Things Nadir N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ Said | [MUSLIM]

XVI

XVI

Arij

The walk to the kids' house was long, but it was not difficult. As usual, it started with me hurrying out of our local area, crossing a bridge and another few blocks before reaching Southbank. From there, I would slow down a little as I neared their street. The house wasn't too far away, so it was a total of fifteen minutes, give or take.

But, today seemed different. The walk wouldn't end, today. And my breath wouldn't stabilise for another half hour.

I kept reciting small chapters of the Quran, as an attempt to calm my racing heart, and distract my mind from the new dispute that I had fled. I kept wiping the sweat from my palms on the hem of my Khimar.

When I reached the porch of the house, I paused for a few minutes. It was just another average London house. Home of a simple middle income family; nothing fancy at all.

But isn't this house so quiet and peaceful, I though to myself. So calm.

Here, there was no screaming of a disabled father, who couldn't earn for his family, and had allowed his frustration to turn him into a cold, irritable old man. There were no meek complaints of a helpless mother, who had struggled all her life to make ends meet. And there were no children of different ages grappling with each other for books and pens while sharing the burden of poverty and familial conflict.

When I rung the doorbell and waited for Zaeb to open, I was thinking about her children.

Happy children, who would grow into happy people. They would have well-adjusted lives. Sound, rational thought and actions, instead of anger exchanges and emotional outbursts.

The thought of someone's children being happy made me smile. When she opened, she saw my smile, and smiled back.

Zaeb was a wonder in herself. She was one of those women who didn't need to put in any effort to be beautiful. She just...was. And to make it better, she was kind and polite to a degree I could never match. I guess a large part of her charisma was in her way of talking and expressions. She could entertain an audience without doing anything extraordinary; that was how wholesome her personality was.

Maybe if I was not so terrified of the whole avenue of jealousy and envy, I could even be jealous of her.

BarakAllahu feeha.

Some people are just born to have good things in life. And easily so. But others, like me, have to tough it out day after day to survive.

Stop it, Arij, I thought. Let's get back to surviving this day.

I shook my head at my glum thoughts.

We sauntered into the familiar hallway, and entered the kitchen where the kids sat. A strong, delicious smell of limes and pineapple juice hit me. They seemed to be busy doing something over the counter. Upon taking a closer look, I found them trying to clean up yellow puddles all over the counter.

"That explains the sweet smell all around," I said, drawing their attention. "You guys had popsicles?"

"Areej! We had soh-bet," Mustafa answered, his hands busy trying to clean up. "I dropped it here."

"Yum," I smiled. "Did you guys save any for me?"

"No," Mishal stated, as if it was obvious. She was picking up their bowls and spoons. "No soh-bet for naughty girls."

I tried not to laugh. "I am naughty?"

"Yes!"

"But why, ma'am?" I pouted. "What have I done?"

"You forgot to come tomorrow," she said, licking her finger. Without thinking, I pulled her hand away from her mouth.

"You mean yesterday," Zaeb corrected. She took the bowls from the little one, looking proud that she could bring them. "Good job. And, you're forgetting, baby. Arij did come here yesterday. You drew those pretty kites and clouds on your sketchbooks, remember?"

"But, but..." Mishal's forehead scrunched up as she thought. "But, she did not play with Barbies with me." Her eyes were adorable when she brought her little eyebrows together in anger.

"We can do that today, can't we?" I smiled at her.

"Yes!" she cried in excitement, her hands up in the air. "Let's go!"

Isn't this such a strange thing about children? I thought, as I looked down at her tiny face. They forget their distresses within moments; and they don't have any in the first place. Their lives revolve around toys and jumping about.

How would this world look if we all just became as carefree as little kids? If the only thing to concern us were how to enjoy ourselves the most in the current moment, and nothing else?

"Not right now," Mustafa said, and I got back into the important conversation. "We gotta clean this stuff first!"

I looked at their mother and caught her grinning. I, too, couldn't contain my amusement. "It seems you're very concerned about cleanliness nowadays, Mustafa. Good boy!"

"More like concerned about his son falling sick, after licking all that sugar," Zaeb laughed.

"Shawarma is his baby," Mishal elaborated, her hands cradling the air to demonstrate. "He is his son."

"Yes," he shrugged, wiping the table clumsily, spreading the sticky, melted sorbet even more. "All clean!"

"We can play now," she said, and started to jump. "Let's go, let's play togebah!"

"Together!" I said, and couldn't stop laughing.

"Togebah!" She repeated.

They ran together towards their room. I entered the cute little bedroom following their lead, and nearly toppled over near the door.

"Ow," I shouted automatically. I bent down to find a tiny part of an unidentified plastic toy under my foot. Since the room belonged to two four-year-olds, it was overpopulated with toys of all sizes, appropriate for both the little boy and girl. Presently the large carpet was exhibiting almost their entire collection of play things. I forced myself not to wince too much, but it hurt a lot.

I massaged the hurt area and tried to relieve the bruising muscle. 

Hard as their poor mother tried, she couldn't always tidy up everything, and something or the other would occasionally be found stabbing us in the sole of the foot. But, I wondered, it looks like she hasn't cleaned the room at all, today.

I shrugged, and focussed on the two dolls that I was suddenly holding now. "Barbie is crying, Mishal explained. "She want to brush hair."

I smiled and started to help her brush the doll's long, pink hair. All the while, I kept wondering why they make their bodies so different from real people. The little girls who play with them end up assuming that's what real bodies should look like, and dislike their own.

Mustafa's four-legged baby appeared from behind the curtain, where he seemed to have been napping. He played with the kitten with a piece of string, making him catch it before pulling it away. It mewed, and he would squeal in joy.

Since they looked occupied, I stood up from the carpet. I wanted to play with them more, and remain in the state of forgetful, childlike delight, but I had work to finish.

I inched away towards the bed, slowly and quietly so they wouldn't notice and ask to play with me.