Amma

The evening was burning dimly at the end of winter, promising spring. The events of the day kept rising in front of Ramia's eyes: Hadi falling from the pear tree; Tathi rushing to her fallen, seraphic grandson's aid; Hadi with his broken arm in a white gauze sling; Amma walking calmly up the sloping road to the house, her body following her head as bit by bit, she bloomed into view; Amma tenderly nursing her son-with-a-broken-arm. Ramia sniffled as she completed Hadi's homework for him: it took away her playtime. Little brat! Always getting into deliberate trouble, embarrassing her by staying in the same class for two years, forever stuck at his A,B,Cs! The chalks kept snapping in her hand as she pressed her anger into them. Under the mellow orb of a candle, Amma's calmness spread over her like a light cloud. But the chalks would not stop breaking. That was Amma: if the sky fell into their backyard tomorrow, she would say "Oh, I guess that's not so good" and get to work cleaning. What had been a frantic day folded into completeness so somnolently that it took them a while to rouse themselves when Abba finally arrived home with a woman in tow. Ramia didn't know if this woman would turn out to be a good addition to the family but she registered that Abba's new wife, her stepmother, was rather beautiful before dozing off.

The evening was burning dimly at the end of winter, promising spring, that day when Amma took them to see the new, now finished two-room house that she had managed to build in the year since Abba brought home a second wife. Ramia had taken a liking to her stepmother who taught her how to make french braids and apply kohl to her eyes. They lived like actors in a movie for a year- Abba and his new wife in the spotlight, Amma a shadow behind curtains; Tathi a director on the stage nudging them into motion with one hand, stopping them with the other; her and Hadi two shikaras on frolicking waters. Tathi had tried to knock some sense into Amma, vehemently in the first few days when silent tears escaped her eyes too frequently, by reminding her that her husband too had taken a second wife and that being a teacher didn't make women like Amma any incomparable paragon against whom her son would find no other woman to measure. Sometimes Tathi would resort to surprising flummeries to pacify her but Amma stayed calmly unconvinced. Like a slow-growing mushroom, brick by brick, with the necessary help of naanu- Amma's father- the two-room brick house had laboriously unfurled out of the ground, its growth arrested now and then as the rain of money was withheld by frozen funds, family feuds and quarrels. Abba was soured by the idea that Amma had chosen to leave, but she said, calmly of course, that he broke her stupid heart. After they moved into the new house at the outskirts of the village, Abba kept visiting them, spent time with her and Hadi, helping with school work and playing with them sometimes- just like in their old house. Whenever he came, Amma did her best to be like air. Invisible and breezy.

The evening was burning dimly at the end of winter, promising spring, as a mauve twilight fled from the onslaught of night. The steady drawl of words pouring from Abid's mouth lost themselves somewhere in the space between them. He spoke with great animation and she...she kept travelling far far away into the cool air of the mountains to her two-room childhood house that had grown up out of the earth after Abba married her beautiful stepmother. With his store of words finally exhausted, Abid placed the divorce papers on the table and left. Ramia hadn't heard his reasons or the apologies that tumbled out of him in the last half hour: she didn't need to. She had smelled them all on him long ago when the frost had first seeped into the air between them, when even he himself wasn't aware that new feelings stirred within him. She had known. Then she waited for the thaw. If Amma were here, she would say "Oh, I guess that's not so good." Now the mess had to be cleaned from yards and hearts. The mountains called now. Ramia sighed into the silence that Abid had left in his wake and called out to her daughter.

"Sana, honey, we are going to visit grandma!"

The evening was burning dimly at the end of winter, promising spring, as Ramia stood at the low, rickety gate of her old two-room house, holding Sana's little hand in her own. Amma's breezy calmness seemed to have lent itself to the weather; everything in the air, in the day, was gentle. Gentle like Amma. Amma who hobbled into view as Ramia placed a hand on the gate to unclasp it. Years ago when, adamant to marry Abid, she had started a bitter fight with her mother, Amma bore it all with unwavering calm. Her heart had fled into her eyes, her emotions lay like an open book on her face but only gentle things rose to her mouth. It chaffed Ramia and she let loose a barrage of words that had festered for years inside her. "It's you! It's you! Your darned calmness is the reason! You're the reason Abba remarried. Do you really not see? You had no energy. You bored him with your calmness and your simplicity. You're the reason our family broke!" And she had walked away with gusto and a tear stained face into Abid's arms- the man who would finally give her the energy and family she had missed.

Today, as her mother walked towards her, Ramia's words faltered on her tongue before finding wobbly, throat-constricting footing as she sighed: "Amma, the sky has fallen..."

The evening was burning dimly at the end of winter, promising spring, as Amma looked into her daughter's eyes. Her grey, ethereal eyes travelled over her granddaughter who smiled brightly up at her. It had been six years since she had held the baby in her arms. A little drop of water- that's how fragile she had been then. Amma held out her arms as she looked at Sana. Sana let go of Ramia's hand and rushed into the inviting embrace. Lifting her up, Amma looked over at Ramia, held out her free arm and said ever so calmly:

"I guess that's not so good. Come on in."