The skinny little girl had finished her drawing. She got up from the bedroom floor and scrambled to where her parents were taking their afternoon nap on the bed behind her. She excitedly shook her father so she could hear him tell her how proud he was of her.
Her smile fell away as her father shoved her halfway across the room with his strong arm. He growled at her with a face frighteningly bloated with rage, what a horrible child she was to have woken him up.
Her insides rattled as she tried to balance herself from the force of the sudden shove, staring in dumb shock at her father's bulbous eyes, her drawing tightly clutched in her hand. She saw her mother wake up beside her father to glance at the humiliated child in the middle of the room. The child stood there, paralysed by shame, and watched her mother go back to sleep. Her father angrily turned on his side, away from the embarassed child. She stood there with her startled eyes and slightly-open mouth, too stupid to move. A few moments passed before she began to gather her drawing things in guilty silence.
*****
Her father had been humiliating the high school student in front of the Eid guests all day, shouting at her in the kitchen the way he usually did to make sure she hurried up with the right order of food and drinks. Tea with sugar, tea with fake sugar, tea with no sugar, water, juice but mango, Mountain Dew not Pepsi. Guests were constantly streaming in and out of the house, and she was having a hard time keeping up. Her mother was taking a shower. Her father had been ready since the morning prayer. He always picked at her loudly whenever guests were over, but things got worse during the Eid rush. The guests, all well-known family friends, looked at her awkwardly as her father expressed his disbelief at her incompetence as she brought tea with sugar instead of without. One person tried to intervene but was quickly silenced by her father's insistence that his daughter know how to do things right.
She was crouched on the floor, playing with her young cousins that night in the house they shared with another family. That family's little daughter was also with them. The young ones were like her little brothers and sisters, and they all looked up to her in admiration. She loved the way they wanted to be like her. She was still sore from the daylong humiliation at the hands of her father, so when he suddenly entered the room to lovingly pat her head, she ignored him and stubbornly shrugged his hand from her head.
What felt like a thick piece of board hit the right side of her face. It was her father's hand. She fell to the ground and heard her father roaring between kicks and shoves about what a hateful inconsiderate creature she was. He took off his new Eid sandals and began to beat her as she lay curled on the floor with her arms around her face. The sandals made a sharp slapping sound, unlike the hard opaque sound his hand had made on her face. She decided to not cry out because she knew he wouldn't stop. It would only make him angrier, and there was no point anyway. He was shouting louder than any scream she could ever muster up.
In a few minutes her uncle and aunt came rushing into the room and made him stop. Her head was still covered by her arms. She could hear him heaving as he angrily explained to her aunt, his favourite, that his daughter had asked for it when she disrespected his show of affection. Her aunt was repeating over and over again that no one ever hits their grown children, especially their daughters. The young girl decided it was safe to open her eyes. She peeked through her arms and saw that the children had run away.
At home that night her mother tried to calm down her distraught daughter. She also lashed out at her husband, demanding an explanation to his behaviour that would push away all his children. He apologised but his daughter wouldn't stop crying. She hated him for humiliating her all day long in front of adults and then treating her like an animal in front of children who looked up to her. She became delirious, promising her mother that she'd never come back once she'd left home for college. Her father had calmed down and began madly apologising to her that he'd never hit her again, never criticise her again. The young girl didn't believe him and she cried herself to sleep.
Her friend visited her for Eid the next day. She noticed the father hovering about them with a sickly apologetic smile, bringing them Pepsi, offering to take their picture. She noticed the girl not looking at her father and asked her what was going on. The girl did not respond. The friend panicked and insisted that she tell her what was wrong. The girl brushed it away. It was too humiliating. It was so embarassing. What would her friend think? She just wanted to forget.
*****
She heard the front door bang shut and knew her father was home. He sped to her room and pushed her off the bed onto the floor. She didn't see his face, she'd already shut her eyes. He shoved her head towards the ground and beat her with his shoe like a man possessed. He hit her in quick blows, on her back, on her arms, on her legs. It made a dusty flat sound every time. He screamed his throat raw, how dare she have a boyfriend that too a Hindu, if they were in India, he'd have dragged her like a dirty animal through the streets for all to see. Her mother entered the room and closed the door. She didn't want the cleaning man to hear.
The young woman on the floor didn't made a sound. It'd be over, it'd be over. He picked her up and threw her against the wall. He picked up a wooden hanger from the bed and hit her with it until it broke. He screamed at her that she was cursed, that she was the cause of all his problems, and that she would make him lose his job. Something inside her hurt, and she inhaled sharply as her heart broke. She shut her eyes more tightly and pretended like she was far away. Pretty soon the blows stopped hurting. She felt nothing. He kicked her repeatedly like a punching bag and beat her with his shoes again. She waited for him to stop. He cursed the day she was born. He just knew that this ungrateful woman-in-heat would be the cause of her parents' death. They had weak hearts already. She stole a look at him as he brought down yet another blow. She would remember the look on his face long after she had forgotten his words.
Her mother then pleaded with him to stop. He sat down on the floor, his head in his hands, thinking he was going mad, why was she doing this to the family, why was she making life so hard for everyone? Are you chemically unbalanced, he asked the crumpled girl who had always over-achieved. She grabbed her stuffed toy, the lamb her mother had given her when she was little, and hugged it. She began to cry into it, rocking back and forth, laughing and wailing by turns. Her mother tried to hold her but she wouldn't let anyone touch her. She kept laughing and crying and talking to herself. Her mother ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Cosmic reinforcements
I had had it! No more volunteer work for me. I was always taking the initiative to get people involved in something or the other, but at the end, I'd wind up having to see things through myself. My latest episode had been requesting book donations from my coworkers for the Prison Book Program. After waiting for a few months for a less than spectacular turnout, I'd accumulated two large cartons of books that I'd have to mail to the PBP's headquarters.
I'd had someone help me carry the cartons from the office to my car after I got off work, but I had no idea how I was going to grapple with them by myself at the post office. The post office always had a huge line that moved very slowly, and I had no one to help me carry those heavy cartons. I didn't know how I was going to manage things as I pulled up to the post office. I was grumbling to myself and promising God that I'd never go out of my way to do something good again. Nobody cared. I don't know why I even bothered when I never made a difference.
I popped open my trunk outside the post office. As I lifted the trunk top, a large gentle-looking young white man walked around the back of the truck parked next to me. I had seen him exiting the post office as I'd pulled in but hadn't paid him any real attention. He startled me by happily offering to carry the cartons inside for me. Just like that, without my even asking. I hadn't even had the time to sigh and shake my head at the cartons.
"Ohmygod, yes, thank you, thank you!" I squealed, and he scooped up both cartons into his arms like wriggly toddlers. I couldn't help the skip in my step as I thanked him all the way inside the post office.
I almost fell down out of shock when I saw that there were no customers inside the post office. That was a miracle. I had been to that post office many, many times at that specific time of the day, and there were always at least five people, if not more, in front of me. On a good day I could spend twenty minutes before my turn came up. Once I'd even waited for a whole hour in a sluggish line.
My benefactor marched up to a counter and deposited the cartons in front of the official there. I thanked him again, but he simply smiled and walked away. The official, strangely enthusiastic because of the unusually slow day he'd been having, had me taken care of and walk out of there in two minutes flat, a personal record at that particular post office. I couldn't believe how insane the whole experience had been as I slid into the driver's seat of my car and drove home. I guess I mattered enough for the universe to realign itself to help me do good.
That was the first time I'd seen no customers at that post office. It never happened again.
I'd had someone help me carry the cartons from the office to my car after I got off work, but I had no idea how I was going to grapple with them by myself at the post office. The post office always had a huge line that moved very slowly, and I had no one to help me carry those heavy cartons. I didn't know how I was going to manage things as I pulled up to the post office. I was grumbling to myself and promising God that I'd never go out of my way to do something good again. Nobody cared. I don't know why I even bothered when I never made a difference.
I popped open my trunk outside the post office. As I lifted the trunk top, a large gentle-looking young white man walked around the back of the truck parked next to me. I had seen him exiting the post office as I'd pulled in but hadn't paid him any real attention. He startled me by happily offering to carry the cartons inside for me. Just like that, without my even asking. I hadn't even had the time to sigh and shake my head at the cartons.
"Ohmygod, yes, thank you, thank you!" I squealed, and he scooped up both cartons into his arms like wriggly toddlers. I couldn't help the skip in my step as I thanked him all the way inside the post office.
I almost fell down out of shock when I saw that there were no customers inside the post office. That was a miracle. I had been to that post office many, many times at that specific time of the day, and there were always at least five people, if not more, in front of me. On a good day I could spend twenty minutes before my turn came up. Once I'd even waited for a whole hour in a sluggish line.
My benefactor marched up to a counter and deposited the cartons in front of the official there. I thanked him again, but he simply smiled and walked away. The official, strangely enthusiastic because of the unusually slow day he'd been having, had me taken care of and walk out of there in two minutes flat, a personal record at that particular post office. I couldn't believe how insane the whole experience had been as I slid into the driver's seat of my car and drove home. I guess I mattered enough for the universe to realign itself to help me do good.
That was the first time I'd seen no customers at that post office. It never happened again.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Black and white and dead all over
My twenty-one-year-old cousin was driving us back to where she lived with her parents and younger sister. I was visiting them in Chicago over the Labour Day long weekend and had been hanging about the city until the bright sun had worn the both of us out. It was a hot late summer afternoon. The narrow lanes of the residential area on the edge of downtown was jam-packed with parked cars and residents. Old people fanned themselves in plastic chairs. Children were riding their bikes and wading about in inflatable pools.
My cousin was in the habit of respectfully turning off the car stereo while passing cemeteries. That is exactly what she did as we started driving alongside the one near her home. The huge cemetery was on our right now. She was driving slowly to avoid hitting any of the people out on the street.
She braked quite suddenly as a pregnant black woman in a bright sundress, her hair wrapped up in cloth, walked along the zebra crossing in front of us. The car jerked unexpectedly. My hands protectively went up, creating a barrier between myself and the dashboard. My left hand hovered in front of the stereo. The thin young woman gave us a dark look before walking away. My cousin drove on, the adrenaline still swirling about in our blood.
Not even a minute had passed when my cousin noticed that the stereo had been turned back up. "Did you turn it on?" she asked me.
I hadn't noticed. I was still thinking about the woman and the look she had given us. But I hadn't turned on the stereo. I hadn't even touched it or the dashboard when I had raised my hands. We still don't know how the stereo turned on when the car jerked to a halt at the crossing near the cemetery.
My cousin was in the habit of respectfully turning off the car stereo while passing cemeteries. That is exactly what she did as we started driving alongside the one near her home. The huge cemetery was on our right now. She was driving slowly to avoid hitting any of the people out on the street.
She braked quite suddenly as a pregnant black woman in a bright sundress, her hair wrapped up in cloth, walked along the zebra crossing in front of us. The car jerked unexpectedly. My hands protectively went up, creating a barrier between myself and the dashboard. My left hand hovered in front of the stereo. The thin young woman gave us a dark look before walking away. My cousin drove on, the adrenaline still swirling about in our blood.
Not even a minute had passed when my cousin noticed that the stereo had been turned back up. "Did you turn it on?" she asked me.
I hadn't noticed. I was still thinking about the woman and the look she had given us. But I hadn't turned on the stereo. I hadn't even touched it or the dashboard when I had raised my hands. We still don't know how the stereo turned on when the car jerked to a halt at the crossing near the cemetery.
Heartbreaker
I said hi to the cute little fellow sitting next to me in the plane. I can't remember his name, was it Steve? He was nine years old.
"Are you travelling by yourself?"
He startled me with his confident eyes. "Yes, I am."
"Wow, you're a grown-up. The first time I travelled by myself was when I was fourteen. Do you live in Denver?"
"My mother's family does. I live in Oklahoma City with my father's family."
I suddenly noticed how grown up he looked in his seriously cut blonde hair and dark blue blazer. He looked like a miniature Gap man in his khakhis and sweater vest. His unwavering gaze definitely didn't belong on a child's face, but they fit perfectly on his controlled features. A Peter Pan who didn't believe in fairies.
I began to stammer but quickly collected myself.
"Oh, so you're visiting your mother for the long weekend?"
"Yes, I travel between Denver and Oklahoma City often to spend time with both my parents. They divorced when I was young, you see."
"That must be tough." I didn't know what else to say.
"It's hard but you know, these things happen." He shrugged and sat back in his seat. He stared directly at the tray table in front of him. "What can you do."
"Are you travelling by yourself?"
He startled me with his confident eyes. "Yes, I am."
"Wow, you're a grown-up. The first time I travelled by myself was when I was fourteen. Do you live in Denver?"
"My mother's family does. I live in Oklahoma City with my father's family."
I suddenly noticed how grown up he looked in his seriously cut blonde hair and dark blue blazer. He looked like a miniature Gap man in his khakhis and sweater vest. His unwavering gaze definitely didn't belong on a child's face, but they fit perfectly on his controlled features. A Peter Pan who didn't believe in fairies.
I began to stammer but quickly collected myself.
"Oh, so you're visiting your mother for the long weekend?"
"Yes, I travel between Denver and Oklahoma City often to spend time with both my parents. They divorced when I was young, you see."
"That must be tough." I didn't know what else to say.
"It's hard but you know, these things happen." He shrugged and sat back in his seat. He stared directly at the tray table in front of him. "What can you do."
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The BFG
Kyme and my match had come to an end. It was the last time we would hang out together. It had been a year since we had been paired up through Big Brothers and Big Sisters, and as I drove her back home from our last activity, I felt like a failure.
I had first heard about the organisation in an Archie's comic book. I was probably ten years old then and had no idea what was outside the world my parents had built for me between Oman and India. A lifetime later when I became independent in Tulsa, USA, I remembered BBBS and looked them up. I wanted to make a difference in someone's life while my own was in utter chaos. Soon I found myself in their office sorting through a bunch of children's profiles for The One.
Her name was Kymnesha Edwards. She was 14, black, and two years behind in school. She lived with her parents and younger sister in a neighbourhood where trees were never trimmed and the grass grew between the bricks on the pavement. Her mother used to work in a hospital. Her father had been to jail but now worked odd-jobs.
My primary contact as her Big was her mother. I wanted to do it right, not make any mistakes. I asked her mother all the right questions - what did she think were Kyme's strengths and weaknesses, what did she want me to do for Kyme? Mrs. Edwards had had a hard life but was a strong woman who held her family together. She told me that Kyme was a creative child who loved books but didn't feel confident about her reading skills. She got intimidated by too many words, so would check out books on tape from the public library. Her spelling was below average for children her age, yet she still couldn't stop writing stories in her wobbly handwriting. Mrs. Edwards wanted me to nudge Kyme towards actual reading and expose her to the shiny world everyone else lived in.
I was ready to groom genius. In the couple of hours I would spend with Kyme every week, I tried to pass down all the knowledge I had ever acquired about world religions, philosophy, politics, ethics, and culture. I gave her weekly creative writing assignments and tried teaching her new words. I tried to come up with activities that nobody had ever come up with. A new one every week, something that would blow her mind. I took her to a workshop about food shortage. I even took her to see 'Swan Lake'. She nodded off to sleep. I was crushed even though I was forcing myself to stay awake.
Kyme would listen to everything I said, but I felt like the relationship was becoming one-way. And pretty soon, I was burned out. I couldn't think of any more earth-shattering activities. Our outings dwindled to fooling around at the mall and chit-chats over ice cream. She started telling me about her complicated social circle in school. She told me about this one guy who thought he was all that. I remembered that I too had once been 14, and I gave her my 26-year-old advice. Then I told her about who had given me an attitude at work that day.
I began to forget about being the best Big in history. I took Kyme to my workplace and
introduced her to everyone as my Little. We took photos of her in my high-tech cube. We went to the Scottish festival where we both watched the stepdancers with our mouths hanging open in awe. I showed her my fake British accent and even convinced other people by ordering an entire sandwich at a Subway like an Englishwoman.
She liked my Queen CD so I burned her a copy. I caught her humming 'The Show Must Go On' for many days. After checking with her mother, I gave her an authentic Queen CD set for her birthday, the same one we used to listen to in my car while driving all over Tulsa. We made a scrapbook. I listened to the stories she wrote and told her she could become a writer just like, well, me. We hung out at the mall, sipped milkshakes, and tried the cheap massage chairs there. It was my first time.
Our last activity was watching Barnyard at the dollar theater. I couldn't remember the last time I had pried myself away from my foreign films and disastrous true-life dramas to enjoy a simple children's movie. We laughed a lot. We knew it was the last time we were going to be hanging out together but we didn't bring it up much. I was planning on leaving Tulsa for good.
That ride back was the last time I would get to tell Kyme to believe in herself when others didn't. I did tell her but I wished I could say something bigger that would stick in her mind long after I had gone. I hadn't made her a genius the way I had thought I would. She was still Kyme from the same neighbourhood, only a year older. I hadn't made any difference in her life. For someone who can talk a lot, I sometimes end up saying everything except what needs to be said.
Kyme had something to say too. She struggled with it, maybe she was like me. After dutifully listening to everything I had to say, she told me that she had checked out a book from the library. A book with words to be read, not to be heard on tape. A grown-up book, not for little children. A book with lots of big words and no pictures. She said that she one day just felt like trying it out. Then she read it and loved it. Then she checked out more books and couldn't stop reading. She loved reading books now. She didn't check out books on tape anymore.
The look on her face as she told me this was one of a new belief in herself. The kind that you get by conquering an obstacle that you thought you were just too stupid to overcome. Sometime between boring ballets and fake accents, I had made a difference when I wasn't even trying.
I had first heard about the organisation in an Archie's comic book. I was probably ten years old then and had no idea what was outside the world my parents had built for me between Oman and India. A lifetime later when I became independent in Tulsa, USA, I remembered BBBS and looked them up. I wanted to make a difference in someone's life while my own was in utter chaos. Soon I found myself in their office sorting through a bunch of children's profiles for The One.
Her name was Kymnesha Edwards. She was 14, black, and two years behind in school. She lived with her parents and younger sister in a neighbourhood where trees were never trimmed and the grass grew between the bricks on the pavement. Her mother used to work in a hospital. Her father had been to jail but now worked odd-jobs.
My primary contact as her Big was her mother. I wanted to do it right, not make any mistakes. I asked her mother all the right questions - what did she think were Kyme's strengths and weaknesses, what did she want me to do for Kyme? Mrs. Edwards had had a hard life but was a strong woman who held her family together. She told me that Kyme was a creative child who loved books but didn't feel confident about her reading skills. She got intimidated by too many words, so would check out books on tape from the public library. Her spelling was below average for children her age, yet she still couldn't stop writing stories in her wobbly handwriting. Mrs. Edwards wanted me to nudge Kyme towards actual reading and expose her to the shiny world everyone else lived in.
I was ready to groom genius. In the couple of hours I would spend with Kyme every week, I tried to pass down all the knowledge I had ever acquired about world religions, philosophy, politics, ethics, and culture. I gave her weekly creative writing assignments and tried teaching her new words. I tried to come up with activities that nobody had ever come up with. A new one every week, something that would blow her mind. I took her to a workshop about food shortage. I even took her to see 'Swan Lake'. She nodded off to sleep. I was crushed even though I was forcing myself to stay awake.
Kyme would listen to everything I said, but I felt like the relationship was becoming one-way. And pretty soon, I was burned out. I couldn't think of any more earth-shattering activities. Our outings dwindled to fooling around at the mall and chit-chats over ice cream. She started telling me about her complicated social circle in school. She told me about this one guy who thought he was all that. I remembered that I too had once been 14, and I gave her my 26-year-old advice. Then I told her about who had given me an attitude at work that day.
I began to forget about being the best Big in history. I took Kyme to my workplace and
introduced her to everyone as my Little. We took photos of her in my high-tech cube. We went to the Scottish festival where we both watched the stepdancers with our mouths hanging open in awe. I showed her my fake British accent and even convinced other people by ordering an entire sandwich at a Subway like an Englishwoman.
She liked my Queen CD so I burned her a copy. I caught her humming 'The Show Must Go On' for many days. After checking with her mother, I gave her an authentic Queen CD set for her birthday, the same one we used to listen to in my car while driving all over Tulsa. We made a scrapbook. I listened to the stories she wrote and told her she could become a writer just like, well, me. We hung out at the mall, sipped milkshakes, and tried the cheap massage chairs there. It was my first time.
Our last activity was watching Barnyard at the dollar theater. I couldn't remember the last time I had pried myself away from my foreign films and disastrous true-life dramas to enjoy a simple children's movie. We laughed a lot. We knew it was the last time we were going to be hanging out together but we didn't bring it up much. I was planning on leaving Tulsa for good.
That ride back was the last time I would get to tell Kyme to believe in herself when others didn't. I did tell her but I wished I could say something bigger that would stick in her mind long after I had gone. I hadn't made her a genius the way I had thought I would. She was still Kyme from the same neighbourhood, only a year older. I hadn't made any difference in her life. For someone who can talk a lot, I sometimes end up saying everything except what needs to be said.
Kyme had something to say too. She struggled with it, maybe she was like me. After dutifully listening to everything I had to say, she told me that she had checked out a book from the library. A book with words to be read, not to be heard on tape. A grown-up book, not for little children. A book with lots of big words and no pictures. She said that she one day just felt like trying it out. Then she read it and loved it. Then she checked out more books and couldn't stop reading. She loved reading books now. She didn't check out books on tape anymore.
The look on her face as she told me this was one of a new belief in herself. The kind that you get by conquering an obstacle that you thought you were just too stupid to overcome. Sometime between boring ballets and fake accents, I had made a difference when I wasn't even trying.
Is this the real life?
I was driving a coworker back from lunch one early autumn afternoon. The chill was crisp enough to kiss your cheeks to that happy blush. The sun even was relieved to not have to melt the tarmac off of the roads after the long Oklahoma summer. The traffic seemed to have avoided our end of the road in the shadow of the highway, and with our bellies full from a pleasant lunch, things felt...nice.
My coworker and I were the same age and got along well enough to always have something to talk about. I can't remember what we were exchanging thoughts on that drive back to work, but it was something smart-alecy as usual. I stopped my car when the light turned red at the intersection near the office. My Queen CD had been softly playing the whole time, like dew that silently shows up on your window without anyone noticing.
Things got quiet as my coworker and I comfortably reached the natural end of a bit of conversation. The defeat in Freddie Mercury's voice tinged the air with the last lines of 'Bohemian Rhapsody':
Nothing really matters, Anyone can see,
Nothing really matters,
Nothing really matters to me
Any way the wind blows
Out there, in front of my car, a sad little plastic bag fluttered about to the whims of the cruel autumn wind. It went up and down and sideways, with no will of its own, with a name that had long since been forgotten. Just a lonely thing that had learned to keep its eyes closed.
The music faded, the light turned green, and I drove on.
My coworker and I were the same age and got along well enough to always have something to talk about. I can't remember what we were exchanging thoughts on that drive back to work, but it was something smart-alecy as usual. I stopped my car when the light turned red at the intersection near the office. My Queen CD had been softly playing the whole time, like dew that silently shows up on your window without anyone noticing.
Things got quiet as my coworker and I comfortably reached the natural end of a bit of conversation. The defeat in Freddie Mercury's voice tinged the air with the last lines of 'Bohemian Rhapsody':
Nothing really matters, Anyone can see,
Nothing really matters,
Nothing really matters to me
Any way the wind blows
Out there, in front of my car, a sad little plastic bag fluttered about to the whims of the cruel autumn wind. It went up and down and sideways, with no will of its own, with a name that had long since been forgotten. Just a lonely thing that had learned to keep its eyes closed.
The music faded, the light turned green, and I drove on.
Friday, May 22, 2009
If those walls could talk
I lived at the apartment at 8305 S. Lakewood Place in Tulsa for three-and-a-half years. It was a beautiful second-floor unit with windows that made me feel like I was living in a beach house. That was one of the reasons I had picked that apartment. That and the vaulted ceilings that made the cream-walled apartment feel so spacious and full of light. The windows overlooked the parking lot of the suburban apartment complex that was located next to the green Hope Hill. The words I'm looking for are serene and heavenly.
Maybe that is why I never felt frightened when the light in my bedroom began to flicker and randomly turn itself on and off. The light was attached to the ceiling fan. I would wonder sometimes why the light would be on when I woke up in the morning, or why the room was dark after I had turned the light on in the evening. I complained to the apartment maintenance folks several times, and they only changed the light bulb at first. Then they tried fixing the light attachment a couple of times. Then they finally replaced the entire fan/light unit. I felt jubilant until the problem started in the new equipment they had installed. They still couldn't figure it out, so I bought a reliable lamp for my room. This problem lasted until I moved out.
I had previously lived in a dorm room for 6 years, and was uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in one room while the rest of the apartment loomed dark and empty. So I'd developed the habit of locking my bedroom door after turning in for the night. My thermostat was located on the wall outside my bedroom door, and I'd always check its settings before going to sleep. I'd also check it in the morning after waking up.
The first time something struck me as odd was when I noticed one morning that the thermostat had been turned off when I distinctly remembered turning it on the night before. I shrugged it off to absent-mindedness until it happened a few more times. The thermostat would be on a setting different from what I'd set it to the previous night. The thermostat wasn't digital; it had a stiff knob that you had to click to 'On' or 'Off' with considerable pressure. There was no way for it to change on its own.
I was going through a lot of stress in those days, so I thought that maybe I'd woken up at night and changed the settings and gone back to sleep without remembering anything. Maybe I was sleepwalking. My parents had once noticed my walking to the front door in my sleep when I was very young. I have no memory of that event, except that I know I had had a fever then. But I was worried this time because my sleepwalking would have had to involve my going to the bedroom door, unlocking it, changing the thermostat setting, locking the door again, and going back to bed. It didn't feel right and still doesn't.
My mother was visiting me once, and she used to sleep in the living room where the TV was. She would stay up after I'd gone to sleep (I had to wake up early to go to work). Every night she was there, I'd lie in bed with my door slightly ajar. I could see the light from the living room and hear the TV.
One night, as I lay in bed perfectly awake and waiting to drop off to sleep, I heard my mother shuffling outside my door for a few seconds before making her way, I assumed, to the bathroom a couple of feet from my door. Nothing much crossed my mind except the awareness of that fact.
The next day I forgot all about it until I happened to mention it to my mother in relation to some other topic. She startled and said that she had not gone to the bathroom the previous night. I insisted that I had heard her footsteps come up to my door, pause there for a bit before going away. I was sure of it. My floorboards used to creak whenever someone moved about my apartment, and I could tell exactly when and where someone was walking and even pausing by the sound. My mother still insisted that she hadn't been anywhere near my door.
I'm sure there are good explanations for these things. If my apartment was haunted, I would've felt scared at some point, but I never did. The ambience was always cosy and protective. Maybe the vaulted ceilings and beach-house windows had something to do with it.
Maybe that is why I never felt frightened when the light in my bedroom began to flicker and randomly turn itself on and off. The light was attached to the ceiling fan. I would wonder sometimes why the light would be on when I woke up in the morning, or why the room was dark after I had turned the light on in the evening. I complained to the apartment maintenance folks several times, and they only changed the light bulb at first. Then they tried fixing the light attachment a couple of times. Then they finally replaced the entire fan/light unit. I felt jubilant until the problem started in the new equipment they had installed. They still couldn't figure it out, so I bought a reliable lamp for my room. This problem lasted until I moved out.
I had previously lived in a dorm room for 6 years, and was uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in one room while the rest of the apartment loomed dark and empty. So I'd developed the habit of locking my bedroom door after turning in for the night. My thermostat was located on the wall outside my bedroom door, and I'd always check its settings before going to sleep. I'd also check it in the morning after waking up.
The first time something struck me as odd was when I noticed one morning that the thermostat had been turned off when I distinctly remembered turning it on the night before. I shrugged it off to absent-mindedness until it happened a few more times. The thermostat would be on a setting different from what I'd set it to the previous night. The thermostat wasn't digital; it had a stiff knob that you had to click to 'On' or 'Off' with considerable pressure. There was no way for it to change on its own.
I was going through a lot of stress in those days, so I thought that maybe I'd woken up at night and changed the settings and gone back to sleep without remembering anything. Maybe I was sleepwalking. My parents had once noticed my walking to the front door in my sleep when I was very young. I have no memory of that event, except that I know I had had a fever then. But I was worried this time because my sleepwalking would have had to involve my going to the bedroom door, unlocking it, changing the thermostat setting, locking the door again, and going back to bed. It didn't feel right and still doesn't.
My mother was visiting me once, and she used to sleep in the living room where the TV was. She would stay up after I'd gone to sleep (I had to wake up early to go to work). Every night she was there, I'd lie in bed with my door slightly ajar. I could see the light from the living room and hear the TV.
One night, as I lay in bed perfectly awake and waiting to drop off to sleep, I heard my mother shuffling outside my door for a few seconds before making her way, I assumed, to the bathroom a couple of feet from my door. Nothing much crossed my mind except the awareness of that fact.
The next day I forgot all about it until I happened to mention it to my mother in relation to some other topic. She startled and said that she had not gone to the bathroom the previous night. I insisted that I had heard her footsteps come up to my door, pause there for a bit before going away. I was sure of it. My floorboards used to creak whenever someone moved about my apartment, and I could tell exactly when and where someone was walking and even pausing by the sound. My mother still insisted that she hadn't been anywhere near my door.
I'm sure there are good explanations for these things. If my apartment was haunted, I would've felt scared at some point, but I never did. The ambience was always cosy and protective. Maybe the vaulted ceilings and beach-house windows had something to do with it.
The Guests
I was twenty-three and visiting family in Connecticut over Spring Break. My uncle, aunt, and two cousins live in an old two-storey home by the side of the woods. Their New England home is easily a hundred years old if not older. The weather that week was snowy and grey, and it would get dark early.
The room I was set up in was a fair-sized guest room on the top floor. It was a rectangular room which you entered from one long end where the closet was. The bed was located on the other far end. The window was near the bed and overlooked the yard. Every night, when the house would become quiet, I'd lie curled up in thick red sheets with a book I'd brought along for the trip, grateful that I wasn't out with the frostbitten trees and icy wind. It was a well-decorated room, and I was glad to be away from my congested dorm back at the university.
I never got past the first couple of chapters of that book. Everytime I tried to read lying on that one side of the room, I'd feel my attention drifting to the rest of the room. Before long, I'd have to put the book down and stare at the empty space. I'd look at the room for a few seconds from where I lay on the bed and then return to my book. But I couldn't focus on the words, and oftentimes would end up staring at a sentence without understanding its meaning. I couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was there in the room looking directly at me, and pretty soon, I'd have to put the book down and stare at the room again, with its closed closet, walls, closed door, and beautiful black metal dressing table with a mirror.
By the end of the week, I'd shifted to sleeping on the edge of the bed with my back touching the wall and keeping my eyes on the rest of the room. I would hear someone constantly walking outside in the snow at night under the window. I mentioned it to my aunt and she thought it was probably the old man they'd hired to clean their yard. But why he'd choose to be out working as late as 2am every night in the freezing dark was beyond even her.
The room I was set up in was a fair-sized guest room on the top floor. It was a rectangular room which you entered from one long end where the closet was. The bed was located on the other far end. The window was near the bed and overlooked the yard. Every night, when the house would become quiet, I'd lie curled up in thick red sheets with a book I'd brought along for the trip, grateful that I wasn't out with the frostbitten trees and icy wind. It was a well-decorated room, and I was glad to be away from my congested dorm back at the university.
I never got past the first couple of chapters of that book. Everytime I tried to read lying on that one side of the room, I'd feel my attention drifting to the rest of the room. Before long, I'd have to put the book down and stare at the empty space. I'd look at the room for a few seconds from where I lay on the bed and then return to my book. But I couldn't focus on the words, and oftentimes would end up staring at a sentence without understanding its meaning. I couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was there in the room looking directly at me, and pretty soon, I'd have to put the book down and stare at the room again, with its closed closet, walls, closed door, and beautiful black metal dressing table with a mirror.
By the end of the week, I'd shifted to sleeping on the edge of the bed with my back touching the wall and keeping my eyes on the rest of the room. I would hear someone constantly walking outside in the snow at night under the window. I mentioned it to my aunt and she thought it was probably the old man they'd hired to clean their yard. But why he'd choose to be out working as late as 2am every night in the freezing dark was beyond even her.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Khadija X
When I was born, I was declared a girl. That meant for sure that I was what the boys were not.
When I was growing up in a safe North Indian Lucknawi environment, I was a Sunni Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Shias were not.
When we prayed a certain way, I was a Sunni Hanafi Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Shafai Sunni Muslims were not.
When I stepped out of my house in Oman, I was an Indian Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Arab Muslims were not.
When I socialised within the Indian community, I was a North Indian. That meant for sure that I was what the South Indians were not.
When I went to America, I was an Indian who most people assumed was a Hindu. That meant for sure that I was what the Americans were not.
When I met Muslims from all over the world, I was not good enough because I didn't speak Arabic or blend in with the crowd. That meant for sure that I was what those Muslims were not.
When the planes crashed into the twin towers, I was suddenly a Muslim, a terrorist secretly conspiring with all the Muslims of the world. That meant for sure that I was what the non-Muslim world was not.
I ran away.
When I discovered the courage to look inside myself again, I found the 5-year-old that used to make flower garlands for the lambs and old goats that she would befriend in the alleys of her home in the old city. That meant for sure that I was what I had always been and didn't need another to relatively define myself anymore.
When I was growing up in a safe North Indian Lucknawi environment, I was a Sunni Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Shias were not.
When we prayed a certain way, I was a Sunni Hanafi Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Shafai Sunni Muslims were not.
When I stepped out of my house in Oman, I was an Indian Muslim. That meant for sure that I was what the Arab Muslims were not.
When I socialised within the Indian community, I was a North Indian. That meant for sure that I was what the South Indians were not.
When I went to America, I was an Indian who most people assumed was a Hindu. That meant for sure that I was what the Americans were not.
When I met Muslims from all over the world, I was not good enough because I didn't speak Arabic or blend in with the crowd. That meant for sure that I was what those Muslims were not.
When the planes crashed into the twin towers, I was suddenly a Muslim, a terrorist secretly conspiring with all the Muslims of the world. That meant for sure that I was what the non-Muslim world was not.
I ran away.
When I discovered the courage to look inside myself again, I found the 5-year-old that used to make flower garlands for the lambs and old goats that she would befriend in the alleys of her home in the old city. That meant for sure that I was what I had always been and didn't need another to relatively define myself anymore.
Horror in Daylight
I was off work that late summer day in 2006 and had decided to drive up highway 169 out of Tulsa and see where it took me. In those days I was ruminating over the idea of buying a house and wanted to check out Owasso to the north of Tulsa which I had heard good things about. I had only been in Tulsa and driving in the US a little over a year. I hadn't yet explored the region outside of the city so I thought, hey, what the heck, today's as good a day as any. So in true American spirit, I turned on the ignition of my car and set out on a highway unknown to me. The sun was still in the sky and it would be a few hours before it retired for the day.
Highway 169 took me farther than the farthest I'd ever been on it until that day, that is, beyond 15 minutes from my apartment to the airport. I drove away from my cozy suburban apartment complex with its WalMarts and family restaurants. I drove over the deserted part of town with its dilapidated auto shops and industrial stores. I passed the eastbound highway that would take me to the Tulsa International Airport. I drove past highway 244 that would take me to my office in the west. Then the city fell away as the highway took me through the rolling Oklahoma plains that sometimes dawdle into hills. Tulsa is located in a county that's been nicknamed Green County for good reason. The land here is almost virginal. You can drive for a hundred miles someplaces and not see a soul in the windswept farms you pass. My windows were up but I knew that the ancient prairie breeze was happy to see me.
The strange feelings started after I had left Tulsa. I didn't notice it as first because I was enjoying driving with no particular aim in mind. That is how I had discovered the various regions of Tulsa when I'd first moved there. As I drove further north towards Owasso, however, I began to feel like the highway was gradually taking me higher up towards the sky. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that for miles all I saw was empty flat land around me and an endless sky on top. But I've taken various roadtrips since then and I've never felt that sense of levitation or even any sort of panic, even when I was driving long-distance by myself. There really was no reason for me to feel that sense of horror that day. I was having a great hair day, I wasn't feeling bloated, the sun was out, the breeze was just right, and I had my favourite music rocking my car like the perfect dance club. I was hardly alone on the highway; it was the middle of the workday.
The strange feelings steadily grew to full-blown panic. Twenty-odd minutes after I'd left Tulsa, I hadn't even made it to Owasso but I knew I had to stop. I pulled over at the next exit which happened to be a giant intersection of highways in the middle of the plains. The rest stop at the exit was huge; it had a few shiny gas stations and a bunch of fast food joints. The atmosphere was lively. Young people, families, and truckdrivers were pulling in and out the place giving the intersection a feeling of renewal and life. The sixties still seemed to be in full swing there.
That didn't change how I felt.
I parked my car by a Dairy Queen. It could've very well been a Burger King, I can't really remember that detail. I got out of my car and stretched my legs, trying to breathe out the feeling of sick dread that had blackened my lungs. I was almost in tears. I went into the restaurant and bought myself some food. I still didn't feel better after the chicken sandwich, fries, and drink, and I sat in the restaurant by the window for a while, looking out at the expanse of land and the beautiful looping highways outside. It should've taken my breath away but it just made it hard to breathe. I felt separate from everything and everyone. All I knew was that something felt wrong about this place. Something menacing lurked beneath the surface of the harmony in the ambience. I felt like something was close to spinning out of control. I kept seeing a savage tornado roaring through this place, madly swallowing everything in its path like something out of hell.
A current ran through my body. My back shot up straight and I immediately made my way out to the parking lot where my car was waiting for me. I paused in the middle of this great region of the Earth to fully absorb what was happening to me. I had seen this place before. But it had been dark and it had been in a dream.
Almost a year ago I had had a dream where I saw myself driving north on a highway that involved the numbers six and nine. I had dreamt that I was driving in the dark in the middle of nowhere and had got off an exit at a coffee shop. I was carrying the manuscript of a book I was supposed to have written. I remember sitting in the coffee shop and looking out at the huge highway running north and south. It was dark and I had felt afraid, so I decided to take the highway south back to wherever I had come from. I remember feeling terrified and small at the vastness of the land and confused already about where I had come from.
Out there in the parking lot, I took one look around at the great expanse of land all around me and the looping highways in front of me. I felt like a great weight from the heavens was descending upon me, pushing my shoulders into the ground. I slipped into my car before the sky got any heavier and sped off towards home on 169 South faster than you can say deja vu. A few-month-old book manuscript, my first, awaited me at home.
Highway 169 took me farther than the farthest I'd ever been on it until that day, that is, beyond 15 minutes from my apartment to the airport. I drove away from my cozy suburban apartment complex with its WalMarts and family restaurants. I drove over the deserted part of town with its dilapidated auto shops and industrial stores. I passed the eastbound highway that would take me to the Tulsa International Airport. I drove past highway 244 that would take me to my office in the west. Then the city fell away as the highway took me through the rolling Oklahoma plains that sometimes dawdle into hills. Tulsa is located in a county that's been nicknamed Green County for good reason. The land here is almost virginal. You can drive for a hundred miles someplaces and not see a soul in the windswept farms you pass. My windows were up but I knew that the ancient prairie breeze was happy to see me.
The strange feelings started after I had left Tulsa. I didn't notice it as first because I was enjoying driving with no particular aim in mind. That is how I had discovered the various regions of Tulsa when I'd first moved there. As I drove further north towards Owasso, however, I began to feel like the highway was gradually taking me higher up towards the sky. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that for miles all I saw was empty flat land around me and an endless sky on top. But I've taken various roadtrips since then and I've never felt that sense of levitation or even any sort of panic, even when I was driving long-distance by myself. There really was no reason for me to feel that sense of horror that day. I was having a great hair day, I wasn't feeling bloated, the sun was out, the breeze was just right, and I had my favourite music rocking my car like the perfect dance club. I was hardly alone on the highway; it was the middle of the workday.
The strange feelings steadily grew to full-blown panic. Twenty-odd minutes after I'd left Tulsa, I hadn't even made it to Owasso but I knew I had to stop. I pulled over at the next exit which happened to be a giant intersection of highways in the middle of the plains. The rest stop at the exit was huge; it had a few shiny gas stations and a bunch of fast food joints. The atmosphere was lively. Young people, families, and truckdrivers were pulling in and out the place giving the intersection a feeling of renewal and life. The sixties still seemed to be in full swing there.
That didn't change how I felt.
I parked my car by a Dairy Queen. It could've very well been a Burger King, I can't really remember that detail. I got out of my car and stretched my legs, trying to breathe out the feeling of sick dread that had blackened my lungs. I was almost in tears. I went into the restaurant and bought myself some food. I still didn't feel better after the chicken sandwich, fries, and drink, and I sat in the restaurant by the window for a while, looking out at the expanse of land and the beautiful looping highways outside. It should've taken my breath away but it just made it hard to breathe. I felt separate from everything and everyone. All I knew was that something felt wrong about this place. Something menacing lurked beneath the surface of the harmony in the ambience. I felt like something was close to spinning out of control. I kept seeing a savage tornado roaring through this place, madly swallowing everything in its path like something out of hell.
A current ran through my body. My back shot up straight and I immediately made my way out to the parking lot where my car was waiting for me. I paused in the middle of this great region of the Earth to fully absorb what was happening to me. I had seen this place before. But it had been dark and it had been in a dream.
Almost a year ago I had had a dream where I saw myself driving north on a highway that involved the numbers six and nine. I had dreamt that I was driving in the dark in the middle of nowhere and had got off an exit at a coffee shop. I was carrying the manuscript of a book I was supposed to have written. I remember sitting in the coffee shop and looking out at the huge highway running north and south. It was dark and I had felt afraid, so I decided to take the highway south back to wherever I had come from. I remember feeling terrified and small at the vastness of the land and confused already about where I had come from.
Out there in the parking lot, I took one look around at the great expanse of land all around me and the looping highways in front of me. I felt like a great weight from the heavens was descending upon me, pushing my shoulders into the ground. I slipped into my car before the sky got any heavier and sped off towards home on 169 South faster than you can say deja vu. A few-month-old book manuscript, my first, awaited me at home.
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