Bab-chya: The Unlikely Friend

The phone shrilled a single, long deafening beep.

Before it could ring up again, somebody picked it up. I could hear the voice of my daughter, Melissa.

‘’Yes, Yes. I’m the one who called about my son Ahmed. You see.. we had an issue about language yesterday in school. I’m thinking of how best to approach it. Could you give me a second?...’’

Her voice gradually grew fainter as she moved away, until I couldn’t make out individual words. I sat in my chair, looking over the garden. My son-in-law was watering the plants. I watched until discomfort in my lower belly made me shift. The diuretic drug I was taking to control my blood pressure was making me get up at all sorts of hours to empty my bladder.

I shuffled to my feet slowly and rose to get up when a noise interrupted me halfway. I could see the hallway clearly from where I sat. My granddaughter was standing in front of her bedroom, the smell of peppermint and a fruity perfume clung to her. It was cloying and strange and I could smell it even a room away. Dark mascara clung to her eyelashes, making the piercing over her eye brow even more prominent. When she saw my eyes on her, she scoffed and rolled her eyes. Whirling around she turned and slammed the door. Then, music blared from her room.

I sighed.

Ever since I turned 82, my grandchildren started putting doors between us. At first, I had a hard time hiding my displeasure. I made sure to let their mother know, preferably when my grandchildren were in ear shot, what I thought of their behavior. But when the disrespectful gestures became more common, silent tears replaced the anger and then a grudging sort of acceptance. They, most certainly, disliked the attention I took away from them as their mother started to spend more time caring for me.

I heaved myself up, firmly holding on to the edges of the chair until my knees stopped wobbling like wet noodles. I looked around for my walking stick, my eyes hunted around the small room for the crutch that enabled me to walk on my own. It had vanished. Instead of calling my daughter immediately to assist me to the restroom, I decided to brave the walk myself. Half-way through, my knees started cramping threatening to fold under me and send me crashing towards the floor. Silently, I wobbled towards the wall, fingers reaching for a hand-hold and finding none. Either I let go of my ego and call my daughter to assist me and hope she is within ear-shot when I call or I collapse and crack my already weak knees.

The pain made the choice for me.

‘’Melissa!’’ I yell, cringing at the echo of my voice. My granddaughter, Lizzy, would undoubtedly hear my call for help and hate me for needing her mother even more.

Elizabeth— no, Lizzy— thinks I am exaggerating the pain. In her prime health, she thinks she will never grow weak like me. She refuses to come inside my room and talk to me. I miss how she was when she was little and just as wobbly on her knees as I am right now.

Back then, I steadied her gait with a guiding hand.

Right now, music blares from her room. It almost drowns my voice. I think it’s that boy whose posters adorn her wall, singing. She is always going on about him, begging her father for money to go to his concerts— some Justin Barber or Bayber— whatever nonsense boys now like to call themselves.

‘’Melissa! Can you come and get me? That boy must have taken my walking stick! I am about to fall and wet myself because he won’t stop pulling tricks and taking my things.’’ I yell, feeling a mixture of helplessness and anger. I felt my eyes well. I swallowed the lump in my throat, determined to not show any weakness but unable to do anything else. Growing older is a humiliating business, especially when you are my age.

I am about to call again when my eyes are drawn to the boy, who is frequently the object of my ire. He is crouched over at the end of the hallway. Since I am standing right in the doorway, I can see him when I turn my head.

A pair of brown eyes watch me silently. His dark curly hair is in his eyes, and he’s sitting on his haunches. I can see the top of his knees and half of his face. Ahmed thinks he’s being sneaky. I almost let out a scream. Instead a small exhalation escapes my lips.

''Jesus almighty!’’ I gasp. I cross myself with weak fingers and glare at the boy .

The two of us stare at each other. One cautious, the other annoyed but neither of us backing down from the staredown.

‘’Go away!’’ I grouse.

Sometimes, when my door is closed, I see footsteps tiptoeing in front of my door. After a few beats they either pass or pause until I scream at him to stop bothering me.

‘’If I see you outside my door again, I’m going to whoop you!’’ I warn.

He is unfazed by my threats and glares. He continues to look at me bravely until my daughter appears right behind him.

‘’That boy is causing trouble.’’ I start the second Melissa reaches up to help me. ‘’He is the one who took my walking stick, no doubt about it and look at me now, I’m unable to even go to the bathroom!’’

Melissa made a half-hearted noise of dissent.

‘’Ma, Ahmed isn’t the one who took your stick. It was Rupert. He was playing with it just a few hours ago. You know how kids are. You tell them, they aren’t to touch something and that is exactly what they go for.’’

A noise escapes the back of my throat. One of disbelief.

‘’Don't you see him always staring at me? He is the devil, I’m telling you. God knows where Sam got him from. Things have been going missing around here. I know exactly what he’s thinking. One day he’s going to bash my skull or maybe, god forbid, it will be our Rupert that boy will hurt by my own walking stick. You’ll see then. The other day, I couldn’t find my nail cutter...’’

‘’Mother, Ahmed is your grandson as much as Rupert is. I might not have given him birth but he’s as important to me as my other children. Don’t you think it’s time you finally accept him? It’s been 6 months already. He needs us. Right now, I’m glad he can’t understand much English. What you’re saying could hurt him a lot and his name is Ahmed, not ‘that boy’. He calls you Bab-chya, you know.’’

Melissa says gently but firmly.

‘’What’s that? Some devil talk I’m sure.’’

‘’Bab-chya means grandma. He must miss his grandmother who took care of him till he was three. She died and...you know the rest. He is going to live with us for a long time. Be kind. He needs it. God knows what he’s been through at his home country.’’

I went silent, a feeling stirred in my chest. It felt like somebody had my heart in their fist and was slowly crushing it.

Days passed. Nothing else disappeared from my room for a few weeks. I didn’t see Ahmed around much. My physical therapist said I was making progress. She would make me do a lot of exercises every day, until I felt the pain lessen. I could get around more now. I barely needed the walking stick anymore.

...

I woke up with my throat parched, remnants of a dream still clung to my eye lashes. I was dreaming of before, when I was younger and more care-free. Childhood has a way of clinging to you, making you wish you could turn back time. I was back at my parent's house, smelling marmalades as my mother made home-made jam and hummed to an off-key tune.

I willed my mother to turn around, but it didn’t matter what I said or how much noise I made. She continued to look away. All her attention fixed on somebody that wasn't me. Then, just before she was finally going to look back, I woke up.

I steadied myself on my walking stick and hobbled towards the kitchen ignoring the shooting pain in my legs. My throat was dry and there wasn’t any water at my bed-side. I passed Lizzie’s boyfriend in the living room, his bulk was sprawled on the sofa as his hands gripped a controller. He was completely transfixed on shooting, blowing and what not all on the screen. He wasn’t wearing a headset either, so the noises echoed in the house, loud and harsh.

I gave him my best withering glare which he ignored.

I was getting myself a glass of water, as my eyes perused the absolute wreck that was the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink and the counter looked like somebody had eaten right off it.

As I made my way towards the door, my legs skidded. It was sheer luck and my hard grip on the textured counter that saved me from a nasty crash.

I looked displeasingly at the broken plate a few feet from where I was standing. My lip curled.

‘’What? Who broke this plate and left the pieces right on the floor?’’ I yell. My mind flashed to images of cut knees and feet of any of my grandchildren. Hell, I could have fallen on them too.

Painstakingly slow, I stooped next to the biggest piece when my eyes caught his.

He is sitting on his haunches. Hands over his ears and eyes fixed on something in the living room.

‘’Boy!’’ I yell, hoping my voice will break his stupor. ‘’What are you doing here around broken glass? You could get hurt!’’

Ahmed does not respond.

‘’Get up! I’ll take care of the glass.’’ I say in a softer voice.

Though his eyes rise to mine, he does not move. They go back to the living room. I follow his gaze to the screen where they are fixed on the video game in horrified fascination.

An emotion I couldn’t name fluttered in my chest. My nails dug into the palms of my hands as understanding dawned. He is afraid of the videogame. Maybe, it reminds him of where he lived before.

In the wars waged by rich men, children suffered.

I moved to stand in front of him, lowering myself to the floor, while being careful to nudge the glass away. Ahmed can’t look at the living room now. Only at me.

‘’Does the game scare you?’’ I asked gently.

It takes him a long time to answer me. In the end, he only nods slowly.

‘’Well , I’ll make him stop. He wouldn’t play that game! God forbid, if I hear him playing that god-awful crazy game again I’m going to thrash him, even if my granddaughter hates me later.’’ I said.

‘’I’ll protect you. Don’t worry.’’

I rose to do exactly that when the boy reached towards my wrist. His calloused fingers closed around my wrist. Tear-stained eyes met mine and he gave me a small smile.

Then, he moved to wrap his long, thin arms around me.

‘’Bab-chya.’’ He whispers. My heart beat a tattoo in the cage of my ribs.

‘’Melissa tells me you like pears.’’ I said, and tried in vain to loosen his grip around my neck. His warm weight around me felt like home. In his arms, I found the last piece of a puzzle.

I felt him nod, his face pressed against my shoulder.

‘’I-I love pears. Bab-chya used to cut them for me.’’ He finishes in half Pashto and half English.

I grinned up at him.

‘’Well then, I’ll cut them for you. Do you know the day I was born, my father planted a pear tree? I’m 82 and so is my favorite pear tree back at the village where I lived. Every day, I grow older and so does my sibling tree. Do you want to hear more about it?’’

‘’Ja, Bab-chya.’’

‘’Alright then, come on. Be careful of the glass. I’m going to tell you a story about the pear tree I loved most in the whole world.’’

....