I was so tired.
I arrived at my grandmother’s house, Z___abad, at a little past 3pm. It was a cool mid-March evening and the slight chill in the air felt soothing. I made my way up the broad walkway towards the main house. The familiar spring foliage in the inner garden was in full bloom. My favourite shrubbery running the length of the high-ceilinged veranda was inflorescent with a myriad shades of green, ranging from the deep dark of the Monstera to the delicate green plumage of the Bougainvillea. The late afternoon light played lazily along the palm-shaded steps leading from the garden to the veranda — each cloudy shape flitting like a gossamer phantom between the real and the shadow worlds.
There was a faint smell of the rose and bergamot incense that my grandmother had liked to burn every so often; usually, when the gastronomic labour of love, undertaken daily through prodigious breakfast and lunch preparations for the family and the contingent of domestic staff, was done for the day. It wafted in barely perceptible undulations like shy little wraiths playing hide and seek.
I stopped for a bit to take it all in… breathe it all in. I was home.
But I was so tired.
I walked into the big, airy lounge, greeted immediately by the portraits of my grandmother and my mother. I looked at the pictures and waited for the inevitable wrenching tug of heartache. It didn’t come. Instead, I felt a quiet calmness and solace… I was back home.
“You’ve arrived,” P. abai, the old homestead retainer said, looking at me quizzically. I hadn’t heard her come in. I smiled and we embraced. Z__abad and P. abai are intrinsically bound together in all my memories of the place.
“Where were you the last time I came here? You’d been ill and then they said you didn’t come back. I missed you,” I said, looking at her gently smiling face.
“I’ve missed all of you too. I had to go away for a while…” She hesitated, looking at me tenderly and then smiled again.
“I’ll bring you some tea — you must be tired,” she said with an affectionate caress on my head.
I smiled at her and watched her go out through the lounge doors, melting into the evening shadows that had descended on the sun-warmed veranda. I shivered a little – the residual late winter chill had further cooled the evening air. I sat on my grandmother’s chair at the familiar old dining table. The edges of the flowery linoleum tablecloth fluttered tremulously in the crisp March breeze that floated in through the open doors.
I could still smell the incense faintly. I glanced around the room, vaguely wondering where it was coming from. It didn’t matter; it was replete with nostalgia and serenity. I looked outside at the garden. The twilight of dusk had succumbed to a tranquillising, soothing darkness.
Exhaustion washed over me.
I put my head back and closed my eyes.
I finally rested.
Khyber News Alert: “There was an accident on Highway S-1 near Charsadda this afternoon at 3.15pm. The Nissan Sunny car driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and had plunged head-on into a lorry carrying girder beams. The driver has been hospitalised with a broken leg. The passenger, a woman in her 40s, died on the spot.”
Mahvash K.M considers herself somewhat of a “serial corporate rut absconder”. Only because a sabbatical that was to last a year, has turned to eight, and she still see no end in sight. Before that, Mahvash worked in the Financial Services Industry, and was considered somewhat of a specialist process and experience “fixer upper”. Mahvash has previously published a book of poetry and essays, and three books in a children’s series.