Radiant Fugitives

by Nawaaz Ahmed

  “I knew it,” Tahera says, throwing herself at her mother, forestalling thought with action. “Ammi, I knew you’d come even though I told you not to. You shouldn’t have.”

  Her mother feels pencil thin in her embrace. She’s reminded of the stick figures in her daughter Amina’s drawings. Her arms can encircle Nafeesa, and still there is more arm to go round. She holds her mother in her embrace longer than she needs to.

  She’s aware of Seema’s impatience. Seema shifts from one foot to another, waiting her turn, but Tahera ignores her. “Let me see how you look,” she says instead to her mother, holding Nafeesa away from her.

  Nafeesa frees the edge of her saree from under her sweater and raises it to her face, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, now sparkling with unshed tears.

  “Still my sweet, beautiful Ammi,” Tahera says.

  Yes, beautiful still, but how shrunken her mother has become since the diagnosis, how skeletal—all skin and eyes and teeth, scalp showing white between thinning hair. The piteous smile her mother rewards her with spears her, and she turns away hurriedly, toward Seema finally, nuzzling her face blindly against Seema’s, arms tight around Seema’s shoulders.

  Tahera squeezes hard. I feel the pressure, a compression of the amniotic fluid firmer than any I’ve experienced before.

  Seema stiffens in Tahera’s arms. “Careful,” she says, pulling away and smoothing her top over her stomach.

  Tahera lets go. A jolt shakes her as she’s returned abruptly to the glacial lighting of the baggage claim.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” she says, trying to smile, working to keep the anger out of her voice.

  2

  Where does the anger come from?

  Consider this: Tahera has not seen Nafeesa and Seema together for nearly sixteen years. Seema, after all, was cast out of their family by their father. The intimacy that Tahera observes between mother and sister—walking arm in arm down the aisle of the baggage claim, laughing at some private joke, leaning on each other for support—is unexpected, almost a betrayal.

  And consider, too, Seema smoothing her maternity frock over her belly and pushing Tahera away during their embrace. The first sight of the ravages that time and disease have wrought on her mother had tricked Tahera into turning to Seema more warmly than she’d intended. She’d become her agitated twenty-year-old self, come to the Chennai airport to receive Seema, returning for the very first time after leaving for England for her master’s. The very same embrace, but—

  Careful! What a cutting, rebuffing word.

  As soon as they reach Seema’s apartment, Tahera insists her first priority is prayer, her maghrib namaz. It’s a refuge she can count on. The ritual of wadu begins to calm her down, the sensation of water on her wrists and elbows, her fingers skimming her hair and down the neck and under the ears. She feels a little more at ease each time she repeats the movements, each gesture small and precise and contained, and completely in her control. After wadu, she spreads her janamaz in one corner of Seema’s living room. Facing the sage walls, the maroon of the janamaz under her feet, she is cloistered in her own private sanctuary. She focuses on her rakaat, the raising of the arms, the clasping of the palms, the bending down to the knees, the prostration, the whispered verses, till everything falls away. Only when she’s kneeling in sajda, after her final rakaah, her forehead and nose to the floor, does she let the sounds of the apartment seep back into her consciousness. Seema and Nafeesa are laying the table for dinner. She sits back on her knees, and breathes out her apprehensions to the right and left, before she gets up to join them, some degree of equanimity restored. She folds the janamaz carefully, precisely, smoothing down the wrinkles, and places it squarely in the corner, claiming the territory as her own.

  3

  In the kitchen, Seema helps Nafeesa reheat the dishes for dinner. There’s the pulao, and the chicken, neither of which Seema made. Seema rarely cooks Indian food, or any other cuisine for that matter. The spices and provisions in her well-stocked cabinets are a concession to her mother’s visit, purchased at the Indian store the week of Nafeesa’s arrival. Everything she can remember from her mother’s kitchen: rice and dal; chili, coriander, cumin, turmeric; cardamom, clove, cinnamon; tamarind. Yet, over the week, she’s had to add to them daily under Nafeesa’s instructions. Her mother has been cooking every dish she can remember Seema liking.

  “Ammi, you should not be spending so much time in the kitchen,” Seema has protested, but only half-heartedly. The mulish set of her mother’s jaw does not invite discussion. Then, too, Nafeesa’s eyes frequently tear up, and Seema knows what her mother leaves unsaid: This is to make up for fifteen years of not mothering you. This is the only chance I will have.

  Also, Seema cannot deny herself a taste of everything she missed those motherless years, including the mothering.

  But tonight’s chicken is from the supermarket. Nafeesa insisted on cooking Tahera’s favorite dish for dinner. Seema meant to find chicken from a halal store earlier that day, but it slipped her mind, and Nafeesa used the chicken in the fridge, waving aside Seema’s concerns. “Tahera won’t mind this one time, because I made it.”

  Seema is uneasy. Tahera has, in fact, refused to eat non-halal meat before, during her visit to San Francisco earlier that year, in spring.

  That was the first time Seema saw Tahera after a decade and a half, her only time meeting Tahera’s husband and two children. The day Seema spent showing her sister’s children around San Francisco was the happiest she’d been in some time. It awakened hopes she didn’t know she still harbored.

  But there’s no misinterpreting what Tahera signaled by deliberately ignoring her at the airport: I’m here for Ammi, not for you.

  In the kitchen, Seema is aware of the throaty whispers of Tahera’s prayers issuing forth from the living room. The whir of the microwave drowns her out, but when the microwave stops, Tahera’s voice in the kitchen sounds like the mutinous hum of a swarm of bees.

  A clear warning: Keep away.

  4

  The pungent smell of fenugreek and roasted fennel from her favorite curry makes Tahera’s mouth water. Her mother has already served the food, and her plate is heaped with chicken curry and rice and raita. But what is the source of the chicken? In her new mood of conciliation post-namaz, Tahera decides she won’t make a fuss. She’ll leave the chicken alone, and hope Nafeesa won’t notice.

  She takes her seat as Seema starts eating. Before taking a bite herself, Tahera murmurs self-consciously, head bowed, “Bismillah wa’ala barakatillah.”

  Seema freezes, her hand halfway between plate and mouth. It’s clearly been ages since Seema uttered bismillah before eating.

  “It just means in the name of Allah and with the blessings of Allah,” Tahera explains her addition to their childhood invocation. “We should be grateful to Allah whenever we receive anything. Especially a meal cooked by Ammi’s own hands after such a long time.”

  “How did you know I didn’t cook?” Seema says.

  Before Tahera can reply, Nafeesa steps in. “Yes, I cooked the chicken, specially for you. Eat.”

  Tahera notes the quick look that passes between Nafeesa and Seema. Nafeesa shakes her head almost imperceptibly as if to warn Seema off.

  “Smells delicious, Ammi,” Tahera says, conscious that something’s afoot. “I never can match that aroma, though I follow your recipe. You must cook it again while I’m here so I can figure out what I’m missing.” She tastes the gravy gingerly, and it is delicious.

  But by now it’s too late to ask about the chicken. Nafeesa is watching her with anxious eyes. To distract her, Tahera starts talking about her children, how dutiful they are, and how well they’re doing at school. Nafeesa is diverted to inquiring about them. Amina likes writing and spends hours forming her letters with patience and concentration. Arshad likes science, but he’s as bad at mathematics as she once was, except he’s disciplined and works extra hard on it with his father.

 
Seema shows interest as well, and Tahera remembers how the children couldn’t stop speaking about their aunt after their visit to San Francisco. “Enough about me and my children—what have you been doing for a week? Seema, were you at work?”

  “I took most of the week off,” Seema says. “I’m on maternity leave now. But I’m still doing some volunteering—for an election campaign. I took Ammi with me to some meetings.” She smiles at Nafeesa. “Hopefully Ammi wasn’t too bored.”

  Nafeesa shakes her head. It was interesting, she says, especially since the candidate—What’s her name? Kamala something?—is Indian. She’d enjoyed seeing so many different people at the meeting, so many young people, Indians too. And she’d listened with pleasure to Seema addressing them from the podium.

  “Half-Tamil, half-Black,” Seema corrects. “Her mother’s from Chennai and her father’s from Jamaica.” She explains to Tahera that she knows San Francisco’s district attorney through her friend Divya and has been advising her campaign for state attorney general on public relations issues. The race is very close. In fact, Obama is in San Francisco that very evening to drum up funds and support for the midterm elections. “How is it in Texas?”

  Tahera shrugs. “I don’t have time to follow politics. I’ve enough to do at the clinic and at home. Wait till you have patients and children and a husband to take care of. It’s three full-time jobs.”

  She knows she’s gone too far when Nafeesa shoots her a glance. They’re not to allude to Seema’s husband, Bill, or her divorce. Tahera subsides but is pleased when Seema bites her lip and pretends to search through the chicken for a choice piece.

  Tahera’s triumph is short-lived. “Here’s the neck, Tahera, your favorite part. Do you want it?” Seema says, the spoon poised over Tahera’s plate.

  “No, let me finish what I have first.” Her mother has noticed now that she hasn’t touched the chicken. She should have hidden a portion in the rice.

  An awkward silence follows. With the silence, Nafeesa’s actions get slower and slower. Her bony fingers idly push the rice and chicken around. The few small mouthfuls she takes remain long in her gaunt cheeks. Her hand falls lifelessly back to the plate.

  “Are you okay, Ammi?” Seema asks.

  “Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Go rest, Ammi. Seema and I’ll clean up.” Tahera can’t bear to watch her mother wilt any more.

  Nafeesa rises. “Yes, I think I’ll go to bed. You both should eat some more. There’s also kheer in the fridge.”

  Seema follows Nafeesa out of the kitchen. “I’ll be back, just making sure Ammi has everything she needs.”

  The momentary solitude soothes Tahera. There’s the cleaning up to do, and then she should plead exhaustion and retire for the night. Sleep, such a haven, like namaz. Before Seema returns, Tahera slides the chicken on her plate back into the serving dish. She hears low voices coming from the bedroom, and she strains to make out what’s being said.

  Seema returns with an audible sigh. “She shouldn’t have exerted herself so much today. She gets tired very easily.” She hesitates, stirring the chicken dish with the spoon. “I told her you wouldn’t eat the chicken if it wasn’t halal. But she wanted to cook your favorite dish. She thought you wouldn’t mind this once.”

  “Are you saying I upset her?” A mixture of remorse and anger surges through Tahera. If her mother had indeed made the chicken for her, why hadn’t she at least tried to persuade Tahera to eat some?

  “You didn’t even touch it.”

  “Am I to blame? You knew, and yet you tried to serve me more.”

  “Tahera, Ammi just wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “Did she say she wanted me to eat this? Do you want me to eat this?” Tahera heaps a spoonful of the chicken back onto her plate. “Will it make both of you happy? Tell me, I’ll do it.” Even to her own ears, she sounds strident.

  Seema backs down. “Let’s not fight, Tahera. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her use the chicken.”

  It’s too easy a victory for satisfaction. Tahera stalks to the sink, scrapes the remains of her plate into the garbage can beneath it, and starts soaping the dirty dishes. “I’ll wash up, just bring the dishes over.” She doesn’t wait for an answer; she attacks the sink with vigor.

  5

  “Do you want some tea?” Seema says.

  Chamomile for Seema, black for Tahera. Caffeine no longer affects Tahera—the many long nights in Irvine have taken care of that. Tahera’s night starts after her children go to bed—the dishes, the laundry, the tidying up, the next day’s meals, everything she can do so she’ll have more time with her family during the day. The previous week has been particularly exhausting. She cooked enough meals to last her family two weeks, labeling packets by day, week, and person; gave the house a thorough dusting and cleaning; typed up and stuck lists, reminders, and phone numbers to the fridge door. All this, apart from squeezing as many patients as she could into her calendar at her clinic.

  Opposite her, Seema sits engorged, squat fingers clasped around the cup, her face still unlined, as if her forty years have left little mark on her. She appears lost to the world, sipping her tea and stroking her pregnant belly with a smile of contentment and accomplishment, which Tahera knows from their childhood days. So smug and untroubled, while their dying mother sleeps in the next room.

  “How’s Ammi?” Tahera asks, despite her resolution not to discuss their mother.

  Seema rouses herself. The chamomile has begun to relax her, and the sensation of tautness and solidity as she moves her hands over her stomach has its usual comforting and stabilizing effect. The kitchen, even with Tahera seated across the table from her, glows with a languorous warmth.

  “She’s not been sleeping well. I found her awake the other night, sitting here in the dark. I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, and she wasn’t in bed. I heard these weird sounds—like a mouse squeaking. I thought she was crying, but no. Just hiccups and jet lag.”

  “Has she said anything at all?”

  “She’s been telling me about her school days.” Seema and Nafeesa talked for almost three hours that night. “Did you know she used to recite poetry, like you? Urdu poetry. She wanted to be a poet. Used to write and sing ghazals. How come she never sang for us when we were growing up?”

  Against the light Tahera looks surprisingly like Nafeesa, the same shape of the head poised birdlike over the same small frame. Seema notices other similarities: the thin, tight lips, the thin nose, the thinning eyebrows. Seema is also reminded of Amina, who she knows will grow up with a strong resemblance to her mother and grandmother. “You two look so alike. I hadn’t noticed before. I haven’t seen you together in so many years. It makes me happy and sad at the same time.”

  “Why?” Tahera asks.

  “What makes me sad?” Seema repeats. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  She suspects in Tahera’s question a suggestion that she has renounced all rights to her family. Over the phone the last two months, the sisters have discussed mainly the logistics of Nafeesa’s visit: when, where, how. Tahera has consulted with their father and other doctors in Chennai, and is a doctor herself, but she has remained tight-lipped about her mother’s condition, answering Seema’s queries with curt, cryptic replies. Seema has since stopped asking. What she knows she’s gleaned from Nafeesa and by consulting her physician friends. “You know Ammi doesn’t have much time, right?”

  “Of course I know,” Tahera says.

  “We haven’t talked about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Did Ammi say how long she’s going to stay?”

  “No. And I haven’t asked her. She can stay with me as long as she wants.” She’s aware of Tahera’s eyes boring into her, but she can’t resist the taunt, like with the chicken neck earlier.

  The room feels charged again. My mother returns to what she knows will calm her—placing her palms on the shell of her body around me and taking deep
breaths. She slides her palms slowly along the dome of her belly, naming parts of me she thinks she recognizes—elbows, knees, skull. There’s security in the promise of me. But Tahera’s anger is growing palpable. “What?” Seema says, without looking up.

  “I’ve read her case reports,” Tahera says. “She shouldn’t have come.”

  Seema puts a finger on her lips to remind Tahera of their mother sleeping in the next room, but the gesture infuriates Tahera further. She stands up, face clenched and lips quivering. “It was very selfish of you to ask her here. What happens if she suddenly becomes worse? Will you be able to take care of her?”

  Seema struggles to rise. “Why are you upset with me? I didn’t ask Ammi here. I tried to convince her not to come. She wanted to.” She pushes herself off her chair with a jerk. “I didn’t ask you to come either.”

  It happens in a flash—she stumbles, the chair totters. She’s falling backward, and for a moment it seems that the world is swiveling out of control. She throws her hands out, seeking purchase on the tabletop, but it’s smooth. In her panic, she’s sure there’s to be no reprieve for her. Ishraaq, she calls out to me in her mind, as though she can warn me to safety.

  Who or what saves us that first night? It’s Tahera flinging herself across the table and grabbing Seema by the arms. The momentum brings their heads together with a crash that resounds in the kitchen. Seema sits down with a gasp. The world slowly rocks back into place.

  “I’m sorry,” Tahera says. She hurries over to Seema’s side. A bruise is already beginning to show on Seema’s forehead, but she turns away as Tahera reaches for the spot. “Let me see,” Tahera persists.

  She bends down, blowing on the bruise, much as she would on her daughter Amina’s.

  For the second time that day, Seema pushes her away. “Let’s see about setting up the futon. Ammi is sharing the bed with me. I’ll get you pillows and a blanket.”