India or Afghanistan

By Prantik Mandal

Settled beside the cold feet of his mother with empty hands, little Sharif asked “Ammi why are we staying home all day?”

His mother, her face unveiled for many days now, spoke with broken speech

“There are threats outside. It’s not safe to go out”

“Why? What threats?”

“Too many to list”

“Then why is father not coming to help us? Does he not know we are out of food?” the little Sharif asked with knitted brows and flushed cheeks.

Now the frustrated mother could not hold herself back and let out an immense outburst:

“How many times you want to hear? They have closed the transport. Everything. Your father is probably dead on some road. There is not money enough to make contact. It’s been 39 days now. What can I do? Why are you asking me? Can’t you have answers sometimes? Your brother left home thinking himself to be a burden. Oh! Who knows where he is? How can we survive like this?

Ammi sat still and regretted her outlandish tone. She realized she might just be the last pillar supporting. With welled up eyes and dried throat she sat silent for about 5 minutes. She reproached herself for that vehement reproach. When she suddenly realized how rude she had been towards Little Sharif, some obscure notion of intense nostalgia swept over her and she abruptly pulled Sharif closer to her bosom and placed him on her lap and caressed his hair.

“I do not know, son what is happening. I wish I did. But do not worry. I will think of something

”

Sharif was now accustomed with these bouts of outbursts from his mother. Often she used to turn to a high-pitched ranting voice one moment and tender the next. He used to think it was because the little Arshad or little Nafisa in his mother’s stomach. He thought when the little baby hurt his mother, she talked loudly and wickedly and when it kissed mother she turned lovely. So he never minded any of her mother’s rebukes but secretly had planned to pinch the little baby when it comes out and thereby fulfill his revenge. So indifferently he persisted on his inquiry:

“Why don’t you go to work Ammi?”

With trembling warm fingers caressing his hair, she softly began:

“I have no work left. They’ve closed everything down”

“And elder brother why is he not in college. When will I again go to school?”

“I don’t know. If we live long enough then maybe someday”

“There was so many different noises. This silence is so bad. I do not like it”

“Don’t worry son. Someone will help us. Tomorrow morning I will go to the Bura Saab house. They will definitely give some ration for few days. Maybe I can even find work in their home.”

Sighed his mother faintly as the last flicker smoke out of a chimney.

“But I am hungry now. I want to eat briyiani. I don’t want biscuits anymore. I don’t like it.”

But there were not even any biscuits left in the house. Only half a bottle of water. His mother tried to check if she had started lactating. Maybe there’s still hope. Maybe her milk can help him endure only one more night.

By Prantik Mandal