Untitled Novel : [Chapter 5: March Snow]

It’s noon already. Pa has left to check on some business related stuff at his computer hardware and peripherals showroom at Lal Chowk. Ma is sitting on the balcony, knitting a sweater for herself, listening to a folk song playing on Radio Kashmir:

czolhoma roshe roshe

you’ve left in a huff, in a huff

I go to my room, open my laptop, and check my work e-mail.

I open my inbox. There are two unread emails from my patients, one unread email from a Physiotherapy conference I attended in Sydney last year (they have mailed me their dates for this year.) There’s also bunch of spam emails about a brand new Viagra pill that I immediately mark as junk. I start typing a new mail to my Head of Department requesting an extension in my leave. I give him a truthful, albeit, surface explanation of my situation and click ‘send’. Then I light a cigarette and look out the window in front of me.

It’s snowing outside.

I go up to the cupboard on the side of the room and open it. It is filled with old clothes of mine. Someone has been wise enough to put naphthalene balls in it, so they’re in good condition. I take out a brown pheran and put it on. I take out my faithful digital camera from my suitcase and head outside.

I walk around the neighborhood, finishing the cigarette in long drags as I feel the falling flakes of snow surround me. A group of college girls walk by me. As if by impulse, I throw away the cigarette quickly. I think I hear some giggling when they pass me.

Are they laughing at me? Oh, grow up, girls.

I sit on the steps of a closed shop for an hour, watching snow gather on the roadside, on the rooftops, on the trees, into an initially thin layer, which starts to grow thicker as snowflakes come down in groups of millions- like pilgrims from the winter sky, draped in white.

I take about a dozen pictures of the view with my camera.

It hasn’t snowed too much this winter, probably because the sky shed its share of precipitation during the floods. But now, all of a sudden- March snow.

Has it ever snowed in March before?

I hear the sound of a sermon coming from the loudspeaker of a nearby mosque, which reminds me that it is Friday.

I enter the mosque just when the congregational prayers are about to start and stand in a corner at the back. A few minutes later, the prayer ends and I leave before everyone else, avoiding any form of eye contact.

Outside, it hasn’t stopped snowing. The sight is surreal, but I’m also worried about what it might mean for the house.

I can’t stop thinking about the morning conversation with Pa, I recall each and every thing he said, as if weighing the words one by one. I realize that I’ve been outside for a couple of hours now. But I have nothing to do either.

I’m getting a little bored.

I take out my cellphone and run my thumb over the touchscreen. I dial Niaz’s number, counting the number of rings.

He picks up after five.

“Hello, Salaam.”

“Wa Alykum As Salaam, hey Niaz, what’s up?”

“Nothing special. I’m at office right now, why did you call?”

“Um, nothing… The snow… did you see it?”

I hear him talking to someone else about some ‘misplaced files.’

I realize that he’s busy so I change my mind, “Hey, I’ll call you later, okay?”

“No, I’m here, I’m here… I was talking to this guy. Anyways, what were you saying?”

“If you’re busy, I’ll call you later.” I repeat.

“No, it’s fine. Just say what you have to.”

“I wanted to talk to you about the old house.”

There’s silence on the line.

“Yes, what about it?” He asks.

“It needs some repairing. There are cracks in the foundation.” I reply.

I can hear his confusion over the phone- a mix of concern and reluctance.

“I know that, Zaid, I know about it… but I can’t talk about this over the phone right now. We’ll talk when we meet, is that okay with you?”

“Yes, we should talk. Why don’t you come over after work?”

“Well… okay, sure, I’ll see you later.”

“Salaam.”

I hang up.

The snow is almost a foot thick now, and it is showing no signs of stopping. I start walking back.

When I reach home, Ma’s preparing a kanger firepot.

She puts the bright red embers on top of the fresh coal, arranged in layers of increasing thickness and texture from the top to the bottom. Leaf-thin coals on top- to pick up the fire quickly- small, softer coals in the middle, hard coals at the bottom, and there you have it- a portable fireplace, an earthen pot covered in intricate, colorful wicker-work. Medieval, but still in fashion.

I grab one and put my hands around it to warm them.

“Has it ever snowed in March before, Ma?”

“Not that I know of.” She says.

Something shiny lying on the table in front of me catches my eye. It is a thick glittery envelope. There’s a red ribbon knot tied to it.

“What’s that?” I ask, picking it up.

I see that it is addressed to Pa, his name written in gold ink on a name-slip pasted right at the middle:

Saadat Ahmed Sahib

Pir Dastageer Colony

“Oh, that’s Malik Sahab’s roqqe, he himself came with it an hour ago, it’s his daughter’s wedding, he has invited us – full family. Do you remember Malik Sahab?” Says Ma.

My heart skips a beat. Malik Sahab. Shirin’s father.

“Yes, he had two daughters, right?” I ask.

“Yes, two… why are you asking?” asks Ma, she looks a little confused at my out-of-the-blue ‘daughter question’.

“Nothing, I just asked… so which one is getting married?”

“The elder one, of course. What was her name, Farah? Yes Farah. The younger one was Shirin, she was in your class, wasn’t she?”

I find myself heaving a sigh of relief when I read the names of the bride and the groom on the card:

Farah weds Naseer

“Yes, she was, she was.”