Short story: A man who robbed his son.

With her hand hovering in the still air above her head, shaking with fury and aggravation, with her eyes bulging out and tears rolling down her pale fluffy cheeks she stood there, yet again in awe of what Shambeel had said. This was the third time now and he never learned, the idea of him being adamant and un-moving had sunk into her as she took a deep breath. Wiping her face with the helm of her burgundy chador, she walked away, this time she will try a different technique of taming this shrew. But at the back of her mind she knew perfectly well how neither was he a shrew nor did he require any taming. He was an eleven year old lad who innocently and accidentally had been asking for what was his right and had been waved off by the only person he had the courage to approach; his mother.

“Anila where is my tea? I cannot see it in front of me! Anila,” shouted Qazi Sahab sitting on the flaking charpai in the veranda.

“Anila, are you dead already?”

“Women, always useless,” he breathed as he recited the words from the Holy Quran with the speed of a formula one race car.

Striding briskly towards the kitchen Anila thought about all the evil she had ever done to deserve a marriage like this and a situation like that. Qazi Sahab was twenty five years older than her because of which she could never muster the nerve to call him anything other than “Qazi Sahab”. He was her poor father’s comparatively wealthier Maulvi friend who had accepted and honored his companionship for charity, who accepted to marry his fifteen year old for charity, who refused dowry for charity. Qazi Sahab, the hero of the town, Anila, the whining shrewd woman who even at the age of thirty-three complained about having inadequate quality of life. How can she not be happy in marriage with the moazzin and curator of the local mosque? How can she not be happy with the fact that she got married despite her family living in ruins? How can she not be happy with the fact that she had bore three sons and no daughters?

The touch of the hot lid burned her delicate fingers as she rushed about to bring the cup of hot elaichi chai to him. She was reminded of his wrath every time he shouted in anger. She was reminded of the harsh forms of affection, the ruthless way he would treat her until she is bruised, the tyranny of the bed room and her dupatta filled mouth muffling all her cries of pain and wonder. Wonder over the power of God who can turn man into monster and vice versa. On her way from the kitchen to Qazi Sahab, under the blistering heat of the situation, her mind went wild with the idea of confessing it to him. She was decaying inside, dying to tell him how Shambeel was molested by his Quran Instructor, Ghafoor uncle. How she has been disturbed since last Monday when he told her about this. How he had an idea of how this is an unusual treatment and should be questioned about. She longed for an understanding face which would care about her position in this, who would agree that being quiet is not the solution. Her mind stopped working as she placed the cup of tea in front of Qazi Sahab. He lifted his face up and hmphed. She knew there and then that she could not tell him. Well how could she, tell the thief who robbed her that their son just got robbed. And so she didn’t. She stayed silent like she did twenty years ago and in a few days she made her son stay silent as well. The cycle is never-ending.