by S. K. Ali
After Taraweeh Dad asks if I want to skip another day. “No. Wake me for suhoor.”
Mom says, “You sure you’re up to it?”
“Yes!”
And I am. The day passes easily.
When I have my date to break my fast, it feels like I really deserve it.
I still haven’t found the gifts. Every year I try and fail to find them. I wanted this year to be different.
It’s while I’m praying Asr that it finally hits me—the one place I didn’t think to look! As soon as I’m done, I check if the coast is clear.
Mom’s busy in the kitchen.
I slip into the garage. She always leaves her car unlocked. I open the driver’s-side door and press the button for the trunk. Click.
My heart’s in my throat as I come around the side of the car, and there it is. Nestled in her trunk. The Ultrasonic Super Revved Drone with HD camera in red, my favorite color.
It’s great!
Perfect!
So why do I feel so flat?
What’s wrong with me?
It’s exactly what I wanted.
I should pick it up, right? Make sure the box is real, heavy.
It is.
Should I open it?
Nah. It’s not Eid yet.
And then I see the brand-new hoverboard that Sulaymaan has been wanting.
But I don’t bother picking that up.
I put the drone box back where I found it, trying to place it exactly so she won’t know I’ve been here. And I sigh, I actually sigh, as I’m closing the trunk. What’s wrong with me?
When I come into the kitchen, one look at my face and Mom says, “You found it, didn’t you?”
What should I say? Will she yell?
While I’m thinking how to answer, she shrugs ever so slightly and turns away. “Well, I hope you’re happy.”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
She looks up, surprised. “No, no. It’s okay. It’s just that now you know. There’s no surprise, is there?”
And I guess just to show me that she really doesn’t have any hard feelings, she messes up my hair and gives me a shove. “Go and water the garden, will you?”
I do, without complaining.
It feels weird knowing that I’m getting exactly what I wanted.
What’s the word? Not sure.
Not disappointed exactly—I can’t wait to show my friends—and yet . . .
I throw myself into the little things to make up for it.
And I do extra chores to earn money so I can buy my own Eid gifts for them.
You can tell when the moon’s really full when it appears opposite the sun in the east just as the sun is setting in the west.
Ramadan is half over!
It went so fast.
And now the moon starts to wane. Every night it gets a little smaller, rising a little later. Tonight it doesn’t show up till we’re on our way home from Taraweeh. It’s three-quarters full.
The last ten nights!
Now the heavy worship really kicks in and we go for Taraweeh every night.
I stand next to Dad and Sulaymaan, feeling grateful for more than the drone in the trunk of Mom’s car.
I don’t know what’s happened, but it’s like I can rise above the congregation, a God’s-eye view, and see all of us bowing and prostrating as one, and I can feel deep in my bones all the gifts, the things that have gone right in my life, starting with my parents and Sulaymaan.
I need to buy their gifts.
“Can you drive me?” I ask Sulaymaan the next day.
“Why do you always wait till the last minute?”
I shrug.
“I’ve got exams. Ask Mom.”
So Mom drives me, but the problem is that she follows so close behind me in the mall. When I walk faster, she does too till I turn on her. “Mom! I need some privacy.”
“But I don’t want anyone to snatch you!”
Argh!
I guess she sees my frustration, because she sits down on a bench beside a bushy plant and says, “I’ll just wait here while you do your shopping, okay?”
Yes!
I get Sulaymaan’s gift from a sports store.
I find cologne for Dad and a nice hand cream that smells like roses for Mom. I can picture the smile on Mom’s face as she puts it on in the morning and then catches its scent throughout the day.
Just as I’m about to check out, Mom sees me and rushes over. “Let me take a look-see.”
And before I can stop her, she opens the bag with the elbow and knee pads. “For Sulaymaan, right?” And she picks up the cologne in the basket, takes off the lid, and sniffs. “Ooh, your dad will love this!” But then she frowns. “Who’s the rose cream for?”
“Mom!!!”
“Oops!”
I turn to go find her something else, but she puts a hand on my arm and stops me.
“Don’t put it back.”
“But—”
“I like it. Don’t put it back.”
So it stays.
And from the way Mom goes about the rest of her day with a smile on her face, I wonder if ruining the surprise really mattered.
And when I ask her, she says, “Oh, Idrees, it’s never about the gift. It’s about the love behind it.” She pulls me close and rubs my head. “It’s sweet that you think of me with roses.”
Does that mean she thinks of me as a flying drone and Sulaymaan as a hoverboard rolling along the ground?
Hmm.
Sounds about right.
During the last few nights of Ramadan, the moon whittles away and disappears, or at least we can’t see it.
We’re on the porch under the moonless sky, drinking more mango juice. The month is almost over. I’m going to miss it.
I ask Sulaymaan, “Isn’t there a saying about appreciating things when they’re gone?”
He nods. “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
Yeah. That’s it.
When it’s finally Eid and Mom hands me the box wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow, I pass her my gift, less neat with no bow. I wrapped it as well as I could.
Dad likes his cologne. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear by the way Mom squeals that she didn’t know what she was getting.
I watch Sulaymaan’s face as he tries to open my gift to him. It’s entombed in duct tape.
“Argh!” he says, and goes to fetch some scissors. But I hid them. So he tries to get a knife, but I hid all of those too.
We all laugh as my super-dignified older brother has to bite and pry and tear at the package.
When he finally gets it open, the knee and elbow pads fall out. He grins at me, and I realize Mom’s right.
It’s not the gift.
It’s the love behind it.
I grab my duffel bag and am about to leave my bedroom when I spot an envelope sitting on top of my faded checkered bedspread. It’s addressed to me.
I can tell it’s from my mother even before opening it. The kiss mark in pink lipstick is a dead giveaway.
“Dear Humza,” Mama’s distinct sloping handwriting says. “I just want you to know we love you so much and are so proud of you.”
Mama must not have been satisfied with our hurried goodbye this morning. I wasn’t about to let her kiss me a hundred times and squeeze me while she cried and held up the middle school drop-off lane. So I gave her a quick hug and jumped out of the minivan before anyone saw us.
“Please pray hard over these next two weeks. Ask Allah to accept our Hajj . . .” the letter continues.
For the past few months, my parents have been preparing for the Hajj pilgrimage—a once-in-a-lifetime journey to Mecca. Baba actually started going to the gym to get in shape. They went to special classes to learn what it would be like and bought things like cooling towels and collapsible water bottles. Somehow, even after their suitcases were packed and the day had arrived, it still didn’t feel like they were actually going. Maybe that’s because I didn’t want t
hem to leave.
“. . . and please pray that Allah brings us back to you.”
I gulp as I read that part. I watched videos of Hajj with my younger sister and brother to learn about what our parents would be doing. We saw footage of millions of pilgrims crowded into the city of Mecca. They were dressed in simple clothes, walking the paths of the prophets who came before us, remembering, performing rituals, and praying. It’s hard to imagine my parents there, even if it means they get to do something they’ve dreamt of for years. What if something happens to them? What if they get sick? Or hurt by the crowds? Or . . . worse? I push the thoughts out of my head and read on.
“Please be a good boy and take care of Ayla and Ismail. You mean the world to them, and they need you. And please help Nani and Nana Abu take care of you. We’re counting on you and can’t do this without you.”
Usually I’m glad when my parents leave us for an hour or two and I’m in charge of Ayla and Ismail. I control the TV remote, call dibs on my favorite snacks, and get to be the boss. But twelve days? I didn’t sign up for this. That’s too long for a twelve-year-old to be the boss, whether they’re counting on me or not. Plus, we’re staying with my grandparents, which means I’m going to have to do a million chores. They’ve always got a list of things for me to do whenever I come over. I scan the rest of the letter with blurry vision as the weight of my parents being so far away for so long hits me and my eyes start to fill up.
“I miss you so much already. See you soon, Insha’Allah.” Mama signs off with a bunch of Xs and Os. And I have to admit, I wish she were still here to give me real hugs and kisses right now instead of leaving us and flying across the world. I tuck the letter into my pocket, pick up my bag, and head downstairs to where my grandmother is waiting to take us to her house.
The TV is blasting a Pakistani news channel that my nana Abu is watching in the family room while I try to concentrate on my homework. I’m sitting on a formal dining room chair, stiff and covered with fancy fabric like most of the furniture in my grandparents’ house. Somehow it feels dark even though it’s sunny outside, but we’re not allowed to turn on the lights or waste electricity until Nani closes the thick satiny curtains that hang from the windows.
I helped Ismail with his second-grade math work-sheet, and now he and Ayla are playing in the backyard as I struggle to get through my own work. Nani can’t edit my personal narrative essay like my dad would, and Nana Abu doesn’t explain seventh-grade algebra as well as Mama does, even if he is a wizard at crossword puzzles.
“Come, Humza, set the table,” Nani calls from the kitchen. “Tell Ayla and Ismail to come in and wash hands. Let’s eat.”
I glance outside and see Ismail poking in the dirt with a stick and Ayla juggling a soccer ball and telling him what to do. We’ve been here for three days and so far they haven’t been fighting as much as I expected, but Ayla’s been whining a lot, and Ismail is quicker to cry than usual. They act so helpless that I have to step in and help them make their lunches and do their laundry. That’s on top of all the stuff my grandparents ask me to do, like sweep out the garage and put boxes into the crawl space, since Nana Abu can’t lift heavy things anymore.
I make Ayla help me set the table and tell Ismail to fill the water pitcher, and then we sit down together in the kitchen, my stomach growling. I load heaps of rice, chicken, and some spiced yellow lentils onto my plate and dig in. I’ve already devoured half my food when Nani notices Ismail quietly picking out all the onions and making a pile of them on his plate.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Nani’s gray-and-black hair is pulled back into a bun, and the lines on her face that are usually smiling are helping to form a frown.
“I don’t like onions,” Ismail says.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Next time I grind them, okay?” Nani helps him pick out the rest and then notices Ayla, who is poking at her chicken with her fork.
“Why aren’t you eating?” she asks.
“I don’t like chicken with bones,” Ayla says.
“Take it off the bone, then,” Nana Abu suggests from across the table. He’s wearing a thick blue sweater with brown buttons and slippers and is sitting so straight he looks younger than seventy-five, even though he moves slowly and has trouble hearing sometimes.
Ayla flips a chicken leg over with her fork, her round eyes bugging out of her head more than usual. When she makes a gagging sound, Nani takes her plate and starts to pull the meat off the bone for her. I look at Ayla as her eyes grow glassy and wonder if she’s thinking about how Mama never forgets what everyone likes and doesn’t like.
Nana Abu clears his throat.
“You know Eid-ul-Adha is coming soon, right?”
I forgot that the holiday was going to happen while my parents were away. We talked about that a long time ago, but now it hits me. This is going to be the first Eid we’ve ever had without them.
“This Eid honors the story of the prophet Ibrahim and his son,” Nana Abu continues. “He was ready to sacrifice his own son, but God in his mercy performed a miracle and replaced the boy with a goat.”
“Wasn’t it a sheep?” Ismail interrupts. “My Sunday school teacher said it was a sheep.”
“Goat, sheep—that isn’t the point. Now we remember that event on Eid and how we should be unselfish and willing to make sacrifices. That’s why we sacrifice an animal and share the meat with the community, right?”
Ismail looks at me with a confused expression. Ayla takes the tiniest bite of chicken and chews.
“I’m going to be a vegetarian,” she declares.
“No, no, no.” Nana Abu shakes his head. “You should be grateful for the blessing and gift of being able to afford meat. When I was growing up, we were lucky to have it once a week. Do you understand?”
“I don’t even want meat. Or chicken. Mama and Baba said I can be a vegetarian when I turn ten if I want.”
Nana Abu looks at Nani for help but she shrugs. I sort of understand what my grandfather is saying about being grateful, but I don’t feel it that much right now. Plus I have no idea how to explain it to a picky nine-year-old, so I quietly finish off the rest of her chicken when I’m done with mine.
“You need to help Nani with the dishes,” I order Ayla a few days later.
“I did it last time,” Ayla argues. “It’s Ismail’s turn.”
“She asked you to do it,” I remind her. I’ve been doing so much, and there’s no way she’s going to keep getting away with watching TV all afternoon.
“Why do I have to do it? She asks me to do more than Ismail. Is it because I’m a girl? Because that’s not fair.”
“You’re older than him. And it’s not because you’re a girl. I do way more than both of you. I’ve been doing everything since we got here.”
“You can’t make me.” Ayla stomps her foot.
“You better do it, or you’ll be in trouble.” I turn back to the game I was playing on my phone. It’s the one thing that’s been keeping me from losing it. My parents have been gone for less than half their trip, but I am so ready for them to be back. I know it’s a lot for my grandparents to watch us and that I’m supposed to help them out, but it feels like whenever I sit down to relax, I get assigned another task.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Mama calling on WhatsApp.
“It’s Mama!” I yell, causing Ismail to drop his action figure and run over to me. Ayla shoves him out of the way to get closer to the phone.
“Stop it!” Ismail says, pushing her into me.
“Both of you, stop,” I command while I connect the call. A grainy Mama fills the screen.
“Assalamu Alaikum, guys!” Her face lights up, and I smile back.
“Salaam, Mama. How are you?”
“Salaam, Mama,” Ismail and Ayla chime in.
“We’re doing fine, thank God. We’re in Medina right now, and it’s so amazing. Look at this mosque.”
Mama walks around and shows us the columns and gold-and-black arch
es, and she points out the details on the carpet and the lights.
“It’s so beautiful and peaceful here. And there are people from everywhere in the world—I’ve met the nicest women from Malaysia, Sudan, Argentina, and Sweden. It’s incredible, and I wish you could be here with me.”
“I do too,” I say.
My mother is wearing a gray hijab tied tight around her face and a flowing abaya instead of her usual jeans and shirt, but it’s not just the way she’s dressed that makes her seem different. She looks so happy it’s like her face is glowing.
“How are you guys? I miss you so much,” she says.
“We’re okay.” I swallow hard. “We miss you too.”
“Are you being good?”
“Yeah.”
“Ismail hits me and doesn’t listen.” Ayla sticks her face in front of mine. “And Humza’s being bossy.”
“I did not!” Ismail yells.
“Ayla is giving Nani a hard time and not helping.” I glare at Ayla.
“You guys.” Mama’s face clouds. “Please? Please, can you get along? I need you to behave.”
Ayla and Ismail start to sniffle.
“Please? I know it’s hard, but it’s how you are helping Baba and me so we can do this, right? So we don’t have to worry about you?”
“Fine,” Ayla concedes. “I guess we can . . . sacrifice.”
“Well, okay, then.” Mama laughs. “That’s a big new word. I like it. Thank you for that.”
“You don’t have to worry about us,” I add, giving Ayla and Ismail a warning look.
“Thank you.” Mama’s face is shining again. “We leave for Mecca from here to actually start Hajj, so it will be harder to be in touch, but we’ll call again soon.”
“We love you,” I say.
“Love you!” Ayla and Ismail add.
Mama blows us a kiss and wipes her eyes, and then she’s gone. I didn’t get to tell her I scored a goal in my game yesterday. Or that I made pancakes this morning and that they turned out almost as good as hers.
“You need to wash the dishes,” I tell Ayla.
