Perspective

1.

A teacup comes flying towards me and I duck swiftly, nearly falling out of my chair. I sit up straight and readjust my dupatta back on my head while my eyes track the source of this atrocity. They land on a young boy standing on his table in the corner of the restaurant, where his parents are yelling at him. His gleeful shriek fills the room, and he meets my eyes with a sheepish expression. The sight of his floppy brown curls and earnest eyes is enough to cool me down almost instantly.

I settle back down in my seat and straighten the pages of my book which I had been pretending to read for the past hour. The real receiver of my attention was my phone, which lay next to me, incessantly quiet.

The call wasn’t going to come. My son, like every year, had forgotten my birthday. I should know better by now.

The waiter passes by and stops in front of my chair, his eyes warm and sympathetic.

“Madam, is there anything else I can get for you?”

The crowd forming at the door makes me realise I’ve been holding up the table. Desperate not to return to my empty house, I quickly place another order.

“I would like some more chai, please.”

The waiter nods and walks towards the kitchen, stopping along the way to grab a fork that troublemaker from earlier had dropped on the floor. I can only stare at the young family in awe and reminisce about the time when I had been in the mother’s place. My late husband and I were frequent visitors of this cafe.

The gleeful boy begins arguing with his sister and pulls on her headscarf while she laughs at his shenanigans. The mother gives them both an exasperated sigh. Such a beautiful thing; a family so young, it makes my heart ache. The young woman appears worn and tired, but the sight of her children puts a smile on her face. Her husband leans towards her to whisper in her ear, and his hand subtly moves under the table. I turn away, not wanting to invade the young couple’s privacy, and look around at the rest of the patrons sitting in the cafe.

The waiter returns with my chai and I force a smile, expressing my gratitude as he places it gently in front of me. I rustle a sugar pack and tear it open before tilting it over my cup. The sugar falls into the tea, some of its crystals landing on the table. I hadn’t realised my hands were shaking- arthritis would do that to you. As I move the spoon around the cup in circles, my eyes scan a young woman sitting at the island, facing the large cafe window.

The spot is quite popular with people who come to the cafe alone, but only youngsters, not old, lonely women like me. Her head, adorned with streaked golden-brown hair, is bent over a laptop screen. Sharp black spectacles frame her face as she types up a storm. Her concentration is total, she’s fully immersed in her own little world. Swallowing the envy I feel, I freely admire the boldness that seems to flow from the young woman.

If only I could be like that- hopeful, with my whole life ahead of me. I try not to dwell on such things and decide to read my book for real instead. I fish out my glasses from my bag, but instead of the case, I pull out a piece of paper that makes me freeze.

I try not to look, I really do. But my treacherous eyes land on the document that is going to change the course of my life forever. I close them for a bit, trying my hardest to just breathe. It doesn’t matter to anyone here what I’m going through. It doesn’t matter to the people who love me either.

My life is mine alone. No amount of envy or longing is going to change that. Gathering some courage from the optimistic images of these two young women; women whose shoes I had once been in, I slide the money for the bill onto the table and rise. Hiking up my purse onto my shoulder, my hand finds the document and I crumple it between my fingers. Leaving through the door of the cafe, I toss the letter labelled ‘Eviction Notice’ into the bin.

No one was going to do life for me. I had better get on with it myself.

2.

I spent my childhood playing charades- whether it was of a famous actor, a loyal friend, or a happy child. It didn’t matter what the occasion was; if my father was yelling at my mother or if my mother was pushing me into a closet, I kept up the charade of a smiling child. Now I play a different kind of charades, except this one is much darker than before.

I clamp my hand over my son’s hand for the third time to force him to settle down. My eyes are stern, but he grins back sheepishly. I straighten in my seat and my husband places his hand on my shoulder. He leans forward to whisper something in my ear, except I can’t hear him. I like to make myself disappear during these moments. Tune out his voice and focus on something entirely different, something fantastical that I’d rather be doing right now.

Zeroing in on the old lady who had to dodge my son’s incoming glass a few moments ago, my chest aches with an intensity that surprises me. She’s in her own little world, enjoying her karak chai in peaceful solitude, occasionally lifting her gaze from her book to lazily observe the cafe. Her hands, gripping the Moroccan-patterned mug, are wrinkled and worn, but adorned with tiny trinkets. As my husband’s voice faintly reaches my ear, I wonder if I could somehow switch places with her and enjoy that kind of freedom.

Except I’m here, trapped inside the confines of my body and self. No one knows more than I what it’s like to keep up the charade of a happy family. The children playing with glee, the young-looking couple nestled close. If only there were a way to let someone know that the children playing around me were the leash holding me down. That the warm hand on my shoulder was a noose around my neck. Sitting in a beautifully lit cafe, surrounded by the aroma of coffee and chai, the sugary glaze of donuts sparkling on the counter, all I could think about was the imprint of my husband’s slap on my cheek.

When it all gets too much, I stand quickly and excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room. I can’t afford to be here a second longer. The facade is breaking and I don’t think I can keep it up. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I clench my fingers in an attempt to force my tears back into their ducts while I wait for my husband to lift his head and grant me permission to leave.

His eyes stay fixed on his watch for a grudgingly long time before he looks up. The expression on his face makes my gut clench with dread. He can’t say no. I don’t think I can deal with that right now. He must see something in my expression, and to avoid causing a scene, he nods.

Ignoring the unpleasant look on his face, I lightly grab my purse and make my way to the restroom. Zigzagging through the crowd of patrons, it takes everything in me to hold back tears as my vision blurs. I reach the restroom but stop short when the bottom of my kameez snags on a chair. I tug quickly, but to avail. Desperation gnaws at me-

“Here, let me help.”

The voice comes from a preppy young girl in jeans and a short kameez. Her hair is curly, held back by a large banana clip, and her ears are adorned with jhumkay. She looks like someone I would normally label as eccentric and try to avoid, but the sincere concern on her face makes me pause. She gently slides her bangled hand under the chair and frees the fabric, slowly, so it doesn’t tear. Her smile is so open and honest that suddenly it feels like all my efforts to maintain composure were for nothing. I want to burst into tears right this second.

Despite her help, I barely manage to choke out a thank you before rushing into the restroom. I throw open the door and barge in. My hands find the counter and I brace myself, not wanting to look in the mirror. I used to be such a vain child. I spent most of my childhood staring at the mirror, adoring my face full of makeup. Stylish makeup, like that girl. Except she wore it with effortless confidence, while I wore mine like a mask. I face the mirror now, and despise what I see.

An unhappy middle-aged woman who’s lost the light in her eyes. If she ever had any.

After a few moments of deep breaths, I finally find some semblance of composure, or a more believable mask and reach for the door to return to my hell. Except the scene before me makes me pause. Through the narrow slit of the door, I see an older man lean towards that same young woman, who looks decidedly uncomfortable and is clearly trying to get him to leave.

Ah, there it is. The inescapable fate of young women everywhere.

I would help her if I were anyone but myself, but this can’t be helped anyway. I ignore the sudden ache in my chest and prepare to leave when the girl stands up. The scraping sound of her chair draws everyone’s attention. She rises, getting in the man’s face.

“Please leave me alone, sir. Or I shall call for security.”

The impassive confidence on her face and the complete lack of fear, has me enthralled. She didn’t need to yell or even raise her voice, she was the picture of composure. I would like to be like that, to solve things for myself. Even if I were faking it.

The man scowls and walks away. The girl calmly returns to her computer and continues typing. A waiter walks up to her, and despite the incident, she still offers a kind, sincere smile.

I smile too. Good for her.

Suddenly, with newfound resolve, I decide to walk back to my table. Except my legs are frozen. I can’t move an inch. I can’t even breathe. Taking out my phone, I do something I never imagined in my wildest dreams. I type up a message to my husband before my mind can catch up. My legs steer me in the opposite direction, away from the table and through the front door. Once I’m safely outside, that’s when I finally turn.

My eyes find the picture of serenity that is my family. And I think, for the millionth time, the same thought that has kept me in my cage for so long:

At least he’s a good father. If I’m just brave, at least my children will stay loved.

But is that really true? Are they really loved, by a mother who only ever cries, or by a father who only ever hurts her?

I think of the young girl. Even if that confidence was fake, the strength to hold her own was real. Is it possible for someone like me, someone who only knows how to pretend, to do right by myself? To be brave? I don’t know the answer. But I want to try. To choose myself.

Even if it’s just pretend. Even if it’s just a charade.

3.

If I could list out all the places I wanted to go, it would be long enough to cover the span of a football field. Yet, of all those places, the one I like to stay at the most is right here—this old café that has been in my family for decades. The placeholder of this hierarchy is currently my mamu, who always assures me that it’ll be mine next. If only I had enough time.

But well for now, I enjoy being a regular patron, sipping chai on the island with the uncomfortable barstools while staring out the window. I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, no one knows better than me that life is too short to complain.

The window is dual in it’s purpose; I can see the people outside and also the people inside the café by the powers of reflection. It’s a great way to people-watch without seeming like a creep. But a writer must do what a writer must do. Even if I’m only an aspiring writer right now.

I sip my tea with both hands, holding the cup in a way mimicking the Japanese people I’ve seen in my animes. Except in my case, it’s more functional than for aesthetic appeal. I wouldn’t want the tea to end up all over my lap because of the cup clattering in my unstable hands. As I savor the light flavor of the tea, a sense of calm floods my senses, and I sigh. I’m all about zen and finding the beauty in small things, like Studio Ghibli movies—except life has taught me that to do that, you need to compartmentalize the unpleasant things. Even the ones that may change the course of your life.

My musings are interrupted by the ring of the bell on the door, signaling that someone is leaving. The person at the door is the classy older woman with the bob cut, who comes in every weekend like clockwork with a book in tow. I smile at her choice of book today, ‘Macbeth’, and she catches me looking. She smiles in return and gives me a soft nod before heading out the door as if on a mission. I wonder if I’m overthinking it, but something seems different about her from when I saw her earlier. Her eyes seem brighter and more resolute. Even the way she walks is with more determination.

It’s only after she leaves that I allow myself a moment of envy; a guilty pleasure of mine, and something I abhor because it goes against everything I stand for. I would love to be where that woman is right now, a place of resolution and comfort. A tribute to a life well-led and struggled for. The wrinkles on her face, the greying of the hair, the quiet, graceful solitude.

All of it is worth treasuring. I may have accepted that I’ll never have that, but it doesn’t make the anger go away completely. Anger at my own body for betraying me. Anger at my illness for taking away from my future.

I return my attention to my computer screen and lay my fingers on the keyboard to start typing out the contents of my newfound inspiration before it can disappear from my mind, when I feel a tug from behind me. The back of my chair has trapped the edge of a woman’s kameez, and she frantically pulls at it. Worried about her shirt being ripped, I offer to help and nimbly remove the fabric from the edge before it can be snagged. I smile at the woman encouragingly, noticing her ashen expression. She looks almost haggard with exhaustion, and I can’t blame her. It must be rough dealing with such hyperactive kids. While people-watching earlier, I was approaching the point of pity for her. It was like a zoo back at their table- until I saw the smile on her face when she looked at her children. That pure, unfiltered smile of joy, that could only exist in a parent, made me break my cardinal rule again as I gave in to another onslaught of envy.

After her shirt is free, she ducks and shoots out a gentle thank you before rushing toward the restroom. She must be in a hurry to get back to her family. I smile and stare down at my hand, admiring the way the silver ring on my ring finger glints in the light. It’s not lost on me that my fiancé and I won’t have any of this. A marriage where we could hold hands discreetly under café tables while our children drove us crazy around the table.

After all, a life can’t be lived in just a span of a few months. A womb lost to chemotherapy can’t be recovered. There are many things people can change about themselves, but the harsh realities can only be accepted, even if the heart wants to do the opposite. I may never know the purpose of my life, but I can leave something behind.

So I’ll write. For as long as I have left. Until the cancer ends my life.

I’m Ayesha Ahsan, a writer and medical student from Pakistan. I love exploring a range of genres; everything from emotional realism to fantasy, thrillers, mafia romances, and werewolf stories. I also dabble in poetry and share my work on my writing page. When I’m not writing or studying, you’ll usually find me watching anime or daydreaming about my next story.