Less Than Perfect

{3} Removing the Mask

Tanwir Sarker

In my arms, I cradled a small, sleeping baby boy, his quiet yawns gripped my heart, shattered my cold exterior, and before I knew it a smile graced my lips, genuine and wide, astonished at the miracle I held. A newborn, a new life, a baby meant to change his parents' lives, meant to change the world with his presence. 

I couldn't believe that he was related to me. My sister's baby, my nephew. He was perfect in every form of the word, a completely innocent soul, pure of any wrongdoing, free of any traitorous whispers. That was the beauty of a newborn. 

Children were innately innocent. Their souls were the bright, sterling stars of the future, untainted memories ready to be filled with joy and happiness, ready for the ripeness of the fruits of growth and ambition. The fire within their hearts were ignited by their parents' desire for the child to succeed. 

Gazing down at my nephew, I couldn't help but imagine all the possibilities for his future. If Allah willed it, I prayed for the young boy to be better than I was, to be close to his parents, to be caring and kind towards them before prickling guilt tormented and spoiled his heart. Oh Allah, make him among the believers in the HereAfter. Ameen. 

"Bhaiyah (brother), are you still holding him?" asked an amused voice. 

I turned around, chuckling when I saw my sister's weary but delighted expression. "I guess I lost track of time."

She walked closer, a wide grin lighting her face with noor (light), brown eyes sparkling with wonder just like when she was child. My memories painted a picture of the times when Amira and I would stay up late. I would play games, and she watched with curiosity, childish and excited. 

Amira was always the easily entertained one. She had a personality that outshone many women her age. Anyone felt close to her, and she made everyone feel important. As I watched her grasp his tiny hand, I saw the motherly affection line her eyes. I saw the pride she felt towards her son. 

"Isn't he precious?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off the small bundle of joy.

"Yeah," I said softly. "What did you name him?"

Her eyes met mine. "Yusuf," she said. "We named him after Prophet Yusuf (peace be upon him)."

At the mention of his name, Yusuf stirred in my arms. "Shh," I cooed him. "It's okay. I'm here."

His splotchy skin was pink, arms curled into his body just like his legs, a small, blue hat covering his head while his eyes were barely opened. Newborns had a particular appearance to them, one that not every person thought was heart-wrenching. 

"You know, Amira, when Mum and Baba brought you home from the hospital, I thought you were a raisin," I teased her. 

She glared at me, raven hair tied in a messy bun, and an over-sized shirt and sweats covering her body. "Are you calling my son a raisin indirectly?" she asked.

"No, I called you a raisin," I emphasized, glancing back at Yusuf fondly. "But this little one is something else."

"Oh? So what is he?"

"He's my nephew," I smiled. 

Amira's features softened, a look of awe crossing her visage. "You really adore him, don't you?"

"I do."

"Maybe you should stay in Maryland then," she offered, making my blood run cold. "You could see him all the time. Mum would be so happy to have you around again, and Baba would-"

"Amira."

"I mean, think about it. Baba would do anything to have you stay, to have you be a part of our lives again-" she rambled, rushing her every thought.