The Family Tree by Sairish Hussain EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Sairish Hussain
- Language: English
- Genre: Cultural Heritage Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
February 1993
He clutched the tiny bundle in his trembling arms, rocking gently back and
forth, careful not to make a sound. The streetlamps were glowing outside.
He could see the dull orange light burning through the misted window. It
was 4 a.m. and Amjad wondered if he would get any sleep now. He doubted
it. Sleep provided a merciful cover and it had been blown only a few
moments before. The sound had travelled ruthlessly down the hallway,
determined to trouble him. He considered turning over on the couch and
placing something over his ears. His arm throbbed as he eased it from under
his weight, and his fingers twitched longingly as he contemplated reaching
out for a cushion.
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Minutes later, Amjad plodded up the stairs. He dragged his feet, step by
step, one arm using the banister to pull himself up, the other still throbbing
and limp by his side. He paused for a moment, balling up his fist in
determination. He needed all the strength he could muster, all the resolve in
the world to reach the top of those damn stairs.
Five little fingers were now wrapped tightly around his pinky. His
daughter’s face rested peacefully against him, her tiny chest rising and
falling. Amjad had wrapped her up in his wife’s shawl and tried not to think
of the disgraceful thoughts he had entertained just moments before. The
ones where he’d wanted to block out Zahra’s frantic wails with a beige
corduroy cushion.
Amjad held Zahra close. Even then, amidst all the pain, he could not
help but smile as he looked at her. He had managed to soothe his newborn
baby, despite desperately needing consolation himself. It was the first of a
series of ‘moments’. For the next few weeks, Amjad would find himself
comparing his two lives. The previous one, in which he could simply call
out and his wife, Neelam, would come rushing into the room to assist. And
this new one, where his voice would reverberate against the dark walls and
disappear into nothing. They would never stand together over Zahra’s cot
and exchange tired smiles, fingers interlocked as Neelam’s head rested on
his shoulder. They would never shush each other as they eventually tiptoed
back to bed, Neelam telling Amjad off for stepping on a creaking
floorboard.
Amjad wiped his eyes. It had all changed. The mud under his
fingernails proved that. Only yesterday he had thrown the earth into his
wife’s grave and cried silently at the mosque beside her body. Now it was
just Amjad. Amjad, rocking back and forth in a darkened room, clinging on
to Zahra.
She would never know her mother. Her little face would never be
cupped by Neelam’s hands. The tips of their noses would never touch. The
injustice of it all crushed him and Amjad wanted to fight against it. Was
there no one he could protest to or demand an explanation from? No
complaints form, no senior institution he could persuade to overturn their
decision, to let his wife live?
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