´óÏó´«Ã½

The hazy sun outlined by patterns of bleary mist crept upon the beautiful bazaars of the bustling city, like an intense shadow dipping softly in mellow curves. The tasteful tune of the Imam's call to prayer rang through the streets like beauty amidst dust and invited thousands of young to pay their respects to Allah in mass prayer. From above, the mosque minarets stood sharply erected in perfection and fortune and the vast-globed spheres sat rounded glistening like fat tarnished pearls. Men in red cotton hijabs, wrapped securely around them to elude the chill, assembled like those in military motion. After removing their shoes, they placed themselves north-facing toward Mecca. In prayer, they often stopped momentarily in unison, mercifully kissing their palms and repeating the gestures continually. Outside the mass monuments, the day awakened and the city slowly came to its feet. Motorbikes clamoured through the old allies littered with fruit stalls. Cloth markets protruded along the streets that were dotted with stalls, each with a tape player producing old Farsi songs. People stepped out of the norm of their everyday lives' and jeered at dog fights flourishing in the streets, whilst others stared ultimate with boredom. Vendors stood composed, yet beckoning by-passers, luring them with the essence of hot chicken sliced right before their eyes. Tourists edged away, cordially murmuring, yet captivated by more interesting happenings on the other side of the road. They climbed into Toyota van-converted taxies, made to hold many, managing through the busy suburban areas until they reached the serenity of the modest mountainous regions, where the land is hilly and elegant, where the highways narrowly steer themselves around the fluctuating peaks of the chilly concaves. Mercedes cars each installed with TVs that only know of pirated versions of Hong Kong Kung Fu films and the Al Jazeera network channels, now seemed to make the road look small. Old men clothed in drowning robes sat on the roadsides, smoking, marvelling at the Western cars strolling past. Soldiers grouped at the remote end of the twisting road stand prudent, playing with cigarettes stubs in their forefingers, the expressions on their faces unforgiving until a car reaches the checkpoint and then their business begins.

I sat on a slab of bare cold concrete and a young boy, who'd noticed me take place there, did exactly the same only a few minutes later. He smiled and revealed a set of amazingly bright red teeth that had been stained with beetle juice. He summoned to me to take a look at the collection of raw sugar canes that he'd produced from a brown sack. I peered into the sack and offered him a few rupees. In exchange, he gave me the sugar cane and pleasantly trotted off again to see if he could work such sweet wonders with other tourists. Just as he'd got off, my cell phone buzzed in my blood-stained pocket. It was Imran. He didn't speak for at least a few minutes and then I heard the familiar childish voice in broken Farsi, 'Brother, it's me. She's dead.' My heart sank and a hot rush of blood swam frantically to my head.

I remembered only good memories with her then. The times when she had marvellously cooked me up hot chalwa on days that I'd bunked school because I'd simply not felt up to it. On other occasions, she had driven me, Imran and Mohammed down to Hamza's father's mansionette in Chowri Chowk, predominantly placed in an affluent neighbourhood. The house had lavish, lush green gardens, garages suffocated by new Bentleys, bathrooms with tubs that could fit many of my size, and gold taps that Father said even King Shazwar had never had. We'd often spend our holidays there with Hamza's mother when Father had been on his trips abroad.

My mother was like the gift from God. Everybody loved her because she'd touched their lives in one way or another. Her outstanding beauty was the one thing my Father aimed to preserve in her. Sometimes, I'd hear Father's friends, the male ones of course, exclaim in laughter, 'Friend, do you know where your wife is? Do you? Because if I had a wife like that, I would never let her out of my sight.' Father would pretend to be amused and then within seconds go searching for her.

My mother's patience with people and demeanour towards others made her vulnerable with some, but with others it made them admire her even more. She stunned us all with her quick wit, her elegance, her knowledge of topics that only men would be suited to like cars and politics. She was the heroine from a Western movie in her own fashionable attire. On Sundays, she would make us three boys feel proud when she'd appear in a brown skirt dancing off her hips and leather-studded cowboy boots. I indeed, felt proud when Father would carry her away to a dinner party in the old town with his Mercedes. She would walk down the marble steps in the hallway, her shoes clinking softly, her robe glistening like a thousand diamonds, her face pristine and precious and a fat blue topaz ring perfectly complimenting her long fingers. She'd laugh gently when we would run up to her and tell her how gracefully beautiful she looked. Father took care to groom such a lady because even he knew that there was no diamond in the Sahara of Africa that could fit the qualities of my mother. Now, all I had was my little brother on the phone to me telling me she was dead. Even though I'd known, the pain it caused me was not only nauseating but excruciating too.

Earlier that morning, I'd come off the flight from Boston because she had called me to say, 'times were mistreating her'. I saw the condition she was in ' her intricately painted face was now dried up like a purple prune, uncared for and lacking all the life it had ever been given. Even make-up was uncompromising because it did not do well to hide the misery and ill-being I could see in her eyes. Her hair was coarse and straggly set about. I'd never seen her like this before. That was only because she'd never allowed me or my brothers to see her in that way. Time soon told that beauty could not be preserved like my father had wanted it to be. Time was insensitive and it did not wait for anyone, instead it did to those as it selfishly pleased. And it was now clear to me that time had already visited my mother and cast its spell upon her fragile body. Numerous packets of pills, glasses of water, and old cups of tea were scattered across her dressing table.

'Mom, you should really tell Azia to clean this all up for you. Does she not make you fresh tea anymore? I will tell her, if she does not.'

'Amin,' she croaked. 'Amin, Azia left a while ago. We've knew maids in the house now, since your father died.' She smiled as if to say, 'You're no longer a part of this house, so you wouldn't know.' 'Amin, I am in pain.' That was when she told me about her painful nights in the house by herself, loneliness creeping upon her slowly. She talked for a long time about how she wished to be with God. That was always what hurt me; when old people talked about wanting to go, wanting to be put out of misery. I'd remembered the same thing with my grandfather and father in a hospital bed in the town of Al Samaat. But now it was my mother saying it to me. I wondered if God would be kinder to her than I had been. As we talked, I realised this lady lying in bed, crippled and frail, had done everything for me, but in her time of need there was absolutely nothing I could do for her. To leave the world without God's will was forbidden in our religion, but even I could feel God smiling upon me from above, whispering 'Amin, bring her to me.'

'Brother,' I heard Imran's voice now again, clear on the other side of the receiver.

'Imran, I gave Mom to God today.'