Sisters torn apart by the fragility of the heart, how can love possibly hurt so much?
Hana Junaid decided two years ago, distance would make her younger sister Hanaan more independent but Hanaan's love and yearning for Hana during this time has drow...
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An hour later after each of our collapse, Nashwa and I look up at the daunting skyscraper from its carpark not yet ready to go up to Ahmad Mamu's office and pry from him the moments of his darkest night. It wasn't just his darkest night, it was Nashwa's too. I turn to look at her; thumbs tapping on the steering wheel, squinting against the late afternoon sun, Nashwa is Nashwa.
Her hair is instant noodle spaghetti curly, reaches all the way till her hips no matter how roughly; she has it tied now in a tight long braid, smaller strands escaping to frame her face. Her cheeks are not as chubby as mine but they are still plump courtesy to her always huffing them in annoyance and nourishing them well with greasy food. Her eyes are always a blazing brown, the kind that tells you she's there to fight all your battles for you or she's sure as hell about to be your toughest one; there's no in between. Today her lashes are stained black with mascara, her lips are tainted a soft red. Her cheeks are splotched rosy from her breakdown.
When you cry, you glow differently.
But Nashwa has her own aesthetic too. The right hand clutching the steering wheel has a black leather strap wrist watch sitting on it. Nashwa is always draped in a black chadar from head to knees, one side of it lifted to her shoulder where she carries her beige brown canvas bag with its own long strap so it hangs by her side, now sitting in the backseat.
Today she is dressed in a crimson red kurta with narrow black embroidery on the sleeves over a bell bottom black trouser; I assume she wore it to her university. Underneath — I bite my lip — she wears rainbow coloured ankle socks and over them, black joggers with orange stripes. Her golden chain is concealed well under her black chadar.
Though Nashwa fears nothing and no one, she says, she doesn't want me wetting my pants if a snatcher points a gun at her, catching sight of this golden chain. I never bothered asking her what she would do if one ever did come by, I did not want her showing me a YouTube video she had practiced enough times with her cousin-brothers on how to disarm a man pointing a gun at you.
Don't get me wrong, Nashwa could do it, but my parents taught me to have faith in Allah only.
She places a hand on her tummy and shoots me a goofy smile. "I'm not feeling so well, Hana. I think the bun kababs we just had were rotten somewhere."
"Oh really?"
She nods, puffing her cheeks to fake a belch. "We really should have eaten something more hygienic like from KFC or Subway. I've learnt my lesson. Never to eat from a small street stall again."
"Oh really?"
She slams a hand against the steering. "This is bad. You know me too well now, I must annihilate you. You cannot know more personal information about me. But I'm too compassionate to do that, I'll drop you home first and then come back to talk to your Mamu, you've had too much chaos today."
