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Authors: Shamim Sarif
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habit of shouting into it. Mrs Harjan had never had a telephone in India, and could not overcome her certainty that the very words that she uttered had to make a long physical journey all the way down the wires to reach her daughter.
“Are you sure?” Amina asked, because even with her voice raised, Mrs Harjan did not speak with much conviction.
“Your grandmother wants to see you. You haven’t spent much time with her, you know,” she added reproachfully. Amina sighed. She had little desire to see her grandmother at all, but she felt guilty.
“Okay, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll come a bit early and help you,” she added.
“Good,” yelled her mother, relieved. There was a pause. “We are having some people, you know. It is your grandmother’s idea.”
“Okay. What shall I bring?”
“Nothing, nothing, you bring me too much already,” Mrs Harjan called. “Your father is already wondering where all the chapati flour is coming from.”
Amina smiled into the receiver. “So I’ll see you on Sunday?”
“Yes. Amina?”
“Mum?”
There was a silence, and then a crackle on the line. “Nothing,” said Mrs Harjan finally. “See you on Sunday.”
Amina arrived for dinner half an hour late, which was not how the evening was supposed to have started. Her grandmother had spent the week nurturing a vision of her granddaughter carefully and demurely dressed in a shalwaar kameez , perhaps in a nice pastel shade of lavender or pink, helping her mother in the kitchen before coming out to receive their guests and meet their son. This vision had trickled down in a diluted form to Amina’s mother, so that Mrs Harjan had spent two hours on Saturday afternoon with the old lady, picking out suitable outfits for Amina to wear at dinner. Amina’s father had arrived back from work and had watched the two women in placid silence for a few moments before going back downstairs to read his newspaper, leaving them with a look that clearly expressed his belief that they had both gone mad.
The guests were already sipping at cold drinks in the living room when Amina finally arrived. Her grandmother was too angry with the girl to even look up when they heard the rumbling of the truck wheels and the slam of the door outside. They heard a snatch of a jazz tune being hummed in the hallway, and Mrs Harjan smiled faintly at her guests and hurried outside.
Amina greeted her with a smile and an apology for being late. She was dressed in her work clothes, and her hair looked more tangled and curly than usual. She followed the line of her mother’s gaze and touched her head.
“I got caught in that rainstorm this afternoon,” she said guiltily.
Mrs Harjan said nothing, but her eyes widened in panic.
“I just need to have a quick bath, Mum,” Amina said. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she added, but there was no response – her mother seemed to be struck mute with distress.
“You’d better go back,” Amina nodded towards the living room, where she could hear her grandmother’s voice giving an opinion about something. Mrs Harjan sighed quietly and turned away.
When Amina emerged from the bathroom, she was surprised to see her mother standing silently on the landing.
“Mum! You scared me,” Amina said. She walked past her mother and into her own room, without even noticing the pale pink outfit that Mrs Harjan held up in her hands.
“Amina,” said Mrs Harjan, following her in, and still holding the outfit aloft.
This time, Amina saw it, but seemed not to make any connection between the flowing pink cloth and her own undressed body. An understanding slowly began to dawn, and Amina backed away, with a disbelieving smile.
“No, no,” she said. “I’m not going to wear that.”
“Please,” answered Mrs Harjan. “To please your grandmother.”
“No.”
“She’s old , Amina.”
Amina failed to see the correlation
“Are you sure?” Amina asked, because even with her voice raised, Mrs Harjan did not speak with much conviction.
“Your grandmother wants to see you. You haven’t spent much time with her, you know,” she added reproachfully. Amina sighed. She had little desire to see her grandmother at all, but she felt guilty.
“Okay, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll come a bit early and help you,” she added.
“Good,” yelled her mother, relieved. There was a pause. “We are having some people, you know. It is your grandmother’s idea.”
“Okay. What shall I bring?”
“Nothing, nothing, you bring me too much already,” Mrs Harjan called. “Your father is already wondering where all the chapati flour is coming from.”
Amina smiled into the receiver. “So I’ll see you on Sunday?”
“Yes. Amina?”
“Mum?”
There was a silence, and then a crackle on the line. “Nothing,” said Mrs Harjan finally. “See you on Sunday.”
Amina arrived for dinner half an hour late, which was not how the evening was supposed to have started. Her grandmother had spent the week nurturing a vision of her granddaughter carefully and demurely dressed in a shalwaar kameez , perhaps in a nice pastel shade of lavender or pink, helping her mother in the kitchen before coming out to receive their guests and meet their son. This vision had trickled down in a diluted form to Amina’s mother, so that Mrs Harjan had spent two hours on Saturday afternoon with the old lady, picking out suitable outfits for Amina to wear at dinner. Amina’s father had arrived back from work and had watched the two women in placid silence for a few moments before going back downstairs to read his newspaper, leaving them with a look that clearly expressed his belief that they had both gone mad.
The guests were already sipping at cold drinks in the living room when Amina finally arrived. Her grandmother was too angry with the girl to even look up when they heard the rumbling of the truck wheels and the slam of the door outside. They heard a snatch of a jazz tune being hummed in the hallway, and Mrs Harjan smiled faintly at her guests and hurried outside.
Amina greeted her with a smile and an apology for being late. She was dressed in her work clothes, and her hair looked more tangled and curly than usual. She followed the line of her mother’s gaze and touched her head.
“I got caught in that rainstorm this afternoon,” she said guiltily.
Mrs Harjan said nothing, but her eyes widened in panic.
“I just need to have a quick bath, Mum,” Amina said. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she added, but there was no response – her mother seemed to be struck mute with distress.
“You’d better go back,” Amina nodded towards the living room, where she could hear her grandmother’s voice giving an opinion about something. Mrs Harjan sighed quietly and turned away.
When Amina emerged from the bathroom, she was surprised to see her mother standing silently on the landing.
“Mum! You scared me,” Amina said. She walked past her mother and into her own room, without even noticing the pale pink outfit that Mrs Harjan held up in her hands.
“Amina,” said Mrs Harjan, following her in, and still holding the outfit aloft.
This time, Amina saw it, but seemed not to make any connection between the flowing pink cloth and her own undressed body. An understanding slowly began to dawn, and Amina backed away, with a disbelieving smile.
“No, no,” she said. “I’m not going to wear that.”
“Please,” answered Mrs Harjan. “To please your grandmother.”
“No.”
“She’s old , Amina.”
Amina failed to see the correlation
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