Okay, so today I’ve written a short story as a guest post for Furree’s awesome blog. Thank you so much, Furree, for giving me the opportunity! You can read my guest post on Furree’s blog here.
Or you can continue reading below, because I’m posting the story on my own blog right now as well.
This guest post is a short fiction story I’ve written about a broken family, titled ‘Ink and Paper.’ These are two entries from the respective journals of a father and daughter. Sadaf’s parents are divorced and she lives with her mother, Tanya, in Pakistan. Sadaf’s father, Haroon, lives abroad in the United States of America. He lost the custody battle, and is permitted to see his daughter only once every five years. The first time Sadaf traveled to see him was when she was eight years old, when Haroon lived in Washington DC. The second time was when she was thirteen, and he lived in San Francisco.
Ink and Paper
Sadaf’s Diary:
Dear Diary,
It seeps into me, that poison known as ‘depression’, overcoming my defenses and rendering me helpless, like a rat trapped in a snake’s clenched jaws. An inevitable, destructive venom coursing through me; pulsing through my veins, sweeping me along in its wake. Like a tidal wave too powerful to battle against so you just succumb and let yourself float along with ease. I can feel it in my bones when it’s coming, drawing closer. I would run if I didn’t already know that it has the power to overtake me instantly.
When I was little, Amma would tuck me into bed every night. She would lay me down, and sit awhile next to me with the lights off, the two of us submerged in impenetrable darkness, chattering about everyday things. Sometimes as I jabbered on about meaningless topics – the frivolous activities I indulged in with friends, the minor indignities of being reprimanded in class, never-ending complaints of homework – she’d trace a hand along my forehead lightly. I’d feel her fingertips against my skin, skimming my temples, gently tangling in my hair. I’d close my eyes briefly and accustom myself to the feel of it. I remember clutching onto those moments. They were the epitome of everything beautiful to me.
The conversation between my mother and me usually lasted half an hour, dying out as sleep stealthily sank its firm clutches into me. When I drifted in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness – lingering in that no-man’s-land before crossing over – she’d stand up. Taking the blanket folded into a neat square at the end of my bed, she’d open it, grasp it fully by both hands, and shake it over me powerfully, so that it would flutter down and cover me. I could feel it when she did that. I would feel the blanket twisting, rippling above me like a living thing, causing stirs in the atmosphere, light bursts of billowing air. I could feel it free-falling, as the air abandoned it in the hold of gravity, as it settled on my body.
Depression, as it approaches – I’ve come to find out – does so in much the same way. It loiters, hovers over me like that blanket. It stays in that position for days, sometimes even weeks, before falling and settling with a lasting finality.
Depression slows me down in every way. It tires my body, numbs my mind, and slows my reflexes. I feel dumber, mute, my intelligence and willpower draining out of my system. The very thought of making plans with friends exhausts me. Conversations seem daunting, requiring more energy than I could possibly spare. Silence becomes my sanctuary.
Sometimes, in those nights when we talked, I would chirp brightly, “Amma, when is Papa coming back home?” That was before I knew the word ‘divorce’, before I was old enough to comprehend the ugliness of it. She would normally shush me, but sometimes she’d indulge me, allow me my fantasies. I’d lie there as she’d spin tales of us going to live with my father soon, promises that kept me enchanted. She’d boldly state assurances of him visiting us soon. Such beautiful lies to believe in, punctuated by excuses of why all of it only existed in the future. “Your schooling here, his job abroad isn’t steady yet.” Excuses that my subconscious was more than willing to accept; like a drowning man clutching onto a drifting log of wood.
I realize now that when she told them, she actually indulged not only me, but herself too. She’d let herself believe, just for a few minutes, in the words she was speaking. And in that darkness then, the mirages she’d just depicted seemed almost substantial, shimmering in the distance; puddles of gleaming water that had yet to disappear, vanish before our very eyes into nothing.
Haroon’s Diary:
Dear Journal,
The gym is the one place I feel gloriously alive. The only place really, where I can feel powerful again. I exalt in the strength of my body, in the miraculous beauty of it, muscles, sinews and cords working in tandem to create effortless movement. I revel in every drop of sweat trickling down my skin, in the flushes of heat suffusing me as I push myself to my limit. I feel reborn again. Like maybe I have a second chance at life, a do-over; like maybe the events of the past can be undone and my doom can be reversed. Like maybe I haven’t annihilated my marriage or haven’t lost the custody battle.
I have many memories of my daughter. I’ve seen her only twice in my life – the first when she was eight, and the second when she’d newly turned thirteen – but the memories are still clear as crystal. They’re lodged in my mind, vivid and sharp, just bursting to come to the surface. Work keeps them tamped down, restricted. The pressures of my multiple jobs, knowing I have massive debt and loans to repay, doesn’t allow me to waft in nostalgic reminisces. But when I’m at the gym, I feel free. The memories overpower their boundaries, envelop me. I see Sadaf then, her bright glowing brown eyes and her quick, impish smile. The deftness with which Sadaf moves that came only through me; Tanya, my ex-wife, is known for being a klutz, her clumsiness a defining trait of her character.
During Sadaf’s latter visit, when she walked down the ramp into the San Francisco airport, on the brink of womanhood, her eyes searching through the milling crowds for my face, I was blown away. I was astounded by the confidence with which she moved, and the grace with which she conducted herself. I was transfixed by the change in her accent, how it had deepened and matured to something unrecognizable. Weekly Skype-ing sessions hadn’t done justice to my daughter, hadn’t portrayed the vivaciousness of her personality or the beauty of her nature. She was an alien thing, a foreign creature. No matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t see myself in her. I couldn’t sense myself being reconstructed in her. I couldn’t find a solid part of me within her being, a part that would allow me to state with relieved conviction that this girl was indeed my daughter. She was her own and completely so, untouched entirely by me. Two islands who’d once been interconnected, but now the bridge had crumbled away, isolated each.
But when she’d first come to me at the age of eight, things had been different. I’d been living in Washington DC then. She arrived in December, when snow was coating everything thickly; a girl with curly black hair and rosy dimpled cheeks, bundled up in a sweater and a scarf and a thick fluffy jacket. I’d been embroiled in work then, and couldn’t afford a holiday. I left Sadaf with a trusted sitter for the entire day, until I returned in the evening. I’d find myself rushing through my job, hurrying through the mandatory tasks and clipping away everything that could be clipped, just in an effort to get back to her as soon as possible. When I reached home, I would quickly open the door. The sitter would stand up, a college girl of about twenty, eager to depart. I’d proffer her some bills, she’d take them, and a confirmation of tomorrow’s timings would be exchanged. And then she’d go, leaving me alone with Sadaf.
It was a routine we both knew by heart.
“Sadaf! Sa-daf!” I’d cup my hands around my mouth, call her name loudly, stretching the syllables. A giggle could be heard, and then the bedroom door would be pushed open tentatively, a small crack out of which her eyes peeped through. I knew my part in this game, and played it well. With a friendly roar, I’d lunge towards the door, and she, shrieking, would back away, jump on the bed. We’d chase each other then, cat running after a mouse, Tom & Jerry being enacted right in our bedroom. I could’ve caught her easily of course, but what fun would there be in that? And so I chased her, holding back just enough so that she’d be able to escape, making it look like she really could elude me.
She’d leap off the bed and race into the kitchen then, down the hallway, into the living room. I’d run after her, making a deliberate effort to produce exaggerated pants and huffs, giving Sadaf the joy of believing in her speed and that it out outrun mine.
And of course I knew, even before I entered the living room, where she would be. A large cupboard stood next to a sofa on a far end of the room. She’d scramble on top of the sofa, from where she’d leap up onto the roof of the cupboard. And there she’d stay poised, a huge smile curling her lips, waiting for me.
And I, the perfect partner in this game of dance, would step up gallantly and hold out my arms. And with a shriek of pure, unadulterated joy, she’d launch herself – literally heave herself and catapult into the air – right into my arms.
The trust with which she did so – the unwavering belief that I would never let her fall; not catching her not even being a possibility to be considered – never failed to bring tears to my eyes.
Sometimes, even now, the mere memory is enough to dampen my eyes, blurring my vision with a sheen of wetness. But these are just memories, a way out of reality. Memories of moments that are long gone; faded and blended into shadows. Of perfect moments that can never be recaptured or relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in the pages of this journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly.
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations
