Hi,
everybody! My name is Neshmia. Today, I’m writing a guest post for
Furree’s awesome blog. Thank you so much, Furree, for giving me the
opportunity!
This
guest post is a short fiction story I’ve written about a broken family,
titled ‘Ink and Paper.’ These are two entries from the respective
journals of a father and daughter. Sadaf’s parents are divorced and she
lives with her mother, Tanya, in Pakistan. Sadaf’s father, Haroon, lives
abroad in the United States of America. He lost the custody battle, and
is permitted to see his daughter only once every five years. The first
time Sadaf traveled to see him was when she was eight years old, when
Haroon lived in Washington DC. The second time was when she was
thirteen, and he lived in San Francisco.
Ink and Paper
Sadaf’s Diary:
Dear Diary,
It
seeps into me, that poison known as ‘depression’, overcoming my
defenses and rendering me helpless, like a rat trapped in a snake’s
clenched jaws. An inevitable, destructive venom coursing through me;
pulsing through my veins, sweeping me along in its wake. Like a tidal
wave too powerful to battle against so you just succumb and let yourself
float along with ease. I can feel it in my bones when it’s coming,
drawing closer. I would run if I didn’t already know that it has the
power to overtake me instantly.
When
I was little, Amma would tuck me into bed every night. She would lay me
down, and sit awhile next to me with the lights off, the two of us
submerged in impenetrable darkness, chattering about everyday things.
Sometimes as I jabbered on about meaningless topics – the frivolous
activities I indulged in with friends, the minor indignities of being
reprimanded in class, never-ending complaints of homework – she’d trace a
hand along my forehead lightly. I’d feel her fingertips against my
skin, skimming my temples, gently tangling in my hair. I’d close my eyes
briefly and accustom myself to the feel of it. I remember clutching
onto those moments. They were the epitome of everything beautiful to me.
The
conversation between my mother and me usually lasted half an hour,
dying out as sleep stealthily sank its firm clutches into me. When I
drifted in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness – lingering in that
no-man’s-land before crossing over – she’d stand up. Taking the blanket
folded into a neat square at the end of my bed, she’d open it, grasp it
fully by both hands, and shake it over me powerfully, so that it would
flutter down and cover me. I could feel it when she did that. I would
feel the blanket twisting, rippling above me like a living thing,
causing stirs in the atmosphere, light bursts of billowing air. I could
feel it free-falling, as the air abandoned it in the hold of gravity, as
it settled on my body.
Depression,
as it approaches – I’ve come to find out – does so in much the same
way. It loiters, hovers over me like that blanket. It stays in that
position for days, sometimes even weeks, before falling and settling
with a lasting finality.
Depression
slows me down in every way. It tires my body, numbs my mind, and slows
my reflexes. I feel dumber, mute, my intelligence and willpower draining
out of my system. The very thought of making plans with friends
exhausts me. Conversations seem daunting, requiring more energy than I
could possibly spare. Silence becomes my sanctuary.
Sometimes,
in those nights when we talked, I would chirp brightly, “Amma, when is
Papa coming back home?” That was before I knew the word ‘divorce’,
before I was old enough to comprehend the ugliness of it. She would
normally shush me, but sometimes she’d indulge me, allow me my
fantasies. I’d lie there as she’d spin tales of us going to live with my
father soon, promises that kept me enchanted. She’d boldly state
assurances of him visiting us soon. Such beautiful lies to believe in,
punctuated by excuses of why all of it only existed in the future. “Your
schooling here, his job abroad isn’t steady yet.” Excuses that my
subconscious was more than willing to accept; like a drowning man
clutching onto a drifting log of wood.
I
realize now that when she told them, she actually indulged not only me,
but herself too. She’d let herself believe, just for a few minutes, in
the words she was speaking. And in that darkness then, the mirages she’d
just depicted seemed almost substantial, shimmering in the distance;
puddles of gleaming water that had yet to disappear, vanish before our
very eyes into nothing.
Haroon’s Diary:
Dear Journal,
The
gym is the one place I feel gloriously alive. The only place really,
where I can feel powerful again. I exalt in the strength of my body, in
the miraculous beauty of it, muscles, sinews and cords working in tandem
to create effortless movement. I revel in every drop of sweat trickling
down my skin, in the flushes of heat suffusing me as I push myself to
my limit. I feel reborn again. Like maybe I have a second chance at
life, a do-over; like maybe the events of the past can be undone and my
doom can be reversed. Like maybe I haven’t annihilated my marriage or
haven’t lost the custody battle.
I
have many memories of my daughter. I’ve seen her only twice in my life –
the first when she was eight, and the second when she’d newly turned
thirteen – but the memories are still clear as crystal. They’re lodged
in my mind, vivid and sharp, just bursting to come to the surface. Work
keeps them tamped down, restricted. The pressures of my multiple jobs,
knowing I have massive debt and loans to repay, doesn’t allow me to waft
in nostalgic reminisces. But when I’m at the gym, I feel free. The
memories overpower their boundaries, envelop me. I see Sadaf then, her
bright glowing brown eyes and her quick, impish smile. The deftness with
which Sadaf moves that came only through me; Tanya, my ex-wife, is
known for being a klutz, her clumsiness a defining trait of her
character.
During
Sadaf’s latter visit, when she walked down the ramp into the San
Francisco airport, on the brink of womanhood, her eyes searching through
the milling crowds for my face, I was blown away. I was astounded by
the confidence with which she moved, and the grace with which she
conducted herself. I was transfixed by the change in her accent, how it
had deepened and matured to something unrecognizable. Weekly Skype-ing
sessions hadn’t done justice to my daughter, hadn’t portrayed the
vivaciousness of her personality or the beauty of her nature. She was an
alien thing, a foreign creature. No matter how hard I searched, I
couldn’t see myself in her. I couldn’t sense myself being reconstructed
in her. I couldn’t find a solid part of me within her being, a part that
would allow me to state with relieved conviction that this girl was
indeed my daughter. She was her own and completely so, untouched
entirely by me. Two islands who’d once been interconnected, but now the
bridge had crumbled away, isolated each.
But
when she’d first come to me at the age of eight, things had been
different. I’d been living in Washington DC then. She arrived in
December, when snow was coating everything thickly; a girl with curly
black hair and rosy dimpled cheeks, bundled up in a sweater and a scarf
and a thick fluffy jacket. I’d been embroiled in work then, and couldn’t
afford a holiday. I left Sadaf with a trusted sitter for the entire
day, until I returned in the evening. I’d find myself rushing through my
job, hurrying through the mandatory tasks and clipping away everything
that could be clipped, just in an effort to get back to her as soon as
possible. When I reached home, I would quickly open the door. The sitter
would stand up, a college girl of about twenty, eager to depart. I’d
proffer her some bills, she’d take them, and a confirmation of
tomorrow’s timings would be exchanged. And then she’d go, leaving me
alone with Sadaf.
It was a routine we both knew by heart.
“Sadaf!
Sa-daf!” I’d cup my hands around my mouth, call her name loudly,
stretching the syllables. A giggle could be heard, and then the bedroom
door would be pushed open tentatively, a small crack out of which her
eyes peeped through. I knew my part in this game, and played it well.
With a friendly roar, I’d lunge towards the door, and she, shrieking,
would back away, jump on the bed. We’d chase each other then, cat
running after a mouse, Tom & Jerry being enacted right in our
bedroom. I could’ve caught her easily of course, but what fun would
there be in that? And so I chased her, holding back just enough so that
she’d be able to escape, making it look like she really could elude me.
She’d
leap off the bed and race into the kitchen then, down the hallway, into
the living room. I’d run after her, making a deliberate effort to
produce exaggerated pants and huffs, giving Sadaf the joy of believing
in her speed and that it out outrun mine.
And
of course I knew, even before I entered the living room, where she
would be. A large cupboard stood next to a sofa on a far end of the
room. She’d scramble on top of the sofa, from where she’d leap up onto
the roof of the cupboard. And there she’d stay poised, a huge smile
curling her lips, waiting for me.
And
I, the perfect partner in this game of dance, would step up gallantly
and hold out my arms. And with a shriek of pure, unadulterated joy,
she’d launch herself – literally heave herself and catapult into the air
– right into my arms.
The trust with which she did so – the unwavering belief that I would never let her fall; not catching her not even being a possibility to be considered – never failed to bring tears to my eyes.
Sometimes,
even now, the mere memory is enough to dampen my eyes, blurring my
vision with a sheen of wetness. But these are just memories, a way out
of reality. Memories of moments that are long gone; faded and blended
into shadows. Of perfect moments that can never be recaptured or
relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in the pages of this
journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly.
x
When Neshmia first emailed me about asking to publish a post on my blog, I was honoured. As you must have witnessed above, she's an amazing writer. Thank you so much, Neshmia! ♥ - Furree Katt.
