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Our women Fridays
by Farah Mehreen Ahmad
PART I
1
Shakil found Lamia so adorable that he had no choice but to pretend that he was highly annoyed with her existence. For one, she wasn’t one of the cool girls. In fact her presence was usually unrealised, and she was only sporadically acknowledged as a landmark when trying to locate the misplaced cricket ball or badminton shuttle. These objects were often found lying on the left side, right side, in front of, or behind ‘that girl.’
Moreover, given his recent outstanding performance in the inter-class basketball matches, he was pacing up the social ladder quite swiftly. By now, he was the recipient of anonymous love letters and innumerable silent phone calls on a daily basis. His mother’s irritation was a testimonial to his popularity, and he relished each and every chiding like peace treaties. He was a smart boy, and knew not to jeopardise this influx of adulation with a confession of feelings for a nobody with braces and a unibrow. He felt pity for her when she lay under the mango tree on the otherwise barren school yard during recess everyday, either engrossed in her book, or her thoughts. He felt even more pity for her nonchalance towards her absence in the social barometer.
‘Poor thing doesn’t know the joy of recognition. What a pity…’ he thought.
At times when she lay under the shade stretching and twirling around, smiling at God knows what, he felt an urge to go tickle her – not out of affection or playfulness, but rather to disrupt her bliss that spurted out of oblivion. But he refrained lest she misconstrues that as an act of violence or worse, flirtation. After all, the line between vanity and paranoia is quite meagre, and the spheres of neither allow space for the possibility of disturbance without a cause.
He silently chuckled at his aspiration to be like that goblin in the kettle from Radiant Reading. The only difference was he didn’t want to be green.
2
As was her undeclared ritual, Lamia sat at her study table on a Friday afternoon, with her hazy gaze affixed on the same line of her physics textbook for hours; obviously absorbing nothing. She would occasionally try to lend an ear next door to her younger sister Tanisha, trying to learn Arabic from the same lady who taught her.
She was fascinated by the idea of having a ‘Lady Hujur.’ She liked that everyone else she knew of had male Arabic teachers, and that at least something about her was unconventional. Of course, her parents’ reasons for assigning a female instructor were not geared towards making a statement of any kind.
As her sister rifled through the Arabic text racing towards the ‘Khatm’ line, a formality she had already graduated from, Lamia realised that these couple of hours apart from her diction-crazy-new-age-rendition-of-Amy (of Little Women fame) sister, were perfect for getting some studying done. It is very difficult to fathom an overtly simplified version of Newton’s Law of Attraction with a ten-year-old mosquitoeing around her ears with words too heavy for her own tongue, and her audience’s ears.
What was more irritating, though admittedly endearing, was how she occasionally misconstructs certain words. For example, the other day, she took a quick scan of Lamia’s desk, briefly pausing at the pen-holder. After scrutinising the pens and pencils Lamia had distorted with obsessive chewing, she exclaimed, ‘You have oral phoenix.’
Their father found this unintentional metaphoric rendition of oral ‘fetish’ particularly amusing and humoured her with a further twist,
‘Yes, Lamia does have oral phoenix. Sometimes when she argues, a fiery bird hatches out of her saliva bubbles, morphs into words, and burns her opponents.’
Tanisha didn’t exactly understand the reference, but gathered that her sister was being praised for her argumentation skills. She did not agree. She always thought her sister could do a much better job at defending herself when their neighbour Monica tried putting her down with her unjustified over-confidence.
For one, Monica had to do exactly what Lamia did, and then claim to be better at it. On top of that, she had the thorny spine to assert delinquent diagnoses to put her down. Last Friday, Lamia’s first stab at ‘stream of consciousness’ writing was interrupted by the intrusion of this unwanted neighbour. Pulling out pencil splinters from her mouth, and trying to peel off the little paint bits off of her tongue Lamia complained,
‘As much as I try “stream of consciousness” writing, I can never finish.’ Then putting on a very ‘wise beyond age’ expression sage Lamia added, ‘It’s like a tennis ball falls into my stream out of the blue, splashing my thought water all over the place. I am too easily distracted I guess.’
‘Sounds like you Missy, have a grave case of ADD.,’ exclaimed psychology prodigy Monica.
Frustrated with her sister’s ‘hmm’ response, Tanisha sprung out of her chair, fidgety and stuttering with rage,
‘Well may be she has IEE, you know, Interests Erupting Effect! Since when is it a crime to be curious, to be too interested?’
Followed by a moment of silence, Lamia burst out into laughter, while Monica blankly stared at the two sisters, feeling slightly ostracised by the moment. Meanwhile, Tanisha shaking with the jolt of betrayal stormed out of the room screaming, ‘Your behaviour springs hydro-eruption out of my cornea.’
Lamia wanted to tell her that these words would strike a sisterly chord within her if they were simple. ‘Lamia, you make me wanna cry,’ would melt and (almost) kill her. But she has never given Tanisha the recipe to this kryptonite. She did not need to know that she has a sister who would go to any length for her; even for no substantial reason. Such knowledge is redundant and dangerous luxury. Plus, natal chronology induced hierarchy dictates that she hold her tongue and harness power through negligence and contrived nonchalance. She did not have the audacity to contradict and insult the doctrine.
3
Lamia never felt more docile than she did in their art classes. An avid fan of Oscar Wilde, she wanted to believe in the uselessness of art. That’s why she didn’t understand why art classes were made mandatory in schools. What she detested the most was how art was constricted to pencils and colours. When she addressed the futility of imposed art classes with her principal Mrs Akram, the robotic lady tried explaining the necessity of art as a means of liberating innate repression. But Lamia failed to see the promised liberation in ‘Draw as You like with a Tree,’ or ‘Draw as You like with Mickey Mouse’ assignments. However, she didn’t continue with her argument because she figured a two-dimensional stick figure like Mrs Akram would not be able to fathom the versatile wholesomeness of art, which cosmically ties it to the revelation of futility in everything. She would not be able to convince her that reading, thinking, doodling on mud with a twig can command liberty with equal success, and are all arguably forms of art.
The idea of doodling on mud was particularly appealing to her, and she did practice it incessantly. On most occasions she would do it with the same zonal disposition of her reading ventures; pretending she is deciphering ancient theological codes. At other times she would convince herself she is an artist of immense talent, too poor to afford stationeries, but will soon be discovered by a patron and taken to her destined pedestal.
During one of these moments she realised that either through or because of her nonchalance, she was quite desperate to be discovered, and that was why she was so fascinated with, and devoted towards mystical discoveries. Maybe at the end of the day, the discourse of discovery is itself ignited by a desperation to be discovered.
Farah Mehreen Ahmad is a freelance consultant and is working with BRAC Overseas (Africa Program)
Comments: ahmad.farahm@gmail.com
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