Broken Verses

We’d return home in time to greet the mid-morning callers, and every year, without fail, there was a moment of panic between Beema and my father when some distant relatives who hadn’t been invited for lunch dropped in to say Eid Mubarak and looked as though they pla

This year, with Beema in Islamabad, Rabia had taken over the responsibility of the family lunch, and as I was still lying in bed enjoying the light streaming in between the curtains, I heard her push through the co

I got out of bed, laughing. And then I continued laughing all through the morning and afternoon, as I helped Rabia and Shakeel prepare lunch, spoke to Beema and Dad who had tales of two mobile phones destroyed in one evening during Dad’s attempt to demonstrate the principles of aerodynamics to one of his neighbours, and then received the relatives (the men and women resolving the crisis by taking it in shifts to carry the Tyrant up the stairs]. I even managed to remain in good humour while being lectured about my unmarried state by old great-aunts who didn’t allow the absence of blood ties between us to stand in the way of their familial right to lecture me. ‘You could die a virgin]’ the Tyrant said, clutching my hand. ‘It happened to a cousin of mine. And she, poor woman, was married.’ All the women of her age nodded, some of them whispering the name of the cousin to each other with hands covering the side of their mouths to protect the identity of the dead woman, while the younger generations looked for a place to hide their embarrassment, the uncles started talking very loudly about cricket and the new government, and Shakeel sprinted into his studio, from where we could hear him explode into laughter.

There is this narrative, too, in my life, I thought, late in the afternoon when everyone was filing out, and more than one of the female cousins near my age whispered, giggling, ‘Don’t die a virgin!’ as they left. There has always been this narrative. Just for this one day I will not be hostage to that other past of mine.

Next door, the phone started ringing.

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Rabia said. ‘It’s been going every fifteen minutes for the last couple of hours.’

Here we go again.

I went into my flat, picked up the phone. No answer, no originating number. I disco

I took a long siesta that afternoon, with dreams in which the sound of a ringing telephone followed me everywhere, even though I was transported back in time, trekking in the middle of desert and rock in a world in which I knew phones hadn’t yet been invented.

I forgot about that dream when I woke up, but it returned to me later that evening as I was driving to Shehnaz Saeed’s for di

The traffic stopped and the motorbike drew level with me. I was boxed in on all sides by cars. The man with the shawl looked in through my rolled-up window, and slowly — unbearably slowly — removed his hand from the driver’s shoulder and reached beneath the shawl.

‘Eid Mubarak,’ he mouthed, the hand beneath the shawl scratching his stomach, and then the motorcycle continued to snake through the traffic and turned towards Gizri.

I bit my lip and willed myself just to continue driving, without any further looks in the rearview mirror unless they were necessary to prevent an accident. A few minutes later, it was with the relief that travellers in the desert greet Bedouins bearing palm fronds and coconut water that I saluted the chowkidar at Shehnaz Saeed’s house when he opened the gate for me.

The front door was ajar, and as I walked up to the doorway I saw Ed standing in the hallway, arms crossed, looking at the paintings of his mother.

I was absurdly glad to see him. ‘Hey, stranger.’ I walked up to him, not sure whether to hug him or kiss him on the cheek or put my arms around his neck and see what followed

He turned around, arms still crossed, making all three options physically awkward to manage. ‘Hello, Aasmaani.’ He didn’t smile or show a sign of anything except indifference at my arrival.

‘Well, this is a strained moment.’ He half-shrugged. ‘I see. And getting worse by the second. Should we try polite chitchat? When did you get back?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Uh-huh. And how did filming go?’

‘Fine.’

‘Glad to hear it. And clearly the rugged wilds of Pakistan allowed you to get in touch with your i

‘Oh, stop it, for God’s sake.’ He strode into the nearest room, slamming the door behind him.

I heard footsteps and turned in their direction. The woman who had let me in when I came for lunch with Shehnaz Saeed was walking down the tiled hall towards me, her clothes white this time, as though she had switched sides in a game of draughts. ‘When he does that it means he wants you to follow him in,’ she said.

‘Maybe I should just leave him alone.’

She shook her head. ‘Even as a little boy he used to think he needed to do all kinds of drama to get attention. Because his mother was so busy with her acting.’ She held up a hand, cutting off a statement that I hadn’t been about to make. ‘I won’t hear any criticism of her. That husband went off and left her without any money, what could she do but work? But my little Adnan,’ she pointed towards the door, ‘he was too young to understand that. So he’d jump out of trees and break his legs to make her stay at home. His heart,’ she beat her hand against my chest, ‘it’s so large he doesn’t know what to do with it.’ And then she was gri