Chapter Text
masking everything
feels better than to admit
i’d like to be shameless but
not let that hinder all
the love i can give
;
I should probably clean my desk more. Mama says to do it often and when I don’t I often earn names like “dheet” and “nalaik” but oh well, growing up with my bhai Sulaiman has taught me to not really care what she says. Or maybe I’m making up excuses for my spoiled attitude. Being the middle child you’d probably expect me to be better, you know, considering that according to the family sitcom cliche I’m supposed to be the mediator when Sulaiman and Saira bicker about who ate the last packet of noodles. In my head they’ll always be idiots. Allah knows why we’ve all got S names. If you ask me, we could never be equals. Like come on, I’m already seventeen, on my way to being an adult, and am truly the best contributor to this family. Like, besides the grades aspect, hey, I think I’m quite the treat.
“Sajal, come downstairs abhi! They’re nearly here!” I sigh at my mother’s voice. She always complains about how she has to raise her voice an octave every time she addresses any of us. I think she’s getting too old for her own good, but at the same time, what middle aged woman forgets she owns a cellular device?
“I’ve got a phone you know, nothing bad will happen if you ring me just once,” I say as I carelessly place down my eyeliner and ruffle my brown curls. My hair’s always been medium length, and I’ve been meaning to follow through what everybody calls a “teenage desi girl’s hair pipeline” where she dyes it cherry red. I flash myself a grin in the mirror, watching the crimson gloss reflect across my fairy lights. Yeah, besides being a great person to be around, I’ve got a decent room.
“Meri jaan, please, come down. How many more strokes of eyeliner do you have left to do? We’ve made bhindi today, and you need to help serve it,” Mama calls out from downstairs, her voice dripping with exasperation. I can hear the television on low volume, so she’s probably just kept it on to shut out her thoughts about work or something. Classic Mama. She’s probably the reason I’m so self absorbed. I don’t know who she’s trying to kid when she pretends to forget all the pictures from college when she’d wear respectable amounts of blush and glitter eyeshadow just to go out to eat dahi bhallay with Laiba Khala. She’s the reason I’m so extra. But I think twice before reminding her of that fact because in nine of ten chances my words will probably be punctuated with a smack to my ass. A gentle one. Well, there’s only so much you can do to an almost highschool graduate right?
“Okay, okay, coming,” I reply with an eye roll too far from her peripheral vision, as I stand from my desk and walk down the hallway, subconsciously rapping on Saira’s door, smirking as I do so. Nobody ever talks about how enjoyable it is to get under your siblings’s skin. Especially when they’re little and so easy to pester.
“Cut that out! My hair’s still wet, and I’m this close to throwing a temper tantrum.” I can practically hear the scowl in her voice, and I don’t need to ask her what she means by ‘this close’ because it’s common sense to assume it just means the size of a pea. Saira’s the baby of our household, and when she was a little kid she loved peas in her pulao. She’d pick two up and hold one to each of her ears and say, “Look Baji! See my earrings?” and I’d flick her forehead. She’s so weird. Still, maybe I’m weirder for, you know, whatever reason you can think of at the top of your head. For some reason to this day I’m considered to be the strangest among my siblings. In my very accurate opinion, we as a generation have to relearn synonyms, because being strange and being fun are two different things. God forbid an approximate adult enjoys spending her free time watching corny rom-coms. Man, I’d do anything to experience even an ounce of love like that. Well, nobody’s going to find out about that anyway. I couldn’t even begin to imagine Sulaiman’s stupid cackle telling me to go play with barbies and fantasise Ken in my dreams. I was literally six years old. And Ken was sweet. And my brother is an absolute prick. In all seriousness, it wouldn’t kill me to hold somebody’s hand once, or to just hug someone with more than just the intention of emphasising our friendship.
My thoughts get interrupted by what seems like Mama’s fourth time yelling my name, considering the level of hoarseness in her voice. “Beta, go dry your sister’s hair. And for the last time, mera sar na khao.” I try to muffle my laugh as Saira opens her door with her dripping wet hair.
“Ma! She’s teasing me,” she says as she pouts. I look down at her in mock annoyance. That little-
“Sajal! I’m warning you, stop teasing her. Otherwise, no bhindi,” my mother says. How dare she? She knows I don’t play when it comes to bhindi.
“Jeez I’m on it,” I shout back as I enter Saira’s hair and shut the door behind me. I go over to her bed and grab her towel. As I turn to look at her properly for the first time this morning, my eyes melt a little because besides her sopping wet hair, she really is just my choti behan. Similar to clockwork she sits on the carpet and I sit above on the bed as I gently soak up the water from her scalp.
“I like your kurta,” I murmur, breathing in her shampoo.
Smells like moringa. She half giggles as she calls me a creep and then says quietly, “Only because it’s orange right?”
I stop drying her hair and playfully pinch her cheek as I say, “Hey! Orange isn't everything. It does bring out your eyes though.” She’s got big brown eyes. I like to trace the skin just below them. And so I do just that.
She gives me a small smile as she asks, “Why do you always do that?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Do what?”
“That,” she says, as she gestures to the motion of my thumbs on her face.
“No reason,” I mumble. There's no way I’d ever tell her it feels good to feel her warmth. Despite my baby sister being thirteen and five months old (she's probably got the number of days down too), I don't want her seeing my sappy side until I’m at least…well, until I have to rule out the possibility of ever dying my hair cherry red because it'll all have fallen out.