Her story

***

Something about her telling the story made me feel uneasy. There were so many dramatic pauses. She sat there yet again, her same black chair, telling the story in monotone. It was the same story every time I visited her.

“Grandma,” I said. “Can you tell a different story this time.”

“Mera saat angraisi no speak. App learn kero gee aik thing or two from this one. Chup ker k sit,” she answered. (Don’t speak english with me. You’ll learn a thing or two from this one. Sit quietly).

She brushed her long black hair back with her fingertips. She turned the bedroom light cool, shut the blinds, and turned the night light on her desk on. She did this every night, in the exact same order. Her prayer beads hanging from the lamp illuminated.

Her chair was positioned away from the light. It was set on her antique prayer mat. It had been around for as long as I could remember. I could see her face perfectly. Her brown eyes shimmered in the light. Her chair was right next to the bed. She rested her feet on mine, and began.

“There was once a little girl who loved her ammi (mom) dearly. She listened to everything her ammi said. She would be uper, (upstairs) and her mom would call her from neechay (downstairs)  to simply wash the dishes. Aik second may (in one second)  she’d make her way down. Until aik din, (one day) this little girl felt unappreciated. She had 12 other brothers and sisters, and her ammi would always call her down. Never once her ammi said thank you for anything she did. She decided to stop.”

Grandma would pause as if there was in intermission in the story. When she was telling the story, her eyebrows would raise, and she make hand motions. Whenever she told her story, she became serious. It was like it was a story that meant so much to my grandma.

“This little girl’s mom told her to sweep the floors.”

“Grandma, you change what this little girl cleans every time,” I said.

“Are you even listening? Mera maksad samaj nehi ai gah (You won’t understand the meaning of the story).” She asked.

“Of course, just saying,” I said. I lied a little, I was partially listening to her story. The same story I’ve heard about a million times.

She began again, “She didn’t want to do anything her ammi told her to do now. She think it not fair. She was the youngest, and had most work. When her mother noticed she not cleaned, it angered her. She screamed at her. This built tension in their house. With a few screams exchanged, the little girl’s ammi walked out of the ghar (house). Ganta (hours) later, ammi still did not return. That was last day the little girl saw her ammi. Last day she heard her voice. And last words were of disappointment.”

By this time, Grandma had tears flowing down her eyes.

***

I reached for the same lights she’d touch and turned them off. My sisters propped up on the bed as I turned on the night light. At this point, I had the story memorized.

“You don’t wanna miss this story. You better listen,” I told them.