Kamila Shamsie - Broken Verses

‘No abbreviations allowed, skinny man!’ I said.

Someone had switched off the car headlights while everyone took a break between innings, and the stars were bright above us. I lay in silence for a while, looking up, listening to Rabia enumerate for Shakeel the different stars which made up the Orion constellation — Betelguese and Bellatrix at the Hunter’s shoulders, Rigel and Saiph twinkling at his knees — and remembered when I had taught her to look up to the sky and greet the distant points of light by name.

Rabia the Patient, daughter of Beema the Sane.

I had never really thought to question why she maintained that scrapbook about my mother, long after I had discarded it; never stopped to consider that in those two years when my mother lived with me in the upstairs portion of my father’s house, Rabia always kept a distance, not knowing how to react to that unfamiliar creature lurking beneath the shell of the woman she had once known; never wondered how much resentment Rabia felt towards Mama for being the strongest pull in my life. But now it was so clear.

I sat up, causing a reverse domino effect to take hold of my sister and brother-in-law.

‘You have that look of purpose in your eyes,’ Rabia said. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘It just occurred to me to wonder something. When did you become such a fan of my mother, Rabia, and why? I know your feelings for her weren’t uncomplicated when we were growing up.’

Rabia drew her legs up to her chest and put her arms around her knees. She didn’t seem particularly surprised by the question. ‘I admire what she did as an activist. I admire it particularly because I read all those condolence letters addressed to you in the months after she disappeared, which you used to throw into the bin after reading the first three words. So I know what a difference she made to people’s lives, and how important she was to the women’s movement in the eighties. But beyond that,’ she glanced over at Shakeel, who nodded encouragingly, ‘beyond that, Aasmaani, everything I think or feel about your mother is really just about you. I cut out those articles and put them in the scrapbook because your memory is so incredibly one-sided, so totally blinkered, that you need the black-and-white reminders of what you used to admire and idolize her for, just in case the day comes along when you’re able to let go long enough to remember her as she really was, with all her flaws and in all her glory.’

There it was again. Let go .

I tapped my bare toes against her ankle. ‘I don’t think that’s what it’s about at all, Rabia. Reminding me of her activism won’t make any difference to the way I think about her — it’s not her activism I’ve ever resented. Admittedly, it turned out to be a waste of energy, but I don’t resent her for not knowing that at the time.’

‘It wasn’t a waste,’ Rabia said quietly. ‘Read those articles. It wasn’t a waste at all. What do you gain by believing it was a waste? Why are you so insistent about that point?’

‘Don’t turn this back on me, Rabo. We’re talking about why you keep the scrapbook. And here’s what I think. I think you cut those articles out to remind yourself that she was this creature of ideals and courage and everything else you admire so much. Because you need that reminder, don’t you, to keep all your resentment at bay? All those years of resentment which only grows with every second she continues to be the siren pulling me away from you and the world of normality and good sense you live in. You can’t let that resentment out, can’t admit to it. You can’t, because you’re the rock, you’re the anchor. Those are the roles I pushed you into when you were so young you should have been trying on different personalities every week just to find the one which suited you best. And even now, you believe that role so completely that you can’t admit to your resentment, and you have to cloak it in concern for me. Rabia, you don’t have to do that any more.’

When I was done, Shakeel said, ‘Oh, boy,’ stood up and walked away, stopping long enough only to look back at Rabia and say, ‘She’s stronger than you think, you know.’

‘What does that mean?’ I demanded from my sister.

‘It means,’ she clutched her knees closer, ‘it means, I’m not you, Aasmaani. People’s minds, their psyches, don’t all work in the same ways.’ She made an exclamation of irritation. ‘Do you want me to spell this out? Who is there in your life whom you once resented, then felt you weren’t allowed to resent because it would be so selfish and so wrong, and whose memory you now revere above everyone else who has ever lived on this planet?’

I pushed myself off the ground and she sprang up next to me and caught me by the shoulder. ‘Dammit, will you stop running away every time I try to talk to you about this!’

There was a crackle of lightning inside my head. ‘You’re talking rubbish. Yes, there were moments of irritation. I’ve had them with everyone. But you think I resented him? Rabia, the one thing I wanted most of all was to be his daughter. Not Dad’s daughter. Not your half-sister. Not Beema’s stepdaughter. I would have given all that up to be his child, I would have given all that up in a heartbeat.’

For an instant I thought she was going to hit me, and then her face took on a concentration of utter pity. ‘Of course that’s what you wanted. Because if you had been his child, he wouldn’t have made your mother choose between the two of you every time he went away and asked her to follow.’

‘That’s not how I saw it.’

‘That’s exactly how you saw it.’

There we stood, my sister and I, looking at each other from opposite shores of perspective. I was no longer in my skin, but hovering above, watching both of us with a curious detachment. We could spend all night out there, I knew, plunging our hands into the ice-cold river and pulling out squirming facts, entirely distinct from one another, which would wriggle out of our grasp almost as soon as we hoisted them above the fast-moving surface.

Then a chill hooked through me, and I almost cried out. It had gone. That peace, that joy, it had gone. With a great surge, questions finned in, jostling against each other, filling up all the crevices of my mind. How will you find the Poet? How will your mother know you’ve found him? What if no more letters come? Suppose Ed is angry enough to keep the letters from coming to you? How do you know you can trust Shehnaz Saeed? What if he comes back and she comes back, too, and they leave again and don’t tell you where?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Please, not again.

‘Aasmaani?’ Rabia stepped closer to me.

I shook my head and held up a hand for her to stay away. Slow, heart, slow. Calm yourself. You’ll find him. Look how far you’ve come already. He’s alive. Say it. He is alive.

Omi.

It had the feel of a mantra.

Om Omi Om Omi.

How many of your Lord’s blessings would you deny?

I opened my eyes and exhaled slowly.

‘I’m sorry.’ I took her hand in mine. ‘I didn’t mean what I said. I wouldn’t give up being your sister for anything. And I know it seems like I take you all for granted. You and Beema and Dad. But it’s just… it’s just that sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life missing Mama.’

Rabia wrapped her arms around me and pulled me to her. ‘I know. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life watching you miss her. You’re wrong about me resenting her for being the stronger pull in your life. I’ve never resented her for that. But I’ve hated her for causing you so much pain. I’ve hated her for making you cry. Just as she hated herself for it.’

I pulled away. ‘You think she did?’