Qurban

•38• Well wisher / خیر خواہ

Zainab poured the soup into a small round bowl before putting it on a plate alongside a glass of water and a silver spoon. Balancing the tray in her hands, she slowly crept toward the room where her grandmother resided. She lightly rapped her knuckles on the wooden door and entered the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn, no sunlight peeking through, the only source of illumination were the small bedside lamps. Her grandmother, was hunched on her bed, a tasbeeh woven between her fingers as her lips moved in quiet supplication. Zainab made sure her movements were as quiet as possible so as to not disturb her grandmother. After a span of few minutes, the old woman kissed her beads before placing them onto the beside table.

"Meri bacchi!"
(My child)

She embraced her to her chest and Zainab felt the familiar warmth of her seeping into her bones. What she also felt was how frail and weak she felt in her arms. Her heart saddened at the thought but she chose not to comment. Pulling away, the old woman blew the supplications all over her before affectionately muttering

"My Irtiza's daughter. My precious!"

Zainab smiled at her and silently tipped the bowl of soup in her direction. Ghazala Begum smiled and muttered like a child

"Feed me, Zainab."

She obliged. Blowing onto the spoon, she fed her grandmother. Her eyes never wavering from her shivering hands and hunched figure. Grief had made her weak. Diminished her strength. Weakened her power. She was contained to her room and what Jaweria told her, she wasn't even meeting Irtiza. Zainab knew this was wrong. God knows she was dealing with her grief in a far fatal manner, but no she couldn't let her beloved grandmother be taken captive of the lethal claws of grief. She wouldn't accept that.

After making sure her grandmother had eaten the entire bowl, she decided to breach the topic. Taking her wrinkly hands in her own, she whispered softly, as if talking to a child.

"I was told you haven't been taking care of yourself."

Ghazala smiled before pinching Zainab cheeks like she was a toddler and not a woman who was married again.

"I'm getting old. Sooner or later, it will be my time."

Her stomach formed a pit not liking the mention of death.

"You haven't been visiting Baba."

Her words were cautious. Still, Ghazala's eyes faded to just two beads staring at her. The woman bowed her head and her hold tightened on Zainab's hands. For a long moment, she didn't speak. Zainab let her be. Irtiza was her father, but to her, he was her son. No matter the blood.

"I cannot see him like that."

The words were so small and quiet, Zainab almost didn't hear them if she wasn't listening so carefully.

"It was my time. He shouldn't be wired to different cables. It should be me."

Zainab's eyes watered, but she composed herself. She needed to understand her. Ghazala's eyes met hers and the dancing vulnerability in them almost tossed her over the bed. It was the eyes of a woman who was grieving, who was scared, who was angry that fate wasn't kind on her kin.

It was terrifying and heartbreaking, both at the same time.

Squeezing her hands, she spoke

"But he's still breathing. He's not gone. He must misses you a lot. You should go see him."

A chocked sob wretched out of Ghazala's chest, but she nodded her head. Meeting Zainab's eyes, she promised

"I'll go see him. I promise."