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That morning, Mariam’s mind wandered as she did the chores alone. The usual routine of washing the rice, trimming strips of fat off the meat, and dicing the vegetables were carried out on autopilot. She stared blankly at the wall, let the rhythmic, methodical thuds of her knife on the cutting board fill the enclosed kitchen.
Spring had arrived. It would be just three days before she, Laila, and Aziza would leave this place behind with its yellow-stained walls and moldy ceilings. A mansion, she had once thought of it compared to the kolba. Now, she knew it as a prison. One where she had been wrongfully locked up for the past eighteen years, paying time for the crime of simply existing. There was a lot she learned while locked up—Rasheed’s preference for his jackets hanging in the left corner of his closet and his precise liking for fluffy rice were some examples. Her sharp memory was both a blessing and a curse. Behind closed eyelids, under the false refuge of a dream, danced visions of maroon silk scarves and ice cream that clashed with the visceral sting of fresh scars and voice-straining screams. Eventually, ephemeral bliss drowned out against the chronic pain.
Other than her memory, there was one crucial skill that kept her going.
Tahamul.
Every day, every hour in this marriage forced her to practice it without fault, to perform it without praise or applause, and to master it until it became second nature. Nana was right about that—that there was no shortage of things to endure for a woman like her. It would be something Laila would learn as well, with due time.
But Nana was wrong about one thing. “I’m the only one who loves you,” she had said, thirteen times. Mariam had counted. It was thirteen times more than a child ever deserved to hear. “I’m all you have in this world, Mariam, and once I’m gone, you’ll have nothing.”
Because Mariam did have something. In a shocking turn of events, Laila and Aziza jo, like seedlings, grew roots into the dirt of her heart. And conversely, they gave her the much-needed nutrients for her soul. She hadn’t known the full extent of how living with Rasheed had run her down until her leaves withered dry. She hadn’t known love other than from a volatile mother or a cruel imitation of it from a deadbeat father and short-tempered husband. Mariam had once seen it as a cruel joke that Laila was the one to give birth to a healthy child. A living child. Of course the pretty young maiden was blessed with a bundle of joy within a fraction of the time Mariam even tried. Of course, she, as the ugly old hag, was cursed. A karma, her mind echoed unhelpfully. Karma for what you did to Nana. Her own daughter causing her demise.
Mariam mourned every child she lost alongside every drop of precious blood wasted down the grimy haman drain. She mourned the soreness in her chest after breastfeeding, mourned the distinct, dulling ache in her legs when she knelt down for namaz—not from old age, but from the privileged pain of birth. She mourned what she knew she would never have in this life. She felt robbed. By Rasheed, by Laila, but mostly by herself.
But she didn’t stay resentful. It was only when Aziza jo had so graciously loved her—as if she truly was more than an uneducated woman, a hobbiless housewife, a cursed harami—that she understood how wrong she’d been. And so, it took nothing for Mariam to love her back. Nothing at all.
That’s why Mariam had to leave. Not for herself, but for Laila and her sinless child. For a future where Laila wouldn’t dread nightfall like Mariam once did, and where a slightly underseasoned dish wouldn’t mean a cigarette burn on hands already rough from laundry. And most importantly, for a future where Aziza would learn things beyond housekeeping and ladylike manners—where she could laugh and cry, and dash and leap, and be a kid without a slap to the face.
A future without a man. It sounded perfect.
The thought was foreign to her, like the smell of popcorn in Jalil’s cinema, like red and blue lens bringing the Pinnochio pictures to life. Idealistic and impossible. Mariam wasn’t one of those hopeless dreamers. However, in order to reach just a glimpse of perfect, she had to start packing.
Some change of clothes, some non-perishable food and bottled water (Rasheed never stepped foot in the kitchen anyway, so he wouldn’t notice), then Laila would sort out the money. Other than the logistics of their escape plan and the gripping fear of failure, of consequence—of Rasheed—that was what rendered her paralysed. It lingered in her head like a cancerous tumor that stole her energy and appetite.
A fist to the ribs.
A kick to the back.
Thick fingers around her neck, squeezing, constricting, his stifling weight on her chest like a jinn, and white fireworks were dancing behind her eyelids, and—
“Mariam?”
She sucked in through her teeth, setting down the knife and looking down at her finger to find the tip of it bleeding. She ran it under the tap, watching the crimson dilute and drain. Looking up, she saw Laila at the kitchen doorway, a wide-eyed Aziza perched on her hip. Mariam hadn’t expected their presence since the pair tended to wake up late these days. She let them get the extra rest.
“Finally awake?” Mariam said conversationally, casually. She schooled her face into the typical unsightly one she always wore, disclosing nothing of the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.
“Aziza woke me,” Laila responded. The girl babbled incoherently in testament, stubby fingers wrapping around blonde strands of her mother’s tangled hair. “Sorry for oversleeping.”
Mariam shook her head, drying her hands with a tattered rag, hoping her smile reached her eyes. “Don’t be. Sleep whenever Aziza does, or you won’t get enough. There’s still a lot of work left to do.”
…
It was only when the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted the sky an ombre of autumn, hinting at the end of Maghrib, that Mariam and Laila had a moment's rest. Rasheed had gone straight into a food coma after dinner—tonight was one of the rare few that he didn’t haul Laila into his bed for a round of sweat and pain—which gave extra time for Laila to bathe Aziza, and for Mariam to prepare a fresh batch of halwa. Tonight was special enough for it, so she left the leftovers with Rasheed instead. Even with all his complaining, he couldn’t tell the difference anyway.
Mariam roasted the semolina and added the ghee; she heated sugary water in a dented pot atop their wood-fired stove and added crushed cardamom pods; finally, she poured the runny syrup over the browned flour, combining it using a burned wooden spatula, garnishing with assorted nuts and raisins.
Her Nana’s recipe.
As Mariam transferred the halwa onto a fractured but usable bowl, some of the piping-hot dessert brushed against her finger, a dollop singeing her skin. The sensation ignited the memory of her mother’s touch.
After setting up the chairs and table in the front yard and laying the bowl of warm halwa and steaming tea on it, only then did Laila rush outside, her dress damp on the front and her hijab put on askew. Unlike their husband, Laila’s excuses for some tardiness were excused. With the halwa prepared and Aziza sound asleep, the two women could have their bonding time. A welcome nightly ritual.
Laila laid back on her folding chair, its rusty creak drowned out by her soul-deep sigh. “Finally, peace. It’s felt like forever since we last did this,” she said, dipping her hand into the halwa bowl. The younger woman hummed in delight as she munched on the sweet dish—even though she ate the same thing daily now. She never tired of tasting Mariam’s halwa, it seemed. Similarly, Mariam never tired of seeing her reaction.
“We did this yesterday, Laila,” Mariam chided fondly before tilting her cup up to take a long sip of her chai, not minding the scalding temperature. “... But yes, it does feel quite long.”
“Doesn’t it?” Laila agreed, slamming her palms on the armrests. “It’s all because of you know who. He never stops nitpicking what we do. We have to walk bombshells around him, or else he’ll throw a tantrum! I’ve never met a man so childish in that way. He did go to sleep without fuss tonight, though. Work must’ve been hard on him today. Alhamdulillah for that. He’s just a big baby,” she grumbled.
Mariam couldn’t resist the grin tugging at her cracked lips, revealing the crooked tooth she’d usually hide behind a raised hand. “That’s just how men are,” she said to her in a resigned tone. “Demanding, ordering, complaining...”
Laila shook her head. “No, not all men. Not my Tariq,” she quipped in a nonchalant tone, even though her dulling eyes hid nothing. She huffed, grabbing her mug to sip noisily, partially blocking her face. After a few moments, she paused, hovering the mug below her chin. “...What?”
Mariam blinked. “What, what?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Mariam exhaled softly, taking her time to think of a response. “Because… I’m enjoying this. Our spending time together,” she uttered.
Laila frowned. “Don’t say it like that. It makes it sound like this is the last time.”
Another beat of silence.
Laila sighed again, slouching in her chair and nudging Mariam’s shin with her slippered foot. “Don’t. I’m serious.”
Mariam laughed, a sound Laila was rarely bestowed the honor of hearing. “Oh, Laila jo, I only stare because I want to preserve this moment. Make sure I remember it properly.”
“Stop it! When you act all… different like this, I don’t know what to think,” Laila whined. “You called me jo. You’re laughing with me—or at me. Since when have you done that?”
“Are you complaining?”
“...”
“Exactly. Now shh, let me enjoy my chai,” Mariam tutted, tapping Laila’s knee before taking another ginger sip.
Laila narrowed her green eyes at the other woman, a pensive sound sounding from her throat. Then, setting her tea on the table, she stood. Laila took the step needed to close the space between them, and sat side-legged at Mariam’s legs, leaning her cheek against Mariam’s lap. The dewy grass tickled her feet, but that wasn’t what made her smile.
The endearing thing: Laila did shush, cozying up to her like a clingy kitten. Mariam stifled another laugh, and with her free hand, carded her fingers through the strands. Idly, gently, soothingly.