Egoistical Obstinacy

Ali Jafar was not sure if he should go in there. He last visited this place as a curious twelve-year-old child. Would Uncle mind that he had arrived on the property, after Ali’s father being barred from it since the last fifteen years? 

Just remembering snippets of those fun-filled days stabbed him painfully in the chest. He was the youngest in his family, always having the company of his cousins. Apa Fatima always made him feel welcomed. She was five years his elder, and he had always considered her a sister he never had; he could never think of saying her name without the endearing term for elder sister preceding it. She often quelled verbal fights between him and her brother, Zahid, who was elder to him by two years. But they also loved each other like brothers. Even without his cousins, he never felt an outcast among the adults patrolling the field, most of whom were workers for his Uncle. They answered his eager questions about anything he asked, and when he tired of his own questions, he ran around the orange field, the green carpets inviting him deeper into its majesty. 

Apa Fatima got married off five years ago, and though Ali’s father had received an invitation, Ali and his mother were not allowed to go. And the last time he had heard from Zahid, he was working abroad. The village must be quiet without them both, he thought. 

The rusty gate of the house opened, revealing a body stooping down to pick up the cloth lying on the dusty ground. The person looked up, revealing a friendly face which must have laughed a lot, lined with old age. Auntie Aliyah. She looked up the same instant he thought her name and smiled, although he was sure she could not see his face properly without her glasses, which right now dangled on her chest by strings. He felt as if his thoughts communicated to her with no restrictions, that she saw him perfectly as he was in her mind’s eye and not as a twelve-year-old child in shorts during summer. 

It was always like this with them. When Ali grazed his knees by falling hard on the stairs leading to the second floor, which was reserved for him and his family, he had also hurt his pride when Zahid laughed out loud. Auntie Aliyah, always the epitome of an understanding person, saw the hurt in his eyes and snubbed Zahid while steering Ali to the kitchen. She said nothing but looked at the already clotting wound tenderly, as a mother would. She sent him off without even a bandage, and he was grateful for that; he did not need a bandage as well to make Zahid laugh. 

She had seen her and now there would be no turning back on his idea to leave unnoticed. I also cannot leave without telling Uncle about father’s health, he thought solemnly. There was something in Auntie Aliyah’s expression which beckoned him forward. But as he approached near, he saw that it was not of recognition. It was of confusion. He was slightly dismayed. Of course, in the span of fifteen years, he had turned from a boy to a man. His boyish features morphed into that of an adult with creases on his forehead, brought on by the journey of life itself. 

He greeted her and asked her, “Do you remember me?” He was almost certain she would shake her head, and for a second he fleetingly thought he could turn his back politely, saying that he arrived at the wrong address. But she just scrutinised his face closely, trying to put a name to the face she saw before her. She even took his face in her hands and turned it side to side. He noticed a slight smile on her face and recognition in her eyes. She whispered in a voice so low that it could be a secret: “Ali.” She enveloped him in her arms, sniffling behind his back. There was a sudden relief in his chest, and he released a breath he did not realise he was holding in the arms of this old, loving lady. “How did you know it was me?” He whispered. 

“There is only one boy I know who has a mole under his left ear.” 

She released him and looked at him, the smile reaching her eyes. 

“Come, son, come. I am sure Asif will be happy to see his nephew after a long time.” She turned slightly wistful while proclaiming this, as if she also did not want that terrible day to exist. A sudden chillness descended on his chest. He was not as hopeful as Auntie Aliyah that Uncle Asif would engulf him in his arms like a father. Disputes between the brothers shook the entire village the last time he was in this area. She took his arm, as if sensing his conflicted thoughts, and steered him through the house. 

The house was as impeccable as it could ever be, sofas and chairs neatly arranged; it was filled with the aromas of spices, and the food being cooked to serve during the afternoon made his mouth water. Auntie Aliyah never believed in overly furnished houses, and perhaps it was a reason one always felt welcomed in this home; the simplicity, as she said, not only made it easier to keep the house clean but also made the guests less intimidated. 

Through the back door, Auntie Aliyah led him to the fields, and a gust of winter wind made him shiver. He could see the trees laden with ripe oranges, and the workers dispersed throughout the field, plucking the oranges to be packed and shipped. How could he forget these fields of oranges, when it was his childhood activity to pluck the fruit from the lowest branch? The fruit ripening from a fern shade of green into the magnificent orange colour? Even now, the fruit was so juicy that the branches sagged with their weight, their sweet-sour scent wafting throughout the fields, beckoning everyone to take a luscious bite. The riot of colours in the village during the winter always made him feel giddy because winter in the city blanketed everything in fog and dull shades of grey; even the clothes worn were unceremoniously dull coloured. 

Lost in his observation and memories, he was startled to face his uncle. He was sitting in a chair with one knee suspended in the air, an arm circling it and a notebook in his wrinkled hand, lost in mathematical sums for the produce of the year. His glasses were perched dangerously low on his nose, and his scrunched up expression made him look comical, making Ali snort, but he covered it up by coughing. His uncle looked up from his calculations and gave him the look similar to that of Auntie Aliyah’s when she first saw him at his car door. An expression one gives to an unknown person. His snort-cough died, and Auntie Aliyah cleared her throat, her voice uncommonly loud, which she tried to mask as cheerfulness, “Asif, Ali has returned from the city. He has come to meet us…” She lapsed in silence, twisting the cloth in her hands nervously, not knowing what to say next. She looked at Ali, who picked up the cue.

“Uncle, it has been years since I last saw you. I know things weren’t good between you and my father, but there is something I have to tell you, if you allow me, please? Just let me tell you about it and then I can leave respectfully if you want.”

Ali feared instantly that his Uncle would refuse to listen to him. But the uncle he remembered would not do so. His expression turned unreadable until his wife placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her from beneath his glasses, reading her pleading expression, and heaved a sigh. He looked back at his nephew and nodded, saying in his croaky voice, “Yes, you may sit down.” Then, addressing Auntie Aliyah, he said, “Bring something to eat and drink, please.” 

She hurriedly went back through the door they came from.

Uncle was eyeing him. Ali gulped, and seeing that he was being intimidated, his uncle looked down, his expression soft. “You look so much like your father when I last saw him, but also so different. I didn’t know who you were when you came in front of me.” He paused, then said, “I wonder what he looks like now.” Ali was not sure how to tread forward in this situation, so he remained quiet.

Uncle Asif looked at Ali again, his expression now serious, “How are your parents?”

“Fine,” his voice came out croaky. He cleared his throat and said again, “mother is fine, Uncle. I came here today to discuss father’s…”

“Ah, about him,” Uncle Asif interrupted, “Tell your father he was long forgiven for his insensitivity. He was forgiven the day I intended to send out Fatima’s wedding invitation. He never even replied.” he paused for a second, then said, “Always the obstinate one.” He did not say it unkindly, but pityingly.

The air was uncomfortable between them. Uncle Asif snorted as he remembered something “Where he was obstinate, I was egoistical. I held a firm stance about not moving in with him. Imagine an elder brother living in the house of his younger brother. Ha! It would have been a disgrace to my name.” he exclaimed.

Yes, his father’s obstinacy and his uncle’s ego had led them all to stop meeting each other. Ali’s grandfather died of a heart attack when Ali was ten, and without question, both his sons inherited the fields and other properties, as written in the will. A two-storied house was constructed in the fields, one story for each brother and his family. But the construction led to less land, and they got ultimately less yield, leading to financial loss. Ali’s father, being a businessman, had suggested selling off the entire property in the village, and then spend the money in his business, with Uncle Asif also getting his fair share. But Uncle Asif did not have a separate house like his brother in the city. He would be shelterless with his family and deemed it inappropriate to move in his brother’s house. Plus, he could not bring himself to sell away his father’s legacy. A deadly dispute arose the day they discussed this; their argument had gotten so loud that the workers away in the fields came to see what had happened. They swore to each other they would not see each other’s faces. 

Ali tried not to show how uncomfortable he was by revisiting his memories. He and his cousins had cowered behind sofas to escape the wrath of their fathers until Ali’s father came and dragged him away. 

He was saved from speaking anything by his Aunt, who was bringing the tea and biscuits. As she set the tray on the table in front of them and took a seat, Ali's uncle handed him a cup of tea while taking one himself. Ali decided that it was best he now reveal the reason for visiting.

“Uncle, I came here to talk about my father’s health. He was ill for a long time, but refused to go with me to the doctor. It was only a few days earlier when I forcefully took him to the doctor,” he took a deep breath, steadying himself, then said, “He suffers from lung cancer.”

His Aunt was shocked, and his Uncle looked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. Their reactions were similar to what Ali felt when the doctor pronounced this. He continued, the words tumbling from his mouth without thinking, “I came to take you both to visit him.” 

Silence descended as Ali tried to glean their thoughts from their reactions, and was instantly dismayed when his Uncle stood up abruptly, “Visit him? He never even congratulated Fatima when she got married! He never called since fifteen years! Is this some kind of joke to make people laugh?” He was dangerously close to bursting from anger, but Ali controlled his expressions and calmy addressed him, “I am not playing any kind of joke on you. Please trust me. I am like your son.” Or at least he hoped he was.

Auntie Aliyah was trying to catch her husband's eye, but he looked nowhere except at his nephew. Ali tried again, “Please just visit him once. After that you could never talk to him. Or you could call him once and inquire about his health. Just please talk to him.” 

Uncle looked undeterred when he said to him, “I am elder than him and have more respect than him. If he never called me being the younger one, then why should I?” 

Ali looked at him, thoroughly disappointed by his uncle’s ego. He had hoped that pleading would convince him, but he should have known better than that. He saw it himself with his father that he had to be forced to do something, and his uncle was no different. 

Ali looked him squarely in the eyes, remarking, “He speaks of regret and of old times with his family, and mostly of you. I know he will not admit it to himself, but he needs to speak to you. He cannot die with the burden of an old man filled with regrets brimming to the rim."

Auntie Aliyah fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. 

He continued, “Your reasons were valid, and his reasons were also sound. I am not taking anyone’s side. But just for once think of your brother dying and how he would like to listen to you once more. He once said to me before I came here that you loved him like a father, when grandfather was away for his businesses. Just take that stance once more and talk to him. It is just his ego and stubbornness which prevents him from calling you himself. Please be the elder brother.”

He spoke without stopping once for breath; the words left him in a rush. Uncle Asif’s eyes were wide at his rant, but he regained his composure, the mask of unreadable expression again on his face. Ali deflated. He could not convince his Uncle to visit his dying father. Uncle Asif walked towards his wife, taking her hand and beckoning her to stand; she was incredulous but said nothing. Ali was certain that they- no, his Uncle- wished him to leave. He stood up slowly. “Thank you for the tea, Auntie. I must take my leave.” He turned on his back and walked away from the village, knowing that he would not visit it again as long as he lived. But his Uncle’s voice rang behind him, although it was strained, as if he realised his own obstinacy, “I thought you came to take us with you to visit your father. Will you go off without us?"