Mehroomi (a feeling of emptiness)

The smell of freshly washed laundry hangs about the air, pressed and ready to be folded away. I can hear the sound of dishes clattering in the sink, my mother never was one to put things in the dishwater, “pateej nahi aati” she’d say; I’m not satisfied.

From where I stand, barely ten yards from the threshold that would take me within the doors of my childhood, it seems like little has changed. Sure, the once white paint on the walls has chipped away, exposing the red brick underneath, like a wound that has begun to scab. There are no longer lemons growing on the lemon tree, the ones that my sister and I would surreptitiously pick like oranges and proceed to eat them as such, competing to see who had the highest tolerance for sourness. My mouth starts watering at the fond reminiscence. It is as if I have a slice of lemon in the palm of my hand in this very moment, and my hand slowly inches towards my mouth as if ready to plant it on my welcoming tongue. I had heard of phantom limbs, but do memories work the same way as well? If yes, then why was I huddled behind this twenty five year old poplar tree, instead of rushing forth and opening the faded blue door in front of me, like I had done so countless times before. Why were my feet firmly planted in the ground, as if they were one with the roots of the tree. Even now I could hear my mother’s shrill call, beckoning us to come inside for some dinner. She hated for dinner to go cold, and we always used to begrudge her for making us come in when all we wanted to do was continue on with whatever activity had struck our fancy. But despite the grumbling and fussing, we knew that while we recklessly spent away the whole afternoon, she had been toiling in the kitchen making sure her children were well nourished. And how could we stay even mildly angry at her for long, after those first heavenly bites of whatever it was she placed in front of us. It is a cliché, I know, to say that my mother is the best cook; but in my case there isn’t even a shred of falsehood or exaggeration, or even bias.

I could hear the preparations for dinner being made inside, I wonder what it was going to be tonight. Biryani, quorma, maybe pasta or even homemade pizza. She loved making homemade pizza; she loved making it because she knew how much I enjoyed eating it. I wonder if she still made the things I loved- love (does it even matter). The things only I would eat, yet still she’d make them with as much zeal as if she were preparing a feast. How often might she think of me? An iron fist seemed to grab ahold of my insides, twisting and turning them about. That iron fist was guilt, seven years’ worth of it, and its grip never loosened. In fact, it only grew tighter with each passing year. I still remember the last time we spoke. I was a junior in college, it had been three years since I left the country to pursue my degree, my dreams, and three years since I had last seen her, or anyone from my life back home. Sure, we had called back and forth, but saying that would be a lie. She was the one who called, nearly every day, and even when there was nothing to say I knew all she wanted was to hear the sound of my voice. To know that her first born, that was now thousands of miles away from her, was okay. I knew, I knew I could not fault her for that. I knew it when I would get annoyed by her incessant calling, I knew it when I would tell her as much, and I knew it when one day I just stopped picking up the phone. I sent her a message, saying I needed to live my own life for a while, that I couldn’t let her continually bring me back to my past. It was an excuse of course, a pathetic one at that, but then I was a pathetic person. I would say that that was when the guilt started to grow, when the iron first wielded it’s tight grip on me, but it all started with that first spark of annoyance early on. What I knew, but couldn’t understand, was that while it was merely annoyance, a word one casually flings on a slight inconvenience, for me, it was torment for her. The words of one my favorite Urdu sufi songs comes to mind: “Mere baad kis ko sitao ge”: who will you torment when I’m gone. She would say that jokingly sometimes when we were being especially trying, but now those words ring through my head and haunt me. For seven years, I became the sole reason of crushing the spirit of a woman who’s only crime was to love her child with everything she had, and beyond. I had tormented her and damned my soul in the process. I’m not particularly religious or superstitious, but I do believe in karma. I flung away the love and support of a mother to make my life, and I did. I made a life, a successful one at that. I had everything I wanted, everything except happiness, contentment, joy. It was as if for these past seven years all I did was tick items off a to-do list, a list that I had worked on since I was five, goals that were supposed to make me ebullient. Instead, all I found was emptiness; I was hollow. The word in Urdu is “mehroomi”, and it’s an achingly beautiful word. Mehroomi itself, however, only aches. It’s a dull ache that never quite leaves, and it never quite shows. Others are not quick to sense it, but if you look closely enough, you can see it. Stand in front of a mirror, like I did, and smile. Smile your brightest smile and you’ll see that even though you might look happy, your smile never quite reaches your eyes. Mehroomi plays on your forced, upturned lips, it sings in your hollow laugh, glistens in your tearless eyes. It goes everywhere you go, touches everything you touch- there is no escape. How does one escape that which courses through their very blood?

I have lived with this mehroomi far too long and here I am today, returned to my childhood to find a way out. I do not expect a warm embrace, or even a welcome back. Frankly, I don’t want either of those things, because it would made everything worse. Guileless devotion and love, pure and sincere, are more than I can handle right now. I want so badly to be punished for the wrongs I inflicted on her, on my family. I want her to tear me apart, limb by limb, until I’m a pile of mutilated bones on the dirt caking the walls. I want her to lash out and cry, rip my hair out with her bare fists and call me out for the worthless excuse of a human that I am. I want her to do all that and more, so that I can finally find some peace with myself. It’s selfish, I know. Even in my time of supposed redemption I am acting out a base, selfish desire but I don’t suppose I know how to do it any other way. I have grown too lonely in my crippling guilt, I have fed it from my hand for too long, now it must find another.

My feet start moving of their own accord, slowly at first, but determined. I make my way to the door and reach out to knock. I don’t know what I’ll do or say, but I know that no amount of rehearsing will ever prepare me for what is to come. I rap my knuckles against the wood, barely a knock, but I know I have been heard because suddenly a pair of feet make their way towards me and I close my eyes. The door swings open with a creak that is louder than I remember. There is silence, an absolute stillness hangs about the air, eventually broken by an audible gasp from somewhere within the house. I open my eyes, not knowing what it is I meant to achieve, but ready to embrace it with open arms.