The furore I had caused lasted many weeks, months even. The inquisition, was in phases, and first, the siblings. In all honesty I think they thought it was a joke, some hilarious elaborate April fools-not-April fools. The older pair of siblings were more shocked at my audacity in performing this charade and not speaking up about it. “Well, why didn’t you say you were unhappy? I would have fought for you, I would have convinced Dad to abandon this line of education for you”, my eldest brother championed. “My Angel, you should have said something to us, we are you brothers and sisters and are here for you, OK?”, my eldest sister, ever the doting mother figure. “I think I was just happy to see you Jubz, and didn’t really question your motives I mean, I did highlight it to you and that whatever you chose to do, would be your decision”, came from my middle sister. You already know what my middle brother thought of it all from a previous entry; he thought I was being bullied. The truth is that the middle pair had an inkling I am sure, but they explained that consequences are a fact of life, and I would have to deal with the choices I made in life even after advice was given to me. The last sister/brother pair, being nearer to me in age and generationally, probably understood the most. Brother no.3 lauded this over my head for as long as I can remember and even to this day! In fairness, it’s kinda sibling code isn’t it really; whenever we take a trip down memory lane “Remember when this happened” or “OMG, that time Jubz…” everyone’s past indiscretions resurface for a fresh wave of piss-taking. Standard, no big, we move. Shez was most understanding obviously. But on the whole, the siblings were supportive, regardless. And I am blessed in that regard, Alhamdulillah (Praise belongs to God).

I was chewing one morsel when WHACK! Out of nowhere I saw stars and felt a sharp tingling on my cheek. “How could you! You devious child!”

Second, the parents. The day after the fated night before, was Monday, and the others all went off to work and school (yes, I think Dad checked they actually did go off to school). I was just a mess, going from being a total busy-body with chores and hobbies enough to occupy my lifetime, to doing zilch. How many times can a person tidy their room, rearrange furniture only to return the room back to its original form again, pace their room and stare at the ceiling. I didn’t leave my room for fear of…well of Dad’s wrath. You don’t know, but in our culture, we were raised in that age back then where you feared your parents. You didn’t act up or misbehave because you knew your Dad would batter you. It was awful being alone in the house without a sibling to buffer. I left my room door ajar to hear what Dad was doing. Everytime that floorboard creaked, I would jump up from wherever I was, grab my prayer mat and fall in prostration on the floor; if Dad came in an wanted to have at me, then he couldn’t because it would look like I was praying. But Dad only ventured as far as the adjacent room to mine and never into my room. He did that for weeks. Mum was a different case altogether. You know that episode of Friends where Joey moves out and he sits by the water feature looking out, lamenting the loss of Chandler? Well that was me minus the storyline. And minus the water feature. Moping, moody and listless, remorseful and utterly hopeless about the future. I barely eat. And so Mum would bring food for me and feed me, literally, spooning food from plate to mouth, and feed me water from the cup too. Like proper miskeen (Arabic, hopeless). The immediate day after, after she fed me lunch and wiped my chin, she held me. That one solitary act of a mother holding her child has the universal effect of destroying composure. I broke down sobbing. “Why didn’t you say something, son? What were you thinking to have enacted such deceit?”, she said softly but gravely. I told her I didn’t know why, obviously. How would a person form my generation open up and speak to their parent about feelings? We just didn’t roll that way. Another time, I was slumped on a chair in my room fed up from hours and hours of staring at the ceiling (I memorised every contour of it), and Mum brought me food. I was chewing one morsel when WHACK! Out of nowhere I saw stars and felt a sharp tingling on my cheek. “How could you! You devious child!”, she cried, definitely out of frustration. It was usually after an argument she had had with Dad pleading with him to relent, or after a bout of blaming each other, Mum would come and vent her frustration. It was only natural, and I more than let her. I only ventured out in the evenings when the others were home, and even then, I used a pocket mirror to check before turning corners, and used my younger brother as scout in case Dad was coming. Eventually our paths would cross, mine and Dad’s, and when that did occur, he would retrace his steps, or retreat back into the living room. If I asked him a question, he just ignored me. I didn’t know the depths of my father’s pain. I think it was the second or third day after the Sunday, I proceeded to the living room where the prayer mats were laid for the evening prayer and the brothers all gathered for the congregation. I stepped forward to lead and Dad said in his quietest voice “I don’t pray behind liars”, and he signalled me to get back. The floor fell from beneath my feet. I don’t for one second resent my Dad for his reaction; he felt it a slap in his face that all these months I was showing my religiosity when in fact it was unjustified.

But the absolute fall from grace, was when Dad refused my tea. I was the esteemed tea-maker for years. It was the marvel of everyone’s wonder, that my hands could brew tea described as irresistible. Dad only ever asked me as his absolute favourite for making tea. If I wasn’t there for whatever reason, he accepted it from the others. But when I was around again, he would call me and be like “Jubeyr, make me another cup of tea please, son, your brother made me a cup just now but it wasn’t tasty”. I kid you not. Our next door neighbour was hosting her just-engaged son’s in-laws; it was their first visit as a complete family unit. This woman is the self anointed Queen of Bloomsbury. Ever the righteous-high-horse type. If she approved of something you had or did, you were a winner. Now, in Bangladeshi culture, as it is in many Eastern cultures, tea is the pinnacle of socialisation. That brew will make or break you. Our doorbell rang and who should come a-knocking but the Queen herself; the mother of the groom, come to ask Mum if she could borrow me to go make the tea they wanted to serve their guests. She could have sent any number of minions or relatives, but she came herself. That’s the level I’m talking. There is a point to this I promise. So, Dad stopped asking me to make his tea. If I asked him if he wanted his evening tea, he would just ignore me. Other times if he asked my brother, I would secretly just make it instead. The tea was never returned back to the kitchen and Dad didn’t throw the cup across the room, and nor did I hear him curse. In fact the times that I did sneakily make him tea, I would tip-toe to the living room (where he usually takes it) and listen…yep, the familiar sounds of sipping and china chinking.

“Jubeyr”. I heard my name. I was walking through the corridor enroute to the kitchen in the late evening, as I knew Dad retired to his bedroom, when I heard him mention my name. No it couldn’t be. Did he know I was there, I was Solid Snake level stealth! “Yes, please do come see me soon, won’t you, it has been too long, yes, yes hahahah”, Dad was in conversation to somebody over the phone. “And we shall take tea together. My son, Jubeyr, brews tea the likes of which you have not tasted before, I assure you. No, no it’s true, honestly, even if you aren’t a tea-drinker, when you see and smell the tea made from his hands, you become a tea-drinker”, Dad mused fondly. My heart split open, and I suffered a cardiac tamponade and died right there. This sudden rush of remorse and affectionate emotion overwhelmed my senses and inhibitory centre because my legs started to move toward his room. I walked right up to him and fell to my knees laying my head at his knees where he sat. I sobbed and begged for forgiveness. He initially didn’t move nor react but eventually I felt his hand rest upon the crown of my head. I think Mum came in at that point and ushered me out. The following day, I tentatively stepped forward for the congregational prayer, and with a further nudge from my brother, I stepped forward and assumed lead. No objections or taunts came. OK, yes! Progress. Prayers said and done, mats folded away, about to return to my exile when “Jubeyr”, Dad called out quietly. I stopped in my tracks, the brothers all stopped what they were doing, because what the hell, did Dad just directly address me in public after months of nothing? I turned to face him, trembling with trepidation. “Make me a cup of tea, would you?”.

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…