Nothing Is As It Seems

Fatima

With only 10 minutes left for iftaari, Fatima still needs to take a shower, fry the samosas and pour out the fresh juices. I need some reinforcements!! She thinks to herself. With the samosas sizzling in the burning oil, she roars on the top of her voice,

"HAMZA, MUSTAFA, ISMAIL!!! All of you come here right now!! I need you to finish up in the kitchen, I'm going to take a shower. Hamza! Go finish the dishes!! Ismail! Here, finish frying the samosas and take them out on a serving plate. Mustafa!! Where do you think you're going Mister?? Go pour out the juices and set the table!!

"Yes Maam! I'm on it!" Hamza responds with a wide grin and a horrible Texan accent.

Fatima was a hard nut, a woman with high expectations from herself and the world. Her sons especially bore the brunt. She trained them to be everything she didn't see in the men growing up. From cleaning up after themselves, to doing their own laundry; her boys were ideal home makers. And if anybody dared to question her style of nurturing, she would scoff and say "I've been blessed with 3 healthy sons haven't I?? Might as well make some use of them!!" As fierce as she was, her love for her family was always present, in her food, in the ruffling of their unkept hair and in her smile, so wholesome and genuine that anyone might melt just a bit from inside. Her husband, Yaqub, supported her. Fatima's fiery personality was what attracted him in the first place. She wasn't petite and docile like the rest of the girls he had met. Tall with broad shoulders, and a firm grasp, she demanded peoples respect. Yaqub was strong as well, but in a different way. He was never easily rattled but still capable of destroying or convincing the recipient with his words. He believed words and articulation had the power to conquer, while for Fatima, it was more about strength and the display of power and control. Their relationship was especially strengthened by the acceptance and respect for each other's role. They completed each other in their own messy way.

2 minutes left for iftarii!! She was done showering. She ran down the corridor her long hair dripping along the way, and grabbed the towel to wrap around her hair. With a swift pull to the kitchen door, Fatima rushed to the dining table. Everybody was already seated. Her 3 sons, their wives and Yaqub. The children, all too young to fast, were running around ecstatically playing with the specks of light falling from the chandeliers on to the dining room wall. The table glittered with the glasses, still wet from the rinse, half-filled with orange juice. The wholesome platters of food crowded the table like teenagers at a rock show. Alhumdulillah! Fatima's heart swelled with momentary satisfaction until she saw Yaqub eyeing her suspiciously. She ignored his gaze and sat down next to him.

"Come on!! Everybody make dua!" Fatima shouted commandingly.

Everybody lifted their hands. Some closed their eyes and for a moment there was silence as a flurry of important conversations were carried out in the unseen. The call to prayer clearly rang from the neighbouring masjid and everybody began to fill their stomachs after a long day of abstention. Then came the clattering of dishes and soap as Fatima began to rinse off all the utensils. Yaqub shuffled next to her.

"You rinse, I dry" he murmured, as he began to arrange the plates along the drying rack.

Fatima was trapped. He had heard her crying from the bathroom in the morning. After many failed attempts of finding out what was wrong he had let her be, but continued to eye her suspiciously throughout the day.

"You better tell me soon..." he whispered.

Fatima sighed deeply. She loved being in control of everything, her emotions, her family, herself, it made her feel secure. Talking about her vulnerabilities gave others' access to parts of herself that she even had forgotten about. More access meant a loss of control and power, and Fatima couldn't let that happen. She hadn't always been so rough and demanding. In her younger years, she was known as the softest and most sensitive of her three sisters. However, after years of being bullied for her weight, she began to harden with grief and misunderstanding. Always a bit heavier than her sisters, her family had nicknamed her 'Eggy' because of her relatively round figure. They never seemed to understand how much pain that word had caused her. Her open tears and constant disapproval did nothing to change their behaviour. For them it became a means of distinguishing her from the other sisters, for them it was a means of showing their love. But the word hardened Fatima, until she was not much different from a hard-boiled egg; tough from the outside, but soft and mushy from inside. Fatima looked around, her sons had gone in the other room to watch some T.V. The kitchen was quiet, as if patiently waiting with Yaqub to find out why she had been crying in the morning.

"You always tell me how words have enough power to cut through mountains..." she began. She kept looking at the running water in front of her. She was avoiding eye contact with Yaqub because she knew those large eyes full of concern would make her start crying all over again. Yaqub was not much of a talker anyway. He liked to listen.

"When I was younger. There was a word like that. It crushed me. It still does..." Fatima felt a lump in her throat. She didn't want to continue. She would have to feel that tsunami of pain all over again. But somehow with a gentle nudge from Yaqub she did.

"Maryam, my elder sister had come over yesterday and in front of Sara. Yes, Sara, my neighbour, she started calling me 'Eggy' again." Then came the anger, "I mean don't they get it?? It isn't funny!!!! It never was Yaqub! Why can't they respect that??"

Fatima's chest was heaving. Subhan Allah! How a simple word can wage wars within me, she thought to herself.

"Then today morning on the phone, Sara asked me why Maryam calls me "Eggy". So I told her that it's none of her business."

Yaqub chuckled silently.

"I mean what did she want me to say? Oh ya! That's how my family used to verbally abuse me when I was younger??!!"

Yaqub remained silent.

"So basically, the only real friend I've ever had, well apart from you, hates me now."

Fatima looked up at Yaqub. He wasn't looking at her, he was thinking. After a long pause he said, "No she doesn't Fatima, call her after Taraweeh. Tell her what you told me...she will understand..."

With another tentative touch on the shoulder and a 'you're going to be okay' wink, Yaqub dried his hands and left to get ready for Taraweeh. Fatima scoffed, "That's what you get after 20 years of marriage. No long deep conversations of support and adoration, just a wink...men I tell you!!"

But Fatima felt much better and knew that Yaqub's advice, although succinct, is usually pretty accurate. So after drying the kitchen sink and opening up her towel dried hair, Fatima hurried to her room to get ready for Taraweeh as well.