Peace

Peace can be the state of our body, consisting of zero excitement and phasic change, allowing the body to swing as designed. However, our mind is never at peace. Thoughts, memories, to-do lists, and errands keep the brain awake and rushing, making it slide between past and present, letting the cassette of harsh memories play like we play music during work, typing out words on the laptop.

For most of my life, I have considered it a bitter reality because I have never seen my mom sitting silently; I have always seen my “khala” speaking to herself harshly, cursing what happened to her and what was happening at that moment. I have heard my “nani” shouting even during sleep, using salacious terms.

People say I overthink and slide between times, but the reality is that a peaceful mind is a privilege. If it is not for you, so at least for Shabana – an irritating, controlling, and stubborn woman for many, but for me, she is like an unhealed injury that keeps bleeding, making bones and skin thinner, uglier, and smelly. Consequently, people avoid her, but nobody knows the truth.

I met her when I was 5 years old. I always found her walking between rooms and the kitchen, going up and down the stairs between the fourth and first floors, carrying tons of shoppers with a dupatta swirling on her shoulders. Alertness was prominent in her small green-and-gray eyes, making her brown hair less noticeable because tension and a tiring list did not let her sit and style it properly. I now wonder how she could have time to do her hair when she had to serve fruits every day after lunch and ensure that everything would be on the table, be it spoons or raita or a bottle of cold drink, as if nobody could stand and take out the plate themselves from the kitchen.

Every house would have one allotted time for dinner, but she set the table twice every day, one for her kids, which was fun, especially on Saturdays, because of her warm and crispy fries. We used to have them with ketchup and chat masala. The other time was when she served her husband, who used to come home after 12 am. We enjoyed, and he relaxed at her expense, but never acknowledged her. We stayed silent, and he shouted while she absorbed all the yelling and slaps to keep every kid feeling safe.

There were kids in a fourth-floor building – “ronaq” of home, but she was never refueled. She was not supported or told, “You are doing a lot.” Instead, the bag of expectation grew on her from my “Nana” and “nani’s” side, who were not ready to help her get divorced, and her brothers, who felt she must endure it to become pious.  

Years passed, her fuel ended. She got tired. Her husband slid into a corner, and the kids got busy. Now, she does not even walk to the kitchen to make tea for herself. Her body is in much-needed relaxation mode, but her mind is still in rush. Comparison, past-present rollercoaster, and deep analysis – all are still there.

It stayed with her, as we stick to our careers and aims, making her toxic and stubborn. Yet, nobody understands that the little girl inside her is still injured, who never healed. And her injuries are aching out loud, and nobody wants to acknowledge them because they have been seeing her blood for decades.

Now you tell, does peace exist, especially in the lives of South Asian women?

Aqsa Abdul Qadir is a published author who contributed to 10+ anthologies and ghostwritten 100+ books. Currently, she is working on her debut novel. She feels words can bring much-needed change in her home country, Pakistan.