Risen from dust

Fifteen

2 years ago, 1989, Gujrat

A year passed by and still Harris couldn't get his head around the fact that Mariam had believed that scheming, lying man over him, even though all Harris was to her was faithful. He was at a Chai dhaba, a tea shack, you could find these at every corner of every city in Pakistan. It is a mystery haven where a variety of individuals come to laze themselves or have some enjoyment. In other words, this is a place which does not have the concept of class or status. Usually in most places there is an obfuscating of lines between the wealthy and the poor, the old and the youthful, but here, it's like everyone joins together and shares stories, let go of their problems and find a friend in a stranger.

Plus, the best thing about dhabas is that it is cheap, and after what Harris had allegedly committed, his Abba wasn't very keen on allowing him back into the business. Even though deep down he also knew that Saleem was the one who was to be blamed.

"Bhai sahib, one chai, two omelettes and two parathas."

"Jee, here is the chai, the rest of your order will be here in 10 minutes."

While Harris was sipping on his tea, a young man came and sat next to him, he looked around 9 to 10 years old and he looked like he had been weeping, moreover, this young lad had massive cut marks on the left side of his arm, it almost looked like he had made them intentionally. The cuts had piqued Harris's interest and it pushed him to ask, "What's wrong kiddo? You look like you've seen better days."

"No offense, Uncle," the boy retorted, emphasizing the word 'Uncle' to make it clear that he didn't appreciate being treated like a child. "None of your business, okay? Did I ask you, 'Why do you look like you haven't seen the shower since you were born?' NO. So don't bug me. It's my world just as much as it is yours. I can do whatever I want, say whatever I want, and look however I want."

"To answer your question, I actually haven't showered in days. Go ahead, feel disgusted, but I've given up on life. You know, this time last year, I was holding my mother in my arms, my biological mother, waiting for my wif..."

Before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by the boy, who interjected with disdain, "Uncle jee, I have no interest in your mother or your life. So, spare me."

Unperturbed by the interruption, Harris responded calmly, "I wasn't talking to you. 'It's my world just as much as it is yours. I can do whatever I want, say whatever I want, and look like whatever I want.' As I was saying, Ah yes! I had asked my wife to get a glass of milk when..."

A year ago, the events unfolded with a sense of urgency and confusion. Harris found himself carrying his mother, Amma, into the haveli, his heart heavy with worry. Something had happened to Mariam, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of dread.

"Amma, I'll need to carry you inside. I think Mariam got caught up in something," he said, his voice filled with concern. With careful steps, he carried her into the haveli and rushed into the kitchen, where he discovered Mariam sitting by the tandoor, tears streaming down her face.

"Mariam, my love, what's wrong?" he asked, his own anxiety mounting. It was unusual for her to be so overwhelmed by trivial matters.

"Don't you dare address me like that. Don't address me at all," she snapped, pushing him away before abruptly leaving the room. In that moment, he was torn between following her and attending to his mother's needs. In the end, he chose to tend to Amma, believing it was the right thing to do.

As Harris took care of his mother, Waliyah, his sister, approached him with genuine curiosity. "Who is this woman, Harris? Mariam says she's your biological mother," she inquired, her tone neither rude nor impolite, but simply seeking understanding.