More his mama than mine

Published: September 9, 2012
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Her eyes welled up with tears. Mama jaan’s (Mother dear) favouritism for her sons was evident. PHOTO: REUTERS

Uzma’s eyes were fixed on the clock. She had to wait for nine more seconds till it was exactly 3:00am. Her trance was broken by the aching last breath of the cigarette between her fingers. This pain was short-lived.

There were no signs of Ali’s return. Maintaining a smooth marriage was never on his priority list. Neither was this new to Uzma, nor was it the reason of her sleeplessness tonight. In her 12 years spent in Calgary, she had experienced insomnia every December.

The melancholic mewling of very noisy Frederic III was becoming unbearable. Its monotony seemed to be drilling a hole from Uzma’s left temple to the right. She feared the noise would wake little Sana up who had fallen asleep after a long bedtime storytelling session.

She smoothed her unwrinkled bed sheets wearily and stood up; gathering her hair in a taut, untidy bun which immediately fell back loose, unfastened. She walked into the lounge to find a big mess the cat had created; a chewed up family album was the first to alarm her,

Oh my God, what have you done, Freddie?

The cat responded by lovingly touching its head on her ankle.

The ripped album pricked her like a needle in the heart. On the front page, the 80’s Kodak model’s colour-blocked face was now chewed to a distorted horror. Uzma fell to her knees and picked up the album. Memories of her childhood and teen years flashed in front of her already sore eyes. Almost 7,000 miles away, this love felt the purest; family.

As she went through the album, she found not photos, but detailed bittersweet accounts of her life.

Uzma’s eighth birthday:

What a lovely day it had been. Of course, until mama had told her to wait until her brothers had had enough cake, she had said,

“Badtameezi nahi karo! Behnein humesha bhaiyon ke baad khaati hain!”

(Don’t misbehave! Sisters always wait until their brothers are done eating).

But mama always said this, and it didn’t usually hurt Uzma. Except, today, it was her special day. She deserved to be the first one to fill herself plump with her car-shaped cake. Uzma felt some heaviness in her chest but moved to the next photo.

Eid of 1988:

A sad pishwas-clad Uzma sat with her two brothers. The children had waited for their Eidi (money gifted to children by elders on Eid as a token of love) all day. Mama jaan had given the boys a hundred rupees each. It was a big amount back then for a child to receive. Uzma eagerly awaited her turn. And then mama jaan gave her her Eidi, fifty rupees.

She enquired as to why she was granted half her brothers’ share.

Her mother had said, again,

Don’t argue! You are a girl, Uzmi. You don’t have the kind of expenses boys have.

Shahid Bhai’s first child:

There it was; a picture of a proud grandmother who had flown in from Florida just to see her new grandson. She stood hovering a thousand rupee note over the child to ward off the evil eye.

This was the same grandmother who, four years ago, was satisfied with only some emailed pictures of Uzma’s daughter, Sana.

Her eyes welled up with tears. Mama jaan’s favouritism for her sons was evident. The reminiscing had rejuvenated the suppressed heartache of a neglected daughter. How her mother had not attended her recital because she had to go to Shahid bhai’s annual sports day.

How she had failed to remember Uzma’s birthday numerous times but it was a tradition to feed the poor at Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s tomb on Shahid’s birthday. How Mama didn’t come to see her off when she left for Australia for her scholarship. How many times mama jaan could have embraced her and didn’t.

Uzma picked up the phone and called her mother-

How are you, mama? I miss you so much.

I’m good, beta, just ate lunch. It’s extremely hot in Karachi tod–

Mama jaan… I want you to come to Calgary immediately. Please don’t say no.

The wretchedness in her tone was easy for a mother to sense. Uzma sucked in her tears and swallowed the dense, obstinate lump in her throat.

Khairiyat, Uzmi?

(Is everything okay, Uzmi?)

I feel depressed, Mama. Please come to me.

Stop crying, dear, things happen. Have you had a fight with Ali? It is called marriage, it isn’t easy. You are 34, Uzmi. I brought you up to be stronger than–

Maa, are you going to come to Calgary or not?

“I would have come had it not been for Shahid,” she had said. “You know he cannot go on one day without me.”

This post originally appeared here

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Imaan Sheikh

Imaan Sheikh

An graduate with a degree in Mass Communication from the University of Karachi, she enjoys reading, writing and listening to classical psychedelic rock. She blogs at www.imaansheikh.wordpress.com and tweets as @SheikhImaan (twitter.com/SheikhImaan)

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