Chai

Prose by Shams

About 10 years ago at 8:15 PM, I was petrified as my sister’s grip on my arms tightened to the point where I felt the bruises lingering before they formed. She heaved, wailed, crumbled and eventually threw herself onto the nearby wooden chair as I stood there and attempted to rub at her back to calm her down. Her face was twisted in a manner that I had never seen before as her hands frantically came up to scratch at her tear-streaked skin, halted only by my childish grip.

Dialogue from the TV floated through the air.

Another scream tore itself from her throat as she looked up at me. A torrential rain of rage continued in her eyes, roaring through the normally steady brown. I saw an animal ready to

pounce at me, its intention being to rip into my skin with its sharp teeth in a defensive attempt. “Why are you crying? Mama will see.” Her voice was hoarse and nasally. I had not noticed that I had begun to shed tears. A small breath made its way down into my lungs. The tension rose

once again before the final blow to break it was delivered by her unhinging her jaw, vocal cords straining to let out the loudest scream yet. She yanked at my arms once again, bony hands harsh against my skin. The sound alarmed Mama, who must have been under the stairs working on ironing the clothes for school tomorrow morning.

“All I ask for,” her voice was clipped, short and simple as it cut through the mournful noises of my sister. “is a few moments of peace and quiet in this household.” She had turned the TV serial off, and was now staring at us both through the wooden doorway. All I could notice now was the fresh burn on Mama’s hand instead of her outraged glare. She had her yellow kurti on, the

hemline slightly stained with some chutney from the afternoon.

I suddenly became mute, my voice refused to rise as my hands went limp and my eyes settled on the contrast between the room and the hallway. The light outside was a sterile white, but compared to the warmth of the lamp inside the room it looked completely blue. In a flash I could feel Mama rip my sister from my arms before the sound of a slap resounded in the air.

I left the room and went to the kitchen, heart beating fast enough for me to question if it were even mine. As a child of about seven years old, I was deeply afraid of witches, of their long nails, tangled waist length hair and ghostly faces with widely stretched lips held together by the tiny resistance of saliva. My sister’s wailing was exactly like the scream of a witch as I shakily tried to make a cup of separate chai for her. Mama had taught me to always put boiling water first and let the tea steep, but I had added milk initially and then water. The mixture in the

ceramic was disgusting, staring back at me like it were a white mouse. I poured it down the drain and cowered in the kitchen corner.

This year, my sister came home from Bahawalpur. Mama greeted her at the door, but I wasn’t there to welcome her because of an evening class, nor did I have any interest in meeting her. At about 8:30 PM, I walked into the house and dropped my bag in the lobby, making my way

through the hallway and running a hand over my closely cropped hair. At the age of seventeen, I had learned to make mixed chai despite the fact that everyone in the family except my sister drank separate chai. Raising my eyes from the beige tiled floor, I was struck by her appearance in the living room. She had put on some weight and her gaze shone with peace.

“Assalamualaikum.” Her voice wasn’t hoarse, it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t nasally, it was gentle and soft. The TV was static in front of her, empty white noise engulfing the room and fighting with

the crackling of the heater. The cold blue light fell on every part of the room except her hands, which were warmed by the orange glow of the controlled fire in front of her. The last time I had seen her near a heater was when I was about six years old. I did not respond to her with the customary greeting, instead nodding my head and walking to the kitchen.

I shrugged my jacket off and threw it on one of the kitchen chairs near the marble counter, a few droplets of sweat dripping down the nape of my neck as I breathed in. I opened a wooden cabinet, pulling out a small saucepan and placing it on the stove. A while back Mama had been subjected to a fall in the kitchen in the same spot I stood at, due to which she broke an arm. Her explanation for the sudden loss of balance was that she had seen a woman in the kitchen with a

ghost-like appearance while she was making toast for herself before the Fajr prayer. My sister stood in the doorway, looking at me. “Would you make me some too?”

I nodded again; we both grew silent. In the period of time that she was away I had grown taller and changed considerably. My relatives often stated that I had her eyes, and that made me want to scrub my face off.

I poured the milk into the saucepan, eyeballing how much it would take to fill two cups. Her nimble hand reached for the container of chai patti and passed it to me, suggesting I put in two and a half spoons of it to really bring out the taste; I did as she asked. She told me not to put in

any sugar and only four elaichis, therefore I complied and let the chai cook. The next few

minutes were filled with a rigid silence, my shoulders tensed up as I finally looked into her eyes. Tranquil, just as they were once before, just more determined and remorseful now as they crinkled up in a small smile. I snapped my gaze away.

My mind once again drifted off to the last time I had seen her, her dupatta draped over her head like a heavy burden as she forced a smile at Mama and bid her goodbye. She didn’t really look at me, or say bye as she got on the bus. Mama put her arm around me when it happened, but I shuddered and cleared my throat before moving away from her and walking away back into the car. I could vaguely remember the sun setting in the distance, its oblique rays casting a long

shadow of the blue vehicle as it pulled out of the station.

“Where’s Mama?” I asked, snapping out of my rumination, to which she motioned upwards with her thumb, implying that Mama was setting up the upstairs room for her. I went back to focusing on the way the chai boiled. It would rise, then return to its original position before the cycle would continue. My limbs soon became heavy, knees aching from the constant exertion of the day. After it cooked, I poured it into two separate mugs, handing her one and finally speaking,

voice hushed and perturbed, “Mixed is far more convenient than separate.” She held the mug with a steady grip and nodded her head.

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Shams is an O'level student from Pakistan. He likes cats, books, and the little lights above stovetops.