Tuesday night family dinner

I walked through the front door of my parents' home. It was surprisingly unlocked. I took a quick glance around the foyer and could not help but notice the flecks of debris and dirt littering the floor. I looked to my right and saw the remnants of old potato chip bags and crumbs from what undoubtedly had to be a double stuffed oreos. The TV was on mute and the lights in the living room were off. I could see a human shaped bundle positioned on my couch, tucked tightly into a cocoon. I proceeded into the kitchen and greeted my mother. She was cooking away. Our cats, Moguli and Chohtu were wandering around the kitchen, no doubt hoping the pantry door would somehow be left open. They would then probably have the time of their lives gnawing away at all the packaged goods and dry foods. My mom hugged me and smiled in a way that told me that I had not come home often enough this month. The corners were turned up but her eyes were fogged with sadness. I don't think she consciously gives me this smile. I think she just can't help it sometimes. My dad was in the living room feverishly repeating the same arabic verse, "La ilaha illa unta." He barely stopped to say hello to me. His hair was greasy, he was dressed in an old, curry stained undershirt, paired with a shalwar. His stubble had grown in, mostly black with intermittent patches of pure white.

"What are you making for dinner, ammi?" I asked.

My mom was reproachful, "Faeeza, it looks like you might be wasting away. Did you know that its not a crime to eat once in a while?"

"Oh mom, don't be ridiculous." Truth is, sometimes the pleasure and desire to eat leaves me. Sometimes this lasts for days.

We had stuffed peppers that night. My brothers joined us for dinner. Samad was incredibly excited about his freshly purchased Carhartt jacket. I think that out of all the things he owns, this jacket is the most ridiculous. Actually, there is nothing I abhor more than this jacket. But, I wouldn't tell him that because I can see that it makes him so happy to be the owner of that puffy monstrosity. Faisal was quiet, a man of very few words, only ten tonight to be exact, "I got my physics grade today, I got a 98." My dad ate with us and for most of the night had a far off, glazed over look in his eyes. He stopped once and looked at my mom, "What is the meaning of your ring? Why are you turning it slightly to the left? What are you trying to say? Are you trying to mock me?"

"You are eating so quickly, you must be really hungry!" My mom's response was at once an avoidance and dismissal of my dad's paranoid, unbelievable concerns.

"I didn't eat lunch today. The crows were being so loud. I hate when the crows are loud outside. I just needed the crows to stop being so loud." As of late, my dad's right hand has been shaking at an uncontrollable, unmanageable rate. His head twists to the side to compensate and he stiffly holds his neck up.

"That doesn't answer my question. Why didn't you eat lunch today? You have been home all day. There is no excuse!"

His response, "La ilaha illa unta." I hate my religion sometimes.


My mom regaled us with tales of her work and the struggle to supervise two separate departments. "I've got homework tonight. God, I hope I can figure it out." My mom is an unstoppable force. Most days I find myself wondering how I could have come from such a beautiful, caring, and absolutely driven person. She works, cooks, cleans, is pursuing an MBA, and is the principal of my mosque's Sunday School. She balances our check books and tries to dig us out of the unbelievable mountain of debt my dad has buried us in. She still finds the time to listen to my father and to deal with his fits of rage and bouts of ugly, cancerous gloom. I often wonder if she does all these things because she does not want to find herself idly at home with my father. Steeping in his sadness. Drowning along with him in his pain.

I asked my mom later that night, "Mom, are you happy?"
"Yes of course! Why wouldn't I be? What kind of question is that?" She did not look me in the eyes. She never looks me in the eyes when I ask this question and she always turns the question on me. I think its a fair question to say the least.

Everyone should be entitled to some form of happiness. It is one of my biggest fears that she is not happy and that in some ways, I am to blame for this. I could be at home, and I could be taking care of my house and taking care of my dad. I could be cooking and cleaning and making sure that my home is taken care of. I could be finding nice Pakistani men to marry. I could be doing a number of things I can't bring myself to do for one reason or another. I could be a better daughter for her in all these ways. I think she envisioned a different life for me than the one I have begun to make for myself and it kills me to think that I might be disappointing her with who I am.