The Last Time by Sana Vasi

Sana Vasi Creative Writing October 7, 2015 The Last Time “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah, Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah.” The first notes of the azaan—a mournful, metallic-edged wail—oozed through the gap underneath Aaliyah’s door, blanketing her with a peculiar warmth that she struggled to shake off. She closed her eyes as the well-worn repetition hummed its way into her consciousness—teasing out half-buried memories of Saturday School; of itchy topis that left indents ringed around her forehead, and poker-faced teachers held together by little more than the strength of their convictions. Aaliyah could hear familiar sounds in the adjacent room: the creak of an old dresser where her father stored his prayer mat; the swish of fabric secured around her mother’s face—stray wisps of hair tucked away and hidden from sight. She could hear the cacophony of flowing water as it slapped onto the ceramic basin, trickled into cupped hands, dripped onto arms and necks and faces over muttered recitations of the Wudu, Distracted by the wayward thoughts she could no longer control, Aaliyah sank into the padded comfort of Maghrib—mouthing along to the Arabic words she would never understand. She thought back to a time, years before, when she would accompany her parents in their daily rendition of namaz. She would stand serious and sure—head bowed, back straight—as she mimicked the reassuring movements of her mother. Five minutes later, the vibrations of the azaan ceased. The house stilled, then settled back into its usual routine of harried footsteps and raised voices. “Aaliyah,” her mother called. The lilt of her Indian accent tugged the word up into a question. “Dinner’s ready.” “Coming, Mom,” she replied, rubbing away the thick layer of eyeliner that smudged below her waterline. “Now, please.” “I said I’m coming,” Aaliyah said. Frustration bled through her clipped, precise tone—devoid of the same inflections that plagued her parents, even years after leaving home. She stood up, disentangling herself from the pages of her favorite book—the cover stained and creased from the grubby hands of a teenage girl eager to get lost in a world that didn’t belong to her. Before she left, Aaliyah shook out her tangled mane congealed in a messy bun on the top of her head, making sure the sweaty tendrils covered the bra straps that peeked out beneath her tank top. “What took you so long?” It was Aaliyah’s father this time—a tall man with a receding hairline who directed the question somewhere over his daughter’s head. She sat across from him, slumped over in a high-backed chair that dwarfed her tiny frame. “I was reading,” she said, distracted by the slow whir of the ceiling fan that did nothing to prevent the sticky heat that permeated the room and clung to bare skin. “I’m sorry,” she added a second later. “I’m just tired, I guess.” Her parents didn’t reply, and Aaliyah used this brief reprieve to grab at the food across the table. She picked up a roti—the surface of the flat bread pockmarked with blackened blisters—and spooned some daal onto her plate. For once, she mused, it would be nice to just order in a pizza. “Sweetheart, is everything okay? You’re not usually this quiet.” Her mother’s smile was strained; blue-black shadows hidden by the fading, evening light. Without Aaliyah’s easy, mindless chatter to provide that flimsy veil of normalcy, the heavy silence was all too apparent. “I’m fine, Mom. School was just stressful today.” Aaliyah looked down at her fingers; at the peeling purple nail polish and jagged cuticles she otherwise worked so hard to maintain. “I have a lot of homework I should probably get started on.” “You’re not going anywhere until we finish this meal together. It’s the only time we get to spend with each other as a family.” Aaliyah wanted to interject; to remind her parents that they hadn’t been a family in a long time—not in the traditional sense of the word. This distance between them was new, but she was too caught up in her own thoughts to even attempt to burrow through the cracks. So, she said nothing, shredding her roti into smaller and smaller pieces until it lay unrecognizable at the bottom of her bowl. Excess atta coated her hands, and she dusted the flour off—watching as it sprinkled the table like the dull remnants of fairy dust. Aaliyah thought back to her first day of elementary school. She was the youngest in her class, excited to have an outlet for the pent-up energy her parents struggled to contain. Her mother had oiled her hair the night before, and it hung in two greasy braids that pulled at her scalp—a constant reminder of the rupture in her too-small, too-ordered world. As she sat in the back seat of their family-friendly minivan, the rough texture of its seatbelt cutting into her waist, she glanced out the window. The street was mostly empty, save for a few cars driven by sleep-deprived businessmen, meandering their way to jobs they had no real interest in. The sky had turned a mottled shade of grey and gold, while rays of escaped sunlight kissed the battered sidewalk. “It’s a sign,” she thought, with all the naivety of a sheltered six-year-old. “A sign that everything is going to be okay.” She screwed up her face, eyebrows furrowed into a ‘v’ that met at the bridge of her nose. “Allah, please make it so that I have a good day.” Aaliyah imagined God was looking out for her—a giant, bearded man who sat up in the clouds and nodded along to her every request, a tranquil grin plastered to his face. At sixteen, Aaliyah knew better than to indulge in fantasies, regardless of how comforting misplaced faith could be. She learnt about the cruelty of first graders on her second day of school, when no amount of prayers protected her from the condescending comments about her flat nose and hairy legs. She learnt that, despite what her parents had told her, not everybody wanted to be her friend. “Aaliyah,” her father snapped. She startled back into the present. He was looking at her for the first time all evening. “What are you wearing?” She looked down at the denim shorts and loose, pink tank top she had thrown on in an effort to escape the scalding heat. “Clothes?” It was the wrong answer. “So you wore this outfit to school then?” “Yeah,” Aaliyah said. “I wore a sweater on top though.” She knew where this conversation was going and hoped that the white lie would dissuade her father from pursuing it any further. It didn’t. “In what world did you think this would ever be appropriate? Did you even think to look in a mirror before you left the house? My house?” Aaliyah stood up, her father’s outraged expression reflected in her own. “I’m going back to my room.” “Sit down,” he ordered. Her mother remained silent, picking at the scraps of food scattered around her plate. “You clearly have no respect for yourself, dressed like that.” It was a condemnation she had heard before; a familiar argument she knew all the words to. “Maybe I don’t equate my self-respect with the clothes I wear. It’s thirty five degrees outside; what do you expect me to wear?” “That’s not the point. It’s not just your clothes; it’s your attitude. You don’t care about your roots—about your religion.” “No I don’t.” “You should,” Aaliyah’s mom chimed in—breaking the repetitive back-and-forth they had become so accustomed to in the recent months. “I know Islam isn’t important to you anymore, but it’s important to us. Can’t you at least respect that?” Aaliyah paused, then exhaled—a shuddering release of long-suppressed bitterness. “I’ll try.”