With Love

Chapter 5: first glance

Israh sat on the bus, the next Monday morning at 7:55 and looked out the window. Her eyes stung with sleep and fear, her bruised heart hurt like it'd never done before.

Outside the sun was beginning to rise far above her in the clear blue sky. England had never looked this clear and washed. Cleansed. How could it be that the world was so awake and bright when her whole family was slowly falling apart?

Glancing back a few years and she could still smell the salty breeze, and the coolness of the water at her feet, the blistering sand and how birds chirped and how they all laughed. The conversations were mere murmurs she couldn't really distinguish from the rest of the noise, but she knew they were happy. She could see her mother's sparkling eyes and her soft smile as she laid a cloth on the sand and sat atop it, peeling some oranges for them.

Dad sat next to her and watched them with his own soft pink smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then he'd pointed at her to look up as a plane passed by, and Israh remembered being mesmerized. She'd wanted to fly. She'd wanted to be a pilot, to travel by air and see the clouds, the sun at the horizon. She was fascinated by this very human creation that had made flying possible. It made her feel like she could achieve anything she wanted, like nothing was far away.

But mother had told her pilots were men, and dad had said that it took too long to become one and she didn't have time. Jamaal bhai said girls were to be housewives and mothers and masters of the house, not the skies. They had all said it with big grins, and a pat to her head and 'you can do anything you want' in the next sentence. She'd buried that dream deep inside somewhere even she couldn't reach anymore.

She collected stray flowers and leaves from all the parks she went to and gathered them in a cardboard box. There their petals dried and breathed their last sweet scents. Among them, she collected the shells that the sea had washed ashore every time she visited the beach. Somewhere, in one of the corners were neatly folded receipts of books, coffees and clothes for every time she enjoyed a day out walking around the city like a tourist. Souvenirs. She liked writing about them, in metaphors, in poetries and in fairy tales. She'd dreamt of becoming a writer, a popular one, a good one.

But mother had told her poetry wasn't realistic enough, and dad had said it was better suited as a hobby than a profession. Jamaal bhai said poetry made girls too rebellious, that it didn't bring income and anything that didn't bring money was useless. They had all said it with big grins, and a pat to her head and 'you can do anything you want' in the next sentence. She'd buried that desire deep inside somewhere she couldn't reach anymore.

On Eid, all the women busied themselves in the kitchen. In the garden, the men conversed and laughed. It was too hot to be inside, cooking three meals a day, but the guests had gathered and going out would be too expensive. Aneesa washed the dishes, Israh made ras malai, amma cooked saalan and Laila bhabhi made rotis. The men sat at the dining table and the women on the sofas. It was a good day despite the exhaustion. Everyone talked among themselves, and the food was delicious, and the kids were ecstatic.

Jamaal bhai had appeared by Aneesa's side once in the kitchen. "If you're not gonna wear the dupatta over your head, take it off altogether. There are other men here." The cousins. Her bare head was too tempting for them, and of course, they wouldn't be told off by bhai. The caution and chastity was all for the woman.

Baba had teased her about her weight. Her mother had joked about her husband's thinning hair. Mother was given a glare, and Israh had closed her hands into fists and leaned ahead and almost said, "it's just a joke, dad", but Sidra held her hand and shook her head. Later at night, Israh asked her why, and Sidra had said, "I was being disrespectful. It was my fault." She didn't let Israh talk more about it and taught her daughter to be quiet instead.