Things Nadir N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ Said | [MUSLIM]

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Nadir

"You know about the people back in India, Nadir," Zaeb reasoned. "And my family is especially like that. Even I used to wake up late, back when I was not married."

I gave her a dubious look.

We were sitting at our kitchen table having our morning teas, and between small sips, she was suggesting the possible for why Sami was still asleep.

She didn't know it, but this was my second favourite time of the day; the first was, of course, when I came home from work and was greeted by the scent of home-cooked dinner and the sight of my children hopping to hug me. But this was the time when even they were asleep, and around me was nothing but a pleasant quietness, and my best friend. This was the time I could cherish her presence as solely my partner - when we were not immersed in behaving like parents should.

I remained in a state of dazed tranquility, and she spoke on.

"Oh, Nadir. He's probably just jet-lagged."

"Or just a lazy bum," I offered.

"I'm not going to deny that, but I still have reasons to believe he'd want to wake early when he's a guest at someplace. He's always been the more decent one of the two of us."

"Alright," I said, now wondering why she was feeling obliged to justify his actions in the first place. "I'll go check on the kids."

He didn't look jet-lagged, honestly, but I had no reason not to give him the benefit of the doubt. As we ate breakfast, after narrating a detailed account of the time he visited Africa, he said thanks and told us that he would be leaving early to meet with Fahad, who lived in the other part of the city. Zaeb said that it was a pity, and demanded that he visit us again soon. I didn't react to any of it at all.

After breakfast, as Mishal and Mustafa waved uncle Sami goodbye, I stood by Zaeb at our doorstep thinking, good riddance. I couldn't do anything about the funny way his presence was continually making me feel, so i put up with it, but you couldn't blame me for being glad that he was finally gone.

Because now I had a blissful Sunday to spend with my family.

Presently our living room looked the way it always did: with Zaeb on the phone with the girl who's number Brad had given me, Mishal sitting beside me, looking intently as I sat painting a large canvas, and Mustafa sitting and playing with my dirty tub of paint water not very far away.

It looked like she was telling the girl our address, and I figured she was probably coming today itself. Upon registering this I made a mental note to clear the living room of my stuff, so she wouldn't immediately conclude that the man of the house was mad.

Minutes later, we had not moved much and I was about near abandoning this painting. I use that word because I think you never really complete a painting; you just stop working on it. 

I was so absorbed in trying to get this certain turquoise right - I was just this close to getting the right shade - when Zaeb absent-mindedly called my name. She asked me to move the paint water away from Mustafa because he looked like he was about to spill it.

But I had just entered this...this mental zone. This state of focussed stillness wherein only my sense of visual perception was active, with focussed eyes and a wrinkled forehead, as I tried to get the colour right. This was the moment when nothing mattered as much as that colour, and it was not even going to last any longer than a few seconds.

And, so, I didn't turn towards Mustafa as quickly as I needed to.

And then there was a big splash.

Mustafa now sat there, partially coloured, and completely terrified. I couldn't save the carpet; the mighty teal paint water was all over it, a stunning contrast against its original white colour. Zaeb let out a pained cry.