The Difference

1942

Laughter rang through the narrow alley as the little girl evaded capture. A smug smile formed on the round face, but it slipped away as quickly as it had arrived as she faced a wall too high and too smooth to climb over.

            “Tag! You’re it!”

A hand tugged at her braid. The girl looked petulantly at her sister.

“It’s not fair, Ramlah. You’re bigger, and faster,” she said.

            “And you’re smaller, and lighter, Naf. But you don’t see me bringing that up when you climb over the garden wall before I do. Come on.” Ramlah swung an arm around her sister’s shoulder and steered them out of the alleyway.

            The main street was almost empty, save for two girls playing hopscotch next to the sweet shop. Following her sister’s longing gaze at the game, Ramlah nudged her lightly.

            “Do you want to ask them if we can play?”

            “Only if you speak,” Nafisah said, looking at her sister with begging eyes.

            “As always.” Louder, Ramlah said, “Hey, can we play with you?”

            The girls looked up at the two sisters.

            “Of course,” the taller one said. “What are your names?”

            “Ramlah. And this is my sister, Nafisah.”

            Sticking her hand out, the tall girl said, “Sayeda.”

            “Aisha,” the girl with glasses said, offering the pebble to them.

            Ramlah stiffened at the introductions, and very reluctantly shook Sayeda’s hand. In a sudden reversal of roles, Nafisah ran forward, taking the pebble, and jumped into the game, ignoring her sister hissing her name. Wrapping her arms around herself, Ramlah sat on the steps of the sweet shop.

            “Ram, here.” Snapping out of her reverie, Ramlah looked at her sister’s outstretched palm. She shook her head vigourously, catching the attention of the curious girls.

            “Are you sure?” Aisha said. “We’re not in a rush to reach our turn.”

            Eyes still focused on the ground, Ramlah said, “No…um…we just…um…have to…um...get home…um…soon.”

            “It won’t be Maghrib time for another hour!” Her oblivious sister said. “If you want to go home so badly, then go! I’m old enough to walk around the block by myself.”

            “We can walk her home, if you want to go.” Sayeda said.

            The offer tensed up Ramlah’s shoulders up. “No, I’ll stay. But I don’t want to play.” Looking at the hunched up figure for a moment, the girls turned back to their game.

            Every minute dragged on for Ramlah. Finally, the sound of the Aza’an rang through. Like the birds on the rooftops, she shot upwards and bounded down the steps.

            “Come on, Naf. Now we really do have to go.”

            “Aww, do we?”

            “Yes!” Not letting another word slip out of her sister’s mouth, Ramlah grabbed Nafisah’s sweat drenched arm and pulled her down the street.

            “We play here every evening.” Aisha called out to the retreating figures. “Feel free to join us any time.”

            Ramlah clamped her hand over Nafisah’s mouth and sped up, not releasing her sister until they had reached the corner.

            “Why didn’t you reply to them, Ram?”

            “Because…Look, I don’t know how to explain it. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

            The rest of the walk was silent, save for the usual ‘Asalam Alaikum’ to the Aunty next door; except today, Ramlah did not offer to help her carry her chair back inside. Hurridly ushering Nafisah in, she noticed two silhouettes at the end of the street, before slamming the door shut.

“Hello girls, did you have fun today?” Ramlah jumped at the voice. Arranging her face into a smile, she turned around to regard her mother.

            “Today was so great!”Nafisah said, hopping on the balls of her feet.

            “What did you do?”

            “Oh…um…we played tag…” said Ramlah.

            “And then we made two new friends and played hopscotch with them!” Ignoring her sister’s glare, Nafisah continued on. “Well, I played. Ram just sat there.”

            “I didn’t want to play.” Ramlah said. Unfortunately, her mother pursued the topic.

            “That’s nice. What were their names?”

            Now in an environment where she was comfortable, Nafisah shot off before Ramlah could salvage the situation.

            “Aisha and Sayeda. They looked about the same age as Ram, and were both really nice and let me have Ram’s turns as well. I won lots of times! And I’ve been invited to play with them again!”

            Ramlah squeezed her eyes shut so as to avoid seeing her mother’s expression. Even still, a thickness filled the room, going over Nafisah’s head as she rambled on.

            “Nafisah Rangwala, I don’t want you meeting those girls again.” Their mother said.

            “But why?”

            “They’re not Bohris. There are a lot of differences between us, and it’s better that you don’t become friends with those girls.”

            “But Ami, most of my class is non-Bohri! My teacher is non-Bohri!”

            “Yes, and you can’t help that. Interact with them when you have to, but the people you’re close to should be your own kind.”

            “But Ami—“

            “This discussion is over, Nafisah! You’re only eight right now, you don’t understand these things, so just do as I say!”

1989

            A couple strolled leisurely under the warm March sun. Taking advantage of the few nice days before the scorching Karachi heat would take over, they flopped down on the grass. The boy’s fingers tickled the grass as he placed his hand over the girl’s.

            “Look at that, Fahim,” the girl said, gesturing to the large building across the lawn. “In a few months, we’ll be out of here. We’ll be the ones giving advice to the new Aga Khan University students.”

            “And hopefully working in the hospital.” Fahim turned his hand over so the palm looked up to the sky. “Sakina, I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

            “Kina, I know we’ve only been together for a few months, but you’re my best friend.”

            Sakina smiled. “I know. Remember the first day we met though?”

            “We hated each other!”

            “Until we saw each other at the rang fight!”

            “Both of us the first to run out onto the field that day!”

            “How long did it take you to get all the colour off, anyways?”

            “Sakina, answer my question first.”

            “You didn’t ask one.”

            “Don’t act so smart.”

            “Then ask it!”

            Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Fahim said, “Will you marry me, Sakina?”

            Sakina’s thumb, which had been stroking Fahim’s knuckles, stopped. Her eyes widened, and her mouth curved into a smile. The only sound was the thudding of his heart beating ferociously, threatening to jump out of his chest.

            There was no warning as Sakina launched at him, enveloping him into a hug.

            “Yes, yes!”

            The words felt like a monsoon rain. Energized after a long bout of dehydration, he stood up, and whirled Sakina around. The bird’s chirped along in celebration, and Sakina tried not to think about how she would break the news to her mother.

That evening, when Sakina reached home, she took a deep breath before entering the house. The question would arise sooner or later, so she went with the direct approach as she walked into the kitchen, where her mother sat.

“Ami, I have something to tell you”

            “Of course, beti.” Nafisah smiled, encouraging her daughter to go on.

            “I’ve met someone, in my university, and we’ve talked about getting engaged.”

            “That’s wonderful. What’s his name?”

            “Fahim Hirani.”

            Nafisah’s brow knitted into a frown. Sakina’s chin trembled.

            “So he’s not a Bohri? Sakina, how could you get involved with someone out of our sect?”

            “We started out as just friends, Ami. I never expected this to happen.”

            “Sakina, you cannot marry a non-Bohri? Did you stop to think of that?”

            “I love him, and he loves me—“

            “It’s just not done!”

            “Ami, we’re both Muslims, and more importantly, we’re both Pakistanis. I don’t want to get married without your blessing, Ami. Please.”

1995

            “Nana! Ramlah Nani!”

            A chubby three-year-old ran towards the mourning pair. The older of the two, Ramlah, wiped her eyes and lifted the child onto her lap. Next to her, the old man, Juzer, leaned across to stroke his granddaughter’s cheek, and then stood to greet his approaching son-in-law.

            As Juzer pulled Fahim into a tight embrace, the young man said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Abba.”

            “Fahim, beta, Nafisah’s passing is your loss too. You could have been her own son; she loved you as she loved Sakina.”

            “She made me feel as though I was a part of the family, constantly reassuring me when people scorned mine and Sakina’s marriage.”

            “Sakina said the same about your parents, beta.” At this, Juzer released Fahim, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

            The old woman did not rise as Fahim turned to face her. Awkwardly moving an arm forward, he quickly replaced it by his side upon her involuntary recoil. These ingrained habits could not be changed so easily, so he settled for words alone.

            “I’m sorry for your loss, Ramlah Khala,” he said, hoping this was consolation enough to the old woman as she wept for the loss of her sister.

            “Thank you, Fahim.” Ramlah said quickly, as she refocused her attention on Nafisah’s granddaughter.

            “Go find Sakina. You can leave Umme-Hani with us.” Juzer said.

            Smiling at his father-in-law and daughter, Fahim blinked away a tear and retreated into the crowd in search of his wife. The thoughts of his late mother-in-law gave him the strength to walk past the looks of contempt from those who did not like an Ismaili invading their space.

2014

            “Ami, I have something to tell you.”

            That sentence sounded all too familiar to Sakina. She had, after all, used them once, long ago, on a March day not too different from this one. Everything from her sitting at the kitchen table peeling oranges, to Umme-Hani’s shaking hands, mimicked the scene from twenty-five years earlier. Setting the knife down, she turned to face her daughter.

            “I think I know what it is.”

            “How?”

            The older woman reached for her daughter’s hand. “Hani, I said those exact words to your Nani when I told her I wanted to marry your father.”

            “Oh thank God. I had a whole speech prepared to convince you.” Umme-Hani’s arms circled around her mother, squeezing her in a tight embrace.

            “So, what is he? Ismaili?” Sakina nudged her daughter’s foot. “Sunni? Memon?”

            “Well…”

            “Are they a she?”

            “Parsi.”

            Sakina released her daughter. “Umme-Hani Hirani!”

            “You were just happy for me!”

            “Yes, because I thought he was going to be a non-Bohri, not a non-Muslim entirely!”

            “Ami, what does it matter?”

            “What makes you think you can marry a Parsi, Umme-Hani? It’s just not done!”

            Hani leapt to her feet. “Who says it’s not done, Ami? Some age-old tradition? Just because things weren’t done like that, doesn’t mean we continue on in that same rut forever—“

            “It’s more than that—“

            “Please, Ami, let me finish. We live in this country, so divided. We interact when we have to, but never let relations surpass that. Remaining in these specific groups just increases the boundaries between sects, and religions too. Whether we’re Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Parsis or Sikhs, we’re all Pakistanis. This country wasn’t meant for Muslims alone. Not Jinnah’s Pakistan, anyways.

“It’s become this, because we cling to the past. But this was meant to be a country in which all religions lived freely. Instead, ‘minorities’ are made to feel like outsiders in their own country. Even amongst Muslims, we hardly move out of our own sect.

            “Love is not based on religion, Ami. Rustom and I love swimming in the ocean. Would some Muslim in Britain, who has spent his entire life inland, have that in common with me? What about an American bred Muslim who finds chicken tikka too spicy? These small things that brought us together come from us being Pakistani, from us being Karachiites.

“I don’t want to get married without your blessing, Ami. Please.”

           

Try Looking Out Of My Eyes For A Change

            The automatic doors opened with a whoosh as the heel of my shoes clicked the marble floor one last time, before setting out onto the uneven pavement. Wobbling slightly, my hand gripped a broad forearm.

            “Thank you,” I said, adjusting my skewed sunglasses.

            “No problem,” the woman said in a motherly tone. “Watch your step, the road is pretty crowded.”

            With a wave to my right, I pushed through a sea of bodies. The sweaty air was replaced by freshness as I approached the street corner. Movement ceased, and I bumped into a still body as it stood there waiting for the car honks to cease. I apologized, and the man replied good-naturedly. Our conversation carried on as we crossed the road.           

            “The city is always crowded in the summer,” he said.

            “I wouldn’t know. This is the first time I’ve been outside.”

            “You don’t say? Where do you stay holed up?”

            “Well, I’m not from Toronto.”

            “Ah, that explains it. Where are you from then?”

            “Mississauga.”

            “Oh I lived there for a while. Too dreary for my taste.”

            “You might think that, but it’s lovely and peaceful—and we don’t have to deal with a flood of people every time it’s a holiday.”

            The man chuckled. “Well, I don’t live here either. My wife and I didn’t want to raise kids in a city. Well, nice meeting you. Have a good day.”

            “Goodbye.” Raising an arm in farewell, I turned the corner. The sound of trains hurtling past grew louder and louder.

            “Excuse me, where is the GO station?”

            “Right here,” a childish voice said. Ignoring protests from an older woman, she grabbed my hand and yanked me towards the entrance.

            “There you are!” The familiar voice of my sister rang louder than the din. “You know, I doubted you getting here, but you did. I’m proud of you, Marzia.”

            Thanking the girl, I yanked my arm away just as my sister’s fingers grazed my skin.

            “Momina! I can manage by myself!”

            “Sure…” Despite her skepticism, she did not protest, simply watching as my stick slipped out of my grasp and hit the floor. With a sigh, she moved forward and lifted it up. Hands reaching forward, my fingers curled around the stick. I could still feel her eyes looking pitifully upon my turned figure as I walked ahead.

            It was easy to pretend I was travelling on my own on the train ride home. Momina did not say another word to me. I tuned out her heavy sighs by tapping my stick on the floor repetitively.

            As we got off the train at the Streetsville GO station, Momina gripped my arm so tightly I could not break free. Walking towards my mother, that constant thought entered my mind: strangers spoke to me in what I imagined was a ‘normal’ way, but my sister just could not seem to grasp what it was like seeing out of the eyes of a blind girl.

Steering Blindly On A Curved Road

DAWN newspaper

23^rd March 2013

SUICIDE AT SEAVIEW

Karachi: Aslam Khan, age 32, was found dead at seaview last night. The cause of his death seems not to be murder, as is common in these unfortunate times, rather by a deliberate drug overdose. Our condolences lie with his friends and family and we wish them luck in coping with a future deprived of Aslam.

Shrugging off my black coat, I picked up the newspaper from a few days ago that lay on the table. My eyes were drawn to one particular article; one I had read multiple times. It was the reason of my being garbed in mourning clothes. As I was reading through the tragic incident at seaview, I heard a knock. The postman stood there with an envelope, which was disorientating from the norm of emails and phone calls.

I tore open the envelope, and a postcard tumbled out. The front pictured a breathtaking photograph of the Himalayas in the north of Pakistan, while the back had only three words inscribed upon it: ‘A Killer View.’ There was no signature. My heart thudded as my eyes flitted between the newspaper and the postcard. Fear shot through my body as I wondered who could send that, the only other person who knew was now dead…

Coincidence! I tried to assure myself it was nothing. All the same, I shredded the postcard and discarded it immediately.

The next couple of days were as ordinary as a 32-year-old man’s life can be; work, food and sleep. The monotony of this endless cycle was broken a few days later.

On April 1^st, another envelope arrived in the mail. Hesitating to open it this time, I gingerly pulled out a photograph. Two young boys were laughing carelessly as they stood at the edge of a lake. My heart ached at the sight: Aslam-my best friend, and I.  A caption was scrawled onto the picture: ‘Never Again’. Who would want to torture me in such a way? The memories of the lake came back like a landslide, as the sender of this photograph had hoped.

We were standing at the water’s edge, peering into the depths of the lake. Fish swam around in circles. They look so calm and peaceful, I had said. Imagine how much fun it would be to poke sticks into the lake and spear them, Aslam had said. No stranger to Aslam’s sadistic sense of humour, I laughed at this. Aslam derived his humour from sadism, I knew.

We were completely oblivious to the events that would unfold all these years later. Who would have thought that that smiling face would be lying in the morgue as a result of taking his life? Oh Aslam- my best friend, my other half. One would never think this boy would turn out an alcoholic drug addict. Even a year ago, one would laugh at the thought of it. It all started That Day. The picture of the mountains flashed through my head. A tear rolled down my cheek. I felt my chest tighten.

Grabbing a fist of my hair with my hand, the memory of Aslam drinking himself to oblivion came flooding back. Stop, I constantly told him. He would ignore me, saying he needed to forget. The guilt had been eating up my insides so I let him continue.

A few months later I found him smoking his way through crates of cigarettes. A similar conversation took place, except I attempted to be more forceful. He ignored me.

Six months after That Incident, Aslam decided more drastic measures were needed to forget: drugs. I all but threw those drugs away. Maybe I should have done that. Would he be sitting opposite me, laughing and mocking everyone in his cynical manner? Except he would not be laughing, he never laughed after That Incident. A joyful cynic is one thing, but a serious cynic can turn sadistic, especially under the influence of drugs.

The tears were falling faster now, the ache in my chest growing.

Was it sadness, or was it guilt?

The latter. It gnawed at me and chewed me up from the inside. I tried to fight it. I threw myself into work. I distracted myself through every possible non-fatal mean. Yet every liquid reminded me of alcohol, and every cigarette I saw whispered to me: ‘it was your fault’.

On May 16^th, the postman visited my house again. There was the customary envelope, except this time it was accompanied by a parcel. Taking it in, I sunk onto my couch, wondering how this mysterious sadist could torture me any more. I pulled out a letter with trembling fingers and began to read.

My ‘dear’ friend

Let’s flash back to when it all begun. A year ago, in February, on the 15th, five friends decided to go for a mountain climbing expedition in the Himalayan Mountains of Pakistan, to Makra Peak. Snow of course was said to make climbing jeopardous but it was you who said that danger only added to the thrill. Oh, the first few days were incredible, but weather is unpredictable, and by the fifth day, snow was falling thickly all around. Yet you still said: ‘No, it will clear up by the afternoon, let’s go.’ The other three were clever enough to decline, but I, your other half, could not refuse you. You were wrong. The weather didn’t clear up. The snow fell faster than ever. Our vision was obscured by white. Chilled to the bone, we attempted to get back. Of course, we weren’t the only fools out there; another poor soul was stuck too. I was about to rush and help him but you convinced me to leave him; we did not have time to spare. We would freeze out there if we stayed longer, you said. Back at the lodge, it was you who decided to keep this incident a secret.

Did you ever wonder, after that day, what came of that man? The one we left to die?  Well, I did. I tried to forget. But nothing, not alcohol, not cigarettes, and not even drugs could wipe the image imprinted on my brain. There was only one solution left, I thought. But if I was to be punished, so were you. I prepared these ‘presents’ and bribed the postman to send them on specific days. (You would be surprised to know how easy it is to manipulate decent people). I know how your mind works, I know you will be joining me soon enough.  March 23^rd- everything was in place; I was about to be freed. The beach is a wonderful place to die. This was it. It was time.

-A

With trembling fingers, I ripped open the parcel. In it lay a small bottle that contained what looked like an ordinary medicine, but instinct told me it was much more than that. A small note was attached.

Do you know what the last thing I saw before I died was? That poor man, and how I was repenting for my sins. I was punished for what we did; it’s only fair you are too. Think about all the guilt flooding through you right now. The solution to eradicating it is in this bottle. It will be quick, and painless. You shall join me soon.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I reread the letter. It wasn’t my fault; I told him trying to forget would get him nowhere; that there was no escaping it. Embracing it was the only way, but he ignored me. First the alcohol, then the constant smoking, and then drugs; what could I do to stop him then?

Maybe I should have let him tell someone. Keeping it silent prevented him from getting help. So was I to blame? Then how can I repent for my mistake?

Well, another voice in my head interjected, you could fulfill his dying wish.

I glanced at the bottle again.

Aslam’s face flashed through my mind.

Do you know what the last thing I saw before I died was?

I felt as thought I was buried under snow.

I tipped the pill into my hand. An instant, and it would all be over.

I raised my hand to my mouth.

NO! The first voice was back. You are much stronger than this. Eradicating the guilt is never the solution. Take the advice that Aslam never took.

I’m right, I thought. I survived this because I never tried to suppress the guilt; I used it as a lesson. I was strong in the way he never was. I became selfless. I did not end it then. I will not end it now. The pill slipped through my fingers and disappeared between the couch cushions.

I had fought Aslam’s well thought out plan, but the guilt could still come back to haunt me when I least expected it. The only solution was to find the root of the problem, which was what happened to the man in the snow.

With the aid of the Internet, I searched mountain climbing incidents in February 2012 in Pakistan. Several articles came up. They reported the infamous blizzard that had changed the course of my best friend’s life. I then found the article that held the key to my life.

DAWN newspaper

20^th February 2012

MAN SAVED IN THE MOUNTAINS

That was all I needed to read. The ache in my chest lightened and I let out a sigh of relief.

But then another thought plagued me. Aslam had let his life slip away for nothing. I had lost my best friend for nothing. Why had we not thought to find out what became of the man? His fate sat in the very newspaper I received every day but never bothered to read until it became relevant to me specifically. So it was my fault. It was my own self-centered nature that had caused all of this. I was not innocent in this matter.

I knew there was no way I could compensate the loss, but I could repent.

One day I headed out to Seaview with bags of food for those who sat starving on the streets. A life was taken here; therefore lives would be saved here too. I walked along till the restaurants. A familiar face caught my eye in the crowd and a fresh wave of guilt washed over me as I found myself staring at Aslam’s brother.

Do not suppress it, I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I began to walk over to him.

That was when I heard the most terrifying noise of my life. The sounds of laughter turned to screaming as masked men entered the vicinity, carrying guns in their hands. I frantically scanned for a safe place when my gaze fell upon Aslam’s brother again. His back was turned, and although he could not see it, my line of sight saw a gun aimed at his back. Without a further thought, I sprinted towards him. Pushing him out of the way, I turned around, watching the bullet speed towards me.

DAWN newspaper

19^th May 2013

A HERO IN OUR MIDST

Karachi: One lucky citizen was spared at the recent Seaview shooting due to the heroic actions of Sajid Hussain. The citizen, the brother of the late Aslam Khan, tells us the tale of how the brave Hussain pushed him out of the way and as a result, was fatally wounded. The deaths of late have been devastating, but perhaps Hussain and Khan, childhood acquaintances, will be reunited in heaven.