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Shakthi
“By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.”
― Rabindranath Tagore
A grim silence had descended over the neighbourhood on a cold winter morning as a fifty year old woman’s screeching wails pierced the sky. Khadija held her only child tightly to her bosom and rocked back and forth, looking up to the heavens, cursing as many Gods as she could remember. Kareem sat in the corner of his girl’s bedroom, clutching his knees, watching his wife and lifeless child in silent despair. Kareem’s brothers stood silently as their wives attempted to calm Khadija down but in vain. The old shed quiet tears while the young sniffled at a distance. Men and women in skull-caps and burqas stood outside the house, whispering lightly.
By sundown, shrouded in white, Fatimah would be resting in the burial grounds at the edge of the little town. In a few days, the neighbourhood would proceed to gradually forget her and move on. In a few weeks, the family would fondly, with a pinch of salt, remember Fatimah while they got busy with their lives. In a few months, Kareem would surrender his girl’s fate to the will of Allah and dive nose deep into community and religious work. And, Khadija? As her daughter went off to a better place, Khadija was left to revise the chapters of her life.
Seemingly lifeless on the outside, Khadija spent her days mulling over the last conversation she had with her nineteen year old girl, engulfed in guilt, self-hatred and a multitude of questions.
"But, does Krishnan love you for who you are?", she had asked her daughter.
"Yes, Ammi! Yes, he does!", Fatimah had wept bitterly.
"If he did, why would he ask you to become Hindu?", Khadija had asked with pleading eyes, trying to convince her daughter that true love would do exactly the opposite.
Fatimah in red and swollen eyes, had looked up at her mother in utter disgust. "You're a hypocrite!", she had screamed and pushed her mother out of her room, slamming the door so hard that a gust of cement and sand flew off the edges.
If only Khadija had managed to get back into her daughter's room, instead of quietly walking away with a head full of thoughts, perhaps, the next morning she wouldn't be found lying with an open wrist in a pool of blood?
Fatimah was Khadija's only child. Her love for her daughter knew no bounds. After losing her first two babies to miscarriages, Khadija had spun her world around her little angel.
But... But, her angel was right, wasn't she? Khadija was a hypocrite indeed. She too embraced Islam because she wanted to marry Kareem, didn't she?
And, Kareem! Oh, Kareem! The more Khadija thought of how he had chided Fatimah, threatening her with dire consequences, the more she struggled to understand her husband. She wondered if the three years of relationship and twenty-five years of marriage were truly enough to get to know a person or if she had been sleeping the entire time.
“You are bringing shame upon this family!”, Kareem, towering over her, had thundered as Fatimah cowered in the corner of her room. “You have no regard for our honour!”, he had yelled, sending a chill down Khadija’s spine as she suddenly remembered her own Baba.
Baba too, accusing her of those very crimes, had stood towering over a twenty-four year old Khadija as she too had cowered in the corner of the living room. For a split second, she had seen the same fear reflecting off Fatimah’s eyes, as if someone had forced her face to a...
― Rabindranath Tagore
A grim silence had descended over the neighbourhood on a cold winter morning as a fifty year old woman’s screeching wails pierced the sky. Khadija held her only child tightly to her bosom and rocked back and forth, looking up to the heavens, cursing as many Gods as she could remember. Kareem sat in the corner of his girl’s bedroom, clutching his knees, watching his wife and lifeless child in silent despair. Kareem’s brothers stood silently as their wives attempted to calm Khadija down but in vain. The old shed quiet tears while the young sniffled at a distance. Men and women in skull-caps and burqas stood outside the house, whispering lightly.
By sundown, shrouded in white, Fatimah would be resting in the burial grounds at the edge of the little town. In a few days, the neighbourhood would proceed to gradually forget her and move on. In a few weeks, the family would fondly, with a pinch of salt, remember Fatimah while they got busy with their lives. In a few months, Kareem would surrender his girl’s fate to the will of Allah and dive nose deep into community and religious work. And, Khadija? As her daughter went off to a better place, Khadija was left to revise the chapters of her life.
Seemingly lifeless on the outside, Khadija spent her days mulling over the last conversation she had with her nineteen year old girl, engulfed in guilt, self-hatred and a multitude of questions.
"But, does Krishnan love you for who you are?", she had asked her daughter.
"Yes, Ammi! Yes, he does!", Fatimah had wept bitterly.
"If he did, why would he ask you to become Hindu?", Khadija had asked with pleading eyes, trying to convince her daughter that true love would do exactly the opposite.
Fatimah in red and swollen eyes, had looked up at her mother in utter disgust. "You're a hypocrite!", she had screamed and pushed her mother out of her room, slamming the door so hard that a gust of cement and sand flew off the edges.
If only Khadija had managed to get back into her daughter's room, instead of quietly walking away with a head full of thoughts, perhaps, the next morning she wouldn't be found lying with an open wrist in a pool of blood?
Fatimah was Khadija's only child. Her love for her daughter knew no bounds. After losing her first two babies to miscarriages, Khadija had spun her world around her little angel.
But... But, her angel was right, wasn't she? Khadija was a hypocrite indeed. She too embraced Islam because she wanted to marry Kareem, didn't she?
And, Kareem! Oh, Kareem! The more Khadija thought of how he had chided Fatimah, threatening her with dire consequences, the more she struggled to understand her husband. She wondered if the three years of relationship and twenty-five years of marriage were truly enough to get to know a person or if she had been sleeping the entire time.
“You are bringing shame upon this family!”, Kareem, towering over her, had thundered as Fatimah cowered in the corner of her room. “You have no regard for our honour!”, he had yelled, sending a chill down Khadija’s spine as she suddenly remembered her own Baba.
Baba too, accusing her of those very crimes, had stood towering over a twenty-four year old Khadija as she too had cowered in the corner of the living room. For a split second, she had seen the same fear reflecting off Fatimah’s eyes, as if someone had forced her face to a...
