Blood and Whiskey

There he lay in a pool of blood, writhing and whimpering in agony. He reached his shaking hand out, imploring, but no one came closer, not even Falak who stood cowering nearby. The villagers stood surrounding him, grisly satisfaction etched on their faces. He screamed bloody murder and cursed them till his throat was raw, until his hand fell back down defeated, by his limp body.

Aadil saw that pool of blood now, as he stared down his glass of whiskey. It glinted back at him, reflecting his shadowed, deadened eyes. Ten years had passed, but that pool of blood still followed him around everywhere. Ten wretched years, since Falak had stopped looking him in the face. Ten gut wrenching years, since Inaya had called him Abba.

Falak appeared at the narrow doorway, separating the two dingy rooms of their tiny house in the village of Daraa. “Lunch is ready,” she said monotonously, staring at the floor. Aadil brushed her away drunkenly, muttering obscenities, running his hands obsessively over his two stumps of a leg, like he did all the time. Gritting his teeth, he pressed down on his dusty chair to move up onto his wheelchair. His hands, weakened by age and haplessness, gave way and he crashed onto the floor.

Roaring like a bull, he flailed around wildly, his hand catching the glass of whiskey and shattering it. Falak came running, terror on her face,”Aadil what happened? Wait let me help you up-” In his wrath, he lashed out at her, bellowing, “I don't need your help Falak, you abandoned me years ago!”

Falak slipped avoiding his hand and landed in the glass, blood spurting from her hands and forming an oddly beguiling Mosaic. Tears coursing down her beautiful, feline eyes, she whispered, “You murderer, this is how you attacked Noor too, didn’t you?” Aadil stopped dead, a haunted look on his face. He shrank, crawling away pitifully, to get away from the look of repulsion on his wife’s face.

Lunch that day, was more morose than their usual meals. Inaya, more jittery than usual, looked on in distaste as Aadil savagely devoured the meat, his usual glass of whiskey next to him. Falak sat huddled, frail and defeated, tears threatening to inch down her face.

After, as Aadil wheeled himself away, Inaya joined her mother in cleaning up the glass. Twenty five years old and radiant, she had inherited her mother’s florid complexion and luxuriant black hair. After all that had happened with Aadil, they had turned into outcasts in Daraa. No family could bear to speak to them, or let Aadil pass without throwing stones at him. All Falak and Inaya had, was each other.

That day, Inaya was not her usual, lovely self. She looked harassed and rundown, which did not escape Falak’s wary eyes, after having spent twenty five years with Aadil. “What is it my child?” she asked, placing her calloused hand on Inaya’s shaking one. “Ammi-” Inaya broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. “Hush! Tell me what’s wrong!” Falak pulled her closer, perturbed. Inaya could barely breathe for crying. Gasping for air, she blurted out,”Ammi, I'm pregnant.”

Falak’s face went blank. Her hand dropped from Inaya’s and contracted into fists. Hysteria coursed through her veins, building up into a blind panic. She shot up, shrieking, “Pregnant before marriage? How could you Inaya? How could you be so naive and reckless? This is haram and no one knows this better than you, or haven't you learnt enough from seeing your father? What face will we have left to show to people? Ten years since they dismembered your father, and now my daughter to sin too? Have I not faced enough punishment for having married a wretched man, only for my daughter to bring more shame to this cursed family?”

Inaya wept, laying on the floor, hearing the dreadful words from her mother. “He tricked me Ammi! He said I needed extra tutoring in math, and he called me over while his wife was away, under the pretext of helping me!”

A choked sound came from somewhere behind. Neither of them had noticed Aadil wheeling himself there silently, on hearing their frenzy. “Rehan did this to you? The man we trusted and sent you to, so you could study and get out of this godforsaken village?”

Aadil’s face took on a deathly pallor. The haze of whiskey left his mind, as he saw his wife and daughter clearly for the first time in years, broken. Ire at the vice fuelled his body, and he hauled himself out of the door roaring violently, “Rehan, show yourself you animal! How dare you talk about spreading God’s word when you don’t command the respect of a rat, let alone a teacher!”

Villagers tumbled out of their tawdry houses into the cramped outside, where Aadil was beside himself. A petrified Falak and Inaya ran out too, their blood cold at the thought of Inaya’s crime coming to light.

Slowly, it dawned on the villagers what had happened. They whispered catatonically among themselves, until a brash man, Omar, yelled aloud,” Why Aadil, you rapist! Getting your comeuppance now, aren’t you? This is the penance you will face in this life before going to hell, for what you did to Noor!” Emboldened, his wife spoke out too, “We see the bruises on Falak, Aadil, who’s to say you yourself aren’t responsible for what happened to your daughter?”

The villagers nodded in assent and gathered around him ominously, like they had ten years ago. A distraught Aadil, was mumbling to himself like a lunatic. They started heaving stones and spat at him, as a mortified Falak and Inaya struggled to wheel him away.

An unkempt, ragged man Sohail, stood silently at the edge of the circle. His eyes mirrored the anguish in Aadil’s; and when they met, their years together flashed in front of Sohail’s eyes.

His best friend, almost brother, Aadil. Their wives, Afreen and Falak always doing chores and smiling together. His daughter Noor and Inaya, braiding each other’s hair with flowers daily. Falak's fragrant Seviyan, brought over by Inaya often. Afreen and Falak's shared love for rich, silken scarves. The crimson, the coral, the teal, the navy; all peeking out plaintively from Afreen's wardrobe; striking, on Falak's neck that very moment. Noor comforting Inaya over a skinned knee. Even commemorating Iftar together, like a family.

Then one day, he going over to Aadil’s earlier than usual, for their nightly whiskey. Walking in on his Noor, on Aadil’s lap, tangled together like he usually saw Falak and him. Noor giggling, his arm around her waist, stroking her hair. The sinking realization of his best friend and daughter frolicking together. The horror, the revulsion. Seeing their stupefied faces, and entering into a fit of rage. Punching Aadil, while shouting of betrayal and filthy lust and God’s rage. Noor begging him to stop, trying to absolve Aadil from blame. He shoving her away with phenomenal strength. The sickening crash. Pounding and pounding Aadil, failing to hear his manic cries till he felt something warm and wet spreading under his leg. The augury welling up inside him, telling him what had happened without even having to look.

The feeling of utter desolation that had never left him. Overwrought villagers crowding around them. A surge of venom and hatred prompting him to pin the dire and unmerited words, RAPE and MURDER, on Aadil. The life leaving Aadil’s eyes at his words, knowing what was to follow. An immediate sense of wrong and contrition, then vengeance overpowering it.

Numbness when Afreen had died out of grief in the days to follow. Numbness when he had stood watching the villagers dismember Aadil as retribution. Numbness seeing the sense of unbearable loss in Falak’s eyes, after leaving her with a husband who would have preferred death. Numbness having to see Inaya every day, growing into a woman over ten painful years, when he could never see his Noor again. Numbness leading him to ravage every flower in his garden that reminded him insufferably of Afreen and Noor; and shutting the sun out of his house forever. Numbness now, as he stood watching the three lives he had ruined forever.

Stones pelted Aadil, but his focus lay solely on Sohail’s eyes, which bruised his heart more than the stones, his skin. He saw overwhelming vindication in them and they talked to him, saying, “Just like Inaya is how my Noor would have ended up because of you. You damned your own family yourself, ten years ago.”

It was impossible to tell which man was more tormented. Aadil had surrendered to his fate, accepting the injustice out of inordinate guilt; and sank a little more in his helplessness every day. Sohail’s thirst for blood had been quenched years ago, but the blood of his daughter on his hands would never let him sleep again. All the two men could do, was drown themselves in whiskey, to stay afloat the blood at least.