Shahida arrives at home from one of her daily walks. She walks through the back door. It leads into the garden and through the back entrance of the house. People rarely enter the house through the front. The door is unlocked and clicks open.
The house is empty. Shahida walks through the living room, ignoring the television or the choice to sit down on one of the soft sofas. She notices Hussnain, her youngest child, sleeping as babies should be. She allows herself a quiet sigh of relief as she observes her son.
The kitchen smells of various spices and other foods but Shahida mainly smells spices. Their fragrances drift towards her as they are carried by the outside breeze. Today’s dinner will go well, she thought.
The staircase, long and narrow, lacked character or any visual charm. Right-angled twists and turns are common here; she tuts at ink scribbles on the once pure crème wall. Shahida never did like walking up this house, thinking of older times, of a smaller, livelier home, the pattering of tiny feet and laughter. She thinks there will never be an era like the nineties again.
She is now on the highest floor. The layout is simple with two parallel paths – a door here, a door there and the bathroom. She is distracted by the pieces of clothing on the carpeted floor. It was probably left by one of the children, so she folds the various shirts and tracksuit bottoms, placing them neatly on the staircase railing in a manner that befits the air of motherly femininity.
She turns right; opens the door. She has avoided this room for many days. But now is the time for cleaning, so Shahida allows relevant memories to emerge as she enters. She surveys the room for dirt, strewn clothing and so on.
She opens the blinds to let the light in and opens the windows for the breeze. Walking to the end of the room, Shahida opens the wardrobe to what is expected – a lack of clothes. She already knows the table is scarce of books and that the bed is devoid of occupancy. There was once livelihood here. Not anymore, she thought, as she notes small dust particles floating about in the room.
She sees something new on the bed. It is a package, small and blue, like the sheets of the bed. Shahida hurries to the other end of the room, to the bed. The blue box is gift wrapped and she notices a small label on one of the ribbon ends.
‘To Mum.’
The handwriting is recognisable and it is addressed to her. She opens the package to find a small notebook. Turning the cover, she finds there are no words written. Each page contains a photograph.
A newborn baby with masses of hair, enveloped in a white cloth.
A younger Shahida with the same boy, a couple of years later, potty-training.
The boy’s first primary school photo.
5th birthday party.
The notebook continues in this fashion until Shahida reaches the last page. She reads the note in familiar handwriting aloud.
‘Thank you for everything. I hope I’m making you proud. Love, your son, Saqib.’
The breeze outside has died down. In this silence, she closes the notebook and basks in reflection.
The house is empty. Shahida walks through the living room, ignoring the television or the choice to sit down on one of the soft sofas. She notices Hussnain, her youngest child, sleeping as babies should be. She allows herself a quiet sigh of relief as she observes her son.
The kitchen smells of various spices and other foods but Shahida mainly smells spices. Their fragrances drift towards her as they are carried by the outside breeze. Today’s dinner will go well, she thought.
The staircase, long and narrow, lacked character or any visual charm. Right-angled twists and turns are common here; she tuts at ink scribbles on the once pure crème wall. Shahida never did like walking up this house, thinking of older times, of a smaller, livelier home, the pattering of tiny feet and laughter. She thinks there will never be an era like the nineties again.
She is now on the highest floor. The layout is simple with two parallel paths – a door here, a door there and the bathroom. She is distracted by the pieces of clothing on the carpeted floor. It was probably left by one of the children, so she folds the various shirts and tracksuit bottoms, placing them neatly on the staircase railing in a manner that befits the air of motherly femininity.
She turns right; opens the door. She has avoided this room for many days. But now is the time for cleaning, so Shahida allows relevant memories to emerge as she enters. She surveys the room for dirt, strewn clothing and so on.
She opens the blinds to let the light in and opens the windows for the breeze. Walking to the end of the room, Shahida opens the wardrobe to what is expected – a lack of clothes. She already knows the table is scarce of books and that the bed is devoid of occupancy. There was once livelihood here. Not anymore, she thought, as she notes small dust particles floating about in the room.
She sees something new on the bed. It is a package, small and blue, like the sheets of the bed. Shahida hurries to the other end of the room, to the bed. The blue box is gift wrapped and she notices a small label on one of the ribbon ends.
‘To Mum.’
The handwriting is recognisable and it is addressed to her. She opens the package to find a small notebook. Turning the cover, she finds there are no words written. Each page contains a photograph.
A newborn baby with masses of hair, enveloped in a white cloth.
A younger Shahida with the same boy, a couple of years later, potty-training.
The boy’s first primary school photo.
5th birthday party.
The notebook continues in this fashion until Shahida reaches the last page. She reads the note in familiar handwriting aloud.
‘Thank you for everything. I hope I’m making you proud. Love, your son, Saqib.’
The breeze outside has died down. In this silence, she closes the notebook and basks in reflection.
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