Morning (Short Story)

Morning

By

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

I shivered, chilled to the bone.

I quickly filled the tub with hot water, stripped off my clothes, and immediately froze, again, from the cold. The electric geyser had given up. Its red light on, it was now peeing cold water into the pipe. I turned off the tap and dipped my hand into the water; it was hot. I glared at the little, white, egg-shaped object, hanging two feet above the shower head, no bigger than a small bucket. Damn it, trying to act like a big geyser.

“It's a bit too hot, might scald me. Should I add some cold water?” he mused, reaching for the tap.

The plastic, drum-like tap handle was cold, but not as cold as the ceramic sink. The pipe behind it ascended sharply into the wall, much like the careers of wealthy children, who, upon clutching their degrees, rocket skyward. Old houses have their own eccentricities. Half a century can wear a man down; how could poor pipes endure it? They must have burst in countless places. He had installed the gas geyser with such high hopes, wanting to spare his wife the chore of carrying buckets of boiling water in the winter. Just turn on the tap, and hot water would gush out. All those dreams remained unfulfilled. He called three plumbers; two were merely nal (tap) experts, who simply said, "Install new pipes, there's no other way." Where would the money come from? So much had already been wasted on the geyser. The third was a true craftsman. He ran a new pipe directly from the overhead tank, straight to their bathroom. This saved the cost of replacing all the pipes, as well as the hassle of breaking through walls and floors.

Then, when this electric "egg" was installed, he was as tense as awaiting tenth-grade results. What if there was still no hot water? He'd lose the money spent on this and the previous attempts. When hot water finally gushed from the tap, he felt like hugging and kissing the plumber. That night, he embraced his wife with fervent passion. It seemed to him that the mere presence of hot water in the bathroom had, once again, resoundingly affirmed his masculinity to his wife.

The problem now was that the electric geyser was the smallest size, capable of filling only half the tub. To fill the entire tub, you had to fill it halfway, wait ten minutes, then refill. But those ten minutes required standing right over the egg-shaped geyser. If you didn't refill the tub the moment the red light went off, the initial water would cool, and you'd have to empty the tub and restart the entire water cycle.

Two refills brought the tub to the brim; there was no room for more water. He pulled his hand back from the tap. His hand, urged by the cold, moved quickly, yet hesitated due to the water's heat. Like a misfiring engine, he plunged the mug into the tub. The time for deliberation had passed the moment he shed his clothes. Quickly, he poured mugs of water over his head. A sheet of hot water would kiss his skin and vanish, leaving his skin to the clutches of the cold once more. Alternating between burning heat and chilling cold, half the tub was emptied. He hadn't shampooed or soaped himself. As he lathered his chest and back, the chill set in again. The water was now lukewarm. As he crouched, rubbing the towel over his thighs, he remembered: he hadn't brushed his teeth. Damn it! He wrapped the wet towel around himself and quickly began brushing his teeth. He couldn't be late for the office. The scalding hot water had made his skin even more sensitive to the cold. He was now shivering uncontrollably.

A loud thud came from the door. His cold-induced tension mingled with anxiety. God, I hope everything's alright. His attention, mid-brush, darted from the dark, round mirror above the basin to the door. Five seconds passed. No sound, no further knock. Holding the brush in his mouth, his mouth full of foam, he weakly whispered, "Who's there?" No answer. Disturbed, he began brushing his teeth furiously inside his mouth. Between the torture of the cold, the rush to the office, and the worry from outside the bathroom, the brush hit his gums. A sharp pain stopped his hand. Why are the roots of our teeth so sensitive? His face contorted with pain and bitterness. He felt like a Hulk, wanting to punch and shatter the basin.

The door knocked again. He forgot the pain. God be with us. Had robbers broken in? He'd once read a news report about a morning robbery. At that hour, everyone is rushing to work; no one pays much attention to who enters which house, nor do they focus on their own doors. His wife used to open the door early for the maid. Or perhaps his wife had gotten an electric shock while making breakfast. In her haste, she could be as clumsy as a teenager. Or maybe she had fallen. Since the baby's C-section, his wife had been having back problems, especially in the cold.

"Papa!"

This time, a soft voice reached his ears. He relaxed. The baby's voice didn't sound scared.

"Papa! Where's my doll?"

Earlier, his wife had kissed his lips, gone to make tea, and he too had risen. The baby had kicked off her quilt sometime during the night. All three slept huddled together; it must have gotten warm at some point during the night. Now, she was shivering. He carefully wrapped the quilt around the baby, making a "shawarma" of her, kissed his sleeping daughter's forehead, and entered the bathroom.

"What? What happened?"

"Papa, my doll."

Pain and cold surged to the forefront of his mind. He had needlessly injured his gums.

The baby's eyes opened. She was warm in her quilt. Alone. This was a daily occurrence, except for Sundays, as schools were closed due to Corona. For several seconds, she lay like a statue. Her sleep wasn't fully gone, nor had her dream vanished. Her tiny mind couldn't yet decide if the dream had shattered or merely faded. The dream world phased out, and she rose like a snake, coiling and lifting her head. No one was there, not even her doll. She sat up. She looked all around. Last night, she had slept hugging it. It never went anywhere, not to the office, not to the kitchen.

"Doll!"

No reply.

"Mama!"

Her voice wouldn't reach the kitchen. She walked towards the kitchen.

"Mama, doll!"

"Oh, you're up so early? Go, my queen, get back into bed, you'll catch a cold."

Her mother flipped an egg in the frying pan and pressed it down with a ladle. The girl didn't know what to do. The doll wasn't in the bed, so what was the point of going back there? She remained standing. Her mother bent slightly to adjust the flame on the stove, singeing her eyebrow a little; the girl was rooted to the spot. "Go, my child, I'll send Papa and bring breakfast now." The egg was browning. Her mother again bent to lower the flame and, grabbing the toast, turned towards the toaster.

Her mother lived by her grandmother's saying: a man's heart is reached through his stomach. Her husband had often told her, "Get a maid, even if she doesn't cook, just for help." Washing dishes, cutting vegetables, kneading dough—weren't these small hassles in the kitchen? She had even hired one once. But she fired her the next month. The maid would walk around the house with a swagger, deliberately passing in front of him. She didn't know if it was real or just her imagination, but she didn't take the risk. Work wasn't the issue. Her mother had prepared her well, to manage her in-laws' home. I'll find an older one, then hire her.

Her husband had given her this toaster back then. He'd said, "If you won't keep a maid, then keep this 'maid-uncle,' at least it'll lighten your load. In winter, the gas doesn't come properly; only one burner works. On that, you sometimes fry eggs, sometimes make tea, and sometimes toast bread." She laughed. "Why waste money for no reason? If you love me so much, just get me a new suit!" The toaster wasn't useless, though. Especially in winter, it was really helpful when only one burner worked. She turned towards the toaster and saw the girl still standing there.

Making breakfast on a single burner, and doing it so it's both delicious and ready on time, isn't easy. For fifteen minutes, one is utterly bewildered.

"Hey, you didn't go? You came barefoot? Go to bed!"

Just last month, she had caught a cold. It was a struggle to get rid of the antibiotics. The girl just stared blankly. What was her mother talking about? There was no cold; where would it even come from? And the doll wasn't there. Yesterday, Papa had said that strangers were bad people; they would pick up children, then cut off their hands and feet to make them beg. The thought of hands and feet being cut off had already made the child shiver yesterday. Now, the memory brought on a sudden urge to urinate. Had bad strangers taken the doll? Would they cut off its hands and feet? The urge intensified.

The path to her husband's heart had to be traversed three times a day, at fixed times. And in the morning, gas only came to one burner. And now this child had gotten out of bed and was standing here barefoot. She felt like smacking her. She wouldn't even listen. What had happened to this generation? We couldn't even whisper in front of our parents. Such awe they commanded. If anyone ever dared to be stubborn, a few slaps would set them straight. These new-age notions were just spoiling children. That's why Western children throw their elderly parents into old folks' homes.

She just didn't understand, the silly thing. She'd catch a cold and fall ill. She barely ate anything as it was. She was wasting away. She had caught a cold before, and what a fuss it had been. She had barely survived. With a clack, the toast popped up, peeking out, and her mother turned back to the toaster. The little girl was still standing there. Now, her mother had had enough.

"Get out of here, or I'll break your legs!"

Concern for the child's health, frustration at her disobedience, and the rush for her husband's breakfast infused Mother's outburst with such force that the child's very being rattled. She wet herself. More fear gripped her. Mother had said that children who wet their clothes would get a burning sensation and severe pain where the urine came out. Only a few drops had escaped, but she held it back due to her mother's fright. A sharp pain shot through her bladder. Mother was right; now her bladder would burn, and it would hurt. She grew even more afraid. She wanted to scream and hide in her mother's lap. But her mother's fear prevented even that. Her entire being crumbled.

Sobbing, she returned to her room. On the way, she spotted a green plastic ball. Her crying subsided as she picked up the ball, and she smiled. Her bladder was also back to normal. Reaching her room, she looked at the bed, and then remembered her doll. Her mother's shriek, like an icy spear, was still threaded through her delicate, flower-like brain. As she climbed onto the bed, she heard the sound of water. The washroom. It must be Papa. The doll again came to the forefront of her mind. Leaning her head against the door, she began to talk to her father.

"Papa! My doll. Papa, where's the doll? Not in the bed."

At the mention of the bed, her mother's icy shriek flared in her mind again. She fell silent. What should she do? Water splashed inside.

"Papa. Doll. Mama screamed."

Papa would definitely find it. Papa would go crazy with kisses when she said "love you Papa."

"Papa, Papa, love you."

"Papa, strangers will catch the doll. They'll cut off its hands and feet. Papa, the doll."

The water continued to run. Bad water. Leaning her head against the door, looking at the bed, she kicked the door twice. From inside, she heard her father's muffled, hurried sounds.

"Papa, doll. Mama cooked egg."

Dropping the ball, frantic, she began to bang on the door. From inside, her father's helpless, rushed voice came again.

"Papa, love you, Papa. Doll, Papa!"

Hope now filled her, and she began to bang harder and harder.

"Stop it, doll! Go to Mama!"

Mother's scream was sharp, but Father's roar struck like a wild, raging flood. The little girl's being scattered like sandy soil. Her voice sank into her chest like a stone. She forgot why she was standing there. Even in her confusion, her hands and feet acted instinctively. No banging, no kicking. What revelation could Moses have endured on Mount Sinai that compared to what the little girl was experiencing? As the haze of the roar cleared slightly, Mother's shriek flared again. She walked towards the bed. Like a mouse, she burrowed into the quilt and her hand found the doll. Straightening up, she began to talk to it. Slowly, her talks of loneliness and fear faded, and conversations about the egg and the green ball began.

"Good morning, baby."

Mother, holding breakfast, smiled as she entered the door, and the little girl flinched. For a moment, a frown creased her brow, then she dropped the doll and stood up. The child was hungry. Only parents could vanquish the demon of hunger. She spread her arms like a soaring bird. Mother stepped forward and embraced her. On that tender heart, smaller than the green plastic ball, two new dark spots had formed. Within them, two new fears were sealed: the fear of her mother and father's wrath, the fear of shrieks and roars. The good little girl ate the bites her mother put into her mouth, looking at her mother with wide eyes, wondering if she had made a mistake and if her mother would shriek again.

"My beautiful princess is so understanding."

As she fed her daughter, Mother showered her with endearments.