One afternoon, play-fighting with siblings.

His aunts tittered in derision at the sodden clothes, the ripped shalwar, while she glowered with anger and hurt pride. Then they ran off inside leaving her sulking in the mud, refusing to budge from the place where she had crash-landed.

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She catches hold of his hand for the briefest of moments and feels his flesh shrink back beneath his skin. The afternoon is theirs – not a time but a kingdom, a shifting, mythical land they build upon. They sit on the grass, squinting, treats spread around them: chocolates, books, photographs.

‘Tell me about the time,’ she says, ‘Tell me about the time your mother fell from the tree.’

The sun gleams through the dusty leaves of the tree. Crows caw dutifully. Inside the buildings, people are lolling on their beds, stomachs gratifyingly full, the fan breeze lulling them to sleep. She has stopped eating these days. She feels as thin and dry as a nun – compact, an incomplete whole.

‘We cannot escape the people we are,’ he says.

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Breaking branches, scratching limbs, she hurtled all the way down the jamun tree, and landed in the vegetable patch. Gliding swiftly down the trunk, Huma won the race. They laughed at her huffiness, pulling antics to induce her out of her sulk. But she just sat there, tracing circles in the mud with a piece of stick.

That was the moment your mother conceived you. Squatting in the mud, plotting revenge against her siblings, prodding minerals with a stick, some molecules came together, others assumed a new shape and your germ formed. I slipped into that afternoon, out of another, circled the tree, paid homage to the fruit. The shadows lengthened, your aunts came outside again, primping, decked out in their best.

‘Don’t you remember we’re going to get our picture taken? Aren’t you coming?’

She snorted and kicked her heel and ran to get her picture taken.

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There it is now: your smile when you look at this picture of hers. Two dolled up girls and one fierce little ruffian smiling sweetly into the camera. Your mother’s smile is an odd mixture – the beam that comes from the pure satisfaction of being photographed mingled with the defiant smirk of one who will not be cheated out of a treat, one who will not be defeated even if she is scratched and sore and bleeding from the knee.

After you’ve stared at it long enough, you burst out laughing, throwing back your head, giving yourself up completely to a hearty fit of mirth. It’s a funny picture, but you’re laughing out of wonder. Because these are the traits you’ll never have. You’re so gentle yourself. Yours is the kind that pores over accounts and makes mild jokes and holds out their forefinger to babies. You are the one who thinks deeply but simply. You have so much faith. You could accept anything. And so you laugh out of wonder at your intimacy with this strange wild creature who fights with her siblings and falls headlong down trees, and bears a child of incomparable docility.

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I know your mother. She is very thin and has big dark eyes that she lines with thick kajal. In photographs she comes out in odd poses. Lying on a bed in thin cotton clothes, she makes a right angle bent at the waist. Looking into the camera with eyes dilated in sudden terror, as she holds a plate of salan with one hand and clutches onto naan with the other.

At this time, she is intemperate: wont to leave an apple after a few mouthfuls, or tear new clothes running after a squirrel. She forgets important things all too often and she makes too much of a fuss over small concessions. Her children amuse her when they don’t bother her overmuch.

A little later a shadow falls across her face. Her large eyes are now watchful, she is sterner and sadder. She cannot tolerate the qualities she once had herself in other people. She realizes the virtues of consistency and moderation. The world has shrunk for her. In photographs she comes out with her lips pursed together.

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When evening comes, we are empty. Our soles are coated with dust, there is dirt under our nails and pollen in our hair. Our faces are sun burnt. We are tired and disgruntled and have fought many times over. We say, Let’s go back. But we loiter aimlessly, lost and bewildered.

Your mother is with us always. I accept her presence even when I do not detect it. I ponder over her in silence, mindful that I know you through knowing her. It seems to me that I have woven her in every word every gesture of yours. Have I, after all, only created her, and created you in the process? She surrounds us thickly sometimes, penetrating our fibres, stinging our nostrils, an invisible presence I struggle against. I cannot afford to be wrong about this. You remain unaffected, oblivious, unwrapping chocolates, wondering at the flowers, but I can unravel the skeins of your mind, the mazes of your conversation, I can find the motivations, the rootless lessons your body has been taught. I can see your mother.

I have become a guardian of your memories. I have become a dreamer of your aspirations. Much like a parent, I keep alive your name, I cement your personality. You deposit atoms of yourself inside of me. They form a lump in my throat, a fist in my stomach, they become a sudden tightening of the chest. I secrete your guilt and let you free. In the daytime we fly. At night we become weighed down by each other’s burdens. Your love turns into my grudge. A hollow in my body holds space for you.

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But there is afternoon left yet. Sun enough to eat candies and spin funny stories. His mother once slipped into a gutter. Her father almost married an Indian girl. In this light these stories are merely humorous, it does not seem that they lodge themselves as minerals in their bones, as veils of fat around their viscera, as vile atoms in their body that block the understanding of other people’s stories. They become the body’s private legends, lessons assimilated so deeply they seem to have no root.

His mother comes to her in odd moments. If he pauses during conversation or crinkles his eyes, she looms in plain sight. She is close, too, at night when demons chase away her sleep driving her out of bed. How many people do we filter inside ourselves? When maghrib comes, the sky becomes ferocious, the land bleak, and the incessant chirrup of birds fills the air with an even monotone. Then her heart sinks irrevocably, the blood drains away from her face. With morning comes happy forgetfulness.

We are children once more.

In a little while
I’ll be gone
The moment’s already passed
Yeah it’s gone
And I’m not here
This isn’t happening
I’m not here
I’m not here

Strobe lights and blown speakers
Fireworks and hurricanes
I’m not here
This isn’t happening
I’m not here
I’m not here

(my other favourite song is Candy Shop)

At the beach

It was a wide, beautiful, quiet street, lined with large, serene houses. One imagined that very rich, very old, almost forgotten people lived in those houses, spending their days listening to old gramophone records and pottering about their gardens.

We stopped at one such house and pushed the front gate open. At the threshold, my heart sank irrevocably and memory came flooding back. Suddenly I knew where I was, and I begged my mother not to go on. But I knew she could never be dissuaded. We went inside and climbed flights and flights of stairs in the name of duty. There were mosaic patterns on the floor and the stairs were narrow, even steep. Finally, we faced three doors. The one in the middle was jammed so we opened the door on the right and used a connecting door to enter that room.

A frail old woman was lying on her deathbed. She lay absolutely still, in the same position that we had last left her. There was a jug of water and a glass by her bedside – stale, coated with dust. I was overwhelmed with sadness, ridden with anxiety.

‘Oh God.’ I said. ‘Why?’ I asked my mother. ‘Why are we here again?’

Everything about this room irked me. I wanted to run away from it and drag my mother away too. I knew that the old woman wasn’t dying – she was already dead. But my mother who held duty above everything else, thought it was essential that we see her through her last days. I felt I was the only one able to see things clearly and my mother was being deluded. The old woman came to life only when we visited her and as long as we kept going to her room she would haunt us. Her small face was fair and wrinkled. She had white hair and a sweet pink mouth.

As we stood there, she turned her head slowly towards me. My mother wanted to help her but this was a dead, empty house. There was nothing we could conceivably offer the old woman except the water by her bedside. My mother handed me the glass so I could wash it and bring the old woman water. My mother imagined that she was thirsty and it hurt her as if she had thorns in her own throat. She could not wait for the first few sips of succor. But I did not want to let the woman drink this water. I knew that we had spent years by this bedside, listening to the old woman’s false tales. She had spun magic around us simply by getting us to sip water from this dusty old jug. We had lost time and sat by her side for seven years, listening to lies. Sullenly, I took the glass to the basin and tried to wash it. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t really clean it.

‘Don’t you see?’ I cried, from anger and frustration. ‘She’s just a liar – she’s making these stories up. You think it’s charity that makes you come here but it’s your guilt driving you.’

I felt helpless and hurt – as if I would be able to save them if only I could convince them to see it my way. My way, of course, was right. No one else was able to see the situation with the same clarity. I felt as if I was a prophet.

By that time a woman had come into the room with her four children. She too thought that caring for the old woman would save them all. They all thought I was blasphemous, unblessed. They didn’t realize that I cared the most about them.

The old woman was quiet. She knew anything she said would only antagonize me. Also her supporters were vocal enough in her defense. Anything she would have said would have been superfluous. She was just waiting for me to bring her that glass of water. She would take a little sip, and then she would make the rest of us sip a little bit too and then we would all fall under her spell and throw away years listening to lies.

I finished washing the glass and went back to her bedside. I knew I would have to let her drink the water. Nobody would listen to what I was saying. I was resigned. I picked up the jug of water.

‘No.’ I said. ‘No, I won’t. I won’t let you.’

Where did this resolution come from? I don’t know. But the atmosphere in the room shifted. The jug of water was in my hands. They believed their fate hung upon it. They were going to save themselves that way. And here I was, an infidel almost, ridiculously refusing them their right.

‘Stop it!’ they said. ‘She’s old and thirsty. Let her have the water.’

‘No!’ I screamed. And bursting through a door came out on the balcony. The others lunged after me, now truly threatened. ‘We need to have this water!’ cried the woman and her children.

The weather was beautiful. There were fluffy grey clouds and an exhilarating breeze. From the balcony I could now see a blue car parked at the gate.

‘I won’t let anyone drink this water!’ I screamed, holding the glass and jug aloft. They ran towards me and I drained it over the balcony. Before the first drops hit the ground it started raining. Out of anguish the woman and her children jumped off the balcony and I saw them in mid-air, turning into raindrops. I felt vindicated – the old woman had been pretending the whole time. I leapt off out of exhilaration and right before I hit the ground I turned into a small brown field mouse. Still high, I kept running at an incredible speed. There were beautiful trees arching over me. Fruits and vegetables sprouted from the ground as I passed by. I was a mouse. I felt deliriously happy. Somehow I knew exactly what to do.

Dream 2

I did not know whether I was a man or a woman but I told her that I loved her. She was fat and dark and dirty. She loved me but she refused to believe me, and insisted that I prove my love. How does one prove one’s love? I felt worn out. A tube light was flickering and my computer was on. I had a small bag and a plane to catch. I only wanted to stall her, wanted to make her go away somehow but she wanted to be loved. I patted her arm, I pretended that her presence excited me but I felt like puking. She saw right through me.

Dream 3

It is a common misconception that Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy because both the principal characters died in the end. The real tragedy lies in the fact that Romeo was gay and could never bring himself to love Juliet. Juliet was desperately in love with Romeo and he vowed to marry her. Bhatti is shocked, “You mean you didn’t know that Romeo and Juliet is all about gays?”

How stupid of me to have missed it. There’s a whole passage in there in which Romeo is apparently praising Juliet’s green eyes. Well, in gay slang, telling a girl that she has green eyes means ‘You’re beautiful honey, but it just won’t cut it.’

There’s a thief prowling around the dorm and I can almost feel myself turning into one. There’s a bottle of Beautiful on somebody’s counter but for some reason it’s labelled Moschino.

Of course Romeo was gay. Of course Juliet was unloved. How awful for both of them. He killed her when he couldn’t go through with it and then he killed himself. That’s why it’s a tragedy, stupid. Not just because they both die in the end.

Dream 4

Sadaf Aziz’s brother is a psychologist and he’s following her around, observing her. Sadaf Aziz is walking around in dark alleys, talking to her boyfriend on the cell phone. Her brother can’t make head or tail of what she’s doing but that’s because he doesn’t realize that her boyfriend is hypnotizing her. She goes into her studio with the broken sculptures and does weird, fetishistic things. Her cell phone is held up to her ear the whole time. There is a huge tub of clay and Sadaf Aziz drowns herself in it. Her brother is watching but somehow he can’t save her. Later they pull out the body, rigid, because the clay has hardened. Sadaf Aziz has turned into a sculpture. She’s in a keeling over position, with her cell phone still held up to her ear.

[Usually I wake up screaming, but later I can't help laughing]

The voice floats out in the corridor, bloated with emotion, propped up with faith and arrogance, a mellifluous sob. Longings spill out uncontrollably. The pain is slow, delicious, luxurious. Words woven into words woven into a Believer’s voice.

How weak a word is. By itself. When you pare it down, paragraph after paragraph, sentence after sentence, drive it into a corner, a naked prisoner of the page. Weave it with other words and what you get is effect. What you get then is emotion. I lie on my bed feeling feeble, cradled by a disembodied voice, repeating words which have no meaning to me. Belief is not something you reason out. Belief is something wrenched out of you, against your will. Like love. Like a gush of tears. No cause and effect. Only Effect. Cheap, melodramatic and mostly embarassing.

They turn up the volume. They stop in mid-sentence to hum a few words. They put it on repeat, hardly listening.

It spins round and round me, cutting off the air. It chokes and resumes, falters and then affirms. Starved, cold, beaten, homeless. But Believing. Word after defenceless word. No tricks. No chains of logic or reason. Just a voice breaking down and starting up again. And again. And again.

Turn it off.

We leave the realm of thought, determined to show the world that we’re practical, and get down to the basics, to survival. We think about food: cigarettes for breakfast, antibiotics for lunch, mood elevators for dinner. A mug with old tea coagulated at the bottom rim, a plate of pastry crumbs and hairballs. My mouth feels like a toilet – I should flush it out with Listerine. I have holes in my stomach and needles in my heart. Some days you can’t fool the world about how damaged you are. You feel faintly ridiculous – and also very tired – running around with your maimed shoulder, your mutilated arm, held limply against the rest of your body. You want to throw the bloody thing away, finally free yourself.

This is what I woke up saying last night. A bit too weird and nonsensical even for me. I lay in bed for some time afterwards wondering what the spelling of geehuwitz might be.

Jane Austen: Shrimp Cocktail

Gone With the Wind: Nihari

To the Lighthouse: Blueberry Cheesecake

Daphne du Maurier: Daal Gosht

Margaret Atwood: Godiva Dark Chocolate