Ghassan
I blame the hijab. Or that is what I keep repeating to myself. I mean, no one is allowed to look that good wearing a dark red scarf. And by that, I mean very, extremely, heart-stopping good. Is she on a mission to kill me?
Today is Dark Red.
This morning Sahar was standing opposite to me, hailing a taxi. At first, her eyes were fixed at car level, and I thought she was trying to avoid looking at me. It felt bad. Like a punch in the guts. Then, the next moment, she turned a bit to the right, looked me in the eyes and smiled before getting on in the taxi. I do not remember if I smiled back. I hope I did. Oh my God, what if I didn’t?
I went back inside the pharmacy, dreamily flashing back to the smile. With a spring in my steps, I started arranging the shelves. An errant image of me pressed close to her conjured in my mind, and the next instant my face was pressed against the floor. I do not recall climbing on the small ladder and reaching for the top shelves to arrange them. I must have been too delighted to realise that. One instant I was up there, and the next one I was on the ground.
My ankle did not hurt immediately after the fall, but I treated myself quickly knowing it would keep me up all night.
Now, I am left with my sprained ankle and her hijab to blame.
Due to the exams, it is quite hard to see Sahar on a daily basis. I still see her hanging the laundry on the ropes, her movements a rhythm of their own, her hands looking capable of anything, her hijab fluttering with the wind, my heart thudding along all of this. How can one person be capable of evoking these much of emotions in another? All of a sudden, I feel I am invading her privacy, so I go downstairs, change my clothes and leave for work. The pharmacy is two buildings away from my house; a short distance, but long enough to prompt a morbid feeling and a bitter truth―I do not have any right to do what I am doing. It feels like I keep snatching what is not for me. The grim reality of this tugs at a string in my heart as my mind does not present me with a counterargument for this. If I gave myself the liberty to be creepy, what would stop another boy from acting the way I do? Having feelings for her must count as something though. If she reciprocates these feelings, then this is reason enough behind my foolishness.
During such moments of flimsy certainty, I feel like I have every right to think of Sahar attentively and describe every single, small detail, every furtive glance, each tilt of the head, every movement of the hands, the way she leans into the railing of her balcony or stands straight, the way her cheeks redden sometimes, and how her smile brightens the world up, how I long to hear her laugh and memorise how she spells each syllable.
One moment it is this thrill. Another moment it is that dread.
“Are you excited for the match?” Ali, Sahar’s brother, asks me, his voice rising enthusiastically. Weeks after they moved here, he came to the pharmacy for the first time as I was closing. His father had forgotten to buy his medicine and Ali rushed to enquire if I could re-open and give him Normoten 50. The next time Ali came to buy it, I was closing yet again. “Right on time,” he quipped, and since then we became friends.
We are sitting comfortably and sipping the coffee I poured from the thermos I always have with me.
“What match?”
“Spain vs Portugal.” Ali says it matter-of-factly, like I should have known.
“You know I don’t watch football.” I state matter-of-factly.
“But this is the World Cup. Le Mondial. Most anticipated football tournament.”
“I still don’t get the hype.” I shrug.
“Even my sisters watch it,” he remarks.
“Hey, that is sexist.” I hope Ali cannot detect my defensive tone.
“I just meant that boys are supposed to like football.”
“But why should we? And girls shouldn’t?” I sound a bit exasperated.
“Now don’t go all feminist on me.” He moves his hands in an exaggerating manner.
“It’s not about being feminist. It’s about how and why people decide that some things are meant for boys only and not for girls. I cannot understand the division.”
“Your future wife is a lucky woman.” He teases me.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt. Thank God he cannot read my thoughts and know that his sister is the one who came to mind when he said that. Somehow, I feel guilty.
Tonight, I close earlier than the usual when Ali leaves. The streets are almost deserted as people are watching the game. When I unlock the main door of our house, I hear the soft voice of my mother singing about missing and memories. Not wanting to interrupt her, I go to my room first and have a quick shower.
My mother is singing for my father while making dinner for me. I wonder how she does that. All this strength is marvellous, leaving me all astonished, as always. Only when she stops singing I join her in the kitchen and try to help.
“How are you?” My mother asks.
“I am good.” I have not told her about my ankle. “How are you?”
“Alhamdulillah.”
I have always wanted to ask my mother about something, but I always wavered, thinking that I do not want her to remember things. But, well, she does not forget them in the first place. So, this time, I go for it.
“Mama. You told me that you have not met my father before marriage. Not even once?”
“We saw each other once before Katb al-kitab. Our parents and uncles and aunts were in the room with us. It was scandalous to leave us alone back in the days. When my father said ‘this is Omar’, I raised my eyes from the yellowish spot in the carpet feeling my face go all red. Our eyes met and he was blushing too. Before realising it, I was smiling. He smiled back and that was it.”
“Just like that? How?” I cannot help the hint of disbelief in my voice.
“We were raised with the notion that our parents know our best interests and we must obey them. It’s true we did not really have a saying in it, but after marriage, we made it work. It took a lot of adjustments and compromises. I know this tradition comes as strange and ridiculous to you. But I’d choose him all over again whether I had a choice or not. Allah Yerhamo.”
“Ameen.”
I try to process everything. It is unbelievable how they knew what they wanted without overthinking any decision. Or it is unbelievable how submissive they were to customs and traditions.
SNIPPETS 