pen.books.and.scalpel

As we brace ourselves for the arrival of who knows who, my parents and Bhai are holding a brief internal discussion. They still do not trust that I might be innocent. I cannot blame them, though. For one thing, I hit my now-friend, then frenemy and got suspended. They do not give away too much, but their forehead creases deepen, and their voices grow crisp, meaning it might be more significant than I imagine.   Through the crowded, fussy hall, our neighbourhood chai master, whom I vaguely remember from a long ago, enters. Almost like the star of the moment. He looks at me, his lips turning into a grin, and I immediately realise why he is here.    “We knew you don’t hold so much trust in your own child as much on a third person. So, we brought him here with us,” Ms. Srija says, clear enough for everyone to hear it. “Why? He is the tea master from near your school. What is he here for?” Bhai retorts. “How did you get him here?” I ask Christy, who is still standing clum...

This time, the knock is coming from the door. I had locked it just in case someone entered unannounced. I move lazily to the door, but I stop just a few feet short instead of opening it at once. I hear voices outside, familiar ones, supportive ones. I consider waiting for a couple more minutes, but there is a tap again. It is Cyra at the other end. “You are wanted in the hall,” she says and disappears in a jiffy.   I saunter anxiously toward outside my room, days after I made my room my cocoon. Only after Christy hops onto my side and hugs me do I realise the team is from my school: Christy, my classmates, my teachers, and Ms. Srija. A wave of relief washes over me. I still scan around for that one familiar face whom I eagerly await to catch hold of. But she isn't here, at least for now.    “Your Bhabhi has not come. She said she would not step into this house,” Christy murmurs in my ear. “That's fine. She has her reasons,” I reply dejectedly. “But she ensures that ...

I lay unaware of the dates rolling on the calendar. The sun goes down and up alternately, and yet my routine remains the same. I don't have a clue about the world outside. I don't know if Aliza Bhabhi’s divorce is over. I am unsure if people even care about me anymore.    I stay lost in thoughts and stare at the yonder beyond my window. I can still taste the soup I had in the morning. It was a special dish made with care by my brother’s new wife. It tasted okay, nothing like Aliza Bhabhi’s warm bowl of shorba wrapped in spices and love. But I don't want to judge her too soon. As I reminisce of my morning meal, the window screen flutters, which I had asked Ma to put up recently to avoid getting jump scares from Salim. But I don't think it would be of any use anymore.    A tap on the window quickly makes me stumble out of bed. I cover myself with my blanket in a reflex. The tapping intensifies, and my shudders, too. Through the flapping screen, I see a familiar fac...

I rush home because I have spent more time at Bhabhi’s house than I intended. It felt like a breath of fresh air meeting her after long. To be with someone who shares the same emotional quotient as you is a place to be. On the outside, Aliza Bhabhi looks desperate and dull, like a woman seeking protection from her husband and his family. The way her voice turns into a whisper and her limbs retreat when surrounded by a group, makes it appear as if she is clueless, troubled, and seeking help. But deep down, she is something else. She holds herself together when stressed, and the kind of composure she maintains in adversities makes it clear that it is her tricks to let people undermine her so she can surprise them with her fight back. She inspired me in more than one way, including when she decided to end her marriage with my brother the moment she found his truth. I am happy she is willing to help me even at this hour.      But here, at home, things don't seem so well. A...

“You shouldn't be here, Sara. Go home,” she says. “Why? Do you hate me too?” I ask her pleadingly. “No. Not at all. But everyone will be worried at home. You need to rush,” “Won't you ask me why I am here?” I ask as guilt takes over. I hadn't come to meet her once since she left home. But only when I needed help myself, I thought of her. I wonder how to put that in words without offending her.  “Tell me. Why are you here?” “Are you cutting all relations at home? Including me?” I ask her. She looks at me, surprised. “So, you tell me, what am I supposed to do when your brother has clearly done outrageous things.” I know she is right. Why would any woman adjust to a man who decides to choose someone else over her? But I still think we can be friends. “How's things at home?” she asks, taking me by surprise. Maybe she wants to know if everyone is okay with her being away. Her eyes are giving her away. She wants to know how things are between Cyra and Ahmed Bhai and i...