A WEEK AFTER THEIR son had been shot dead in a street, Salma and Asaf sat staring at each other across the big white sheet on the floor of their drawing room. On one end was a pile of prayer beads and on the other end stood two low tables with a few books of prayers on them, each book the size of an adult’s palm. The center of the sheet was rumpled and made Salma think of the people who had sat here in turns, all week long, marking their spots in invisible ways. It was time to fold the sheet and take it to the dry cleaner.
When the last wave of visitors had left, shuffling out of the gate to their cars, heads bowed in a gesture meant to convey respect, Salma felt intensely jealous. They would be able to hug their sons and daughters, look at them more intently and not find fault with them—at least for a few days. Now Salma’s house was so quiet. Their daughter Sophia was somewhere, probably in her room. They should see if she was hungry; there must be tea and biscuits for her to eat. But first, this quiet. Maybe the murmurs of the condolence-givers had been a necessary filler after all.
It was a strange thing to discover about one’s self, she thought, to be surprised by new lows in one’s character. She had always assumed that if ever faced with a problem of a catastrophic nature, she would be the one to handle it with grace and foresight, helping a blundering Asaf. The opposite turned out to be true. But then, even in her wildest assumptions, she had never thought that her son would be dead at fifteen.
She disliked having to put away her own feelings to make room for the sadness of others. All these people had entered her home and occupied spaces that Jamaal used to sit on or stand on or leave his shoes on. Her husband’s mother had rushed into the house, her hair coming out of its bun, as if sudden tragedy demanded unkemptness. His sisters had lurched in, mouths agape, their children and spouses entering more grimly. When they’d come in, they had looked around wildly for the arms of loved ones to catch them, but Salma had not moved from her place, nor smiled or cried or said words of comfort. Her parents had been the last to arrive that day. They had taken the first available flight to Karachi from Rawalpindi. They had stood at her door and said, in voices trembling with emotion and age, “You have lost a son, but you still have your old parents, by the grace of God.”
“I hate them,” Salma said later, with vigor. “Especially the parents of Jamaal’s friends. Did you see the relief in their eyes?” The mothers hugged her, the fathers patted her husband on the back. They murmured soft words, dabbed their eyes. And Salma knew what they thought, Thank God it wasn’t him. Or her. Or them. She spoke only to answer questions. Asaf was better at this than she was. Salma wanted to stop opening the door when the bell rang. But the neighbors and the relatives and the friends kept trickling in, and she watched her parents greet them all, and serve them tea and kebabs and vanilla tea cake from the bakery. “All we can do is have patience. Sabar,” the visitors said, and her parents nodded and murmured, “He went too soon.” Back and forth, a seesaw of endless lament.
It irritated Salma, this assumption on her parents’ part that they understood; their lives had been unburdened with illnesses or untimely deaths. She was still here, wasn’t she? How she hated that. Her mother misunderstood the look on her face. “We are not going anywhere,” she said one afternoon, reassurance and patience in her voice. “Don’t you worry, beti.” Salma did not want them to be here, but it would have made her seem completely unhinged had she said that out loud.
Every evening, her parents talked about Jamaal while Asaf’s parents listened, and Asaf added his own words to their descriptions of him. So, in Salma’s mind, Jamaal became taller (“he had been tall for his age”), kinder (“remember when he helped his cousin with his homework”), a model son (“he never talked back, was always responsible”). But the last phrase resisted being pinned onto the glorious monument that was building in her memory. Once he had shouted at her, his face red and his voice straining as he told her to leave his room.
It was terrible that they had to resume eating and drinking and sleeping. Now they sat at the dining table for breakfast, having ordinary toast and eggs and drinking ordinary tea. The sounds of TV and Jamaal were missing. It was always going to be this way now. Salma imagined a whole series of forevers climbing up her like a vine, the r of one linked to the f of the other, choking her.
“I have to go back to work,” said Asaf, and Sophia added, “I should go back to school,” and Salma realized that it would be wonderful to not have to see them for a while. Then she felt guilty because what she should have been doing, what she should at least have been wanting to do, was grab Sophia and hug her and not let her go to school.
Someone had foolishly said to her, “You still have your daughter.” Asaf was saying something now and she made herself pay attention to it. “It will do you good when you go back to teaching,” he said.
She supposed it was time now for everyone to want to feel some relief, and to move on to other routines and faces. Her parents returned to Rawalpindi and Asaf to his office. Sophia and Salma entered the school together, and, wordlessly, they split. Jamaal’s friends were here somewhere. Salma would not look for them, she decided. For a moment, she felt a little lost. Asaf was probably already creating lists of things to do, and Sophia was working hard at not remembering her brother’s presence in the school’s grounds and corridors. Salma opened the folder which contained lesson plans for English Literature. Jamaal would have been one of her students this year.
The staffroom at the school was Salma’s least favorite place. The arrangement of the sofas left no room for one’s own thoughts; one’s face was always presented for scrutiny to the person sitting across the room. “At least he died when he was still an innocent child,” said a teacher who liked to think that she was a special friend of Salma’s during this difficult time. Her words made Salma’s mouth go thin; she wanted to growl at the woman. Another time, a different well-intentioned teacher said, “You must not let yourself become morbid.” He taught history and was used to dead things.
The school principal had a talk with Salma, of course. Was the family thinking of a commemorative plaque, a grant, his name on a bench? Salma shook her head. The lady who had taught Jamaal Urdu three years ago reminded her in urgent, soft tones that the boy had been her brightest and most respectful student. Here again, a piece of truth broke free; Salma remembered a day when she had cried in frustration because Jamaal had failed another test in school and had looked unmoved.
It was a new kind of normal to get used to. Sophia and Salma came home together when the school day ended and had a late lunch. In the evening, they had small cakes with fondant icing. Sometimes Salma asked her daughter about school and her friends, and Sophia answered in as few words as possible. One such time, Salma looked at her and told her that she did not have to stay at the table if it made her uncomfortable. Her daughter took a deep breath and continued eating her cake.
For a while, Salma fell into the habit of counting how often the phrases “tragic incident” and “brave survivors” appeared in newspapers to summarize that day. She paused images on TV, morning and night, cut out Jamaal’s detailed obituaries in one or two leading publications. She saved all the articles and showed them to Asaf. When the newspapers moved on to other things, Salma told Asaf that they should sell their house and move to Lahore. She was surprised when he agreed. A new place, a new house, a new supermarket, and new roads to understand and own. To get the metallic taste of Karachi out of their mouths.
“There are more trees there,” Salma said, lying in bed at night.
“They get proper winter. We’ll need jackets. And sweaters, and maybe gloves.” Asaf loved winter.
“We’ll find a place with trees.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem getting a new house in Lahore.”
“How do you feel about this? Would you be OK with this?” they asked Sophia, sharing a strange feeling of excitement. She was, after all, sixteen.
“I don’t care,” she said.
Salma felt disappointed. She had been expecting a fight or, at the very least, a prolonged argument. She lost her sense of urgency after that, but Asaf started looking for work in Lahore. Salma watched him as he sat with his laptop, typing and browsing and clicking furiously. His face started to remind her of Jamaal, so she stopped watching him. She remembered how, when Jamaal was born, Asaf’s family had said that the baby looked nothing like his mother and completely like his father. In a postpartum daze, Salma had looked at her baby’s closed, crusted-over eyes and lightly yellowed skin and wondered where in the world they saw the likeness. Now, sitting on the sofa hearing her husband type away, she felt angry that her in-laws had willed the resemblance upon her son. And she realized, suddenly, We’re going to leave Jamaal in this city.
When the season turned cooler, Salma rolled up her sleeves and went into Jamaal’s room. She opened the doors of his cupboard and, one by one, took out his shirts and shorts and pants and folded them. Sometimes her heart beat fast, sometimes her hands trembled. She experimentally sniffed a shirt but did not feel anything. She packed his things into suitcases and gave them to her maasi, the woman who came to her house every morning to mop the floors and wash the dishes. The maasi had a moment of doubt before accepting such a generous donation—did she really want her own sons wearing the clothes of a dead boy? Her hesitation was only for a few seconds though, and, grabbing Salma’s hands with her callused ones, she called for God’s wrath upon the heads of the killers.
“I gave away his clothes today. All of them,” she told her husband that night. Asaf’s lips trembled and he wiped his eyes, and Salma felt powerful and stubborn and in control of herself. Asaf said it was a heartless thing to do, but right away he apologized for saying that. But Salma was already feeling sad and mean; it was wrong of her to not have kept every last dirty sock.
She began to fill the room with expletives. Asaf pleaded with her to be quiet, then he put on a song on his laptop and turned the volume up as high as it could go. He sat with his knees drawn up while the song played and his wife shouted.
The next morning, Salma woke up and saw Asaf looking at her tentatively, as if conducting a silent assessment of her emotional state. Salma’s insides were always going to be a little bruised now, but she smiled at Asaf to show that she had turned a corner. She told him that today she was going to complete cleaning up Jamaal’s room.
She took off the sheets her son had last slept on, and then she started pulling the mattress off the bed. No room for him in a new house, she made herself think briskly, her teeth biting her tongue in painful fortitude. The mattress tumbled to the floor. Taped to the side that had rested on the slats was a small, rectangular plastic packet. Salma peeled it off and looked inside it: small round pills with hearts and smiley faces on them. She made a sound that was between a surprised “oh” and a calm “ah.” Clutching the bag, she walked swiftly to her room. “Ecstasy,” her browser’s search engine declared after she typed in a description. She didn’t know what to make of this. She paced her room in anger, breathing hard, putting away clothes and straightening the bed, the bag in her fist. She thought, Should they ground him or kick him out of the house? She had never seen him use the drugs. She wanted to say, “It’s those friends of his,” but the tenses of her thoughts were confusing her. Nothing was easy to understand anymore. She went back to her son’s room.
She sat down on the mattress and wondered about other things—if her parents needed any money, if her students wanted to put up a play this year—until Asaf came home and Jamaal’s glow-in-the-dark clock told her it was eight o’clock.
She put the plastic packet inside a zippered space in her handbag and ate dinner with her family. She tried to keep her voice free of clues as she talked to Asaf. She glanced at Sophia and wondered if she had known. Had Jamaal and Sophia been friendly, secret-sharing siblings? She tried to be shrewd about the past, tried to remember her children’s behavior and expressions and statements, but nothing came to mind.
They could not have been Jamaal’s, she thought in bed later. Her thoughts, as she sank into sleep, were the very clichés she urged her students to avoid.
The bag and what it contained became a dangerous, coveted object to Salma. She kept it by her side as much as she could. On Monday, she taught her class while the bag stayed on the floor next to her chair. The children worked quietly and she felt a momentary pain in her head which she knew was only because this was a room full of her son’s friends but not him. There was the chair Jamaal might have sat on, exchanging nervous glances with his friends who shared his terrible secret. “Damn! My own mom is here, teaching Shakespeare, and she doesn’t know!” he might have said and then they would have high-fived at the sheer daring of it all. He might have hated being taught by his mother, but she would have liked to teach him English Literature. He had liked words, working with them in sentences, looking up meanings. He had written wonderful essays. He was a good boy who had been misled by the wrong company he had kept, thought Salma. Hadn’t she sized up those parents in a glance at parent-teacher meetings? Their children left to drivers and maids, no one to check them. Feeling angry numbed her temporarily.
The cold, logical part of her mind, though, kept realigning the facts around Jamaal’s death: he hadn’t died because of who he was or what he was consuming. The police had informed them that Jamaal’s wallet and mobile phone had not been found on or near his body, and it was assumed that the killers had taken them after they had put the bullets in. Give and take.
Salma’s eyes felt itchy with dryness. When she went home that day, she picked up all the newspapers from her bedside table, her bed, the room where the TV was, and made a pile of them for the man who came by with his cart to collect them. She emptied the fridge and cleaned the shelves and threw away the vegetables that had rotted. She shook her head at her carelessness. She’d taught her children it was wrong to waste food. She dusted the neglected places on window ledges and the metal flower embellishment on the front gate. It was important to look clean.
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It came to her attention that people spoke to her softly, as if she were terminally ill. The old uncle who ran the grocery store in her neighborhood, the chowkidaar who guarded their street at night, the attendants at the petrol station, the people in the bank. How did they all know? She reveled in their kind consideration, real or otherwise. If in a long line at the supermarket, she imagined tapping the shoulder in front of her and saying, “Excuse me. My son was killed. Can I go first?” And if they said no, she would say, “He was murdered.” But what if they responded, “You know, he was just an addict, a charsi.” Then she would have to run out of there with her hands over her ears. She would still hear them shouting, “What kind of a mother are you anyway?”
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Asaf wanted to go through old pictures on his laptop. He brought out a tub of chocolate ice cream and bowls and spoons. Sophia, who rarely said no to him, sat with her arms folded. Salma sat down as well, willing to go along with it. She felt guilty for not sharing with Asaf that very important fact about Jamaal, who had been their son after all. Not just hers. She felt even worse when she saw the embarrassingly desperate look of yearning on her husband’s face as he clicked on picture after picture. There was Jamaal when he was just born, then one, then two. Minutes passed, and now he was fifteen. Salma looked hard at the image of his face. He was sitting with them on a sofa wearing Eid clothes. His smile was lopsided, almost cynical. And here he was eating ice cream on a winter night, not smiling. Had he disliked his shirt or his ice cream? Salma wondered. Asaf’s fingers touched the screen. “He looks so happy,” he said. Sophia had sunk back into the sofa but her eyes had not left the screen. Now she got up and broke the spell. The ice cream was a puddle in its container.
Salma knew what she needed. Inside the bathroom, she opened her bag and looked at the array of pills. Three yellow ones with smiley faces, two pink ones with hearts, and two plain blue ones. They were all there, as Jamaal had last seen them. Which one would my boy have pulled out next? Would he have shown disdain toward the ones with the hearts? She felt sad that he hadn’t been comfortable sharing this secret with his mother while he was alive.
“He liked writing essays and sometimes poems. He’d been trying to finish a story,” the English-language daily reporter had noted when he called about the obituary. He had changed all her tenses from present to past. She worried that they would misspell his name, put one a instead of two. But his name, the entire paragraph, in fact, had no errors. “Jamaal means beauty,” Salma wanted to tell the reporter, but had felt embarrassed about saying it. Instead, she had said, “He was a good boy.”
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Six months after Jamaal had been killed, his parents and sister were invited to a discussion on a morning talk show on TV about violence and the families left behind. Sophia refused to go, but Asaf and Salma went and sat nervously and were assured by the hostess that they did not have to talk about things in detail. Their faces looked pale in the colorful surroundings. Asaf spoke movingly, haltingly, about their bright, beautiful boy. But Salma knew that Jamaal wasn’t beautiful or ugly, exceptionally kind or cruel. He was average, and he had stopped going outside to play cricket and stopped joking with his sister and had become unkind to his mother. She had thought he was just being a moody teenager. Now, of course, she knew better. Better than her husband knew his son, she realized, and felt pleased for a moment.
Asaf watched the show and recorded it. Salma heard him play it over and over again. After the fourth time, he said to her, “We must move,” his eyes extra large and bright.
In early spring, Asaf flew to Lahore for a job interview. In the car on the way to the airport, Salma worried out loud about loneliness and the house being too quiet, and were they really going to move? She spoke fast because she felt bad. What if Asaf’s plane crashed and he died not knowing? At the airport, he said to his daughter, “Take care of your mother.” Salma cringed. Taking care was not the kind of thing that Sophia did.
In the night, she read, again, about the symptoms and signs of ecstasy users. The list was familiar to her by now, but it was hard trying to get a true, clear picture of Jamaal’s features in her mind. That last day he had looked so happy. That is what she had always thought; it had been such a relief to her to see him smiling. He said that he’d be back soon, and she had thought it wiser not to ask where he was going or with whom.
Asaf called her from Lahore.
“After they confirm my job,” he said, “we can move in two weeks. I’ve looked around a few places here. There’s one house that I like a lot. It’s close to a mosque.”
“Hm.”
“Faith gives me sustenance. I’d be lost without it.”
He could be articulate sometimes, just like their boy, who had won a debate once at the age of thirteen.
“I found this,” Sophia said. Salma had asked for her help in going through Jamaal’s things. They worked in different parts of his room. Sophia climbed over the mattress that lay on top of the curtains and the rug, and sat at her brother’s table, opening and shutting drawers. Now she stood before Salma, not looking directly into her face, and held out a piece of white notebook paper.
Salma took the sheet and saw Jamaal’s handwriting on it. Beautiful slopes and curves, not a dot out of place.
“I didn’t know he could write in Urdu so well,” Sophia said. Her voice was plain and even.
“It’s a poem.”
“It’s only homework.” Sophia paused, then added, “He wasn’t the only one who died that day, you know.”
Salma took a step back.
Sophia raised her voice. “He is not a martyr. The newspapers are wrong.”
Salma put the paper with Jamaal’s poem in her bag, next to the pills. Other memories slowly squeezed to the front of her brain: Jamaal sitting, staring at his homework in perplexity, and then tearing a book in half. His math teacher saying that Jamaal needed extra tutoring. The Urdu language teacher holding a whispered conference with her in the empty staffroom one sunny afternoon, asking her if she knew why Jamaal had fallen asleep in class two times now.
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Then, one day, a video clip started going around on the internet. It was jerky and a little under a minute and shot from someone’s cell phone. It showed a pair of men, their faces covered, guns in hands, moving with speed through a crowd. Salma searched through the screaming people for her son, but she could not find him. The men yelled words that might have been from an old movie about good versus evil, and then they shot their shots. She watched it by herself and then asked Asaf to watch it with her. He groaned and said, “How is Sophia going to study for her final exams now?”
“She has done really well,” Sophia’s teacher told Salma at the end of the term.
“She has always been a good student,” Salma said flatly. There was no pride in her voice.
“A most excellent student.” The teacher was quick to confirm the cleverness and bravery and strength of Sophia. Her sympathy was naked: poor Sophia, who lost a brother to violence; poor Salma, a mother who lost a son.
In June, Jamaal’s and Sophia’s friends decided to hold a small candlelight vigil at their school for him. They wanted to remember what had happened a year ago. The children invited their parents and other people to attend it, and Sophia invited her mother and her father. It was, it seemed to Salma when it ended, a new way to mourn. She had not wanted to go, but the idea of a vigil became popular at the school, and the teachers and the principal and the cleaners and the guards all decided that it was their duty to be a part of it. Solidarity. She went with Asaf and stood at the back, holding a candle and feeling alternately numb and stupid. The pills radiated heat from deep inside her bag. In the end, it had turned into a memorial for all the people who had died that day, and it was hard for Salma to find the rectangle of Jamaal’s picture from among the others on the wall. Once she found it, she kept her eyes fastened to it. Somewhere in the front rows was Sophia, her face indistinguishable from her friends’ faces in the candlelight. For those moments, Jamaal could have been anyone’s brother. Later that night at home, Salma flushed Jamaal’s pills and the poem down the toilet.
The newspapers wrote about the vigil. Again, they described what had happened on a street in Karachi twelve months ago. Journalists contacted those who had survived and pressed them to relive that afternoon. One man recalled, “A young boy pushed me to the ground and covered me.” Heroes, the reporters called the victims and their families.