken his heart over and over again, and everyday he picks up the pieces and puts them back together, only to have it shattered again when he finds out you used his money to buy this..." I struggled for a word. "...abomination!"
My brother stopped smiling , and it seemed as if the alcohol had dissipated from his bloodstream in mere seconds, and he looked sober again.
No, not sober- I noticed- aged. He looked as if he was in his late thirties. I could see the frown lines on his forehead and his eyes showed an old man stuck in a teenager's body.
"I never use Abba's money."
I frowned. "But you just graduated high school. You don't even have a job. Where in the world did you get your money from?"
"I managed to find work. Don't worry about it. In fact," he pulled out a five hundred rupee note and pressed it into my palm. "You can treat yourself. You've been having it tough these past few days, what with the bad blood between me and Abba."
"You better not be gambling, Omar."
"Trust me, I'm not." he assured me. I stared at the note, hoping that if I stared hard enough, it might reveal its secrets to me. All I got was Muhammad Ali Jinnah's silent pleas to save our country from self-destruction. The paper eyes bore right into my soul. I shuddered and pocketed the bill.
"I guess I have been craving some ice-cream for a while now." I forced a smile and Omar kissed me on the head in a rare display of big-brother protectiveness.
"I know I shouldn't leave you here alone but you can manage, right?"
"You're leaving again?"
"I've got some errands I need to get done. Call me if you need anything."
He wouldn't need my reply so I watched him dig his feet into his shoes and leave me with nothing other than four walls and my own shadow by my side.
___
It was mango season. Fruit vendors on the streets were predominantly splashed with yellow and only a little of every color (Karachiites love mangoes more than life itself.) It was also monsoon season. For the first time in five years it rained for two days straight just as the forecast had predicted. Said fruit vendors were now probably drowning in roadfuls of muddy water and stinking, bubbling sewerage.
And thus me and every other child in the city had been confined at home as the government deemed it too dangerous to be out and about at this time. The rain lashed on with no consideration of whose houses it destroyed or how many lives it took. Maybe that's why I liked the rain so much- it paid little heed to others' opinions- but when the news of those two unlucky children who had been electrocuted to death by exploding overhead cables, I understood why so many considered rain a torment rather than a blessing.
Father was at home but Omar still hadn't made it back yet. I had called him multiple times but I might as well be having a conversation with the operator. Father was sick; he had come back last night drenched from the rain and had collapsed in bed with a bad case of sinus and I was afraid it might turn into pneumonia. I couldn't take him to a doctor, but if Omar wasn't coming back I would drag father myself to one if I had to...or maybe not, because dragging my father through the mud might not be any more helpful. I had attempted to make father a bowl of soup but it had bubbled over and I was sure I had put in enough salt to turn the stock into the Dead Sea. Cursing my lack of feminine skills, I cleaned the mess I had made. I might has well have been trying to trap water in a sieve. I scooped up what was left (and edible) of it and carried it over to my father's room where the floral curtains were the only source of any sort of color and brightness.
I handed him the bowl. "Omar says he's trying his best to get back." The lie tripped on my tongue. Did his family mean nothing to him?
My father nodded back and choked on a cough. He was a proud man and much of his pride lay in the fact that he'd never needed a woman to go out and run errands for him- that was what men were for, he'd said- and with that he had protected my modesty.
To hell with my modesty. My beloved father needed a cough lozenge and I was damn well going to get him some before he burst his lungs. I went and examined myself in the mirror. My jeans were decent and my top passed my butt. I grabbed a scarf just in case and wrapped it around my neck, taking care to let it lie over my breasts. Modest enough.
I peeped into my father's room on the way out and spied him watching a news story about some missing kids. A poor mother was bawling her eyes out and the cameraman zoomed right into her face with little regard for her feelings. I might have called the cameraman a cold-hearted bastard, but my own mother had decided a stranger served for a better husband than my father and had left us relatively soon after I had been born, and thus my sympathies were too skeptical to lie with this woman. Besides, I knew enough about Pakistani journalism to conclude that the woman could have easily been bribed into creating this much drama on camera. It was not uncommon to lose your pride for some paper bills, and viewers lapped up stories like a thirsty dog lapping up water. They'd lick it right off the floor.