by Syiqa Suhaimy
It was Monday afternoon, Father was coming to take his lunch and go back to work, where he belonged. Mother took a short nap and depended on me to add the perfect amount of salt because she could not take it this time. The hit, the blame, the bruises of shame of being a worthless woman who does not know how much salt to add into a cooking. A meal that was supposed to be warm turned cold as Father sat on his chair precisely at 12.30 p.m. Cold, shivering as we ate. I could take it this time; it did not hurt as much as the last time. My nose bled for only several minutes, I could take it, I could. Could I?
Yet, I was only a few inches away from a sharp corner of the table. It was fine, I was fine, Mother was fine; and Father took off to work, where he belonged, precisely at 2 p.m. If Father belonged at work, where did I fit in? Certainly not in the same place as he was, because that would have been peculiar, women don't belong in the workplace. I belonged to the house, in the same room as Mother. I practised my cooking every day despite having no idea where I stood as a cook because Father only found faults. He had rage, which was totally understandable. We are expected to have a warm, perfect meal as recognition for his efforts as the sole provider for the family.
Mother wore one of the most expensive silks as her wedding gown. It was exquisite and beautiful, and it also happened to be the definition of Father's love. The most expensive thing a husband could give you represents how much he loves you. I was never sure how to interpret the advice: how can material things be compared to something so abstract as love? Love is supposed to make your eyes sparkle and your mouth broadly grin. Mother’s eyes were red and watery, and her mouth twitched every time Father was around. Maybe love can be distinctive.
Even so, Mother's eyes weren't the only thing that became red. I woke up one morning and breakfast wasn't ready yet. I knew Mother overslept as she was busy ironing Father’s clothes the night before. I saw Father was making his own coffee at the kitchen table. “Your mother hasn’t woken up,” Father explained. The kettle started to whistle, and Father took the handle and went straight to his room. An agonising scream of pain filled the house as he poured the hot, steaming water directly into Mother's stomach to wake her up. I ran quickly to lock my door and waited in the closet until Mother called me. “Never come out until I say so, have a pillow with you to sit behind,” Mother reminded me every time Father was upset. “Your Father worked really hard, he gets tired sometimes”.
It was just a regular Tuesday, I was rubbing my aid cream between my cheeks. Father was smoking his cigar in his leather chair while waiting for Mother to get dinner done no later than 8pm. He started coughing really hard while his face turned blue and his eyes turned white. I froze because I had no idea what to do and I was afraid I could do it wrong and faced the consequences of having my hair yanked or my head slammed against the wall. “Call the ambulance!”, yelled Mother. Only then my body started to move but it was too late.
The house felt empty without him, Mother and I lost our purpose. The weird thing was that the feeling of emptiness soothed me, and I was sinful, sinful to feel calm after he was gone. I couldn’t even remember what day it was. “He was my father”, I said to a mirror. I don’t know how to continue the rest of the sentence, but he was my father, and I should have felt sad and grieving but I did not know how. I stood in front of the mirror for 30 minutes trying to shed a single tear, that never came out.
We were left with so much money that we had no clue what to do with it. The second weird thing was finding out that people associated us with money, and only then did I realise that my life was complete with all the things anyone ever wanted. Clothing, food, shoes, and expensive jewellery. But why did I not feel complete, or rather, content? Why couldn’t I be thankful all these years?
It was 2013, and I was 23 years old. “You cannot be older and not married," said mother. In fear of turning 24, I started to find the perfect husband, and we were going to have a perfect family. In what aspect could a husband be perfect? The question that was holding me back from the idea of being married.
As I turned 24 years old, Mother took me to a wedding for me to see how magnificent it is to be married. I was walking towards the hall and the feeling was like walking on the red carpet. Everything was so shiny. “Glimmers from the sky could not be compared”, Mother said. “It was like a dream come true”, I replied. A pretend consensus I gave her as I did not feel a shiny wedding is what I want or rather what I need.
The term I used, ‘Dream come true’ , is like a fairytale theme turned into a nightmare as I smelled cigarettes from afar. My body started to shake and my heart was pounding as if it was about to explode. My feet automatically tried to run away from the table as I started to feel those cigarettes were coming to hurt me. Mother grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed to the groom who had his smoke in the bathroom near to where we were sitting. “It is going to be okay, Father is not here with us anymore, he’s in heaven”, said Mother while holding my hand. I was being sceptical about it. Heaven? Men who enjoy burning others with their cigarettes do not deserve to be in heaven.
I used to feel so much joy about marriage when I was a child. I have dreamed about my wedding dress, it had a sweetheart neckline and a mermaid cut. I really adored the dress I had in mind. But then I realised how the dress would show much of my skin, so I went on Google, ‘How do you get rid of cigarette burn scars? Enter.’
After we left the wedding that night, I was reciting the Quran as usual before waiting for Isha’ prayer. As I was flipping through the pages of the Quran, I stared at verse 228 of Surah al-Baqarah, “And women shall have rights similar to the rights against them, according to what is equitable”. Equitable? What does that mean? I was intrigued by this verse as I saw how women do not have a say in anything. “We should always nod and never try to make Father angry”, said Mother when Father threw a plate at me because the soup was too hot. My feet were still hurting from the pieces of those shattered plates. Shattered plates do leave hurtful pieces just like Father had left us with traumas and scars.
I looked it up online and found the tafsir. This verse highlights about marriage, but what intrigued me was how this verse states how women have rights to have wealth and to have options. Islam does not refrain women from speaking or to have careers, in fact Islam offers many options for women to take. Responsibilities shared with just and respect should go both ways but I didn't see that. In fact, I felt the house was so corrupt with disciples I could never understand. Mother surely put culture beyond Islam, this is all her fault! She would always try to rationalise everything Father did and I believed her! She didn't receive any respect from Father, she should ask for respect but why did she turn silent, or was she silenced? Maybe it wasn't her fault after all.
It was so hard to speak inside Father’s house, Mother certainly did not speak at all other than “It’s okay Halimah, I don’t feel any pain at all, go to your room and lock the door now”.
If I have the same rights as men, does it mean I can also belong in working? Does it mean I get to choose serene views rather than glimmers views? Does it mean I can say ‘no’ instead of nodding?
I could finally see how I have options in life. Father’s shadow was gone, and I made up my own mind. I found a man who reminds me nothing of Father. However, it was hard convincing Mother to give blessings to my marriage. She was afraid that my wedding would not be as extravagant as anyone else's because my husband was working as a waiter while waiting to be recruited as a policeman. I could not afford to work as it is against Mother’s wishes. Since she gave her blessings to our marriage, I've decided to follow her advice and stay at home.
While my husband was in the police academy, I had to stay at Mother’s house waiting for him. Mother was so fond I was there to accompany her, and she tried all her might to have my forgiveness. My ego had to blame someone for my traumas, and I kept on blaming her for never trying to stand up to Father. But as my ego kept blaming her, I realised she can blame only herself and it was never her fault to begin with.
I stared at myself in front of the mirror. I wanted to be able to shed tears when she’s gone, and I wanted to be able to address her as ‘my mother’ instead of ‘Mother’. I went to her room and took her hand while wiping her tears, “You are my mother and all you ever did was to protect me from Father’s rage. I love you dearly, but you should never blame yourself for your husband’s flaws. He is the one who had to endure all the sins he committed from ruining your beautiful face”. I could feel my right shoulder starting to get wet by her tears running down her cheeks as she hugged me so tight, “Thank you”, said my mother.
A few days later, my mother became sick and had to stay at the hospital. The hospital was located far away from my mother’s, and I could not bear to walk or even use the money left to ride a taxi. My mother needs me and the feeling of being there for her was not forced anymore yet it was genuine that I shed tears worrying about her. Indeed, war is over.
The cold cement accompanied me for two nights as doctors, nurses and people walked by to go home. Two nights went by with a cold wind gushing between my skin. Though it was not colder than all dinners I had with Father, I was warned by the guard not to stay another night at the front door of the hospital. I was begging my whole heart to let me spend another night. In sympathy he said, “I will give you one more night to sleep here but you have to leave early morning, or my boss will be very upset”. Before the day could turn bright, I was woken up by the guards to leave the place. The hardships of not having enough money were easier than the consequences of having a wrinkled shirt sent to Father in the morning.
After one month staying with my mother. My husband could finally afford to rent a house for just the two of us to start our life together.
It was Monday afternoon, my husband was coming home from work to take his lunch. I took a short nap before I could carry on cooking with the least available ingredients we have at home. I took out the sardines from a can and began cooking. My hand did not start shaking as I tried to add the salt. Why would my hands ever need to start shaking doing the things I love?
My husband sat on his chair precisely at 12.30 pm. He lifted his spoons and stopped, “Why are you looking at me instead of eating?” he asked. “I was waiting for you to take the first bite as I always do, if the cooking needs more salt, I will add more to your liking”. His face puzzled trying to make sense of what I was saying. He took my hand and looked into my eyes, “Let’s eat together these delicious meals you have put all your effort into”. We began eating and I have never tasted a meal so warm I could burst into tears. Everyone deserves to feel belonged and safe at their own house to which they can call home.
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