end of the day
fiction by muna kazi pathan
Sitting here on this hill, I watch the ghosts of burning wood rise from behind the low mud walls of huts that cluster the foothills. In each of them, a woman, perhaps helped by her daughter is fanning a fire, rolling out rotis and blistering them on red flames.
All the little children must be playing in the narrow lanes, slipping in the ooze of drain water. They are laughing, their voices trickling through the cracked walls. A sick old man lying on a charpoy complains of the noise between coughs of discontent exchanged with is wife.
Their son trudges home from grimy hours spent with steely machines: talking all the time—clicked-clack…clickety-clack…
At home it must be quiet.
He passes the playing children; mosquitoes dive about their heads and dirt crawls beneath their nails.
He and his wife have a baby.
His wife squats before a mud stove. The flames redden her pale cheeks and her partially covered hair is hennaed in their glow. Her hands become a blur as she fans the red, hot coals into tongues of fire. The clink of her bangles echoes tirelessly. It is the sound of coming home. She is so beautiful, he thinks, as he eyes her from the door.
She steals a glance at him, firelight catching her upturned eyes. He is tired. She must quickly, quickly brew the tea. And please, don't let the baby cry all night again.
The water trickles apologetically from the dented tin jug as he washes the grease from his hands.
He sits at the edge of the charpoy and massages his father's legs. The splintered wood and the coiled rope dig into his thighs. They talk about selling their land in the country. Nothing will grow on it. But it is security. No, it is a liability. Again, there is an argument. Clickety-clack…clickety.
The familiar hands of his wife place the steaming tea before him. The roti is slightly burnt. How thin her hands have become! He looks up at her, but her head is bent. Black lashes fringe her pale cheeks. He must take her to the Hakim. He will talk to her about it when they are alone.
They have not been alone since before they were married. Perhaps they met on this very hill, on an evening just like this one.
At night, lying in the dark, listening to the coughs of the old man and the whimpering breath of their baby is the closest they get to being alone; touch, their only conversation—whispered.
I watch the fingers of twilight caress the graying sky as the last of the birds fly across like beads scattered from a broken necklace. Black lashes on pale cheeks.
about the author
Muna Kazi Pathan lives and works in Karachi, Pakistan. Her work has appeared in local newspapers and the poetry journal My Legacy.
