Under the cotton-twill covers

The whirring of the fan stops, waking Tauseef up from his four-hour sleep. He was used to the scheduled blackouts that occur every other hour.

“5 am?” His voice croaks as he tries to guess the time. His breath bounces back from his covers resting on his face. The unbrushed air that escapes makes him flinch.

Despite the unpleasantries of his breath, Tauseef does not take off his covers. His bed would soon turn damp due to inevitable sweating. It is the middle of June. The time when temperatures in the southern areas of Pakistan rise. The season of scorching heat, mangoes, leeches, watermelons, and scheduled blackouts. Not the one for cotton twill covers.

Tauseef’s sleeveless cotton vest now clings to his drenched torso. His chest hair lay flat with the weight of his sweat. His armpits stick to his arms. His thin white shalwar has meshed in with his buttocks. His clammy feet take turns to scratch the back of his legs. Tauseef lays in a puddle of perspiration. Yet, he does not take off his covers.

Tauseef tries to remember if he had closed the curtains all the way. The windows do not block out the sun. He had to buy two different sets of opaque curtains. To block out the sun. To block out the nosy neighbours.

The curtain purchase was recent. Tauseef spent whatever was saved from his amma jaan’s funeral expenses to buy these curtains last month. Exactly one month and two days after the burial. Tauseef’s mother had white sheer curtains up. She would pull them back every morning before offering her morning fajr prayer. She would then squat down to fill up her steel glass with tap water. Followed by her going to the back of her one-bedroom house to perform wudu ablution. Tauseef used to fill up the bucket the night before in summers. The cold water would make amma jaan shiver. The sunspots on her face and the tan on her wrinkled hands were testimonials to her life spent in the sun. She did not need the overnight bucket water to soothe her. She, in fact, preferred the heat.

“Heat is energy. Makes you do work.”

“Sweating releases pressure. Keeps you young, puttar.”

“Half my cousins died due to pneumonia. Brutal, brutal winters.”

Amma jaan would defend summers whenever Tauseef complained about the heat. She used to think the blistering sun was a promise from God. A promise of monsoon. A promise of longer days. A promise of easier times.

“Verily, with every hardship comes ease.” Her favorite Quranic verse to quote to Tauseef.

Amma jaan would come back to the room. She would lay down her prayer mat in the middle of the two charpais. The hand-woven wooden bed would creak as Tauseef turned his back against amma jaan. Towards the windows. He would wake up an hour later. The direct sunlight reflecting on his face did not interfere with the last hour of his sleep.

The odor starts to spread from the armpits to the rest of the area under the covers. It smells a hint of onion with a splash of vinegar. Distinctive, but not strong enough to move Tauseef. The heat is partially to blame for the sweating and the foul smell. Tauseef has not showered in a while. He runs through the days in his head. He settles on four days back as the day he last filled his bucket for bathing. The sheets hung at the back for privacy remain dry. Any last drop of water in the bucket has long evaporated.

The sweat has now cooled down. The back of Tauseef’s neck feels refreshing. The stuck-on vest and shalwar almost resemble the drenched clothes post-monsoon rain. Sweat beads collected on Tauseef’s light mustache remind him of mango droplets. The ones that would get stuck whenever Tauseef used to suck on the thin mango slices. The slices that amma jaan would cut for him. She used to position her charpai closer to the windows. A plate, a couple of mangoes, and a knife in her hands. She could see Tauseef coming back. Securing his bicycle at the lock mounted near the windows.

Each mango slice would prompt a new story. Amma jaan used to tell Tauseef about his childhood. Her childhood. His dad’s, who was amma jaan’s second cousin. She would tell him how he passed away when Tauseef was only three. She would tell him how she managed to look after him by herself. No one from her relatives helped her. She bought an old sewing machine from Tauseef’s father’s tailor using her wedding jewelry. She would mend clothes for her neighbours. With time, she would buy enough fabric to sew clothes for the neighbourhood kids. She took pride in her story. Her mouth would always form a smile, revealing a chipped canine.

The stories were a tradition. Tauseef would tell her about his day-to-day. His observations on his morning newspaper route. These exchanges were regular. With every sunrise. With every sunset. With each monsoon season. With each foggy winter.

The sewing machine now collects dust. Along with the steel glass. And the stack of newspapers.

Tauseef does not know what time it is now. He becomes agitated as he feels the sun sneaking through the covers. He must have forgotten to close the curtains last night. He turns his back against the windows. He can feel the heat from the sun piercing his cotton vest. He peeks through the side of his covers. Carefully, as to not lift it from his face. The sight of amma jaan’s empty charpai tempts him. He could move there. A little further from the sun. The charpais are almost four feet apart.

Four feet further from the sun.

Tauseef wonders if his sun allergy was genetic. Maybe one of amma jaan's cousin who died from pneumonia had it. Maybe one of his paternal relatives who he has never seen. But Tauseef doesn't recall any account of sun allergies.

Deciding against getting up, Tauseef uses his weight to move his charpai to cover the distance. The screeching charpai bumps into the other one, halting his journey.

The sun remains undefeated. The light peering through torments Tauseef. He shuts his eyes to avoid looking at the soaked pile of bones. Steam wafts from his head. His glued hair burn. The nodes in his throat clog. His eyes water. Blisters form on his inner thighs. His back burns with rashes. Tauseef lay suffocating under the cotton twill covers. Almost lifeless. As amma jaan lied a month and two days ago.

Tauseef realized what had happened when he noticed the sheer curtains remained closed. When the sun entered the room at half its intensity. When the charpai didn’t squeak. When the steel glass didn’t clink.

The light comes back on. The fan picks up the speed. Tauseef finds a balance between his flaming body and the cool air the fan now throws. He lifts a corner of his covers and breathes in. He is fascinated by the power his fan holds. It seems to keep the sun away. It slows down the hypersensitive reaction.

Tauseef finds comfort in the cool whiffs that slip through under his covers. He descends into a slumber as he debates about receiving appropriate medical attention.