A Short by
Muneeb Sahaf
The winter snow had made the ground harder, so Amir found it more difficult to dig the hole. He chose a spot on the west side of a low hill, where his mother had always loved to watch the sun rise. “A new beginning,” she’d say cheerfully. “Maybe today will be better?” He often wondered how she managed to stay so optimistic despite all she had seen. That was just who she had always been, for as long as he could remember.
But for all her optimism, the last few days had been anything but better. Her cough had worsened steadily. On the first day, they had to stop because she had trouble walking. On the second day, she became too weak to sit upright. By the third day, she slept, and that was that. Now, Amir was alone. Only a few days ago, she had been singing as they walked—the old song about the prince of Kashmir and the fallen angel. How he tricked her into leaving the sky by sitting by the Lake of Saif every day, waiting for the moonlight to strike the water just right. Every day she appeared in the water, and every day he praised her beauty until dawn. One fateful night, she decided to join him, stepping out of the water and embracing the prince. He seized his chance, clipped her silver wings, and threw her back into the lake. Heartbroken, she lived there ever since, waiting for the prince to return. Amir had heard the story a hundred times, but today it made him sadder than usual as he dug the grave.
When the hole was deep enough, he lifted his mother's body in his arms and carried her to it. She had always been tiny and slim; now, stripped of her bags, pots, chains, and flute, she weighed no more than a sack of straw. Amir looked older than his nineteen years—or so his mother had often told him—a broad-shouldered, thickset young man. She said he took after his father with his high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and hazel eyes. She always praised his strength, as she had always been generous with her praise. It was all she had to give.
He laid her in the bottom of the grave and stood over her for a time. The smell of rain was in the air again, and he knew he should fill the hole before darkness set in and the rain began to pour. But it was hard to throw dirt onto that lonely, familiar face. She should have been in a warm bed with a full stomach, not cold and hungry, with no company but his. It had been the two of them for as long as he could remember. She had taught him how to sing, how to play instruments, how to do the war dance, and how to tell stories. Stories. She had loved her stories.
“I’d leave your flute, but it would crack and break,” he said at last, apologetic. “I wish we had more time, Maa.” He paused, unsure of what else to say. He said all the little prayers she had taught him over the years. “You were everything I could have wished for, and more,” he finally managed. He began to fill in the hole, on his knees, pushing the dirt with both hands, never looking at the body below. She should have lived longer, he thought. She had only been forty-five. At least she had lived to see the divide.
The mule they had used to travel this far brayed in the shade of the oak tree where Amir had tied it. The sun had dipped into the earth as Amir began packing their things into the bags they had dragged for so long. There were three: his black leather bag, his mother’s patchwork sling bag, and a sea-green hardback rolling suitcase they had picked up at the flea market in Srinagar. His mother had kept most of their belongings in that because it was easier to push. The sea-green bag was no longer as sturdy as it once had been, dented and faded from use, but it held her jewelry and flute—the only things of real value that Amir now possessed. He emptied all his clothes into the green roller and left the ripped black leather bag under the tree.
The less I haul, the better. If I sell the jewelry, the bag, and Amma’s remaining clothes, I’ll have enough paisas to… Amir frowned. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do now. They had been on the road for so long that he had lost sight of where they were headed. They were supposed to meet up with others from the caravan in Hunza, but since there was still fighting there, they had continued south.
I could try going to Lahore and finding Sakina—she taught Maa. Maybe she’ll teach me too. I could learn storytelling and perform at Data Darbar or outside the Red Mosque. Or maybe I’ll go to another city, like Multan or Karachi, and join the police force. They’ll need men. Or else...
The remaining portion of this short story can be found here : -(- Link)
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